The Fire Opal (12 page)

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 glistened
with 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 to
make 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 wheeled chair into the dim lamplight.

The hard spatter of rain intensified, and the wind shook the foundation of the house. “This is my—” I began, but before I could finish, there was a loud knock on the door, and the three of us looked at one another fearfully.

“Maybe it’s Da,” Ishleen whispered.

“I hope so,” I said, “but just in case, both of you stay back here behind the curtain.” I pulled the curtain closed around them and made an urgent gesture, not knowing how much Irish Francisco understood.

I opened the door only a little to see Tom Cavan’s face peering at me from under his hood, the wind causing his coat to flap and pull, like it might fly off his very body.

“Let me in, Maeve,” he yelled, “out of this weather!”

“No, Tom,” I said firmly. “How dare you come here after what you’ve done. To do such a thing to your own father, and to mine!”

I tried to close the door, but he pushed against it.

“One of the Spaniards that was shot is gone. He might be a danger. I’m here to protect you lest he come here. Let me in!”

“You’re more of a danger than a wounded man who is likely starving to death, Tom Cavan! Now go, and leave my sister and mother and me in peace!”

“Maeve, I’m going to try to help your father. I’m going to bring him home.”

“You should, since it is because of you that he’s in English custody.”

He looked frustrated by my refusal to let him in, and pushed harder against the door. Panicking, I redoubled my effort against him. He glowered at me, and I thought for certain he would now overpower me, but he surprised me by stepping back. His expression as he did so was somewhere between determined and perplexed, and I thought of the conversation I’d had with his mother. She had clearly persuaded him not to force my hand.

I closed and bolted the door and stayed near it, listening until I heard his retreating footsteps through the storm.

I joined Ishleen and Francisco behind the curtain. Francisco was still sitting up, breathing with effort. In spite of the cold air in the room, droplets of sweat ran down his temples. He sighed heavily, then hunched forward, giving himself over to his thoughts, as if recalling terrible things. He grew distressed, as he’d been while dreaming.

It occurred to me that he was the only survivor of
Nuestra Señora de la Soledad
.

We remained in silence for a while, waiting for our hearts to settle again. Ishleen lifted the cup of water, offering it to him, but Francisco touched his stomach and gestured putting a spoon to his mouth.

“He’s hungry!” Ishleen said. I got up and put some leftover porridge on the fire. Francisco’s eyes followed me in every move I made, and I could not tell if this caused me to be more excited or more nervous. My heart was racing and my cheeks felt hot.

I poured milk into the pot with the porridge and stirred it over the flame. As I cooked, I turned and caught him staring at me. Our eyes locked, and I found myself unable to look away.

If there hadn’t been such pain in his expression, I’d have called his steady look too bold. Yet, at the same time, a shiver of mysterious affection filled me, as if he were someone well known to me. With effort, I blinked and turned away, but even then, the dark beauty of his face remained, imprinted on my field of vision. It mattered so little, perhaps not at all, that I could not understand his language.

If I could have spoken to him, the thing I would have told him, as odd as it seemed in those dangerous moments, was about the dress of delicate metal and the room with the iced-over walls and the gusts of wind. And that if I could only find that place, I might bring Mam back.

It was just at this moment that I glanced over at Mam, and Francisco also turned and peered into the shadow where she sat. He gazed at her for a few seconds, then looked back at me.

“Your …
madre?
Mother?” he asked.

I nodded, my heart sinking for poor Mam.

He watched my eyes. His expression, worn from exhaustion and grief, was so unguarded that I was pierced by a multitude of sensations and a yearning of the same nature that I often felt gazing into the western sea. I looked away from him, stirring the oats until they were of a good consistency, then ladled a dish full.

Ishleen and I watched with absorption as Francisco ate. He stopped once as he was raising the spoon to his mouth, looked at us, and a half smile broke onto his face. Everything about his handsome visage came into intense focus with that smile, which was skewed to one side of his mouth. A long dimple scored each cheek, and his eyes glimmered.

When he finished eating, he approached Mam, focusing on the triple spiral around her neck. I touched his arm and showed him the one Ishleen wore with the little bottle attached to it. Francisco looked closely at it, as if in awe. For the last year or so, Ishleen had no longer needed the bottle sewn into her clothes for safekeeping, and now wore it as a necklace.

“You have?” he asked, and pointed at my neck. I shook my head. Then he pointed to his jacket, which I had laid near the fire to dry. He went over to it, opened it, and showed me the compass with the triple spiral.

He looked again in Mam’s direction, then went to his
knees. He touched the spiral, and it hummed, so Ishleen and I looked at each other. For a moment, Mam’s breathing became audible.

Noticing this, he whispered,
“Señora, regrese a nosotros.”

A certain effervescence came into her posture, and, though I was afraid to believe it, I thought I saw more light in her eyes.

I got on my knees beside him and took Mam’s hands, searching her face. Very gradually the little bit of renewed life faded. Still, as I knelt there, a flicker of hope caused me to shiver. Francisco, having grown tired, now hung his head and breathed with effort. He got up, dragged himself back to the bed, and lay carefully down, wincing as he did. He sighed and half closed his eyes.

I pulled the curtain around him, then looked at Ishleen, who was peering excitedly at me.

“What do the three spirals mean, Maeve?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Ishleen, but it’s something we have in common with Francisco.”

In the middle of the night, there was a loud banging on the door. I bolted to my feet, and Ishleen sat up. “Maeve!” She gave me a frightened look.

The fire had gone down to a few red embers in the white ash.

Francisco drew aside the curtain.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head.

The banging began again, and a deep, unfamiliar male voice shouted, “Open, or I’ll shoot the lock away!”

“English!” Ishleen whispered.

I suddenly remembered the gun Donal had left for Da. I went to my knees and, moving the hearthstone aside, drew it out. I’d held it before, but was alarmed now at how heavy it was.

Even though Da had never followed through and taught me to use the gun, I recalled the things Donal had said the night he’d explained its workings to me.

“Donal said it has bullets,” Ishleen whispered.

The soldier pounded again. “Open!”

Holding the gun behind me in my left hand, I opened the door. The sudden bright beam of a lamp pierced the shadows of the room. It was the soldier with the scar on his chin, the one who had shot Francisco and his two friends. He gave me an impatient cursory glance, obviously thinking I was no threat, and pushed in past me, his eyes on the curtain Ishleen was standing in front of.

Sensing that she was hiding someone, he pushed Ishleen out of the way and drew the curtain aside, so roughly that part of it tore.

He aimed his gun, and I saw his finger move obliquely toward the trigger. With lightning speed I pointed Donal’s gun at his back and shot.

Time got stuck then in a long, distended moment. The soldier froze, dropping the lamp, which landed on its side on the floor. Incapacitated, his mouth hung open and his eyes bulged in utter shock. Then, at last, he fell.

Shaking violently, I put the gun down and picked up the lamp.

Francisco came out from behind the curtain and squatted beside the soldier. He took the gun from the soldier’s hand and examined it, turning a cartridge and looking inside, counting the bullets.

Everything we did from that moment on happened quickly. Wincing, Francisco was on his feet, laying a blanket on the ground. The three of us coaxed and rolled and pushed the soldier’s body until he lay on the blanket. While Ishleen stayed with Mam with the door bolted, Francisco and I hauled the body down to the beach, Francisco stopping now and again and breathing with difficulty.

A muted moon was just visible through the starlit clouds, and though it was still raining, there was a reprieve in its intensity.

We laid the soldier’s body close to the cold tide, which rushed in with purposeful momentum, pushing and pulling at him, trying to claim him.

Francisco headed for the cliff, but I remained near the dead soldier, looking at his face, which the vague moon dimly illuminated. He was a young man. In death, no threat left in him, he had a soft, childlike expression. A bolt of remorse shook me.

Francisco approached and took my arm gently, his dark eyes catching the moonlight and turning it faintly amber.

Sensing his gratitude, I shivered inwardly and reminded myself that if I had not shot the soldier, he would have killed Francisco. Francisco’s eyes made me feel
strong, my heart beating high in my chest. I imagined the soft metal dress and saw myself storming the icy, elegant room.

Francisco looked at me as if he wished to convey something, but sighed. Perhaps he had not been able to find the words in my language. He touched my shoulder with his warm hand.

“Vamos,”
he said in a quiet voice, and took my hand, leading me away from the dead soldier. “Your mama, your sister.” He pointed toward the cottage.

“You know some words in Irish,” I said.

He held his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Irish,” he said.
“Poquito
. Little.”

Lightning flashed in the sky, and a warm metallic smell filled the wet air. Moments later, thunder cracked and rumbled, and a new belt of heavy rain moved in over Ard Macha.

Back in the cottage, I was still shaking as we dried off. I gave Francisco some of Da’s clothes to wear and struggled to think of a safe place where we could go and hide.

Ishleen helped me put things into a satchel: several blocks of turf and matches, a sack of oats and half a loaf of soda bread, ten potatoes, a turnip, and the bottle of whiskey.

The wheeled chair was no good to us where we were going, through sand and jagged rocks and tidewater.

Francisco and Ishleen took Mam’s arms, guiding her, and followed as I led the way down the hill carrying the supplies.

CHAPTER 12