The Wild Sight

Copyright
©
2008 by Loucinda McGary

Cover and internal design
©
2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover photos
©
Dreamstime.com/SophieLouise, Jupiter Images

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900

FAX: (630) 961-2168

www.sourcebooks.com

The wild sight : an Irish tale of deadly deeds and forbidden love / Loucinda McGary.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-2090-6

ISBN-10: 1-4022-2090-1

1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Celts—Fiction. 3. Ireland—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.C4523W55 2008

813’.6—dc22

2008013765

Contents

Chapter 1

DONOVAN O’SHEA STRODE ACROSS THE DRIED GRASS behind the ramshackle cottage that had been in his family for at least five generations.
The odor of freshly dug earth and the unique miasma arising from the nearby fens filled his nostrils. Nothing in America smelled
remotely the same. And breathing it in evoked memories, none too pleasant.

The leaden October sky promised rain before the day was done, and Donovan picked up his pace, anxious to get this visit behind
him. His light American running shoes made no noise, but he could hear the faint scraping sounds of a shovel in the otherwise
still air. Up ahead of him heavy twine stretched between small wooden stakes, and two neat mounds of earth marked the area
of activity.

“Hello? Professor McRory?” he called out to herald his own arrival. Nobody else would be out here. Heaven knew, he didn’t
want to be.

Aongus McRory’s head and shoulders appeared above the lip of the trench he’d been digging. A half-second later, the head of
his assistant, Sybil Gallagher, popped up beside him. The two reminded Donovan of a pair of prairie dogs he’d once seen on
a holiday to Yellowstone Park.

“O’Shea!” McRory’s deep baritone quavered with the same eagerness as it had on the phone twenty minutes ago. “Thank you for
coming out here straight away.” He pitched his small spade next to the mound of dirt and clambered out of the hole.

Reluctance took a firm grip of Donovan’s subconscious, and he slowed his approach. “So you’ve found another pit?”

The professor wiped his hand on the leg of his canvas trousers then extended it to help his assistant. “Indeed we have! And
this one, ah, this one is a beauty!”

“No more dog bones?”

The hair on the back of Donovan’s neck prickled, as he remembered how he’d stumbled on the first storage pit a fortnight ago.
The air going into his lungs felt inexplicably heavy, and he stopped walking.

The other man rushed on, “Much more exciting! Wait ’til you see.”

Shoving his fair hair from his eyes with the back of his hand, McRory rummaged in a box on the ground with the other.

“Have a look.” He thrust a dark, metal object in Donovan’s direction. “’Tis a torc, late Bronze Age, I’m almost certain.”

Donovan stared at the circular neck ornament in the professor’s hand and the breath caught in his throat. A loud noise buzzed
inside his head, a sound he recognized though he’d not experienced it for many years. He knew what was about to happen, but
was helpless to stop it.

A moment later, his vision blurred into a spiraling mass of green, brown, and gray. The buzz faded, and in its place arose
a harsh cacophony, the guttural blast of a war trumpet, the pounding of sword hilts against shields, and the strident shouts
of men. Then the stench of the battlefield enveloped him.

Sweat, blood, and trampled earth.

The whirling shapes coalesced into men, bearded warriors with long, flowing hair. They brandished broadswords and carried
oblong shields, but wore nothing except close-fitting helmets on their heads, torcs around their necks, and leather sword
belts encircling their hips.

Donovan stared at the heavy sword clenched in his right hand and the shield in his left and realized he was part of this battle
too. Splotches of red and ochre paint swirled down his arms and across his bare chest.

The blaring of more war trumpets set his teeth on edge, while the men around him surged forward. He jostled the man next to
him, a hulking giant, even taller than Donovan and half again as broad, though not an ounce was fat. Dark, tangled hair streamed
from beneath the warrior’s helmet past his heavily muscled shoulders, and a bristly black beard obscured the lower half of
his face. Still, something in the depths of his bright blue eyes and in the tilt of his head sparked a long-ago memory in
the back of Donovan’s disoriented mind.

“Ro?” His own voice sounded strange inside his head.

Somehow, through the din, the warrior heard him. His eyes skimmed Donovan’s features. Then his black eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Dony?”

The pet name his mother, Moira, had given him. In her soft countrified accent, it rhymed with Tony. No one had called Donovan
that since he was seven years old.

“Dony,” the enormous man repeated in the same accent. “So you’re all grown-up as well.”

Donovan had no time to answer or voice the thousand questions that leapt into his mind, for the enemy was upon them. A half-dozen
similarly armed men charged at him. Ro and the other warrior beside him lunged forward and Donovan felt his own sword rise
as he blocked first one blow then another. The shock of metal crashing against metal coursed down his arm, while more warriors
from both factions joined in the fray. Screams of pain and rage rang in his ears.

The man battling Ro crumpled in wordless agony, bright red blood gushing onto the ground under him, even as another sprang
to take his place. The enormous warrior dispatched his second opponent with even greater speed, blood spattering his shield
and helmet. Donovan was not so skilled. Sweat stung his eyes as he struggled to block and parry the blows his adversary rained
down upon him, and he was forced to give ground. But when the man advanced to renew his attack, his foot slipped on the blood-soaked
grass, and he staggered. Donovan lunged, and pulled his sword back. Gore dripped from the blade.

As the man fell to his knees with a shuddering groan, Donovan realized that Ro and his companions had turned the attack into
a rout. Their enemy fled toward the fens, defenders roaring in victory on their heels. Then the man in front of Donovan fell
over, writhing in agony.

“Take his head!” Ro shouted.

Donovan jerked his gaze up and saw two severed heads tied by their hair at his friend’s sword belt. Bile rushed from Donovan’s
stomach to his throat.

“’Tis your war prize, man!” Ro shouted again. Blood glistened on his forearms and thighs. He reached down and grabbed the
man’s hair, pulling his exposed throat toward Donovan. “Take it!”

The stench of death and the overwhelming urge to vomit swamped Donovan. Swaying, he squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in a
deep breath of fetid air. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyelids and his pulse pounded loud in his ears. The smell
receded.

From a great distance, he could just make out a woman’s voice calling, “Mr. O’Shea? Mr. O’Shea!”

Then a man’s voice, more distinctive, cried, “Donovan!” Fingers gripped his arm and shook. “Jaysus, man! Are you all right?”

Donovan opened his eyes into the worried gaze of Professor McRory. The noise, the stench, the battlefield had disappeared.
But not his urge to vomit. He flung off McRory’s hand, stumbled a few steps away, then doubled over and retched into a clump
of weeds. Coughing, he gripped his jean-clad thighs to steady himself.

“Sybil, get that stool!” McRory barked out the command, and rested his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “All right, then?”

Awash in humiliation, he straightened and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. The professor guided him backward to a three-legged
canvas stool and Donovan sunk down onto it, consciously steadying his breathing.

“Here’s water, Mr. O’Shea.” Pale blue eyes completely round with alarm, McRory’s assistant handed Donovan a clear plastic
bottle.

“Thanks.” He swirled the first gulp around inside his mouth and spat it out. The second swallow felt cool and fortifying as
it slid down his throat. The third was almost as good.

Taking a deep breath, he stood, his mother’s long ago admonition ringing inside his head, “Never talk about your gift, Dony.
People don’t understand.”

Some gift. Curse, more like.

He gave McRory and Sybil a wan smile. “So sorry. Must have been bad pub grub. But I’m all right now.”

Though Sybil’s expression remained uneasy, McRory clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, right nasty stuff it must have been. I
thought you were falling over there for a moment.”

Still feeling self-conscious, Donovan switched subjects. “About the new pit . . . ”

A spark of excitement ignited in the professor’s eyes. “I’ve already contacted my department chair at Queen’s. If this Bronze
Age site follows true to form, there are more storage pits. The Celts laid them out in semi-circles.”

“This could be the find of a career!” Sybil broke in, enthusiasm turning her mousy features almost attractive.

“Certainly significant enough to send a proper team out here to the site, not just Syb and me.” McRory clapped Donovan on
the shoulder like his new comrade-in-arms. “And maybe enough to convince the government to buy your family’s property. Exactly
how far into the fens does it go?”

“I don’t know,” Donovan admitted. “The fens have shifted even since I lived here as a child. And my mother’s family has been
here at least since the Hunger.”

The professor warmed to his subject, all but rubbing his hands together in anticipatory glee. “You’ll need to search the property
records then.” Sybil nodded in eager agreement, while McRory continued, “And with your consent, I’ll contact a journalist
friend of mine in Belfast. A blurb on one of the wire services might give just the extra nudge some official needs to expedite
purchase.”

An expedited purchase was exactly what Donovan wanted, and he didn’t particularly care by whom. The sooner he left County
Armagh and all of Ireland, the better. “All right, if you think that’s the best course. You’re far more familiar with this
sort of thing than I’ll ever be.”

The pair seemed to have forgotten his momentary “illness,” but for how long?

Donovan intended to avoid the dig site as much as possible, avoid contact with anything that might trigger his “gift” again.
Just get himself back to America, where he never experienced anything remotely like visions.

Until his father’s stroke four months ago, he’d come home exactly once since he emigrated at age seventeen. That had been
nine years ago for his sister’s wedding, and he stayed far away from the deserted homestead. Too bad he couldn’t do the same
this time. The physicians seemed pleased with his father’s progress, and with the proceeds from the sale of the pub and the
property, Donovan and his sister could get the old man into the best private rehab program in Northern Ireland.

He drained the remaining water in one long guzzle, and handed the empty bottle to Sybil Gallagher. “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”

“Likewise,” McRory affirmed.

She stared across the street at the window illuminated by two neon signs. The yellow one featured a stylized Irish harp with
the word “Harp” written below. The dark blue one simply said “Guinness.” No other distinguishing signs hung on the door or
window, but none was needed.

The manager of her B&B in Dungannon hadn’t been kidding when she said the village of Ballyneagh was small. The long wooden
structures on either side of the badly paved road were divided into four businesses. The pub was one of the center stores
across the street, situated between a nameless barbershop and Brigit’s Bakery. She had passed a scattering of a dozen stone
cottages right before the line of shops, and through the growing twilight, she could see four more houses beyond the bakery.

Snagging her purse off the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, Rylie shoved the car key into one purse pocket and pulled
her lipstick from another. Three weeks ago, she’d never heard of this place, never guessed that it existed. Two days ago,
she’d flown across an entire continent and an ocean to get here. Yesterday, she’d struggled to drive on the wrong side of
the roadway over endless wet miles of country lanes in search of this little scrap of a burg and its no-name pub. All this
effort so she could confront the man who had walked away from her and her mother almost twenty-five years ago. The owner of
the pub, her father, Dermot O’Shea.

She peered into the rearview mirror to apply her lipstick and gave an inward sigh. Why the hell was she worried about how
she looked? She wasn’t here to seek his approval. More like, to rub his nose in the fact that by shirking his responsibilities
as a father, he’d missed out. But that wasn’t really the reason either.

For as long as Rylie could remember, there had been a gap in her identity that went far beyond using her stepfather’s last
name. In the six months since losing her mother to cancer, she had become consumed with unraveling the riddles of who she
really was and where her roots lay. Riddles, she grew convinced, only her biological father could answer. Ghosts only he could
put to rest.

At least the rain had dissipated to a drizzle. She flipped up the hood of her neon yellow windbreaker, the one she wore when
jogging, and got out of the car. Dashing across the two-lane road, she pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the pub.
She folded back her hood and pulled her long hair free while her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

Slowly, the large room came into focus. A long, gleaming, wooden bar hugged the wall closest to the front door and a dartboard
hung in the far corner. The opposite wall had four high-backed booths built into it, three of them currently occupied. A half-dozen
round tables were arranged in the center of the room, all empty. Unlike the bars Rylie had ventured into in California, this
place had a surprisingly homey atmosphere in spite of a lingering odor of cigarette smoke.

Eyes now accustomed to the gloom, she consciously straightened into her “walking tall” posture, though at five-foot two-and-a-half
inches tall was a relative term. She approached the bar. The two elderly men lounging against the polished wood, glasses of
dark brew in hand, gave her openly appreciative looks, which she patently ignored.

The bartender bustled over, a gap-toothed grin on his ruddy face. “What’ll it be, darlin’?”

Rylie studied his middle-aged countenance for a moment before she answered, “A Coke.” Then, when he picked up a glass she
added, “With ice.”