Land Beyond the Map

Polly said: “If they snatch people they think have the map and you have it, why don’t they snatch you, Liam?”

He showed no apprehension; rather, a deep and joyful cunning irradiated his wizened face.

“They can’t seek through brick walls and what they can’t see they can’t eavesdrop on. I found that out quickly enough. That’s why I waited until you were safely under a roof first. Just don’t talk about this out of doors, that’s all.”

Crane sat quietly. Opposite from him sat a man who had, by implication, possession of the map. Yet the fever of impatience in him was quiescent, calm, content to sit and wait. Why?

Crane didn’t know. They were dealing here with forces that were alien and unnatural and he trusted his own instincts. The time for heady action had not yet come. When it did he felt he would be better and stronger to face the conflict for the benison of this hiatus, this calm before the storm.

He had journeyed a long way since that stormy night when his fifteen eighty Italian of the Florida Gulf and the westward islands had gleamed more brightly through a seven pointed star shattered in its glass. Perhaps there was some tenuous connection between that shattering and his present position. He doubted it; but you never knew, you never knew.

That was the night Polly Gould had erupted into his life.

Liam was talking again, here in this tiny tearoom in a neat market town in the boglands of Ireland. Outside the clouds had massed again; as Crane watched the rain started. Inside the shop colors faded and he shivered a little.

“If a man knows how to use the map, why, then, you cannot put a price on it. It’s more wonderful than any pot of gold at the foot of a rainbow.”

“A treasure map,” said Polly, contempt slurring her voice. She tossed her head. “Is that all you can offer?”

Liam smiled wisely at Crane. “It’s an offer few get and fewer make. Mind you, I’m not making it to you — yet.”

Crane said: “When did you last go into the Map Country, Liam?”

“Is that what you call it? Well, ’tis a good enough name. The Map Country. Faith, yes.”

He would have gone on speaking but the door of the tearoom swung open again and a tall, dignified, roughly-dressed man entered. The man’s eyes held the long gaze of one used to looking far distances under a misty sky. His hands gripped square and strong on the heavy, shiny stick; hands that knew the cunning of cutting turf. He marched straight up to Liam.

“And what is it, Sean, that you should be worrying me when I’m talking to foreigners?” demanded Liam wrath-fully.

The man was humble; his dignity remained, but he showed very clearly that he was lower in the pecking order here than Liam. He twisted his cloth cap nervously.

“’Tis only that I’d like another week, Liam. Everything’s gone awry. The cow—”

“All right, Sean. It seems to me I’ve heard all this before.”

Crane watched, fascinated. Here were country politics, country finance of the old school, being enacted before his eyes. He could guess at the outlines of the farm running down, and the loan, and the pressure for repayment. Another week. Well — how many weeks would that make?

Liam surprised him. The blue eyes gentled and the bristling white hair lost its aggressiveness as he said: “Yes, Sean. Another week. I know you mean well — but never mind that now. Away with ye, and stop your thanks, man.”

Sean’s dignity cloaked his gratitude; but he shook hands as a drowning man shakes hands with a lifebelt.

“You’re a good man, Liam, for all that you’ve never done a stroke of work in your life. The money’s never meant anything to you—”

“Away, man!” roared Liam.

Sean turned and made for the door. “Goodbye, now,” he said, bobbing his head.

“Goodbye, now,” Liam answered automatically.

Ulstermen, both.

“What did he mean,” Polly asked with feminine rudeness that merely charmed, “by the money’s never meant anything to you?”

Liam chuckled again, a wet, wheezing rustle of good humor. He drank the tea that Crane, for one, had not seen provided for him.

“I’ll tell you, young lady. It’s all part of the same story, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ll be pleased to be rid of it — both parts.”

The same tousled-haired boy they had seen before put his tousled head into the tearoom.

“They’re about, Granfer. On the prowl. Ma’s having her twitches again.”

“Drat,” said Liam, rising and throwing coins onto the table in payment for the tea. “Come on. Ma’s never wrong.” Going out the door with Crane and Polly in instant but perplexed pursuit, he added: “Ma’s my daughter and his mother; but she’s looked after the family so long now we all call her Ma.”

Liam halted by the Austin, one hand on the front near-side mudguard. He peered about, like a hound-dog scenting.

“This is our car,” Crane said. “Any use?”

“Aye, that it is. Inside with ye both. Quick, now!”

Polly slipped behind the wheel, Liam at her side. Crane found himself in the back with the tousled-haired youngster bouncing up and down on the upholstery.

“Which way?” asked Polly crisply.