Free The Legend of the Corrib King by Tom McCaughren Page A

dance in the moonlight and secrets unfold ,’ said Cowlick, quoting from the poem.
    â€˜The poachers’ hiding place,’ added Jamesie.
    Biddy didn’t answer them right away. Instead she gave Rachel the blue bottle and whispered to her, ‘When ye find yer Uncle Pakie give him this. He’ll need a good tonic, and that’ll bring him back to his old self in no time.’
    â€˜But where will we look for him?’ asked Rachel.
    Biddy giggled. ‘There’s only one place where ye’ll find all three growing together – and the ruins of a church.’
    â€˜Where?’ they asked.
    â€˜On Lusmore Island of course. The Island of the Great Herb.’
    * * *
    Back at their campsite near Pakie’s place, Rachel looked at the blue bottle Biddy had given her. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for not telling me Biddy wasn’t her real name,’ she told Jamesie crossly.
    â€˜Aye, why do you call her Biddy?’ asked Cowlick.
    Jamesie smiled. ‘Everybody calls her that – after Biddy Early, the Wise Woman of Clare. Uncle Pakie told me about her. She lived a long time ago, and some people thought she was a witch, for she had strange powers. She could forecast things and cure people.’ He looked at Rachel. ‘And she had this famous bottle. Blue, I think it was. It was supposed to be a magic bottle, and if she cured people she took no money for it, only meat and poteen.’
    â€˜Well, Biddy of the Lake is no witch,’ asserted Rachel. ‘As a matter of fact I think she’s very nice. Anyway, this is only an oul’ magnesia bottle she gave me, a tonic for Pakie.’
    â€˜I think she’s nice too,’ said Róisín, ‘and she’s very knowledgeable about flowers and things.’
    â€˜And she’s given us our best clue yet,’ said Tapser.
    â€˜But how do we get to this island?’ asked Cowlick. ‘Can we row to it as well?’
    Jamesie shook his head. ‘It’s too far. We’ll have to use the outboard engine this time, at least part of the way.’
    â€˜Will that not get you into trouble?’ asked Róisín. ‘I mean, taking it without asking.’
    â€˜It’ll be all right,’ muttered Jamesie, and he went off towards the boathouse.
    Jamesie seemed to know what he could and could not do, so the others didn’t argue. Instead they followed him down to the boathouse. Somehow he managed to open the door to where the outboard engines were kept and they helped him carry one out and clamp it to the stern of the boat.
    â€˜I thought all the islands around here had Irish names,’ said Tapser. ‘You know, Illaun-this and Incha-that.’
    Jamesie laid the oars along the middle of the boat between them. ‘Some of them, not all,’ he replied. ‘There’s Butterfly Island. Rabbit Island.’
    Tapser was about to say that Rabbit Island didn’t sound very poetic, when the outboard engine roared into life and conversation became impossible. Words, however, soon became unnecessary and even inadequate to describe any of the islands. For as they were propelled across the water, now smooth and silvery as a mirror, the sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains of Connemara and was giving Uncle Pakie’s lake an unspoken poetry of its own.
    When they had travelled for some time, Jamesie throttled back on the engine, then silenced it completely. An eerie stillness filled the twilight. Quietly he put the oars into place and started to row. By now Tapser and Cowlick had got the hang of rowing, and took turns to help him pull them closer to their objective.
    Lusmore Island seemed no different than any of the others they had seen. It was overgrown with bushes and capped with a canopy of Scots pines, a familiar feature of many of the islands. However, even in the fading light they could see that a profusion of purple foxgloves grew on its stony shore.
    If the