A CRY FROM THE DEEP

by Unknown

  There was a storm in her bad dream, one that pummelled the old ship. The young woman, who looked like her, was wearing a white dress. Was that a bridal gown? And did her dream have any connection to this story of Margaret O’Donnell?

  The short synopsis in the book review was too coincidental to ignore. Catherine’s heart beat as fast as if she’d run a race. Another piece of the riddle seemed to be within reach. Catherine grabbed a pen and wrote down the book’s title: The Curse of the Stones.

  ~~~

  Thinking the book would be of some local interest, Catherine went straight to the Killybegs library, a small two-story stucco building on Bridge Street, off the main road.

  The librarian, an elderly woman with spectacles and a grey bob hairstyle, said they’d had a copy of The Curse of the Stones, but that it had gone missing a few years back and had never been replaced. It was also out of print. Seeing Catherine’s disappointed reaction, she said, “But maybe I can give you something to go on.”

  She bent down and pulled out from under the counter a long, narrow, cardboard box. It was marked, Out of Print. She thumbed through the index cards inside and found one she studied for a moment before showing it to Catherine. “It says here, it was written in 1937 by Liam Athol, the grandson of a local villager.”

  “You mean, here, in Killybegs?”

  The librarian nodded. “Appears so.”

  Catherine had seen Liam’s name on the book review, but there’d been no mention of any village connections. Wondering if he was still alive, Catherine did some quick math in her head. “Do you know if he might still live here?”

  “Don’t know if he ever did. The Athol family had land in Donegal county, but whether they still do, I don’t know.”

  “Is there any way I can find out?”

  The librarian shrugged. “You can try one of the local realtors, they might be able to help. There also might be something in church records. Mind you, that’d be going back a number of years.” She scrunched her face, as if to underline the fact that searching for anyone in the county was a daunting task.

  Catherine found the librarian’s response discouraging. If the Athols were hard to trace, the O’Donnells would be impossible. She was still considering her options when the librarian said, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Catherine nodded. “Yes. I’m curious about a ship that went down north of Donegal Bay. The Alice O’Meary. If there’s anything you can find about her, I’d appreciate it.”

  The librarian wrote the name down. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It wasn’t much of a library, but Catherine had learned through working her farm in Provence, that one could never underestimate the determination and resourcefulness of local people. They might be missing the sophistication of urban dwellers, but their common sense and shared history were definite assets in problem solving.

  While she was waiting to see whether the librarian could perform some magic, Catherine used one of the library’s computers to scour the net for any mention of the book. She was astonished to discover a used copy of The Curse of the Stones on an obscure website that dealt with books out of print. With any luck, through expedited shipping, she could have the book within a few days.

  Satisfied with her find, she looked up to see the librarian walking towards her. Unfortunately, the elderly woman was no magician and found no mention of the Alice O’Meary.

  Catherine was about to leave, when her cell phone rang. She mouthed an apology to the librarian and took the call outside.

  Daniel’s deep voice was a pleasant surprise. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the library. I was about to walk down to the Donegal carpet factory. I thought maybe I could find a carpet for my place back home.”

  “How about I meet you there and we go from there to grab a bite to eat?”

  She should’ve said no. With the way she lusted after Daniel, she knew she was on dangerous footing.

  ~~~

  When Daniel picked Catherine up at the Donegal carpet factory, the rain had stopped but the winds were still lashing the coast, sending most residents and travelers indoors. Despite the inclement weather, they decided to make the one hour drive to the tearoom at the Glencolmcille Folk Village Museum. As the museum was situated on the Slieve League Peninsula north of their dive site, it would be an opportunity to view where they’d been anchoring from a different perspective.

  They took the route through Kilcar, which gave them a magnificent panorama of Killybegs and the ocean. As they rode away from town, Catherine glanced back at the seascape. Although the day was grey, the pounding surf and the dancing trees invited romance. She couldn’t take her eyes off the waves of Donegal Bay. It was as if the elements were calling her to take part in some grand theatre. Her mind flashed with an image of herself dressed in a dark dress, standing on a hill searching the vast horizon for someone. She was so taken by the vision that her breathing stopped for a second. She inhaled quickly and looked over to see if Daniel had noticed anything. He hadn’t; he was focused on the road.

  Why had that picture crossed her mind? Who had she been searching for? It was as if she was recalling a time she’d stood there, looking out to sea. Was this déjà vu or something else? It was one more event that—added to the others—made her feel she was traveling at warp speed and out of control. She thought of telling Daniel about her strange sensation, but she hesitated. Maybe it was her mind's eye playing tricks on her. She’d shared enough as it was.

  As they continued on the narrow highway, Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling she’d traveled this way before. Every curve and bob of the road revealed new and yet familiar green vistas. Though the weather invited little joy, the trip was pleasurable due to the unfolding scenery and of course, the fact she was traveling with Daniel.

  She snuck a peek at him as they crested a rise revealing a shepherd by the side of the road herding his flock. She loved the way his black curls grazed his neck. Even from the side, his eyes sparkled with integrity. Daniel met her gaze and smiled, showing those dimples she found so appealing.

  “Ah, the gentle life,” he said.

  “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

  Outside of a few words, they hadn’t said much, but there was no awkwardness in their silence. There was a connection between them that was indefinable. The serenity of the ride was a welcome relief to the intensity of working with others in close quarters.

  They crossed soggy black bog lands, that would’ve been bleak, if it weren’t for the green and red heather-covered hills beyond. Half-way to the museum, they had to take a detour. The road got so narrow, it was hardly wide enough for two cars.

  Daniel chuckled. “I feel at any moment, this is going to turn into a cow path.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

  “Sure beats riding the subway.”

  “Ah, c’mon,” she teased. “Don’t you miss being jostled and pushed?”

  “I could get used to this.” He turned to her. “You’re lucky. You already have it on your farm.”

  “That’s true. I do.” It wouldn’t be long before she’d be returning home with Alex to Provence.

  They soon passed the tiny village of Cashel, with a sign directing them to the Glencolmcille Folk Village Museum. She read the sign with ease, surprising herself. “I love these names. It’s like they’re from another time.”

  He laughed. “They are from another time.”

  “Of course.” When she was around him, she seemed to have a propensity for saying the obvious.

  Brushing her awkward feelings aside, she took the museum brochure out of her bag and read the highlights. To celebrate three centuries—the seventeenth to the nineteenth—a Catholic priest had built a cluster of six small cottages on a hill overlooking the beach.

  The first cottage had a plain red door, a couple of old wagon spokes leaning against its whitewashed exterior, and a sign out
front advertising tours and the museum tearoom’s specialties— scones, apple tart, and Irish coffee.

  After they’d parked, a magpie flew overhead and landed on the cottage’s thatched roof. The black and white bird had come out of nowhere. Catherine had the strange notion she’d seen this event before. The magpie was then joined by another one. Not knowing what to make of her thoughts, she took out a notepad from her bag and wrote look up magpie.

  When Daniel came around the front of the car to join her, she said, “It’s like finding a chapter that’s been ripped out of a book. A book you’d need to read in order for the chapter to make any sense.”

  He looked at her oddly, “Is this about the ring?”

  She gave him a half-smile, “Maybe.”

  ~~~

  They ordered lunch in the tearoom, and while Daniel returned a call from one of his co-workers back home, Catherine browsed the crafts by the cash register. She returned to the table waving a brown bag. She sat down and took out a small cloth doll in an Irish dress. “This is perfect. Alex will love it.”

  “It’s cute,” said Daniel. “Like her.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She looked at the doll again before returning it to the bag. “I’m so pleased with the carpet I bought. I just wish it wasn’t so expensive sending it to my farm.”

  “If you like it and you can afford it, why not? You did say it was hand knotted. If I remember,” he added, teasingly, “it’s the only place in Western Europe they’re being made.”

  “Very funny. It’ll remind me of my stay here. If I can’t bring back the beauty of the country, then I can at least bring back a beautiful carpet.”

  “There you go.”

  She loved the fact he was so encouraging. No questioning about her purchase, not that he would, given the short time they’d known one another. Besides, it wasn’t his money. Still, it was hard not to compare him to Richard. When she’d bought her ring at the flea market, Richard had asked, ‘Do you need it?’. Well, she didn’t really need a carpet. Not as expensive as this one, but once in awhile it felt good to splurge.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asked, his warm eyes on her.

  “Nothing. It’s just nice being here. Away from all the tension on the boat.” She wanted to add, nice being with you.

  That thought hung in the air while the waitress placed their barley soup and soda bread on the table. Buttering her bread, Catherine said, “You’re staying a week longer than me, right?”

  “If Sean had her way, I’d be back right now. I had to remind her of my contract. Even without one, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave early.” He then looked at her in a way that suggested she was the reason he wanted to stay.

  Then thinking she could be wrong, she avoided his look and slurped some soup. After a moment, she said, “It’s a lot of work planning a wedding.” The word wedding stuck in her throat.

  “She’s running into one problem after the other. First the caterers, and now there’s some problem with the musicians. I never realized there was so much involved.”

  “Depends on the size of the wedding. Now that you’re marrying into royalty,” she joked, “you have to realize the underlings can rise up and make things difficult.”

  “Royalty,” he snorted. “She’s hardly that. Her parents are well-heeled, but she’s, well she’s...” He coughed. “She’s not a diva.”

  From the way he said it, Catherine wasn’t convinced. But maybe she was hoping he’d find fault with his fiancée. “Since she’s grown up with wealth, she’s probably used to telling people what to do. Servants and all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Leadership qualities, huh?”

  He chortled. “You might say that.”

  She watched him wipe his mouth—maybe to stop from going further. “When’s uh, ... the date again?” Her words came out in sputters, as if she’d suddenly developed some swallowing problem.

  He looked at her inquiringly. “August fifteenth.”

  “A little more than a month.” It was sooner than she thought. “Shouldn’t you be home getting ready for a stag party with your friends?”

  He laughed again. “There’ll be time for that.” He scooped some soup with a piece of bread.

  “My father used to do that. It drove my mother crazy. She said it was uncouth.”

  “And what do you think?”

  She grinned. “It’s very European. I don’t have a problem with it.”

  He swiped the remaining soup with another bread chunk. “Sean doesn’t like it. She’s threatened to send me to charm school.”

  “Ha!”

  “Yes, I’m not blue blood enough for the family.” When Catherine raised her eyebrows, he added, “My folks are from the mid-west. They’re not in the Hampton Blue Book.”

  “Oh. La dee dah.”

  He frowned and finished eating his bread.

  She wanted to ask more, but didn’t want to pry. The lunch hour traffic had petered out and only a few customers were left in the tearoom.

  When she’d finished eating, she said, “You seem deep in thought.”

  “I’m thinking about this place and what I’m going back to.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Now she was prying, but it was too late to take it back.

  He shrugged and looked at her intently. “It depends on how everything goes here.”

  She nodded as if she knew what he meant. It looked like he was going to say something else, but then the waitress came back to clear the table.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asked. “We have Irish coffee.”

  Daniel asked Catherine, “What do you think?” He looked at his watch. “It’s too late for Hennesey to call us now.”

  “I guess it won’t hurt.”

  It didn’t take long before the waitress returned with their special drinks. Nor did it take long for the Irish coffee to have its effect. Catherine said, “That put a glow on the day.”

  “You mean my company wasn’t enough?” His eyes glinted with mischief.

  Smiling, she said in an Irish accent, “Why Daniel Gallagher. You’ve got a lot of blarney in you.” As soon as she’d spoken, she realized she’d called him by some other surname, and in a dialect she hadn’t used before. She sat there, momentarily stunned.

  He looked at her oddly “Why did you call me Daniel Gallagher? And that accent? You sounded like some of the people here.”

  She laughed to cover up her embarrassment. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I called you that. I must’ve rubbed shoulders with some of the old souls here.” Again, she was taken aback. Why did she say old souls? And where did that name Gallagher come from? And that dialect. He was looking at her as if she’d grown horns.

  She twisted her lips and said, “It was probably the alcohol. Brought out the Irish in me.” She picked up her bag from the floor. “Are you ready to go have a look?”

  ~~~

  Relating her strange behavior to the liquor seemed to do the trick. He didn’t pursue the matter as they walked towards the row of traditional stone cottages.

  Catherine stopped outside the first cottage and referred to her brochure. “It says here, these roofs are constructed in the distinctive rounded Donegal style.” She looked up at the roof and pointed to the ropes. “See those ropes tied to the stones at the eaves level? They keep the thatch from blowing away in the strong winds.”

  “It’s brilliant.” He said with an Irish lilt and then winked.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No of course not, lassie.” He kept a straight face but spoke in an attempted Irish accent. “Now, why would I do that?”

  She laughed as he followed her to the door.

  “So, which one is this?”

  “Nineteenth century. It must’ve been terrible during the potato famine. The Irish peasants weren’t allowed to own land.” She opened the traditional half-door. “This was a good idea. You opened the top half to let the fresh air in or to greet visitors to your home. By k
eeping the bottom closed, you kept the animals out.”

  “This would be good in New York.”

  “No kidding.” She opened the other half and said, “Shall we?”

  They entered the living room, sparsely furnished with a table and chairs. In the center, there was a simple stone hearth and chimney and a metal cauldron with pots and utensils on a stand nearby. Catherine had no sooner stepped into the room when she heard a haunting cacophony of sounds, like echoes of Gaelic voices. She was about to ask Daniel about them—thinking it might be a recording—but then the voices faded away. After her strange utterances in the tearoom, she decided to keep her mouth shut. It was bad enough seeing things; she didn’t want to be accused of hearing things, too.

  Her pulse quickened as she and Daniel went into the bedroom and took in the iron bedstead, washstand with basin, and chamber pot on the earthen floor. It was all so familiar. She gasped at the sight of a brown wool dress hanging in the corner of the room.

  “What is it?” Daniel asked, turning to her.

  “Nothing,” she said, covering up her reaction. “I’m just struck by how simple life was back then.” The dress was smaller than anything she’d wear, but then women in those lean times were thinner. As she took in the details—a simple peter pan collar, tiny buttons down the front, and long slender sleeves—she was reminded of the image she’d seen when they left town that afternoon. The woman sitting on the hill staring out to sea. Only this time she made out the face. It was her own.