Miriam's Talisman (38 page)
I won't let this coldness beat me. The sky is definitely lighter now, endowing the layers of fog with a phosphorescent glow. I don't think it's my imaginationâyes, I can see a smudge of darkness where the horizon would be. We should be nearly there by now. I wonder how it was for those first travellers. The Tuatha de Danaan came out of the misty seas, it is said, from some mysterious land far away. They came with their swords and their songs and their magical arts. They came in their wooden boats with
the sails slack in the windless air and their oars silently dipping the water. Is this how they first saw the land of Inisfael? All I have is my paints. And some money, and my car. I suppose I'm comparatively well-off. But they had each other, and I'm alone. For the first time in my life, I'm completely alone.
Hannah. I suddenly miss her. How strange, I never thought I could. I must ring her as soon as I can. I really will this time. Things have changed between us and we need to talk. Oh, I don't suppose we can ever get to understand each other, but there must be some way of reconciling the past. I wonder if I should invite her to join me here? No, she'd never set foot in Ireland again. But what about the New Year? Would she go to Boston with me? Maybe. I have that box of cards, all those unhappy birthday wishes, all those uncarolled Christmases, all clamouring to be heard. Between us, Harold and I might be able to persuade her.
Hannah was right, of course. So, why didn't I listen to her? Well, she's my mother, isn't she? The last person I'd listen to. But she does love me, I can see that now. In fact, of all of them she's the only one who ever did. So why does she have to be so bloody irritating? Yes, I'll have to call her soon.
Something is happening. There's a break in the rhythm of the engines. The pulse of the ship is slowing and the throbbing deck picks up a deeper, richer note. There's a barely perceptible tilt as the stern slews sideways. I cling tightly to the rail. The darkened skyline has taken on shape and form, squares and angles, a jumble of roofs pinpricked with electric light. Men's voices carry across the water, vibrant in the empty air. It won't be long now.
I'm not simply running away; there's some purpose in it. You can't run away from something without running towards somewhere else at the same time, even if that's not what you intended. We have a history here, Miriam Delaney and Eriu and me. Our roots are buried deep in this land. And I will paint. That is his gift to me. I will paint and make it my gift to him in return, the only way I have of saying thank you. I will paint because that's all I have left of him now.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever done. It's still with me and it always will be, cut sharp and clear into my mind where I relive it, second by second.
I stand by the cottage gate for a few moments, holding myself steady. Then I walk, for the last time, the length of the path and through the ancient door, on through the rooms, then out again, into the garden and the orchard. The sun, still barely above the hedgerows, dazzles my eyes through a veil of mist. I hardly notice the chill in the air. A frosting of dew blanches the lawn and the tender blades are crushed beneath my feet. Autumn has taken a fast hold and winter will be swift to follow.
Harvesting is over. It's time to give back to the earth.
The trees are all but bare. Here and there a tenacious leaf holds on in hope. Strange how the trees were so much taller when I was a child. Which was my favourite for climbing? I can touch the lower branches now without stretching. Why does it have to be so near, so effortless? Is it to be this easy? Is there to be no struggle? My fingers are cold, all blood drained from them, but the chain is warm. I lift it over my head and it catches a strand of hair.
I pull and it tugs and hurts; such a little pain. I press the silver to my cheek, whispering âGoodbye'. I can't think of anything else to say, so I loop the chain over a twig and it twists around itself, then unwinds and hangs free.
Should I call his name? Surely he knows. I step back, slowly, slowly, my feet finding their own way across the grass, my eyes never leaving that tree and the glint of silver below the branch. The whole world is still, forgotten beyond this garden and the gentle mist. The heaviness of silence presses down on me like a mountain of emptiness as the waiting stretches on and on.
There!
Between the trees I see a ripple of light, as if the air itself were melting. I hold myself like a stone, afraid that even my breath may betray the moment. The air parts and he steps throughâsuch an easy thing to do. He looks towards me, his eyes brimming with sadness and hope, and then to the tree and its strange fruit. And for a while he doesn't move. Then his voice. I hear it in my head, although I swear his lips don't move.
I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear, But a silver nutmeg â¦
He turns to me again, and smiles across the distance that separates us, raising his hand in readiness for mine. But I can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows. I shake my head. Then he turns again to the talisman. His fingers trace the line of the chain, then carefully, so very carefully, he lifts it with both hands and takes it from the branch.
He turns, holding the silver necklace out to me. A last temptation. Again I hear his voice.
The King of Spain's daughter came to visit me,
And all for the sake of â¦
I shake my head, and this time, although I bite my lip, my voice seems to ring between us. But the sound is only the throbbing of my pulse.
Take it
, it says,
take it, take it
.
And he does.
He lifts the chain high above his head, and his neck arches back, his nostrils flaring like those of some wild creature. And, as the talisman comes to rest on his body, his shoulders flex and his arms stretch wide so that he stands as if on some high mountain crag, ready to take flight.
But one last time he turns to me and offers his hand.
Go, please go
, I beg him in silence.
There is a moment that draws on and on. And then his voice in my mind.
I danced over water, I skipped over sea,
And all the birds in the air â¦
He moves backwards. The air parts around him, like the curtain of a waterfall
  Â
â¦couldn't catch â¦
and he steps through
   â¦
me!
and is gone. And the silence of the morning crashes in around my ears and I am buried alive in it.
I stand watching the space where he has been, and it seems like forever, although it could be a moment or an hour. A light breeze stirs my hair and quivers the branches of that one tree. On that same twig the last leaf comes away and begins its slow, tumbling journey to the ground.
Before it reaches the earth, I turn and flee.
Swiftly across the lawn. I won't look back. Through the kitchen, the hall. I daren't stop. Out the front door. It
bangs shut behind me, such a final, echoing sound that I know it will never open for me again. Into the car and the keys drop and I fumble for them and the engine turns and lurches forward and the wheel spins and mud flies like black rain.
I daren't drive like this. Rounding the bend, I pull into the kerb. Breath screams in my chest and my heart is pounding. I lean on the coolness of the steering wheel while the world slows to a gentler rhythm. A deep breath and I stretch my spine against the seat and turn and look back. The thatched roof is just visible between the trees where the old, familiar chimneys twist into the sky.
Is there something?
Yes.
A small dark thing, moving against the clouds. It circles high above the rooftops, then turns again, making a wider sweep.
A bird.
It is a bird that has no place in this stark, fen landscape. Its wingspan is too broad and splays out to catch the air; its eye is too bright, its beak too cruel. Unfaltering, it dips to swoop across my path, then banks, rising higher, cresting the wind, flying free.
And from its talon, a flashing blade of light, as if the sun catches something bright, something that spins and sparkles as he flies.
As if it were made of silver.
The references to Celtic mythology and events in Irish history, although based on researched information, are intended as a background to a fantasy. All the characters, contemporary and historical, are totally fictitious and have no connection with any events, past or present, or any persons, living or dead. Any resemblance to any person, name, place or event is entirely coincidental.
My thanks to Brendon, for his encouragement and practical help. A special thank-you to Tinch Minter and the group back in England. I am, as ever, grateful to the Poverty Bay Pen Pushers for their enduring support.
The following extract is from Elenor Gill's
The Moon Spun Round
, releasing in trade paperback, April 2008.
The cat went here and the cat went there,
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up
.
âThe Cat and the Moon'
W. B. Yeats
T
RY NOT TO FEEL
too disappointed, my love,' he says. âI'll get away first thing, no matter what. Absolutely. Promise. Be with you before lunch.' And then he hangs up.
âTry not to feel too disappointed,' she mimics his voice. âOr: if you're disappointed, don't tell me about itâisn't that what you mean? Well, I'm not exactly disappointed, Jonathan. More like bloody pissed off.' And something else, but best not to go there. Sally pushes her fingers through her hair. Jonathan would say she was being irrational as usual. So where in the marriage contract does it say anything about rational? Probably in the small print. Always read the small print, Dad used to say.
âHe's right, of course, we're both mature adults. These things happen in most marriages, if people are honest. And I'm trying to be honestâwell, one of us has to be. So what's wrong with a few hysterical outbursts, anyway? Perhaps it's my way of coping. That's what you therapists call it, isn't it, Jonathan? What's all that other psycho-shit you're always throwing at me? Something about learning to move on? Taking responsibility for your own feelings? Look, I'm trying, aren't I? I said I'd come on this lousy weekend. I've driven all this way
and
found us some supper. The least you could do is turn up.'
She realizes she's been shouting at an empty room. Who else is going to hear her? Well, only the woman from the house at the corner, and that's several hundred, mud-clogged yards away. She'd been loading straw stuff onto a truck when Sally had stopped to ask the way. Nice woman. What was her name? Abbie? Said she might call in after she'd seen to the horses. And what would she be greeted with? Some maniac yelling at the walls.
Sally walks back through the hall to the kitchen where she'd dumped the box of groceries on the table.
So why did he wait until I got all the way here? What's wrong with the mobile? We could both have stayed at home and come up together in the morning. This was all his idea, anyway. âLet's have a quiet weekend in the country, just the two of us. Make a fresh start, put the whole incident into perspective.'
She rummages in her bag and retrieves her mobile. Yes, it seems to be working. No messages. Defeated, she struggles out of her coat, throwing it over the back of a rocking chair, rubs at the mud splatters on her new skirt, and succeeds in making the stains worse. Then she makes a quick inventory of the room and lets out a long, low whistle.
âYou'll have no trouble finding it.' He'd sketched out a map. âIt's straight out of London, up the M11, turn onto the A11 and the Newmarket bypass, heading for Bury St Edmonds. Hallowfield village is just over the Suffolk border, about two miles past Newmarket on the left. It's well signpostedâyou can't miss it. You can get settled in and I'll be there in a few hours. I'll get away as soon as the meeting's over. You know what Friday afternoons are like. Don't worry, you're going to love it.'
He was certainly right about her not being able to miss it. As she turned off the main road, the Hallowfield sign seemed to leap out straight in front of the car. She'd had to swerve sharply and slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into it. Stupid place to leave a signpost. It was obvious from the chipped bricks on the base that she wasn't the first motorist to be ambushed. Then a painted sign politely informed her that Hallowfield welcomed careful drivers.
Tall hedgerows flanked the roadsides, and autumn sunshine sprayed the trees with gold. There must have been some recent rain. Puddles at the roadside snatched blue from the sky, and muddy tyre tracks traced the path of farm vehicles across the road as if giant snails had crawled out of the fields. Sally wound the window down. Fresh air and that sour tang of decay that told of Harvest Home and stubble rotting back into the earth. It made her think about school days and the morning assembly table laden with fruit and harvest loaves. All is safely gathered in.
She drove on. A scattering of old houses dozed in the afternoon sun, and a postman, wobbling on a bicycle, waved
as she passed. When you live in London you start to believe that's all there is, a vast unending city. It's easy to forget this other world beyond the M25. This is how mostâwell, a lot ofâEnglish people live. Perhaps Jonathan is right. They need some space, need to breathe.
The road suddenly divided, opening up around a triangle of grass. The village green? Yes, with a duck pond and an ancient oak tree. Some sort of tree, anyway, big and old. She pulled into the kerb outside a row of shops to take another look at Jonathan's piece of paper. According to his map, she would have to see a church. Yes, there it was, its tower rising up behind the shops and no obvious way to get to it. No sign of Wicker Lane: she'd have to ask directions. Perhaps one of the shopkeepers?
It was a basic assortment. A general grocery store next door to a teashop, then a post office, a hardware store and a Chinese takeaway, its neon window signs incongruous under the sagging thatched roof. Most of the buildings were of flint stone, like large, flaked pebbles stuck in cement, with red brick to edge the corners, and ancient wooden beams woven into the stone to support windows and doorways. A film-set village, straight out of an advert for real ale. A pub? Of course, there it was across the roadâthe Green Man. And another one further along. Well, two pubs and a Chinese takeaway, that takes care of the nightlife. There was no one around, as if all the villagers had seen her coming and gone into hiding. Sally decided to try the general store: at least the door was open and there was a light on inside.
The directions she was given were easy to follow and she found where Wicker Lane ought to be, only it wasn't a lane, just a muddy track clogged with long grass. The woman loading the straw outside the corner house assured her that
Stonewater Cottage was only a few yards further on. Sally's renewed optimism began to deflate when the car nearly sank into the mud. That's how she'd ruined her new skirt, looking to see how far down the wheel had gone. But the car had moved and the lane had curved, and suddenly there it was and she had forgiven the traffic, the signpost, the mud. And she'd nearly forgiven Jonathan. Nearly.
There was a large gravelled lay-by outside the fence, enough to take several cars and still allow space to turn around There hadn't been much time to admire the outside. As she struggled with the box of groceries and the key, a telephone started ringing somewhere deep inside the house. She never could ignore a ringing phone, had some vague fear about it being the one call that would change the rest of her life. Only who was going to call her here? She hadn't been the least surprised to find that the front door opened straight into the kitchen, and she managed to dump the shopping on the table before running to the phone, which was, of course, in the hall. The caller turned out to be Jonathan.
Now she's in the kitchen again. It's an enormous room, and all that provincial stripped pine is a little overstated but straight out of the glossies. Her admiration sags slightly when she spots the shiny, black, wood-burning stove, then remembers Jonathan saying that it's actually a gas-driven Aga that supplies all the hot water and heating. She moves instinctively through the central hallway and into the living room, her hands caressing polished wood and latticed glass cupboards set against white painted walls. The low, dark-beamed ceiling lends a softness to the room, making the billowing sofas and
tapestry cushions even more inviting. Everything looks new and fresh, untouched.
âI think I could live here.' Sally's aware of a subtle seduction and is ready to collude with it. She allows herself to be led into the back room, ignoring another door she knows to be a broom cupboard. Yes, this little room would make a perfect office. There's space for her desk and computer, and her drawing board could stand in the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun. She could learn to arrange dried flowers in cracked vases and plant spring bulbs. âHey, now, come on. We're only here for the weekend.' She checks the other door and it
is
a broom cupboard. Another glass-panelled door leads from the hall to the outside. Through it she can see the ragged remains of a garden.
Climbing the twisting staircase she finds three identical doors. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she tries the door ahead, thinking it must be the main bedroom. She guesses the one to the left is the bathroom, the one on the right a spare room with an unmade bed and discarded boxes.
She enters the bedroom and stands gazing into the dressing table mirror. Her face is pale and drawn, almost white against her straight, dark hair. Her hazel eyes are ringed with dark smudges. Poor little Sally, as Jonathan calls her. She looks as tired as she feels, and even younger than usual, despite the slick tailored jacket with the La Croix brooch on the collar. It's made of silver and amber and doesn't suit her at all, but she's wearing it because it was a present from Jonathan. As a tentative peace offering it probably cost more than her father earned in a week. Sally and the brooch are reflected in the glass, with the room behind her, a tableau in which she has now taken her place. She watches herself move around the bed, her hand smoothing the quilted spread, touching small
china ornaments and lace covers. It feels like home.
A shiver runs through her. She pulls herself back to reality. âWhat do I know about country cottages? Perhaps they make them to a standard pattern and that's why this one seems to feel so familiar. A sort of déjà vu? What I need is a cup of tea.'
She stands at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle and looking out of the window and across the fields. In the distance she can make out what must be the main highway she'd turned off to reach the village, a ribbon of dull grey stitched in broken lines between semi-bare trees. Toy cars speed to and fro. She wonders if she will be able to see Jonathan's car in the morning. Then she feels certain that she will. And everything will change. The conflict, the distrust, the hurtingâall that will be over. Everything will be so simple.
She flips the switch. No little red light. No hiss of heating element. She crosses the room and tries the light switch. Nothing. For the first time she notices there's no gentle hum of household gadgets going about their automated business. But there's a chill in the room, and it will grow even colder later when the sun goes down. She locates the electric meter and her heart sinks. The main switch is on, the fuses are intact, but nothing is happening. Even the Aga needs power to ignite the gas.
âOh, shit!' Sally slumps down into the rocker, pushing her hair from her face. âWhat am I supposed to do now?' Had she passed a motel on the way in? All she can remember is trees. âDamn you, Jonathan Crawford. If I survive until morning I think I'm going to kill you. No, OK, that's unfair. You didn't plan for this.'
But now something is humming. A soft, throbbing drone, at first barely audible, then seeming to surge, resonating
like a hundred angry bees. Looking around the kitchen, she sees a small grey object on the rug in front of the fire. Sally stares for a moment, not comprehending. The cat waits to be acknowledged.
âWhere did you come from?' The place had been locked when she arrived, although the owner had been in the day before to make it ready for them. âSurely you haven't been shut in here all night? No, you would have shot out as soon as the door opened.' She would have seen the cat if it had tried to sneak in with her. It must have been hiding somewhere in here all the time, although Sally had been through every room and everything had been left secure. âThinking of moving in, are you?'
The cat waits, unblinking.
âLook, I don't wish to appear anti-social, but you can't stay here. I don't actually like cats, and Jonathan will boot you out as soon as he arrives.' The cat stops purring and regards Sally down the length of its nose as if she were an insolent child.
She
is the interloper, after all. The animal probably lives here and is being pretty tolerant under the circumstances. Oh hell, Sally thinks, I'd give anything for a cup of tea. There's that bottle of wine in the box of groceries. Perhaps not. Or there's some milkâbetter than nothing. There must be a glass somewhere. A few moments later, she finds herself bending down to place an overflowing saucer in front of the cat.