Devil's Mountain

by Bernadette Walsh

  The metal warmed in my hand and vibrated slightly. “Is that you? Are you here?”

  I opened my fist. The ring was glowing now, and the heat was nearly unbearable. It fell from my hand onto the floor, leaving a circle of red burnt flesh in the center of my palm.

  Too stunned to even cry, I knelt beside the ring. “What do you want?” I whispered to it.

  “What should I do?”

  That voice. That strange, seductive voice filled my kitchen. “Come home.”

  * * * *

  Mary hadn’t taken Bobby’s death well, but she hadn’t slipped into madness again either.

  There were no more trips to the home. But her trips into Kilvarren became even less frequent, and she never ventured to Dublin anymore to see her grandchildren. Mary hadn’t been more than ten miles from the Mountain since Kathy’s birth.

  Mary had been so good to me when Kathy was born, that despite my own grief, I made it a point to call and mail pictures of the kids. She was always polite on the phone, if distant. It wasn’t until I received a call from Orla suggesting I not call her mother so much that I realized that hearing from me was not a comfort to Mary, but rather a source of pain.

  I limited my calls to twice a year--Christmas and Easter--and even then I wasn’t sure that limited contact was welcome.

  So why did I drag my two children three thousand miles to that godforsaken Mountain?

  I wish I knew. But ever since I found that ring, I’d dreamt of nothing else. Thought of nothing else. And besides, who would miss me in New York? Certainly not my family. I suspected my brothers, my school friends, even my fellow 9-11 widows would be a little relieved to see me go. Even for a 9-11 widow, there was a sympathy limit and it seemed that I’d reached mine.

  Find a job. Volunteer. Take a vacation. Start dating. These were the helpful suggestions thrown at me almost daily. You’re young. You’ll find someone new. As if Bobby was just an old pair of shoes I needed to replace. As if he wasn’t my life.

  But the dreams, though haunting and horrible in a way, had woken something in me. A need to return to the Mountain. I became fixated on returning “home” as my dream man called it.

  I mentioned I was thinking of returning to Ireland to Orla on one of our infrequent calls but she discouraged me. Told me to move on with my life. I suspected I’d receive a similar reaction from Mary, so I didn’t tell either of them I was coming.

  I hadn’t driven a stick shift since college and had never driven on the left side of the road before, but somehow I made it out of Shannon airport, my two little ones blissfully asleep in their rented car seats. I smiled as the early morning mist burned off and the elusive Irish sun shone brightly. I took the fine weather as an omen of good things to come.

  Two hours later I pulled in front of Dot’s shop. Last month I’d called her and told her I was thinking of coming for a visit. I asked if she knew of any hotels. “Hotels?” she’d said. “As if I would let family stay in a hotel. I’ve plenty of room since the boys moved out. It’s lonely with only Tim and myself. We’d love for you to stay with us.”

  Aidan sprang out of the car but Kathy’s eyes remained closed, her black curls damp against her forehead. I kissed my sleeping beauty and lifted her out of the small compact, careful not to bump her head.

  Dot’s shop wasn’t opened to customers yet but the door was unlocked. I pushed against the heavy glass door and was hit by the smell of bacon and sausages, the traditional Irish welcome for exhausted Yanks.

  “Caroline?” Dot shouted from the back room. “Come on back.”

  I walked past the butcher’s display case and through a narrow aisle of groceries, all the while keeping Aidan from grabbing a bar of Cadbury’s.

  Dot had set out plates on the small scarred table. In her work smock and without her customary red lipstick, she looked older than the last time I’d seen her. Although of course, it had been almost five years. I suppose, I too had changed from that summer of what I thought was despair. Fool. I’d been a fool to think a barren womb was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

  “Hello, young man,” she said. “Are you ready for your breakfast?”

  Aidan, suddenly shy, hid behind my legs.

  “Ah, and who is this lady? Can I?” Dot asked, holding out her arms.

  Kathy eyes fluttered briefly. She nuzzled in Dot’s arms and returned to her dreams.

  “Isn’t she a dote, though. Oh, and the image of your husband.” Dot touched a small curl.

  “She has the look of the Mountain, all right. Like my Sean.”

  I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. For God’s sake, I wanted to shake myself. Kathy was the image of Bobby, and his mother. Of course people would comment. What had I expected?

  I’d just gotten here, I couldn’t be Martha Mopey in my first five minutes. I forced a bright smile.

  “She’s a good girl. Sweet, well behaved. No trouble at all. Now, Aidan, sit down here and eat your breakfast.”

  Our first three days with Dot and Tim were calm and uneventful. I wandered around the small village during the day while Dot worked in the shop. In the evenings, one of my many Collins relatives would stop by and I drank so much tea with them I thought I would float away.

  But, for the first time in a long time, I slept through the night unaided by pills or wine.

  Dot had the day off from the shop and she took me to nearby Killarney, while a teenaged Collins cousin watched the children. We strolled through the bustling town, overrun with tourists this time of the year. Dot led me to a narrow side street and we stopped for lunch in a cafe owned by a school friend of Dot’s.

  Unlike the dark pubs that lined the main streets of Killarney, this cafe had cheerful yellow walls lined with floral prints. A perfect place for a ladies’ lunch.

  Midway through our salad, Dot broached the topic of my mother. “I spoke to Nellie last night while you were putting the children down. She was surprised to hear you were here.”

  “I haven’t spoken to my mother in close to six months.”

  “Six months? Why, Caro? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either, to tell you the truth. When I came back from Ireland last time, before I found out I was pregnant with Aidan, we argued. She accused me of making some sort of deal with Mary. With the devil. After that, well, let’s just say we haven’t been close.”

  “Poor Nellie.”

  “Poor Nellie?” I snapped. “What about poor Caroline? I’ve been through hell these past two years and not a peep from my mother. It would’ve been nice to have her support. Hell, even a phone call every now and then would have been nice. But she’s cut me out. Ever since that day, she’s cut me out. And she’s barely seen the children.”

  “She’s frightened, Caroline. She’s frightened of the Devlins and their power.”

  “Power? For God’s sake, Mary is afraid of her own shadow and can barely leave her house. What’s to be frightened of?”

  “Did your mother not tell you more about the Devlins, about Slanaitheoir?”

  “Oh, was that the mountain spirit? The one who cured the sick cow?”

  “Yes. She didn’t tell you any more?”

  “No.”

  Dot looked around the almost empty cafe and lowered her voice. “I think in order to understand Mary and your mother’s fears about Mary you need to know the whole story. Now, how much of the story had I told you? I can’t remember.”

  “You said something about the thorns keeping the people on the Mountain.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember now.” She took a sip of the house white wine. “The men tried to cut through the thicket surrounding the base of the Mountain. But no matter how much they cut down in one day, the next day the hedge of thorns was twice as thick and high. The men eventually gave up. The five families had food on the Mountain, more than they ever had before.

  They had clothes. They had thick mead, magical mead. They had music. They had each other.

  And they had Slanaitheoir, wh
o cared for their every need. Slanaitheoir, who loved them dearly.

  “For years the five families lived in their Mountain paradise. They prospered and the women, no longer underfed, were fertile. Each woman of childbearing age had at least one child a year. A few had twins. And the children, they were beautiful. Fat rosy cheeks. And many, many of the new babies had green eyes and curly black hair.

  “One day one of the men, a Murphy I believe, came home from the fields early and found Slanaitheoir in bed with his wife. He was smart enough not to confront Slanaitheoir. He pretended nothing was amiss. Later that night, he went to each home on the Mountain and spoke to the men. Told them how he’d found Slanaitheoir in bed with his wife. Pointed out to the men how each one of their fat new babies looked like Slanaitheoir.

  “It was then the enchantment fell away from the men, and they realized they had been bewitched by that thing living in the forest. All of the men and boys older than sixteen, thirty in all, gathered in front of Tim Devlin’s cottage with torches, and clubs and holy water and thus armed, marched to the cave.

  “The men returned later that night, battered and bruised, and more than one had lost his reason. But the men could not return to the way things were. They could not sit back and accept Slanaitheoir’s gifts and his mead, while He bedded their wives and filled their houses with His children. The men couldn’t trust their wives not to tell Slanaitheoir of their plans, so they continued as they had before. They worked their fields, they danced with Slanaitheoir, but at night, they met at the base of the Mountain and with their dull axes worked steadily at cutting back the branches that entrapped them. The magic of the branches after all this time must have weakened, because although the work was slow and they didn’t make much progress, they did make some. Night after night they cut away more and more, until one night, they cut through and three of the men were able to crawl through a small hole. They ran to Kilvarren for a priest.

  “The Kilvarren they had last seen seven years earlier was a much different place. The once bustling village was almost empty and those few people who remained were gaunt shadows of themselves. The townsfolk stared at the three men, with their strong muscles and healthy bodies, as if they were aliens. Famine. The Famine decimated Kilvarren, but had somehow never made it to the Mountain.

  “The priest, the only one in the village who didn’t look like a walking skeleton, agreed to go to the Mountain with the three men. He sprinkled holy water on the branches and the accursed branches withered and died at its touch. The priest went with the men to the cave, and with his Latin and his holy water he reduced Slanaitheoir to dust.

  “The men were jubilant. They’d defeated Slanaitheoir and reclaimed their women. They were able to go to town and sell their crops at good prices. They were no longer prisoners of the Mountain. They had won.

  “But then the cows sickened. The crops failed and every child born after that died in its mother’s arms. The Mountain families were soon as destitute as their Kilvarren neighbors.

  “The women blamed the men for angering Slanaitheoir. They sent the most beautiful of them, Roisin Devlin, a young girl of sixteen who’d never lain with Slanaitheoir, to the cave to plead their case. To beg for mercy. Rosin’s mother, Mairead, who was known to have the gift of sight and of healing, accompanied Roisin to the cave.

  “Slanaitheoir, as strong and radiant as ever, met them at the cave, as if he’d been expecting them. They feasted on roast lamb and drank mead. Mairead offered Slanaitheoir Roisin and one of her female descendants from each generation in exchange for letting the rest of the Mountain folk go free. They signed a binding agreement in blood, powered by Mairead’s strong magic.

  “That’s some story.” I sipped my wine. “Do you believe it?”

  Dot paused for a moment before she answered. “I think I’m like many of the Mountain’s descendants. I believe it and I don’t believe it. If that makes any sense. I know it sounds crazy to a woman like you, an American, and that was probably only a story the people told themselves, maybe to explain why they survived the Famine and others didn’t. Maybe the tale was born of survivor’s guilt. And yet, while my mind tells me it’s only a story, a fairy tale, in my heart and in my bones, I believe it is true.”

  “Are you’re saying my mother-in-law is the handmaiden to some devil living in the woods?”

  “When you put it like that, love, it does sound ridiculous.”

  “And does everyone know this story? All the people in the village?”

  “All the old timers, yes. People like your mother. But there’s a lot of new blood in the village since they built the electronics factory down the road. And the young ones, like my sons, they don’t believe it at all. Belief in Slanaitheoir, after so many years, is finally dying out.”

  “Does Mary believe in it? Is that why she doesn’t leave the Mountain?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose you’d have to ask her yourself.” Dot looked at her watch and waved at the waitress. “It’s getting late, love, I’d better get you back.”

  * * * *

  Dot and Tim were the perfect hosts, but after two weeks I could see the strain of having two young children underfoot was getting to the older couple. The break had done me good, but I too was tired of living in their cramped home. Much as I loved walking around the picturesque town and reconnecting with my family, I was ready to leave, return to New York with a clearer head. Ready to see what the rest of my life held in store for me.

  But I couldn’t leave without visiting Mary. I didn’t want to call her and give her a chance to brush me off, so three days before we were scheduled to go back home I loaded my children and our bags into my rental car and drove the six miles to Devlin’s Mountain.

  An early morning mist had burned off and the sun peeked through the clouds. I turned off the main road onto the dirt road leading to Mary’s cottage. Shielded by a canopy of thick brush, the lane was as forbidding and dark as I remembered. My cheap rental car groaned as it ascended the Mountain. The children were silent and when I checked in my back mirror, wide-eyed, as if they knew they were entering a magical and forbidden place.

  But then the tunnel of trees and brush thinned and well tended fields took their place. The sun broke through the clouds and a faint rainbow appeared in the distance. Sheep dotted the fields, to the delight of Aidan.

  Though it was early, Mary was in her garden wearing a big straw hat and holding a pair of shears. Her back to me, I could see her figure was still supple and strong. From the back she didn’t look a day past thirty. She must have heard the car approach because she turned to look at me. Dear God. Her face. In the two years since I’d seen her, her face had aged at least twenty years. Her cheeks were sunken and eyes lined. But even still, with her hypnotic green eyes she was striking, if no longer a beauty.

  The crunch of the gravel echoed through the fields, the slam of the car door scattering a flock of nearby birds. I struggled to unhook Kathy from her car seat, my hand unsteady and unable to release the clasp. What am I doing here? I thought. Why do I keep imposing myself on people who don’t want me? I should just turn around, drive down the Mountain and take my children home.

  But that voice, whatever or whoever it was, told me to come here, had ordered me to come home. Home. The blood of these accursed Mountain people ran through my veins and even more strongly through my children’s. It was as much our home as anywhere else.

  “Here,” Mary said, her lilting voice soft and low, “let me.”

  I stepped aside and allowed her to release Kathy from the rented car seat while I lifted Aidan out of his.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I, uh...”

  Her eyes met mine. They were as turbulent and opaque as the sea and I couldn’t read their expression. Her ruined face gave nothing away. “It’s all right, you’re here now.”

  Kathy’s black curls fell around her heart-shaped face and her bright green eyes almost glowed in the sunlight. With a chubby hand, she stroked Mary’s wrinkled cheek. I w
aited for Mary to smile, to kiss my fair girl. But she did neither. She handed Kathy back to me and lifted the suitcase out of the trunk of the car. Without another word, she led the remnants of her family back to the cottage.

  Chapter 13

  Mary

  “No Devlin woman ever escapes her fate,” my mother had said that first Sunday after I’d arrived from Dublin with all my belongings in the boot of my car. She had taken me to the cliff on the highest point of the Mountain overlooking the Feale River. “Some fight it, some don’t.

  But either way, they all wind up down there.”

  My mother’s wild black hair, recently tinged with silver, danced in the breeze. I took her hand. “What kind of Devlin woman were you? Did you ever fight your fate?”

  Her face was serene as she answered, “No, love. I never did. I saw what it did to my grandmother. It drove her mad and in the end she found her way to the river like the rest of them.

  No, I saw no point in fighting it. Those who do only anger Slanaitheoir and ruin their lives.”

  “Ruin their lives? Aren’t they already ruined?”

  “My life hasn’t been ruined. It’s not what I would’ve chosen. But I made a life. I was a good wife to your father and mother to you and your brothers. I’m a good neighbor, and friend.

  My life has not been ruined.”

  “If what you’ve said is true, what He does to you... What you have to do to Him...”

  She touched my cheek. “It’s only part of my life. Only part. He’ll consume you if you let Him. By fighting Him, by focusing all your energy on Him, you’ll allow Him to steal even more of your life.”

  “Steal even more of my life? What’s left to take? He’s taken my husband, my children.

  Jesus, he’s taken my very mind. What’s left?”

  “Only you can decide what kind of Devlin woman you will be, Mary. Every time He, well, every time He took me, I thought of all the Mountain families, living their lives. Free. I remembered the children who wouldn’t have made it into the world if that first Devlin woman hadn’t made this sacrifice.”