Perhaps a funny thing to think.
But there the thought was all the same.
She tried to ignore it as she swept out the room, gray dust rising in small puffs with each quick broom stroke toward the narrow hall corridor. She scolded herself for being silly, but couldn’t shake the feeling it was watching her -- that mirror and all those chubby-cheeked, dewy-eyed cherubs that somehow upon even closer scrutiny didn’t seem so very innocent at all, but rather altogether clever, while the thick mirror glass itself seemed to stretch inward. Deeply inward. Into a blackness. A deep and infinite blackness.
Hiding something there, perhaps.
Something also watching her.
Something far more grim, maybe.
Something far more ancient.
And she briefly entertained the idea of simply ripping the antique mirror right off the wall and tossing it out the nearby double-hung window and watching it shatter on the stony ground far below, the thick dark infinite glass fragmenting into a scatter of tiny sharp bits while the ornate silver frame with its eerie population of clever little cherubs folded-in on itself like a hot pretzel. And imagined it all sitting out there in such a ruined state in the cold wet coastal air, the glass fragments dulling with time, blurring, and the ornate silver frame oxidizing, while the stony mucky ground slowly consumed it all. Then again, Abby darkly wondered where her mind might slip if she attempted to yank the unwieldly thing from the bedroom wall and it refused to budge loose -- or if she managed to pull it free only to find that deep and infinite blackness continued beyond it.
But, of course, now she was being silly.
Downright loony, she berated herself.
Even as she continued pondering that audience of silent cherubs with their playful little smiles and dopey little eyes before finally considering her own reflection in that dark mirror glass.
The thick dark mirror glass seemed to almost merrily accentuate her crow’s feet, the dusting of age spots on her cheeks, and the deepening frown lines pulling at the corners of her mouth.
Mapping the lost years forever gone.
She’d always been told she was a pretty girl.
Whatever pretty meant to such folks.
She considered herself rather elfish.
And not in a good way necessarily.
Withdrawn and moody. If unassuming.
But for a fashionable blonde pixie cut.
A bit of an impulse decision recently.
The fashionable blonde pixie cut.
Done during the mad rush of packing.
The sale of the house and their things.
The goodbyes to people she barely knew.
Or barely wished to know in the end.
Their names and faces already fading.
Like her youth in the thick dark mirror glass.
She blinked. Stepped back from it.
Only to find the thick dark mirror glass warping her reflection, distorting her not unlike a carnival funhouse mirror -- and upon turning sideways, suddenly found herself appearing pregnant.
It caught her by surprise.
This cruel and false impression.
She gasped. A wounded noise.
Warm tears welling in her eyes.
And for a moment was spellbound.
Until a violent hammering suddenly shook the entire cottage, reverberating in the stone walls and wooden floors -- shuddering the antique mirror and, in the process, dissolving the fantastical mirage in the dark mirror glass like a roughly shaken Etch-A-Sketch might scatter the aluminum powder in the vintage children’s toy.
She shuddered violently herself.
Even as the stone cottage fell still.
And found her hands on her belly.
A belly having gone gaunt again.
Quite empty and hollow.
She blinked heavily, wondering if she’d heard anything at all. Only to hear the hammering again. Even louder this time.
Bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang.
Her heart began to pound.
She felt the blood fill her ears.
She tripped over the broom.
She must have dropped it.
Moved down the stairs in a daze.
The horrendous noise seemed to be coming from the front of the stone cottage. It sounded like someone was trying to knock the cottage down (the cottage that had been there for as long as anyone could remember). She juked around moving boxes and through the gray shadows to the double stable doors. Though the terrible banging had stopped yet again, she only very cautiously pulled open the double stable doors. Only to gasp and shudder once more.
The removed arrangement of concentric horseshoes with their faint spectral profiles still evident in the old and splintery wood had been replaced. Been replaced with a large homemade cross of fresh rowan branches bound with a thick, if rather banal cord of red thread.
An older man with a gray beard, undoubtedly local (something she intuited without even having to offer it conscious thought), was just ducking down a thin path into the woods at the southern edge of the paddock, bearing an exaggerated hitch in his step.
Abby chased after him.
Skirting the dark dilapidated barn.
Shouting: “Excuse me? Sir?”
The older man with the gray beard and exaggerated hitch paid her no attention despite the fact she was quite certain he could hear her voice. He was wearing an oatmeal-colored Irish wool fisherman cap, a tweed shirt, and dark mud-stained waders over mud-stained boots. The oatmeal-colored cap bobbed for a moment amongst the thick trees before he vanished into the wooded shadows.
Abby found herself hesitating, however.
Hesitating at the path entrance.
It was rather peculiar she’d not noticed the thin path before. It seemed so obvious now that it had been pointed out to her.
It caused her to feel a slight chill.
As if it had somehow only just appeared.
Then she saw that oatmeal cap bob again.
Or thought she might have seen it.
And pushed forward into the woods.
Moving along the thin narrow path.
Twisting and turning into the dark trees.
Only to quickly find herself out of breath.
And quite unable to catch the older man.
He was much more spry than she’d reckoned, and she hesitated yet again. As she fought to catch her breath, she became freshly alarmed, realizing she had somehow managed to stray from the path. As impossible as such a thing might seem to be to do. And worse, could not seem to locate it again. Her heart began to pound harder, the blood frothing in her ears now. Strange, but she could not hear a single bird in the dark woods, either, only the occasional skitter or rustle of things in the dense thickets of brambly brush, causing her heart to pound ever harder still. Meanwhile, as dismaying, the trees themselves seemed to lean in to her as if surrounding her.
Peculiar-looking trees. These.
Unlike any she’d ever known.
Badly stunted. With knurled trunks.
And crooked deformed limbs.
And clad with spiny leaves.
She felt wet on a cheek and wiped at it to find blood there. As if one of those spiny leaves had reached out and touched her. Only to find similar scratches on her arms. Burning softly now.
The spooky trees seemed to hug toward her even tighter. As if sensing her growing fear. Joining knotted hands. Offering no passage. Grayish-skinned. The color of bone long after the meat had rotted away. Offering fractured winks of a dark marrow.
She turned around and around.
Pretending to be amused by it all.
Only to feel more stickery pricks.
Grabbing and scratching at her.
Toying with her, perhaps.
Relishing her elevated panting.
Quick and fluttery now.
“For heaven sakes,” she said to no one in particular, especially not to these fearsome trees, desperate not to reveal any further her inquietude. “S
hould I have dropped bread crumbs, then?”
The trees seemed to whisper to her.
As they swayed in an unfelt breeze.
Their voices soft and mesmeric.
As if summoning her deeper still.
Deeper still into their dark embrace.
Their gnarled limbs opening again.
Opening to a deeper darkness.
One devoid of any path.
She almost heeded their invitation. If for no other reason than to simply begin moving again. To not be caught paralyzed.
But just then--
Heard a horn. The Q5.
She turned away from that summoning darkness being offered her and abruptly found the path again. So apparent was the path, it seemed likely, despite her momentary disorientation, that it just had to have been there all along. The thin path led her right back out of the woods again to the southern edge of the paddock.
She skirted the barn once more.
To find Oliver returned.
“Morning,” he called out to her, opening the back door of the Q5, the moving trailer absent, having been dumped off in Douglas. “How ‘bout giving me a hand or two with some groceries.”
His smile faded as she drew closer.
“Exploring, were we?” her husband tried next, standing there stupidly. “Where’s your coat? You’re positively shivering.”
“We had a visitor,” she said.
The word visitor hung in the air.
Ominous-sounding. Ill-boding.
She nodded toward the Rowan cross.
Nailed to the double stable doors.
Conspicuous with its red thread.
“Didn’t ask permission,” she said, trying to control the tremble in her voice. “An old barmy bugger. Gray beard. Vanished back in the woods without so much as a glance in my direction.”
She hugged herself.
Staring at the Rowan cross.
“I think it’s another one of those tokens like the horseshoes,” she bemoaned. “You ask me, Oliver? These Manx folks are downright kooky. I mean, what century do they think this is?”
Oliver, lugging an armful of groceries, approached the unsolicited cross and studied it a beat. Then grimaced with a tired sign. “Perhaps we ought just consider it a housewarming gift.”
“It’s medieval,” she argued.
“It’s quaint, Abby,” he said. As if incapable of any other description of such an off-putting thing on this grand adventure of his to the very end of the world. “And so is the village. You’re going to love it, I promise. Why don’t we put the groceries away, then head into town and grab a little lunch. What do you think?”
Apparently he hadn’t eaten after all.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He ducked into the cottage with the groceries.
Abby remained on the front porch.
Still staring at the Rowan cross.
Then at the thin narrow path.
Vanishing into those dark woods.
6.
THEY TRAVELED SOUTH ON the narrow two-lane A4 road toward the small village of Peel. The foggy sea now on their right. The sheer cliffs of black slate gradually slumping, becoming low-lying, and the dark volcanic slate itself transmogrifying into a rich limestone bedding, the prehistoric skeletal fragments of primordial marine organisms in the form of coral and foraminifera concentrated over eons. As they drew closer to the village on the most western coast of this tiny isle in the Irish Sea, the pastures and the farmland became increasingly smaller, the farmhouses closer to the road, and the hedgerows shorter and more neighborly.
A wooded glen briefly appeared.
A stand of tall golden-yellow beech trees.
Guarding the narrow road at a bend.
Hugging tightly a bubbling brook.
And a narrow bridge made of stone.
Offering mere inches of passing room.
The bridge fronted by a small sign.
A hand-painted sign. Black on white.
Reading: FAIRY BRIDGE.
Oliver tapped the Audi brakes, slowly approaching the narrow bridge. The colorful trees just managing to catch the gray afternoon light, causing it to dapple and frolic inside the shadows.
Not unlike fairies.
“I understand it’s considered bad luck not to wish the fairies a good day as you pass over the bridge,” he extolled, winking.
Abby knit her brows. Unamused.
Perhaps she was just hungry.
“Then again,” he confessed with a shrug, “I hear these bridges have become quite kitschy and are now all over the island.”
He turned from Abby and quietly whispered a good day greeting, anyway, as they passed over the fanciful stone bridge.
Abby grunted. Not fooled.
“Just in case,” he said sheepishly.
The fairy bridge and the wooded glen fell away and the smaller domiciles of the approaching village began to populate the road, clumping tighter together before the road made a final gradual turn toward the coast and deposited them in the heart of Peel.
Peel sat sleepily on the east side of the River Neb, sheltered by rolling green hills and showcasing a still-working fishing port. The intimate harbor crowded with boats bobbing about in gentle wakes. The quayside boasting an enchanting old-style milieu with cramped streets that wound past original homes and businesses of fishermen and merchants made of reddish Peel sandstone. There was a pleasant little sandy beach and many little shops and restaurants.
Oliver parked along the promenade.
In front of a café facing the water.
He and Abby settled at a window table and ordered food. Too much food in the end. Smoked kipper pate with a homemade seaweed scone. Battered seabass and chips with mushy peas. And fish curry with fresh prawn, cod, scallop, and thick egg noodles.
Abby didn’t prove hungry after all.
Just picking at the smorgasbord.
Outside the window a few seals swam in the surf. A few tourists bundled in coats and warm hats took obligatory photos.
The fishing boats came and went.
Delivering cargos of mostly herring.
The main landmark in town with its prominent round tower was Peel Castle. Constructed of the local red sandstone, the majestic fortress overlooking the fishing marina sat atop tiny St. Patrick’s Isle and was connected to the town by a causeway. The castle interior was mostly in ruin, but the outer walls were still intact.
The red sandstone seemed to glow.
As if imbued with its own russet light.
“Peel Castle,” Oliver said, sitting back comfortably in his seat, sipping coffee over toffee pudding with butterscotch sauce. “Credited to the Vikings. Though some believe,” he posited, licking at his dessert spoon, “it a possible location of Arthurian Avalon.”
He let that hang in the air a beat.
Just let that tasty mythology hang there.
With all its fascinating possibilities.
“Where King Arthur received Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake,” he added in a hushed history teacher tone when Abby didn’t appear suitably impressed. “And where he was rumored conveyed after being mortally wounded in the Battle of Camlann.”
Abby blinked. Sighed.
“A romantic notion,” she finally said, dipping a spoon into the pudding, “for a bunch of crumbling old buildings, I suppose.”
She managed a smile. A teasing smile.
Trying to get in the spirit of things.
But never taking a bite of the dessert.
Just setting the spoon down on the plate.
Sideways. The sticky pudding defying gravity.
Oliver offered his own sigh. Leaned over.
Softly kissed her on the forehead.
Then again on the left cheek.
She could feel his warm breath on her skin, the faint aroma of the butterscotch, and felt a soft twinge of heat flush the surface of her face. Her eyes closing, she found herself remembering the first time he’d ever kissed her.
It had been on the Millennium Wheel (or the London Eye, as it was now more commonly known), facing the River Thames. That dark river reflecting the nighttime sky and the brilliant London skyline. One hundred and thirty five feet above the south bank. She’d known her future husband wanted to kiss her on that night and had known she wanted to kiss him. It had been an eager, fumbling exchange as that giant wheel had slowly turned, her eyes closing tightly, her head falling dizzy, her knees weak.
She felt herself fall a little dizzy now.
Even after all of these passing years.
And felt that giant wheel still turning.
As if time were folding back on itself.
Only to have time snap back rudely again.
Leaving her even more disoriented.
And all the dizzier somehow.
This time in a more unsettled way.
As if she might never regain her balance.
As if she might keep spinning and spinning.
It wasn’t just his kiss gone cold on her cheek.
It was a sudden high-pitched voice.
Abby’s eyes fluttered open to find its owner to be a tall and attractive woman standing above their small window table.
A prim simpering smile.
Heavily dimpled pale cheeks.
And long thick natural mahogany hair that Abby, despite herself, somehow imagined with a sickening feeling gathering in the pit of her stomach would catch fire if exposed to sunlight, producing a beguiling conflagration of reddish-hue in all its permutations.
Not unlike Peel Castle out there.
With all its glowing red sandstone.
Abby actually felt herself flinch.
Or maybe it was more of a cower.
Then sink lower in her seat.
Still in her faded flannel shirt and dusty old blue jeans with big ugly patches over the torn bits. Her short and fashionable bleached blonde hair suddenly feeling tawdry and rather childish.
“Oliver, I thought that was you,” this tall and attractive woman with the prim simpering smile and dimpled pale cheeks said.
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