his chin. The wind still rattled the windows and water still dripped into a plastic bucket beside the bed. But as he listened to Brendan’s story, he felt the real world fade away. He saw the sorcerer’s castle in his mind, the deep forest. He saw Riddoc’s tiny cottage near the sea. Though he’d been born in Ireland, he remembered nothing of that country. But he could feel it pulsing through his body now.
“The old sorcerer sighed. Macha was too tender-hearted to ever wield great power. But Riddoc knew that Macha was kind and generous and sympathetic to those less fortunate. There was one final question that Riddoc decided to give to the daughters. ‘You may ask me one question,’ he said. ‘A question that you want answered more than any other.’ They pondered their choices for a long time. ‘Will I be the most powerful sorceress in Ireland?’ Maighdlin asked. ‘Will I ever find true love?’ Macha asked. This proved what Riddoc already knew—Macha had a pure heart. He turned to the sorcerer. ‘You must give Macha your power,’ he said.”
“This is so mushy,” Sean said. “I s’pose now Riddoc is going to kiss her and they’ll fall in love and get married.”
“Not yet,” Brendan said. “Because before the sorcerer died, Maighdlin took Macha deep into the forest and left her there, certain that she’d be devoured by wolves or starve to death.”
“Did she die?” Sean asked.
“No. For Riddoc knew that Maighdlin would try something evil. He watched over Macha and followed the girls wherever they went. And he rescued Macha from the forest. He took her back to the castle and told the sorcerer of Maighdlin’s evil deed. It was only then that the sorcerer knew the answer to his question. Now he could die peacefully. And so Macha became a sorceress. And Riddoc her most trusted advisor.”
“And Maighdlin?” Brian asked.
“She became a toad. A slimy warty toad with a purple nose.”
Brian laughed and Liam giggled. Sean just blinked in confusion. “She didn’t try to turn Riddoc into a toad?”
Brendan shook his head. “No. He was too smart to let that happen.” He cleared his throat and continued. “After a time, Macha and Riddoc married. And they had sons, who had sons, who had sons. But none of them needed magical powers for they inherited something more valuable from their father—a clever mind and a thirst for knowledge.”
“Are you sure Riddoc didn’t throw Macha over the cliff?” Sean asked. “Or maybe he took her back into the forest and chopped off her head? Da tells his stories different.”
“This isn’t Da’s story, it’s mine,” Brendan said.
Brendan always told the Mighty Quinn tales differently, Brian mused. In his versions, the women weren’t always the villains. “I liked this story just the way you told it.”
Brendan nodded. “I did, too. And now you know that we’re descended from kings and queens, knights and ladies, plain farmers and a powerful sorceress. It’s time for you to get to sleep. It’s late.” He crawled off the bed and pulled the blankets up around the three brothers. As he walked to the door, Brendan flipped off the light.
The room went dark and Sean rolled over, tugging on the blankets. Liam flipped over and nestled up against Brian for warmth and security. Brian threw his arm over his head and stared up at the ceiling. Images of the story still swirled in his head. The tale of Riddoc Quinn appealed to him—the clever boy and the beautiful sorceress living in their forest castle.
“Do you think Da is all right?” Liam asked, his voice timid.
“Da is a Quinn. He’s like Riddoc, he’s clever,” Brian murmured.
“I’m scared. What if he doesn’t come back? They’ll come and get us and take us away. We’ll never see each other again.” Liam’s voice trembled and Brian could tell he was on the verge of tears.
“Conor would never let that happen,” Brian said. He reached out and smoothed his hand over his little brother’s hair. “We’ll be together forever. Don’t worry, Li.”
The little boy sobbed softly and burrowed under the covers. Brian curled beneath the threadbare blankets and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to come. When the house grew silent, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his winter jacket from the floor, pulling it on to ward off the chill in the air. As he passed the other bedroom, he peeked inside to find his older brothers sprawled out on their beds.
The stairs creaked as he tiptoed down. When he reached the front parlor, he sat down in front of the portable television that Dylan had rescued from a junk pile in the alley. Brian flipped it on and the snowy picture illuminated the dark room. The antenna, draped with tinfoil, did little to bring the picture into focus. Brian could barely make out the weather forecaster standing in front of the map.
“This is Storm Central on WBTN-TV. Forecasters say the storm is worsening in the North Atlantic. The waves are battering the New England coast and causing many residents to head for higher ground. The barometer continues to fall, which means that we’re still not over the worst of the storm. Marinas from Long Island to Maine have reported hundreds of boats ripped from moorings and destroyed. Many commercial fishing boats have also been damaged, a blow to those fishermen who have already had a bad summer season.”
Brian leaned forward, trying to study the map, wondering where in the Atlantic his father was. He’d traced the route on the school atlas, but it had looked so simple then. He’d been on the boat before, far from the sight of land. Out there, everything looked the same.
“Meanwhile, the Coast Guard has had its hands full with distress calls from boaters and fishermen caught out on the Atlantic when the storm blew up. The fishing boat Selma B. out of Boston sank after taking on water, but the crew was airlifted off the deck to the safety of a Coast Guard helicopter. The Willow put into Gloucester a few hours ago after a search by Coast Guard cutters. Their radio had been knocked out.”
A knot twisted in Brian’s stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. They all knew the dangers that faced a commercial fisherman. Brendan’s teacher had once said that commercial fishing was the most dangerous occupation of all, more dangerous than driving a race car or flying an airplane. That knowledge had stuck with Brian over the years and now it seemed like a weight pressing down on him.
He stared at the man on the screen. If anything happened to the Mighty Quinn, the newscaster would know first. He’d know if the boat was sinking. He’d know whether Seamus was alive or dead. Like Riddoc Quinn, this man knew everything.
Brian pulled his knees up under his chin and shivered, refusing to allow himself the luxury of tears. “Someday, I’ll be the first to know. And then I won’t ever have to worry again.”
1
THE NEWSROOM WAS a picture of controlled chaos as Brian Quinn strode through. Weekends were always a little crazy, the junior staff at WBTN-TV working with a skeleton crew. As he walked to his cubicle, Brian tugged on the starched collar of the pleated shirt, the fabric chafing his neck. He didn’t wear a tux often, but when he did he found the experience wholly uncomfortable.
He caught his reflection as he walked by a plate glass window. The monkey suit did have an undeniable effect on the ladies, though. What was it about a black suit and a bow tie that made women swoon? A tux was no more unusual than a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Brian frowned. Women seemed to like that combination as well. That and plain old boxer shorts.
Too
