He reached out and shook her hand. ‘Nae problem, lassie.’ He turned and reached into the back of the land rover, pulled out a small, black pvc bag. ‘Da batteries should be good for a while, but der’s a spare in here and da charger,’ he said, handing the bag to her. ‘Can I ask whit yer lookin fur?’
Deidre paused for a moment wondering how she could answer this question.
‘Love,’ she said enigmatically, before turning and heading for the car.
‘Well yer no gonna find it wi dat,’ Macgregor advised.
‘Or lookin’ like dat,’ the young woman quipped, giggling.
Tuesday, Early Afternoon
The sky wore grey pompadours of cloud, darkening by the moment, the diffused light casting a deep brooding gloom across the landscape; a marshland of spiky rushes, spongy moist ground and black viscous pools of sludge stretching across the expanse, its sweeping immensity equalled by its wild desolation. Her boots already sinking in the mire, Deidre realised she was woefully unprepared.
A soft but persistent rain started, pushed in from the sea by the wind but it barely mattered, her clothes still damp from her last foray into this terrain, a half-acknowledged awareness that if she wasn’t careful she could die of exposure out here.
Deidre stabbed the spade into the soft turf and switched the metal detector on, fiddled with the knobs. Jimmy Macgregor had explained the various dials, the pinpoint and discrimination, threshold and sensitivity, which he’d advised to leave on automatic. The machine beeped into life and she began sweeping over the clumps of gorse and moss, heading away from higher ground into the belly of the bog.
Drenched by the steady rain, anesthetized by the wind, her thoughts closed down, her mind switching to autopilot as she monotonously arced back and forth from side to side, her feet sometimes sinking through the thick blanket of moss up to her ankles. Cold and numb, emotionally and physically, all she could do was take one sweeping step after another over and over and over.
The detector burst into its flat tuneless song a few times through the timeless afternoon, the cold and the wet and her numb hands forgotten in the rush of adrenalin it triggered, the new spade slicing into the sodden ground with satisfying ease, the voids quickly and worryingly filling with water. Most of the finds had been unrecognisable clumps of metal that she tossed away in irritation; some of them buried deep causing her to wade through depths of grisly slush for nothing. She’d found herself crying at one point, moaning, weeping quietly, too cold, too exhausted to scream, desperation and stress and dwindling time forcing her on. The rain ceased, the wind dying off and the midges descended, plagues of them, harassing her, in her nose and mouth, tormenting and maddening, swarming over her hands and head. She screamed then, seeing herself from a great height, seeing herself in the swirling madness she had succumbed too.
Word of her actions in Walters & Son that morning had spread, people inexplicably arriving throughout the day to watch her from the Coffin Road, some bringing binoculars. They stayed a while until boredom and the cold set in, which didn’t take long, and left replaced by others, every movement on the road stirring a dull hope in her that it might be Dylan.
Somewhere in that long afternoon, she unearthed a coin, minted in 1901. Regarding it numbly, she wondered a moment about who might’ve lost it all the way out here, before dropping it into her pocket, forgotten.
Stuart came later in the afternoon, her small sporadic audience long gone, chased away by the wind and rain. Her heart warmed at the sight of him, fighting an overwhelming urge to run to him and wrap her arms around his broad frame, feel his thick woolly arms around her, hugging her, just knowing that someone cared. Throughout this endless miserable day, he was the only person who’d left the Coffin Road and ventured down into the mire, and she swallowed down the brick in her throat before he got too close. She shoved the spade into the turf, marking her spot before trudging across the marsh to higher ground to meet him. They met at a large flat boulder, Stuart smiling broadly as he approached lugging a large backpack, antique in design, slipping it from his shoulders and depositing it onto the stone slab before sitting down appreciatively. Deidre placed the metal detector on the ground at her feet and sat down beside him. Silently, Stuart pulled the backpack around placing it on the stone between them, unbuckled the clasps pulling out a silver thermos. Unscrewing it, he poured a thick colourful liquid into a white enamel cup and handed it to her. She accepted it gratefully, the heat from the cup making her fingers tingle and she gulped down the chunky glutinous soup with gusto, the temperature perfect, the taste delectable. Stuart refilled her cup and she drank in silence.
Finally, she turned to him. ‘I’m not crazy, Stuart. I know what I’m doing. I can feel this is right.’
‘I don’t tink yer crazy eeder, lassie. But I know dat yer cursed. An I’ll help ye if a kin.’
Deidre smiled at him, almost brought to tears again by this ridiculous situation and this gentle man’s acceptance of it.
He handed the flask to her. ‘Ye can polish dat aff if ye want, der’s anudder wan here fur ye. Some roast beef rolls and milk as well,’ he said, opening the backpack further. He pulled out a pair of wellingtons, gloves and some of her clothes. ‘Vee tolt me t’bring deez fur ye. I don’t know where yer gonna change doe.’ He looked around at the bleak empty landscape, devoid of life. ‘Ah don’t suppose it madders.’ He smiled wanly. The smile dropped from his face, his expression serious. ‘Ye canny stay oot here aw night, Deedree. Ye’ll dae yerself in.’
‘I know. I’m being mindful of that. I’ll just stay till the batteries run out. Then I’ll have to come back.’ She glanced at him contritely. ‘Am I still welcome at Stayne?’
Stuart reached out, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her too him. ‘Of course, lassie. Aunty Mavis is jist worried aboot ye, an fur good reason.’
‘Can you tell her I’m sorry.’
‘I tink she unnerstands.’ He gave her another hug and dropped his arm away, taking the empty flask and cup from her and dropping them into the bag. He delved back in pulling out a bottle of whisky, half-full. ‘T’keep da cold oot,’ he said, unscrewing the cap.
A laugh grunted out of her as she accepted the bottle, lifting it to her lips with relish and swigging. It was distasteful, she wasn’t a scotch drinker, but it burned, hot and fluid, molten, bringing her alive as it rushed through her blood, through her veins, throughout her body, a surge of heat burgeoning from the inside out. Her head swooned. ‘Wow!’
‘Good, eh,’ Stuart said, downing his own dose against the cold, handing the bottle back.
She held the bottle in her lap for a while, still riding the swirl of her first hit, staring out across the moor, the small loch below the Coffin Road rippling in the breeze, the landscape quiet, still.
‘Whit happened t’yer hair?’ Stuart ventured.
‘I cut it.’
‘Aye, ah can see dat. Ah don’t know if it’s a look aw da lassies wid go in fur doe.’
Deidre turned to him, mock hurt on her face before laughing, the alcohol pulsing through her veins. She took another swig, easier to swallow. Enjoyable.
‘So whit’s da story wid you an’ Dylan, den?’
Deidre shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He made me promise never to come back here. I lied to him and broke that promise. He found me here... We had a... disagreement and he left. He’s very angry with me. And I can’t blame him.’ She gazed out across the vast boggy field wondering about time. How much time? It had taken George all his life. ‘I can still fix this,’ she finished quietly to herself.
‘Vee’s been tryin to’ get hold of him aw day, but he’s lyin’ low. He’ll no pick up his phone. Ur yeez no supposed t’be leavin on Tursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ur ye gonna be leaving on Tursday?’
‘That’s my plan.’
Stuart nodded his head, his forehead wrinkling into deep fissures of doubt.
‘So whit ur ye daen dis fur? Whit is it oot here da
t’s mare important t’ye dan Dylan?’
‘It’s not more important than Dylan. Whatever I find out here, Dylan is the real treasure I’ve discovered, and I know that and I don’t want to lose him. I won’t lose him,’ she said determinedly. ‘But I need to fulfil this obligation I’ve been given before I can move on.’
Stuart regarded her questioningly. ‘Obligation?’
‘To finish someone else’s story,’ she began. ‘To find something that’s lost. It’s like a sad song I can’t get out of my head.’ Her hand moved to her forehead feeling the bump there. ‘A lament. It’s there all the time, constant, and it drives me mad. It dulls my heart a little more every day and it won’t let me go.’ She gazed out to the dank field spreading out in front of her feeling overwhelmed and miserable. ‘And that’s the curse of it,’ she said, taking another swig before handing the bottle to Stuart. ‘I can’t go to Dylan with this unfinished.’ She stared down at her black grubby hands, her boots and jeans wet and streaked with sludge. ‘I am possessed Stuart, that’s the truth of it. You were all right. I am cursed, just like George.’ She looked at Stuart, feeling a bubble of laugher build, the 43% proof scotch having an effect on her. ‘And I look pretty crazy, eh?’
‘Oh aye.’
She thought of the faces she’d confronted today, Jenkins, Gregory, the old woman in the shop, Mavis, and the laughter erupted from her, a tear filled, stomach-hurting laugh she couldn’t stop, a release of emotions supressed all day.
Dylan.
The memory of his face early this morning doused her merriment as suddenly as it had erupted. She had to fix this. She didn’t have the time to sit here and get drunk. ‘I need to get moving,’ she said, reaching down and untying her boots, the laces knotted tight and wet, her numb fingers finding them difficult to unravel.
‘I’ll stay a wee bit an’ keep ye company,’ Stuart said.
‘No, go home.’
‘Yer no gonna faw doon an no get yerself oot noo uur ye? Yer no gonna disappear on us?’
Deidre pulled off her sopping socks and pulled dry ones on, pulled the long black wellingtons over her feet. She stood up, feeling them on her feet, dry and protected. Perfect. She felt rejuvenated. ‘Thanks Stuart, this is perfect. You’re an absolute Godsend.’ She stepped up to him, arms out and embraced him, forgetting her sodden, muck covered state.
‘Dat’s awright, lassie,’ he replied, reciprocating her hug before regarding her for a moment, his pale blue eyes contemplating hers. ‘Come hame, Deedree. Whit ever yer lookin fur will still be here in da mornin’.’
‘That’s right. That’s the problem.’
Stuart inhaled deeply. ‘Will ye promise me ye’ll be careful.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
His eyes held hers for another long moment, discontented. Finally, he nodded, turned and walked away.
‘Stuart.’
‘Aye, lassie?’
‘I didn’t want to ask, but what time is it?’
Stuart regarded his watch. ‘Twenty seven past seven.’
‘At night. PM,’ she confirmed.
‘Aye, PM.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Time, time, time. Tick tock.
She picked up the detector and headed back into the mire.
The detector batteries died and exhausted and wet, almost senseless, she gave up, trudged back up the hill to the backpack.
Her socks squelched as she changed back into her wet boots, her jeans sodden and heavy after wandering into a particularly nasty patch of marshland, sucked right in, waist deep. It had woken her out of her stupor if nothing else; she may even have fallen asleep, the detector swaying back and forth, back and forth like a metronome, hypnotising her. In her stupefied state, she’d walked right into the thick muddy pit, viscous and tarry, realising too late what she’d done, one wellington slipping off her foot in her scramble to be free.
It had brought on a moment of deep aching despair, thinking of the monumental task before her; impossible, seemingly unachievable, releasing an anger that rose in her like bile, curdled and bitter with frustration and regret. They’d warned her and she hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed them. Hadn’t understood, underestimating the power of this place.
If she had just stayed away, she thought, too late.
Picking up the backpack and detector, she left the spade resting against the stone slab and headed for the Coffin Road.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when she pulled into Stayne’s carpark. The house slept and Deidre let herself in quietly through the mud room, plugging the detector batteries in first before discarding her boots and sopping socks and tiptoeing through the house, the stairs creaking as she headed for her room.
There were no messages from Dylan waiting for her and her heart sank. Grabbing her pyjamas and a towel, she headed for the shower.
Black pools of water slushed around her feet, the shower hot and steaming, her skin tingling against its heat. Her head felt strange as she washed her cropped hair, the clean wet heat from the shower overwhelming her, enhancing her exhaustion and she turned the water off, dried and dressed into her pyjamas.
The bed opened up and swallowed her and she fell in, tumbling over and over into deep dark sleep.
Wednesday, One Day Remaining
Deidre blinked at the brightly lit window, her eyelids fluttering in rhythm to the pounding headache pulsating from the bump on her forehead. Sliding her hand out from under the bedcovers, her fingertips hovered gingerly above the throb. She’d hit her head on the wall of the chamber she recalled. She’d knocked herself out.
Memories swirled inside her mind like debris caught in floodwaters, vague shapes floating to the surface offering a brief glimpse before submerging into the muddy waters of her exhaustion. Breeta’s face, a face she had never seen yet was as familiar to her as the memory of her own reflection, bringing with it overwhelming feelings of love and the devastating agony of grief, Taran’s grief, as real to her as the pain thumping in her head.
Dylan swam through the depths, his words rising like bubbles bursting on the surface of the murky water. You’re gonna lose me over something you’ll never find.
Deidre sat up, an ache thrumming through her entire body, every muscle and tendon screaming in protest as she pushed herself onto the side of the bed. Her eyes slid to the bedside clock, the numbers displayed setting off a mild wave of alarm realising it was past eleven o’clock and she’d slept most of the morning away.
Dylan said he would be leaving tomorrow. Despondency and aching exhaustion weighed her down as she dressed, the marrow in her bones as heavy as lead. She zipped up her last pair of clean jeans while staring out the window, the sun playing hide and seek behind the clouds like an enormous light bulb being turned on and off.
‘What am I doing?’ she whispered, swaying on her feet, a stray tear forming and rolling down her cheek. A sickening, nervous dread roiled in her stomach. She could lose Dylan, could lose him physically and emotionally, her feelings for him stolen, hidden, held captive in a small stone cavern in a desolate, forsaken field. Closing her eyes, she focussed on him, thinking of him, only him, his touch, his eyes, his voice. The softness of his lips on hers, the taste of his kiss. She recalled the happiness she’d revelled in, the exquisite joy and amazement she’d felt. How easily they could have missed each other on this big wide planet, the gossamer thin chance that their paths would cross at all, and yet they had, all the way up here on this tiny speck of land. And incredibly, incredibly, he’d loved her, offered her the chance to live a happy, fulfilled life in fully-requited love.
The pull and tug of two demanding and opposing forces held her rooted to the spot, tearing her apart; her desire to run to Dylan, beg his forgiveness, straining against the compulsion to return to the valley, to continue the search, to fulfil her obligation. Her burden. Her curse. It pulsed inside her like a living thing, feeding on her deep moral sense that went beyond understanding, beyond words, speaking a language only
her soul could understand. To walk away and leave this unfinished would feed a dereliction of duty that would slowly starve and wither her spirit and intrude on her happiness with Dylan.
She could leave this place, but there would be no escaping the grip of this curse.
A small group of curious onlookers mingled on the Coffin Road. Deidre heard them murmur as she approached, stepping out of her way, cautious, wary, their voices silencing as she passed them by. She was the cursed one, crazy, liable to do anything in her maddened state.
Dismay filled her heart as she trudged around the rim of the loch on the higher ground, taking in the expansive quagmire stretching before her. What if she was wrong? What if Breeta hadn’t come this way, if she’d ran in another direction, to another valley, what if the Norseman had captured her, carried her away in their longships to a life of slavery in another country far from here? She could spend the rest of her life here, tethered here like George, crazy mad George, alone, searching these hills and valley’s until the day she died.
She dropped the backpack laden with supplies of hot soup and coffee, roast beef rolls and chocolate onto the wide slab of rock where she’d sat yesterday with Stuart. She missed him already, his company, his ability to lift her spirits. He’d offered again to come and help, accepting her adamant refusal and slipping a silver flask into her pocket with a wink.
‘I’ll come an’ check up on ye later on anyhow,’ he’d said, placing the metal detector into the back seat of the car, Mavis, Dot and Vee standing in the doorway of Stayne House, their faces grim, watching as she drove away.
Despite her recalcitrance, Mavis had supplied her with a pair of waders. ‘T’save ye draggin’ muck aw troo da hoose. Take em aff afore ye come inside,’ she said curtly.
Deidre smiled as she pulled them from the backpack, sitting on the rock to pull them on, remembering the hug the old woman had given her, feeling the fragile bones of her thin back as she’d returned the embrace.
The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love Page 24
