David Farland: Beyond the Gate

“Maggie, darlin’,” he said, “whether these magnificent stories told on your beau are true or not, your name-our family name-is mixed up in this scandal. I’ve heard you spoken ill of fifty miles away. You’re running about, making mad resolutions that will most likely ruin your life, and I have to step in. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to marry this Gallen O’Day.”

Thomas pulled at the wedding dress on the table, as if he’d take it, and Maggie grabbed it from his hands.

“There will be no wedding,” Thomas said, slamming his fist on the table. “How could there be? What kind of priest would perform a marriage for a girl so young?” His tone made it sound as if he were naming her a dreamer or a liar. It was true that she was young to marry.

“Gallen’s cousin-Father Brian of An Cochan!” Maggie said, feeling a thrill of victory by being able to name such a priest.

“Father Brian, eh? Not without my permission, I’ll wager.” Thomas glared at her coldly, and Maggie realized he’d just tricked her into telling the priest’s name.

He reached into his purse, and tossed a shilling to a boy of fourteen. “You’re a bright-looking lad. You look as if you know where the cat’s hid its kittens. I want you to carry a message for me: run to An Cochan and tell Father Brian that Maggie’s wedding will have to be called off for the time being. Tell him I’ll arrange a suitable donation to the church in order to … compensate him for his trouble.”

“Don’t do this,” Maggie said.

Thomas stiffened at the dangerous tone in her voice, and his own voice took on a hard edge. “I didn’t come all this way just to acquiesce to your wishes, child. And I’ll not haggle about it. The wedding is off!”

“You can’t,” Maggie cried. “Gallen’s a fine man. I love him!”

“This isn’t about love!” Thomas shouted. “This is about judgment . Judgment-a damned fine quality that you’re too young to have in abundance. So the wedding is off! Your mother gave me the right and the moral obligation to use my judgment in raising you, and I’ll exercise that right now. And quit giving me the evil eye!”

“I’ll not let you do this-” Maggie hissed. She shook with rage, and her jaw was set. She thought of the big carving knives in the kitchen. She could hardly believe that a stranger would walk into her life intent on causing so much trouble. It was like getting mugged, only Thomas was doing it legally. She wondered if she should get that letter from Thomas, try to prove that the will was a forgery; but she suspected that it was real, that in a moment of despair her mother really had sent the letter to Thomas, asking his help. And if that were the case, Maggie would be stuck in the boiling pot, certain.

The butcher Muldoon came in through the front door-apparently having heard that Thomas Flynn was in town. Both Maggie and Thomas had lapsed into silence, and Muldoon called, “Give us a song, Thomas!”

Thomas got up, went to his mug of rum that had warmed on the fire, and he took a few stiff drinks, then got his lute out of its case and began plucking strings.

Maggie sat numbly, wondering about her options. She could stay here and put up with this man, which seemed impossible. Or she could get a knife and stab him-which right now felt like a desirable thing to do, though she didn’t like the thought of getting hanged afterward. Or she could try to talk Gallen into running away with her, and she wished that right now Gallen was here instead of being off in the woods.

Maggie’s attention was suddenly caught as Thomas began his song. In his youth, Thomas had had a famous voice. Maggie had a handbill that she kept in a box upstairs, advertising one of Thomas’s performances. On it, another bard said that Thomas’s voice was like a mountain river, all watery and rippling light on the surface but with deep currents that could sweep you away, and beneath it all was a rich and abrasive gravel that could cut a listener to the bone.

And so in a moment, Thomas sang to the local fishermen an old ballad called “Green,” the tale of Claire Tighearnaigh in her green days of love, raising daisies and sweet red roses on the hillsides to sell in the gray streets of Finglas. Thomas had the finest voice that Maggie had ever heard, and she tried to shut it out, but he sang the ballad with warmth and richness, so that she could almost feel the sticky flower stems in her hand and bask in the scent of bloody-colored flowers.

And when he sang of Ian Phelan, who loved a good fight as much as he loved his young fiancée, Thomas let his melody wend its way around the hearts of his listeners, sucking them down into a turbulent morass where their bodies were constantly spinning in the eddies and whirlpools, torn between the worlds of water and sky.

And when Thomas sang of how Ian Phelan was brutally stabbed at the hands of a jealous suitor, Thomas let his voice become gravel, so that his listeners could see how Ian’s corpse had been left on the rocky hillsides above Finglas, his lifeblood leeching into the green flower beds of Claire’s youth, the reds and greens tumbling together like lovers rolling down a hill, caught forever in a place where pain and beauty fuse into one.

When he finished, every rugged fisherman was weeping into his drink, and someone cooed, “Ah, now that was worth missing a day’s work for.” Several folks called loudly for another song, but Thomas refused, saying, “Come back tonight, and I promise you’ll tire of listening to this old voice croak out its songs.”

And Maggie saw that despite her personal problems with Thomas, he was already winning over the hearts of the townsfolk. Sure, and many of them would agree with Thomas, that Maggie was just too young to marry. They’d take his side.

He asked Maggie to escort him to his room. She led him upstairs to a cozy room above the fire, and opened the door for him. “I’ll expect you to behave as any other guest, Thomas Flynn,” she said. “No sleeping on my clean sheets with your boots on.”

Thomas went to the edge of his bed, set his lute on it, and looked up at her. “Well, Maggie,” he said conspiratorially, “how do you think they liked our performance?”

“Our performance?” she asked.

“Aye. We gave them a good fight, and a grand song. I swear, the inn will be full tonight. You’ve never seen such drinking and carousing as you’ll see tonight. I’ll make you a fortune, sure.”

“What?” Maggie asked, taking a deep breath. “You mean that was all an act?”

“I know about love,” Thomas said, and from the way he had sung, Maggie knew it was true, and she wondered if he secretly intended to let her marry Gallen after all, but his next words dashed that hope. “But it’s for your own good that I’m keeping you from your beau.”

“For your profit, you mean,” Maggie grumbled.

“That, too,” Thomas said honestly. He watched her for a reaction, but she didn’t give him the pleasure. “Maggie dear, if you live long enough, you’re going to find that sometimes you have to play the villain in another person’s life. It’s just the way of things, that sometimes our goals cross. You’ll have to spoil someone’s plans, ruin their day-maybe even stick a dagger in someone’s back. Just remember this: when that day comes, make no apologies for what you’re doing. If you must play the part of the villain, play it with gusto. It’s one of the sweetest sensations in life.” He held his breath a moment, then said, “At least, that’s how I intend to play it.”

Then he lay down on the bed, put his dirty boots on the blanket. “Now there are rules in this world that tell us how to get along in polite society. I didn’t make those rules, but we have to live by them. One of those rules is that we don’t go marrying children. So, you’ll wait to get married, till you’re the proper age. That’s final.”