Grave Stones

by Calinda B

  She fished her phone from her pocket and took a snapshot of the map. Satisfied, she tucked the paper back into the wooden container, slid her phone into her pocket, and set off out the door.

  Normally, the lush green of the hills, the sheep with the painted dots on their rumps, the stone fences, and other typical signs of the Irish countryside, gave her cheer. But, here in Bally, the pull of gravity in this fecking village seemed to have its way with the clouds, dragging them down like they weighed tons. Even the tall grasses seemed bent from the weight of the oppressive clouds, as if they couldn’t be bothered lifting their heads.

  She glanced toward the village which lay at the top of the hill. It seemed to scrunch in on itself, like an accordion smashed between the beefy palms of a fat man. The whole thing made her feel cramped and unable to take a full breath. In Dublin, she never felt claustrophobic. There’s too much life and movement and change. But here, in Bally-nowhere, shite doesn’t change except every thousand years.

  Eager to get somewhere she could breathe, she headed down the slope of her great-aunt’s property, toward the beach. Once there, she let out a long sigh. At least the ocean doesn’t seem weighed down by the clouds. It’s far too vast.

  She fished out her phone and peered at the photo of the map. Her head swiveled back and forth as she tried to get her bearings in relation to the faded markings of the hand-drawn diagram. An X marked the position of several huge standing stones. She eyed the landscape, having no doubt which stones the map indicated. They were huge, enormous sentinels. On the map, what looked like an arrow pointed away from the standing stones. The arrow ended in a blotchy smear, leaving Lassi clueless as to whether to go straight and left, straight and right, or simply straight.

  “Okay, Lassi,” she muttered. “Root around.” She stomped about in the high grasses, examining every pile of rocks. When she found a likely cluster, she stared at the screen of her phone and tried to match the location. “Nope, this isn’t it. Not this one either. Be the Wonder Woman you know yourself to be, girl.”

  Tromping around near the shore, she pictured herself as a super-hero.

  Positioning her body as if she held out a sword and shield, she cried out, “Take that, you feckers of Bally.”

  She kicked her leg, stumbling when her foot caught on a rock. She turned to curse at the stone, then stopped. Stones and rocks, big and small, lay piled in haphazard shambles underneath a wizened tree. One lichen-covered stone looked like a grave marker. Her eyes grew wide. “Good Christ, Lassi, I think you’ve found it.”

  Her fingers trembled as she shook her phone to activate the flashlight. Holding it before the headstone, she read, “RIP Maggie Strongbow.” She couldn’t make out any other writing from the time-worn grave marker.

  Sadness mantled her shoulders, no doubt the results of the gloomy clouds pressing from the sky. Her stupid eyes grew moist.

  “This is real. It’s not a nonsense myth about a vampire. This is a poor young girl who died, and this is the condition of her grave?” she whispered. “I can’t stand it. I’ll bet she got knocked up by a local asshole and some ancient bullshit law declared her a whore. It still happens today. I deliver their unwanted babies, and my heart breaks for both mother and child.” As a teen, she’d been accused of being loose and immoral for fucking Ryan Murphy and Sean Kelly, both jocks on her high school football team. While they got paraded around as local heroes and bad boys for scoring with the stuck-up redhead. Hence, the moment she exited the headmaster’s office, having been chewed out and shamed in every way possible, she carried around a cause for equal rights and fair treatment of women who chose to enjoy their sex lives, not tuck them inside a bag of morals.

  Her chest grew heavy, like the stones weighed in on her, not the bones beneath the soil. If she could erase any memory it would be the reality of having to help a young mother deliver a baby she didn’t ask for and didn’t want.

  “What a lot of bullshit calling her the Dearg-Due red-blood-sucker. People and their stupid superstitions. The Dearg-Due was probably some early serial killer...or tuberculosis. And they assigned the name to this poor lass.” Hands on her hips, she stood staring at the grave of Maggie Strongbow. The wind blew her hood from her head, tossing her strawberry-colored hair about her face. “You fecking wind,” she yelled. “You fecking rain and fecking shitty village.” She shook her fist at the sky. “Fecking idiots who cast a person’s soul to hell for doing what’s right and natural, namely, screwing your brains out.” Tears streamed down her face, making her feel like an idiot child who’d lost her ice cream on the sidewalk. She couldn’t explain the cause of her sorrow. “I’ve got to do something. Poor Maggie can’t continue to lie under a pile of bloody uncared-for stones, because of some fecking superstitious, ignorant villagers.”

  She searched around looking for something to help her move the massive boulders. “Whoever got them up here in the first place must be a goddamned giant. How did they do that?”

  A sturdy stick seemed to call to her from a few yards away.

  She muttered, “They used levers, of course. Well, that, and elephants or horses or something to cart the rocks.” She trekked toward the stick—more of a driftwood tree branch—stooped to pick up it up, and hefted it up and down. Then, she curled her fingers around it and tried to break it. It held fast. She nodded, satisfied.

  Cheered by her decision, she set to work levering the stones out of the way. She did her best to arrange them in a circle, commemorating Maggie, rather than hiding her. When she finished moving the rocks, she cleaned the headstone as best she could. Then, she lowered herself to one knee, kneeling like she was about to be knighted. She crossed herself, which seemed foolish as she had no love for the Lord. Not the way Father Ward does. In her work as a Labor and Delivery nurse, she’d seen too many deaths and too much tragedy to assume there was someone running the show. When she rose to standing, her heart seemed to float.

  The wind had picked up, however, assaulting her cheeks and hands with its frigid breath. The temperature had plummeted to near freezing. White caps formed on the horizon while the waves beat angrily at the shore, as if some wild god punished her for her good deed.

  “Good Christ, it’s biting cold.” She tugged her coat around herself. “It’s like Ireland, only worse,” she joked. Which is exactly why Barbados sounds so appealing. She spun on her heel and scurried up the hill, reminding herself, the sooner I get the wallpaper from the wall, the sooner I can leave Bally-nightmare behind. The only thought tugging insistently—besides the lure of Father Ward—was the steaming pile of mysteries gathering in her mind—mysteries like the grave she’d tended and the wondering why it had been left a disgrace.

  Chapter 7

  On the fourth morning after the wake, Lassi awoke to a shocking surprise—no rain poured from the sky. And, the power had switched on in the night, as evidenced by the overhead light shining in her eyes, which meant she didn’t have to eat cold cheese and cream crackers for breakfast, like she’d consumed last night for supper. And, I’ll get to make hot tea. Already this day has started on a positive upswing.

  She rolled out of bed and swung her legs over the side. She made an O with her lips and breathed hard, making sure no white cloud emerged. Nope. The ancient radiator was doing its job. She’d gone to bed wearing wool socks, a sweatshirt, her woolen jumper, and sweatpants, but the temperature inside the house now seemed pleasant enough to remove her jumper. Happier than she’d been since she had arrived, she practically skipped to the kitchen.

  A gust of wind blew down the hall as she approached the dirty galley. She furrowed her forehead. The angry tabby bolted from the kitchen as she entered, sailing out the back door. Did I leave it open? I guess I could have. I wasn’t in the best of moods last night. She shut the door tight, wishing she hadn’t removed the wool jumper. Gazing out the grimy window, her good mood seemed to get swept away by the howling wind. And, if the gooseflesh peppering her skin was any indication, the temperature outside was co
lder than it was last night when she’d left the beach.

  Good Christ, this place is awful, rain or no rain. Only three more days of this horrid village and then I can head back to my life in Dublin. She scanned the messy room, still littered with bags, boxes, and random crap. Fuck me, I’ve got a lot of shite to do in three days to get Great-Aunt Roberta’s cottage cleaned up for resale. But first, tea.

  She picked up the electric tea kettle and extended it toward the faucet. Water shot from the faucet before her hand had touched it. She screeched. The water sputtered like the pipes were jammed with rats or something. Cautiously, she eased the faucet handle on. The water flowed out of the faucet all normal-like. When she plugged in the kettle, a jolt of electricity shocked her hand. She let out a scream.

  “The wiring in his house it certainly shitty.” She eyed the socket, watching to make sure it didn’t spark or glow red. Nothing else happened. As she waited, she rinsed out her tea mug, got a tea bag from the pantry, and placed the bag in the mug. When the kettle dinged, indicating the perfect temp for tea, she picked it up and poured.

  The moment she lifted her steaming mug, time seemed to slow. Tea time was always a “slow down and savor” kind of occasion. She sauntered down the hall toward the front room, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed tea. By the time she’d settled on the sofa, the beverage was the perfect temperature for sipping. She brought the cup to her lips, took another sniff, then tipped the mug toward her mouth. Right as the warm liquid touched her tongue, the power went off with a pop.

  “Not this again,” she moaned. Loud raps exploded from the front door. Then, whoever it was seemed to use his or her fists, like the village was on fire or her thatch roof was up in flames. “Good Christ, there’s no peace to be had for me.”

  She blew out a lungful of breath, set her mug down on the floor, and stormed toward the entry. She threw open the door, ready to lay into whoever stood on the stoop.

  “You’d better have a fecking good reason for interrupting my tea time,” she shouted.

  Her head pulled back and she blinked.

  Father Ward stood in her line of sight, fist poised for another assault on the entrance. His hair framed his skull in wild disarray. His eyes shone white with fear. Regarding her intently, his hand fell to his side.

  He let out a deep sigh. “Thank God. There you are.”

  “Where else would I be?” she asked, her eyebrows stitching together in puzzlement. “What happened to you? What’s wrong?” Her insides tingled, like a lightning storm crackled through her body.

  Inhaling deeply, he seemed to suck in his frenetic emotions. He shook his head. “Nothing. I only came to check on you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me, Father. You look like something the cat yakked up. Come on in and have some tea with me.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you. There’s a big storm coming.” He waved his hand over his head, indicating the world outside the house. “I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’ve, uh...I’ve got a lot on my mind.” He shuffled his feet. “Well...I’d best get back.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Father? I deliver babies, sure, but I do have medical skills. I could check you out if you like.”

  Her words hung in the air like a lit fuse.

  His lips parted, and, for a second, she swore he was going to reach in, grab her, and lay her out on the floor of the foyer, celebrating the kind of naughty things Maggie Strongbow never got to celebrate.

  He shook his head in an exaggerated fashion, like he had to talk himself into leaving. “No, I’ve got to go.”

  “Another baptism?” she joked, her lips curving into a playful smile.

  “Right,” he said, meeting her playfulness with serious regard. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “I hope so,” she said, wistfulness and worry seeping into her words.

  He let his eyes linger on her face for a few potent seconds. Then, he turned on his heel and practically sprinted away from her.

  As she watched his retreating back, she considered her options. I could head back inside, finish my tea, and get to work on this disaster of a clean-up job. Or... Right. Option number two. He was fecking freaked out. Check on me, my ass. I’ll have to wait until I get back to Dublin to get a good cuppa.

  She grabbed her raincoat, shoved her feet in her Wellies, and took off after Father Ward. Aware of the speed he possessed, she put on the power as best she could while wearing cloddish boots. He wasn’t in sight but she hoped he had slowed once he got away from the cottage.

  All around her, a gale gusted with fury. It whistled through the air and threw handfuls of leaves at her. It batted the tops of trees, daring them to stand upright. In the distance, a large crack sounded, like a tree had been felled or broke in two.

  “Good Christ. This weather. Father Ward was right. A brutal storm is coming. Either that or the ghost of whoever didn’t want me to tend that grave is having words with me, making his displeasure known.” She tugged her raincoat tight, and huffed and puffed as her boot-clad feet struck the muddy ground. When I get back to Dublin, I’ll join a gym. She was about to stop and catch her breath, when a group of people standing at the edge of town caught her eye.

  About twenty villagers—which qualifies as a crowd in this backwater incestuous village—chattered excitedly, circling something or someone. Behind them stood the quaint church where Father Ward preached to the people of Bally.

  “Poor thing,” a female onlooker said.

  “She came out of her house raving like a lunatic,” another said.

  “Waving a man’s jacket like a flag,” a third offered.

  As she closed the gap, a woman’s wail and garbled words rang out. She instantly recognized the voice. It’s Siobhan Riordan. An icy chill frosted her spine. She impelled herself to hurry. Shoving people aside, she forced herself to the center of the circle.

  Siobhan knelt on the ground, shivering, clutching a bloody jacket to her chest. Dressed in nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and a skirt, she looked like she might freeze to death.

  “Siobhan!” Lassi crouched by her side. “What happened? Where’s Dylan and the baby?”

  Siobhan turned a tear-stained, anguished face toward her. “He’s dead. I took him his jacket. I thought he might be cold. But…he’s dead.” With a trembling hand, she lifted the leather coat.

  Her chest shook with barely held sobs.

  Lassi placed her hand Siobhan’s back. “Who is? Little Paul? Or Dylan?”

  “Dylan,” she stuttered. “He’s dead. I found him in the...in his...” Her lungs shuddered.

  The wind blew, tossing her blonde hair in wild waves around her pretty face.

  “Take your time,” Lassi soothed, rubbing her back. “Deep breath, all right? Where did you find Dylan?”

  Siobhan struggled to compose herself. She cast a pleading gaze at Lassi. “He’s dead,” she wailed, as if she couldn’t comprehend it. “I...I... I found him outside his woodworking shed this morning.”

  “Okay. All right. You’re freezing. Let’s get you up and somewhere warm. Give me the jacket.”

  Siobhan held it out to her. Her arms and hands shook.

  Lassi glared at the people surrounding them. What is with these idiot villagers and where have they left their good sense? If they had any to begin with. Not one of them thought to comfort her? No, instead they stand around like cows, mooing at today’s spectacle.

  She helped her to her feet, then rubbed her bare arms with her hands. Studying her face, she said, “The medical examiners will get this sorted. They’ll find out how Dylan died. How did he look?”

  “He looked... he looked...he looked dead.” Another flurry of tears battered her eyes and fell down her cheeks.

  “All right. Okay. He’s dead.” Lassi opened her overcoat and tried to pull it around Siobhan’s shoulders. With her arm around the poor girl, she led her from the center of the circle.

  Penny stood in her path, statue-like and stiff.

&nbs
p; “Would you mind moving out of the way, Penny?” Lassi lifted her gaze to Penny’s face and frowned. Something odd colored her expression. What is it? Unhinged horror? Glee? Damn if she doesn’t look happy. “What’s gotten into you? Move aside, so we can pass. Siobhan, here, is going to freeze to death.” She nudged Penny aside with her hip.

  A chilling smile formed on Penny’s face. She leaned in close to Lassi and whispered, “Dylan’s not dead. He’s murdered.”

  Chapter 8

  As the wind howled through the village of Ballynagaul, Lassi stared into Penny’s face. Why does she think Dylan’s death was a murder?

  She kept her arm around the shoulders of poor, grieving Siobhan. “Murdered? Really? What makes you say that?”

  Penny blinked, her forehead furrowed, as she pointed down the street. “Go see for yourself. Go see Dylan. Unless you’re too squeamish,” she added with a taunting lilt to her voice.

  “I’m not squeamish.” Lassi wanted to add you big, fat cow, but bit her tongue. “I help women push babies through their vajim-jams. All sorts of bodily fluids accompany the infants on their journey to planet Earth.”

  “Then go. Come back and tell me if you think it’s not a murder. I’ll be right here.” Penny pointed to the ground.

  “Fine. I’ll do that.”

  “Fine.” Penny turned away.

  “Where do you live, love?” Lassi gazed kindly at Siobhan.

  Siobhan lifted her trembling hand and pointed in the same direction Penny had pointed.

  “Okay, show me.” With her arm still tight around Siobhan, she scurried past Penny and down the street. Her footsteps faltered as they got closer. She might talk a good talk but viewing a murder wasn’t high on her priority list.

  When they arrived at the snug home where the Riordan’s had made their loving nest, Garda Galbraith’s car was parked against the curb. Another clump of people huddled in front of the house, chatting, weeping and, no doubt, gossiping.