Devil's Mountain

by Bernadette Walsh

  The man complimented John on his fine home, although in truth, at that time it wouldn’t have been much more than a simple cottage, dirt floors and all. John asked the man to share tea with his family.

  “The Devlins had even less than the other families on the Mountain and their land holding was smaller. Their only cow was poorly and provided little milk, but what little they had they gave their guest. The stranger seemed well pleased by that and was particularly enamored by John’s pretty young wife. Before he left, he walked over to the cow tied to the back of their shed and whispered in its ear. By the next morning, John woke to the bellows of the cow. It begged to be milked, its udders bursting.

  “The man then visited the Griffins and complimented them on the wife’s vegetable garden. The next day the Griffins woke to plants that had doubled in size. The other families received similar unexplainable gifts from the stranger.

  “Soon, He became an integral part of Mountain life. He attended wakes, christenings. He played hurling with the young men, danced with the young girls. Before long the poor Mountain folk had more food in their bellies. The women no longer wore that strained look, and their skin softened and hair grew thick.”

  “So what, he was their good luck charm?” I asked.

  “You could say that. This part of Kerry is often quite wet. That summer the sun shone almost every day. One day the man invited the Mountain families to the glen beside the Devlin’s cottage. Now, the people had always avoided the glen. It was said to be home to the sidhe, the good folk.”

  “The good folk?” I asked.

  “The fae, faeries. The people were afraid, but the man had been kind to them. They didn’t want to insult him so they all put on their best clothes and joined Him in the glen, outside the prochog, the cave.

  “In front of the cave, the man set out a feast of roasted meats and thick golden mead.

  Now these were simple folk, not used to fine food or drink. It was pure heaven to them. He gave a few of the Murphy boys golden fiddles and pipes which they played like angels. The people ate, drank and danced until morn. Even the children.”

  I smiled. “So they had a forest rave?”

  Dot laughed. “A rave? I suppose, something like that. The people lost their fear of the glen and the caves and at least once a week they feasted with the man. They soon began to refer to Him as Slanaitheoir, which in Irish means savior.

  “Now, usually the men of the family would go into Kilvarren village to sell their crops, buy supplies and of course pay the landlord, Lord Devon, his rent. Almost three months after Slanaitheoir arrived two of the men took the road off the Mountain to town, but a thick hedge had grown up across the road and circled the base of the Mountain for as far as the men could see. The next day they went to the south side of the Mountain, toward Killogrin. The south side too was blocked by an even thicker hedge.

  “A hedge?” I asked.

  “Unlike any they’d ever seen. It was near twenty feet high and so thick they could not see through it. A few brave men tried to hack through it with axes, but the branches had sharp thorns and the men were soon bloodied. They asked Slanaitheoir to help them clear it. Even He was unable to cut through it.

  “Some of the people worried they would be turned out of their homes if they didn’t pay their rent. And although their needs were few, they still needed certain staples from the town.

  The people poured out their worries to Slanaitheoir. It seemed once they spoke to Him, their worries left them. The women would tell him they needed a needle and thread, or a new pot, and soon these items would appear on their doorstep. Their crops and livestock continued to thrive, and the Mountain folk for the first time in their memory had all their needs met. Every few days the five families would gather in the glen and dance until morn with Slanaitheoir.

  “This seems like a nice story. I don’t see why my mother wouldn’t want you to tell me about it. How long were they cut off from the village?”

  “For seven years. From 1845 to 1852. The Famine years,” Dot said.

  “The Great Famine?”

  “Yes. The country starved, Kilvarren village was decimated while the five families feasted and danced with Slanaitheoir.”

  “What happened? How did they get off the Mountain?” I asked.

  The front door opened with a bang. My uncle Tim barreled though the small hallway and into the front room.

  “How ye? It’s lashing rain out there.”

  I’d been so caught up in Dot’s story that I hadn’t even noticed the storm outside.

  “Jesus, Timmy, what time is it?” Dottie asked.

  “Past eleven.”

  “Past eleven! And this lady with a flight in the morning. Caroline, love, I’m sorry I’ve delayed you with all my old stories. Timmy, run her up to Mary Devlin’s now so she can get some sleep.”

  “Dottie, really, it’s all right.”

  “No, no, if I cause you to oversleep and miss your flight your mother will never let me hear the end of it. Go on now, love, get your things and Timmy will take you back.”

  “You didn’t finish your story.”

  “Ah, I’ll tell you next time I see you, love. Those stories are as old as the hills and they’ll keep.” Dot kissed me on the cheek and practically threw the two of us out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Mary

  I looked out the kitchen window, and in the distance, the old pucan stood beneath the old hawthorn tree. I turned away and said to my Bobby, “Are you sure you won’t have more black pudding? There’s plenty left.”

  “No, Mam, I’m stuffed. Plus, we don’t want to miss our flight.”

  I landed another sausage onto his plate. “No, no of course not. Caroline will want something, though.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t think so. She was sick this morning.”

  “Sick? Already?” I had added some herbs to her tea and made the request from Slanaitheoir in accordance with the Agreement. But still, I wasn’t sure it would work. Or that I wanted it to work. “Call me when you’re sure. And remember, my love. Only one. You can’t request another. Only the one.”

  Bobby grabbed my hand and in a low voice said, “One is more than we ever hoped for.

  Thank you, Mam. For everything.”

  My hand burned as he touched me. I closed my eyes and saw a baby boy with pale blue eyes. I dropped Bobby’s hand and fell to my knees.

  “What is it, Mam? Are you all right?”

  My head spun and although the baby boy looked sweet, I felt a strange sense of dread.

  Bobby took my arm and lifted me up. “You’re all right, Mam. You’re fine.”

  I leaned into him and opened my eyes. Instead of my kitchen, I saw smoke. And there was paper. Reams of paper fluttering out an open window.

  “Mam?”

  Falling. I felt myself falling through the air.

  “Mam!” Bobby shouted.

  I looked at him and instead of the clean cut, relaxed son I had stuffed with sausages a few moments before, I saw a different Bobby. One with a gash across his cheek, suit jacket torn and dirty. Who had only minutes left to live.

  “No,” I wailed. “Not my son!”

  “Shush, Mam. It’s all right. I’ll get you your tablets,” Bobby said as he sat me in the chair.

  I felt the rush of wind push my hair up as I slid from the chair and onto the cold floor.

  “No,” I keened. “Not my Bobby.”

  I wouldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t bear seeing my Bobby, all battered and torn. I felt a woman’s fingers at my mouth, pushing in the tablets. The bitter chalky taste made me gag and I opened my eyes.

  “You,” I spat. “You’re the cause of all this. Dear God, what have I done?”

  Caroline’s pretty, pretty face was pale and full of concern. “Mrs. Connelly, Mary, what have I done?”

  I grabbed her sleeve and whispered, “It’s not too late. Get rid of it. Pretend it never happened. Save him. Save my son.”

 
“Mary, you’re not making sense.”

  Bobby, now clean and wearing his favorite Dublin jersey, walked in the door followed by Seamus. They lifted me up. I fought against the pills and to stay awake.

  “Don’t go, Bobby. Don’t go to America. It will be the death of you.”

  His green eyes filled with tears. “Ah, Mam, you were doing so well.”

  “No, listen to me. You can’t go back there. Please.”

  “Shush now,” he said laying me carefully in my old bed. “It will all be all right.”

  Seamus took off my shoes. “Leave her to me, Bobby. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  Bobby kissed me cheek. “Sleep now, Mammy.”

  My eyes were heavy but I fought to keep them open, knowing this was the last I was to see of my poor Bobby. Before I knew it, I was lost to the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Caroline

  “Aren’t you my big boy?” I cooed to Aidan as he swallowed a mouthful of strained carrots. He graced me with a toothless smile. “There’s my good boy.”

  I looked around my previously immaculate kitchen that had in the last ten months become cluttered, filled with bottles, toys. Finally filled with life.

  When we came home from Ireland Bobby urged me to go to the doctor. Convinced I had a stomach flu and not wanting to be disappointed again, I refused to take yet another pointless pregnancy test. But as days turned to weeks and my reliable period was still a no-show, I dared hope that some miracle had happened on that Mountain. I wished I could’ve asked my mother, but at that point we weren’t speaking. Or rather, she wasn’t speaking to me.

  The day after we’d returned from Ireland my mother donned her good black skirt and heels and met me at our apartment for lunch. When I opened the door, she gasped.

  “What, Ma?”

  She touched my cheek. “Your face? What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing happened.” I pulled her into the apartment. “Come in, don’t make a scene in front of the neighbors.”

  Once inside the door she grabbed a fistful of my hair. “And this? What did you do to your hair?”

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me!” I twisted away from her.

  My mother’s face was pale under her meticulous makeup, and she looked old, frail.

  Vulnerable. “Tell me you didn’t, Caroline,” she pleaded, her voice high and thin. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  I pulled away from her and walked into the living room. “What are you talking about?”

  She followed me. “You know what I’m talking about. Tell me you didn’t make a deal with the devil.”

  I flounced onto the couch, like a petulant teenager. “Jesus, Ma, you’ve really lost it, you know that? I went on a vacation. That’s all.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” She sat next to me and took my hand. “I’ve always loved you, Caroline, and I’ve always thought you were a lovely girl. Sweet.

  Kind. But truth be told, no beauty.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know yourself it’s true.” She touched my face again. “But how? How do you explain this?”

  “I’m relaxed?”

  He pale face flushed with anger. “Stop playing with me, Caro! What did you do? What did you promise Mary? What did you promise Him?”

  Visions of the pucan, His black eyes boring into me, flooded my brain. Visions of Him possessing me. I shook my head. “Nothing. There’s nothing to tell.”

  She leaned away from me. “You’re lying. They’ve gotten to you. That devil and His bitch. They’ve got you now.”

  I reached for her hand. “Mom, I went on vacation. Mary was very sweet to me, very kind.

  She’s not scary and she didn’t ask anything of me. She didn’t do anything.”

  She pointed to the heavy gilt mirror across from us. “Did she not, love?” She pinched my cheek, hard. “Then how do you explain this?”

  Tears filled my eyes. “I’m the same. I’m the very same.”

  “Jesus, Caroline, you even smell different. Can’t you smell Him?”

  “Mom, you’re losing your mind.”

  She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes. “No, love, it is you who is lost.”

  My mother was never in a room alone with me after that. She did her duty all right. She appeared at mandatory functions. Thanksgiving. Christmas. But she never met me for lunch again, or came to my house. Offered no congratulations when I announced my much longed for pregnancy. Three months after Aidan was born, she convinced my workaholic father to take early retirement. They moved to Florida soon after, far away from their five children. Far away from me.

  Bobby too, essentially was motherless during the nine months of my pregnancy. Two weeks after our trip, Mary was found wandering around Kilvarren village without her coat or shoes, babbling gibberish. It was my Aunt Dorothy who coaxed her into her shop and called Orla. Mary spent close to a year in the county home, a sad stone building ten miles outside Kilvarren. Aunt Dorothy said it was shameful Orla signed her into such a place. According to Dot, psychiatric care at the county home, if you could even call it that, consisted of drugging the patients to the gills and making sure they didn’t get rained on. I tried talking to Bobby about it, suggested we bring her to New York, but he shut me down. He said he’d left home and he wouldn’t overrule Orla. He was sure she knew best. It was only after Aidan was born that Mary got herself together and convinced the doctors and Orla it was safe to leave her out, and for her to return to her Mountain.

  So Bobby and I were, in a way, orphans ourselves as we expected our child. We clung to each other, comforted each other and as soon as my belly swelled with our precious package, we were both so happy that even our mothers’ respective exiles to Florida’s Gulf Coast and the dreary halls of the county madhouse couldn’t dampen our joy.

  At times I would rub my baby bump and stare out the window and wonder what my little boy would look like. I would try and imagine him with Bobby’s black hair and green eyes, but whenever I did I didn’t see the green eyes I woke up to every morning. Instead he had the glowing green eyes that had nearly devoured me in the old Collins cottage. When I first held Aidan and saw my own watery blue eyes stare back at me, I was more than a little relieved.

  Aidan swallowed the last of his carrots. I lifted him out of his highchair. “Come on, little man,” I said, shaking myself from my thoughts. “Time to go.”

  Marcie, one of the Wanna-Be Manhattan Moms who had also experienced success, lived a few blocks away on East 85th Street. A group of successful Wanna-Be Manhattan Moms had formed a little Upper East Side sorority. We would go to Mommy-and-Me classes, play dates and at times babysat for each other. I’m not sure exactly what happened to the not-so-successful Wanna-Be Manhattan Moms. None of us mentioned them.

  Marcie agreed to babysit Aidan while I went to my acupuncture appointment at the Yorktown Natural Fertility Clinic. Bobby refused to go back to the New York Infertility Institute. In fact, it was all I could do to convince him not to use condoms. “I’ve got my beautiful wife and my beautiful son,” he said in a sing-song voice whenever I raised the topic of another child. “That’s all I want. That’s all I need.”

  Why wasn’t that all I needed?

  The first few months of Aidan’s life, I was completely satisfied. I’d never been so happy or imagined I could be so happy.

  But then, the old familiar niggling started. I’d take Aidan in his stroller through Central Park and see a woman pushing twins in a stroller. Or a mother holding the hands of a small boy and a girl. And I would get that sour taste in my mouth, the same one I had tasted for years whenever I saw a pregnant woman.

  And so it began.

  I couldn’t very well steal a vial of Bobby’s sperm and take it with me back to Dr.

  Feinberg’s office. But we had, somehow, managed to conceive Aidan on our own. Perhaps with some Chinese herbs and acupuncture we could conceive again. Marcie swore by acupu
ncture, and after she had been thrown out of two Manhattan IVF clinics she tried traditional Chinese medicine and conceived her own miracle baby. Why couldn’t I too, conceive a little miracle baby with the help of magic teas and shiny needles?

  Just one more, I thought to myself as I opened the heavy glass doors of the Yorktown Natural Fertility Clinic. “Just one more miracle. And then. Then I’ll be happy and content.”

  I promise, I silently swore to God, the universe or whoever else might be listening to my thoughts.

  * * * *

  A row of needles lined my bare stomach. They were in my ears, on my wrists and even between my toes. The acupuncturist, a hippy-looking woman in her mid-fifties with frizzy red hair, twisted the needles between my toes once more before she lowered the lights and left the room.

  The first five minutes were always the hardest. Inevitably at least one of the needles would burn. Dr. Hippy-Dippy said that meant it was working. It was all I could do not to rip the offending thing out.

  I breathed in and out slowly, and tried to focus on my breathing, on anything rather than the needles. As I lay in the darkened room, with only the sound of a small fan to block out the traffic from Second Avenue, my shoulders, which had felt like they were jacked up below my ears, relaxed. I continued my purposeful breathing and closed my eyes.

  Someone took my hand. I opened my eyes and was no longer on the table, but clothed in a long red robe and standing in a forest. And the most beautiful man held my hand.

  “My love,” He said, His voice harsh and guttural. And somehow familiar.

  A lone ray of sunlight made its way through the heavy woods and shone on His black hair. His pale skin glowed and His jade eyes glittered in the low light. They drew me in.

  Without another word He led me to a roaring fire outside of a cave. The fire was hot, and a small bead of sweat formed on my upper lip. The man unbuttoned the red robe and took it from my shoulders. Underneath I wore only a thin sheath of white silk that hid nothing from His probing gaze.

  I should have been embarrassed, but the hungry look in His hypnotic eyes stirred a fire within me. With a finger, he gently followed the lines of my plump, full breast.