silent. He learned to fight when he must. He learned to listen to the wind and to the earth and to the water so that his enemies would never take him by surprise.”
“Did he see his mother again?” Eoin asked, still caught on that one detail.
“Yes. And she was very proud,” I whispered.
“Tell me the part about the hound,” he demanded.
“You do remember this story,” I murmured.
Eoin was silent, realizing he’d been caught in a lie. I finished, regaling him with the story of King Conor dining at the house of his smith, Culann, and Setanta killing Culann’s savage hound. Setanta had pledged from that day forward to guard the king as the hound had done, forever more being called Cú Chulainn, the hound of Culann.
“You are a very good storyteller,” Eoin murmured sweetly, tightening his small arms around me, and the lump in my throat grew so big, it overflowed and spilled down my cheeks.
“Why are you crying? Are you sad Setanta killed the hound?” Eoin asked.
“No,” I answered, turning my face into his hair.
“You don’t like dogs?” Eoin was shocked, and his voice rose.
“Shh, Eoin. Of course, I do.” His dismay made me giggle despite the emotion that clogged my throat.
“Setanta had to kill the hound,” Eoin reassured me, still convinced the story had made me weep. “Or the hound would have killed him. Doc says killing is wrong, but sometimes it has to be done.”
Thomas turned from the window, a flicker of lightning illuminating the angles of his face only to retreat and leave him in darkness again.
“Eoin,” he rebuked softly.
“You’re just like the hound, Doc. You protect the house.” Eoin was undeterred.
“And you are like Fionn. You ask too many questions,” Thomas retorted mildly.
“I need a magic thumb like Fionn.” Eoin held his hands in the air, curling his fingers and sticking out his thumbs, examining them.
“You will have magic fingers instead. Just like Doc. You will make people well with your steady hands,” I said, keeping my voice low. It had to be close to three o’clock in the morning, and Eoin showed no signs of drowsiness. The little boy almost vibrated with energy.
I reached up and wrapped my hands around his, pulling them down to his sides and repositioning the pillow beneath his head.
“It’s time to sleep now, Eoin,” Thomas said.
“Will you sing to me?” Eoin asked, raising imploring eyes to mine.
“No. But I will tell you a poem. Poems can be like a song. But you need to close your eyes. It is a very, very long poem. More like a story.”
“Good,” Eoin said, clapping.
“No clapping. No talking. Eyes closed,” I said.
Eoin obeyed.
“Are you comfortable?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he whispered back, keeping his eyes shut.
I pitched my voice soft and low and began, “I hardly hear the curlew cry, nor the grey rush when the wind is high.” I narrated slowly, letting the rhythm and the words lull the boy into slumber. “Baile and Aillinn” had always put Eoin to sleep. He was snoring softly before I reached the end, and I stopped, allowing the story to fade without being finished.
Thomas turned from the window. “That isn’t the end.”
“No. Eoin’s asleep,” I murmured.
“But I’d like to hear it,” he said quietly.
“Where did I leave off?”
“They come where some huge watcher is, and tremble with their love and kiss,” he said, quoting the line perfectly. The words from his mouth sounded erotic and warm, and I picked up the thread eagerly, wanting to please him.
“They know undying things, for they wander where earth withers away,” I recited, and I continued softly through the final stanzas, finishing with the words I loved the most. “For never yet has lover lived, but longed to wive, like them that are no more alive.”
“For them that are no more alive,” he whispered. The room was hushed with the afterglow that a good story always leaves behind, and I closed my eyes and listened to little Eoin breathe, hardly daring to breathe myself, not wanting the moment to pass too soon.
“Why were you crying? You didn’t answer him.”
I examined my answer briefly, unsure of what to reveal, before settling on the simplest version of my complicated emotions. “My grandfather told me those stories. He told me about the hound of Culann. Now I’m telling Eoin. Someday, he will tell his granddaughter the stories I told him.”
I told you. You told me. Only the wind knows which truly comes first.
Thomas turned from the window, framed in the weak light, waiting for