The Fire Opal by Regina McBride

Mrs. Cavan, to his own father and to mine?”
    “There’s bad blood between Tom and his father,” she said.
    “I’m very worried. He’s said to me that soon I’ll have nothing and that I’ll have to marry him. Is that what he’s up to, turning my father over to the English?” I grabbed her hard by the wrist and looked into her face. “If my father is hurt in any way at all, I will curse Tom’s name tomy grave! I’d rather move to Galway and beg in the streets. He doesn’t know who I am if he thinks he can reduce me to nothing and then win me.”
    Mrs. Cavan looked as though I’d hit her in the stomach. “I will tell him, Maeve. I think if he believes it might bring you round to him, he’ll do the opposite and make sure your father stays safe. The fact is, for whatever reason, it’s you he wants to marry.”
    I was about to rush out when she called me back.
    “Maeve, if he does that for you—brings your father back, I mean—will you accept his offer?”
    “I cannot promise you. All I can say is that if my father is not returned safely to Ard Macha, my hatred for your son will never be soothed.”
    She nodded and ushered me out the door. As she did, she told me that she had seen another Spanish ship at dawn, passing unsteadily in the storm, and had spoken to neighbors from the valley who’d told her that four or five other Spanish ships fighting stiff southwesterly headwinds had crashed along the jagged coastlines to the south. And the English, distracted by those ships and traveling there in droves to meet and execute any survivors, were leaving us temporarily alone.
    When I returned, Ishleen told me that the Spaniard had sat up and had drunk some water and eaten a little bread. Now he was asleep again in the box bed, the curtain drawn around him. As I told Ishleen what Mrs. Cavan had said, the Spaniard moaned. We went to him, pulling the curtain aside. He arched his long neck backward, squeezing his eyes closed. His dark skin glistenedwith sweat. We knelt beside him and wondered what to do for him.
    “The poor creature,” I whispered.
    I couldn’t help but notice how beautifully formed he was, even in his distress. His black hair lay thick on the pillow, and I touched it softly, astonished by its silken texture. Trying to comfort him, I combed it with my fingers, and this quieted him a little. The jewel between his teeth flashed each time he winced with pain.
    Ishleen began to sing to him, something she sometimes sang to Mam, an old Irish song about the gentle breezes that will come from the west: “Tioctaidh an leouthne bhog aniar.” Though he did not open his eyes, he quieted and seemed more at peace. Then she sang a song about June sunshine on the grass: “Grian an Mheithimh in ullghort.” His sleep grew peaceful.
    I sat near the hearth and sighed, feeling my own exhaustion. Lulled by Ishleen’s voice, I closed my eyes.
    I don’t know how long I slept there sitting up, but when I awakened, the Spaniard was leaning on one elbow, his eyes fixed upon me. For a moment I stared back without moving. His eyes were dark brown, radiant with flecks of amber.
    Ishleen, who had been pouring water from a pitcher on the other side of the hearth, approached excitedly and handed the Spaniard a cup of water. With shaking hands he took the cup and drank. Then he sat up and, leaning his legs over the side of the bed, hunched forward, breathing with effort. The pain he was feeling seemed tomake him angry. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.
    “¡Ay, maldiga los ingleses!” He spit the words. “Maldígalos al infierno.”
    After a moment, he raised his face and looked at the two of us. He pointed to his chest and said, “Francisco.”
    I pointed to myself and said, “Maeve,” then to my sister. “Ishleen.” I looked at Mam where she sat in a shadow near the loft stair. Her head hung forward. Guilty for having ignored her all this time, I went to her, lifting her head gently and pushing her