The mare picked up speed at the foot of the hill. Tom lurched on the wagon seat and tugged the reins to curb her quickened gait. He couldn’t blame her. The weary horse required food and rest, just as his restless soul longed for the solace of Tobernalt, as sacred a place in the Year of Our Lord 1911 as it was 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. Today, however, no carts or wagons cluttered the sunny clearing. His favorite spot, the one near the entrance, was free. He guided the mare to the shade of the oak tree and set the brake.
His driving skills had impressed Davy Bookman, the Ballymote merchant who owned the small, sturdy wagon. Its flat roof and paneled sides protected Bookman’s tea from the weather. An overhang above the driver’s seat protected Tom, and he’d given thanks more than once for the shelter as he traveled the roads delivering tea to shops all over Ireland.
“A good job for a trusty young buck of twenty-five,” the jovial tradesman had said. “You’ll see a finger or two of the world before the farm ties you down, Tom O’Byrne.”
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 dowry, but the gold would please his father, for all the good it would do the old man. Brendan O’Byrne would always be tipping his hat to the landlord.
So would Tom. For now, he dismissed the depressing thought and 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 chuckled. “You love this place as much as I do, don’t you, girl?”
And why wouldn’t she? The sparkling stream flowed down from the well and splashed across the rocks. Fair weather clouds cast fleeting shadows over the rustling greenery. Such a peaceful, sweet-smelling place! Poles apart from the sorry, ten-acre 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 the farm, tending the stinking cows and pigs until he smelled as bad as they did.
Today was the first of August. The turf would need cutting, and Tom’s arms would ache for a week after cutting it. Then he’d be thatching the neighbors’ 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 married her.
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, for the O’Byrnes had no money to hire help. But what woman would marry the heir of a no-account farm or his fanciful younger brother?
Tom refused to ponder the matter now. He’d rather savor the fragrance of Tobernalt’s verdant glade and the warbling of colorful birds flitting from tree to tree. Their constant song declared the woodland safe, at least from human danger.
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 people, most of them women seeking to cure their ills.
“Maybe today, Gram,” he said, recalling the kindhearted woman who’d raised him.
Whether he met spirits or fairies or mortals 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 strong 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. Whenever his hair got wet, it curled to a wild, black tangle.
He paused at the entrance to the well and touched a square mound of stones that he’d heard predated the coming of Christ. During penal times, when the English put a price on the heads of priests, the locals had named the mound the Mass Rock because it often served as an altar for the secret saying of Masses. One legend claimed that St. Patrick himself had left the imprint of his hand upon the stones.
Tom moved on and scanned the woods, hoping to catch his first glimpse of a fairy. Instead, a bicycle caught his eye. A lady’s bicycle, set against a tree. The old girl who owned it would be up at the well, saying her prayers or drinking the water to soothe her aches and pains.
Yet when the crumbling stone wall surrounding the well came into view, he saw no one.
Offering a silent prayer of thanks that Tobernalt was his for a while, he doffed his cap and approached the sacred spot, circling clockwise, as was proper.
The holy water gushing from the well’s solid rock dallied 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.
Tom knelt to wet his fingers. The ice-cold water refreshed him. He blessed himself, and then he froze.
A face had appeared in the pool beneath him.
The tiring drive from Donegal surely had him seeing things. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and looked again.
The face still bobbed in the water: a woman’s face, heart-shaped and pale. Her long, wavy hair was as dark as his own. Her blue eyes transfixed him, enticing him to stroke her rippling cheek.
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 haunting tunes compelled him to stretch himself out on the grass and sleep.
