What the Wind Knows(27)

Sometime long after the tall clock in the broad foyer struck one, I came awake to little hands on my cheeks and a small nose pressed to mine.

“Are you sleeping?” Eoin whispered.

I touched his face, overjoyed to see him. “I must be.”

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked.

“Does your grandmother know you’re here?” I murmured, moving my hand to the soft pelt of crimson hair curling over his brow.

“No. She’s asleep. But I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“The wind is very loud. What if we don’t hear the Tans? What if the house is on fire, and we are all asleep?”

“What are you talking about?” I soothed, stroking his hair.

“They burned down Conor’s house. I heard Doc talking to Nana,” he explained, his eyes wide, his tone plaintive.

“Eoin?” Thomas stood at the door, washed and changed but not for bed. From the looks of it, he hadn’t been sleeping. He wore trousers, a white button-down shirt, and his boots. He clutched a rifle in his right hand.

“Are you watching for the Tans, Doc?” Eoin gasped.

Thomas didn’t deny it but propped the gun against the wall and entered the room. He closed the distance to my bed and stretched out his hand to Eoin. “It’s the middle of the night, lad. Come.”

“My mother is going to tell me a story,” Eoin fibbed stubbornly, and my heart groaned in tender protest. “What if you watch from that window and listen with me, Doc?” Eoin pointed, impudent, at the view of the long lane stretching into darkness.

“Anne?” Thomas sighed, clearly seeking reinforcement.

“Please let him stay,” I urged. “He’s frightened. He can sleep here.”

“I can sleep here, Doc!” Eoin warmed to the idea like it was his own, which, after all, it was.

“Careful, Eoin,” Thomas warned. “Don’t climb over your mother. Go around.”

Eoin immediately scurried to the other side of the bed and scrambled up, squirming down in the covers beside me, his body so close to mine, there was room for Thomas to join us. He didn’t.

Instead, he moved the chair beside my bed to the window overlooking the lane and sat, eyes trained on the shadows. Eoin had not been wrong; he was keeping watch.

I told Eoin the Irish legend of Fionn and the Salmon of Knowledge and how Fionn came to have a magic thumb. “When Fionn needed to know something, he simply stuck his thumb in his mouth, and the answer would come to him,” I said, coming to the end of the tale.

“More, please,” Eoin whispered, clearly hoping Thomas wouldn’t hear. Thomas sighed but didn’t protest.

“Do you know the story of Setanta?” I asked.

“Do I know the story of Setanta, Doc?” Eoin forgot he was being sneaky.

“Yes, Eoin,” Thomas answered.

“I can’t remember it very well, though. I think I need to hear it again,” Eoin implored.

“All right,” I agreed. “Setanta was the son of Dechtire, who was sister to Conchobar mac Nessa, the king of Ulster. Setanta was just a young boy, but he wanted very badly to be a warrior like the knights who fought for his uncle. One day, when his mother wasn’t looking, Setanta sneaked away and began the long journey to Ulster, determined to join the Knights of the Red Branch. It was a grueling journey, but Setanta did not turn back to the safety of his mother’s arms.”

“Grueling?” Eoin interrupted, puzzled.

“Very difficult,” I supplied.

“Didn’t he love his mother?” he asked.

“Yes. But he wanted to be a warrior.”

“Oh.” Eoin sounded doubtful, as though he didn’t really understand. He twined one arm around my neck and laid his head on my chest. “He could have waited,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I whispered, and closed my eyes against a sudden rise of tears. “But Setanta was ready. When he reached his uncle’s court, he did everything he could to impress the king. And even though he was small, he was very fierce and very courageous, and the king said he could train to be a knight. Setanta learned many things. He learned to stay silent when it was wise to be silent. He learned to fight when he must. He learned to listen to the wind and to the earth and to the water so that his enemies would never take him by surprise.”

“Did he see his mother again?” Eoin asked, still caught on that one detail.

“Yes. And she was very proud,” I whispered.

“Tell me the part about the hound,” he demanded.

“You do remember this story,” I murmured.

Eoin was silent, realizing he’d been caught in a lie. I finished, regaling him with the story of King Conor dining at the house of his smith, Culann, and Setanta killing Culann’s savage hound. Setanta had pledged from that day forward to guard the king as the hound had done, forever more being called Cú Chulainn, the hound of Culann.

“You are a very good storyteller,” Eoin murmured sweetly, tightening his small arms around me, and the lump in my throat grew so big, it overflowed and spilled down my cheeks.

“Why are you crying? Are you sad Setanta killed the hound?” Eoin asked.

“No,” I answered, turning my face into his hair.