Dark Rising

by Monica McGurk

  I paused at the edge of the water, watching the boats bob, their ropes straining as the rough water tested their moorings.

  “There, on the other side. That place looks busy enough,” Michael shouted above the wind as he brushed by me.

  I turned to look. There was a pub mere steps from the pier. Michael was already crossing over to it.

  I looked back longingly at the boardwalk that jutted into the harbor. It was deserted, the fishermen and tour guides having fled inside for shelter. I wanted nothing but to sit out among the boats, the shrieking wind and creak of wood my only companions.

  Reluctantly, I followed Michael across the street.

  The windows glowed with a welcoming light, but the cozy invitation did not dispel the dread I felt as we crossed the threshold into the pub. It was packed, a stream of chatter rising and falling around us. We pushed our way through the crowd to the counter. Michael pushed a stool at me as we took our place at the bar.

  “Now what?” I asked, not sure what our plan was.

  “We watch,” Michael responded grimly. “Watch and wait.” He bowed his head over his hands, which he clutched together on top of the bar counter almost as if in prayer. As he perched on the stool, I could see how our quest was taking its toll on him. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises now. The ropey veins in his neck and hands made his lean body seem gaunt.

  I looked away, guiltily, hoping for something to distract me. I was grateful for the steady hum of camaraderie that filled the place. I let it lull me, hoping it would blanket over the never-ending monologue that was running through my head.

  If you leave, he will be safe.

  If you leave, he will be safe.

  If you leave, he will be safe.

  I brushed away the tear that was forming in the corner of my eye. If I ran away now, before we found the Key, Michael might be safe, at least temporarily—but at what cost to everybody else?

  “What’ll you be having, then?” The bartender demanded, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Whiskey, straight up, the best you have,” Michael ordered without hesitation. “She’ll have a cider.”

  The bartender wiped a glass dry, his massive hand barely able to fit the cloth inside the rim.

  “Best I have?” he mused, a twinkle in his eye as he slid the glass under the counter and threw the towel over his shoulder in one graceful move. “We could debate that into the wee hours. But I have something you might like.”

  He turned away and busied himself among the bottles.

  “Whiskey?” I asked, turning to Michael with a skeptical eye.

  “I’m of age,” Michael answered drily. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed,” I whispered. A smile tugged at the corners of Michael’s mouth, as he raised an eyebrow, reading more into my response than I meant. I blushed as he swept me with a rakish look.

  The bartender slid a tall glass of pale gold liquid before me, saving me from further embarrassment “Your cider, miss. Not too strong, but it should shore you up. As for you,” he said with a nod to Michael, “You’ll have to tell me what you think of this.”

  He stood the short tumbler of amber reverentially in front of Michael. It seemed to glow, its liquid light reflecting off the polished wood of the bar, the facets of the cut crystal twinkling.

  Michael fingered the glass appreciatively. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “Look at that color. It’s like caramel.”

  “That she is,” the bartender agreed with a knowing nod. “But many a whiskey turns out to be like a beautiful woman, pretty to look at but nasty inside. Taste her and tell me if this one is worth the name of whiskey.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest, watching Michael with an expert eye.

  Michael picked up the glass and held it to the light. Its glow deepened. He drew it to his nose and inhaled deeply, once, then again, closing his eyes.

  “It smells of citrus and honey,” he breathed, sighing. “Maybe some apricot.”

  “Aye, it should,” the man nodded ever so slightly, granting Michael a grudging respect. “Now give it a try.”

  Michael tilted the glass back, gulping some down. I watched, entranced by the working of his jaw as he seemed to chew the whiskey, and then the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed it down. He made a slight grimace as he slammed the glass down on the counter. A little wave of whiskey sloshed over the edge.

  “Sour finish,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Thin.”

  The barkeep nodded sagely. “So they tell me. She is the most premium of whiskeys—the most expensive barrels, the most expensive ingredients—and yet she leaves a bitter taste with all who try her.”

  Michael picked up the glass, tilting it back and forth, side to side, staring at the amber liquid as if hoping to see something emerge from its depths. With a hint of disappointment, he shrugged and wrinkled his nose, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp.

  His body shivered as if to chase away the bad taste. He put the glass down, shoving it away with disgust.

  “What is it?”

  The bartender whisked away the glass that Michael had drained, giving me a wink, as he replaced it discreetly with our check and began wiping off our spot.

  “It’s named The Wild Geese. For the Irish heroes who fled our land and took to France, establishing themselves there when desperation left them no choice. A pretty name, but not such a pretty story. That’s the plight of us Irish, is it not? The diaspora and all that. But you’ve not come here for sad stories of Ireland. You look as if you have a sad tale all your own.” The bartender fixed an eye upon Michael, waiting for his answer.

  Michael seemed to sag under the reminder of his burden. “We need someone to take us to the Skellig.”

  The bartender busied himself, straightening the garnishes and barware under the counter as he leaned his head, indicating Michael should continue. Michael and I both shifted in our seats, leaning in. Maybe this was our chance.

  “We have been waiting here for days. Nobody seems willing to take us,” Michael continued.

  The bartender took out a rag and began polishing away an imaginary stain on the wood. “It’s a dangerous thing, taking a ship out in these waters, under normal circumstances. You mix in this strange weather, and it becomes nigh on impossible.”

  Michael slumped on the stool. “So we’ve been told. We just hoped there might be someone willing to make … an exception.”

  The bartender cocked an eyebrow, looking up at Michael with a gentle admonishment. “You’re not asking for an exception. You’re asking for a risk. A chance. You must have something mighty precious to do if you cannot wait for the storms to subside before you get yourselves to the Skellig.”

  Suddenly, he shifted his gaze to me, waiting for an answer. I felt my skin deepen into a ruby blush as he pinned me down with his bright green eyes.

  “We’re … pilgrims of sort,” I said, apologetically, fighting the urge to look away. How else could I put it?

  He nodded wisely, tucking his dishcloth into his apron ties. “I thought as much. A brother and sister, I gather. Probably here to pray for your ma and da, or some such thing. It’s noble, it is. Touching. But no one here will brave these seas for you, that I can promise.” He looked at my untouched glass of cider, my down-crest face, and he softened.

  “Ah, lass, it will happen soon enough. You’ll get to your island and say your prayers and the Good Lord will hear them, too, I reckon.”

  He took the bill from the counter and ripped it up. “This one is on me, then. To your quest. May the Lord hear your prayers.” He nodded and left us to tend to his other patrons.

  I pushed my glass around on the polished wood, wondering what we should do now. The bartender’s promise scared me.

  What should I pray for, if God would hear me?

  At this point, I didn’t know.

  The crowd roared, cheering the local team whose exploits were being televised in all corners of the pub. Glasses c
linked together in celebration, and ruddy men hugged and shouted with joy. Their heartfelt camaraderie—something that seemed welcoming when we entered the pub only a few minutes before—reminded me now of how isolated I had made myself.

  I snuck a glance at Michael. The dark shadows were accusing stains on his paper-thin skin. He was gripping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. I sank lower into my stool, trailing my finger through the tiny puddle of condensation pooling around my cider.

  I had to do something.

  I couldn’t leave—there was too much at stake for the rest of the world. But I couldn’t let Michael suffer in pain. I had to do something to get us onto that island and find the Key—but what?

  I closed my eyes, willing the answer to come to me.

  The bustle of the bar faded away, turning into white noise. Behind my eyes, I could feel it; I could hear it—the buzzing of a thousand whispers, voices that carried the answer in their words. The harder I tried to understand them, though, the more elusive they became. I’d think I’d grasped a word, rising from the hum like a silver fish surfacing in a stream, only to lose my grasp of it as it morphed into shapeless mutterings, twisting away from me to let other, just as meaningless, words rise in its place.

  “Hope.”

  I opened my eyes, startled.

  Michael was standing next to me, stilling my hand with his own. I jerked away, confused, my fingers burning where he touched me.

  He looked worriedly at me, trying to explain. “You …” Unable to find the words, he simply slid his hand away from where it rested on the bar.

  There, gouged through the varnish deep into the wood, were three letters: DEL.

  “You wouldn’t stop. It was like you were in a trance,” he said quietly before sliding a napkin over my act of vandalism. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  I shook my head, numb. I lifted my fingers to inspect them, finding little bits of varnished wood and grit under my nail.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Michael insisted, hustling me up from the stool before I could protest.

  “Wait,” I said, pushing away from him and straining over his shoulders to scan the crowd, unsure of what I was looking for.

  The buzzing in my head faded in and out as I glanced around.

  He was here, the man who would take us to the Skellig.

  Determined, I looked about in earnest. The sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere, now, pulling me forward and urging me on. I pushed away from Michael and through the crowd of drinkers, letting my body follow where the voices took me. The rowdy fans yelled out again, arguing with the television over a bad call, their angry shouts drowning out my voices. I screwed my eyes shut and held my ears, trying to find the voices again in the din.

  There. Barely there—only a thread for me to hang onto—but there, nonetheless. I opened my eyes and kept pushing to the back of the building, past the kitchen and the empty music room, out the back door into the cold night air.

  The whispering stopped.

  A grizzled old man sat by himself, rings of smoke from his pipe encircling his head. He was dressed for the sea in heavy woolens and a well-worn slicker. He leaned back in his hard wooden chair against the side of the pub, arms crossed over his chest, looking as if he were waiting for somebody. He pulled the pipe out of his mouth and looked me up and down.

  I stepped forward, letting the wooden door slam heavily behind me.

  “I hear you are in need of a boat to the Skellig,” he stated, as if it were a known fact, not a question.

  I nodded before clearing my throat. “Yes.”

  He pointed at me with the stem of his pipe while he spoke.

  “I’ll require double payment, cash, and I won’t guarantee you a landing. But I can take you out in the morning. If you’re still needin’ to go.” He raised his bushy eyebrows, waiting for my answer.

  I nodded vehemently. “Yes. Very much.”

  “Good,” he grunted, clamping his pipe back in his mouth. “Be at the pier before eight, or the harbor master may not let us slip out.” He looked me over again before continuing with a hint of disapproval. “You’ll need to bundle up. I presume you’ll be climbin’ to the monastery?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Wear layers and rain gear and good shoes. Tell that beau of yours the same.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” I protested, glad for the cover of darkness to hide my blush.

  He grunted, not bothering to hide his disbelief. “Then why is he hovering there, in the shadows, keepin’ an eye on your fair face?” I looked back to the doorway from which I’d emerged and sure enough, Michael was standing there in the dark, just outside the pool of light that spilled from the lamppost, his body tense as if ready for a fight. I didn’t have time to wonder how he’d slipped behind me, unnoticed, because the man kept giving me orders.

  “Just be there,” he continued. “You’ll see my boat. Remember, before eight. With cash.”

  He seemed to be finished then, settling back into his chair with his pipe, a look of satisfaction on his weather-beaten face.

  “But, how do I know which boat is yours?” I asked, confused.

  Another cheer roared out from the pub behind us. His gruff voice cut through the noise as he answered.

  “Her name is the Wild Goose. And I’m Del.”

  We gulped our coffee down on the way to the dock the next morning, holding the steaming cups in our wind-chapped hands, grateful for the bit of warmth. We piled on as much clothing as we could to ward off the chill. I had a wad of cash stuffed into my pocket, ready to hand it over to Del, so he could get us on our way.

  As adamant as I’d been that we needed to get out to the island, the instant I stepped onto the pier, I felt like I was walking a gangplank. I looked over the edge; the gray water boiled around us, whipped into a frenzy by the unrelenting weather.

  “Nice day,” Enoch mumbled to nobody in particular as he juggled his coffee and cane.

  We passed row after row of cruisers and ferries, designed to carry tourists in relative comfort over the treacherous waters for a glimpse of the seals and birds that basked around the Skellig. Spacious and sturdy, they looked fit enough to face the roughest seas. Surely, the Wild Goose was among these.

  But no, as our boots trudged up and down the docks, there was no sign of her. The longer we looked, the more I began to fear that safe, modern transport was not to be our lot. And when we finally found the Wild Goose, my heart sank.

  She looked like a fishing trawler, worn and dingy. There was no heated cabin with coffee service; indeed, there probably was no heat at all. Above decks, in fact, there was almost nothing beyond the dilapidated, leaning pile of wood and Plexiglas that seemed to serve as the captain’s quarters and hold a bunch of nets and ropes.

  Wild Goose. More like wild goose chase, Henri muttered, and I cringed.

  Del poked his head out of the shack. “I was wonderin’ if you’d changed your minds. Come aboard, then, quickly.” He waved us on, pointing out the plank as he bounded out of the shed.

  We scurried on, careful of the scattered things we found on deck.

  The engine was already running in coughs and spurts. Del pulled the plank aboard behind us, slamming the gate and rushing about to untie the ropes that held the Wild Goose to the dock. With alarm, I realized there were no other crew members.

  “There will be some papers you need to sign. You’ll find them on a clipboard in the wheelhouse. Tuck your payment under the clip when you’ve finished, and we’ll be off.”

  I glanced up at the sky—roiling with black, angry clouds.

  “Hurry now, missy,” Del added impatiently, pointing me toward the shed. “Hurry or you’ll be missing your chance to leave.”

  Wordlessly, Michael and Enoch followed me into the wheelhouse. We slammed the door shut behind us, and the little building trembled. I realized the walls, ramshackle as they might be, did an effective job of blocking out the wind. I looked around for the pape
rs Del wanted us to sign. His charts were spread all around, along with a compass and a few other instruments I didn’t recognize, all heaped upon a rickety table.

  “Old school,” Enoch nodded appreciatively as he looked around the tiny space. “He’ll be able to handle this kind of weather.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael responded warily. He looked over the instruments. “He doesn’t seem to have much modern technology on this boat. No radar, no depth finders.”

  A gust of wind ruffled the maps as Del stepped back inside to join us. “Don’t need it,” he asserted, tapping his head. “Have it all up here. I was born on these waters, have made my whole life on them. If I can’t guide you safe, nobody can.” He reached under one of the charts and pulled out his clipboard, thrusting it toward me.

  “Sign these now, while I steer us out.”

  The clipboard was stacked with waivers. I pulled out the pen that was tucked under the clip and started scanning the clauses.

  Not guaranteed for landing. That one he’d already mentioned. The others gave me pause: Not responsible for death or injury from falling overboard. Not responsible for crashing upon the rocks in foul weather. Not an actual guide to the Skellig … so therefore not responsible if, through poor footing, avalanche, or other mishap, we plunge from the rocks.

  Is this really necessary? Henri’s exasperated voice suddenly filled my head. This is a worse idea than that desert hike you took in Las Vegas. It might rank up there with visiting those Chinese gamblers. Or kissing Michael, he said archly.

  Leave me alone, I thought to myself, my lips jutting into an irritated pout. Go back to wherever you came from. It’s not like you’re in any danger. I signed my name with a flourish, shoving the wad of bills under the clip before passing it all to Enoch.