Shapechanger's Birth Page 5

  She could have reached inside and dissolved the ball into dust, but it was lead and she could taste — if that was the right word — that lead was a poison.

  She fixed several problems and put several more on hold and slowly stood, looking back toward the trees, switching her eyesight to binocular mode. The one whose arm she had amputated apparently had tried to apply a tourniquet. He had been evil but he had been hardy of spirit as well as body. But not enough; he was dead.

  Mary sighed. Perhaps she should have felt triumphant. She could only feel a bit depressed. Possibly all three men had possessed admirable qualities in plenty, but corrupted by their taste for cruelty. She had no doubt that she had spared other people harm by killing them, but she could not feel good about her deed.

  Her body was trembling very slightly. Her deep body wisdom told her this was because she had used up so much of her energy store. That was also part of the reason for her depression.

  Mary searched the body of the blond man whom she had chased. She found a small purse of coins and poured them into her pocket, dissolving the purse into dust. There was nothing else of value to her.

  His horse was grazing a ways down the road. She gathered up its reins after a bit of soft talking and led it back to the trees. She had to sweet-talk it a bit before it let her tether it but only a bit. Obviously these horses were not strangers to the odor of blood.

  The other two men had more money, the leader quite a bit plus two expensive-looking rings on his fingers. She left the rings alone; they might be identifiable.

  She also found a fair amount of food and several wine bottles in the saddle bags of the three men. She immediately sat down and ate an enormous meal of bread and cheese and dried meat, washing it down with an entire bottle of wine. The wine made her pleasantly tipsy for a few minutes, before she instructed her body to burn the alcohol into energy.

  The wine was a big help; it replenished the water in her body. Using large amounts of energy always heated her up and made her sweat tremendously. She finished the second bottle, burning the alcohol before it could affect her .

  The food helped, too. By the time she finished eating her strength was back.

  What to do with the bodies and the horses? The bodies were easiest. She dissolved them into powder, clothes and belts and such also. She only dissolved the outside of metal objects, which was harder to dissolve, just enough to make them unidentifiable if found. Then she threw them far away from the road, in several directions.

  The horses, however, she hated to kill. Riding the leader's horse, she led the other horses down the road a few miles until she came onto an intersection with an eastward road. It looked at least as well traveled as the road running south, so she took the animals a mile or so eastward. There she removed all tack and dissolved it, then frightened the animals so that they galloped eastward.

  If she was lucky whoever found them would keep them and say nothing. In any case, by the time anyone raised a cry for the dead men she believed she would be lost in the crowd in Kilrush.

  And even if they found her, who would believe a fourteen-year-old girl could kill three strong, armed men?

  Midmorning of the next day Mary came to the top of a gentle rise where a space had been cleared long ago. A stone church had once stood there. The church had long since fallen on hard times and, indeed, almost fallen. Left were only grey hand-sized stones stacked atop one another, a part of it curving to suggest an arch. She slipped off her pack and let it rest on the ground, stretched her back.

  She had little attention for the church, however. For the down side of the hill dropped slowly into a deep valley — so slowly that only the long sweep of the land kept the valley below from looking perfectly flat.

  The valley cradled the deep-blue Shannon River, which was so wide here that the opposite side showed only as a faded green strip on the horizon.

  Closer in, perhaps a half mile from the shore, was a large and a small island. With her telescopic sight Mary could make out several structures on them.

  The land in the valley was green with trees and grass in both directions, the edge of the river twisting and turning until lost in the distance.

  At the end of the road she stood upon she could see scattered along the river's edge white and beige and brown blocks of houses, looking like toys at this distance. Some of them must be several stories tall!

  At the center of the town a finger-like inlet of the Shannon extended a half-mile into the land. This sheltered several ships, their masts looking like sticks thrusting skyward. Some of the ships seemed to have two or even three masts. Out in the river a ship was moving up the Shannon. It had two masts and several billowing white sails on each, plus a triangular sail reaching far forward, tied to the needle nose of the ship.

  Around the town she could see the square plots of cultivated land and smaller structures which must be individual homes. There seemed to be a lot of land under cultivation, and with this rich soil the crops should be rich as well. Perhaps her cousin's estimation of near a thousand people living in Kilrush was not a brag after all, but a drastic underestimation.

  It was here that Mary would make her fortune — though she laughed to think that it might be a very small fortune! Enough, at least, to buy some books. If so she would think herself rich indeed.

  And mayhap there would be strange music, and people who would talk about science and medicine and poetry and far lands. People interested in the life of the mind, who could challenge her mind, good before death and since being reborn sharpened to a rapier's point by her magic.

  Aye, great hopes. But first she must find a home, however temporary.

  Mary McCarthy settled her pack onto her shoulders and set off down the hill.

  Destiny

  Summer, 1854 - Spring, 1855

  The hard-packed earth of the road before her split into a Y. The rightward arm was wider and better-kept. It led into the city of Kilrush, visible from here as a few brown or beige boxes among skimpy trees. The leftward arm was almost a foot path and led, eventually, to the river's edge. So much was revealed when Mary shaped her eyes into weak binoculars for a minute or two.

  Mary took the road less traveled. She wanted to bypass the city; she was eager to see the river and the ships which sailed upon it .

  The water's edge was marked by grey gravel several yards wide. Choppy waves made a white froth as they clashed with the shore. The water was grey with the faintest touch of green. This surprised her. She had lived for decades at the edge of Galway Bay and it appeared a different color of grey. Perhaps it was because the bay was large and part of the ocean, while the Shannon was still a river despite its size and nearness to the same Atlantic ocean to which the Bay connected.

  Short of the water's edge the path turned right and continued along a few yards inshore of the river. The wind blew into her face from the west. She could scent the salt water of the Atlantic ocean though the river did not open out into the sea for several miles further downriver.

  Her shoulder-length curly red hair blew freely in the wind, which was quite immodest. A proper lady would wear a bonnet, or at least a scarf. But Mary was very improper, though no one looking at this apparently innocent and naïve young teenager could really believe such.

  Soon Mary reached the harbor, a finger of the Shannon intruding into the land. It was perhaps three hundred yards wide and a half mile long. She turned into it and soon came to the quay, a built-up stone wall on her left that plunged deep into the river and let deep-water ships anchor up against the land.

  She was as thrilled at the sights as if she was a girl again — the two huge two-story warehouses up ahead the likes of which she had never seen, less impressive (but still impressive) commercial buildings off to her right, and most especially the numerous sailing ships anchored at the quay. A few of the ships even had the three masts of an ocean-going vessel. A stream of merchandise was loading and unloading from the ships, from and to four-wheeled wagons which traveled with much ru
mbling and grinding noises along the graveled quayside expanse between the ships and the warehouses.

  Most impressive to Mary was the dark ship with two bare masts that was moving sail-less out of the harbor mouth into the river, a white lace of water burbling past its prow and sides. The tall smokestack between the masts belched black smoke.

  Mary stopped near an old man who was sitting with his back to a bollard and a fishing pole extended out over the river.

  "Pardon me, sir. What is that dark ship without sails?"

  He said, "Why, Missy, that's the mail packet. Powered by steam it is. Goes from Galway up the coast, to Kilkee on t'other side of Loop Head —" Here he pointed west with a free hand. "Stops here, and goes up t'river as far as Limerick. Been doing it for years."

  "My goodness," Mary said. Then for a minute or two both were silent as they contemplated the marvelous vessel.

  "You've evidently lived here a goodly long time," Mary said.

  "Aye, man and boy, sixty-seven years, I have."

  "My goodness," she said again. Mary felt that when you had a useful phrase that you should get full money's worth for it. "You don't look that old!"

  "Oh, now, it's the good sea air."

  "Well, you must know so much about the city — perhaps you could tell me where a good Christian girl could find lodging and work."

  At this the old man looked more closely at her from under shaggy white eyebrows, squinting in the bright sunlight, taking in her poor clothing and bare head.

  "Child, are you alone in this town?"

  Mary put on what she hoped was a sad expression, then lifted her chin and tried to assume a proud and plucky expression.

  "I am, sir, these three days agone. Father and mother both — passed away of an illness. I was the only child left, so my uncle gave me a little money and dropped me off here this morning."

  The man pulled at his white bearded chin. "Well, there's the Society of Friends, them as are called the Quakers. They're good folk and they'll put you up and give you work in the laundry.

  "Then there's the Presbyterians. They have a home for orphans, but they'll try to convert ya."

  "They can try, sir. They can try!"

  "Ah, you're a proper Catholic girl, are you? Well, it can't hurt to spend some time there, as long as you hold steadfast."

  He thought some more, then said. "Ask in town for those two places, but if neither has space, go to my sister and tell her Eamon Moran said to give you a room for the night." He gave her directions to his sister. Mary thanked him earnestly and said her good-day to him.

  Throughout the afternoon she replayed this scene on different impromptu stages, with several variations. In the process she got to know Kilrush, its stores and streets and neighborhoods, and some of its people. She also picked up several good and a good many not-so-good suggestions. Two or three she was sure were attempts to send her to a house of prostitution, or into their own house for equally unsavory purposes.

  One man was not content with verbal persuasion. He tried to force her to accompany him. Mary bit the arm of the hand with which he grasped her shoulder so deeply that she drew blood. Then when he drew back his hand to strike her she slapped him so hard he near lost consciousness and completely lost interest in having anything to do with her.

  He didn't know how lucky he was that she'd been so restrained. If she'd used her fist and all her strength his skull would have smashed like an eggshell.

  When evening came Mary walked a good ways outside of town and found a convenient hedge. There she disrobed, carefully folded her clothes and put them into her pack, and hung it in the densest part of the hedge. She narrowed her invisible witch hands to razor sharpness and sliced off some small leafy branches. They made a good if uneven mattress.

  This did not bother her. As soon as she lay down her skin almost instantly turned to leathery toughness which would protect her from pebbles and twigs and insect bites.

  Past midnight one of Ireland's frequent showers woke her. She would have been perfectly comfortable in a snowy blizzard. For this she simply turned over and dropped back to sleep. She passed a contented night.

  The next day Mary strolled through Kilrush investigating all the legitimate possibilities suggested to her, walking around each of them with her senses cranked up to extrahuman sensitivity.

  The Society of Friends seemed like the best bet. She returned there just past noon, her senses working only at normal levels. It could be very unpleasant to hear and, especially, smell everything at high intensity.

  There were four big buildings and two smaller ones in the mission, arranged in a rough square round a central yard. Two of the big ones fronted the street. The two-story one on the left was the laundry. The three-story one on the right contained classrooms, at the very least. She had heard enough during her reconnaissance this morning to tell that.

  Mary entered the laundry. A woman about her own — real — age of 53 looked up from a waist-high counter where she had been sorting clothes.

  "Can I help you, miss?"

  Mary was wearing a scared-but-plucky expression, or so she hoped. She hadn't had a mirror to practice it.

  "Is it true that you take in orphans?"

  The woman looked her up and down appraisingly. "Yes, we do. Are you the one who ...?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Mary gave her brief story about two parents dead of an illness and an uncle with a sick wife and eleven kids who had dumped her here early this morning.

  "I know that makes Uncle Robert sound heartless, ma'am, but he faithfully nursed all us back to health as could make it, and he gave me more money than he could afford to help ease me into a proper place."

  "Then why did he not stay around to ensure you had a place here? We cannot take in everyone. And why are you showing up here just now?" The woman was looking at Mary sharply.

  "He brought me here at first light and had to get back. My ... his wife ... is still very sick. And ... and I had to walk around and get up my courage to come in here." Mary was trying out her scared-but-plucky expression again, cautioning herself not to overdo it. This woman was no fool.

  "Well, now, do not worry. We can likely make a place for you here. But it is not my decision. Let me take you to my husband. I am Margaret Simmons, by the way. My husband Elisha is the pastor here."

  She turned and called a young woman up front to watch the place and ushered Mary out of the front door, then led her next door and into the mission proper. Down a short hall they turned into a long hall that ran the width of the building. The pastor's wife led her far to the right to an open door at the end of the hall.

  Margaret Simmons knocked on the door jamb and walked into the room. A man at a table looked up from stacks of paper work.

  "Elisha, this young lady wants to apply for a position in the orphanage. What is your name?" She turned to look at Mary.

  "Máiréad McCarthy, ma'am." She pronounced her first name Mare-AY-the. The D at the end of her name was soft, so that her name rhymed with "bathe." "But I ask everyone to call me Mary."

  "Well, Mary, I will leave you with Pastor Simmons."

  Left alone with the pastor Mary looked him over. He was perhaps sixty, would probably be tall and thin and a bit stooped when he stood. Like his wife he wore all-grey clothes, very plain but of good cloth. He looked stern, but Mary thought to detect laugh lines around his mouth.

  He was looking her over as well. He motioned her to sit in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs in front of the table and led her through her story.

  "And just how much money did your uncle give you? You understand that we have to support our good works with the earnings of our charges and from charitable contributions. And you understand that you will have to work, too."

  "Yes, I understand." Mary dug in her pack and came up with the small handful of coins she had decided to give up. The rest was buried under a hedge, along with her knife. She spilled the money onto the front edge of the table.

  The pastor glanced at it but
made no effort to count it or even touch it.

  "What would you bring to the mission, Mary? What do you expect from us?"

  "Well, I'm very good with animals, sir. I can take care of young'uns. My father always said I was very responsible. He called me his little old granny." She looked down at her twined hands, blinked rapidly several times as if to fight back tears, telling herself not to overdo the act. Simmon's wife had seemed a shrewd woman. Her husband was likely to share that quality.

  She looked back up at him. "And I can read and write and figure. I'm very good at figuring. My brothers teased me about that. They said I wasn't a real girl." She looked down at her hands again, blinked just a couple of times, and looked back up.

  "No one will tease you about that here. The Friends believe that every person brings something special to the world and to the glory of God."

  His phrasing suggested that he had decided to accept her. But the bargain was not yet made.

  He continued, "You likely know that we try to bring all our charges to worship God. Would you be willing to listen to us? We do not require our children to worship God in our way, but we do have services and you are encouraged to come to them."

  "I am a good Catholic, Pastor Simmons. But I will listen."

  He nodded. "That is all we ask. Now, I think we may have a place here for you. We shall see. If it does not work out, we will try to find a place for you elsewhere."

  At that he took possession of Mary's money, counted it, and stowed it away in box in a drawer build into the table. From another drawer he took a book and entered her name into it along with details extracted from their conversation and from a few questions he asked her.

  "Now let me show you around and get you settled in." He rose and ushered Mary out.

  In addition to the classrooms she knew were there, the big building contained the homes of the missionaries, more offices besides the pastor's, and a meeting place for worship.

  After the quick tour the pastor walked her back to the laundry and turned her over to his wife.