“You’re thinking Mick’s going to throw you off the bridge?” Ellen smiled, quickly sponging breakfast crumbs off the counters.
“Or kidnap me,” Maura said cheerfully. “Is he the type?”
“And what would I know about kidnappers and the like?” Ellen retorted. “Okay, out the door, now! Kevin, you keep an eye on the little ones. Maura, there’s a later Mass if you find you’ve the time.”
“Ma, I’m not little!” Patrick complained.
“Then you’re big enough to follow instructions, aren’t you? Now, come along!”
The three older children followed their father out the front door, and Ellen brought up the rear, carrying Gráinne. At the door she turned and said, “There’s coffee, and food’s ready on the stove there. Can you see to yourself?”
“Sure,” Maura called at her retreating back. She made a quick circuit of the kitchen, grabbing and filling a mug, loading a plate with the contents of a covered pan on the stove—apparently the whole family indulged on a Sunday—then sitting down to eat. As she made her way through eggs, sausage—including the blood sausage that she was growing fond of, much to her surprise—she wondered what Mick thought was important enough to show her, and why so early. She hadn’t seen much of the local sites, apart from the middle of Skibbereen. But between talking with Mrs. Nolan mornings and filling in at the pub, she really hadn’t had much time to sightsee. What should she see? she wondered. And why should she care? It had always seemed pointless, to pack up and drive across a state or two just to look at something, take a few blurry pictures, then turn around and drive back again. Not that she’d done much of it. Now and then she and Gran had spent a few hours at one beach or another near Boston, but that didn’t really count as sightseeing. She knew in theory that Boston was rich in history and art, but she had to admit, deep down, that she really wasn’t interested. What did it have to do with her?
She cleaned up her few dishes, then went downstairs to find her bag and, after a glance out the glass doors, put on a rain jacket: it was either raining lightly or misting heavily, and the fields across the harbor had disappeared into the murk. She went back upstairs and let herself out the front door to find that Mick was already waiting for her, his car idling at the top of the drive.
He greeted her with a nod. “Come on,” he said, reaching over and opening the passenger-side door.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“I told Ellen I was going somewhere with you. In case you’re kidnapping me.”
“What?”
“In case you’re an ax murderer. Maybe you belong to some weird cult that demands ritual sacrifice, and I’m the guest of honor.”
He seemed amused. “Paranoid, are we? Besides, if I wanted to hide your body, I know where all the good spots are.”
“Well, that makes me feel so much better,” Maura said with a hint of sarcasm. She was enjoying herself, despite yesterday’s problems and the wet state of the weather. “Is this mysterious thing far?”
“You’ll see,” he repeated.
Maura fell silent and watched the scenery. Mick took a right onto the road that ran along the harbor. It twisted and turned, with a sheer cliff on one side, the water below on the other. Maura saw a long bridge crossing the harbor, and beyond it across the harbor, another town. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Union Hall.” He didn’t volunteer anything further.
After a few more minutes they came to another town. “Okay, what’s this one?”
“Glandore.” Again he stopped speaking.
“Mick, if this is your idea of acting as a tour guide, you suck at it. Just so you know.”
He smiled without looking at her. “We’re not there yet.”
Past the village, the two-lane road veered away from the water, and Maura was completely lost. She decided to just sit back and enjoy whatever Mick had planned, since she’d come this far.
After another mile or so, Mick turned off the main road, down an unmarked dirt road. A few hundred yards later, the road widened to a small graveled area. There were no cars and no people in sight. He pulled in and stopped the car. Maura looked at him quizzically.
“We walk from here,” was all he said.
She sighed: whatever it was, it was going to be wet. She was glad she’d brought her jacket. The heavy mist—or was it light rain?—continued to fall, obscuring any possible views. Mick set off toward a grassy path at one end of the graveled area, and they passed through a revolving gate of some sort, apparently intended to keep out grazing animals rather than humans. The path twisted through tall hedges with dark-green leaves, and changed direction several times. Maura plodded along the slick grass, trying to avoid puddles.
After another turn, Mick waited for her, then stepped aside and motioned her forward. She moved into the open, stopped, and stared in wonder. The land before her fell away down a gentle slope, and she could not see beyond the hedges that bordered the large clearing because of the sweeping grey mist. But in the center of the space, she could make out the ghostly outlines of…a circle of grey stones. She shivered: they appeared so at home in this wet, lonely landscape. “What is it?” she breathed. She’d seen pictures of Stonehenge, but that was in a different country, and this had to be a lot smaller—but no less powerful.
Mick said quietly, “The Druid’s Altar of Drombeg. It’s prehistoric, probably between two and three thousand years old. There are quite a few of these circles around, although this is one of the most complete—and probably the most dramatic.”
Maura took a few more steps into the clearing. “I’ve heard about these—I saw some National Geographic special a while ago. Aren’t they supposed to be aligned with the sun or the moon or something?”
“There are different theories, but a lot of the circles do line up with one or the other, particularly at the solstices.” Maura could feel Mick’s eyes on her as she began to prowl around the stones, running her hands over them. On the far side, one stone lay horizontally, unlike the others. There was a single shape carved on the flat top. Maura traced it with her fingers, trying to imagine the effort it would have taken someone to chip this simple form into the rock two thousand years ago, and why they had done it. The whole place was eerily silent—no birds, not even any sheep, just the drip of water. She felt as though she had stepped out of time. She had no trouble envisioning this as a religious site.
There were some other heaps of stone not far away, and after another minute Maura walked over to examine them.
“That’s a pair of huts,” Mick said as he followed at a distance.
“And that square thing in the ground?” Maura pointed.
“It’s called a fulacht fiadh. It was a cooking pit. There are other examples in the area. You heated up stones in your fire and threw them in the water along with your meat, and after a couple of hours you had boiled meat. Some scientists have tried it, more recently, and it worked. This was before metal cooking pots, you know.”
“Yes, I figured that part out,” Maura said absently. She sat down on a low stone near the pit and fell silent, lost in thought. She studied the ancient monument, wanting to fix the scene in her mind. It really was eerie, particularly under these conditions. Had Mick checked a weather forecast? In bright sunlight it would be much more ordinary.
She looked up at him from her perch on the stone. “Thank you.” She didn’t want to have to say any more, but suddenly she felt very happy. She never would have believed that she could sit in a field with a bunch of rocks, in the rain, and be thrilled by it.
But Mick had to feel it too, because he had brought her here, and he was hanging back, letting the place work its magic on her. She could sense it here. She stood up, walked back to the center of the circle, and shut her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she was seeking, but apparently it wasn’t to be found in the middle of the circle, so it had to be the whole place that was so moving. She walked back to where the path entered, then turned and surv
eyed the scene once again. Mick followed, and at some unspoken cue, they both headed back up the winding path. In the parking area another car had arrived, and a couple of older women climbed out, clutching guidebooks. Maura nodded politely at them but didn’t speak, almost afraid to break the spell. She was glad they had not arrived earlier, and she thanked the unknown local gods for giving her a bit of solitude.
Once back in the car, Mick pulled out and retraced the way toward the main road. After a few miles Maura said, “Maybe I wasn’t so wrong about the ritual sacrifice thing. But what an amazing place.” She fell quiet again, and they drove back to Leap in silence. Mick stopped at the top of Ellen’s drive to let her out of the car. Before she closed the door, she paused, then said, “Thank you, Mick. I mean it. I would never have found the place on my own, and it really is special.”
Mick looked at her, a half smile on his face. “I thought you’d like it. I’m off now to pick up my grandmother for church.”
“Oh, right.” Maura was torn; her recent memories of being in a Catholic church were sad ones, but at the same time, the church in Leap was likely the one where her grandparents had been married and where her father had been christened. She should probably make at least a token effort to see the church; it would have pleased Gran. “Can I come with you?”
Mick gave her a quick, puzzled look. “Sure, if you like.”
“Do I need to change clothes?” Maura asked, before remembering she had nothing better to change into.
“Father Driscoll is more than happy to have people in his church these days—he won’t mind, nor will the others. Shall I go straight on to Grannie’s house, then?”
“Yes.” Maura settled back in her seat, wondering what she had just let herself in for.
Chapter 19
Maura sat silently for most of the drive to collect Bridget Nolan, trying to fit what she had seen—and felt—at Drombeg into what she knew, or had thought she knew, about Ireland. It wasn’t an easy job. When they reached Mrs. Nolan’s house, she was already waiting at the door, wearing a hat that was probably older than Maura, and carrying a prim purse, its handle over her arm. Her face was turned to the sun, as if seeking the spring warmth. Maura noted that the mists that had clung to the coast at Drombeg seemed to have melted away.
Mick pulled up in front of the house, and Maura climbed out of the front seat.
“Oh, how lovely,” Mrs. Nolan said on seeing her. “Will you be joining us for church?”
“If you don’t mind. I thought I should see where Gran was married. Nobody will care, will they?”
“Of course not, love. If you’ll just give me a hand in, we can get on.”
Maura guided her to the front seat and then sat behind.
“Will you be joining us for dinner at the hotel, after?” Mrs. Nolan tossed back over the seat.
Dinner? She must mean lunch. Maura mentally reviewed how much cash she had with her and wondered if it would be enough. Which also reminded her to ask Mick when she would likely get paid for the hours she was putting in at Sullivan’s. But now was not the time. “I don’t want to be a bother,” she ventured.
“Don’t trouble yourself—the rest of the town’ll be glad to get a look at you,” Mrs. Nolan said complacently.
Great. Her first public appearance—in church, no less—and she was wearing grubby clothes and would probably have to beg for her lunch. She hoped the local citizens were forgiving.
Maura had been past the Church of St. Mary, first on the bus the day she had arrived, and then when she’d picked up food at the quick mart across the street, but she hadn’t yet ventured inside. It was a substantial rectangular stone building, with few decorative frills. To the front lay a large parking lot; behind, the steep cemetery. The lot was no more than half-filled and looked rather forlorn. At least Mick could park fairly close to the entrance. He was already helping his grandmother out of the front seat by the time Maura had her own door open. He took Mrs. Nolan’s elbow and guided her slowly to the church door, while she nodded and smiled to several people along the way. Maura trailed behind, feeling alternately painfully exposed and invisible.
The church’s interior was large, well lit, and surprisingly bare. Maura wondered just what she had expected, but this wasn’t it—not at all like the churches she had seen in Boston. At Mick’s gesture Maura slid into a seat, then he settled Mrs. Nolan beside her and took the seat on the aisle. Once Mass began, Maura listened to the liturgy with half her mind; with the other half she watched the people around her and then checked out the windows and plaques on the near walls. Funny how quickly the ritual came back, even though it had been years since she had attended any Mass other than at Christmas; she stumbled on the responsorials but still knew when to kneel. At least she’d outgrown the fidgeting part. What would Gran think if she could see her now? Or maybe she could?
Maura tried to picture her grandmother and James Donovan, the grandfather she had never known, standing in front of the priest and friends and relatives in this echoing space. Would there have been many watching? The current priest wasn’t young, but not old enough to have known them. As she scanned the thin crowd, Maura realized that she and Mick were the youngest people there. Maybe all the people with young children made a point of going early, as Ellen and her family had?
When the service ended, Maura waited for Mick and Mrs. Nolan to make their way back outside. Instead, Mrs. Nolan slipped her hand through Maura’s arm and began to introduce her to friends, and to the priest. It took some time before Mrs. Nolan ran out of people to introduce her to. Maura smiled and nodded, knowing she would never remember all the names. She wondered if any would show up at Sullivan’s.
“I’ll take you down to the hotel, shall I?” Mick said.
“Lovely, dear. Maura, you’ll enjoy the meal—Sheahan’s lays on a nice spread for a Sunday.”
Mick drove them down the street to the rear of the hotel, where the restaurant was located. Mrs. Nolan seemed reenergized—or was looking forward to the meal?—and guided Maura to the entrance, her hand on Maura’s arm.
As she opened the door, Maura realized that everybody in town must be there. A wave of loud conversation rolled over her, and she could smell cooking lamb and cabbage, and other things she didn’t recognize. A tiny bar tucked in one corner was enjoying brisk business, mainly among the men. The food was arrayed cafeteria-style on several long tables against a wall, and Maura realized how hungry she was. There were no prices listed anywhere, but before Maura could say anything, Mrs. Nolan leaned toward her and said, “It’s our treat.”
When Mick returned from wherever he had parked, Mrs. Nolan said to him, “Find us a place to sit, will you? Maura and I will fill our plates.”
Mick grinned at Maura over Mrs. Nolan’s head. “Sure, Grannie.” Once they’d done so, Mrs. Nolan led the way to the corner table where Mick was leaning protectively. When the ladies were settled, he took his turn in the line for food.
Maura felt something inside her relax. This was a family place, and a family event, as if the whole town gathered once a week to eat together and catch up on each other’s news, for there was as much talking going on as eating. She didn’t feel out of place, even though she didn’t recognize anyone beyond Mrs. Nolan and Mick—although if Mrs. Nolan had anything to say about it, that wouldn’t last long. Just as she had at the church, the older woman introduced Maura to whoever came up to the table, and repeated the same mantra—“Boston, grandmother, Donovan”—and people seemed to put the pieces together quickly. Maura found she was smiling a lot, probably more than she’d smiled in the past month. It felt odd.
After an hour or so, the din quieted, and people, especially those with children, started to leave. Mrs. Nolan leaned toward her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave of you now. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Then a thought occurred to her: maybe Maura could seize the time and go visit her grandfather’s grave. It seemed like a fitting ending to the afternoon. “M
ick, could you tell me how to reach the cemetery where my grandfather is buried?”
“No problem.” He snagged a paper napkin and began sketching out a simple map; Bridget leaned over to correct him at the last bit leading to the cemetery itself. She also kept up a running commentary. “It’s not hard to find—just go down the bog road till it ends, then turn right, up the hill to Drinagh,” she said. “But you won’t be wanting to stop in Drinagh, though the new church is there, for the family’s in the old cemetery up the hill. You’ll turn right at the main road through Drinagh—if you pass the creamery you’ve gone the wrong way. Then there’s a small road on the left that goes up the hill, until you see a tall stone tower on the left—that’s all that’s left of the old church. The cemetery’s just below it. They couldn’t move the dead, now, could they?”
Mick added quietly, “Can you manage that?”
“I think so. There aren’t enough roads to get lost, are there?”
“Most likely not. I’ll see you later down the pub—no need to hurry.”
When Mick left to get the car, Maura turned to Mrs. Nolan. “Who else is there in that cemetery, do you know?” Maura hadn’t thought beyond her grandfather, about whom she knew very little. She felt a pang: the last time she’d visited a cemetery, it had been to bury Gran. She’d known that cremation would be cheaper, but Gran had been careful to hold aside enough money to pay for a real burial, and a few Masses said for her as well, and Maura had honored her grandmother’s wishes. She had been pleased when the priest said some very nice things about Nora Donovan, and it was clear that he’d known her grandmother and hadn’t just been reading off a standard text. Gran would have been happy.
“No other Donovans, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Nolan said, “but quite a number of Sullivans, and a Herlihy or two. When your grandfather died, we all thought your grandmother would be laid to rest alongside—that’s why he’s there, rather than with his own people.”
“Were they from far away?”
Buried In a Bog Page 15
