Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Cave of Secrets (6 page)
A
fterwards Tom could hardly believe his adventure. He was safely back in his bed by the time the sun was up. The night had passed as swiftly as a dream. But he had proof of his exploits. His damp clothing, still smelling of salt and pitch, was wadded up in a corner of his room.
Tucked under his goosedown pillow were several small, tightly wrapped packets. Muiris had given them to him when they parted. ‘Thank you for the night’s work, Tomás. You are entitled to a share of the proceeds.’
When Tom unwrapped one of the packets he found a number of small brown stones. He was puzzled. ‘Why are you giving me pebbles?’
Muiris chuckled. ‘Not pebbles, lad. Whole nutmegs. Those other packets contain cloves and mace and cinnamon, as well as saffron and ginger. Spices have become very costly because of the import duties. If you sell yours in the village markets you can make quite a bit of money – just don’t mention where you got them. Better still, keep them. A pinch of spice
in your mother’s food may tempt her appetite.’
‘It’s kind of you to care about my mother’s welfare.’
Muiris cocked one eyebrow. ‘Some say I am a kind man, Tomás.’
As soon as Tom had washed his face in the basin on his washstand and dressed in fresh clothes, he went down to the kitchen. He found Cook pummelling a large ball of dough. He stood watching for several moments, savouring the yeasty smell. Then he took a folded square of paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘This is to season Mother’s food,’ he said.
Cook frowned at him. ‘Are you playing another of your pranks, Master Thomas?’
‘I am not. Truly.’
Unfolding the paper, Cook found a small quantity of red powder. She lowered her head and sniffed. ‘Cinnamon! And richer than the stuff that costs a fortune in Bantry. Where did this come from?’
‘A friend gave it to me as a gift for Mother,’ Tom said
casually
. He was thankful that servants were discouraged from asking questions. ‘Do you think she will like it? If she does, I have this for her, and this too.’ He produced several other papers.
When Cook sniffed the nutmeg her eyes lit up. ‘The very thing for making a hot posset, and myself knowing Walter Raleigh’s own secret recipe for sack posset,’ she boasted.
‘A secret? Can you tell me? Please?’
‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Master Thomas. You’re a great one for the eating but I never knew you were
interested
in the cooking.’
Tom grinned. ‘I’m interested in a lot of things. You would be surprised.’
‘Hmmph,’ she said, ‘I’ve reared seven childer of me own. Nothing about young ones surprises me any more. But I’ll tell you, so I will. Because you said please.
‘First boil together half a pint of sack sherry and half a pint of ale. Take the pot away from the fire and stir in a quart of hot cream – not boiled, mind, just scalding. And stir slow. Sweeten the mixture with lots of honey and grated nutmeg, then pour it into a well-warmed pewter bowl. And there you have it, Master Thomas.’ She beamed with pride. ‘The drink that gave the famous Raleigh his strength. ’Twill surely do our poor lady a power of good.’
While Cook prepared and served the posset, Tom avoided his father. William Flynn was about to leave for Dublin again. The boy did not join his sisters at the door to wave goodbye. Instead he went upstairs to see if his mother had drunk the hot posset. The pewter bowl on the candle stand beside her bed was empty and she was sleeping peacefully. Perhaps there was even a little colour in her cheeks?
Perhaps not.
Clouds were gathering over the bay. The wind brought a smell of rain.
* * *
Later in the day Tom grew restless. The gathering storm was making him jumpy. His mother had retired to her room and his sisters were busy with their own amusements.
Roaringwater
House crouched sullenly on its ground while every gust of wind sent more draughts billowing through the large, high-ceilinged rooms.
Tom did not expect to be summoned that night. The weather was too threatening. There was nothing for it but to remain inside and imagine a different, better life.
Donal and Maura would be sitting by their hearth, warm and snug, surrounded by loving family. The children might be helping their mother card wool or listening to someone tell stories. Muiris was a great one for relating history, but Seán was better at the legends of ancient Ireland. His words could bring to life the grim Fomorians who had built giant stone fortresses along the western coast; the beautiful and magical Tuatha dé Danann who could control the wind and weather; the aristocratic Milesians whose iron swords had driven the Tuatha dé Danann underground – or caused them to turn themselves into thorn trees.
And Seán’s wife could sing haunting songs of the Gaelic
past that brought tears to the eyes.
Why is there no music in this house? Tom wondered. In the great hall there was a fine old harp which his mother used to play, or so she said. He had never heard her playing it. The elaborately carved body of the instrument was usually dusty and the strings were tarnished. When he ran his fingers across them they gave off a shrill whine.
The wind rose with a shrill whine.
* * *
At the first rumble of thunder Maura climbed onto her mother’s lap. ‘Make it go away,’ she pleaded. She had been practising her English recently, so she could talk to Tomflynn better.
‘Only God can do that,
girsha
.’
‘You were praying to Him just now. I saw your lips move. Ask Him to make it go away.’
Bríd twined the child’s silky curls around her fingers. ‘I am asking Him for too much already,’ she said. ‘I am praying for the lives of all the people on the sea today. That is a fierce storm coming. Ships may be blown onto the rocks, or
overturned
by the gale, and the poor people will struggle in the water, choking and gasping, until it pulls them down. Och, that is a terrible death!’
Maura pulled free of her mother’s caress. ‘Why do people
be on ships?’ she asked reasonably.
‘Some men cannot stay in one place forever, like a tree on its roots,’ Bríd explained. ‘The need for movement is in them. Ships take them where they could not go on their feet.’
‘They should stay home,’ Maura declared with conviction.
From the other side of the hearth Donal said, ‘If he did not go smuggling, would our father stay home?’
‘He would not, and why should he? My husband is a
warrior
like his father’s fathers. He would go into the mountains and join the rebel chieftains.’
Donal’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Would he be fighting the
Sasanach
then?’
‘Muiris is fighting the
Sasanach
now,’ Bríd replied calmly.
Maura said, ‘The stuff he takes is worth a lot of money. He hurts the
Sasanach
somefin’ awful, ’cos they love money more than anyfing.’
Her mother’s shoulders shook with laughter.
Muiris entered the cabin, brushing the rain from his clothes. ‘Why are you laughing?’
His wife said, ‘Your daughter has the clearest eyes of any of us.’
‘I know that,’ he replied as he bent down and gathered Maura into his arms. ‘When I need someone to tell me the truth, I ask this little one.’
* * *
As it always did, the storm finally blew itself out. The
following
day was gilded with late summer. Deep blue water reflected deep blue sky. The formerly furious wind was peacefully employed in filling the sails of countless vessels. They glided across the bay and around the coast of Ireland.
As he drew near the cliffs, Tom squinted to see better. Even the nearest small boat was too far away for him to recognise the occupants. The great ships that braved the trade routes from Africa and Spain were no more than dots on the
horizon
. He wondered if one of them would be waiting at Cobh when his father arrived.
Would there be pirates lurking along the way?
Tom was almost sorry Muiris was not a pirate. He could imagine the two men facing one another on the deck of a ship. William Flynn would lose all his bluster then. Muiris would not hurt him – of course not! – but he would make him feel helpless. Perhaps Muiris would even say, ‘Tomás is my man now.’
Donal was not waiting in the cove. Sure of his welcome, Tom struck out for the settlement in the valley. He found Donal and Maura beside the river, scrubbing a cooking pot with sand. ‘Tomflynn!’ the little girl cried when she saw him. ‘Did you hear the storm last night, Tomflynn?’
‘It was ferocious,’ he replied.
‘F’rocious,’ she agreed. ‘I hate thumble.’
‘She means thunder,’ explained Donal.
Maura glared at her brother. ‘That’s what I said! What do you hate, Tomflynn?’
‘Cold feet, I suppose. And biting flies. What about you, Donal?’
‘I hate the
Sasanach
.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they hate us.’
Tom spent the day with Donal and his family. The two boys were sent to cut reeds for mending a section of
damaged
thatch on one of the cabins. Tom discovered that all reeds are not the same. Young green ones were useless for thatching, as were those that had died and gone brown and brittle. ‘Reeds have to be mature but have plenty of life left in them,’ Donal explained, ‘because they must last for a long time.’
When that task was completed Bríd brought out a large sack of dried furze. She showed Tom how to cut and fold the spiky plants into neat, flat parcels called faggots. ‘We use them for fuel in the bake-oven,’ she explained. ‘The outer edges blaze up quickly to warm the inside surface of the oven. The heart of the faggots burns with a deep, steady heat which is perfect for baking.’
‘My father claims furze is useless,’ Tom said.
‘Nothing fashioned by God’s hand is useless, Tomás. Furze also makes good fodder for horses. You chop up the green tops and pound them on a flat surface with a mallet. A horse
fed with green furze will stay more fit than a horse given dry straw.’
While the bread was baking Seán showed Tom how to shape soft leather footgear from untanned deerskin. The old woman taught him the words of an ancient Gaelic lament. Donal’s mother let him scale fish for the cooking pot. He tore the flesh badly at first, but Bríd just said, ‘Try again.’
Everything he learned was a gift. Neither work nor play, but a treasure he could keep. It was great to feel useful for a change. He was having a wonderful time – except when he found himself imagining his father on a ship. And the pirates coming.
As the evening approached he knew he must go home. But first he asked Muiris, ‘What do pirates do to the people on ships they capture?’
‘They usually let them go after they surrender their
valuables
.’
‘Usually?’
‘Not always. Why do you ask?’
‘My father is sailing to Dublin. He left yesterday morning.’
The skin tightened around the man’s eyes. ‘I see. When will he return?’
‘He never tells us. He has business there, that’s all I know. But about the pirates … are there any pirates on the way to Dublin?’
The smile was in Muiris’s eyes again. The smile which did
not reach his lips. ‘There are always pirates, on land and sea. Is your father armed?’
‘I don’t know. He took some baggage with him, there might be weapons inside.’
Muiris said, ‘If his ship is boarded by pirates he should be safe enough. Unless he resists.’
Tom’s mouth went dry. ‘He would never give up his valuables without a fight.’
‘Then pray God, Tomás, your father never meets any pirates.’
A
fter Tom left, Donal set to work weaving a willow basket. His father needed some new lobster pots, but the boy had not yet mastered the complicated design. Baskets were good practice.
Yet even weaving a basket presented a problem this
evening
. All of Donal’s fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs. His concentration was elsewhere.
His parents were talking about Tom Flynn.
No conversation in a cabin could be totally private. People who lived in cabins were expected to ignore anything not meant for them. Donal had grown up observing that ancient law. Tonight he broke it. He listened with all his might to the conversation between his parents.
His father was praising the other boy’s courage. As far as Donal could tell, Tom had done nothing brave. He had sat in a boat. He had helped load and unload cargo. Nothing special, nothing manly. Nothing Donal could not have done himself, if his father gave him the chance.
Muiris said, ‘The first time the lad was ever on open water, and he not seasick. He was born to it.’
I
was born to it, Donal thought sourly. Tomás was born to the land.
He did not want to resent Tom; he liked Tom. They were good friends. But did his father have to praise the other boy so much? Muiris never praised his own son, at least not within Donal’s hearing.
Donal stared down at the basket he was weaving. He had soaked the strips of willow in salt water to soften them, and waited until they were just pliable enough to force into shape without losing their springiness. He had done it so often the task was second nature to him. He did not even have to think about it, his hands knew what to do by
themselves
. Everything in the cabin, and the cabin itself, had been made by his family.
Tom Flynn said there were China plates in his house. And silver spoons, and glass bottles. He did not have to hunt and fish to feed himself nor gather firewood to keep himself warm. He had different suits of clothes in different colours, and some stockings of silk and others of wool, and more than one pair of shoes. With silver buckles on them.
Setting the basket aside, Donal lifted one of his feet and turned it over in his hands. He examined the thickly
calloused
sole. The leather soles of Tom’s buckled shoes were thicker. No sharp bit of broken seashell could stab through
them and leave a boy’s foot bleeding and sore.
Tom Flynn had a fireplace in his bed-chamber. A
fireplace
with a hearth he did not have to share with anyone. He could sit there and soak up all the warmth himself. And he had a large bowl he called a ‘chamber pot’ that he could make water in during the night so he did not have to go out into the weather.
Donal wondered if any of the Flynn women lay awake all night coughing.
He put his foot down again and picked up the basket. He could smell rain on the wind. Summer would be over soon.
* * *
‘Summer will be over soon,’ Caroline Flynn reminded her mother. ‘When is Father coming home?’
Catherine Flynn looked up from the sewing in her lap. ‘I shall not know until he sends me a letter.’
‘You should have had one by now,’ Virginia said testily. ‘Has Simon called to the village to see if the coach has come down from Dublin?’
‘He has called several times. There is never any post from your father.’
‘Perhaps he is sending it another way, then. An uncommon number of riders are passing by on the road. One of them may bring his letter.’
‘A number of riders, dear?’ Mrs Flynn tried to hide the sudden anxiety she felt. ‘Why have you been going out to the road?’
‘I like to watch people passing by. I try to guess where they are going and what will happen to them when they get there. Some of them will see towns and cities and go on ships and–’
‘Enough, enough!’ her mother exclaimed with a nervous laugh. ‘Come sit here by me, both of you. We can work on your sister’s trousseau together.’
Caroline looked at the pile of sewing with distaste. She loved to wear pretty clothes but did not like to make them. ‘Why bother now?’ she asked her mother. ‘Wait until Father returns from Dublin. No doubt he will bring bales of
beautiful
fabric for her frocks.’
Mrs Flynn shook her head. ‘I do not think so, not this time.’
‘Of course he will,’ Caroline contradicted. ‘Father has bags of money and he loves to spend it on us. I can hardly wait to see what he brings us this time.’ With her head full of silks and satins, William Flynn’s youngest daughter flitted from the room.
She moves as lightly as a sunbeam, her mother thought to herself. I used to move like that once.
* * *
The second time Tom joined the smugglers was very
different
from the first. It started out much the same, with the
pinprick
of light sending its welcome signal, and the eager run to the cliffs. Séamus was waiting as before. This time he was not alone. He was in a large currach with two other men. One of these was Fergal. The other was a brawny fellow Tom had never met, but who had the familiar sea eagle features. He held aloft a small lantern that was burning pilchard oil. This was a by-product of pressing pilchards for salting, and though it burned well the oil gave off a dreadful smell. No pilchard oil was ever used at Roaringwater House.
‘So this is the lad,’ the man said to Séamus. His English, Tom noted, was quite good.
‘This is the lad,’ Séamus agreed.
The man lifted the lantern higher so he could study Tom’s face. ‘Are you old enough to do a man’s work?’
Tom said in his deepest voice – which was not as deep as he wanted – ‘I can do anything you ask of me.’
He expected laughter at this boast. The man merely said, ‘You will need that courage soon, and all the strength you have.’ He turned towards Séamus. ‘It is a worry to me that your brother agreed to this job tonight. There is a wee sliver of moon tonight. And I have seen the sun dogs.’
Séamus replied in Irish. The lantern-holder grunted in response.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Tom.
‘The weather,’ Fergal said casually. Too casually. ‘Into the boat with you, Tomás. We have a fair bit of rowing to do before this night’s out.’
As he climbed into the boat Tom noticed there was an extra pair of oars. ‘Am I going to row?’ he asked eagerly.
‘You are more than ballast on this night,’ Séamus told him. ‘Take up those oars and sit in the front. Watch me now. Hold them just as I do. Look at me, Tomás. Hold your oars like this.’
The man with the lantern lifted it high until Tom was
settled
, then extinguished the light.
They shoved off.
The oar handles had been worn smooth by many hands over the years. They felt just the way Tom had imagined they would. He listened intently as Séamus gave him instructions. ‘The two oars must work as one, Tomás. Never let one go off by itself. The oars and your arms and your shoulders, all one.’ At first the boy did not dig into the water enough. Then he went too deep. The other men tempered their own efforts until he had the feel of it. Biting his lip with concentration, soon Tom Flynn began to row in earnest. Began to become part of the rhythm.
Within moments they left the shore behind. Tom felt the bay heave under him like a living creature. He was not the least bit frightened now. I belong here, he thought,
remembering
that Donal had spoken those same words in the cave.
At first rowing was easy enough, even fun. Soon the effort became uncomfortable. Tom had never appreciated the
difficulties
of rowing before. The others made it look easy. His arms and shoulders flamed with pain. He gritted his teeth and ignored the discomfort. But he could not ignore the mighty force which was the bay. As if it had a will of its own, the water seemed determined to tear the oars from his hands.
He refused to give in. Head down, eyes clenched shut in agony, the boy continued to row.
Thud, swish, thud, swish, and the hiss of the waves. Time itself stopped. There was only darkness and pain and effort. It would last forever. This was Hell and he was in it.
‘What o’clock is it?’ the desperate boy asked.
No one answered. He tried again.
Séamus said, ‘Look up.’
Puzzled but obedient, Tom opened his eyes. The stars had come out. So many stars! More stars than grains of sand on the beach; they jostled one another aside in the effort to share their glittering glory with Roaringwater Bay.
‘The stars tell us all we need to know about where and when,’ said Fergal.
‘But … how?’
The man with the lantern laughed. ‘Learn, boy,’ he said. ‘Observe and learn.’
Thud, swish, thud, swish. The ache in Tom’s muscles grew steadily worse. Then, ‘Mind yourself, Tomás!’ Séamus barked.
‘There are submerged rocks here.’
‘I don’t see any.’
‘You will see them right enough if we tear the boat open on one,’ Séamus replied sternly. ‘Row slowly now, keep the rhythm but feel down as you go, down with the oars until …’
‘Here,’ said one of the other men.
‘Raise your oars, Tomás. Quickly.’
Tom did as he was told. The man who had reported the submerged rock prodded the water with an oar, then pushed hard against something. The boat glided away from the unseen but deadly obstacle.
‘How did you know a rock was there if you couldn’t see it?’ Tom wondered.
Fergal said, ‘You cannot see your elbow, so how do you know it is there?’
The boy had no answer. Instead he devoted himself to his rowing.
Thud, swish, thud, swish.
And eventually it was a little easier.
Tom still had only a hazy notion of the geography of the bay, but he knew they were well beyond the river mouth when Séamus gave the order to rest their oars. The boy breathed a silent prayer of thanks. His muscles were
trembling
with fatigue and his back felt broken.
The crescent moon shed no light. The blaze of stars alone was enough to reveal a tiny island just ahead; it was little
more than a tree-covered rock rising above the surface of the bay. Tom heard the familiar music of the oars as another currach detached itself from the shadows and came towards them.
Séamus called out, ‘Are you ready?’
‘We are ready,’ Muiris called back to him.
In the second currach were Muiris and four other men, including Seán. The two boats lightly bumped each other. ‘Take my place,’ Muiris said to Séamus.
‘I still think we should have brought a timber boat tonight,’ Séamus replied. ‘The sea is rough and we may have a heavy cargo.’
‘The decision was mine to make,’ Muiris reminded him.
Tom noticed that he spoke with calm authority. The voice of command.
Séamus quickly changed places with him.
‘We need boats agile enough to move fast and keep us out of trouble,’ Muiris explained as he settled himself beside Tom. ‘Is your father still away?’
‘He is still away.’
‘Are you feeling strong this night, Tomás?’
‘I am feeling strong,’ Tom insisted. Knowing it was not true.
Muiris laughed. ‘Glad I am to hear it, but save a bit for the work ahead. Give me the oars and rest yourself.’ Muiris took Tom’s place and said something in Irish to the other men.
The currach leaped forward like an eager horse at the touch of the spur.
Tom tilted his head back so he could gaze up at the stars. He had never seen anything so beautiful. An immense
glittering
tapestry stretching from here to forever. Was there a boat that could sail to forever?
‘Ahead of us is Dún na Séad,’ Muiris remarked after a time.
‘The Fort of the Jewels,’ Tom responded. ‘The English call it Cape Clear island.’
‘Well done, lad.’
‘Are we going ashore there?’
‘Not tonight. We will row past the southwest point of the island, where a rocky headland juts out into the sea. Atop this promontory is a half-destroyed castle. We are not going to land there, not this time, but watch for the place as we pass by. It is quite famous. Perhaps you have heard of it?’
Tom searched his memory. ‘Never in my life,’ he said.
‘Are you certain?’
‘I am certain.’
‘That is a pity – though perhaps not a surprise,’ Muiris said mysteriously. ‘We have some time before we put you to work again, Tomás. Would you like to hear the story of Sir Fineen Ó Driscoll and the Castle of Gold?’
‘Yes please!’ said the boy.