Devil's Mountain

by Bernadette Walsh

  I’d looked down at my mother’s placid face and felt my blood boil. “So offer it up, is what you’re saying? When that, that thing lays its hands on me, I should offer it up?”

  “Mary, the longer you make Him happy, the longer you’ll live.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to live. Not if it means being His plaything.”

  “And what then? If you’re no longer here, what do you think will happen?”

  “Slanaitheoir can go back to hell where He belongs!”

  “No, Mary. If you’re not here He’ll go on to the next Devlin woman in line. He’ll go after your daughter.”

  “But you told me He didn’t want Orla. That He found her repulsive.”

  “Maybe, although if she’s all that’s left, He could change His mind. Or He could go to the next generation. A granddaughter perhaps.”

  “You’ve done this, all these years, for me?”

  “Yes, love. I’ve given you as much time as I could. To raise your children and live your life.” She pointed to her face. “You can see for yourself, our magic can only last so long. I’m aging, rapidly. He no longer desires me, but someone young. He wants you.”

  I laughed. “I’m fifty-five! That’s hardly young.”

  “You’re still a beautiful woman. And once he’s with you, you will look younger and I when I’m gone, my powers will be yours. They will help you appear younger still.”

  “To give my daughter a chance.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if He still doesn’t want Orla? If there are no granddaughters, then what? Will he go back to hell?”

  “There’s always been a Devlin woman.”

  “Yes, but what if there isn’t? What if we can break the chain?”

  “I don’t think it can be broken. There’s always been a Devlin woman. There’s Orla.”

  “He hates Orla. Jesus, He tried to kill Her when she was young.”

  “He’ll find a way. Don’t, Mary. Don’t twist your mind trying to fight Him. You won’t win. No one wins.”

  “How long, Mam? How long do you have?”

  “A month. Maybe two. You and I have a lot of work to do before then.” She wiped a tear from my cheek. “Hush now, love. Don’t cry. I’m not sad. ’Tis time for this to be over.”

  What type of Devlin woman would I be? I didn’t have an answer to that question until they fished my poor mother’s broken bones out of the Feale River.

  What kind of Devlin woman did I want to be?

  The last one.

  The few times Orla came to the Mountain, I cast my spells and she would arrive at my house ill tempered, overweight, face full of spots, hair lank. Slanaitheoir would rant for days afterward, rail at me for producing such a poor specimen of a woman. He would punish me for it.

  I was confident He would not choose her as my successor. And with three little boys and no desire for a fourth child, there was no fear of a granddaughter from her womb.

  And then there was Caroline. Sweet, unassuming Caroline. I had underestimated her. I’d thought once she had her baby boy she would be satisfied. But she’s more like her mother than I’m sure she’d ever admit. Both of them grasping, desperate women who can only see their own pain, their own desires. Women like that are a beacon to negative forces, and I’m sure it was easy enough for Slanaitheoir to find her in New York and trick her into saying the words necessary to break my carefully constructed Agreement.

  Stupid, stupid bitch.

  And now, despite my years of planning, my years of sacrifice, Slanaitheoir had won. My successor had been born.

  “They’re asleep, finally. I had to put a towel over the window to further block the sun.

  Aidan wouldn’t believe it was bedtime with the sun still out. I can’t believe it myself. Nine o’clock and the sun’s shining.”

  “Tea?” I asked. When in doubt, offer tea.

  Caroline smiled at me, uncertainly. “Yes, thank you.”

  I boiled the water, took out two chipped mugs and cut two thick pieces of Bridget Griffin’s bread. The last time Caroline was here, when Bobby brought her home, I’d used my grandmother’s china and made rhubarb tart with cream. I’d been out to impress the Yank. Not this time, though. I had been serving haphazard dinners, bits of bread for lunch. I barely spoke to her or the children. I didn’t want this visit to extend beyond a day or two. But Caroline seemed oblivious to my rudeness. She’d been here almost a week already and had made no mention of leaving.

  I set the mugs on the table with a bang. Caroline’s milky tea sloshed onto the worn tablecloth.

  We sat at the table, and the old kitchen was silent except for the bleating of the sheep in the distant fields. Caroline cleared her throat. “Mary, I want to thank you for having us.”

  “’Tis no bother. You’re always welcome.”

  “Are you sure? I know it’s not easy having two small children underfoot.”

  You stupid cow, of course you’re not welcome. Go home, for God’s sake go home before He sees her. I forced the calm into my voice. “Ah, they’re both dotes and no trouble at all.”

  Caroline finished her tea. “We haven’t spoken about Bobby.”

  “What’s to say? He’s gone.” Because of you, you stupid, selfish girl.

  Caroline twisted the wedding ring she still wore. “I miss him. Every day. I talk to him.

  Sometimes I even think he talks back.”

  “That’s normal, love. My mother did the same after my father passed.”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but there was one night in my kitchen, after I went through Bobby’s briefcase, the one they found at the Trade Center, I swear I heard his voice.”

  My stomach dipped. “What did you hear? What did he say?”

  “I know it’s silly, probably only my imagination, but, Mary, I swear it sounded so real. A voice said, ‘Come home.’ I tried ignoring it, but those same words rang in my head, morning, noon and night. Come home. Come home. So I did.”

  Despite my good intentions, I snapped, “This is not your home.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise at my tone. “Isn’t it? It’s where my family lived for generations. It’s where Bobby is from. When the voice said to come home, I just knew it meant here.”

  “Who else have you told about this, this voice?”

  “No one. They already think I’m crazy. The crazy widow. But ever since I found that briefcase and the ring, I knew Bobby wanted me here. I did.”

  Maybe not Bobby. My ears began to buzz. It was all I could do to nod my head, look normal. I willed my voice to be steady. “What ring?”

  Caroline fished a thin gold chain from inside her blouse. On the end of it was the ring I had given Bobby on his twenty-first birthday. The ring had belonged to my grandfather and his father before. The ring of thorns. I’d told Bobby to always wear it, to never leave the house without it. For protection.

  “Why wasn’t he wearing it?”

  “I don’t know. It was loose and he was always fiddling with hit. Twisting it. Taking it off, putting it back on. I found it in the binding of his day planner.”

  My Bobby, not more than dust and rubble in a landfill. My sweet, beautiful Bobby shattered but this ring unscratched, complete.

  “You’re going to think it’s silly, but when I hold the ring in my palm it gets warm and that’s when I feel he’s close.” Caroline held up her palm to me and I could see a faint blistered circle in its center. “Since I arrived here, it’s been different. I hold the ring, but it doesn’t get warm and I no longer feel him close. I think he wants me to give it to you. Maybe that’s why Bobby wanted me to come home. So I could give the ring to you.”

  Bobby, black unruly hair captured underneath his graduation cap. His shy smile. He’d never been comfortable being the center of attention. I’d forced him to stand next to Orla and Paul as I snapped a photo. The ring, a graduation gift, loose on his surprisingly thin and elegant finger, glinted in the sunlight.

  Could Bobby be speaking
to her through this ring? And not Him. This ring, a reminder to the Mountain men of how they vanquished Slanaitheoir, escaped His prison of thorns. Surely, He would have no power over this ring. Surely, His power had limits.

  Bobby, my sweet Bobby, had seen my pain from heaven. Surely, Bobby and the angels had not completely forgotten me on this godforsaken Mountain. Perhaps they pity me, and thought Caroline and the children could help me keep my sanity. And perhaps my Bobby wanted me to help his wife as well.

  My cheeks burned at the thought of Bobby and my mother watching me from heaven.

  Watching my rudeness to Caroline and the children. Those sweet children who could heal my tortured soul if only I would let them.

  A few weeks. What harm could a few weeks on the Mountain do? Kathy was young, too young even for Slanaitheoir. And after that she’d be safe in her Manhattan flat. Far from Slanaitheoir.

  I took the ring from Caroline and held it in my palm. A tear slid down my cheek. “Thank you, dear,” I choked out. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 14

  Caroline

  In the month we had been with her, Mary’s phone had not rung once. I’d picked up the phone a few times to see if it even worked. Except for the few times that Seamus had stopped in to drop off a loaf of his wife’s bread, no one other than ourselves had crossed Mary’s doorstep. I hadn’t realized before the extent of Mary’s isolation. And her grief.

  For the first week we were there, she could barely look at me or the children. She avoided Kathy more than Aidan, I think, because Kathy with her black hair and green eyes must have reminded her too much of Bobby. I felt like an intruder but how could I turn my back on her? I couldn’t return to Manhattan knowing she was alone on this Mountain, entombed in her grief.

  I hadn’t intended to part with Bobby’s ring, but I was glad now I had. She wore it on a gold chain, and a few times when she didn’t think I was looking, I caught her holding it, a slight smile on her face. It seemed to bring her comfort.

  After that night in the kitchen, the light returned to Mary’s eyes. She insisted on cooking us big roasts, helped bathe the children, and in the past week she’d joined us on our morning walks.

  Kathy, strapped into an old stroller Mary had in her shed, dozed after her large breakfast.

  Mary and Aidan walked ahead of us and I could hear Mary explain to the city boy why the sheep weren’t on leashes. The sun burst through the early morning clouds and blanketed the sometimes forbidding Mountain with its golden glow. Bobby used to say that in the right light, the Mountain was the most beautiful place in the world. “More beautiful than Italy? More beautiful than the Caribbean?” I would tease. “More beautiful than anywhere,” he’d say. On a morning like this, I’d say he was right.

  This morning we varied our route and walked along the east side of the Mountain, near the Griffins’ holding. Mary had baked a strawberry tart and wanted to drop it off at Seamus and Bridget’s.

  Mary had told me the Griffins were a large family, the type no longer in vogue in modern Ireland. Eleven children, ranging in age from twenty-eight to seven. Two of the older ones were working in London, one smart girl, Seamus’s pride and joy, was in university in Dublin and the oldest son lived in a small cottage on the Griffin’s landholding near the road. He’d built a workroom attached to the cottage, where he ran some type of woodworking shop.

  “Morning, Conor,” Mary said as we approached the small, neat cottage.

  A young man, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, sat on a kitchen chair propped outside the front door of the cottage, a large chipped mug in his hand. His face was serene as he basked in the morning sun and his long legs were stretched out in front of him.

  “Morning, Mary.” His voice had the soft lilt of the region.

  Two little girls ran out from behind the shed.

  “Morning, girls. Is your mother home?” Mary asked.

  The older of the two girls giggled and nodded.

  “Right, so. Caroline, I’ll just run this up to her. I think it might be difficult to get the pram up the hill. Stay here, I’ll only be a moment.”

  She turned to walk up the hill. Aidan wouldn’t let go of her hand. “Aidan, you want to say hello to Mrs. Griffin?”

  Aidan nodded and clutched her hand. He’d become quite attached to his grandmother these past few weeks. Mary laughed and she, Aidan and the two girls made their way up the hill, leaving me and Kathy alone with Conor.

  “Beautiful day,” I said.

  “’Tis,” the young man said.

  I looked down at Kathy, hoping to busy myself with my child and avoid making small talk, but she slept soundly. I needlessly adjusted her blanket.

  “Have you always lived here?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.

  “Mostly.”

  Geez, he wasn’t making it easy for me. I stifled my irritation when I saw his clear blue eyes. They were friendly and were set in a pleasant face. Maybe he wasn’t much of a talker.

  “Mary tells me you’re a woodcarver.” Sweet Mother of God, why couldn’t I just shut up?

  “I am.”

  I smiled at him, hopefully not an idiotic smile. I thankfully said nothing else. This man clearly wasn’t one for chit chat. Who could blame him? He was young, in his twenties, and cute.

  He probably had many Kilvarren girls chasing him. Why would he want to waste his words on a plain, thirty-something Yank?

  I checked Kathy again, and again she was sleeping sound.

  “Would you like to see?”

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  He smiled then. A small, crooked smile. “Would you like to see my work?”

  “Um, sure.” I went to lift Kathy out of the stroller.

  “No, don’t disturb her. She’s fine there.”

  I looked around. Since there was no one about, I left the sleeping child and climbed the few steps up to his small porch. My ankle turned on the last step and I would’ve fallen except Conor caught me. Chatty and clumsy. What a great combination.

  His arms were strong and up close he had a slight musky smell. Surrounded by small children and women these past two years, I’d almost forgotten what a man smelled like.

  “I’m so, uh, sorry,” I sputtered.

  “No worries,” he said as he held my arm and guided me through the narrow doorway.

  From the outside, the cottage looked like a typical stone cottage found on any Irish postcard. It was painted a cheerful yellow to match the main house. Inside was bright and airy, unlike the warren of rooms in Mary’s cottage. Most of the internal walls had been knocked down and he had installed several skylights. On one side of the large room were sculptures made of wood. Most were abstracts, although there were a few of people. They were strange yet beautiful and wouldn’t be out of place in The Museum of Modern Art.

  “Woodcarver? I’m sorry I called you that. You’re an artist.”

  A faint blush spread across his cheeks. “No, sure, I’m only a woodcarver. I do these for fun. Come, I’ll show you how I earn my living.” He led me to the adjoining shed were there were several ornate fireplace mantels. One looked similar to the one in my Aunt Dot’s house. These too, with their ornate carvings, were also works of art.

  I ran my fingers along the smooth carvings of one mantel. Branches with thorns were entwined down the sides of the mantel. “This looks like my husband’s ring.”

  Conor raised his right hand, and an exact replica was on his third finger. “I’m my father’s oldest son.”

  I walked to the next mantelpiece. A ring of people danced in front of a cave, with a taller man off to the side raising his hands above his head. “Is this supposed to be the legend of Slanaitheoir?”

  He smiled. “Legend?”

  “Legend. Is that the right word? Well, the story of Slanaitheoir then.”

  “There’s them that would say He’s no story. That He still lives.”

  For some reason my black-haired forest dream man’s face flashed in my mind. “Do you believe
in Him?”

  “I believe and I don’t believe.”

  I laughed. “That’s exactly what my aunt said.”

  “A common enough response from one of the Mountain’s five families. But you’re one of us, aren’t ye? What do you think?”

  The face of the goat from five years ago, its black eyes piercing through me. I shook my head. “No. I don’t believe in it. Of course not. It was a story ignorant people told themselves in a time of stress.”

  “Ignorant people?”

  “More simple people,” I said, not sure I was making myself look any better. “Surely you must agree?”

  “Surely I must,” he said with a slight mocking tone.

  Who was this man? At first he looked like a hayseed, just like his father. But he was a talented artist, and while quiet, he wasn’t exactly shy. Reserved, but there was a bite under that placid facade.

  Well, whatever he was like, it made no difference to me. In a few weeks I’d be in Manhattan, back to my normal life. Whatever that was.

  “Aidan! Aidan, love, where are you?” Mary’s frantic voice came through the open window.

  Conor and I walked out to join her.

  “Did you leave this baby alone?” Mary shouted at me.

  “We were just inside. Mary, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her lovely green eyes held an unearthly sheen and her face was pale and drawn. She looked so unlike the happy, relaxed woman who had walked with me a few moments earlier. But Bobby had warned me her moods could change on a dime.

  “He’s gone!”

  “Who, Aidan?”

  “Yes, he’s gone. He took the child.”

  “Who? Who took Aidan?”

  She looked past me and at Conor. He nodded slightly.

  “What is going on?” I said, keeping my voice level and calm. “There’s no one on this Mountain except ourselves. Aidan must be around here somewhere.”

  A low keening moan erupted from Mary’s throat. She slid to her knees and started pulling at her long hair.

  At this point, Seamus and Bridget along with three of their young daughters arrived.