Kenneth Bulmer - Land Beyond the Map

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.

“Och, any way. You’re pointed in the right direction. Just move away from here.”

The car started, carrying them quickly out of town.

Crane looked at the hedges and stone walls fleeing past. The boy at his side remained absorbed in the experience of riding in the car. Polly gave her attention to the driving, adjusting her metal outlook into the bargain, too, surmised Crane. Liam lay back, breathing shallowly with a wheezing cough every now and then. Presently he said: “Take the left fork and stop at the crossroad.”

Polly did so. At the crossroads a stone-built house of two stories leaned against the wind. Rain glinted from blue tiles and tall narrow windows. It was growing dark and the rain and wind in the huddle of trees about the houses sounded disturbingly eerie. The old house might have been a witches’ castle gauntly shadowed in an enchanted forest. Crane waited for Liam’s next oracular pronouncement.

“Let’s go inside,” he said casually. “It’s going to be a soft night.”

Crane walked up the pathway to the frowning facade of the house by Polly’s side. He felt no wonder that he should be doing this. He knew only that he must not let Liam get away until the man had parted with the map. For Crane now felt obviously sure that the strange white-haired oldster did possess the map. And the map was a central part of his life.

Inside the gaunt rock of a house Crane stood for a moment disoriented, off-balance, bamboozled by that bleak, oak-lashed, iron-bound exterior. Inside he might have been standing in some super-luxurious hotel, with every modern convenience the hand of ingenious sybaritic man could devise for the well-being of indolent millionaires. Modern decor, subdued lighting, central heating, futuristic armchairs that swiveled at a touch and adjusted to the most comfortable positions. Wall-screen television. A bar backed by such a liquor display as might have stocked a whisky-distiller’s convention. Rugs ankle-deep in floating pile. Furniture that had been built by craftsmen to serve a purpose, in impeccable taste and scorning the rigid limitations of style and period.

Polly exclaimed rapturously.

Crane — who was a millionaire anyway even though he forgot it himself on occasion — smiled as he recognized with sympathy the drive of personality that had amassed this remarkable display of luxury. Around the walls large oblongs of emptiness frowned out, the picture lights still in position above them, and in alcoves desolate pedestals stood, their tops bare and shining. Liam dropped into a chair and reached out a hand. On the table attached to the chair’s arm a bottle and glasses appeared through a trap door with a promising click and he poured one each.

“Sit yeselves down, then.” They drank, relishing the thick fiery potency of the stuff.

“Now I see what Sean meant about the money,” Polly said.

Liam lowered his glass gratefully. “Aye. And it’s all gone. Every last penny.”

“But this house—” Polly checked. Her voice trailed. She’d only just then appreciated her own rudeness and Crane smiled again to himself as he saw the color mount in her cheeks.

The tousle-haired boy broke in again to save the situation.

“Ma says they’re not around here, anyway. In a fair flutter, sure she says they were.” The boy’s voice went from subject to subject as though each was as familiar as the other. “She’s after making the dinner now.”

Liam nodded affectionately. “You go and help. Mind now. Attend to your business.”

“Yes, Granfer.” And the youngster vanished through the far door from which appetizing if mysterious scents emerged.

“He’s a scamp…. I feel a dire responsibility for him.” Liam sighed and drank again. “When his father — when his father died, it fairly broke Ma’s heart. That map,” he finished savagely.