The Mountains Wild

by Sarah Stewart Taylor

  The café—“The Garden of Eating,” Emer had told me, rolling her eyes—was in a section of the city labeled “Temple Bar” on my map, a close little collection of narrow streets between a broad avenue called Dame Street and the river Liffey. It was grittier and more bohemian than the streets around the college; the colorful shopfronts and tiny lanes made it seem like a separate section of the city. Wild drumming came from a second-story window; a band practiced behind half-open garage doors. Workmen sat on buckets and smoked in front of a construction site.

  A bit of graffiti on one wall read, “Long Live U2!” Someone else had written, “Wankers!”

  At eleven a.m., the pubs lining the little streets were mostly quiet. The Garden of Eating, down a narrow, cobblestoned street called Essex Street, was open, though, and a guy behind the counter was dumping coleslaw and bean salads from huge aluminum mixing bowls into rectangular containers. The place felt more like a cafeteria than a café. There was a hammer and sickle painted on one wall and a sign over the counter that read, “No Man (Or Woman) Shall Go Hungry! Ask And Ye Shall Eat!” A tattered poster of a neon-haired troll with the word Norge was thumbtacked on one wall.

  “Can I…?” the guy started, but as soon as he saw me, he stopped and stared openly at my face. He looked confused, terrified, happy—all of those things in one moment and it made me pay attention immediately. It felt like a jolt of caffeine, sharpening all my perceptions, speeding my heart. He thought I was Erin, and he was happy to see her and somewhat surprised. Remember that, I told myself.

  He was tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, a face full of interesting angles and dimples, Irish-looking in a way I’d never be able to put into words. He was wearing an apron and black jeans and a wool sweater in heathery shades of blue and brown.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said quickly. “I’m Erin Flaherty’s cousin. I know I look like her.”

  He exhaled and put a hand down on the counter to steady himself. I watched his face. For whatever it was worth, he was really surprised.

  “Sorry.” I stuck out a hand. “I’m Maggie D’arcy. I’m here trying to figure out where Erin went.”

  “Conor Kearney.” His hand, when he took mine, was cool. I could feel a callus on his right thumb.

  “Her roommates called my uncle to say they hadn’t seen her in a while. He couldn’t come over so I came instead. I’m hoping I can figure out where she went.”

  “She’s not back, then?” His eyes met mine, then darted away.

  “No. Can I just ask you a couple questions?”

  “Sure. It’s quiet now, but I’ll have to go if a customer comes in. We’ve just had someone leave and I’m on my own at the moment.” His accent was somehow both softer and stronger than Emer’s and Daisy’s.

  He pointed to a table and we sat down.

  “How long had Erin been working here?”

  “Since the winter. Uh, she must have arrived in January. I think.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought maybe he was only pretending he didn’t know exactly when she arrived.

  “Did she fill out an application or something?”

  “No, it was all a bit…”

  “Under the table? Don’t worry. I don’t care.”

  He almost smiled. “Nobody really bothers with that stuff. The Revenue doesn’t go after places like this. She came in one day, asked if we needed anyone, said she had lots of experience, and that was it. She’s good. Really good. Fast. Knows her way around a kitchen, understands how to close out the cash, all that. I guess her da has a bar in the States. Of course you’d know that. We’re delighted to have her.”

  “Is it your place?”

  “Ah, no. No. I’ve been here since my second year of college so I’m sort of a manager, I suppose you’d say.”

  “Do you work the same shift as her a lot?”

  “Twice a week, Fridays and Sundays. I’m doing my M.Phil at Trinity, so my schedule’s around when I have classes, but she works a pretty regular schedule, Thursdays to Sundays, three to closing.”

  “Were you seeing her?” I said it quick, no preparation. He was already nervous. I met his eyes and he looked away in alarm.

  “No.” His cheeks flushed pink. “No. We worked together. I saw her home a few times.” His eyes were very dark and thickly lashed. I was sitting close enough to him to see each individual pinprick of black stubble on his cheeks.

  “You live in Ringsend, too?”

  “Donnybrook. Not far. I’ve only got a bedsit, like. It’s a tip but it’s not far into college.” I wondered why he felt like he needed to explain.

  “Erin’s roommates said you called to check on her. Why did you do that?”

  He hesitated, but just for a moment. “She hadn’t shown up for her shifts for a whole week. It didn’t seem right, somehow. At first I thought maybe she quit and didn’t want to say. But then … I don’t know, really. I thought I should just ring up.” His eyes darted away from mine.

  “Was she seeing anyone? Anyone ever come here looking for her?”

  He flinched. “I thought you said you were her cousin. You sound like you work for the Guards.”

  “I’m just trying to find her.”

  “Yeah, ’course. Sorry.” He looked down at the tabletop, embarrassed. “I don’t think she was seeing anyone in particular.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  Someone out on the sidewalk shouted and he looked up and watched as a group of teenage boys ran up the street. “I … I’ve no idea. I hope she’s all right.”

  “But if you had to say?”

  “I don’t … Why would you think I would know?”

  The words erupted out of me before I could stop them. “Because you know her and you’re a human being and sometimes human beings get ideas about other human beings. Or maybe she told you and for some reason you don’t want to tell me.”

  He looked back at me quickly, then down at the table. “I don’t know where she is. And look, maybe she just needed to get away, find some peace and quiet, like.”

  I studied him, trying to figure out if he knew something. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know him well enough to know if he always bit his lower lip, if the guarded way he watched me was normal for him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t slept in about three days now.” I took a deep breath and got the packet of photographs out of my backpack. Leaving out the Dublin ones, I handed them over. “Do you know what these pictures are of?”

  He looked carefully, then handed them back with the abandoned school on top. “Down in Wicklow. That’s Drumgoff Barracks, I’d say, though I can’t be sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Glenmalure. It’s the next valley over from Glendalough. The monks and the round tower and all that?” I nodded. He looked away, thinking, then said, “How much do you know about what happened in Ireland in 1798?”

  “A little. The United Irishmen, right?” It came back to me as I talked, a class from my sophomore year. “The Irish planned to rebel against English rule all over the country. But the English found out and put the uprising down everywhere except for a few places where it went on for another couple of months, right?”

  He looked surprised. “Yeah, that’s about the shape of it. Glenmalure was a bit of a symbol, I suppose you’d say. Before that, it was the site of a famous ambush in 1580, during the Desmond Rebellions, one of the few victories we could claim out of the whole yoke. Lord Grey was the English commander who was supposed to put down the Wicklow uprising and—”

  Suddenly I remembered the song. “‘Grey said victory was sure and soon the firebrand he’d secure. Until he met at Glenmalure…’”

  “‘With Fiach McHugh O’Byrne,’” Conor Kearney finished, grinning. “Right. The O’Byrnes and all the mountain men picked off the English in the mountains in 1580. Then in 1798, it was where the United Irishmen leader Michael Dwyer escaped after the risings. He had a network of hiding spots and safe houses and relative
s in the hills who protected him. Anyway, after 1798, the English built the Military Road down through the Wicklow Mountains, so they’d have a military presence in the hills. Barracks were built in a couple of different places and they made sure to have a presence in Glenmalure, to keep an eye on the mountain men. It was kind of symbolic. I’m pretty sure that’s the Drumgoff Barracks, just down the road from the Glenmalure crossroads. It’s a lovely spot. That’s where you go if you want to walk up Lugnaquilla. The Wicklow Way goes through there and there’s a state forestry plantation. Good pub, too. My da used to take us walking there.”

  “Did she ever tell you she was going there?”

  He hesitated, then he shook his head and looked away. “Not exactly. But she once asked me whether I’d ever heard about a rock marking the place where a priest had been killed, somewhere near Glenmalure, she said. I hadn’t. I think I told her there were lots of stones commemorating various massacres and killings around there. She didn’t ask any more questions.” There was something else, but he didn’t say it, whatever it was. He was wary now.

  I asked, “What’s your degree in? What are you studying?”

  He looked relaxed again. “History.”

  “Like, world history, all of it? The entire progression of human existence?” I let myself smile at him, let the tension go a little, and a big grin cracked his face.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a ways to go now. I’ll be an oul’ fella by the time I’ve finished.”

  “So, what is it? Mesopotamia? Modern Turkey?”

  He grinned again, then held his hands out at his sides. “Not that interesting. Here. Ireland. Twentieth century.”

  “Ah.”

  There was an awkward pause and then he said, “It’s funny now. You look so much like her, but your … I don’t know, your energy is really different.”

  “How would you describe Erin’s energy?” The café was very quiet. All I could hear was an appliance humming somewhere in the back, radio classical music on the other side of a wall.

  He ran a hand through his hair, looked away. Then he said, “I was raised in Clare, in the country, like, where there are oul’ ones who go to mass every day but still put out offerings for the fairies, and one of my aunties believes that people have colors. Auras, I guess you’d say, but she just says ‘colors.’”

  He studied me for a minute. “Erin is yellow and orange. I know it sounds mad…”

  “No, I get it. She is.” I breathed in slowly. “What am I?”

  He met my eyes. His were brown, but flecked with amber and green. He looked amused. “You’re blue, but a sorta greeny blue.”

  “Yeah? Is it like, emanating from the top of my head? Or kind of a blue light all around me?”

  “Neither.” He grinned. “It’s more intangible than that. You wouldn’t understand. Not being a mad witch like my auntie.”

  I waited a minute, gathering my courage. “What color are you?” I asked him.

  He looked serious again.

  “Blue,” he said. “Greeny blue. Like you. So she says, anyway.” I liked his face. His eyes were suddenly alive with something. I could see him thinking.

  The bell on the door jingled and we both looked up. A big group of students came in, smelling of cigarette smoke and the cold. “Sorry. I should…” he said.

  “No problem. Thanks for your help.”

  “Give us a shout,” he said. “I hope you find out … I hope you find her.”

  4

  1993

  Emer said she’d drive me down to Glenmalure.

  Daisy’s brother had a little Ford hatchback that he kept behind his flat in somewhere called Dolphin’s Barn and he let them use it once in a while to drive home to see their families or to visit a school friend of theirs who was going to university in Limerick. Daisy had work the next day but Emer didn’t so we drove down in the morning, the Dublin suburbs quickly giving way to countryside. The sky was a clear, chilled blue, and the air, when we stopped for gas in a little town called Roundwood, smelled different from the air in Dublin, like trees and mountains rather than sea. As we headed south and then west, the land opened and rolled, turning into the Ireland in my mind, green fields, little cottages tucked into the folds of the hills.

  “This will be Laragh, now,” Emer said as we came to a junction where there was a hotel and a little craft shop. I was holding the road map Daisy’s brother kept in the glove compartment and I told her to take a left toward Glenmalure. The road started to climb after a bit, cottages and farms nestled into the wooded hillside. In five minutes we’d come out on top of a series of rolling hills, the fields broken into patchwork, white sheep clotting together against fences, the roofs of cottages bright against the brownish-green grass. A stone wall traced the road on one side, wild hedges on the other, a few last yellow flowers hanging on here and there.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Emer said. I was tired; I hadn’t slept well the night before in Erin’s bed, and even as a passenger, I was having trouble getting used to the traffic being on the other side. Cars seemed to come out of nowhere, from the wrong place, and it felt strange to have the hedges and trees up against my left side.

  We came to the crest of the hill and started down the other side. It seemed suddenly darker, the road now surrounded by orderly rows of dark green conifers. There were sections where all the trees had been cut down, exposing brown, wet-looking ground, and others where the trees seemed to crowd in around the road.

  “That’s the state forestry service,” Emer told me, pointing to the thick forest to our right. It opened up a bit as we drove down, with different kinds of trees along the road. “We must be nearly there. What does the map say?”

  I checked the map. “We’ll come to an intersection up here and you should go through it. Stay on the Military Road and the barracks should be just there.”

  We descended through the trees to the intersection, just a tiny crossroads, a long whitewashed hotel hard against the hillside to our left, and went straight through. I took out Erin’s pictures and compared them to the scene in front of me. I was pretty sure one of the pictures showed the view right in front of me, but in springtime: the narrow country road, bright green fields, the yellow bushes blooming along the road the same but brighter and washed with sunlight.

  “There it is,” Emer said. “Up there.” She pulled the car over onto the left shoulder and turned the key. The barracks rose up from the ground, a slim, tall, gray barrier. There was something ghostly about the building, the way it was so obviously of another era, the walled-up windows and the fence around it. We stood at the fence for a minute, looking at the building. If Emer hadn’t been there, I might have yelled, “Erin!” but it was so silent, so still, I didn’t say a word.

  “What do you…?” Emer asked, watching me. “Do you think she’s here?”

  The wind came down the valley and whistled around the old structures. The clouds had covered the sun and Emer and I both pulled our jackets more tightly around us. When I looked over at her, her eyes were worried, her forehead set in concentration. “No,” I said finally. “There’s no one here. Let’s go ask at the hotel.”

  * * *

  The lower level of the hotel was a pub, empty at eleven a.m., but warm and welcoming just the same thanks to the blazing fire and the wood paneling and stone hearth inside. A young woman—our age or even younger—was drying plates behind the bar, and she gave a big smile when she saw us, and called out, “Hiya. You’re back again, then!”

  I stopped where I stood. Next to me I felt Emer stop, too. The room seemed to close in on us, the heat from the fire washing over me in a wave.

  “Erin’s my cousin,” I said. I could already see confusion crossing her face. She was seeing the differences. “Was she here recently? I’m looking for her.”

  The woman looked shocked. She put the plates down on the bar with a clatter and stared at us. “She’s not … Is she all right, then?”

  “I don’t know.” I forced myself to cros
s the room to the bar. “She left Dublin a week or so ago and we don’t think she came back. Was she here recently?”

  The woman was still flustered but she turned to a large calendar hanging on the wall behind the bar. “Yes, she … It must have been a Thursday because we had a big walking group arriving the next day, for the weekend.” She traced a finger over the boxes, then said, “The sixteenth. It must have been the sixteenth.”

  I glanced over at Emer. That was the day Erin had left Dublin. “Was that the first time you’d seen her? She took these pictures but these look more like spring.” I put them on the bar and the woman looked down at them quickly, fanning them out like cards.

  “May. She came in and had lunch back in May and she was asking me about the barracks and the Wicklow Way. She wanted to do some walking and she asked me how to get to the path. I pointed her in the right direction and she set off. I remember it was May because it was my mam’s birthday and it was nice she had such a lovely day.”

  “Okay, and then on September sixteenth she came down again?” My mind was racing. Obviously Erin had made it back to Dublin from the May trip. What we needed to know about was the more recent one.

  The woman glanced back toward the calendar, remembering. “Yeah, she came in and was talking to Deirdre, who does the cleaning. I came in and saw her and I recognized her from before. She said she wanted to walk the other direction on the Wicklow Way, like she’d gone south before and now she wanted to go north. So Deirdre and I told her to walk back up the Military Road and she’d see the signposts.”

  “How did she get down here?” I asked. “Did she tell you?”

  “She must have taken the bus and had the driver stop. If it’s not busy, you can sometimes ask the Glendalough bus drivers to drop you here. We can call ahead and arrange it with Bus Éireann, but we hadn’t that day so she must have just asked once she was on the bus from Dublin. Or maybe she hitched. People would hitch around here quite a lot.”