Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [56]
The only sound that followed her words was the crackle of the fire. Bronagh took a bite of the egg, watching Patrick as the young man wrestled with his thoughts. Finally, he stood and shook out his hat.
“Thank you, Bronagh,” he said hollowly.“May God sustain you.” He turned and walked to the doorway.
“Wait,” the old woman blurted, struggling to rise. “What are you about to do, Patrick Michael Martin?”
“I won’t be certain of that until I do it,” Patrick replied. “I still believe you are mad. But I think my mother is entitled to the truth. In another time it might not be so; were Ireland hale and fertile, I might be tempted to let things be. But my father’s insistence on remaining in Glencar is the weight that unbalances the scale. I cannot allow him to keep her here at the cost of her life, even if that costs him her love.”
Bronagh shook her head sadly. “He has never had her love, lad, nor have you,” she said. “All you have is her enforced fealty, against her will, nothing more.”
“Be that as it may, she has mine,” Patrick said. “And if in that I must let her go forever, then I must.” He put his hat on his head.
The old woman swallowed the last of the boiled egg and brushed her hands against her torn skirts.
“The day I caught you as you came into this world was a good one, Patrick Michael Martin,” she said.“May God grant you as many more good days as He is willing to.”
Patrick nodded his thanks and hurried out the door, brushing the sting of the cottage air and the water from his eyes.
HE STOPPED at Donovan McNamara’s place on the way home to beg the loan of Donovan’s remaining horse. It was nigh on three o’clock by the time he returned to the house.
Aisling stood in the road, waiting to meet him. Her face was serene, but her eyes held a tinge of concern. She said nothing, but eyed Donovan’s horse questioningly.
Patrick led the horse to her; he smiled, in the attempt to contain the torment that was clawing at his viscera.
“Is Da home?” he asked as he brought the beast to a halt.
Aisling shook her head.
Patrick inhaled deeply, then reached into his pocket and took out the handkerchief. He placed it in her hand, struggling to maintain his smile.
Aisling opened the linen square carefully, revealing the cap. Patrick watched as she stared at it for a moment.
Then, before his eyes, a change came over her.
She caught her breath, a shuddering inhalation that was part gasp, part laugh. Then she laughed again, a merry, bell-like sound he did not ever remember hearing before. A light seemed to ripple over her face, and when she looked up at him, she was smiling broadly, tears pooling in her eyes and beginning to run down her cheeks.
“Patrick,” she said, exhilaration in her voice, “will you take me to the sea?”
“ ’Tis true,” Patrick said in disbelief. “ ’Tis true what Bronagh said, then. You are murúch—a merrow?”
“Aye,” Aisling said, her face shining with excitement. “Aye, Patrick, that I am. Take me to the sea, please! Take me to Bolus Head.”
Patrick nodded numbly. “Do you—do you want to pack your belongings?”
Aisling laughed again. “That won’t be necessary. Let us be off.”
As if in a dream, Patrick helped her mount Donovan’s horse.“Do you at least wish to wait until Da returns, so that you can bid him good-bye?”
“No,” said Aisling. “Come. Let us not tarry.”
THE RIDE SOUTHWEST to the sea was not at all what Patrick had expected.
The heaviness in his heart at the knowledge of what would happen when they reached the end of the peninsula gave way fairly quickly to amazement at the change in Aisling.
She sat before him on the horse, her long hair loose and free in the wind, the sun on her face, chatting merrily, something in all his life he never had known her to do.
All the way she told him stories of the sea, tales of the warm shallows where fish of brilliant colors swam between sharp living rocks, of cold depths