by Mary Carter
It was a cozy, two-room restaurant with yellow and brick walls, a smooth stone floor, and a fireplace in the front room. The open kitchen ran the length of the back wall. In front of it, pastry cases beckoned with cakes, pies, and scones. She smelled bacon, eggs, and fresh bread, and by God—was that coffee?
There, on the back wall, sat a cappuccino machine. Carlene heard angels sing. Almost every table in the place was full. There were young couples, and families with children, and babies, and old people. They were chatting, reading newspapers, and eating from heaping plates of food. Many looked up and smiled when she walked in, others paid her no mind. Carlene squeezed into a small table by the fireplace. Within seconds, a young woman with a long, dark ponytail approached. She grinned ear to ear, handed Carlene a menu, and put her hand on her shoulder.
“How ya,” she said. “I know who you are. I was hoping to meet you. I’m Nancy.”
“Nancy?” Carlene said. “As in—this is your place?”
“This is my place, sure,” Nancy said. “How are you settling in? The weather’s been miserable for you, sure. I hope everything is treating you all right, and if you’ve any questions at all I’d be happy to answer them.”
“Can I get a cappuccino?” Carlene asked, still suspecting it was some kind of trick.
“No bother a’t’all,” Nancy said.
“Make it two, please,” Carlene said.
“No bother ’at’all,” Nancy said. Carlene also ordered a scone with fresh cream and strawberries, to which Nancy said, “no bother a’t’all.” The cappuccinos were heaven. Carlene ordered a third to go, and invited Nancy to pop into the pub sometime, to which Nancy responded, “I will, yeah. No bother a’t’all.”
When she was finished, and caffeinated, and full, Nancy suggested Carlene take a walk to the ruined Franciscan abbey just outside of town. Carlene intended on doing just that.
“Mind yourself, now,” Nancy said. Carlene smiled and thanked her, and felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Now, that girl was nice. Genuinely nice. She had nice coming out of her pores. She probably didn’t have an inner critic judging everyone around her, and there was definitely sugar in the sugar jars. She was pretty too. Was Nancy single? Did Ronan fancy her? If not, why not? She was cute, bubbly, and friendly, ran her own business, and was full-blooded Irish. Not some wannabe, but the genuine article.
Maybe Nancy was madly in love with someone else. She hoped so. But even if Nancy wasn’t in love with Ronan, surely some woman in town was? Why was she thinking like that, why did she even care? She had plenty to do—and fix, starting with her front door.
She’d stop into a hardware store and ask if there were any handymen about who could fix it. And she would send Joe the bill.
She would have to call her father soon too, let him know she was all right. She’d have to get the phone working in the pub first, along with the cable for the television. There was so much to do, but she looked forward to it all. This was how she felt when she’d rented her first studio apartment, when even going out to buy Windex felt like an adventure.
As Carlene made her way down the street, she made a point of waving to everyone she saw. She rarely beat them to it; usually they waved and said hello first. Just ahead, a boy soared toward her on a bicycle. He had a round face and chubby red cheeks, and behind him loomed the town castle. She held the image in her head, wanting to capture it forever.
She passed a small stone house. In the windowsill sat a pair of porcelain dogs. They looked at her with cocked heads, floppy ears, pink tongues, and big painted brown eyes. She passed pubs that were open and pubs that had been long closed. She passed the butcher, the bookmakers, and the bank. The town was a blend of medieval and modern, and somehow it all just fit.
Carlene took a right on the street where Nancy told her to turn. Just look for Dally’s Lounge, Undertaker, and Pub. It was easy to find the pub; Carlene remembered pointing it out to Ronan on her way into town. The sign for Dally’s hung sideways at the top of the building, a circular wooden painting of an older gentleman with a handlebar mustache, holding a pint of ale. Dally’s, Carlene thought. A good place to drink and die.
Across from Dally’s was another string of small stone houses. Above the middle one hung a simple wooden sign that said: MUSEUM. She would have to check it out later. Here the street came to a dead end in front of an open field. In the distance, the old Franciscan abbey sprawled the length of a football field. She only had to walk over a small wooden bridge and down a short stone path to get to the abbey. First, she crossed over to the little museum. She tried the door, but it was locked. She peered into the little window but was unable to make out anything other than dark, lumpy shapes in the small room. She would have to come back later. Carlene was about to cross the field to the abbey when it started to rain. It was just a light mist, and Carlene figured she might as well take a quick look around, then she’d definitely be off to buy her wellies.
Carlene paused on the wooden bridge and looked down at the shallow river. Farther downstream, a white-and-brown horse drank from the muddy banks. He was tall, his legs taut and stretched, sinewy muscles reflexively contracting and relaxing, neck proud and long. A thing of beauty, but too thin; his ribs stuck out like a broken accordion. She would have guessed he was wild, but a thin rope connected him to a nearby stake. Carlene wanted to go to him. Free him, feed him, touch his soft nose, feel his fleshy lips tickle the palm of her hand. But this wasn’t her country, and he wasn’t her horse. She had a constant sensation of being watched, of invisible boundaries, which, if she crossed, she would be banned, she would remain forever not one of them.
The monastery, complete with a soaring round tower, beckoned. It amazed Carlene that she could just walk up to this abbey without having to buy a ticket or wait in line. It was just out here, in the open, an accessible, twelfth-century ruined abbey. Carlene walked through an arched doorway and stepped into the open courtyard. The stones that made up the surrounding wall were chunky and set on top of each other in varying directions, leaving small gaps between them. She walked around the courtyard, imagining what it must have looked like back in the day.
It just wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she have grown up here? She could have played ball in the courtyard, climbed the rock walls up to the second story, made out with teenage boys in the bell tower. The excitement of the roller coasters at Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio, paled in comparison.
Who had Ronan made out with here in the ruins of the abbey?
Carlene gravitated to the outline of a five-light window on the eastern side of the abbey, its stained glass long gone. It was at least ten feet high, set twenty feet in the air. Diamond-shaped cutouts showed where the individual windowpanes used to be. On the opposite wall, stone faces were cut into a soaring pillar. Beneath her feet was gravel and dirt; the sky was the roof. She crossed through a doorway and entered an even larger courtyard. The rain was heavier now, shrouding the ancient monastery in a cloak of mystique. Across the courtyard and to the left, a set of stone steps led up to what remained of the round tower.
The stairs were long and steep, and by the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. Here, a massive iron door stood guard to the tower, chained and locked. It was disappointing, but the view from the top was well worth the climb. She could see all the way to town. From here she looked over to a steeple in the middle of the abbey. Unlike the tower, the steeple could not be accessed by stairs. But suddenly, Carlene saw two heads poking out from the window of the steeple. Teenage boys, most likely. They must have scaled the walls. It was nice to know that even in these modern times, these boys chose scaling walls over the Internet or video games. Of course, now she could see they were smoking cigarettes, so maybe video games without cigarettes would be better for them after all. She walked down the steps thinking about the monks who once built, prayed, and lived in the abbey. She was so engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t see the two figures at the bottom of the stairs until she was nearly on top of
them. She let out a little shriek.
Two short, slightly pudgy women in identical black rain jackets with the hoods pulled up blocked her path. It wasn’t until she had a good look at their faces that she recognized the twins.
“Liz, Clare,” Carlene said. “You startled me.”
“How do you like our little abbey?” one of them said. Carlene was going to have to ask someone who was who, she couldn’t always go on wondering.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“I’m Liz,” the one who had just spoken said. Carlene laughed, embarrassed to be caught.
“Don’t worry,” Clare said. “We get it all the time.” They pulled off their hoods. Liz had short hair, cut in layers; Clare’s hung just below her chin, making her face appear slightly longer.
“As long as you keep your hairstyles, I’ll remember,” Carlene said.
“Did you know this was built in twelve ninety-one?” Liz said.
“It’s remarkable,” Carlene said.
“Ireland’s abbeys have a rich history,” Clare said. “A hundred monks flocked here to build this abbey. They were French and Irish, they were, but after a while the Irish ran all the French back home, and from then on it was only Irish monks.” The twins stepped farther into the courtyard. Carlene followed. They led her through the last doorway. Carlene stepped into the smallest room she’d seen yet. Against the back wall was a crypt. She followed the girls over. It was protected by a wall of iron bars. This section had both a roof and a floor. Inside were two tombs. On top of the closest tomb, a skeleton was carved on top of the stone crypt. “A White Knight lies here,” Liz said. Clare pointed to the right.
“There are more graves over there, but the headstones were destroyed. The town paid to have this fenced in to prevent damage to the crypts.”
“They’re amazing,” Carlene said.
“We’re lucky this is still standing,” Liz said. “Henry the Eighth ordered all the Franciscan monasteries destroyed.”
“Wow,” Carlene said. She wished she could think of something more sophisticated and intellectual to say, but nothing came to mind. She felt as if the girls were working their way up to telling her something, and it was making her nervous. “I’m glad it’s still standing too,” she said.
“Oh, we’ve withstood a couple of tragic turns in our history,” Liz said. “But don’t you worry, we’re still here.”
“Absolutely,” Carlene said.
“No matter who blows in and tries to take us down, we eventually run them out,” Clare said. She laughed, which started Liz laughing. Carlene couldn’t muster up so much as a smile.
“I see,” Carlene said. Liz and Clare moved on, back through the doorway, and took a left.
“This was where the monks took their meals,” Liz said. She pointed out a recessed aisle in the wall. “That was the old fireplace.”
“I’m so appreciative of this experience,” Carlene said. “We don’t have sights like this in Ohio.” Thunder rumbled overhead, sounding as if the sky itself was cracking open, and it began to pour. The girls backed up until they were under a small roof that used to hang over the fireplace.
“In thirteen forty-nine the Black Death swept through Ireland,” Clare said. “It was the worst plague they’d ever seen. The Archbishop of the Franciscan Order was beside himself. Himself and his priests had been tending to the sick and dying day and night. Priests were falling sick as well, even in the midst of performing their duties. One night the archbishop returned to the monastery after a particularly deadly night. Weary with exhaustion, he went to the chapel, got down on his knees, and prayed for an end to the plague.”
“He prayed for a sign,” Liz said.
“Do you want to see the chapel?” Clare said. “It’s enclosed too, but we’ll have to run for it.”
“Sure,” Carlene said. They tore across the courtyard, over to where Carlene had first entered the abbey. They were back at the huge window with diamond-shaped panes. The girls stepped through the column and into a little enclosed chapel that Carlene had completely overlooked. Inside was a large Celtic cross. Clare crossed over to it and placed her wet hands on either side of it. Carlene was wet and shivering, and she wanted to go home. But she also wanted to hear the rest of the story, and she didn’t want to offend the girls.
“That night the bishop fell into a deep sleep,” Clare said. “He was visited by an angel who told him if he wanted to end the plague, he must build a friary for all the poor friars of Ireland. He was told the location of the new monastery would be revealed to him when the time was right. The next day he gathered three of his most trusted priests, and they set out to find the sign promised to him by the angel in his dream. They began to have a walk about. Soon they found themselves by a river.” The girls gazed out, as if looking upon the very river. Carlene followed their gaze, mesmerized. Liz picked up the story.
“There sat three black swans, with flaxseeds in their bills.” The story stopped, and the twins looked at Carlene.
“It was the middle of winter,” Clare said. Carlene nodded, still not understanding.
“Flaxseed doesn’t grow in the middle of winter,” Liz said.
“Oh,” Carlene said. “Well, there’s your sign.”
“There it was all right,” Clare said. “Lush, and full in their beaks.”
“The swans rose into the air,” Liz said. The girls looked up, as if watching them go.
“They circled the river three times,” Clare said. “When they finally landed, the archbishop and the three priests ran to the spot. The swans were gone.”
“It was as if they vanished into thin air,” Liz said.
“But in their place, sprouting up from the frozen ground, was flax,” Clare said. “In full bloom.”
“A heavenly sign, just like the angel promised,” Liz said.
“And that’s where they built the new monastery for all the poor friars of Ireland,” Clare said. “And true to the angel’s word, the plague ended soon thereafter.”
“ ’Course the archbishop himself died from the plague before the monastery was ever built, so,” Liz said. Clare nodded and shrugged, à la, “What are you going to do?”
“Wow,” Carlene said. “And we’re standing right here.”
“I’d say we’re not,” Liz said.
“Nah, that might have been the Ross Abbey in Glengary I was on about,” Clare said. “This abbey was built much later.”
“Oh,” Carlene said.
“You should go there sometime,” Liz said. “There are so many places in our little country for you to visit.”
“Indeed,” Carlene said. Clare stepped up until she was only inches away from Carlene.
“We’ve seen plagues, we’ve seen famines. We’ve been invaded by the Vikings, and by Cromwell, and by the Black and Tans, and French monks,” Clare said. She looked at Liz and spoke as if the two were alone. “I suppose we can tackle the odd American girl who thinks she can run one of our pubs, so,” she said.
“Aye,” Liz said. “But it would make it a little easier on us if she wouldn’t overstay her welcome, now wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, it would, so,” Clare said. “Because she’ll tire of it soon enough anyway.”
“And we’ll still be here,” Liz said. “Just minding our own business.” Standing so close, Carlene noticed a thin mustache above Clare’s lip. She didn’t point it out.
“If I were you, I’d be looking out for black swans,” Clare said.
“Right, right,” Liz said. “Maybe they’ll show you where to go next.” Then the girls straightened, smiled, and walked away.
“Have a grand day,” Clare called over her shoulder.
“Mind yourself,” Liz said. Carlene sat on the edge of the cross and waited until the girls disappeared into the mist.
CHAPTER 16
Mud and Secrets
After her encounter with the twins, Carlene went shopping. She wasn’t going to let their little warning get her down, not after how happy she’d
felt that morning. Why was this happiness thing so weak, so fleeting? Why weren’t the twins going after the one person they should really be angry with? Carlene suspected they weren’t comfortable expressing anger toward their brother, so she was the next best target. Black swans, flaxseed, and angels. Well, she was here to stay, even if swans did circle over the pub three times. She would simply take it as a sign that she was where she was meant to be. That was the thing about signs, they were open for interpretation. Meaning was in the eye of the beholder.
Carlene was excited to check out her yard and test out her new red rubber boots. She entered the property from the back and surveyed her land. She was blessed with a whole acre behind the pub. The first step she took onto the soft ground startled her. It made a slurping sound like it was a thick, frosty shake and her boot the straw. Carlene yanked her foot up, but the patch of ground had already started to give. Or rather, take, for she felt the earth pulling on her boot, claiming it as its own. She lost her balance and lurched forward, driving her foot even deeper into the muck. What a shock, how quickly the Irish earth could swallow a red rubber boot.
Down, down, down she sank until she was buried up to her knee. She cried out, and for a second was embarrassed at the desperate bleat of her voice. She sounded like a sheep. Please, she silently pleaded, as if it would help, as if she could strike a bargain with the gods. Not now. Her pub was so close. She wanted a hot shower and a glass of wine. She wanted to mull over her encounter with the twins. She could see her back porch just over the hill. Maybe the woman at the shoe shop tricked her. Maybe there was some kind of concrete sensor in the bottom of this boot, designed to sink intruding Yanks. The shop woman seemed so friendly, so inquisitive. Carlene found herself telling her she was the pub winner, without hesitating, and the woman seemed happy for her, excited even, yet maybe it was all an act. Carlene glanced down at her free leg, and despite everything, admired her boot.
