Haunted Ground ng-1

by Erin Hart

  After replacing the precious stone in her pocket, Aoife concentrated briefly on the mountainous portion of cream bun left on her plate, then slumped back in her chair and scrunched up her nose. “I have something to tell you, Nora. I can’t eat any more of this. And there’s something else as well.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You forgot to answer about Cormac.”

  11

  While Nora was at the market, Raftery had phoned to say his aunt would see them this afternoon, and Cormac had taken down a rather elaborate set of directions to the old woman’s house, though she lived less than five miles from Dunbeg. Now the road to the townsland of Tullymore stretched before them like a green tunnel, its walls composed of leafy ditches strangled with ivy, its vaulted roof the arching branches of trees.

  “Do you think Jeremy was disappointed that we didn’t ask him along?” Nora asked as she turned the car down a narrow lane at the end of the sheltered road.

  “He didn’t look happy about it. But we can’t completely monopolize his time.” Nora felt the same way; it seemed they’d had hardly a minute without Jeremy’s company for the past couple of days. “There’s another turn up here,” he said, “left at the T-junction.” They were beginning to climb the side of a hill now, with flowering blackberries growing thickly on the steep slope to their left.

  “I’ll be amazed if we can find our way back,” Nora said. “And I’m trying to convince myself that this Mrs. Cleary might just remember some story from over three hundred years ago.”

  “It’s a long shot, but it’s not actually impossible. Some of the airs I play are at least that old. Don’t forget, our cailin rua was an actual person who might have lived no more than two or three miles from where we are right now. You’d be surprised how long things remain exactly where they’ve fallen; the same applies to songs and stories. Just passed on, one person to the next. And a bold attack on English settlers, or a beautiful young woman losing her head—whatever the reason—are just the kinds of things somebody might have set down in a song.”

  “I’m wondering whether we shouldn’t have brought the jeep,” Nora said as the road began to narrow. She had to downshift twice; by the time they reached the summit of the hill, it was only a lane with a grassy ridge growing down the middle. The land to either side of the road was a treacherous combination of football-sized stones and spongy pasture.

  They crept down the far side of the hill, and turned once more, when Cormac said, “Well, according to these directions, we should be there.” Nora stopped the car, and they looked around. At the far end of the road, some three hundred yards distant, stood a freshly thatched house with tiny windows, its whitewashed walls and yellow roof gleaming in the afternoon sun. As they drove closer, Nora could see that the half-door stood open.

  “Looks as if we’re expected, anyway,” Cormac said as they climbed out of the car and approached the house. “Hello?” He rapped on the open door. “We’re looking for Mrs. Cleary?”

  An old woman’s croaking voice came from the dark, cool interior of the house. “Tar isteach. Come in.” Cormac entered first, and Nora followed. After the brightness of the day, her eyes took a moment to become accustomed to the gloom. She could dimly make out an old lady sitting beside the open fireplace at the far end of the room, propped up in a tall, uncomfortable-looking upholstered chair. She was small-framed and thin, and wore a plain wool skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a cardigan. Age accentuated the hawklike curve of her nose, and the bony, arthritic hands that gripped the chair’s arms further underscored the avian impression. Despite the warmth of the day, a turf fire glowed orange in the grate.

  “You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up,” she said. “My daughter should be in the scullery there, just getting the tea. Rita—Rita, where are you?”

  “Quite all right, Mrs. Cleary,” said Cormac, taking a small bottle out of his coat pocket. “I hope you were expecting us. My name is Cormac Maguire, and this is Nora Gavin. We’ve brought you a drop of whiskey.” He advanced a little cautiously, knelt beside the chair, and pressed his gift into one of the bent hands. The woman’s wrinkled face brightened as she fingered the bottle. Nora could see that she had the same milky-white eyes as her nephew.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Nora said. The old lady cocked her head at the sound of an American voice.

  “What’s the matter with the Irish girls, then, Maguire?” she asked abruptly. Nora’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “Dr. Gavin is a colleague, Mrs. Cleary. We work together.”

  The old woman ignored him. “Well, sit yourselves down, the two of ye. Rita—where is that lazy girl? She was to put the kettle on for tea.” She gestured vaguely toward a table arranged against the wall, where the tea things were laid out. “And I’d have a drop of that whiskey now, meself.” Cormac took the bottle from her and handed it to Nora, who found a glass on the table into which she poured a generous shot.

  “We appreciate you taking the time to see us,” he began, venturing to sit on the edge of a chair across from Mrs. Cleary.

  “Ah, sure, what’s a useless old woman like me got besides time?”

  From the door of the scullery came the voice of the “girl” to whom Mrs. Cleary had referred; she must have been nearly seventy. “Now, Mammy, go away out of that, you’re not useless. You’re enjoying a well-deserved retirement.” Rita Cleary was quick to gather what had gone on in her brief absence. “You haven’t already been passing remarks on these nice people, have you?” To Cormac and Nora she said, “I hope you can bear with her. She usually loves visitors, but I’m afraid she’s been in a rather unpredictable mood this afternoon. Go on and sit down there. She’ll be fine as long as I’m here to keep an eye on her.”

  Cormac and Nora sat down again. “Here’s that whiskey now, Mrs. Cleary,” he said, taking the glass from Nora and guiding it to the old lady’s hand. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “Do what you like,” she said.

  He fished in his pocket and drew out a tiny tape recorder. “I’m not sure if Ned mentioned what we’re looking for, Mrs. Cleary. Any songs or old stories you may have heard over the years about a famous outlaw from these parts, or perhaps a young girl who was beheaded. Perhaps some story about a famous murder, or someone being executed for a crime.”

  Mrs. Cleary smiled and took a tiny sip of the golden liquor. “I don’t know when I’ve had so much attention. First the crowd from Radio Eireann coming down last week to record me, and now the likes of you. I’ll have to start charging by the hour.” She looked pleased with herself, but Rita crouched down beside the chair, took the old lady’s hand and stroked it as she said in a soothing tone, “Now, Mammy, you remember it was a long time ago that the men from the radio were here. It’s more than thirty years ago. You know that, don’t you, Mammy?” The old lady looked sorely put out, and the volume of the daughter’s voice dropped as she addressed them, somewhat apologetically, still holding her mother’s hand. “She usually doesn’t start getting like this until much later in the evening. It’s possible she’s a bit tired.” Nora was beginning to wonder if they were on the wrong track entirely, but surely Raftery wouldn’t have sent them out here if he’d known the trip was going to be a waste of time.

  “This girl—what’s she got to do with you?” Mrs. Cleary demanded sharply.

  “Well, nothing personally,” Cormac replied. “We just happen to have dug her head up a few days ago in Drumcleggan Bog.”

  “Red-haired, was she?”

  “How did you know?” Nora asked.

  Mrs. Cleary pursed her lips. “People talk. No secrets around here.”

  “Would you have many red-haired people around these parts?” Cormac asked.

  “Well, there were a fair number, in certain families. The Clearys—my husband’s family—the Kellys, and the McGanns always had a good deal of ginger-hair amongst ’em. Not them all, now, but always a few.”

  “What was significant about red hai
r?” Nora asked. She knew it supposedly indicated a hot temperament, but maybe there was more.

  “My father always said meeting a red-haired woman at the gate was terrible bad luck. Ah, you never know but they might have powers. With cures and curses, the evil eye and such.”

  Nora realized she hadn’t asked Robbie specifically about what might happen to a young woman suspected of practicing witchcraft.

  “We found a ring as well,” Cormac said. “It had some initials inscribed inside, COF and AOF, and a date, 1652. We’re hoping it might help us find out who this red-haired girl was. Do those initials mean anything—”

  “And supposing you do find out who this girl is? What difference will it make?”

  “Well, no difference at all, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things,” Cormac said, accepting a steaming cup of tea and a biscuit from Rita.

  “I think we feel—responsible,” Nora said. “At least I do, to try to find out who she was, and how she came to be there. You might feel the same, if you’d seen her.” Nora realized her blunder, but did not apologize.

  The challenge in her words had a strange effect on Mrs. Cleary. The old woman’s eyes narrowed; her lips curved into a scowl, but she seemed to be considering. They waited.

  “I know nothing about any red-haired girl,” Mrs. Cleary muttered.

  “Nora’s got a suspicion that the initials OF might stand for O’Flaherty,” Cormac said. “Ned was telling us about the last of the O’Flahertys from these parts, a young fella called Cathal Mor, who was transported to Barbados. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about him?”

  Mrs. Cleary’s right hand grasped the arm of the chair as she thought. Her clouded eyes were downcast as if focused on some scene from the past. The left hand, which held the whiskey glass, rested slackly in her lap. For the first time, she seemed a little hazy, worried about something. “I used to remember it all. Used to hear the auld ones talking, and I remembered things. People came to me. It’s all gone now….”

  “Perhaps we could call around another time,” Cormac said. The old woman gave no response, but her daughter nodded from across the room, and he switched off his tape recorder. What else could they do? He gently took the glass from Mrs. Cleary’s hand and set it on the table beside her. All hint of her former peevishness was gone, replaced by pitiful confusion. “Rita,” she said. “Rita, where are you? I’m thirsty.”

  Nora was just turning her key in the ignition when they heard a voice calling sharply from the doorway: “Mr. Maguire, wait! Come back.” Rita ushered them back into the dimly lit room, where they took their former places on the straight-backed chairs beside the old woman. This time the daughter sat down beside Mrs. Cleary, and stroked her hand.

  “Now, Mammy, you were just singing a bit of something just there, do you remember? A little snip of a song you used to know.” She hummed a fragment of melody, and patted the old lady’s hand in time, as Cormac silently pushed the record button again, and Mrs. Cleary squeezed her eyes shut in an effort of concentration. Then the old woman opened her mouth, and from it came a voice as sinewy as old leather. There was nothing of conventional beauty in this voice, but it lay on the ear and invaded the chest in a way that no youthful, thrushlike strain could equal.

  As I walked out one evening,

  In the springtime of the year;

  I overheard a soldier bold,

  Lamenting for his dear.

  For fourteen years transported,

  To the Indies I was bound;

  But to see the face of my one true love,

  My escape I lately found.

  Says I be not uneasy—

  Here the old woman’s voice faltered, but the daughter held her hand fast, bringing it forward in a slow circular motion in time to the song, almost like the piston arm on a locomotive. Nora watched, fascinated, as Rita continued humming the melody: “‘But tell to me your true love’s name,’” she prompted. Something clicked in the old woman’s head. She began again:

  Says I be not uneasy,

  Nor troubled in your mind;

  But tell to me your true love’s name,

  And her dwelling you shall find.

  He gave to me his true love’s name,

  A burning beauty bright;

  But if I should tell of her sad fate,

  Broad day would turn to night.

  Your true love lies a-sleeping,

  Her dwelling is the clay—

  Again she stumbled, and again the daughter’s low voice kept the music going until the old lady had cleared enough cobwebs from her memory to deliver up another few lines:

  For the slaying of her new-born babe,

  With her own life she did pay.

  He bowed his head and tore his hair,

  And with grief was near o’er ta’en;

  Crying they’ve murdered thee my own true love—

  This time the singing ended abruptly. “Sin e,” said the old woman. “That’s all. Ah, there’s more, but I’ve lost it now. I can’t—”

  “It’s all right, Mammy,” said Rita. “Whisht now; you did grand, just grand.”

  “You got the best part of it,” Cormac said. “Not to worry.”

  “That was wonderful, Mrs. Cleary, really,” Nora said. The sound of her own voice grated on her ears, and she knew that she could never truly be a part of what was happening in this room. It was not the first time she’d felt it. There was an intimate form of communication taking place here, an exchange from which she was excluded, cut off by the broad chasm of culture and experience. The sound of Mrs. Cleary’s ancient voice and the image of the grieving soldier in the old lady’s song merged with the red-haired girl and the vision of Triona’s smiling face, and Nora felt filled again with the terrible, aching sadness that had overcome her as she stood alone in the lab with the red-haired girl.

  “Well, Mrs. Cleary, we don’t want to be wearing you out,” Cormac finally said. “Perhaps we could come back and visit another day. Thank you so much for talking with us.” The old lady had warmed to Cormac now, and clearly didn’t want him to go. She reverted to her cranky persona in an instant.

  “Do what you like,” she said, waving a hand indifferently. “Makes no difference to me.”

  Cormac could see that Nora was upset as they left Mrs. Cleary’s, so he didn’t speak until they were some distance down the road: “Sorry, that was a bit rough. Are you okay?”

  “Not really. I’m thinking of that old woman sitting there day after day, with all that inside her—doesn’t it overwhelm you sometimes, Cormac? All that’s been squandered and lost?”

  “But it’s not all lost. That’s what I’ve been thinking about as we’re digging at the priory. Things do remain. People carry on, without even knowing. You can’t kill that, as hard as you might try. It’s almost like something embedded in our subconscious, like a virus, that only shows itself in certain conditions. Sounds daft, I know, but doesn’t it make sense, when you think of all that’s managed to survive? I hear it all the time, Nora. I hear it in your voice.” He watched a solitary tear spill down her cheek.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she said. They were going uphill now, and she was struggling with the gearshift. “Bloody buggering hell.” Neither of them saw the sheep until it was nearly too late.

  “Look out!” he said, and she swerved instinctively to avoid hitting the animal. The car veered wildly as she tried to maintain control, then landed with a thud as the left front tire skidded over the edge of the small embankment. “Are you all right?”

  Nora nodded, and let out her breath. Cormac peered out his window, testing to see whether the movement would cause the car to tip further. When he was satisfied that it wouldn’t, he cautiously opened the door and climbed out, circling the car to assess the situation.

  “It’s not too bad,” he said. “I might be able to push us back up onto the road. Put the gearbox in neutral, would you?” He pressed his back against the passenger door, grasping the bottom edge of the door, braced his legs,
and heaved. He could feel the car rock slightly, so he heaved again, to no avail.

  “It’s no good,” Nora said. “You can’t do it alone. I’ll give you a hand.”

  “The ground’s a bit soft to get any traction,” he said, looking down at the high grass that brushed against his thighs. “I doubt if even the two of us would have much luck, but come on.” They positioned themselves with their backs to the car, on either side of the front wheel well, and began to shove. “If I’d been watching the road—” Nora said. With the sudden force of the push, her feet slipped out from under her and she disappeared into the wet grass.

  Cormac dropped to his knees and parted the thick blades with his hands until he found her lying on her back about halfway down the embankment. Tears streamed down her face, and her body shook as though wracked with sobs, but when she opened her mouth, the sound that floated upward was a silvery peal of laughter. He couldn’t blame her; the whole situation was ludicrous. She lifted her arms and, seeing that they were coated with mud, dissolved into helpless laughter once more.

  Cormac sat back on his heels. “This isn’t going to work, is it? Come on, then. I suppose we can walk back.” She grasped the hand he held out to her, and Cormac pulled her toward him, and didn’t stop until he was kissing her, cradling her dark head in his hands, aware only of her vital electricity and the soft warmth of her lips. He let her go and sat back abruptly. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “I had no right.”

  “No,” she said. They were both breathing hard. He struggled to stand, but felt her hand grasp the front of his shirt. She held him there until the distance between them began to close again, ever so slowly. He felt her eyes travel across his face, intimate as a touch, and this time he tasted her salt tears, the gritty smudge of mud on her chin, the softly perfumed whiteness of her neck. But the image of the pair of them on their knees in the ditch must have been too much; she had to pull away to release another helpless whoop of laughter. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said.