Page 68 of The Missing Sister
Nuala heard nothing that night, or the following morning. Finn had left for school with a comforting, ‘Bad news travels the fastest, Nuala,’ but it hadn’t eased her anxiety.
All she wanted to know for certain was whether Tom Barry – who Finn had confided in her was the one in charge of the Bandon spy party – had received the message to abort and flee in time.
‘Jaysus,’ she panted as she cycled up to the Big House. ‘I’m a simple farmer’s daughter, I’m not built for all this intrigue.’
She held her breath as she nodded to Lucy in the kitchen then headed upstairs to Philip’s room. Only when he turned his wheelchair around to greet her with his half-smile did she let it out in relief.
‘Hello, Nuala,’ he said. ‘You look as though you’ve been climbing Ben Nevis. Sit down and catch your breath.’
She sat down gratefully, wondering who or what Ben Nevis was.
‘Today, I rather think I’d likeyouto teach me something,’ said Philip. ‘Refresh our minds before we play chess again,’ he said.
Buoyed by relief that she’d not been found out, she smiled. ‘What did you have in mind, so?’
‘Have you any Irish games we could play? Although I’m not up to hurling or Gaelic football. Perhaps a board game of sorts?’
She paused to think. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Philip, there’s not much time for games like chess. The men sometimes play cards or drinking games but...’
Philip let out a chuckle. ‘So did we, in the trenches. It was alcohol that kept us going more than anything else. But sadly, I don’t think a drinking game will be quite as diverting with Darjeeling tea.’
Nuala tried hard to think, keen to give Philip something new that he wouldn’t encounter in his small, English world, which didn’t extend far beyond the borders of this parkland.
‘Sometimes in the winter, Daddy used to tell us Irish fairy tales to pass the time. My sister Hannah always liked the scary tales ofpúcaí: spirit creatures who often appear as horses, then terrify any living soul who tries to ride them.’
‘Let’s stay away from any ghost stories, Nuala,’ Philip shuddered. ‘But I know you Irish believe in fairies and have a lot of tales to tell about them.’
‘’Tis part of our lore, of the earth and nature around us, so. I think you’d be liking Finvarra, king of the fairies. My Finn is named for him, and me for Nuala, the fairy queen.’
Nuala could not fail to note the slightest curl of his lip that she now recognised whenever she mentioned her husband.
‘Well, why not regale me with the life of King Finn and Queen Nuala,’ he said, giving her a thin smile.
So Nuala told him the story of how their namesakes had ruled a kingdom of fairies, or ‘The Folk’ as they were referred to in hushed tones. They were powerful creatures that lived close to the human world, lurking beneath fairy mounds and stone circles, waiting for a hapless wanderer to lose their way, only to be kidnapped by the all-powerful and charismatic Finvarra.
‘Just as your Finn kidnapped you?’ Philip put in, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Ah, I was happy to be kidnapped. And just now, as ’tis close to the feast of Samhain, farmers are trying to appease Finvarra to ensure a good harvest,’ she said.
‘Like our druids used to in England. All humans have folklore of different kinds.’
‘Do they?’ Nuala asked in surprise.
‘Oh yes, and this queen you’ve told me of – she shares traits with characters like Shakespeare’s Titania and Morgan le Fay. They are all beautiful and enchanting, but clever too and often manipulative. Perhaps you are like your own fairy queen, Nuala.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be saying that now,’ she countered, blushing. ‘Who’s this Morgan le Fay?’
‘She was Merlin’s apprentice in the old court of our British King Arthur. He taught her all he knew, his secret magics and ancient wisdoms. Then she betrayed him.’
‘She sounds like a fierce bad woman. Our Queen Nuala would never betray Finvarra.’
‘Oh, Morgan had her reasons. In fact, if you go to that shelf over there, you’ll find a large green tome by a writer called Sir Thomas Malory:Le Morte d’Arthur.’
Nuala found it, then sat back down and opened the heavy book, internally sighing as she saw the pages covered in small text.
‘I think we can skip over the Uther Pendragon stories,’ he instructed her, ‘and get right to chapter twenty-five – that’s written XXV – when Merlin helps Arthur gain the sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake. Read it to me, Nuala.’
‘I’ll do my best, Philip.’
