Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

“And all the happier for it,” said Mac.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Brigid said with a mischievous grin.

“A welcome home celebration for our darling girl? I can’t think of anything I’d like better.” Mac wrapped an arm around Abel’s shoulders and ushered him to the door. “Boyle will be so pleased to meet you, boy.”

“Who’s he? Another god?” Abel asked.

“May as well be. The ale that flows from his establishment is practically divine.”

Morrigan laughed as she followed them out onto the street. “Mac may be a god, but he’s a sailor first, and a sailor always knows the best pubs in any port.”

“A pub, huh?” Talk about outside his experience. If the Reverend had caught him near a pub or a bar, he’d have dragged him away by the collar. Then he’d have pulled out his sermon about Wine the Mocker and Beer the Brawler and being filled with the Holy Spirit and not alcohol. Besides, imagine what people would think if they knew the preacher’s son was an “alcoholic.” Abel stifled a snicker. He’d never even seen a beer bottle that wasn’t empty or broken, much less gotten drunk, and he wasn’t eager to surrender control of his senses. Still…

He slipped his hand into his pocket and rubbed the Freedom List between his fingers. He’d run away for a reason. When would he ever get this chance again?

Abel grinned. “Lead the way!”

12

Abel wasn’t sure what shocked him more: the fact that the god of the sea drove a beat-up Chevy truck—they’d ditched Cora’s Mustang in case she came looking for them—or the inside of Boyle’s Pub.

The only alcohol establishment in Pepper’s Mill was a squat windowless building his family drove past on the way to Sunday lunch at Aunt Sally’s Meat ‘N Three. It was half tucked behind a hill, a hollowed out concrete block in an empty parking lot. The place always had an air of dark mystery, and in his youth, Abel had longed to sneak through the rusted door and see the sordid secrets hidden inside. Now that he was older and possibly wiser, he suspected he’d overhyped the bar, that the interior would disappoint him. Probably some dingy room decorated with neon signs and sad people.

Boyle’s, on the other hand, was equal parts fairy tale and home. Not the home Abel had run away from, but home, the essence of belonging radiating from the soft lamps and built into the wood-paneled walls. Here, among the dusty pictures and dustier customers, Abel felt a piece of his soul click into place. He closed his eyes and inhaled the musty scent of old wood and old grain, listening to the plunking strings of the live band in the corner.

When he opened his eyes, though, he saw it wasn’t a band so much as some locals who had gotten together and circled around for a jam session, chatting to each other as they played. There were five of them: a curly-haired woman with glasses and a drum she held sideways (a bodhran, unless he was mistaken), a teenager with a guitar, a stick of a man on the fiddle, and an old lady playing a mean mandolin. As he watched, an older man in a wool cap and a goatee sat down and added his pennywhistle to the reel they played. Two men with long white beards watched over them like the patriarchs of the clan.

That’s what it is, Abel thought as Mac went over to greet the group. That’s why I feel so at home here. These people had nothing in common except their love of the music they played. It brought them together, entwined their lives, in such an intimate way. It was like church with all the artifice stripped away. No masks here; no forced respectability. Everyone simply was, and that was enough.

“He’ll be awhile yet.” Brigid led Abel and Morrigan over to the bar and left Mac chatting with the musicians. “They’ll want him to sing a shanty or two.” She sailed up onto a barstool. “Boyle! Drinks for everyone, on me!”

Boyle, a balding man with liver spots, stopped mopping his glistening counter and stuck the bar towel in his vest pocket. “What’s the occasion?”

Brigid put an arm around Morrigan. “The Prodigal has returned.”

Abel couldn’t help smiling as he thought of his own reverse prodigal story, leaving home instead of running back to it.

Morrigan squirmed away. “Come on, Breej. You don’t have to make such a big deal about it.”

“Ah, but they do if you’re Morrigan,” Boyle said with a smile that made his eyes disappear. “They’ve been looking for you for years. Tell an old man, where’ve you been hiding yourself?”

Morrigan’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t hiding myself, I can tell you that.” She shook her head. “It’s a long story for another time.”

“Another time,” Brigid agreed. “For now, it’s time to celebrate. Our girl’s home!”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Boyle, drawing four pints for his guests and one for himself.

In the corner, a new song started up. Mac grinned, and his lusty baritone rang out across the pub:

“It was down by Swansea barracks

One May morning I strayed

A-viewing of the soldier lads

I spied a comely maid

It was o’er her red and rosy cheeks

The tears did dingle down

I thought she was some goddess fair

The lass of Swansea town.”

Abel looked over at his own goddess fair, and the song dimmed to a rhythmic drone of a melody. Morrigan had her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, her head tipped back and swaying in time to the music. He hadn’t seen her this relaxed, this happy, since … well, ever. It was as though Cora had never been, as though scars had never been erased and ankles had never been shackled, as though she were still as free as she’d been in ages past. He pictured her then, walking the grassy hills of Ireland, hair blowing behind her, a crow resting on her arm. She’d laughed, he imagined, easy and happy knowing another battle