“We’d better get you back. What time does Dot expect you?”
“Six.”
He gathered up the quilt and the basket, took my hand and led me back to his mother’s cottage.
* * * *
My Aunt Dorothy and her husband Tim lived in a small gray semi-detached house just outside of Kilvarren in the shadow of the Mountain. One of those dreary council estates that littered rural Ireland. All this beautiful land, and most people lived on top of each other.
Dorothy was eight years my mother’s senior, the oldest girl in the family, and although my mother would complain about her bossiness from time to time, Aunt Dot had always been nice to me. Her children, five boys, were raised, the youngest having graduated from university.
When I walked into the tidy house, I could see she had gone to some trouble for my visit: fresh flowers arranged in her good Waterford vase, the small table in her seldom used front room set with her few bits of wedding china.
“Dottie, everything looks beautiful.” I kissed her on the cheek.
“Hush, now, ’twas no bother.” She took the bottle of wine I’d brought and gave me a long look. “You’re looking well. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Ah, yes, my new face. My pretty new face. Compliments of the Mountain air. Or something else. Not wanting her to dwell on it, I asked, “Where is Tim?”
“Off to the pub, thank God, so it’s just us girls.” She smiled.
I returned her smile. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, no, sit down there now. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I looked around the room and examined the pictures of my strapping cousins, one of whom with his black hair and green eyes could’ve been Bobby’s brother. The older black and white photos were interesting too. My grandparents’ stiff formal wedding photo, a picture of my mother and Dot when they were young girls, and a wedding photo that looked familiar.
Dottie bustled into the room, holding two salad plates. I pointed to the picture. “Who is this, Dot?”
“My great-grandparents, I think. Why?”
“No reason, really, I saw a copy of it in the old Collins cottage.”
“The old cottage?”
“Yeah, on the south side of the Mountain? Bobby took me there last week.”
Dot seemed to go pale as she set the plates down. “No, sure, that’s not possible, love.
That cottage is barely standing. There’s nothing of ours left there.”
“Bobby was surprised too, but the cottage has been restored and I’m almost positive I saw this picture there in a brass frame.”
She seemed to force a laugh. “Who would bother restoring that old wreck?”
“I don’t know. I meant to ask Mary about it.”
“Don’t bother her. Are you sure you were on the Mountain? Maybe you were in Kilvarren?”
“Dot, I know I’m a Yank, but even I can tell the difference between a mountain and a town. Bobby told me it was the old Collins cottage, it was restored and I’m almost positive I saw this picture.”
She pursed her lips, her face erupting into a mass of wrinkles. “Odd things happen up there. It’s best not to worry about it. Come away from that old picture. I don’t even know why I hung it up, to tell you the truth. Sit and have your salad, love.”
After the salad, Dot served our main course: broiled salmon and asparagus, neither of which I particularly liked. However, she had gone to such trouble for me, so I smiled and forced myself to eat a bit.
It was delicious.
“Dot, this is wonderful!”
“You sound surprised.”
“Honestly, my mother used to force me to eat salmon during Lent, but it tasted nothing like this. It’s so fresh!”
She laughed. “It should be. Tim caught it this morning in the Feale.”
The fish nearly melted in my mouth. It tasted wild, free. “When we were up in Dublin Bobby’s sister complained about how hard it was to get decent salmon anymore. She said the salmon farmers had ruined it.”
“Oh, they have in most of the country. The farmed salmon escaped and bred with the wild population. Last time I was in Dublin I had a piece of salmon that was so bland, it was criminal. But not here. Tim says it’s one more thing we have to thank
Slanaitheoir
for. No farmer would dare defile His river.”
“
Slanaitheoir
? What’s that? A local environmental group or something?”
Dot cocked her head and said nothing. She poured herself another glass of wine.
“Dot? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. Has your mother never mentioned
Slanaitheoir
?”
“I don’t think so. Why? Is it some secret society of salmon lovers?”
“No, ah sure, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I don’t even believe in that nonsense anymore.”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated a moment. “Your mother will kill me, but you should know your history.
Your family’s history, and your husband’s family history too.” She took another sip of wine.
“Well, before the Famine, five families lived on Devlin’s Mountain. The Griffins, the Collinses, the Murphys, the Lenihans and of course, the Devlins. The soil on the Mountain was poor, rocky.
Not good for much. Still, the five families survived, just barely, but they survived up on the Mountain for generations. One evening a tall black-haired man appeared out of the woods outside of Devlin’s cottage. The man was near seven feet tall, broad shouldered and clothed in a golden tunic. His eyes, they say, were hypnotic. Deep green.
“The first person he met was a Devlin, John Devlin, I believe. The families of the Mountain were always hospitable and would share what little they had. John saluted the man.
The man complimented John on his fine home, although in truth, at that time it wouldn’t have been much more than a simple cottage, dirt floors and all. John asked the man to share tea with his family.
“The Devlins had even less than the other families on the Mountain and their land holding was smaller. Their only cow was poorly and provided little milk, but what little they had they gave their guest. The stranger seemed well pleased by that and was particularly enamored by John’s pretty young wife. Before he left, he walked over to the cow tied to the back of their shed and whispered in its ear. By the next morning, John woke to the bellows of the cow. It begged to be milked, its udders bursting.
“The man then visited the Griffins and complimented them on the wife’s vegetable garden. The next day the Griffins woke to plants that had doubled in size. The other families received similar unexplainable gifts from the stranger.
“Soon, He became an integral part of Mountain life. He attended wakes, christenings. He played hurling with the young men, danced with the young girls. Before long the poor Mountain folk had more food in their bellies. The women no longer wore that strained look, and their skin softened and hair grew thick.”
“So what, he was their good luck charm?” I asked.
“You could say that. This part of Kerry is often quite wet. That summer the sun shone almost every day. One day the man invited the Mountain families to the glen beside the Devlin’s cottage. Now, the people had always avoided the glen. It was said to be home to the
sidhe
, the good folk.”
“The good folk?” I asked.
“The fae, faeries. The people were afraid, but the man had been kind to them. They didn’t want to insult him so they all put on their best clothes and joined Him in the glen, outside the
prochog
, the cave.
“In front of the cave, the man set out a feast of roasted meats and thick golden mead.
Now these were simple folk, not used to fine food or drink. It was pure heaven to them. He gave a few of the Murphy boys golden fiddles and pipes which they played like angels. The people ate, drank and danced until morn. Even the children.”
I smiled. “So they had a forest rave?”
Dot laughed. “A rave? I suppose, something like that. The people lost their fear of the glen and the caves and at least once a week they feasted with the man. They soon began to refer to Him as
Slanaitheoir,
which in Irish means savior.
“Now, usually the men of the family would go into Kilvarren village to sell their crops, buy supplies and of course pay the landlord, Lord Devon, his rent. Almost three months after
Slanaitheoir
arrived two of the men took the road off the Mountain to town, but a thick hedge had grown up across the road and circled the base of the Mountain for as far as the men could see. The next day they went to the south side of the Mountain, toward Killogrin. The south side too was blocked by an even thicker hedge.
“A hedge?” I asked.
“Unlike any they’d ever seen. It was near twenty feet high and so thick they could not see through it. A few brave men tried to hack through it with axes, but the branches had sharp thorns and the men were soon bloodied. They asked
Slanaitheoir
to help them clear it. Even He was unable to cut through it.
“Some of the people worried they would be turned out of their homes if they didn’t pay their rent. And although their needs were few, they still needed certain staples from the town.
The people poured out their worries to
Slanaitheoir
. It seemed once they spoke to Him, their worries left them. The women would tell him they needed a needle and thread, or a new pot, and soon these items would appear on their doorstep. Their crops and livestock continued to thrive, and the Mountain folk for the first time in their memory had all their needs met. Every few days the five families would gather in the glen and dance until morn with
Slanaitheoir
.
“This seems like a nice story. I don’t see why my mother wouldn’t want you to tell me about it. How long were they cut off from the village?”
“For seven years. From 1845 to 1852. The Famine years,” Dot said.
“The Great Famine?”
“Yes. The country starved, Kilvarren village was decimated while the five families feasted and danced with
Slanaitheoir
.”
“What happened? How did they get off the Mountain?” I asked.
The front door opened with a bang. My uncle Tim barreled though the small hallway and into the front room.
“How ye? It’s lashing rain out there.”
I’d been so caught up in Dot’s story that I hadn’t even noticed the storm outside.
“Jesus, Timmy, what time is it?” Dottie asked.
“Past eleven.”
“Past eleven! And this lady with a flight in the morning. Caroline, love, I’m sorry I’ve delayed you with all my old stories. Timmy, run her up to Mary Devlin’s now so she can get some sleep.”
“Dottie, really, it’s all right.”
“No, no, if I cause you to oversleep and miss your flight your mother will never let me hear the end of it. Go on now, love, get your things and Timmy will take you back.”
“You didn’t finish your story.”
“Ah, I’ll tell you next time I see you, love. Those stories are as old as the hills and they’ll keep.” Dot kissed me on the cheek and practically threw the two of us out the door.
Chapter 8
Mary
I looked out the kitchen window, and in the distance, the old
pucan
stood beneath the old hawthorn tree. I turned away and said to my Bobby, “Are you sure you won’t have more black pudding? There’s plenty left.”
“No, Mam, I’m stuffed. Plus, we don’t want to miss our flight.”
I landed another sausage onto his plate. “No, no of course not. Caroline will want something, though.”
He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t think so. She was sick this morning.”
“Sick? Already?” I had added some herbs to her tea and made the request from
Slanaitheoir
in accordance with the Agreement. But still, I wasn’t sure it would work. Or that I wanted it to work. “Call me when you’re sure. And remember, my love. Only one. You can’t request another. Only the one.”
Bobby grabbed my hand and in a low voice said, “One is more than we ever hoped for.
Thank you, Mam. For everything.”
My hand burned as he touched me. I closed my eyes and saw a baby boy with pale blue eyes. I dropped Bobby’s hand and fell to my knees.
“What is it, Mam? Are you all right?”
My head spun and although the baby boy looked sweet, I felt a strange sense of dread.
Bobby took my arm and lifted me up. “You’re all right, Mam. You’re fine.”
I leaned into him and opened my eyes. Instead of my kitchen, I saw smoke. And there was paper. Reams of paper fluttering out an open window.
“Mam?”
Falling. I felt myself falling through the air.
“Mam!” Bobby shouted.
I looked at him and instead of the clean cut, relaxed son I had stuffed with sausages a few moments before, I saw a different Bobby. One with a gash across his cheek, suit jacket torn and dirty. Who had only minutes left to live.
“No,” I wailed. “Not my son!”
“Shush, Mam. It’s all right. I’ll get you your tablets,” Bobby said as he sat me in the chair.
I felt the rush of wind push my hair up as I slid from the chair and onto the cold floor.
“No,” I keened. “Not my Bobby.”
I wouldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t bear seeing my Bobby, all battered and torn. I felt a woman’s fingers at my mouth, pushing in the tablets. The bitter chalky taste made me gag and I opened my eyes.
“You,” I spat. “You’re the cause of all this. Dear God, what have I done?”
Caroline’s pretty, pretty face was pale and full of concern. “Mrs. Connelly, Mary, what have I done?”
I grabbed her sleeve and whispered, “It’s not too late. Get rid of it. Pretend it never happened. Save him. Save my son.”
“Mary, you’re not making sense.”
Bobby, now clean and wearing his favorite Dublin jersey, walked in the door followed by Seamus. They lifted me up. I fought against the pills and to stay awake.
“Don’t go, Bobby. Don’t go to America. It will be the death of you.”
His green eyes filled with tears. “Ah, Mam, you were doing so well.”
“No, listen to me. You can’t go back there. Please.”
“Shush now,” he said laying me carefully in my old bed. “It will all be all right.”
Seamus took off my shoes. “Leave her to me, Bobby. You don’t want to miss your flight.”