horse fair, and which of the lads they'd met last year might be there again. The boys were joking as they went among the animals with their clanking water buckets.
I sat under the trees and imagined the dim stillness of the Honeycomb, where a whole day might pass with barely a word spoken; where the only sounds were the whisper of sandalled feet and the distant roar of the ocean.
"Come with me."
Darragh's voice interrupted my thoughts, and then Darragh's hand was grasping mine and hauling me to my feet, before I had a chance to say yes or no.
"I've got something to show you. Come on."
He pulled me back under the trees and, faster than was comfortable, up a precipitous grassy hillside to a vantage point crowned with a little cairn of stones. We had already traveled a long way up from the coast; the track had been hard for the horses, and at times folk had climbed down and walked alongside the carts. Peg had told me to stay where I was, and I had not argued with her. Perhaps they thought I would not keep up, because of my foot. Darragh was making no such concessions.
"Now," he said. "Look out that way. That's your last sight of the Kerry coast. You'll want to remember it. There's no sea at Sevenwaters, just lots and lots of trees."
It was far away; already so far. There was no crash of waves, no roar of power, no sound of seabirds squabbling on the shore as the fisherfolk gutted the catch. Only the gleam of sunlight on distant water; only the pearly sky, and the land stretched out in folds of green and gray and brown, dotted here and there with great stones and clumps of wind-battered trees.
"Look further out. Out beyond that promontory there. Tell me what you see." Darragh put one hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly, and with the other he pointed to what seemed to be a stretch of empty ocean. "Look carefully."
There was an island: a tiny, steep triangle of rock, far out in the inhospitable waters. If I squinted, I could detect plumes of spray as waves dashed its base. Another small isle lay close by. Even by my standards, it was a desolate spot.
"You can't see them from our cove," Darragh said. "Skellig rocks, they call that place. There's folk live there."
"Live there? How could they?"
"Christian hermits. Holy men. It's supposed to be good for the soul, so they say. The Norsemen put in there once, killed most of the brothers, smashed what little they had. But the hermits went back. Strange sort of life, that'd be. Think of all you'd be missing."
"It would be quiet, at least," I said somewhat testily, still staring out at the specks in the ocean, and wondering at such a choice.
"Finding it a bit much, are you?"
I said nothing.
"You're not used to folk, that's all it is. It'll get easier as we go. You've no need to be scared of us."
"Scared?" I bristled. "Why would I be scared?"
Darragh thought for a moment. "Because it's all new?" he ventured. "Because you're used to the quiet, just you and your father shut up alone doing what you do? Because you don't like being looked at?"
Misery settled on me like a small, personal gray cloud. I stared out toward the sea in silence.
"True, isn't it?" said Darragh.
"Maybe."
"Perhaps you'd rather be a hermit living on a rock in the sea, feeding yourself on seaweed and cockles? You'd not have to think about a soul besides yourself then."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped.
"No more nor less than it says."
"There's nothing wrong with a life like that," I said. "At least it's-safe."
"Funny way of looking at it. What about the cliffs? What about the Norsemen? What about starving to death in winter? Or might you point your little finger and turn one of the brothers into a nice fat codfish maybe?"
I froze, unable to look at him. There was a difficult silence.
"Fainne?" he asked eventually. "What's wrong?"
And I knew that his words had been
I sat under the trees and imagined the dim stillness of the Honeycomb, where a whole day might pass with barely a word spoken; where the only sounds were the whisper of sandalled feet and the distant roar of the ocean.
"Come with me."
Darragh's voice interrupted my thoughts, and then Darragh's hand was grasping mine and hauling me to my feet, before I had a chance to say yes or no.
"I've got something to show you. Come on."
He pulled me back under the trees and, faster than was comfortable, up a precipitous grassy hillside to a vantage point crowned with a little cairn of stones. We had already traveled a long way up from the coast; the track had been hard for the horses, and at times folk had climbed down and walked alongside the carts. Peg had told me to stay where I was, and I had not argued with her. Perhaps they thought I would not keep up, because of my foot. Darragh was making no such concessions.
"Now," he said. "Look out that way. That's your last sight of the Kerry coast. You'll want to remember it. There's no sea at Sevenwaters, just lots and lots of trees."
It was far away; already so far. There was no crash of waves, no roar of power, no sound of seabirds squabbling on the shore as the fisherfolk gutted the catch. Only the gleam of sunlight on distant water; only the pearly sky, and the land stretched out in folds of green and gray and brown, dotted here and there with great stones and clumps of wind-battered trees.
"Look further out. Out beyond that promontory there. Tell me what you see." Darragh put one hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly, and with the other he pointed to what seemed to be a stretch of empty ocean. "Look carefully."
There was an island: a tiny, steep triangle of rock, far out in the inhospitable waters. If I squinted, I could detect plumes of spray as waves dashed its base. Another small isle lay close by. Even by my standards, it was a desolate spot.
"You can't see them from our cove," Darragh said. "Skellig rocks, they call that place. There's folk live there."
"Live there? How could they?"
"Christian hermits. Holy men. It's supposed to be good for the soul, so they say. The Norsemen put in there once, killed most of the brothers, smashed what little they had. But the hermits went back. Strange sort of life, that'd be. Think of all you'd be missing."
"It would be quiet, at least," I said somewhat testily, still staring out at the specks in the ocean, and wondering at such a choice.
"Finding it a bit much, are you?"
I said nothing.
"You're not used to folk, that's all it is. It'll get easier as we go. You've no need to be scared of us."
"Scared?" I bristled. "Why would I be scared?"
Darragh thought for a moment. "Because it's all new?" he ventured. "Because you're used to the quiet, just you and your father shut up alone doing what you do? Because you don't like being looked at?"
Misery settled on me like a small, personal gray cloud. I stared out toward the sea in silence.
"True, isn't it?" said Darragh.
"Maybe."
"Perhaps you'd rather be a hermit living on a rock in the sea, feeding yourself on seaweed and cockles? You'd not have to think about a soul besides yourself then."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped.
"No more nor less than it says."
"There's nothing wrong with a life like that," I said. "At least it's-safe."
"Funny way of looking at it. What about the cliffs? What about the Norsemen? What about starving to death in winter? Or might you point your little finger and turn one of the brothers into a nice fat codfish maybe?"
I froze, unable to look at him. There was a difficult silence.
"Fainne?" he asked eventually. "What's wrong?"
And I knew that his words had been
Similar Books
