Island of Glass
Page 30
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“Shake out the probable hyperbole, and you find roots. Nerezza materialized out of a stone column in a cave on Corfu.”
Doyle put the book aside. “I’ve lived a long time without seeing a winged horse.”
“I’ll bet you lived a long time without seeing a Cerberus until recently.”
He couldn’t argue that. And still. “It’s a Brothers Grimm version, and bastardized at that.”
“Retellings get bastardized and elaborated,” Riley pointed out. “That’s why you dig out the root. Four sisters.” She held up four fingers. “Four goddesses. It’s not the first time I’ve heard or read of them being sisters. It may be they are. Invisible island, Island of Glass, appears and vanishes as it wills. Three stars—fire, water, ice.”
“It doesn’t add anything.”
Civilians, she thought, with some pity. “Not yet. Being thorough may be tedious, Doyle, but being thorough’s how you find what’s been overlooked or discounted. There are worse things than sitting in a comfortable chair in a library reading a book.”
“A little sex and violence in it would keep it from being so tedious.”
“Read on. You could get lucky.” Her phone signaled, and she smiled at the readout. “I’m betting we just did. Hello, Liam,” she said, and wandered back to the window as she brokered the deal.
Since she clearly had it handled, Doyle went back to the book. He could be grateful, at least, that the particular story in it was fairly short. Though the queen defeated the evil sister, the loss of the others, the stars, grieved her. She returned to her island, exiling herself until prophet, siren, and warrior lifted the stars from their graves so they shined again.
He pulled over Riley’s pad, scribbled a note.
He started to flip through, see if another story in the book of folklore addressed the stars, then set the book down when Sawyer came in.
“Okay if I use the other half of the table? I want to try out the maps in here.”
“No problem. In fact, I’ll work with you, leave the books to Gwin.”
“That’s not all you can leave to Gwin.” Riley smiled, smug, as she pocketed her phone. “I just scored us all the ammo on your list, Dead-Eye.”
“The underwater rounds, too?”
“Yeah, them, too. And I got us a pair of Ruger AR-556, along with two dozen thirty-round mags.”
“Never shot that model,” Sawyer said.
“Me either. The deal’s contingent on me looking them over, testing them out. But I googled it while he was talking, and they should be more than fine. Doyle and I can pick them up, along with the ammo, swing back, get the pizza, and we’re set.”
“Unless you want to go along,” Doyle put in. Send the two of them, he thought, and spare him the drive with Riley.
“Wouldn’t mind, but no way I’d talk Anni out of coming if I did.” Sawyer’s eyes, gray as fog, showed both fear and humor. “Then she’s loose in Ennis. Shopping.”
“Forget it. There and back. Good thing I hit an ATM in Capri or I’d be light on my share.” Riley checked the time. “I’m going to dive in here until noon.”
“I’ll be working with Sawyer on the maps,” Doyle told her.
“Fine.” She sat, frowned at his scribbled note. “What’s this about prophet, siren, and warrior?”
“According to the fairy tale you had me slog through, the queen’s exiled herself on her island until they find the stars and let them shine again.”
“Always a root,” Riley muttered, picked up the book herself.
And happily gave herself over to digging.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sporting a few bruises from hand-to-hand—Sasha was becoming fierce—Riley tossed a small pack over her shoulder, headed out to Bran’s car.
She preferred to drive rather than ride, honestly didn’t understand anyone who didn’t. But Doyle had called it first, and as one who respected dibs, she climbed in the shotgun seat, prepared to relax.
Ireland had excellent scenery, and when you drove—at least the way she did—you didn’t have a chance to enjoy it.
When Doyle got behind the wheel, she decided she’d be friendly.
“Too bad we can’t take the bike. How was the ride with Anni?”
He backed up, swung around, headed down the bumpy drive toward the road. “There’s a village about eight kilometers off the route I took. It has a couple shops. I’m still wondering how she talked me into turning off and stopping.”
“She has breasts.”
“She’s another man’s woman.”
“Who still has breasts. And a whole truckload of charm.” She shifted to take the weight off her left hip.
“You took a good spill toward the end of hand-to-hand.”
“Sasha’s craftier than she used to be. My mistake for holding back.”
“Bran could have taken care of any bruises.”
“You don’t have a few bruises, it wasn’t a good fight.”
The world was beautiful here, she thought. Untamed and rugged even with the rolls of green, the bundles of cropping sheep. It had a wild, timeless feel that had always spoken to her.
The farmer in the field with his tractor—hadn’t his ancestors cultivated that same field with plow and horse? And the simple art of those stone walls. Hadn’t those stones been dug and pulled out of those same fields by hands now buried in graveyards?
Doyle put the book aside. “I’ve lived a long time without seeing a winged horse.”
“I’ll bet you lived a long time without seeing a Cerberus until recently.”
He couldn’t argue that. And still. “It’s a Brothers Grimm version, and bastardized at that.”
“Retellings get bastardized and elaborated,” Riley pointed out. “That’s why you dig out the root. Four sisters.” She held up four fingers. “Four goddesses. It’s not the first time I’ve heard or read of them being sisters. It may be they are. Invisible island, Island of Glass, appears and vanishes as it wills. Three stars—fire, water, ice.”
“It doesn’t add anything.”
Civilians, she thought, with some pity. “Not yet. Being thorough may be tedious, Doyle, but being thorough’s how you find what’s been overlooked or discounted. There are worse things than sitting in a comfortable chair in a library reading a book.”
“A little sex and violence in it would keep it from being so tedious.”
“Read on. You could get lucky.” Her phone signaled, and she smiled at the readout. “I’m betting we just did. Hello, Liam,” she said, and wandered back to the window as she brokered the deal.
Since she clearly had it handled, Doyle went back to the book. He could be grateful, at least, that the particular story in it was fairly short. Though the queen defeated the evil sister, the loss of the others, the stars, grieved her. She returned to her island, exiling herself until prophet, siren, and warrior lifted the stars from their graves so they shined again.
He pulled over Riley’s pad, scribbled a note.
He started to flip through, see if another story in the book of folklore addressed the stars, then set the book down when Sawyer came in.
“Okay if I use the other half of the table? I want to try out the maps in here.”
“No problem. In fact, I’ll work with you, leave the books to Gwin.”
“That’s not all you can leave to Gwin.” Riley smiled, smug, as she pocketed her phone. “I just scored us all the ammo on your list, Dead-Eye.”
“The underwater rounds, too?”
“Yeah, them, too. And I got us a pair of Ruger AR-556, along with two dozen thirty-round mags.”
“Never shot that model,” Sawyer said.
“Me either. The deal’s contingent on me looking them over, testing them out. But I googled it while he was talking, and they should be more than fine. Doyle and I can pick them up, along with the ammo, swing back, get the pizza, and we’re set.”
“Unless you want to go along,” Doyle put in. Send the two of them, he thought, and spare him the drive with Riley.
“Wouldn’t mind, but no way I’d talk Anni out of coming if I did.” Sawyer’s eyes, gray as fog, showed both fear and humor. “Then she’s loose in Ennis. Shopping.”
“Forget it. There and back. Good thing I hit an ATM in Capri or I’d be light on my share.” Riley checked the time. “I’m going to dive in here until noon.”
“I’ll be working with Sawyer on the maps,” Doyle told her.
“Fine.” She sat, frowned at his scribbled note. “What’s this about prophet, siren, and warrior?”
“According to the fairy tale you had me slog through, the queen’s exiled herself on her island until they find the stars and let them shine again.”
“Always a root,” Riley muttered, picked up the book herself.
And happily gave herself over to digging.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sporting a few bruises from hand-to-hand—Sasha was becoming fierce—Riley tossed a small pack over her shoulder, headed out to Bran’s car.
She preferred to drive rather than ride, honestly didn’t understand anyone who didn’t. But Doyle had called it first, and as one who respected dibs, she climbed in the shotgun seat, prepared to relax.
Ireland had excellent scenery, and when you drove—at least the way she did—you didn’t have a chance to enjoy it.
When Doyle got behind the wheel, she decided she’d be friendly.
“Too bad we can’t take the bike. How was the ride with Anni?”
He backed up, swung around, headed down the bumpy drive toward the road. “There’s a village about eight kilometers off the route I took. It has a couple shops. I’m still wondering how she talked me into turning off and stopping.”
“She has breasts.”
“She’s another man’s woman.”
“Who still has breasts. And a whole truckload of charm.” She shifted to take the weight off her left hip.
“You took a good spill toward the end of hand-to-hand.”
“Sasha’s craftier than she used to be. My mistake for holding back.”
“Bran could have taken care of any bruises.”
“You don’t have a few bruises, it wasn’t a good fight.”
The world was beautiful here, she thought. Untamed and rugged even with the rolls of green, the bundles of cropping sheep. It had a wild, timeless feel that had always spoken to her.
The farmer in the field with his tractor—hadn’t his ancestors cultivated that same field with plow and horse? And the simple art of those stone walls. Hadn’t those stones been dug and pulled out of those same fields by hands now buried in graveyards?
