The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  His name is Midir. Let me write that again. Midir. Midir. Midir. One more time. Midir.

  If I say he is gorgeous, that is a major understatement. Golden-red hair that falls to his shoulders. Eyes that really and truly shine like stars. Tall and beautiful. Oh so beautiful. He kept giving me these long deep looks. I was all tongue-tied and dumb as usual, but he didn’t seem to notice. He smiled this amazing smile and said he had not been told I was beautiful. (Ooh lah lah!!! Somersaulting stomach.) He invited me to a party tonight. Can’t wait. Wow, is this the most amazing summer of my life or what?

  Can’t write much. No energy. Way too tired and kind of wrecked. I had soooooo much fun. I can’t begin to describe it. Everything was bright and sparkly. There was a fabulous feast with totally yummy things, but Midir kept telling me not to eat or drink. He said if I did, I might never get back. For a minute I thought—maybe I don’t care? But then I realized, nah, I couldn’t stay there. Not without El. I wouldn’t go anywhere forever without her.

  An agonizing pang always came with that last sentence. And in its wake, a plague of questions. Were these people real or imaginary? Honor didn’t go out at night. Or did she? Was she sneaking out when everyone was asleep? It was hardly the sort of thing her meeker twin did, but what if she was being influenced by others?

  Complications with Midir. He doesn’t want me to take the mission. Says he couldn’t bear any harm coming to me. He kept going on about “perilous matters” and that he would “rather seek another to do it,” yadda yadda. You know what? I think he’s falling in love with me. HOW GREAT IS THAT???!!!

  If only I could tell El about it.

  If only, Laurel repeated in her mind. How often had she said those two little words?

  If only.

  Still no word from Midir. I miss him so much. I don’t know what to do with myself. I tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. TV’s no good either. There was a plan to go to Powerscourt today, with the grands, but it’s postponed till tomorrow because El has gone off with Ian. (Hmph.) Test-driving a new bike. She’s obviously a good influence on him. He actually managed to smile at me and it didn’t break his face!

  I know what I’ll do. I’ll go climb the Head. It’s like a magnet, drawing me to it …

  Ah, who am I kidding? I’m going up there to mooch around. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ll huff and I’ll puff on the roly-poly man’s door and make him tell me what’s going on!

  And that was the last entry. There was nothing more to read after that, for nothing more could be written.

  Honor died that day.

  Though I have the gift of prophecy

  And understand all mysteries

  If I have not love

  I am nothing.

  aurel stood between her grandparents at the front of the little chapel. The old-fashioned pews were of polished oak, with carved railings and red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows reflected colored light. The pale-gold pipes of the organ spired to the rafters.

  Love is patient

  Love is kind

  It bears all things.

  The memorial service was arranged by her grandparents for the anniversary of Honor’s death. Laurel knew her twin would have approved. She could see her sister leaning against the pew, admiring the angelic figures in the high, arched windows.

  “There are stories here,” she would have whispered, more loudly than intended.

  “Yeah,” Laurel would have hissed back. “It’s called religion.”

  Blessed are they who mourn

  For they shall be comforted.

  The words fell gently around her like soft Irish rain, but she was not comforted. Unlike her twin, Laurel did not believe in anything beyond physical reality; certainly not an afterlife. The only mystery she had ever accepted was the invisible bond between herself and her sister. They always knew where the other was and, even apart, they could sense each other’s feelings. There was the time when Honor was being bullied in the playground and Laurel ran six streets over from her hockey practice to send the culprits packing. “I heard her calling in my head,” was what she told her parents. And when she, in turn, fractured her arm on a skiing trip, Honor at home had cried out in pain, nursing the mirrored limb as if it too were broken.

  Love never fails.

  The minister’s look was sympathetic.

  Love is as strong as death.

  Laurel linked arms with her grandmother and grandfather. She was glad she could be there with them. When she arrived at Dublin Airport, she had seen immediately how much they had aged in the past year, how much they had suffered from having a grandchild die in their care. He, once tall and dignified, stooped over his cane, while she clutched his arm like a frail bird.

  Laurel had dropped her luggage to embrace them.

  “Thank you,” Nannaflor said through her tears. “We thought you would never come back.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. You’ve got to accept that.”

  “Have you?” asked Granda gently.

  After the service, the congregation gathered in the church hall for tea and sandwiches. They were a small community in a small seaside town, and they all knew each other. The murmur of conversation mingled with the friendly rattle of china. Neat little quarters of ham and cheese were served along with raisin scones and slices of rhubarb pie. Most of the people were friends of Laurel’s grandparents, and many had known her father when he was a boy. Some shook her hand in silent sympathy. Others wrapped their arms around her.

  “Your daddy used to pinch the apples from our orchard. Make sure you tell him the Kilrudderys were asking for him.”

  “You’re from Niagara Falls, aren’t you? You wouldn’t happen to know my cousin, Heather Brown? I believe she’s living somewhere over there. Florida, I think it is.”

  “Come visit us. Don’t be a stranger.”

  Laurel drifted through the soft-spoken company, doing her best to be polite. Though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, her eyes kept searching the crowd.

  When he came up behind her and caught her by the arm, she wasn’t really surprised.

  “Let’s scarper. I’m being nibbled to death by a hundred little ducks.”

  Before she could object, he had pulled her out of the hall and into the street. The road was quiet and secluded, with old chestnut trees and a grassy verge. Parked in front of the church was a dark-blue motorcycle with shiny chrome fittings.

  “Do you mind!” she said angrily, breaking away from him.

  “At last,” he said, “a show of spirit!”

  Ian Gray was the minister’s son and the bane of the congregation. As gossip went, he had always been in trouble; fighting at school, running away, even robbing the collection boxes. In recent times he had apparently calmed down, working as a courier to finance his passion for bikes, but he remained sullen and hostile to his father’s parish.

  The biker’s gear he was wearing accented his height—Rayven jacket, leather pants, and tall narrow boots. A silver stud pierced his eyebrow. He looked older than his nineteen years, with sharp angular features and a shock of black hair that fell over his forehead. The intensity of his eyes, an icy blue, made her look away.

  She stared instead at his motorcycle.

  It was the latest Fireblade, a high-powered sportsbike with a reputation for speed and agility. The decals on the tank were fiery wings. Beneath them curled words that she guessed were Irish, though she didn’t know what they said.

  Póg mo thóin.

  “You got the bike.”

  He looked pleased.

  “You remember.”

  He reached out to draw her toward him, but she backed away.

  “Stop it!”

  Anger flashed across his face, followed by a hard grin that was almost a snarl.

  “At least you’re still in there. You look like a shadow of your former self.”

  “It’s none of your business what I look like,” she retorted.


  “No?”

  His lip curled as he looked her over, slowly and deliberately. Though she tried not to, Laurel couldn’t help but reflect on what he saw, how much her appearance had altered from the last time they met. In place of her lean and athletic build, she appeared thin and fragile. Her face was pale without makeup, her hair lank and straggling over her shoulders. She had taken to wearing her sister’s clothing: today, a long denim skirt and bulky pink sweater. Even in June she felt the chill of the damp Irish air, and she folded her arms to stop herself from shivering.

  “Little girl lost,” he said. “You look more like her now.”

  “Don’t talk about her! I can’t stand it!”

  Laurel’s voice broke.

  His anger dissipated, and his tone took on a softer edge.

  “Do you still blame me? It’s not my fault … We couldn’t have known—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it! Leave me alone!”

  She spoke harshly, to push him away, yet she didn’t go herself. It was as if she were caught there.

  All his emotions simmered in his face: dismay, hurt, fury. Then he went cold. He leaned against his bike, took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered them to her.

  “You know I don’t smoke. And I thought you quit.”

  He shrugged, lit one for himself.

  “People change,” he said, inhaling.

  “You haven’t.”

  His look was veiled behind the cloud of smoke. She knew she was being unfair. The first time they met, he was only five years old, while she and Honor were four. Nannaflor had brought the twins to the minister’s house so they could play with his son. When Ian pulled Honor’s hair and made her scream, Laurel thumped him so hard he ran off crying. That was their only encounter as children. Last year, the three met again as teenagers. Though Honor had shown little interest in the tall young man who arrived at the door, Laurel was immediately attracted. He made a joke about “losing his honor over Honor,” and challenged her to a duel. She couldn’t help but laugh.

  And then there was the motorcycle. She had always wanted to ride one and when she told him so, he was quick to offer her a ride. They roared off into the Wicklow Mountains, through the Sally Gap, and over the bogs. He drove aggressively, swerving past cars and trucks, and leaning into the curves. The road was a gray streak, the landscape a green blur. Pressing against his back, her arms around him, she had loved the rush of wind and speed.

  Then he took her clubbing in Dublin. She was surprised when he said he loved to dance, and more surprised that he was good. He moved like his bike, sleek and powerful.

  The first time they kissed, she got a mild shock, like static electricity. He had felt it too. They both recoiled at the same time.

  “Shall we try that again?” he said.

  And then the fatal day. She was supposed to visit Powerscourt Gardens with Honor and her grandparents, but had canceled it at Ian’s request. He was test-driving the new Fireblade he hoped to buy, and wanted her to come with him. She couldn’t resist.

  They were at the showroom when it struck her, like a great soft blow. She doubled over, clutched her stomach.

  He moved to help her.

  “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  “We’ve got to get back to Bray!”

  “What?”

  “Now!”

  And when they arrived at her grandparents’ house and discovered the terrible news, he had tried to hold her and she had pushed him away. Lost in her own horror, oblivious to his anguished look, she had screamed hysterically.

  “I should’ve been with her, not you!”

  Now standing before him, faltering under the weight of those memories and the catastrophe that was her sister’s death, she repeated the words.

  “I should’ve been with her, not you.”

  She didn’t see him flinch, didn’t see the hurt that was swiftly smothered by rage. All she saw was the sharp intake of breath as he drew on his cigarette, and the deliberate aim of smoke in her direction.

  A spark of her old self ignited.

  “Do you enjoy being a jerk?”

  He returned her gaze coolly.

  “If I wasn’t bad, how else would the rest of you know you were good?”

  Once again he drew on his cigarette, but before he could exhale she made her move.

  Perhaps it was a burst of pent-up emotion, so many strong feelings held down for too long. Or maybe it was the old image of him bullying Honor. She didn’t intend to be violent, but her push was strong enough to knock him and the bike over. Turning to leave, she heard him coughing out smoke and swearing vociferously behind her.

  In the hall, she found her grandparents with the minister.

  “I’d like to go now,” she told them quietly.

  He was gone by the time they came out, but she could hear the motorcycle howling in the distance. She felt a perverse surge of gratitude toward him. He had awakened something in her. She had arrived in Ireland with a purpose, a plan, though unsure and anxious about carrying it out. Now the fire had been kindled. She was ready to do what she had come here to do.

  ater that day, Laurel set out for Bray Head. It was early evening, still bright and sunny with the long June hours. Though she could feel her jet lag slowing her down, she was too uneasy to rest.

  The sea front was bustling with a summer festival. The air rang with a medley of musics from a carousel of golden horses, a folk group on the bandstand, and drummers on the boardwalk beating lambegs and bodhráns. Clowns on stilts strode through the crowds, while children with painted faces played chase below them. As the Ferris wheel twirled overhead, screams echoed downward like the cry of the seagulls.

  Laurel walked along the promenade, a little dazed by the din. On her right, green lawns accommodated the festival rides and stalls. Behind them was a Victorian terrace of hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, and noisy pubs with canopies over open-air seating. On her left, beyond the wrought-iron balustrade and a stony strand, shone the Irish Sea. The tide was out. Ripples stirred the glassy surface that mirrored the silvery blue of the sky. Children paddled in the shallows or built castles in the wet sand by the water’s edge. But Laurel noticed little of this, for her attention rested on the small mountain ahead of her.

  It rose up at the end of the boardwalk like a humpbacked giant tumbling into the sea. Though cloaked in heather and gorse, its uneven slopes showed bare patches of rock that shone white in the sunlight. On the summit stood a concrete cross.

  Like a tombstone, she thought.

  She had dreaded returning to this place. There were cruel reminders everywhere. Circling the peak were hang gliders soaring like giant butterflies. Were they the young men she and Honor had flirted with on the day of their picnic? The same shocked witnesses who had raised the alarm and reported what happened?

  I saw her climbing onto the ledge. She was moving slowly, carefully, but then she lost her balance.

  The winds were strong that day. Gusts were coming from every which way.

  I heard her cry out, saw her waving her arms before she fell.

  There are signs and warnings all over the Head, but people still take chances. They assume it’s safe because it’s only a hill, but it can be dangerous.

  There was no one near her. No one to help her.

  I saw her hit the water. It was awful. I’ll never forget it. A boat went out, but not soon enough.

  By the time we got to her, it was too late. She was already gone. Laurel’s feet dragged, as if reluctant to continue, but she forced herself onward. The iron railings along the promenade became a low stone wall where people sat, eating their ice creams. The boardwalk itself tapered away into a tarmac road that curved upward to the Head. She knew where she was going. There were passages in her twin’s journal that she knew by heart, and they were her guide.

  There are lots of holly bushes up here. “The gentle tree” they call it. Hardly any berries, though. The birds eat them. The same birds that are doing all the cheepi
ng and peeping, I bet. The air is thick and sweet. It’s like an earthy perfume, lush and green. I love being here with the sea and the sky and the mountain. It makes me feel part of something so much bigger than myself.

  Laurel did not share Honor’s love of nature. The pungent leaf mold caught at her throat, making her cough. The dense press of greenery was suffocating. Twigs cracked underfoot like brittle bones, and gnarled roots kept tripping her. The wind made a mournful sound in the ragged branches of the Scots pine.

  It wasn’t long before she discovered the tract of nettles that had attacked her sister. Though Laurel’s jeans protected her legs, the weeds stung her hands as she pushed her way through them. She didn’t stop to look for the dock leaves Honor had mentioned, but took some comfort from the shared experience. She imagined her twin forging ahead and yelping in panic as she tried to spot the hornets she thought were biting her.

  The higher Laurel climbed, the harder it got. The brambles grew thicker, the briars thornier, and the path so steep her legs ached. She began to feel uneasy. A stray thought crossed her mind. The mountain’s working against me. Though she told herself not to be ridiculous, she kept looking behind her. The shadows seemed to deepen in the undergrowth. The air had grown chill.

  Then someone burst out of the bushes and onto the path! She cringed instinctively, but the runner veered past her and up the hill. An athlete in shorts and sneakers, with red hair tied in a pony tail, he had barely even noticed her. She tried to laugh at herself, but she was shaking.

  As Laurel approached the peak, she heard the hang gliders calling to each other high in the air. She hunched over in case they saw her. She didn’t want to meet them. They were not the people she was looking for.

  Now the path brought her through a spinney of tangled trees. Many were shattered and blackened by lightning. With a pang, she found the one Honor had described as a witch pointing upward.

  At last she came to the edge of the mountain where it sheered into the sea. White gulls wheeled in the air, screeching at each other. She could see the strand far below, the tiny people on the promenade, and the Ferris wheel twirling like a toy in the wind. But she was more interested in what lay only a few feet down. There a narrow shelf jutted out from the cliff, like a brow frowning over the rock face.