By nightfall they had covered at least half their journey. Brodsky, who had begun by feeling sorry forhimself, began to recover somewhat under the ministrations of Belphebe’s excellent camp cookery, and announced that he had seen quite enough of ancientIreland and was ready to go back.
«I don’t get it,» he said. «Why don’t you just mooch off the way you came here?»
«Because I’m unskilled labor now,» explained Shea. «You saw Cathbadh make that spell — he started chanting in the archaic language and brought it down to date. I get the picture, but I’d have to learn the archaic. Unless I can get someone else to send us back. And I’m worried about that. As you said, we’ve got to work fast. What are you going to tell them if they’ve started looking for you when we get back?»
«Ah, nuts,» said Brodsky. «I’ll level with them. The force is so loused up with harps that are always cutting up touches about how hot Ireland is that they’ll give it a play whether they believe me or not.»
Belphebe said in a small voice, «But I would be at home.»
«I know, kid,» said Shea. «So would I. If I only knew how.»
Morning showed mountains on the right, with a round peak in the midst of them. The journey went more slowly than on the previousday, principally because all three had not developed riding callouses. They pulled up that evening at the hut of a peasant rather more prosperous than therest, and Brodsky more than paid for their food and lodging with tales out of Celtic lore. The pseudo-Irishman certainly had his uses.
The next day woke in rain, and though the peasant assured them that Rath Cruachan was no more than a couple hours’ ride distant, the group became involved in fog and drizzle, so that it was not till afternoon that they skirted Loch Key and came to Magh Ai, the Plain of Livers. The cloaks with which Cuchulainn had furnished them were of fine wool, but all three were soaked and silent by time a group of houses came into sight through air slightly clearing.
There were about as many of the buildings as would constitute an incorporated village in their own universe, surrounded by the usual stockade and wide gate — unmistakably Cruachan of the Poets, the capital of Connacht.
As they approached along an avenue of trees and shrubbery, a boy of about thirteen, in shawl and kilt and carrying a miniature spear, popped out of the bushes and cried: «Stand there! Who is it you are and where are you going?»