by Erin Hart
Cormac looked down to the other end of the trench, where Nora was working, kneeling in the dirt with her sleeves rolled up. Gray dust clung like mist to her dark eyebrows. She was about four feet away from him, concentrated on her work, searching through the damp soil with a trowel, then dumping the gravel into her growing pile of debris. Cormac decided he quite liked being here, the only sounds the scraping of the spade, the thump of each panful of soil, the occasional distant croak of a disgruntled crow.
“Do you ever get tired of turning up nothing?” Nora asked. “All this work, to find nothing but four solid feet of sand and gravel? What keeps you going, inch after bloody inch?” Strange how she seemed to know exactly what he’d been thinking.
“The potential, I suppose, the hope that something might turn up. Your work must have a good bit of drudgery as well, all those thousands of straightforward textbook cases before you get to the one really interesting anomaly. Isn’t it this part, the sifting through the ordinary, that makes breakthrough moments all the more memorable?”
“You’re right, of course,” Nora said, “but remind me again what we’re looking for.”
“Artifacts from any period, of course, but also evidence of any structures, layers of ash or charcoal that might give us dates or horizons for the occupation of the site. Refuse pits, slag heaps, any specific waste from human activity. Communities like this often served secular needs as well as spiritual ones. We’re looking to see what this spot can tell us about the events that took place here, and in what order.” He continued talking as he pulled a slip of paper from his clipboard and wrote a number on it, then impaled the paper on a three-inch nail in the wall of the bank. “I will admit it’s frustrating, trying to get clues about a whole culture from what you can see through a couple of what are essentially peepholes. But put our peepholes together with the peepholes from all over the country, and a larger picture begins to emerge. And who says we’re turning up nothing?” He gestured toward the bank of clay in front of him. “See how the coloration of the soil changes here? And see this thin layer of black between? That’s charcoal. Evidence of human habitation. With a little more work, we can even tell what kind of wood they burned. You have to learn how to look at it.” He put down his spade and came to sit beside Nora.
“Look over there,” he said, gesturing toward the landscape across the road, “and tell me what you see.” Nora lifted her head, and gazed toward the horizon of hay fields and pastureland.
“Cattle, grass. Lots of yellow flowers. Why, what do you see?”
“Look again,” Cormac said. “Straight ahead.”
“I see a hill. Is this some sort of a trick?” Cormac said nothing, but watched her face as the rounded knoll that rose out of the canary-colored sea of dandelions, the shape she had no doubt first seen as a natural feature of the landscape, took on an altogether different profile. He knew that all at once she could see that it was too round, too regular to be an ordinary hill, and one end was cut out, almost like the entrance to a mine shaft. He watched appreciatively as her mouth dropped slowly open, and she turned to face him once more.
“What is it?”
“Could be the remains of a ringfort, or a burial mound.” He was pleased that the discovery had made such a profound impression.
“You’re giving me goose bumps,” she said.
“I swear that wasn’t my intention.”
They worked for a while in silence. “You know, Raftery said it might be a couple of days before he can get his aunt to speak to us,” Nora said. “There must be something else we can do in the meantime.”
“What do you propose?”
“Well, we could go to the heritage center you mentioned, see what kinds of records they keep. We could try bribing Robbie with biscuits to dig up all he can about Cathal Mor O’Flaherty.” She paused, but he sensed there was more.
“And…”
“Well, what I’d really love is a look inside that tower house. Are you any good at picking locks?”
“Hang on. I’m not going to go breaking in somewhere.”
“How else are we supposed to get in?” Nora asked, dumping out the sieve and banging it on the ground to dislodge the last bits of pebble and clay. “There isn’t exactly a welcome mat at the door. I suppose you’re waiting for an invitation.”
“You realize that if you insist, I’ll have no other choice but to go along, if only to keep you out of trouble.”
“I’m perfectly happy to go on my own,” Nora said. “I might have to, if you’re going to be squeamish about—”
Cormac raised a finger to his lips to signal silence, and Nora clamped her mouth shut and listened. She heard nothing but the harsh aic-aic of a corncrake.
“There’s somebody here,” Cormac said under his breath. “Up in the cloister walk. Keep working. Maybe we can get whoever it is to come out.” They busied themselves at their work again, stealing an occasional glance toward the cloister wall.
“Let’s walk back to the jeep,” Cormac said quietly. “Slowly. You go first. Create a distraction. Cut through the cloister at the near end, here, and I’ll go to the far end. Unless whoever it is wants to climb out a window, he’ll be stuck in the middle.” As he spoke, Cormac wondered if he was a physical match for Brendan McGann, if it came down to that.
Nora nodded and stood up, brushed the knees of her jeans, and spoke loudly enough that the eavesdropper could hear. “Well, I can’t wait any longer for lunch, I’m ravenous.” She walked a diagonal to the corner nearest where the jeep was parked. “I believe our choices today are plain cheese or cheese and tomato.” She had reached the end of the cloister, and turned to find Jeremy Osborne pressed against the wall at the far end of the corridor. He looked at her, and turned to retreat, but by then Cormac had come up behind Jeremy and received the tackle solidly, catching the boy by the shoulders.
“Hold up there,” Cormac said gently. “No need to run.” Jeremy was wresting his arms away from Cormac as Nora came up behind him. “Hello, Jeremy,” she said, and he turned to look at her again. Out here in the daylight, how fragile he looked, she thought, with the same large eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and pale, translucent skin his mother had. His features were more pleasing, however, and his cheeks still had the youthful high color Lucy’s had lost. Something in the way he moved reminded Nora of a skittish horse, and from what she’d seen of this boy with his mother, he was not unused to bit and bridle.
“What are you up to?” she asked, hoping that the glimmer of friendship she’d once seen in his eyes could be coaxed back if they used gentle words, and avoided sudden movement.
“I wasn’t spying,” he said. “I came to help.” Nora looked at Cormac and raised her eyebrows in silent exclamation.
“That’s great,” she said. “I’m sure we can find plenty for you to do. Nice of your mother to spare you.”
Jeremy’s eyes met hers for an instant. “I’m here on my own.”
“Well, we can certainly make use of you,” Cormac said. “Always good to have an extra pair of hands. You don’t mind being a general dogsbody, do you? I’m afraid that’s the only position available on this dig.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Can I show you what to do?” Cormac led the boy over to the trench, while Nora went to the jeep to get their lunch pack; she really was ravenous. When she came back, she watched them for a while: Cormac, his voice quiet and confident, was explaining what they were about, what Jeremy should look for, and how he was making a record of everything they found. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen: Cormac the teacher, down on one knee, demonstrating the proper way to sift debris, letting the boy try it, then praising him for a quick study. Jeremy was hunkered down on his heels like a child, filling the pan, sifting through it with his fingers, and methodically dumping the gravel into the small pile she had started.
“Well, now you’re fully broken in,” she said to Jeremy, “how about some lunch? We’ve plenty of food.” She could see the boy hesitate sl
ightly before accepting. They settled on a patch of grass a short distance from the trenches and Nora began passing the sandwiches, then poured them each tea from a flask. Cormac took out his pocketknife to cut a pair of green apples so the three of them might share. The sky was overcast, but behind the clouds they could tell the sun had climbed to its place at the top of the sky; the day was growing more close by the minute. They’d been saved from sweltering thus far by a gentle but steady wind that seemed to roll down from the mountains in the west.
“Ever work on a dig before?” Cormac asked. Jeremy shook his head, and Nora was struck by the mannerly way the boy swallowed his food before answering.
“I used to come and watch, when they were working on the priory,” he said, “but they’d usually run me off. Didn’t want me messing about, I suppose. I was only a kid.”
“You must be finished with secondary school,” Cormac said. Jeremy nodded. “Are you thinking about going on to university?” Though it was asked without judgment, this question seemed to make the boy uncomfortable. He started methodically uprooting handfuls of the grass that grew beside him.
“I’ve still got exams. I’m not sure yet what I want to do. Mum says I ought to be learning something about how to run an estate,” Jeremy said, his voice betraying how little he thought of such an occupation.
“What are you interested in, Jeremy?” Nora asked. His eyes met hers, and for a second she thought she saw something in them vaguely akin to an accusation. Then they dropped to the ground again, to the rapidly balding patch beside him.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. As though that were something to be ashamed of, Nora thought, at his age. She could see his ears begin to burn a bright crimson.
After lunch, they continued working a good three and a half hours until teatime. Cormac took a break from his spadework to take some photographs showing the general progress of the dig and to check levels. Jeremy acted as his assistant, holding the meter staff in place to mark the depth of the trenches, and the scale of variances in coloration. As the afternoon wore on, the breeze died down, until there was hardly a breath stirring. Nora stopped to take a long drink from her jug, then tipped her head down and poured some of the lukewarm water over the back of her neck. As she stood straight again and mopped the extra droplets with her bandanna, she found Jeremy Osborne staring at her. When their eyes met this time, he did not look away, and something in his look made her inordinately self-conscious. Nora turned away and knelt to gather up her tools. She remembered helping the sodden young man to his feet the night they met, and wondered whether he might have acquired an unhealthy yen for her. If that was the case, she’d probably only encouraged it, chatting away like that the afternoon she found him asleep in the nursery. How could she get him to talk to her now? She had had no business fueling any adolescent fantasies. Nora suddenly remembered the breathy voice on the telephone. Could the words of warning have come from Jeremy Osborne?
10
Nora had been surprised when Una McGann and her daughter stopped by the dig on Friday to ask for a lift into town on Saturday morning for the market, but she’d agreed, partly out of curiosity. The market was just gearing up this time of year, Una said, but there were small baskets of new potatoes, early hothouse strawberries, flowers, peas, lettuces, white and brown hen eggs, duck eggs. No one made cheese anymore, but there were homemade sausages and black and white puddings, along with household goods like rush brooms and baskets.
Saturday morning arrived damp but mild. Nine o’clock seemed late for a market to open, Nora thought, as she approached the McGanns’ house. She hoped she wasn’t late. Through the open window, she could see the little girl, Aoife, skipping in a circle around the kitchen table and hear Una counting aloud, no doubt totting up how much her wares would bring. The little girl’s voice broke in: “Mammy, Mammy, can I get a bun from the sweet shop, can I please, Mammy?”
Una’s reply was short: “I’m still counting, Aoife, can’t you hush?”
“Mammy, Mammy.” Aoife was pulling on her mother’s hand now. “I think she’s here. I think she’s here.” Una withdrew her hand in annoyance, and Aoife, who had been pulling with all her strength, went sprawling backward. There was a moment of horrified silence before the child began to whimper, and Una dropped to the floor beside her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just so tired, Aoife. I’m not angry with you.” When Nora came to the open door, Una was kissing her daughter’s head, and rocking back and forth to calm them both.
“Hello,” Nora called. “Anyone home?” Una was helping Aoife to her feet, and wiping her eyes with the back of one hand.
“Are you all right?” Nora asked. Una looked frayed, but she patted her daughter’s hand and said, “We’re grand now, aren’t we, a chroi? Nora, could you manage a few of these bags? Aoife, you take a couple as well.” Una herself picked up the heavy box full of sweet cakes, and followed them out the door.
When they arrived in Dunbeg, the market vendors were still setting up: Travelers setting out cheap mobile phones and garish rugs next to farmers selling brown eggs and wild heather honey. Una shared a stall with a few fellow artists, some of whom had finished work to sell, and some, like herself, who sold whatever they could. Aoife hung on her mother’s conversations with fellow vendors though it was clear, from the number of times she had to be asked to stop touching the goods and to be careful not to knock things over, that she was getting underfoot.
Nora pulled Una aside. “Aoife and I could take a little excursion, if you like, down to the tearoom or something. At least until you’re set up.”
Una’s face revealed a mixture of gratitude and relief. “That would be brilliant. Wait, I’ll give you some money,” she said, reaching for the small pouch that was slung around her waist.
“Oh no, my treat, please. But maybe we’d better ask Aoife what she thinks of the idea.”
Una made her way over to where the little girl was strumming the fringes on a whole rack of Indian scarves. Nora observed their conversation from a short distance, then saw Aoife running toward her, face aglow with anticipation.
“Mammy says you and I can go off on our own.” She slipped her hand into Nora’s. So much for her fear that the child wouldn’t want her as a chaperone. A quick wave and they were off, with Aoife pulling her through the streets like a tugboat towing an ocean liner, her small feet beating double time on the pavement, stopping occasionally to share a tidbit or a confidence.
“There’s Declan Connelly,” Aoife confided to her at one corner. “He chased me once, with his manky old dog.” They barged past a nameless pub; Hickey’s garage, with two petrol pumps stuck in the curb and a shop window full of bicycle tires; the newsagent’s, with windows full of faded postcards and HB ice cream posters. Aoife slowed her pace when she was within sight of her ultimate destination, so that she could get the full effect of the colorful half-curtains, and the homemade sign depicting cream-filled cakes and apple tarts. A signboard leaning by the door said Teas, Coffees, Confections.
“Shall we go in here?” Nora asked. Aoife nodded wordlessly, as if mesmerized, and made a direct line for the case, which displayed a variety of cream buns, as Nora spoke to the girl at the counter: “We’ll have one white coffee, a currant scone, a glass of milk, and—” She looked at Aoife. “Whatever my friend here wants.” The little girl perused the case carefully, finally selecting an enormous, greasy-looking bun piled with whipped cream and with a radioactive-looking cherry on top. Nora shuddered inwardly. She let Aoife choose a table by the window while they waited for the server. As they sat at the bare table, she felt herself the object of the child’s frank scrutiny. Aoife sat back in her chair.
“Do you love Cormac?” she asked.
Nora was dumbstruck. Aoife went on: “I asked Mammy if you did, and she said she didn’t know, I’d have to ask you.”
“Well, he’s very nice,” Nora said, but could see that this answer was not definite enough for her interrogator.
> “Would you want to marry him?” Fortunately for Nora, the server approached with a tray. The dreadful cream bun looked even larger on the table than it had inside the display case. Aoife had a fork, but couldn’t resist dipping immediately into its crown of stiff, buttery cream with her index finger, carefully avoiding the cherry. Watching her, Nora was overwhelmed by a sense of loss, remembering outings just like this one that she’d shared with her niece. She hadn’t seen Elizabeth for almost four years; that had been the price of her conviction that Peter Hallett was guilty of murder.
“I’m going to marry someone,” Aoife declared, as if the admission might make it easier for Nora to confess her own true feelings.
“Are you, really?”
“Yes. His name’s Tomas O Flic, and he plays with me sometimes. We have tea”—her voice took on a conspiratorial volume and tone—“only it’s not real tea, it’s pretend.”
“What’s he like?” Nora asked. Elizabeth had made up scores of imaginary friends when she was small, and Nora had loved asking her about them. She’d always been intrigued by the idea that children had such an instinctive buffer against loneliness.
“Well, he’s twigs all in his hair, and sometimes he’s a bit smelly. That’s because he never washes himself and he lives under a tree in the woods.”
“And what do the two of you talk about?”
“Oh, he never says anything at all,” Aoife said. “But sometimes he brings me things. He gave me this.” Licking the cream expertly from between her fingers, she reached into a pocket and brought out a flat, pale stone about the size of a 10p coin.
“It’s beautiful. May I have a closer look?”
Aoife hesitated before handing it over. “Do you promise to give it right back?”
“Oh, I promise,” Nora said. She turned the stone over in her palm. It was a highly polished piece of rose quartz, not something you might find in nature. She handed it back, and felt the slightest twinge of queasy doubt, wondering if she should press any further.
