“ ‘There’s only one thing that I know that might work.’
“ ‘I’m listening,’ says Connor.
“ ‘Tell me, Connor, have you seen any strange animals?’
“He stiffened. His face paled. ‘There’s a vixen and a raven hanging around at my place.’
“Ma pursed her lips and blew out a very long breath. ‘And the fox has her lair under where the blackthorn stood, for there is a tunnel there?’
“ ‘There is.’ And from Connor’s voice I could tell he wondered how she knew that.
“ ‘Then go to it at the next full moon and speak into it, and tell them you want forgiveness, and to prove it say you’re willing to undergo a “clearing.” ’
“Connor frowned. ‘I’ve heard of a thing like that,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it a way a man could prove his innocence?’
“ ‘It was,’ Ma said, ‘but you don’t want that. You’re guilty. You cut down their tree. It’s forgiveness you want.’
“ ‘I’ve told them I’m sorry.’
“ ‘And did you hit your head before or after you told them?’
“ ‘After. The vixen tripped me up.’
“ ‘A vixen? Aye, so. And have you seen that raven that’s been around your farm since the fox did trip you?’
“ ‘I have.’
“ ‘Then they don’t believe you and you’ll have to convince them.’
“ ‘But how?’ I could hear worry in Connor’s voice.
“ ‘You must get a skull from a churchyard . . . ’”
For a moment, Kinky hesitated to tell them any more, but she’d seen these kiddies at Halloween. Talk of skulls would not bother them. Not one jot or tittle.
Kinky continued. “ ‘You take it by a full moon to the burrow, and you kiss the skull—’ ”
“Yeuch,” Irene said. “That would be nearly as bad as kissing Dermot Fogarty.”
All the girls giggled. Dermot blushed. Kinky smiled and carried on.
“ ‘—and you get down on your knees, and you swear the curse of the Druids, and if you don’t know it, I’ll teach it to you,’ said Ma. ‘It is so terrible it is not in the English language at all. You swear by it you are telling the truth, and you tell the Shee that if you tell a lie then all the sins of the skull when it was alive will become your sins for eternity—’ ”
“Oooh.” Jeannie Kennedy crossed herself.
“ ‘Then you tell them in all truth you know you were wrong to cut down their tree, and in truth you are very, very sorry, and you beg their forgiveness.’
“ ‘I find it hard to ask that from any man,’ Connor said quietly.
“ ‘Do it this time, Connor MacTaggart,’ Ma said, and there was a hardness in her voice. ‘Do it this time and then wait.’
“ ‘For what?’ Connor asked.
“ ‘For the faerie music on pipes and harps, and if they play to you, they believe you and you are forgiven.’ She smiled. ‘And you’ll have learnt new music for your pipes. All the great Irish pipers, and harpists like blind Turlough O’Carolan, were taught by the faeries.’
“ ‘But if they do not play?’
“I’d never seen Ma look so sad. ‘Connor MacTaggart, pray that they do, for if they do not, no mortal man nor mortal woman can help you.’
“And Connor took a very deep breath.
“Before he could say more, the back door opened and in came my seventeen-year-old sister, Fidelma. ‘They sent us home early today. One of the looms broke down and—’ She saw Connor. ‘Mr. MacTaggart,’ says she, ‘I thought that was your donkey and cart in the yard. What brings you here today?’
“He leapt to his feet. ‘I came to have a word with your Ma.’
“I thought he was going to swallow his pride and tell Fidelma why, but divil the bit. ‘To seek her permission to ask you to come to the pictures with me in Clonakilty on Saturday.’ He turned and looked at Ma.
“ ‘I probably should say no. You’re young yet, Fidelma,’ she said. ‘But go ahead, Mr. MacTaggart.’ She explained to me later that she hoped if Connor had somebody else to worry about instead of just himself, he might unbend and go and tell the wee folk he was sorry.
“ ‘Well?’ he said.
“ ‘I’d love to.’
“Connor grinned like a hyena. ‘I’ll collect you at five then, and I’ll have her back in good time,’ he told Ma. ‘But now’—he crammed his caubeen back on his head—‘I’ve peat to collect from the bog, and standing here with both legs the same length won’t get the baby a new coat.’
“He headed for the door, then stopped. ‘I do thank you very much for your advice, Mrs. O’Hanlon. I may well follow it, but it’s a couple of weeks till the moon is at the full so I’ll have time to think on it. I’ll get the teaching from you if I’m going to use it.’
“ ‘You think hard, Connor,’ Ma said, ‘and the teaching’s yours for the asking, but I’ll say no more for now, and nor will Maureen.’
“And I knew by the look she gave me I’d been told to keep my own counsel.
“ ‘Look after yourself, young Maureen,’ says he to me. ‘Saturday it is, Fidelma.’ And before he was out of the door, he had started to sing ‘The Star of the County Down,’ and I wondered if he was, in his mind, thinking of Fidelma instead of the girl Rosie McCann in the song.
“And if he was, I wondered, would he ever be able to make the last lines come true?
Though with rust my plough turns brown
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside,
Sits the Star of the County Down.
“I looked over at Ma. Her head was half turned from me, but I could see a single tear on her cheek. And my heart ached for Connor and my sister.”
10
“And that tear was the last time Ma let her true feelings about Connor and the faeries show, at least until Saint Stephen’s Day. Nor did she ever ask him to his face if he’d taken her advice, even though she’d plenty of opportunities over the weeks up to Christmas. Because he didn’t ask her to teach him the Druid curse, she was quite able to draw her own conclusions—that and by the odd things that happened to him, and I’m going to tell you about them.
“This is what it was. We saw a lot more of Connor after he’d taken Fidelma to the pictures. When they came back she was glowing, and within two weeks everybody in the townland—aye, and many in Clonakilty—knew Connor MacTaggart and Fidelma O’Hanlon were walking out. I think she’d driven any of his worries about the Shee right out of his head. He was smitten. You could tell by the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, kept trying to hold her hand when he thought no one was watching. He was always looking for an excuse just to pop by.
“I heard Da wonder aloud one day did Connor not have a home of his own to go to; he seemed to be spending so much time at our place, so.
“And every time he came over it seemed some fresh difficulty had arisen. His donkey had thrown a shoe. Two shutters had blown off in a gale. His thatch was leaking. His pipes had clogged up and he’d had to go back to using his pump.
“Ma didn’t say much, but I saw her shake her head each time Connor mentioned a new misfortune, even though he always told the story with a laugh at himself and a great shrugging of his shoulders as if it was of no matter.
“Fidelma paid no attention to those things. ‘Sure,’ she told me one Saturday when I was feeding the chickens and she was hanging out the washing to dry, ‘anybody can have a bit of bad luck.’ I know she thought he was the most wonderful man in the world and, as far as she was concerned, could do no wrong. If you could have seen the eyes of her, the way they sparkled when she spoke of him.
“ ‘Och, sure,’ I told her, as I scattered corn from my pail. ‘You think he walks on water. He’s only just a shepherd man, so, and poor as a church mouse at that.’
“ ‘And you,’ she told me, ‘are too young to be jealous . . . so hould your wheest.’ ”
Kinky smiled and said, almost to herself, “Any of you with older sisters know what it’s
like when you’re young.” She saw several heads nodding.
“Then I said, ‘I think he cares a lot more for his sheep than he does for you,’ and I had to drop my pail and run off because Fidelma dumped her laundry basket and took a charge at me, yelling, ‘I’ll kill you dead, Maureen O’Hanlon, you wee hussy!’
“And his flock did matter, maybe not as much as I’d told Fidelma, but the only time I saw Connor really upset was when three of his sheep sickened with the foot rot. I told you that, before Fidelma, he only really cared for three things: hurling, football, and his sheep. To have his animals sick pained him sore. He neglected Fidelma for days to watch over the rest of his flock, for if you don’t isolate the animals with the rot, it can spread fast. He always put his animals before himself, and it was so bitter and damp on the high pastures that he came down with an awful cold and a chest cough.
“Ma made up a cure with wild cherry bark, aniseed, and dried wild lettuce mixed with honey and nine hairs from the tail of a black cat chopped up fine and sprinkled on it. She handed it to him and stood over him with her arms akimbo, a frown on her face. ‘And you’ll get that down you now, Connor MacTaggart. All of it. Every last drop.’
“ ‘Yes, sergeant,’ Connor said meekly, then grinned at me. ‘It’s like being back in the army when your Ma’s in that mood.’
“And he was right. Our Ma loved us all, but she was no softie, and heaven help any one of us who’d left a chore undone.
“After Connor’d drunk it all down and pulled a funny face, Ma asked him, ‘And do you still see foxes and ravens, Connor?’
“As I remember, it was one day in the middle of December, when the full moon had come and gone, and maybe that’s why she asked him then.
“And his answer was not a lie, for I’ve told you Connor never told lies. He said, ‘Och sure, isn’t Ireland full of foxes and ravens?’
“ ‘Indeed it is, Connor,’ was what Ma said. ‘Indeed it is.’ And her voice was sad. I think she wanted to change the subject so she coughed and said, with a smile, ‘And will you be spending Christmas with us, Connor?’
“Connor’s grin was as wide as Galway Bay. He said, ‘I’d love that, Mrs. O’Hanlon, for I’ve no family of my own nearby.’
“ ‘Well,’ says she, ‘come on Christmas morning and bring your toothbrush; you’ll likely want to stay until Saint Stephen’s Day.’ ”
“Oooh, and is that when Connor meets the Saint Stephen’s Day ghost?” Micky asked.
“Just you bide, Micky, and you’ll find out very soon. There’s a little more I need to tell you first.
“It was maybe a more subdued Christmas season that year. You’re all too young to remember it the way I do, but there was a civil war going on in Ireland. It was in August 1922, at Beal na mBláth, that a very important man in the brand-new Irish government, a man called Michael Collins, was ambushed and shot dead.
“He wasn’t shot on our farm, and anyway, long before that my Da had said that the O’Hanlons were having no part of the Troubles. Us O’Hanlons kept ourselves to ourselves and let the outside world go about its business. Most of our close neighbours were of the same mind, although many people in West Cork did take sides, mostly Republican.
“Ma and Da had both said that never mind the earlier shenanigans near where we lived; this Christmas would be no different from any other and we’d enjoy it to the full.
“Da, God rest him, and my big brothers Art and Tiernan had walked four miles to cut the Yule log and drag it home.
“We’d to light it from last year’s log and it had to burn for twelve hours with enough left to start next year’s. Some folks today talk about Yule being celebrated years before Christmas ever came about. Way back, what we call Christmas now, what the European Celts called Yule, was Alban Arthuan to us Irish.
“We went to church in the morning. We’d all got our presents before. Soon after we came back, the house was full. All the family was there and most of the guests who’d be staying for dinner. There was Malachy Aherne, the fellah my sister Sinead—she was the oldest girl at twenty-two—was walking out with. And Emer Mullan, the lass my big brother Art was going to marry the following April. They’d both come for the day and for dinner and to stay that night.
“It’s a good thing ours was a big farmhouse.
“The kitchen was a grand room that opened onto the barnyard through an inside door, a porch, and an outside half door. You could open the top and leave the bottom shut to keep the hens out or open it all so people could come and go.
“And come and go they did that day. Neighbours kept dropping in for a wee jar . . . or two.
“A big porcelain sink stood in the middle of a counter. Da had bottles and glasses on that counter, and us girls took turns washing and drying the dirty glasses.
“Ma was always near, working at the big black cast-iron range at the end of the room opposite the porch door. It burnt turf and was never allowed to go out, for it was stove top, oven, water heater, and heater of the kitchen. The range and Ma together were the hearts of the O’Hanlon family and the kitchen was her domain.
“There were always half a dozen smoked hams hanging in nets from the thick black-painted beam that crossed the centre of the ceiling.
“Beneath the beam, half the room was taken up by a solid bogoak dining table that, with its leaves in, could seat twelve.
“With family there and folks arriving, even our big kitchen kept getting crowded, and Connor was the last of those staying to come.
“I’d got a spinning wheel from Ma and Da. I was in the living room sitting on the stool behind it, trying out the treadle and the spindle. Sinead was in the kitchen taking her turn washing glasses, and Fidelma was supposed to be helping me, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept glancing at the door.
“ ‘Look, Fidelma,” I said, perhaps a bit tersely, ‘if you don’t really want to help . . . go away.’
“ ‘And a Merry Christmas to you too, Shrimp.’ That’s what she always called me if she was annoyed with me.
“ ‘We all know you’re soft in the head for Connor. Soft in the he-ead. Soft in the he-ead.’ I remember sticking my tongue out at her.”
“Did you not get on with your sister?” Carolyn Kyle asked, looking pointedly at her twin, Dorothy.
Kinky laughed. “You two should know better than most. I’ve always loved Fidelma . . . but when I was fourteen I didn’t always like her very much.”
The Kyle twins nodded sagely.
“Anyhow, Fidelma scowled at me. ‘Grow up, Shrimp, or I’ll—’
“ ‘I’m growing as fast as I—’ It was as far as I got. I heard noises in the kitchen.
“Fidelma leapt to her feet and ran.
“I followed her. The smells . . . well, just remembering them now they make my mouth water, and you could hardly hear yourself think for the clattering of pots on the range top and the chattering of lids letting steam escape.
“ ‘Merry Christmas, Connor MacTaggart,’ says Fidelma.
“Connor carried a case that he set on the floor. ‘My pipes,’ he said. He wore a duncher and had a scarf wrapped round the lower part of his face. He offs with the flat cap and unwinds his scarf. By now we’d all got used to the red mark on his face.
“ ‘Merry Christmas to this house,’ says Connor, blowing on his hands and starting to shrug out of his coat. ‘It’s grand to be inside, so. There’s a cold wind out there that would scythe corn. It’ll snow before morning.’
“ ‘You’re right,’ says Ma, ‘and it will be a big blizzard, so.’
“ ‘If it is,’ says Connor, ‘I’m for a trip up to the high pasture. I’ll need to bring feed up to the flock. They’ve had enough trouble this winter without having to go hungry too.’
“ ‘It will snow,’ says Ma, ‘and your sheep can manage well enough without you. You might be better to let them be, Connor MacTaggart.’
“There was something in the tone of her voice, a tone I’d only ever heard when she’d suggest something
important to others. She never made it sound like advice, but folks who ignored her could rue the day.
“Connor laughed, grabbed Fidelma by the hand, and she giggling the while, pulled her over to the hall doorway. He stopped. ‘Would you look at that?’ says he. ‘Mistletoe. I want my Christmas kiss.’
“But she pulled away. ‘There’s an awful-looking spider sitting on the berries,’ she said, and shivered.
“I looked straight at Ma. Her gaze was fixed on Connor. There was grief in it.
“I shivered when I looked back at Connor.
“ ‘Funny,’ says he, peering up. ‘I’ve one just like it at my place. Pay no heed to it.’ And he scratched his ear.
“He led Fidelma into the hall and I heard him say, ‘I’m still going to get my Christmas kiss.’ And he did. And more than one.
“I’d never seen Connor so gay, so full of life, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and if he did he’d clearly resolved to ignore it. He never seemed to sit still. He helped Ma set the table. He carried turf in for the fire. He greeted visitors. By halfway through the afternoon, he was helping them to brush snow off their coats. You could hear the wind when the doors were open.
“That evening he ate a Christmas dinner that would have satisfied Finn MacCool, the Irish giant, and later on Connor played his pipes. I’ll never forget that.
“We’d retired to the sitting room after the meal. You could hear the gale whistling outside, but in the room it was cosy warm, with turf sizzling in the grate and the scent of it mingled with the piney smell of the Christmas tree.
“Da, who was a famous seanachie, a storyteller, told us a story. I can see him sitting there with that twinkle in his grey eyes. He was taller than Ma, wide-shouldered, slim-hipped. He had a wind-weathered face and a scar under his left eye where a piece of shrapnel had wounded him in 1918. He’d been a soldier man like Connor—a sergeant. Da was bald as a coot and I think it embarrassed him, for I never saw him but he was wearing a tweed duncher. Ma said he even wore it to bed.
“He was down to a collarless shirt, sleeves rolled up, his green braces running over the front of it to hold up tweed trousers, and he’d one booted foot resting on his thigh. Da and all the fellahs had hot Irish whiskeys in their hands. I was allowed one toty-wee glass of eggnog just like the bigger ones—Ma, my sisters, and Emer, Art’s fiancée—were drinking. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that sure I liked the nutmeggy taste of it, but drinking it made me feel grown up.”