by Lily Velez
“Not all of them,” he replied, scratching out an error in the chemical equation he’d written. He furrowed his brow, staring the equation down. Somehow, the strategy worked. The correct answer came to him a moment later and he scribbled it upon the page. “I was lab partners with Rory last fall for biology, though. He’s the youngest brother.”
“What was he like?” Was he as standoffish with others as he’d been with me?
Liam smiled, looking up from his homework in reflection. “He was sweet.”
Sweet? Definitely not the word I had in mind. My thoughts must’ve been written all over my face because Liam laughed.
“He’s hard for most people to get to know. He’s not very open. But I was able to spend some time with him outside of St. Andrew’s during a school trip to Japan over our Easter holiday earlier this year.”
I lifted my eyebrows at that. My previous school had never organized a spring break trip before, but if it had, it would’ve probably been to a neighboring city, not another country, and even that was wishful thinking.
“It all started at the beginning of biology class one day,” Liam said. “A folder of his dropped to the floor, and sketches came sliding out. He rushed to gather them back up, but I’d already seen them. They were done in an anime style, with the characters in beautifully drawn samurai kimonos. Many of them had Japanese words written down the sides as well.
“He was mortified, even though he had no reason to be. I told him the drawings were incredible, but that seemed to only embarrass him further. I let a few days pass and then asked him if he intended on going on the school trip to Japan, given his obvious appreciation for certain aspects of Japanese culture. He wasn’t, but I kept insisting on it in the weeks that followed.”
“And he eventually caved?”
“I suppose I wore him down. Most people write him off because of his withdrawn nature, assuming he’s pretentious I’d imagine, but he’s just a naturally quiet person. A little shy too.”
Guilt flooded my chest. I’d done the same thing, hadn’t I? Written him off. Which was pretty hypocritical of me. Among my best friends, people I felt comfortable around, I was as outgoing as they came. But drop me in a classroom with people I didn’t know very well, and I instantly clammed up and talked very little.
“What about the others?” I asked quietly, eyeing a group of boys who were perusing book stacks not too far from us. I didn’t want it to get back to the Connellys that I was digging into their personal business.
“Jack’s the eldest at eighteen and a year above us. He’s very well liked among the students and faculty. And then Connor and Lucas are both seventeen and in our year.”
“Are they fraternal twins or something?”
“Tandem twins actually. They were born within nine months of each other. You’ll typically find Connor wherever Jack is. They’re very close. And then Lucas…well, he has a reputation for being a bit of a class clown at St. Andrew’s. He always pulls a big, colorful prank at the end of each term, which most students have come to look forward to.”
“You said Rory is the youngest brother. How did he have a class with you last year then? And he’s in my pre-calculus class now.”
“He turned sixteen at the beginning of the month, but he skipped a grade when he first started here. He’s incredibly brilliant. Then again, they all are. Top marks in all their classes.” Liam finished up another equation and then looked up at me. “Oh, before I forget, are you doing anything tomorrow? You said you hadn’t had a chance to properly take in Rosalyn Bay, and I thought I could give you a tour of the main square in town. I think you’d really enjoy it.”
I hadn’t anticipated the change in subject. There were still things I wanted to know about the Connellys. But hanging out with Liam tomorrow would undoubtedly give me a chance to follow up on my inquiry. Plus, it would be nice to get out of the house and spend time with a new friend. I smiled and nodded. “Count me in. That sounds great.”
I spent my Saturday morning unpacking the last of my moving boxes as I whiled away the hours until my meetup with Liam. The only other plan on my social calendar was a catch-up date with Natalie via video chat later tonight. It wasn’t too much of a far cry from what I’d normally be doing on the weekends.
Saturdays back in Colorado were usually reserved for sleeping in, doing something garden-related, and working on a few new pieces of resin jewelry. In the evenings, I’d watch a black-and-white movie or other classic with my mom, given her love for the Golden Age of Hollywood. I was even named after Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind, what had been my mom’s all-time favorite novel and movie. Then on Sundays, we’d enjoy a nice, big breakfast as we leafed through the Sunday paper and cut out comics (my mom had been a big fan of the Peanuts strip, adoring all things Snoopy), and later, I’d get all my homework done while chatting online with my friends. Low-key weekends were the best in my opinion.
I smiled at the thought, standing before a bureau upon which I’d set out an array of framed pictures cataloguing my most cherished memories from that life. I picked one picture up. In it, my mom and I were beaming at the camera, dressed in poodle skirts. She’d thrown a 1950s-themed birthday party that year. People had later remarked it’d been one of the funnest parties they’d ever attended.
She’d always been like that, full of life and able to get even the most reserved people laughing and enjoying themselves. It’d been one of my favorite things about her. My throat tightened as I stared at the picture, and I promptly returned it to the bureau, my heart growing heavy. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
One day at a time, I reminded myself. It was the only way I knew how to move forward.
Downstairs, my dad was engaged in his typical morning routine: reading the newspaper as he drank tea and ate two slices of toast spread with apricot jam. This was his preferred method for catching up on world news. He explained it was easier to read about events than to see the hard images that sometimes aired on news channels. In fact, he rarely watched TV at all. I was more likely to find him reading a book in his study or listening to educational radio. And he was also never dressed down. Even now, he was dressed as if he planned to speak in front of an audience of his peers at some esteemed university, not a hair out of place. According to my mom, he used to lecture at such places all the time, but he’d eventually taken a sabbatical to write an academic book, assuming a teaching job at St. Andrew’s to supplement his income. That had been years ago. I guessed the peace and quiet of Rosalyn Bay had grown on him.
“Good morning,” he greeted. His voice was coarse. I noticed the cold medicine beside the tea. It was a minor thing, but my heart missed a beat anyway. I’d seen my fair share of pill bottles and prescription labels this year, and it’d never meant anything good.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Just a cold,” he said, waving a hand. “The tea’s been a massive help, though. Here, why don’t you pour yourself a cup?”
“That’s all right. I’m not really a tea person.”
“I insist,” he said, already fetching a cup from the cabinets. “I’d hate for you to catch my bug. A student of mine gave me this blend and swears by it. He says it’s the reason he’s never had a single sick day at St. Andrew’s.”
I obliged him, joining him at the table. The drink had a sweet, blackberry taste that was hard not to love. I downed the rest of the cup with ease, letting it warm my throat and chest.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“It is, yeah.”
There was an awkward pause of silence, during which I repeatedly rubbed my thumb across the tea cup’s porcelain handle while my dad fidgeted with his newspaper. Yeah, this was definitely going to take some getting used to. I was about to excuse myself to spare us both from the overbearing discomfort of trying to make small talk, but my dad spoke up again before I could.
“I had something for you. It’s…I thought…well, I…here, let me get it.”
He returned
a minute later, carrying a gift box, which he set before me on the table. I hesitated. It always made me uncomfortable to open presents in front of people. Mostly because I was a horrible actress, and I didn’t like making people feel bad for picking out something that wasn’t really my style. But my dad was already waiting on me, so I drew the box closer, rehearsing appropriate facial expressions in my mind.
I lifted the lid. Inside, set upon a bed of tissue paper, was a book. No, not a book, I realized as I took it in my hands. A photo album. The blush-colored covers were made of book cloth, giving them a soft and elegant look. I opened the album, and the first picture that greeted me made my throat swell up.
It was from the day I was born. My mom sat up in her hospital bed, cradling a tiny infant in pink swaddling blankets. She wore one of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen on her face. As I turned the pages, images from my first years of life beamed up at me. Birthday parties, outings to the zoo, trips to the park, swimming lessons. Some of the pictures I recognized from my mom’s own collection, but most were completely new to me. My heart overflowed with emotion as I took them in for the first time.
“You didn’t seem to have very many pictures of just you and your mother from your early childhood,” my dad gently said. “So I thought you might like to have these. I hope I haven’t overstepped in any way.”
I shook my head, momentarily at a loss for words. “No, I…it’s beautiful.” I turned another page. In one picture, a three-year-old me was sitting on my dad’s shoulders, my mom beside us. Behind us in the distance was a field of giraffes, a shot most likely taken at Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs. I didn’t remember the day, but I was surprised by how happy I looked, how at ease I was with my dad.
“What’s this?” There was a folded piece of paper behind the picture. I tugged on the edge and pulled it out. I opened it, revealing a child’s drawing of stick figures, giraffes shaped like rectangles, and a smiling sun. I tried to ignore the fact that the sun only had three rays, and that each one was done up in a spiral, making it look more like a triskele than I cared to admit. Had I drawn the mysterious symbol even at this young an age?
My dad chuckled softly. “Your mother said you wouldn’t stop talking about the giraffes for weeks after that visit. That was a drawing you sent me in the mail.”
My chest cracked like thawing ice. “You kept it all this time?”
“Of course,” he said. “I kept everything your mother ever sent that had to do with you. Pictures, drawings, copies of your honor roll certificates. I was only happy to be included in it all.”
I didn’t know why I was so taken aback. My mom had never had a single bad thing to say about my dad, of course. Indeed, she’d named him as one of the kindest men she’d ever met. He’d even visited her in the hospital in those final months and had attended her funeral as well. I guessed I’d just never thought my existence played that much of a factor in his life once I got older, once I stopped sending those drawings, once my attentions turned elsewhere. Yet here he was, sounding every bit the part of a proud father still.
I took my time going through the rest of the album, treasuring every snapshot of a time in my life I couldn’t recall but that clearly had been filled with the utmost love and happiness. My dad had taken the time out to put this together, and he’d done it all for me.
It looked like I wouldn’t have to put my acting prowess to the test after all. I closed the book and smiled at him. My heart felt warm, and I knew it wasn’t just because of the tea. “Thank you,” I said. The words didn’t seem enough to express that it was one of the best gifts I’d ever received in my life, but he nodded with a smile of his own, and for a moment, we felt a little less like strangers.
10
Rosalyn Bay boasted a grand population of 1,602 and was located on a western tip of Ireland shaped like a crab’s claw. Today, despite it being a weekend, the place was a ghost town. Along the uneven, cobblestone streets, shiny from last night’s rain storm, tired, stone buildings leaned against each other as if huddling against the chilly October winds. Awnings still dripped water, a steady plop, plop, plop resounding from puddle to puddle as I made my way through, pumpkins of every size proudly sitting upon many a windowsill.
The smell of fish and seawater was in every breeze. Even from here, you could hear the Atlantic Ocean’s unrelenting crash against the cliffs along the coast. I continued past rundown sandwich boards advertising everyone’s special of the day: clam chowder, crab cakes, or halibut. But the one thing that everyone had? Oysters.
My dad had told me Rosalyn Bay’s coastal sandbanks were home to a natural oyster bed that produced some of the finest oysters in the world. So fine in fact they apparently were highly sought after by restaurants in New York, Paris, and London, as well as being prominently featured in oyster festivals throughout Ireland. He’d said it all with a matter of pride (I guessed every small town needed a claim to fame), so I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d never tried an oyster before and probably never would if I could avoid it.
I met Liam at a simple eatery, where we ordered steaming bowls of lobster bisque and baskets of fried cod. His hair was plastered to his forehead, beads of water still clinging to some locks. He donned a black and blue wetsuit, his surfboard leaning against the wall in a corner of the establishment.
I couldn’t believe he’d gone surfing in this weather, but apparently September to May was the best time of year for it here. I wasn’t a stranger to the cold, but blissfully sunny Colorado was landlocked, so I wasn’t used to arctic-like, coastal winds in the least or to nonstop rain. Add being submerged in the icy ocean on top of that, and surfing was an automatic no for me.
We enjoyed our food as we talked about everything and anything. Eventually, I guided Liam into a conversation about our classmates at St. Andrew’s, asking him who was worth befriending. It was the perfect way to segue into the topic I really wanted to discuss. “What about Thomas Mooney?” I asked.
“Mooney’s a year above us, so I don’t know him personally. Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen him with a group of friends. I think he prefers to be a lone wolf.”
“I kind of got that impression too,” I said, telling Liam about the tour Thomas had given me. “Actually, he mentioned a few things I’m still not sure what to make of. It was about the Connellys. Have you heard any of the stories people tell about them?” I couldn’t believe I was repeating anything that had left Thomas’s mouth, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about the things the Connellys had said in the greenhouse. The words had played on an endless loop in my mind.
Liam shrugged. “Everyone’s heard at least one rumor, but that’s all they are. Rumors. Of course, the matter with Maurice Connelly hasn’t helped to quell them.”
“Why were people so quick to say he’d taken his life? Isn’t it possible he could’ve just accidentally fallen?” Or been attacked?
“Anything’s possible, of course. But because there are guard rails on the cliff edge to prevent accidents, everyone’s mind was already made up the moment he was found. It’s an unfortunate aspect of human behavior. When you’re at the top of any kind of social hierarchy like the Connellys are, there will always be those who relish bringing you down, who live to see the mighty fall. But in my opinion, I think there are enough people in this world who discriminate against others just because they’re different. Why add to it?”
“Are the Connellys really all that different, though?”
“According to the townspeople here, they are. It bothers me really. I’ve seen mothers who pull their children closer and make the sign of the cross when a Connelly boy passes them by in town, and more than one storefront owner has turned his sign from ‘Opened’ to ‘Closed’ when spotting the Connellys out in the main square.”
The images were bewildering. It’s not what I’d expected to hear at all. I furrowed my brow. “Why would they act like that?”
“Do you remember Professor Byrne’s lecture about the menhi
rs? Particularly what he said about the things that had happened there?”
“Of course. The slaughtering of the druids and then later, the witch trials.”
“Apparently there was a woman burnt at the stake all those centuries ago of the surname Connelly.”
My jaw slackened. “Was she…?”
“Related to the Connelly boys? So they say. The Connelly family has been a staple of Rosalyn Bay for centuries, so it’s not unreasonable. The woman accused of witchcraft was simply someone who practiced folk medicine, though. Even so, the townspeople frowned upon her trade, believing she consorted with the devil to craft her cures. But here’s where it gets interesting. According to local legend, as the woman’s pyre was lit, she began to curse the entire town.”
“What did she say?”
“She warned them that one day, her descendants would rise up against the people of Rosalyn Bay and ensure the town was devoured in fire just as the townspeople had used fire against her.”
“And that’s why the townspeople fear the Connellys so much?”
Liam nodded. “That’s the long and short of it. They believe the Connelly boys mean to exact vengeance against the citizens of Rosalyn Bay and that they continue their ancestor’s practice of regularly communing with demons.”
Demons. There was that word again. My heart shuddered. “Actual demons?”
“In all their glory.”
“Is that a word that gets thrown around a lot here?”
“I’d say so. The people of Rosalyn Bay are a superstitious bunch. There are a number of shops here that sell special wreaths and charms to stave off curses from all sorts of creatures: banshees, kelpies, and other malevolent spirits. I remember seeing one vendor hawk a candle in the square a few months back, claiming its light would protect your loved ones from Carman, the Celtic goddess of evil magic.”
