plámás than the father. Muiris told Cumhal that Aoife is in a terrible state.’
‘I wonder, Brigid, could I ask Aoife and her brothers to the Samhain supper tonight – as well as the O‘Lochlainns?’ The news about Aoife’s grief was no surprise; she and Rory
had been almost inseparable for the last eighteen months. Mara was sorry for the girl and, in any case, the issuing of the invitation would give her an excuse to go across to Poulnabrucky and have a word with Muiris. ‘Oh, and I’ve asked young Daire the apprentice silversmith, and Nuala and a few other young people. Is that all right, Brigid? I should ask you, I know, before I throw out all these invitations,’ finished Mara, feeling a genuine penitence. What would I do without Brigid, she thought for the millionth time.
‘Lord bless you, Brehon, don’t you worry about that.’ Brigid was immediately diverted from the question of Sorley’s death. ‘There’s plenty for everyone. I expected a bit of a party tonight,’ she called over her shoulder as with rapid, decisive steps she crossed the courtyard towards the storeroom. In a moment, she was out with a basket of turnips on her arm.
‘Come on, lads,’ she shouted across the wall. ‘Put those hurleys away now. I want these turnips carved before a scrap of dinner is put on the table for anyone. I’ll get the candle ends.’
Mara lingered for a while in the courtyard, watching the boys whittling the turnips into skulls with empty eye sockets and grinning teeth. When Sean emerged from the stables he was immediately dispatched to pick a basket of apples from the tree that grew sheltered from the west by a little hazel woodland. This tree was always the last to be picked and the apples were carefully guarded from marauding crows until the day for Samhain.
‘I’ll set up the tables in the schoolhouse, Brehon. That will be best. You don’t want all these youngsters in your
house.’ Brigid was flying in and out calling directions to Nessa, who helped in the kitchen, to Sean and to the boys. All would be perfectly arranged; Mara knew that. For once, there was nothing urgent for her to do. It would be an hour at least before the scholars had finished their dinner. Quietly she clicked her tongue at Bran, her wolfhound, who was looking at her hopefully; she would take him for a walk and sort out matters in her mind.
There were two routes to Poulnabrucky where Muiris and his family lived and Mara decided to take the lower road which descended steeply into a hidden valley. It was one of the few places on the Burren where trees grew and the small woodland of alder and oak trees was Bran’s favourite spot. The ground was thickly carpeted with crisp, golden-brown and yellow leaves, and the huge gnarled and looped grey tree roots, clinging to the stony ground beneath, formed homes for a large population of rabbits. While Bran chased happily after them, Mara paced the ground, crunching underfoot the empty, small, round calyxes of the acorns and thinking about the sudden death of Sorley that morning. The boy Marcan had seemed genuine in his denials and his mother, also, unless she was an amazingly fluent liar, had seemed to be speaking the truth. If these two were to be believed, then who had inserted that stick into the wall and tipped over the hive with its thousands of little furry inhabitants?
When Mara emerged from the wood shaking the last few tinder-dry leaves from her hair she saw that she did not need to go across to Poulnabrucky as Muiris was there in
front of her mending a stone wall. She stood and watched him for a moment, a square undersized man of immense strength and determination; a man to whom family was everything. She would have to handle this matter carefully, she thought as he called out a greeting to her.
‘I was going across to your house and now I’m saved the journey. I wondered if Aoife and her brothers would like to join some other young people for supper and a few games
‘I wonder, Brigid, could I ask Aoife and her brothers to the Samhain supper tonight – as well as the O‘Lochlainns?’ The news about Aoife’s grief was no surprise; she and Rory
had been almost inseparable for the last eighteen months. Mara was sorry for the girl and, in any case, the issuing of the invitation would give her an excuse to go across to Poulnabrucky and have a word with Muiris. ‘Oh, and I’ve asked young Daire the apprentice silversmith, and Nuala and a few other young people. Is that all right, Brigid? I should ask you, I know, before I throw out all these invitations,’ finished Mara, feeling a genuine penitence. What would I do without Brigid, she thought for the millionth time.
‘Lord bless you, Brehon, don’t you worry about that.’ Brigid was immediately diverted from the question of Sorley’s death. ‘There’s plenty for everyone. I expected a bit of a party tonight,’ she called over her shoulder as with rapid, decisive steps she crossed the courtyard towards the storeroom. In a moment, she was out with a basket of turnips on her arm.
‘Come on, lads,’ she shouted across the wall. ‘Put those hurleys away now. I want these turnips carved before a scrap of dinner is put on the table for anyone. I’ll get the candle ends.’
Mara lingered for a while in the courtyard, watching the boys whittling the turnips into skulls with empty eye sockets and grinning teeth. When Sean emerged from the stables he was immediately dispatched to pick a basket of apples from the tree that grew sheltered from the west by a little hazel woodland. This tree was always the last to be picked and the apples were carefully guarded from marauding crows until the day for Samhain.
‘I’ll set up the tables in the schoolhouse, Brehon. That will be best. You don’t want all these youngsters in your
house.’ Brigid was flying in and out calling directions to Nessa, who helped in the kitchen, to Sean and to the boys. All would be perfectly arranged; Mara knew that. For once, there was nothing urgent for her to do. It would be an hour at least before the scholars had finished their dinner. Quietly she clicked her tongue at Bran, her wolfhound, who was looking at her hopefully; she would take him for a walk and sort out matters in her mind.
There were two routes to Poulnabrucky where Muiris and his family lived and Mara decided to take the lower road which descended steeply into a hidden valley. It was one of the few places on the Burren where trees grew and the small woodland of alder and oak trees was Bran’s favourite spot. The ground was thickly carpeted with crisp, golden-brown and yellow leaves, and the huge gnarled and looped grey tree roots, clinging to the stony ground beneath, formed homes for a large population of rabbits. While Bran chased happily after them, Mara paced the ground, crunching underfoot the empty, small, round calyxes of the acorns and thinking about the sudden death of Sorley that morning. The boy Marcan had seemed genuine in his denials and his mother, also, unless she was an amazingly fluent liar, had seemed to be speaking the truth. If these two were to be believed, then who had inserted that stick into the wall and tipped over the hive with its thousands of little furry inhabitants?
When Mara emerged from the wood shaking the last few tinder-dry leaves from her hair she saw that she did not need to go across to Poulnabrucky as Muiris was there in
front of her mending a stone wall. She stood and watched him for a moment, a square undersized man of immense strength and determination; a man to whom family was everything. She would have to handle this matter carefully, she thought as he called out a greeting to her.
‘I was going across to your house and now I’m saved the journey. I wondered if Aoife and her brothers would like to join some other young people for supper and a few games
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