Devil's Mountain

by Bernadette Walsh

  “I can’t lose her,” he choked out. “I’ll do anything, give up anything to make her happy.

  Please.”

  “Shush, now. Don’t say that.” I looked around the garden, praying He hadn’t heard.

  “Maybe I can give her some herbs.”

  “Do whatever you have to do, Mam. Please.”

  Clouds rolled in over the Mountain, blocking the midday sun. A chill ran through me. I looked at my son’s pleading eyes and knew I would not refuse him. Could not. I forced a smile.

  “I’ll try.”

  Chapter 5

  Caroline

  “Bobby Connelly, I swear you’re part billy-goat. Would you slow down?”

  Bobby turned around, smiled and held a hand out to me. In the other was the picnic basket Mary had packed for us. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go so fast.”

  The woods were dense and the trail, if you could even call it that, narrow and rocky. A branch scraped against my bare arm, drawing blood. I flinched, but did not call out, not wanting to upset Bobby.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I shouted up to him, my voice small, swallowed up by the trees.

  “Patience, Caro. You’ll see.”

  I was panting when I caught up with him. After my last few slothful months, I was out of shape and easily winded. “How much further?” I wheezed.

  His hand was warm and strong as he grabbed mine. “Not much further, I promise. It’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

  We continued on, my heavy breathing and the crunch of the twigs beneath our feet the only sounds. The woods were quiet, no birds, no breeze. Just us.

  When I thought I couldn’t take another step, the path and the Mountain ended. Bobby stepped onto the edge of a rocky cliff. I held back.

  “Caroline, look. Isn’t it amazing?”

  “I’m fine here.” I clutched a tree, trying not to swoon at the sheer drop. “It’s very nice.”

  “Nice? It’s incredible.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me from my safe perch. “Come on, chicken.”

  I stumbled over the picnic basket. Bobby steadied me. “I, uh, I can’t look down.”

  Bobby stood behind me, and encircled my waist with his arms. “Hush now, love. I’ve got you.”

  I leaned into him and closed my eyes. A warm breeze wafted over us and seemed to take with it the tight ball of tension that had resided over my left eye for the last eighteen months. I felt lighter. Freer. I opened my eyes.

  Devlin’s Mountain fell away in a sheer drop. At its base roared the Feale River, its banks swollen by the heavy spring rains. Beyond the Feale, Kilvarren village lay nestled in the valley, and in the distance, the Killarney mountains glistened in the early summer sun.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. And it was. Wild, untamed, remote. And beautiful.

  “Why would anyone voluntarily leave this place?” I asked, almost to myself. “How could my mother leave?”

  “I don’t know.” He kissed the top of my head. “Many did.”

  I turned around to face him and touched his cheek. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

  “I want to spend my life showing you beautiful things.”

  He gently kissed me. I closed my eyes, lost in his kiss and the magic of this place. When I opened my eyes I saw a white animal peeking out from behind a tree. “We have company.”

  Bobby turned around. “The pucan.”

  “It looks like a goat to me. Do goats live in the woods? I thought they lived on farms.”

  “This pucan lives in the woods. It’s His home.”

  “That’s strange.” The goat was still, His eyes glowing in the shadow of the trees. “Is it tame?” I took a step toward it.

  “No,” Bobby said, harshly, I thought. “It’s feral.” He picked up the basket and took my hand. “Come on, Caro. I have more to show you.”

  The goat stepped back and disappeared into the trees. Bobby led me to another path, even more narrow and rocky than the last. At least this time it was downhill. The stillness of the woods seemed gentle now, welcoming, and I enjoyed it. I felt strangely rested and refreshed, more peaceful than I’d felt in months.

  The path widened and the trees thinned, eventually leading us to stony fields where scruffy sheep grazed the sparse grass. Bobby and I walked hand-in-hand across the fields and over a small stream. The boots Mary had loaned me protected me from the mud.

  Not a soul was around. Bobby and I didn’t speak as we continued on the path, entranced by the Mountain’s stark beauty. We crossed another small stream and Bobby bore right, this time off the path.

  “Where are we going?”

  He smiled. “You’ll see.”

  By now the sun was high and warm. I felt my cheeks burn from the sun and exertion.

  Bobby took me by the waist and lifted me over a low stone wall separating one scrabby field from the next. We continued our trek until we came upon a low, weather-beaten cottage.

  Bobby stopped. “This is it. The Collins cottage.”

  “Really? When did someone last live in it? I think my grandparents lived in town.”

  “My Granny told me the Collinses were the first family to leave the Mountain. Maybe a hundred years ago?”

  I ran my hand along the cottage’s rough stone walls. “A hundred years? I’m surprised it’s still standing. Who owns it now?”

  “My mother. She owns all of Devlin’s Mountain except for the Griffins’ holdings on the east side of the Mountain. Come on, let’s take a look.”

  Bobby pushed the scarred wooden front door. It creaked as it opened, but opened easily enough.

  “What the hell?” he said.

  “Bobby, who lives here?”

  “Nobody, as far as I know.”

  The small cottage was newly painted, plainly furnished, clean. Wood was neatly stacked beside a stone fireplace. I walked into the small kitchen and opened a cabinet. Inside were a few plates, mugs, wineglasses, two bottles of wine and a bottle opener.

  I held up the wine. “Someone must live here.”

  “I don’t know. Mam never mentioned anything and the last time I was here, maybe ten years ago, it was empty, completely abandoned.”

  Bobby ducked his head and walked through a low doorway. I followed. Inside was a double bed made up with white sheets and a simple homemade quilt. I lifted a pillow to my face and detected a slight scent of lavender. There was an old black and white picture of a wedding party on the bedside table. The groom was tall, dark-haired. He reminded me of my mother’s brother Liam. “Someone must live here. We should go.”

  “They’re not here now. Besides, it’s my mother’s cottage. Let’s have lunch.”

  We had had only a light breakfast--Mary didn’t share her daughter’s fondness for pork products. After all the walking I was starved. I smiled. “Okay, so long as you protect me if some lunatic comes in with an ax.”

  Bobby picked up a small porcelain bowl filled with dried leaves. “I don’t know many ax murderers who decorate their lairs with potpourri.”

  I laughed and playfully hit his arm. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

  Bobby lit a fire to take the dampness out of the cottage. I unpacked lunch and laid it on the table. Bobby joined me, and we were both so hungry, we devoured Mary’s chicken sandwiches without speaking. However, unlike our many wordless dinners these past few months in our Park Avenue apartment, this meal was serene, peaceful. A bird perched on the open door and serenaded us. We sipped from thermoses of herbal tea Mary had made us. The hot liquid almost burned my tongue, but its sweetness beckoned me. It was delicious, and I couldn’t stop drinking it. Bobby, too, must have been parched because he finished his thermos before I did.

  When we were done, Bobby opened the wine and took it to the hard bench in front of the fire. I joined him, sitting close to him, thigh to thigh. My throat stung and although neither Bobby nor I were really drinkers, we drained one bottle and then the other.

  A tingling sensation spread from my mouth to my chest, to my arms
. It felt strange, yet not unpleasant. The fire that had sputtered along through lunch had finally caught and now roared. My cheeks burned. I took off my light jacket.

  Bobby looked at me, face flushed, the flames of the fire reflected in his green eyes. The wineglass fell from his hand, shattering on the stone floor. He didn’t even look down but instead pulled me, roughly, to him and kissed me. Not his usual soft, gentle kiss. This was probing, demanding. My lips burned and I responded, though my limbs felt heavy. Bobby made a sound that could only be described as a growl.

  Although it took all my strength, I pulled away from him. “Bobby?”

  His expression was now wild, pupils dilated, his eyes those of a stranger, of an animal almost. I was mesmerized. I felt those green pools pull me in. I sat motionless for a moment, staring into those strange eyes. I didn’t see my husband of two years there, but anger. Pain. I saw something not quite human.

  Despite the almost drugged lethargy of my limbs, I managed to stand up. Bobby grabbed my arm, dagger-like fingers digging into my flesh. Some voice deep inside my head shouted, Get out, Caroline. Get out now! Every cell in my body screamed with fear, with panic. I twisted my arm, broke free of him and ran. I’d almost made it through the open doorway when he grabbed a fistful of my hair. He dragged me by the hair to the bedroom, my forehead scraping the rough wooden doorway, and threw me like a rag doll onto the bed.

  “Stop, Bobby. Please! What are you doing?”

  He continued to growl as he ripped the shirt off me. The small plastic buttons scattered on the floor. My light khakis were left in tatters as he ripped them off my body. My limbs felt like lead and although I tried to command my arms to push him away from me, to protect me from him, they would not move.

  Bobby’s own clothes seemed to simply fall away from him, revealing not his usual soft paunch from too many three hour lunches, but ripped muscles that strained against taut skin.

  Bobby’s usually hairless chest was covered with swirls of thick, black hair. He continued to mutter in some strange language. Not English, not Gaelic--something harsher, guttural. The only word I could make out was “mine.”

  Bobby fell upon me, his weight crushing me against the thin mattress. With his arms, now almost double in size, he pinned mine above my head. His face was almost unrecognizable, with deep grooves carved into his cheeks. His mouth pulled back in a snarl. Teeth sank into my breast and tore my flesh. I cried out in pain.

  This only seemed to excite him more. He flipped me over, pushed my face into the pillow and forced my legs apart. He mounted me like an animal, like a bull. Pain engulfed me as blood poured from between my legs, as this stranger, this thing, ripped me apart. I heard a scream, like that of frightened animal being slaughtered. Its high pitched wail almost burst my eardrum. It was only from some deep recess of my mind that I was able to recognize the tortured screeches as my own. Panting into my ear as he rode me, both of us slick with my blood, he growled,

  “Mine, mine, mine.”

  * * * *

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  I opened my eyes and lifted my hand to shield them from the morning sun streaming in the bedroom window. Bobby, hair tousled, eyes clear, held out a mug of tea to me.

  I sat up and took the mug from him.

  “It’s a glorious day.”

  I said nothing.

  He rubbed my arm. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you a little hung over? I’ll tell you, I was wrecked when I woke up. That’s the last time, little lady, I let you get me drunk. Did you take advantage of me last night?”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “I think you did.” He picked up his torn pants. “Look what you did to my pants.”

  “What I did?”

  He picked up my ripped shirt. “You must have been an animal last night. Remind me to buy a case of that wine when I get home. Hell, maybe ten cases. I wish I could remember it, though.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  He sat on the bed and nuzzled my neck. “Bits and pieces. I remember you moaning. You don’t usually moan. That was hot, Caro. I think I might need to attack you again.”

  I stiffened.

  “What? Are you feeling all right, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice soft and full of concern.

  My hands trembled as I placed the mug on the side table. “No, I’m okay. I only need to use the bathroom. Where is it?”

  “There’s a small bathroom in the shed, attached the kitchen. Caro, you look pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Here, wear this.” He handed me a white linen sheath. “I found this in the wardrobe. We don’t want you flashing the neighbors.”

  I tried to return his smile but couldn’t. Instead, I left for the bathroom.

  I stood in front of the cracked mirror in the small bathroom. How was it possible there was no trace of my tears from last night? My face looked well rested, refreshed. I looked good, and not just good for me. I’m under no illusions as to my very ordinary, even plain, appearance.

  No, I looked good, pretty even. My skin was clear, as if I’d spent a month at a spa, my normally thin lips were full, bee-stung almost. My hair, normally stick straight and dull-as-dishwater was streaked with golden highlights. It was wavy and looked longer.

  I pulled the hair off my forehead and moved closer to the mirror. I remembered, at least I think I did, a stray nail tearing at my forehead as Bobby--no, not Bobby, that thing--yes, as that thing dragged me through the bedroom doorway. But there was nothing there now. Not a scratch, not an indentation.

  What in God’s name happened yesterday? Think, Caroline, think, I commanded myself. I pulled back the rough cotton curtains covering the shed’s only window and stared out onto the scrubby back garden. When I first woke up it had all seemed so fresh. The wine, Bobby’s transformation, the pain. In the bathroom as I tried to remember specifics my thoughts disappeared, like whorls of smoke.

  I twisted the stiff faucet and a trickle of water escaped the rusted tap. I splashed my now pretty face, which looked like me, yet not like me. I rubbed my forehead. “Think, Caroline,” I said aloud, tearing my eyes away from the stranger in the mirror. “Think!”

  My thoughts felt heavy, as if I was mentally walking through J-ello. He bit me, fought its way through the fog. He bit me.

  But where? I ran my hands along my bare arms. They were smooth, unmarked. And then I remembered. My breast. He hadn’t just bitten me, last night it had felt like he’d devoured my breasts.

  I unbuttoned the silk sheath and gasped. Not only were they unmarked, but my small, rather unremarkable breasts had been transformed. Full, round. Like the face, it was as if they belonged to someone else. Dear God, was this a dream? Was it a nightmare?

  I sat on the small toilet, my head in my hands. I tried to think, to remember, but it was useless. We had wine. There was a fire. And then...then what? Bobby’s eyes had changed, and he’d turned into...into what?

  I stood up and peered into the mirror. This was madness. I was the same as I ever was.

  Sure, I looked better, but that was because I was on vacation. I was relaxed. And my breasts, well, I’d been on so many hormones this past year, they’d probably been bigger for a while and this was the first time I’d noticed.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I called out. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  There’d been wine. A fire. And then? The final wisps of memory floated away from me.

  There’d been wine and a fire. And then Bobby woke me with a kiss and handed me a mug of tea.

  That was all. Yes. Yes, that was all.

  I buttoned the pearl buttons of the handmade sheath. I smiled at the pretty Caroline in the mirror and walked out of the small, damp shed to join my beautiful husband waiting for me in my great, great, great-grandparents’ cottage.

  Chapter 6

  Mary

  I waved to Bobby and Caroline as they backed the
ir car down the drive, and forced myself to smile. To look normal, as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Caroline waved back, her lips ruby red. She had looked different these past few days. Pretty, and lush almost, nothing like the nervous sparrow I’d met in New York.

  Their small car disappeared down the road. Bobby had booked them into a hotel in Killarney for two nights. I’d be on my own tonight. Well, not exactly on my own.

  I walked into the kitchen, sliced a piece of ham from yesterday’s dinner and cut myself some bread. I brewed tea, my mother’s tea.

  Later, I dressed in one of my newer sheaths, one I’d made myself last year. Identical to my mother’s. The evening was warm, almost balmy, yet I slipped the heavy red cape over my shoulders as I walked out the door.

  Conor Griffin, Seamus’s son, drove five cows along the back field. He saluted me from the distance and I waved back, conscious of my scarlet cloak. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, with shame. What must he think of me? What must they all think of me?

  I remember when I was in school. I couldn’t have been more than six. One of the girls from town, a Phelan I think, not one of the five families, told me very matter-of-factly I couldn’t sit next to her. Said my mother was the Mountain’s whore, and that when I grew up I’d become the Mountain’s whore too.

  That evening I told my mother a girl called me a whore and I didn’t understand why, I wasn’t a cow.

  “A cow?” my mother asked.

  “Yes, that’s what Daddy always shouts at the cows when they won’t go through the gate.

  I’m not a cow.”

  “Ah, love, of course you’re not.”

  “What did she mean, Mammy?”

  She pulled me onto her lap, and to this day I can still almost feel the pressure of her soft hands as they encircled my waist. She kissed the top of my head. “The people in the town don’t understand us, love, or what an important job we have up here on the Mountain. We serve Slanaitheoir and we keep them safe.”

  “Whores keep people safe?”

  “We’re not whores, love. You will hear that word again, I’m afraid. You’re a very special girl, Mary. And when you’re older I will explain it all to you.”