significant distance.
On their way out of the village they met the second party of raiders coming in, closely followed by a pair of black-and-white sheepdogs.
‘We’re looking for JJ,’ a woman said. She was the thinnest person either of them had ever seen, and her skin was dry and flaking.
‘That’d be me,’ said JJ. ‘Just carry on down to the bottom of the village there and you’ll find some more of your lot.’
‘Are they picking up supplies?’ said the woman.
‘They’re getting everything they need,’ said JJ. ‘Don’t worry yourselves, anyway. I’ll be back before you know it and I’ll help you get sorted out.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman said.
‘Ah, look at your dogs,’ said Aisling. ‘They look as if they’re trying to hurry you along. Aren’t they sweet?’
‘Dogs?’ said the thin woman. ‘We haven’t got any dogs.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Aisling. But as she walked on her laughter exploded. JJ laughed, too, and put a fond arm around the woman he had loved all his life.
About halfway along the Moy road they spotted Devaney in a roadside field. The goat was literally running rings around him.
‘Let’s give him a hand,’ said JJ, and they crossed the tumbledown wall into the field. They spread out, planning to surround the goat and trap her, but the minute she caught sight of JJ she came straight up to him and pushed a horn into his hand. Devaney ran over. The bits of his face that were visible between his thick beard, moustache and sideburns were flushed and damp with sweat.
‘See?’ said JJ, handing him the goat’s horn. ‘That’s how it’s done.’
Devaney hurled a string of abuse at the goat, who responded by belching up a wad of cud and chewing it contentedly.
‘She does it to torment me,’ he said. ‘I swear I’ll give her a hammering this time.’
‘Ah, don’t,’ said JJ. ‘It ruins the music. And I’d say she’s dying for a tune. We all are.’
To make sure he didn’t lose her again, Devaney turned the goat into a bodhrán there and then. He took a stickfrom his pocket and played a few fluid rolls on the taut drum, then said, ‘Right, so. Will we go?’
JJ fell cheerfully into step beside him, his fingertips itching for his fiddle strings. But Aisling caught him by the elbow.
‘We’re going for a walk, remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said JJ glumly. ‘So we are.’
31
Donal had begun by copying out the notes as quickly as he could, but as time went on he slowed down, enjoying the unaccustomed warmth of his brother’s luxurious quarters; glad to be safe from the storm raging outside.
It was one of the big ones. Some of the fiercest gusts tilted the top layer of containers, so there was a background percussion of whumps and crashes. But if Aidan noticed, he didn’t show it. He paced restlessly, muttering under his breath continually, as though he were rehearsing for the meeting with Aengus Óg. Every so often he would stop at the sideboard and refill his glass, and Donal was reminded of the early days of his army, when every man had a ration of grog every evening. It was a long time since any of them had seen a drop of it. He doubted that even the goons saw much of it these days. Aidan’s capacity for the stuff was a source of constant amazement to him. Donal had been expecting his liver to pack up for ten years or more, but there was still no sign of it happening. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected his brother got through a bottle of that rotgut a day, if not more.
Donal wrote neatly and carefully. He was tempted to be creative with the messages – People trafficker, contact Aidan Liddy or Please do not turn the messenger into a pig! – but Aidan was too close and, far too often for Donal’s liking, he leaned over his shoulder and said, ‘How many’s that?’
The goons dozed over their hand guns in the corners and Donal wasn’t surprised. He was sleepy himself. The room, like most of the container-built quarters in the castle
On their way out of the village they met the second party of raiders coming in, closely followed by a pair of black-and-white sheepdogs.
‘We’re looking for JJ,’ a woman said. She was the thinnest person either of them had ever seen, and her skin was dry and flaking.
‘That’d be me,’ said JJ. ‘Just carry on down to the bottom of the village there and you’ll find some more of your lot.’
‘Are they picking up supplies?’ said the woman.
‘They’re getting everything they need,’ said JJ. ‘Don’t worry yourselves, anyway. I’ll be back before you know it and I’ll help you get sorted out.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman said.
‘Ah, look at your dogs,’ said Aisling. ‘They look as if they’re trying to hurry you along. Aren’t they sweet?’
‘Dogs?’ said the thin woman. ‘We haven’t got any dogs.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Aisling. But as she walked on her laughter exploded. JJ laughed, too, and put a fond arm around the woman he had loved all his life.
About halfway along the Moy road they spotted Devaney in a roadside field. The goat was literally running rings around him.
‘Let’s give him a hand,’ said JJ, and they crossed the tumbledown wall into the field. They spread out, planning to surround the goat and trap her, but the minute she caught sight of JJ she came straight up to him and pushed a horn into his hand. Devaney ran over. The bits of his face that were visible between his thick beard, moustache and sideburns were flushed and damp with sweat.
‘See?’ said JJ, handing him the goat’s horn. ‘That’s how it’s done.’
Devaney hurled a string of abuse at the goat, who responded by belching up a wad of cud and chewing it contentedly.
‘She does it to torment me,’ he said. ‘I swear I’ll give her a hammering this time.’
‘Ah, don’t,’ said JJ. ‘It ruins the music. And I’d say she’s dying for a tune. We all are.’
To make sure he didn’t lose her again, Devaney turned the goat into a bodhrán there and then. He took a stickfrom his pocket and played a few fluid rolls on the taut drum, then said, ‘Right, so. Will we go?’
JJ fell cheerfully into step beside him, his fingertips itching for his fiddle strings. But Aisling caught him by the elbow.
‘We’re going for a walk, remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said JJ glumly. ‘So we are.’
31
Donal had begun by copying out the notes as quickly as he could, but as time went on he slowed down, enjoying the unaccustomed warmth of his brother’s luxurious quarters; glad to be safe from the storm raging outside.
It was one of the big ones. Some of the fiercest gusts tilted the top layer of containers, so there was a background percussion of whumps and crashes. But if Aidan noticed, he didn’t show it. He paced restlessly, muttering under his breath continually, as though he were rehearsing for the meeting with Aengus Óg. Every so often he would stop at the sideboard and refill his glass, and Donal was reminded of the early days of his army, when every man had a ration of grog every evening. It was a long time since any of them had seen a drop of it. He doubted that even the goons saw much of it these days. Aidan’s capacity for the stuff was a source of constant amazement to him. Donal had been expecting his liver to pack up for ten years or more, but there was still no sign of it happening. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected his brother got through a bottle of that rotgut a day, if not more.
Donal wrote neatly and carefully. He was tempted to be creative with the messages – People trafficker, contact Aidan Liddy or Please do not turn the messenger into a pig! – but Aidan was too close and, far too often for Donal’s liking, he leaned over his shoulder and said, ‘How many’s that?’
The goons dozed over their hand guns in the corners and Donal wasn’t surprised. He was sleepy himself. The room, like most of the container-built quarters in the castle
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