Miriam's Talisman (23 page)

I watched the fish again, still turning its figure of eight. My whole arm was purple by then, but I had ceased to worry about the cold. Suddenly the creature changed direction, looped around and swam through my palm. I
felt it. It was neither warm nor cold, but a sort of pressure, like the water itself. I held my breath, afraid to move or speak. The fish turned again and brushed over my arm, pausing to nibble at my fingers. Satisfied that I was not edible, it made another turn through my hand then went back to its double loop around Iolair.

‘That was amazing. I felt it. I mean I
really
felt it. Not just the touch of its body, it was as if, for a moment, I felt that I was
with
the fish. It was like the dream. But you knew that, didn't you? That's why you did this.'

Iolair smiled his ‘am I not clever?' smile.

‘Was it a dream?' I asked. ‘Or was it real? It felt real.'

‘Are dreams not real, also? What did you learn from it?'

‘It was like…everything has a soul, the rocks, the trees, and yet it's all part of the same thing. And because everything is connected it's possible to feel as if you're part of something else. Does that make sense? Is that what it was supposed to do?'

‘That's good.'

‘I think it changed me. Everything looks different now, including myself.'

The fish altered course and glided around my arm again, only this time it stayed with me and continued its dance around my hand, pushing its body against me. Its skin was like velvet. I could sense the joy it derived from that simple movement, losing itself in the pleasure of the water, the sensation of touch and the motion of its own body.

I don't know how long we stayed like that, only the three of us in the whole world and nothing beyond the mist but silence.

Eventually Iolair said, ‘I think we had better stop before this old fellow wears himself out. Besides I have another gift for you. Something different. You will have it tomorrow.'

As I slipped my arm out of the river a volley of sharp sounds fractured the air. A dog barking. I jumped as if I had forgotten that anything else existed, and twisted around to look along the towpath. Yes, there was an elderly man with an even older collie that padded stiff-legged towards me, barking loudly.

Behind me Iolair laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Remember tomorrow. Be alert for the fish. It is a sign and may have more than one meaning.'

I turned to him, but he was gone. And so was the fish, darting away into the reeds.

They had left me to scrabble to my feet and face the dog and its owner, my clothes soaking wet and covered in mud, while Iolair vanished like the mist from the river.

The next morning, with one day to go, I was feeling nervous about the whole trip—the flight and Harold and everything.

As an enforced distraction I made some attempt to clean up. The rooms were untidy although not really dirty. I wiped away thin films of dust and wondered at the absence of cobwebs. Then I realised that there were no spiders. At least, I'd never seen one here, or any other living thing for that matter. The garden was full of life, yet the house was deserted. No mice to scrabble behind skirting boards, no moths to tap themselves against the windowpanes; not a beetle, or a late, lingering bee. For
one fleeting moment I felt utterly alone and desolate. But that feeling soon passed.

Miriam's worktable had to be tackled, that huge circle of inlaid wood piled high with papers; decades of research, millennia of history. Oh, why hadn't I paid more attention? I'd listened to her stories, of course, fed upon them, licked up each morsel and crumb. And I'd watched her labour for hours on end over her notes, seen her strain until she clawed her cramped fingers and her eyes were red raw. Yet I never consciously made any connection. This was her life's work and I understood nothing of it.

The afternoon wore away as I grew more despondent, heaping more blame on my own neglect. So much was in Gaelic, which at least I recognised, and there were other languages that I did not. I scraped away layer after layer, exposing centuries, learning nothing. Eventually I declared defeat. Gathering cardboard boxes, carrier bags, even the laundry basket, I scooped up the lot and rang Marcus Sangster.

The promised invitation to dinner jarred me from my isolation. Feeling like a hermit crab being forced out of a comfortable shell, I was reluctant to go out. But I had agreed on impulse and was now committed. Besides, it would be simpler to just hand over all her work and be done with it.

It was as I was about to leave that I noticed it. Was this the next gift that Iolair had promised? He had said tomorrow, and it was; and yes, this was something different.

Exposed for the first time in years after my clear-out, the table's dark surface had robbed the room of light. However, it showed promise. I had set to work, attacking
the grime with soap and water, then drying and polishing with beeswax until the beauty of the wood shone through. I had set a little white jug in the centre, arranged the snowdrops and stood back to admire my work. This was the first time I had imposed something of myself upon this place. Yes, I was pleased.

Heading for the door, I gave the table a final, satisfied glance. And there it was, next to the jug of flowers, a small book, no bigger than a pocket diary. The cover was of soft leather, deeply embossed with swirls and knots. I hesitated before picking it up. Page after page, all yellow-edged and brittle, were filled with Miriam's handwriting. Some of it I recognised as Gaelic, but there were also pages full of strange lines and crosses which signified nothing to me.

I slipped the book into my pocket as I went out.

T
HE
S
ANGSTERS
' house is tall and narrow, one of those Victorian villas that line the city avenues near King's College. It was intended for wealthy owners in wealthier times. There are two floors of high-ceilinged family rooms, all moulded plaster and creaking floorboards. The kitchen was originally below-stairs in the basement, with the servants quartered in the cramped and draughty attic. Now the attic is filled with domestic clutter, except for the one room Janet has made cosy for her sewing machine. A modern kitchen fills half the ground floor, with Marcus's study taking up most of the basement. The rest of the house ought to be filled with the echoes of family laughter, dressers proudly laden with framed memories of children and grandchildren. But there are no memories. Janet spends her days running between the top and the bottom of the house, tending to Marcus's needs and neglecting her own. The rooms between the basement and the attic remain silent.

It was to the basement study that Marcus and I struggled with the boxes of papers, dumping them in the centre of the room. I had explained that I wanted
none of it, that it was all his to do with as he saw fit. I knew Miriam would have trusted him. He protested and flustered and stuttered and lost his glasses several times. Eventually I rallied Janet to my side by refusing to sit down to dinner until the car was unloaded. Between us we bullied the poor man into submission.

While we made trips back and forth, heavy clouds shadowed the houses, darkening the evening before it was time. A cold wind whipped around us and dry leaves scuttled across the pavement to nip at our ankles. I was thankful when we finally closed the door.

‘So, when do you leave?' asked Janet as she hovered round the table, piling vegetables onto our plates. I'd had to explain about the resurrection of Harold and the trip to America. They knew nothing of his existence. ‘Marcus, have some more carrots. He never takes enough vitamin C, then wonders why he gets cold after cold. And you, Chloe.'

‘No more, thank you. I'll never eat all this. Tomorrow. I leave tomorrow, Friday, late afternoon. I managed to get a cancellation.'

Marcus shook his head, murmuring into his plate. ‘I can still hardly believe it. All these years and never a word about a husband. I'd no idea. Strange that Hannah never said anything either. Surely, she must have known …'

‘So what will you do with it all? The papers, I mean.'

‘He'll bury himself in that basement, that's what he'll do. At least it'll keep him out from under my feet.' Janet gave him a mischievous smile.

He reached across and brushed the back of her hand
with his fingers. ‘Well, from just a brief glance I can see it means a lot of work. It's really exciting. So many unpublished articles. Invaluable. Some have been only partly translated. Of course it will be in the Goedelic form—that's the Gaelic developed in Ireland.'

‘I thought the Celts were all over Europe. Why is Ireland so significant?' I froze, stunned by my own words. Of course, why Ireland? So that was why I had come here. Or had I been sent? Ireland was Marcus's love, his obsession. Once started on the subject he would talk and talk. He could tell me things. But I would have to tread so very carefully, give nothing away. I looked up. Marcus was still speaking, but now I was alert to his every word.

‘—originated in South Germany and Bohemia in about 500bc. They reached Ireland two hundred years later. But, you see, most of Europe was either conquered by the Roman Empire or in some way influenced by their culture and religion. Only the Irish managed to develop in isolation, along with their storytellers.' He strained to look over his glasses, then pushed them higher onto his nose. ‘That is, until the coming of Saint Patrick in the fifth century.'

‘Didn't he banish the snakes from Ireland?'

‘So they say, though I think he was more concerned with banishing the Pagans. He had less success there.'

The wind sang through the chimneybreast. I wished they would draw the curtains, shut out the encroaching night. I struggled to keep my voice light. ‘But the Irish did convert to Christianity, didn't they?'

‘Well, yes and no. They certainly changed one set of gods for another. The Celts worshipped the forces of
nature. There were literally hundreds of gods, greater and lesser ones, mostly local deities, woodland spirits, that sort of thing. They worshipped in the places where the spirits dwelt, a sacred grove of trees, a rocky hill…It's difficult to overthrow a religion when there are no temples to destroy, no statues to deface. Celtic Paganism was enshrined in the minds of a highly imaginative and creative race. As far as I'm concerned it still is. It's only the names that have changed.'

‘That's what he would have us believe, my dear,' Janet cut in. ‘Nearly all the Irish people I've known have been staunch Catholics.'

I forced myself to smile and to go on eating, at least enough to satisfy Janet, despite the knot tightening in my stomach. I tried rearranging the food on my plate to make it look smaller.

‘Indeed, they are,' Marcus went on. ‘And are the psychological forces of Catholicism so very different from those of Paganism? Perhaps that's why they were so easily converted. All those saints they talk to as if they were personal friends. The candles and the little bribes laid out before the altar. A good Catholic will go to Mass on Sunday morning and leave milk sops out for the little people that same night. They see nothing incongruous in this. Whatever they choose to call themselves, as far as I'm concerned the Irish are still a Pagan race.'

‘Well, if that's your definition of a Pagan, then I think there's quite a few of them in my Ladies' Christian Circle.' Janet winked at me. She would have made the perfect grandmother, I thought, straight out of a storybook. She started to clear away the dishes. ‘Chloe, we're going to have to work on your appetite. I've got something special
for dessert that might tempt you.'

For a few moments, Marcus and I sat in silence. I was moving closer to something, step by step, as if walking toward a cliff edge, drawn by the very fear of falling. Outside bare branches scratched at the windows, urging me forward. I fingered the talisman, aware of its weight around my neck, remembering that awful dinner party, Malcolm sitting beside me and the woman on the hillside, the woman who had died by the fall of an axe.