The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Pat McDermott By the Light of My Heart

Sligo, Ireland — 1911

The black mare started up the hill too fast. Tom O’Byrne shifted on the wagon seat and tugged the reins to curb her quickened gait. He couldn’t blame her for hurrying. Grass and water awaited her. Her weary bones required rest, just as his troubled soul craved the peace of Tobernalt, as sacred a place in the year of Our Lord 1911 as it had been in Ireland’s pagan times.

Tom often stopped at the holy well when he returned to Sligo from the north. Each time he did, he met other visitors, but no carts or wagons occupied the clearing on this sunny afternoon. His favourite spot, the one near the entrance, was free. He guided the mare to the dappled shade of the old oak tree and set the brake.

His driving skills had impressed Davy Bookman, the Ballymote merchant who owned the wagon. Small but sturdy, the unadorned vehicle had a flat roof and panelled sides painted slate blue. An overhang above the driver’s seat protected Tom from the weather, and he’d given thanks more than once for the shelter. He travelled the roads for miles at a time delivering Bookman’s tea to shops all over Ireland.

«A good job for a trusty young buck of twenty-five,» the jovial merchant had said. «See a little of the world before the farm ties you down.»

Tom’s neat leap from the footboard set the bag of coins in his pocket jingling. He’d sold most of the tea this trip. He’d make a fine commission. His sister Kate would grumble and say it wasn’t enough to fatten her meagre dowry, but the gold would please his father, for all the good it would do him. The old man would always be tipping his hat to the Anglo-Irish landlord who owned his farm.

So would Tom. For now, he dismissed the gloomy prospect. His thoughts were on the holy well and the chunk of currant bread the innkeeper’s wife had given him that morning.

He patted the mare’s sleek nose. «Here we are, Mally m’love. Long past time for lunch, but live, horse, and you’ll get grass, eh?»

As if she’d understood the old proverb, the horse snorted and shook her head. Tom’s soft laughter rippled back at her. «You love this place as much as I do, don’t you, girl?»

And why wouldn’t she? The sparkling stream flowing down from the well splashed over the rocks on its way to Lough Gill. Fair-weather clouds cast fleeting shadows over the rustling greenery. Such a peaceful, sweet-smelling place, so different from the sorry farm Tom would inherit one day.

Leaving the contented mare to graze near the water, he followed the stream to its lofty source. By sunset he’d be back in Ballymote, sloshing in the muck of his father’s farm, tending the stinking cows and pigs until he stank himself.

Today was the first of August. The turf would need cutting, and his arms would ache for a week after cutting it. Then he’d be thatching the neighbours’ roofs. He’d learned the craft to bring in more gold for Kate’s dowry, and good riddance to her. His sister had a tongue that would cut a hedge. He pitied the man who’d become her husband.

Once Kate married — if anyone would have her — Tom’s father would be after him or Dan to bring in a wife to keep house. The O’Byrnes couldn’t afford to hire help. But who’d marry the heir of a no-account farm or his fanciful younger brother?

Tom didn’t care to ponder the relentless quandary now. He preferred to savour the fragrance of the verdant glade and the warbling of colourful birds flitting from tree to tree. Their constant song declared the woodland safe.

Sligo was a haunted place, and Tobernalt had more than its share of spirits. Tom sensed them all around him. He’d never seen one, despite his grandmother saying he could because he’d been born in the afternoon. On each of his previous stops to the well, he’d only met elderly visitors, mostly women, seeking to cure their ills.

«Maybe today, Gram,» he said, missing the kind-hearted woman who’d raised him.

Whomever he met today, he meant to look his best. He’d brushed his coat and trousers before leaving Bundoran that morning, but his hulking six-foot frame seemed to draw the mud from the road to his clothes like an angler’s lure drew salmon. A few good pats swept the worst of the splotches away.

After rinsing his hands in the stream, he adjusted his tie and straightened his cap. The mist from Lough Gill had dampened the tweed, but at least his head was dry. When his hair got wet, it curled to a wild black tangle.

He paused near the entrance to the well to touch a square pile of stones that predated Christian times. The locals had named it the Mass rock because it had served as an altar for the saying of secret Masses during penal times, when the English put a price on the heads of the priests. One legend said St Patrick himself had left the imprint of his hand upon the stones.

Tom moved on and gazed about the woods, hoping to catch his first glimpse of a fairy. A lady’s bicycle caught his eye instead. Its owner had leaned it against a hazel tree. The old girl would be up at the well, saying her prayers or drinking the water to relieve her aches and pains.

When the crumbling stone wall encircling the well came into view, he saw no one. He approached the sacred spot, circling clockwise as he should, offering a silent prayer of thanks that Tobernalt was his for a little while.

The water gushing from the well’s solid sheet of rock dallied briefly in a frothy pool before spilling into the stream. Above the site, a rainbow of torn rags dotted the leafy branches, each strip of cloth representing the supplication of a devout pilgrim.

Doffing his cap, Tom knelt and wet his fingers. The water’s icy cold refreshed him. He blessed himself — and then he froze.

Was that a face in the pool beneath him? Fatigue after the long drive from Donegal surely had him seeing things. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked again.

The face still bobbed in the water: a woman’s face, heart-shaped and pale in a frame of long wavy hair as dark as his own. Eyes blue and pleading transfixed him, compelled him to stroke her rippling cheek. When he touched the water, she faded away.

«Wait!» he tried to say, but a sudden languor had stiffened his tongue. The birdsong above him changed to the loveliest music he’d ever heard. Wave after wave of a haunting harp melody set his soul awhirl. Faster and faster went the tune. He dropped to the grass and fell asleep.

Lured from his rest by the pungent smell of burning turf, Tom sat up on a strange featherbed, blinking at his surroundings. He found himself in a rustic kitchen awash in the glow of a wide, sooty hearth.

A cauldron hung over squares of steaming sod whose sizzling red edges flared into flames now and then. A crook-backed woman emerged from the shadows and stirred the pot. Her black shawl covered her misshapen shoulders and white-haired head. She turned towards Tom, peering at him through falcon eyes that smouldered like coals in her skeletal face.

He sensed no threat from her. In fact, she reminded him of his grandmother. One quick swing of his legs brought him to his feet. He crossed the room to present himself, reaching to remove his cap on his way, but it wasn’t on his head. «God save all here,» he said.

«One hundred thousand welcomes to you, Tomás O’Byrne.» The woman stirred as she spoke. Her aged voice lilted with mischief and mirth. «You’ve travelled far this day. You’ll travel farther still before you find your rest.»

«How do you know me, ma’am? Who are you?»

«I am Sorcha, the Guardian of Tobernalt. All who visit Lough Gill’s holy well are known to me.»

Tom slanted his head to one side and squinted at her. «In all the times I’ve stopped at the well, I’ve never seen the likes of you.»

«The door to the Otherworld only opens at certain times. Today is one of them. August first. Lughnasa.» She pointed to a rough-hewn table set against the wall. «Go and sit, Tomás O’Byrne. I’ve prepared a meal for you.»

More curious than concerned, Tom complied with her request. A bowl of potatoes and scallions boiled in milk appeared before him, though the hag never moved from the hearth. While she hummed and stirred, he sampled the food. Its earthy flavours compelled him to eat until he’d emptied the bowl. At last he set his spoon down. «Why have you brought me here, ma’am?»

Again, her head turned towards him. «Finvarra, the King of the Fairies, has taken the healer Doreen. You must bring her back.»

«I know no woman by that name.»

«She chose you to save her.»

The young woman’s face appeared before Tom as clearly as it had in the water at Tobernalt. Her sad blue eyes beguiled him. He must rescue her, this healer named Doreen. «What would you have me do, ma’am?»

Sorcha smiled and nodded her approval. «Finvarra claims he took the girl to heal an injured knee that keeps him from dancing.» Disgust twisted the old woman’s face. «The bumptious ass is never short of excuses to steal mortal women. You must go to his summer palace and free Doreen before it’s too late. Once she eats his fairy food, she’ll forever be his prisoner.»

Tom glanced suspiciously at his empty bowl. Had the old crone tricked him?

Her cackle resounded through the murky room. «’Tis true that the King of the Fairies isn’t the only one who serves enchanted food to mortals. But Finvarra’s food entraps. Mine empowers. Rise up now, Tomás O’Byrne. Find Finvarra’s palace. Free the healer and bring her to her true destiny.»

Despite the hag’s assurance that her supper would magically strengthen him, an inkling of doubt beset Tom. He pushed back his chair and stood. «I thank you for the meal, ma’am, but I don’t see how I can challenge the King of the Fairies. His magic is great, and I have no weapons.»

Sorcha shuffled towards him holding out her withered fingers. Instinctively, Tom extended his hand towards her.

She dropped a small round lump into his open palm. «This golden bean grew in my garden. If you place it in your mouth in times of danger, you’ll become invisible. So will the healer, as long as you touch her. Go forth now, Tomás O’Byrne. Follow the path to the crossroads where the crystal lark sings in the silver oak tree. Take the left road and you’ll find the entrance to Finvarra’s palace.»

Still unconvinced, Tom placed the golden bean in his pocket. He strode to the door, opened it and gazed at the pitch-black night. «I’ve never seen such darkness. How will I find my way?»

«The moon and stars cannot shine beneath the hills of Ireland. You must find your way by the light of your heart.»

Sorcha vanished. So did her house. Sniffing a last trace of turf smoke, Tom scratched his head and wondered what she’d meant.

The anguished face of the healer Doreen appeared in the black fairy night. She fixed a beseeching gaze on him.

«Don’t worry, mavourneen,» he whispered. «I’ll find you. I mean to see you smile.»

The pebbled path before him glistened.

He heard the lark before he saw it. The glorious trilling led him to wisps of whirling light that grew fatter and brighter, spinning at last into a silver tree. When he reached the glossy trunk, the birdsong ceased. He thought he’d frightened the lark away, but the true reason for its sudden silence quickly became clear.

The sound of horses’ hooves boomed in the distance, rumbling towards Tom with the speed of a storm-driven wave. Wary rather than frightened, he slipped behind the tree just as seven white steeds sprang from the darkness, chargers geared for battle by the looks of them. Jewels glittered on their foreheads. Flames shot from their nostrils. The knights atop them might have been human but for the armour and helmets of radiant gold they wore. Broad green mantles snapped behind them, and each held a golden spear.

They cut to a halt at the silver oak, and Tom’s lips mouthed a silent curse. Did they know he was there? Had they come to kill him? If so, he’d give them a good fight.

The golden bean, Tomás O’Byrne.

Sorcha’s voice rustled in his ears like windblown eddies of autumn leaves. He fumbled in his pocket and snatched the golden bean to his mouth.

Nothing happened.

The lead rider walked his steed to the tree and circled the trunk. Tom stood as still as a wound-down clock. Would the horse smell him? Would the horseman hear his pounding heart? Sure he was about to die, he glared defiantly at the knight, but the fairy only raised his arm and galloped off.

His fairy troop raced after him. Tom didn’t move until the clatter of thundering hooves faded away. The crystal bird resumed its song, and Tom knew the danger had passed. Still, he ran down the road to the left of the tree as if the devil himself were chasing him.

At last he stopped at a stand of rocks. Gold glittered around a gap in the stones. This must be the Fairy King’s palace. Where did the fairies find so much gold? The coins in Tom’s pocket, a sum he’d thought a small fortune that morning, seemed a beggar’s portion in contrast to the wealth he’d seen so far.

Suspecting he’d soon see more, he entered the cave. A raucous blend of music, laughter and merry female squeals wafted from its depths. Tom crept deeper into the cave and found a marble staircase. Down he went with the golden bean in his mouth.

Soon he came to a torch-lit room. He stepped inside, and the sounds of revelry faded. Three grey-haired women sat at golden spinning wheels spinning golden thread. From their plain attire and listless air, he judged them to be mortals.

He took the bean from his mouth. «God save all here.»

The women’s hands flew to their faces. The oldest of the three blessed herself. «Mother of God, who are you?»

«I’m Tom O’Byrne of Ballymote. I’ve come to save a mortal woman called Doreen.»

An exchange of desolate looks preceded the women’s responses. «Ah, poor thing,» said the youngest.

«You must hurry,» said the woman neither young nor old.

The oldest spoke again: «I warned her not to taste the fairies’ food, but mortals must eat, and she won’t hold out long. After one bite, she’ll be like us, a prisoner for the rest of her days.»

«There’s naught you can do for us,» said the youngest, «but you can save the healer, Tom O’Byrne.»

«I mean to try. Where is she?»

«In the banquet hall.» The woman neither young nor old turned and pointed behind her. A door appeared in the wall. «Go quickly, and take great care. The King of the Fairies wields powerful magic.»

Tom returned the golden bean to his mouth. As he stepped through the door, the noise of the party resumed. He followed the din to a glittering golden banquet hall. Torches blazed high on the walls. Candles flickered in massive chandeliers. Two narrow bench tables ran the length of the long wide room. A third bench, undoubtedly the head table, ran perpendicular to the other two, forming a three-sided rectangle.

Cloth made of rose petals covered the tables, where men and women, handsome and human in appearance, sat swilling down meat and drink from golden plates and goblets. Tom assumed that the few vacant seats belonged to the fairies dancing near the biggest hearth he’d ever seen.

He knew the King of the Fairies by his elaborate attire and privileged place at the head table. Yellow-haired and clean-shaven, the rogue had a muscle or two beneath his fancy dress. Tom had trounced bigger men, and he thought he’d like to tap his knuckles into Finvarra’s face. Yet magic was afoot here. Despite Sorcha’s bolstering supper, Tom realized he might never see home again if he challenged the King. Rescuing Doreen must be the priority.

She sat unsmiling beside Finvarra. Her thick dark hair flowed past her shoulders. Her pallid face and haunted eyes melted Tom’s heart. He would save her from this place or die trying.

If he could touch her, he’d have a chance. No one saw him tiptoe towards the head table.

The King’s handsome face suddenly darkened. «Your healing arts have cured my foot, yet you persist in refusing my generous offer of thanks.»

Doreen raised her chin. Her blue eyes blackened with hatred. «When you first brought me here, you said it was your knee that needed curing. Make up your mind. If you really want to thank me, let me go home.» Both pride and fear played in her pearly voice.

Finvarra pounded the table. Silence fell over the banquet hall. «You insult us by refusing our food, woman! We’ll see how long you last on an empty belly. Lock her away!»

A liveried guard seized Doreen’s arm and yanked her from the table. She jerked herself free of him. He flinched at her ferocious glare, and Tom smiled. Standing tall, she turned her back on the scowling King. With the flustered guard at her heels, she stalked from the hall ignoring the muttering crowd that parted to let her pass.

Tom scurried to intercept her. Eyeing her up and down, he understood why Finvarra wanted the well-formed beauty. He wouldn’t have her if Tom had his way.

She came right at him and might have walked through him if he hadn’t seized her hand. The screams and shouts that erupted around them told him she’d disappeared. They could see each other, but the golden bean kept them from the fairies’ sight.

Doreen’s black look changed to one of disbelief. She stuttered before she spoke. «You! You came for me!»

Afraid to reply lest he lose or swallow the bean, he raised a finger to his lips and nodded towards the door. Doreen nodded back.

They bolted towards the exit. The crowd stampeded after them. Tom wondered how they knew where he and Doreen were until he realized the flames on the candles were flickering as they passed.

Plates and goblets flew at them. One struck Doreen’s arm. She stumbled out of Tom’s grasp and fell in an undignified heap.

«There she is!» the fairies screamed.

Tom plucked Doreen from the floor, and a new round of hostile shouts reassured him she’d vanished again. Dragging her with him, he shot from the hall, past the spinning women and up the marble stairs, up and up and out into the night.

If the moon and stars cast no light down here, it seemed the sun did. Or would, when it rose. The sweeping darkness had brightened, and though night would reign a while longer, the pebbled path still glowed in the budding dawn.

Tom and Doreen ran to the silver oak tree. The crystal lark sang in its branches, and Tom knew they were safe, at least for the moment. Still holding Doreen’s hand, he plucked the golden bean from his mouth and slipped it into his pocket. They sat on the ground to catch their breath.

What would he tell her? How would they get home? He must try to find Sorcha.

Doreen had no worries, it seemed. With a great fond smile, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Joy he’d never known filled his soul. He kissed her back, gently at first, then as firmly and deeply as she kissed him. He held her close to his heart so her breasts pressed against his chest. Lost in their kiss and the sweet perfume of her long dark hair, he reeled like a drunken goose. Faster and faster he whirled, until he was falling. falling.

Stiff and sore from the graceless position in which he’d fallen asleep, Tom struggled to his knees blinking at the well and the woods around it. No one was near. The adventure had been a dream. A pleasant dream, he thought as the fairy world dissolved from his mind like tendrils of smoke. He retrieved his cap and lurched to his feet.

«Are you all right?»

The woman’s question came from behind him. Cap in hand, he twisted about, expecting an aged arthritic. The lady who’d spoken stood in the gloom of the woods. A young mother then, come for a cure for her ailing child.

She stepped into a patch of sunlight and asked again: «Are you all right?»

Tom’s mouth fell open. The heart-shaped face of the healer Doreen frowned at him from the top of the path. He gawked at her, unable to speak, powerless to offer even a nod.

Wariness sharpened her probing gaze. Tom, in turn, inspected her. She wore her dark hair fashionably twisted up beneath a brown brimmed hat. A lacy neck-to-chin collar gave her a well-heeled look. Her hip-length coat, tailored to her slender waist, covered the top of a long black skirt loose enough to pedal her bicycle.

Yes, he thought. The bicycle. He must have had a glimpse of her, and she found her way into his dream.

She remained where she stood. Did his towering frame frighten her? He set his feet apart and affected a nonchalant air to appear less threatening. «God be with you, ma’am. I’m Tom O’Byrne of Ballymote.»

His proper greeting seemed to ease her apprehension. She strolled towards him. «God and Mary be with you, Tom O’Byrne. Dolly Keenan from Tubbercurry.»

Dolly. Not Doreen.

Appearing more confident now, she came towards him, brushing bits of dry leaves and grass from her sleeves. The curve of her bosom enticed him. As she drew nearer, he noted the lacy silver work on the buttons of her smart tweed coat. A decent enough coat, he thought, though he’d seen finer garb on women in the cities. Still, her attire outshone the frippery his sister wore.

Dolly Keenan stopped an arm’s length away. Butterscotch seemed to melt over Tom. «Tubbercurry isn’t far from Ballymote, but it’s a long way from here. Surely you didn’t come all that way on your bicycle?»

He couldn’t imagine Kate riding a bicycle half that distance. She wouldn’t even go into town without a wagon.

Kate left his thoughts altogether when Dolly Keenan raised her chin the way she had at King Finvarra’s table. «Indeed I did. It’s better than walking, though the ride up tired me out, and that’s the gospel truth. I’m after having a bit of a nap in the woods myself.»

Maybe she’d ride home with him. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. «I’m on my way back down, ma’am. You’re welcome to ride with me in my wagon.»

A smile that would shame the northern lights broke over her face. «Thank you, Tom. I wouldn’t mind a lift as far as the road to Tubber.»

Bursting with triumph, he stepped to her side. «Let’s get your bicycle, then.»

When Dolly Keenan linked her arm through his, Tom set his cap on his head and rejoiced.

They stopped in Collooney to rest the horse, and Tom bought two apples at a shop near the train station. He sat with Dolly on the wagon seat, devouring the apples and chatting about Sligo until they pitched the cores into a nearby barrel.

A handkerchief embroidered with blue and green leaves appeared in her hand. She dabbed at lips he longed to kiss and returned the cloth to her pocket. «Give me a minute, Tom. Since we’re at the station, I want to get a timetable.»

He feared he’d done something to offend her, that she’d decided to take the train home, but the line ran to Ballymote from here, not to Tubbercurry. Mystified, he sighed. Whatever she’d gone to get, her going had left a hole in his heart.

Soon she returned with her prize: a square white page with rows of tiny print set beneath a troubling title. He wondered why she’d want the times of trains for Queenstown, though of course he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business.

He’d been to Queenstown selling tea, but few souls ventured to the deep Cork port on Ireland’s southern shore unless they meant to emigrate. The thought of Dolly Keenan leaving saddened him.

Whether she emigrated or not, he doubted he’d ever see her again. The wagon ride was all they’d have. Familiar with disappointment as any Irishman, he helped her to the wagon seat, intent on enjoying every minute of her company.

A porridge of weather followed them from Collooney. Showers came and went. Blue broke through the clouds in snatches. Gram used to call it a rainbow sky.

«Be on the watch, Tomáseen,» she’d say. «Seeing a rainbow brings good luck.»

Tom needed no rainbow today. Good luck was already his. Dolly Keenan rode beside him on the compact wagon seat. Their arms and thighs collided as the springs bounced, and she didn’t shy away. Nor did she complain about the mist that dampened her cheeks and hair. They gossiped and bantered, talking of nonsense, of favourite foods and ancient legends. She laughed a lot, and so did he.

The mare clip-clopped over a twisting road rutted in some spots, soggy in others. Sheep dotted the knolls and bogs. Cows grazed in square green pastures divided by hawthorn hedges. Now and then an abandoned stone cottage, roofless and overgrown, provided a landmark that told Tom where he was.

The idea that Dolly had ridden this road by herself both impressed and worried him, yet she wouldn’t have been alone. Several cyclists passed them. They called out pleasant greetings, as did many foot travellers and the drivers of drays and donkey carts. Tom and Dolly waved cheerfully back.

Before they’d left Tobernalt, she’d shared the cheese and scones in her saddlebag, and he’d split his chunk of currant bread in half. While they’d eaten, he’d spotted the pearl ring on her right hand. He’d carried her bicycle from the woods thinking how she’d surely look down on him once she knew more about him.

She’d peeked inside the wagon when he opened the rear doors. «What’ve you got in there, Tom?»

«Tea.» He’d helped her to the wagon seat. The touch of her fingers thrilled him, and though he knew right well she didn’t have to, she leaned on him when she mounted the step. «I travel the counties selling tea.»

«Is that where you’re coming from now? A sales jaunt?»

«In Donegal and Tyrone, yes.» He’d settled beside her and tugged the reins. «Got as far as Strabane. There’s trouble up there. At the inn where I stayed, the landlady said I shouldn’t go out. Said the local lads were on the prowl for southerners.»

The idea still amused him, but furrows had appeared on Dolly’s forehead. «My father’s spoken of such goings on in the north, but I’ve never heard of them firsthand. Still and all, you don’t look like the sort anyone would be stupid enough to take on.» Her cheeks turned crimson, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t.

Tom had been delighted she’d said it at all and, thinking of it now, he sat taller on the seat. He guided the horse to the side of the road to let a northbound wagon pass. Once it did, he eased his hold on the reins and continued conversing with Dolly.

She’d recently returned from England, where she’d attended nursing school. She’d lived with her brother Lanigan and his wife.

«Lanigan’s a crackerjack carpenter, but he had to go to London to find work. My brother Maneen and sister Badie have emigrated to America. Mac is still in Tubbercurry. He’s a teacher, like my mother. Sissie was, too, but she died of consumption two years ago.»

Tom recognized the grief in her voice. «I’m sorry. There’s a lot of that about.»

«Too much. That’s one reason why I want to be a nurse. To help. I deliberately failed the teaching exam so I could go to nursing school.»

Tom’s delighted laughter echoed over the bogs. «It’s grand that you could. My father took me out after sixth grade to work the farm and do odd jobs.»

«That’s not uncommon. Most of my friends ended their schooling likewise. I’m lucky my parents let me go off at all, with twenty acres to manage. They were disappointed about the nursing. An unsuitable calling for a proper young lady, they said. Wanted me to stay home and teach, like Sissie and Mac. When Mac isn’t teaching, he helps my father about the farm. He’ll inherit the place some day.»

«So will I, though it’s little I want it.»

«I wondered about that, Tom. A Ballymote lad travelling all over Ireland. When you see other ways to live besides milking cows, it’s hard to go back to farming, isn’t it?»

Tom tightened his hold on the reins. He didn’t want to talk about cows, not now. «Your brothers and sisters have odd names. Nicknames, are they?»

«Yes. Jim is Lanigan, John is Maneen. Michael is Mac, and Annie’s called Badie. Kathleen was Sissie.»

«Is Dolly a nickname as well?»

«It is. They called me that because I was the youngest. My real name is Doreen.»

Hearing the name from his dream stunned Tom, though he recovered quickly. This was Ireland after all. And a fellow got used to such odd occurrences.

Awake or dreaming, he had no business befriending an educated young lady whose father held a good strong farm of twenty Irish acres. «The matchmakers will be hopping about like hungry hens over a girl as pretty as you.»

Dolly blushed again. Her lips pressed into a thin straight line, and she shook her head. «Marriage would be the death of nursing for me. I’m thinking of emigrating. To Boston, like Maneen and Badie. That’s why I was at the well. Looking for guidance, for something to help me find my way.»

The heart turned crosswise in Tom. He might convince her to stay, but how could he blame her for wanting to go? He wanted no part of a life here himself.

Locking his gaze on her sparkling eyes, he released one hand from the reins and dared to squeeze her fingers. «Someone told me once, you must find your way by the light of your heart.»

She squeezed back, an agreeable response indeed, and then she smiled again. «That’s lovely, Tom. You know, I feel we’ve met before. At a dance? Or in church, perhaps?»

It seemed she’d forgotten her time with the fairies. Had it really happened at all? Tom’s other hand slipped into the pocket that in his dream had held the golden bean. He felt nothing but the hard seam in the cloth.

A dream. It had all been a dream. «Somewhere like that, I suppose. I do get around.»

Her heavy sigh seemed to unleash a new round of showers. She leaned back under the overhang. «There’ll never be any light in my heart if my parents have their way. Mac says they’re going to forbid me to be a nurse. They thought I’d get it out of my system in London, but just the opposite occurred. Studying at the hospital and seeing all those ill and dying folk only made me more determined to help them.»

Suddenly jealous of every sick man in the world, Tom released her hand. She might hit him, but he couldn’t hold back. «I wouldn’t like to see you go so far away, Dolly Keenan. The light in my heart has grown brighter since I met you.»

Nor could he keep from seizing her and sliding his lips over hers, gently at first, gauging, sensing, expecting an outraged shove. Instead, she kissed him back with a fervour that unlocked a secret door in his soul.

Could he go with her to America?

His cousin had gone to Boston and found work as a train conductor. An aunt named Mary, his father’s own sister, had gone to Boston too. She ran a boarding house and made good money, a lot more than Tom made selling tea. With all the skills he had, he could do anything.

Could he leave Ireland and his family forever?

For Dolly Keenan he could, and her eager kisses said she’d have him.

«Good man yourself!» shouted a farmer leading a donkey laden with turf-filled panniers.

Tom backed breathlessly away from Dolly. He licked his lips, savouring the taste of her, entranced by the same perfume he’d smelled in her hair behind the silver oak tree. Dolly in turn looked away to the west, touching her smiling lips as if she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her.

Tom picked up the reins and tried to focus on the road. He’d sinned with a girl or two around Ireland, but he sensed no sin here. He loved Dolly, and she loved him, he knew it.

Maybe they wouldn’t have to leave. He’d speak to his father, have him send the matchmaker to Mr Keenan, convince the man that Tom O’Byrne could support his daughter well with his tea sales and roof thatching and all his odd jobs.

Still, she’d have to do for his father and brother, mind the chickens, gather the eggs, churn the butter and mend the clothes. Tom would work hard to bring in more gold, enough to hire a local girl to help her.

Maybe her nursing could bring in some extra gold. Sligo had the fever hospital. She could work there, if tending potatoes and cabbage left her any time.

No, he thought. The farm would kill them both. They had to get away.

Yet he couldn’t speak the words that would change their lives forever, and perhaps not for the best. They rode on in silence until they reached the crossroads. No silver tree here, no crystal lark.

She insisted she’d be safe enough riding to Tubbercurry from here. He stopped at the roadside and opened the wagon’s rear doors. Before he reached in for the bike, she came at him, hugging him, kissing him, deliciously rubbing against him.

He held her close and ground against her, sin be damned. «Dolly. Oh, darlin’, what are we to do? I can’t marry you. Your father wouldn’t have me.»

«I’d have you, Tom O’Byrne. We can marry in America.»

They could. Others had done so. Tom’s heart thumped in his throat. «When are you leaving?»

«I don’t know. Soon. Come with me, Tom. Leave the farm for Boston.»

Leave the farm. The words struck him like an Atlantic gale, knocking down fences, ripping up hedges, tearing down the walls that threatened to imprison him to the end of his days.

Did he really have the neck to leave?

One look at the promise glinting in Dolly’s eyes gave him his answer. «I will, mo chroí. I’ll go anywhere with you.»

He caught her in his arms, silencing her delighted squeal with a kiss that reached for her soul. When she finally wobbled from his arms, her crimson cheeks and ragged breath told him he’d succeeded.

«I’ll send you a letter,» she said when she could speak. She twisted the ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand, apparently unconcerned that he’d nothing to offer in exchange.

Swearing she’d have a ring for every finger one day, he slipped the pearl in his jacket pocket and watched her ride away.

An hour before midnight, the Irish twilight lingered over Ballymote. Hungry, tired and longing for Dolly, Tom trudged home from Davy Bookman’s house with his share of the gold snug in his pocket. His satchel contained his few toiletries and washing for Kate. She’d begrudgingly launder his socks and shirts, though he’d look after his trousers himself. She never put the crease in them right.

The homey odours of pipe tobacco and roasting turf greeted him at the door. Subtler aromas of bacon and bread sharpened his hunger. He set his bag on the rough plank table, eyeing the furnishings and holy pictures as if seeing them for the last time.

His father sat by the hearth holding a briar pipe to the mouth concealed in his long white beard. As Tom approached, the old man lowered his pipe and turned his book on his lap. «Thanks be to God, it’s himself at last.»

Tom always pictured his father’s beard red, saw his freckled bald pate with a full head of ginger-red hair. The family and neighbours still called him Red Brendan. «I’ve only been gone two weeks, Da. How are you keeping?»

«I’ve often been better and often been worse. And yourself, Tomás Og?»

I’ve been to the fairies. I’m in love and thinking of going to Boston. «I’d be well enough if I wasn’t hungry. Is there bread?» He handed the bag of gold to his father.

«There is, and cabbage and bacon. Kate’s just after finishing the mending. She’s gone to her room to brush out her hair.» Brendan rattled the coins and smiled. He placed the bag on the table beside him, near the tobacco can, and turned his head towards the back room. «Kate! Tom is home. Come out and get him tea, girl.»

Tom would have found the food himself, but he’d only earn his sister’s wrath for messing things. He glanced at the blue and white delft in the cupboard. Not a piece missing, every plate clean and in its place. She kept house well, he’d give her that.

On the top shelf sat the framed photograph of their mother, Ann. Dark-haired and lovely, she watched over the room with a neutral expression that over the years had turned cross or approving depending on Tom’s own behaviour. He barely remembered her. She’d died giving birth to Dan, when Tom had been three years of age.

«You favour her, Tom,» old Gram had said.

Kate and Dan had their father’s red hair, and Kate had the temper to match. Her entrance from the back room reminded Tom of the fire-breathing stallions at the silver oak tree. He caught himself before he laughed. «Hello, Kate. You’re looking lovely tonight.»

She tossed her well-combed mane and tied her shawl over her nightdress. «Never mind your trick-acting, Tom O’Byrne. Coming home near midnight and expecting me to drop everything to fix you a meal. I suppose that bag is full of filthy laundry. As if I don’t have enough to do.»

«It’s grand to see you too, Kate.»

After Ann passed away, Brendan had sent Kate to live with an aunt. His mother moved in to look after him and the boys, but Kate grew up on a moneyed farm, and she fancied herself a step above the buttermilk. She’d just turned twelve when Gram passed on, and Brendan had called her home to tend the house and chickens. She’d been doing so for nearly ten years, and she clearly resented every minute of it.

Pots and lids clacked and clanged while she rewarmed the supper and steeped a pot of tea. Wincing with each slam, Tom took the dish she offered at last and thanked her. She retired to her room, and he sat near the fire, setting the plate on his lap, relaying the highlights of his trip between bites, neglecting to mention the well and the fairies and Dolly Keenan from Tubbercurry.

Ever hungry for news, his father puffed his pipe and took it all in before reporting on the farm. Two of the neighbours had stopped by to see if Tom could rethatch their roofs before winter. Dan had started cutting the turf, but he needed Tom’s muscle to finish the job.

Brendan pinched some tobacco from the can beside him and replenished the bowl of his pipe. «I don’t know what will become of that boy. He won’t get muscle by drawing pictures and playing the fiddle. Kate will marry, and you’ll have the farm, but I’m thinking Dan may have to emigrate.»

Tom held his breath. A chance to escape had presented itself. Looking to keep a steady voice, he exhaled slowly. «Where is Dan? I doubt he’s sleeping in the loft with all the racket Kate made.»

«He’s in town tonight. A Tuesday night, can you believe it? Playing the fiddle at a dance with his friends. Said he’d spend the night at Mick Jordan’s. I’ll have to speak to him soon. He can go to Boston. Stay with my sister Mary.»

Gulping for air, Tom braced himself. He shot out the words before his courage failed. «No, Da. I’ll go. Dan can have the farm. He does most of the work now. He’ll really buckle down if he knows it will come to him.»

Brendan jerked as if nettles had stung him. He set the pipe on its tilted stand and pinned Tom with a piercing glare. «While you were gone, the matchmaker came about Kate. Séamus Hunt in Roscommon will take her, thanks to the gold you’ve brought in. The Hunts have a strong farm, twenty-five Irish acres, and she’ll have a daily girl in the kitchen. But I can’t let her go until you have a wife to do for us.»

«Da, please listen.»

Brendan disregarded him. «I asked the matchmaker to find a suitable girl for you. It cost me a bottle of good whiskey, but he’s turned up three good prospects. We’ll choose by the end of the month. You’ll have the farm when I’m gone, and your son after you.» Pinpricks of ice gleamed in the old man’s eyes. «And Dan will go to America.»

Fists bunched tight, Tom leaped from his seat. «I’ve met the girl I want to marry. A girl from Tubbercurry. Can the matchmaker try for her?»

The bald head wagged from side to side. «You wanted to leave Ireland a minute ago. Now you want a girl from Tubber. I’m thinking it’s good I’m here to guide you, Tomás Og.» Brendan sighed without making a sound. «Who is she?»

Grateful for the kindness that had seeped into his father’s tone, Tom reclaimed his seat and explained about Dolly, omitting her thoughts on emigrating. If the old man knew she was thinking of leaving, he’d never approve the marriage.

He rejected Dolly anyway. «No father would give a girl like that to a no-account farm.»

«I can always bring in more gold, Da.»

«Perhaps, but after I’m gone, you won’t be off selling tea. You’ll be here all the time, and so would she.» Brendan stood easily. «Even if her father agreed, a girl who’s been to London would never be happy tending chickens and vegetables. She’s seen too much of the world. Like you, Tomás Og. Get her and your lofty ideas out of your head.»

It sounded so logical, put like that. The old fella was right. Yet as Tom watched his father lift the ladder from the corner, the memory of Dolly’s kisses sparked an indelible yearning in him. He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and fingered the pearl ring. The light of his heart flickered and dimmed.

His father had obviously dismissed him. The old man set the ladder against the wall by the hearth and snatched the bag of gold from the table. Moving as his age allowed, he climbed the rungs to the rafters, to the secret cache he’d cut from the biggest beam. Tired and heartsick, Tom sought his bed in the loft.

Over the next week, he cut enough turf for the winter and went to work thatching. He’d just finished Charlie McGowan’s roof when the letter from Dolly came. A lad on a bicycle rode past McGowan’s vegetable garden late in the afternoon. He stopped by the piles of old thatch and said Miss Keenan had instructed him to give the note to Tom O’Byrne or no one. Watching the boy ride off, Tom strolled to the well as calmly as he could with his knees quaking and his heart skipping beats. He’d nearly despaired of hearing from her again.

Drinking a cup of water gave him a moment to muster his courage. He opened the envelope and stared at the elegant script until the words made sense to his befuddled mind.

Dearest Tom,

My father has sold me off to a man his own age. I want nothing to do with him. I have enough gold to book us both passage to Boston. The train leaves Ballymote for Queenstown tomorrow morning at nine. I’ll wait for you under the clock.

Ever yours,

Dolly

Short, sweet and dangerous as hell. Could he do it?

What of their parents? Was leaving them selfish? Tom didn’t think so. Dan could look after their father, and Dolly’s brother could take care of her old ones. The matchmaker would find a girl for Dan. Dan would have the farm, and his son after him, God help him. Kate would marry Séamus Hunt and have a new family to terrorize. They’d all be fine.

Tom had little to pack, no more than an extra pair of trousers and a few spare shirts and socks. He wished he didn’t have to sneak off, but he’d never have his father’s blessing, not now. Maybe never.

So be it. The hospitals in Boston would welcome Dolly’s nursing skills, and Tom would find plenty of work, more than enough to send money home.

Yet he needed money now. He wasn’t about to let Dolly support him.

He’d earned every coin of gold in the rafters. He had as much right to it as Kate. He wouldn’t take it all, just enough for his train ticket and passage, and some respectable clothes and lodging when he reached America. Once he found work, he’d pay it back. He’d say so in the note he’d leave his father.

Giddy with joy and pricked by guilt, he hurried home. His father and Dan were out somewhere, mending a fence, he recalled. They’d had to walk, as Kate had taken the wagon to town for groceries. Feeling like a boy stealing apples from an orchard, he set the ladder against the wall and climbed to the rafters. He counted out twenty pounds, no more. Kate would have plenty for her dowry.

Moving carefully about the loft to keep from waking his brother, Tom gathered his belongings. Just before dawn, he bid Dan a silent farewell and stole downstairs.

In the light of the banked turf fire, Tom kissed his mother’s picture and whispered goodbye. Sure she was smiling, he ventured into the starless gloom, finding his way by the light of his heart.

They’d miss him at breakfast. They’d read his note and know what he’d done, but they’d be too late to stop him. By nine o’clock he and Dolly would be on the train to Queenstown.

At ten to nine he jogged into Ballymote station, wrinkling his nose at the fug of tobacco, stale whiskey and acrid coal smoke. He saw the big round clock right away. Dolly waited beneath the black Roman numerals, dressed in the same clothes she’d worn when they’d met at Tobernalt. A satchel similar to his rested by her feet.

«Dolly!»

Her head jerked towards him. Her brilliant smile offered hope of a blessed new life. Oblivious to the people around them, he dropped his bag beside hers and kissed her.

Her lips trembled before she spoke. «Tom. You came.»

«Did you think I wouldn’t?»

The welling tears in her eyes suggested she’d had doubts, yet she clasped his hands and smiled. «I knew you’d come, Tom. I bought you a train ticket.» She drew two tickets from her pocket to prove it.

He took them from her, and the train whistle blew. «Thank you, darlin’. We’ll settle it later. Let’s get aboard now.»

Halfway up the steps, he turned to see Ballymote one last time — just as his father stormed into the station. Kate hurtled along beside him, her hair a frightful tangle, her face contorted in venomous fury. They must have come in the wagon and raced the poor horse half to death.

Tom swallowed hard. «Hurry, Dolly. Get inside.»

Dolly’s eyebrows arched in question, but she obeyed. They hurried through several coaches until they reached an empty carriage near the end of the train. Tom stowed their bags on an overhead rack. He and Dolly plopped on to seats facing each other. He pulled out his pocket watch. Five minutes to nine. Not enough time for his father and sister to search the train.

But it was. Kate’s shrill shouts spewed from the adjacent car. She was coming quickly towards them, screeching Tom’s name, imploring her father to call the guards and have her thieving brother arrested.

Dolly plainly understood the significance of the shrieks. «Oh, Tom! What will we do?»

Throttling Kate came to mind. She’d cause a scene and demand the dowry she thought he’d stolen. He could plead with his father, but the old man would surely side with Kate. He just might call the guards if Tom refused to come home, and they’d take him away in handcuffs.

All hope drained from his heart. Dolly must go without him. Sure he’d never see her again, he reached into his pocket to return her ring to her.

The ring was gone. His fingers encircled the golden bean.

Hurry, Tomás O’Byrne.

Stunned, he slipped the bean into his mouth. Dolly’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and he knew he’d disappeared. He seized her hand just as Kate blew through the door.

«He’s not here either. I’m telling you, Da. Call the guards! The miserable scut has stolen my dowry!»

Brendan marched in behind her. «Silence, girl! I’ll not call the guards on my own son.» The train whistle blew a second time. The old man brushed a tear from his cheek. «We have to leave the train, Kate. If this is what your brother wants, good luck to him.»

Thank you, Da. I’ll write often, and send money. And I’ll come back to visit you.

With his sputtering daughter stomping behind him, Tom’s father left the train. They’d just reached the big round clock when the train whistle blew again. The engine chugged, and Tom took the golden bean from his mouth.

«It wasn’t a dream,» Dolly whispered. «I remember it all now. You were there, Tom. You saved me from the Fairy King.»

«The old woman who guards the well at Tobernalt saved us both, mo chroí.»

«What’s that thing in your hand?» Dolly gently uncurled his fingers. Her ring lay in his palm. Nothing remained of the golden bean.

The train picked up speed. Tom slid the pearl ring on to Dolly’s finger and smiled. One day soon, he’d place a gold ring on her other hand.