The Eden Tree

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “I heard you. I never said he wasn’t.”

  “Fine figure of a man, too,” Bridie added.

  Linn was not about to debate Con’s obvious attributes with Bridie. “I suppose so,” she replied mildly.

  “You’ve done more than suppose, Aislinn Pierce,” Bridie stated tartly.

  Linn turned on her. “What do you want me to say? He obviously isn’t interested in me so it doesn’t matter what I think of him, does it?” Even as she was speaking she resented Bridie’s ability to waltz her expertly into a corner and force her to admit her feelings. Bridie’s talents were wasted dusting furniture in Ballykinnon. She could be making a fortune dissecting hostile witnesses.

  Bridie smiled wisely. “Oh, he wants you; any fool can see that. But something is holding him back. What might that be?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Indeed?” Bridie wasn’t convinced.

  “Indeed no. And in case I haven’t told you it’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business when the two of you tiptoe around here circling one another like a mare and a stallion at the Bantry Fair. What’s up with you, girl? Keep dragging your feet and you’re going to lose out, if you take my meaning. The man has a way with him and you’ve no lack of competition. That Kate Costello down at the Kinnon Arms has been after him for years. Are you going to stand about like a chess piece and let her snatch him from under your nose?”

  “And what do you suggest I do?”

  “Stop mooning through the rooms like a lovesick calf, for a start. Why hasn’t he been back? Did you have a tiff?”

  “Not really. He thinks there are reasons why it… wouldn’t work out and so he doesn’t want to take it any further, that’s all.”

  Bridie snorted. “That boy always did think too much. If he just followed his heart he’d be a lot better off, I say. He’s all the time trying to cover his feelings, putting on that mask.”

  “I wish I could tell what he was thinking,” Linn mused, almost to herself. “Sometimes it seems I can, but other times he looks at me out of those cool blue eyes...” She let the sentence hang, unfinished.

  Bridie watched her closely. “Think he’s a cool customer, do you?” she asked, picking up on Linn’s metaphor.

  “Not always,” Linn answered vaguely. She’d seen him flash very hot on a number of occasions.

  “You’d be wrong if you do,” Bridie stated flatly. “He’s got a temper on him like a volcano, and you don’t want to be around when it erupts. Don’t mistake control for lack of feeling. He just keeps himself in rigid check, is all.”

  Linn sighed. “Bridie, I know you’re trying to help but there’s nothing I can do once he’s made up his mind. If you know him as well as you say then you also know how stubborn he is. Now let’s have the tea and then get on with the list of repairs. I want to order a new refrigerator and get an electrician in here to rewire the house. We’ll never be able to handle the new appliances with the old fuse box.” Linn made for the kitchen with a determined expression. The subject was closed.

  Bridie followed with the restrained air of a woman who meant to have her say at a later date.

  * * * *

  The next day Linn was scrubbing the tile in the front hall on her hands and knees when Con walked through the door. She scrambled to her feet, flustered.

  He handed her a stack of mail. “I’ve brought the post from the village,” he said shortly.

  “Thank you.” Their fingers touched briefly as he withdrew his hand.

  He nodded, looking around at the interior of the house. “How are you getting on?”

  “Fine. Bridie’s helping me with the housework. We’re almost finished.”

  As if on cue Bridie appeared from the parlor. Linn closed her eyes for a second in silent prayer. If Bridie said anything to indicate the subject of their recent conversation, she wasn’t going to live long after Con left.

  “Connor,” Bridie said briskly. “Been busy these past days, have you?”

  “Aye. There’s a good lot to be done.”

  “And you’re writing as well?”

  “I am.”

  “Then that explains why we haven’t seen much of you. We’ve been wondering how you’ve been keeping.”

  “Have you?” Con asked, glancing at Linn.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you to take a look at that drain out back. It’s stopped up again and you were so clever about fixing it last time. Would you give it a go? There’s a good son.”

  Con shared a half smile with Linn that indicated he wasn’t taken in by this blarney. “You can spare the speech; I’ll have a look at it.” He went through the hall and out the back door. Linn followed his progress with her eyes.

  “Bridie, he’s limping,” she said when he was out of earshot.

  “Oh, aye, he does that off and on. There’s a piece of metal left in that leg yet. I’ve seen him drag it before when he was tired.”

  Linn’s face was shadowed with concern. “But he must be in pain much of the time,” she murmured.

  The older woman’s face softened at Linn’s anxious tone. Why she’s in love with him already, Bridie thought. But she doesn’t know it yet.

  “Go and talk to him, lass,” Bridie urged gently. “You’ve missed him so.”

  Linn didn’t need any further encouragement. She brushed her hair back off her forehead and glanced into the hall mirror as she passed. She’d pinned her hair up on top of her head that morning but it was half down now from her exertions. There was a smudge on her nose and her blouse had a wet stain from the cleaning rag she’d been holding. This didn’t even slow her down. Bridie was right; she’d missed Con far too much to waste this opportunity.

  Linn found him digging out the cairn next to the well, removing the debris which had been clogging it. He looked up at her, his hands covered with muck.

  “Lovely job,” he said, commenting on the task at hand. “It’s no wonder she always gets me to do it.”

  Linn smiled. He bent over with his back to her, and she let her eyes dwell lovingly on the perfect symmetry of his body. It was cooler than usual and he was wearing a charcoal gray Aran sweater that made him look like an iconic poster from the Irish Tourist Board. His mink colored hair caught and reflected the bright sunlight. Linn tore her gaze away. She wouldn’t be caught staring.

  Con straightened. “There. That’s done. Let me have something to wipe off this mess, will you?”

  Linn got him a rag from the house. When she returned, he took it from her gratefully and cleaned his hands. He met her eyes.

  “Why do you put your hair up like that?” he asked softly. “It looks so beautiful down about your shoulders.” He reached out with a slightly grimy forefinger and loosened one of the pins that held it. The flaxen mass cascaded over his hand.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “That’s better. Aislinn with the amber hair. You should always leave it just like that.”

  Linn caught his hand and held it to her cheek.

  “I’m dirty,” he protested, making no move to pull away.

  “I don’t care,” she whispered.

  He took a step closer. “Aislinn, why do you encourage me?” he muttered harshly. “I’m the man you said no to on the mountain.”

  “I don’t care about that either.”

  “Then why did you refuse me?” he demanded angrily. “Do you wish so much to hurt me?” He whirled away from her, incensed again at the memory. He strode rapidly around the house and Linn ran after him, almost crashing into Bridie as the housekeeper brushed past Con on her way outside. Con continued on his path, not looking around at her.

  “What ails him?” she asked Linn. “What did you say to him?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know; I can’t seem to do anything right,” Linn wailed. “He blows hot and cold by turns; he’s got me spinning like a top.” They both looked up as Con vanished into the distance, walking as fast as his halting gait would permit across the lawn. Linn sagged again
st the doorjamb, exasperated to the point of screaming.

  Bridie put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “He’s not easy, lass. I know he’s not easy. But he’s worth far more than a dozen like young Sean Roche who tease and play but never put themselves on the line. Con works straight from the heart. If you win him he’ll be yours forever.”

  Linn turned her head to meet Bridie’s intent gaze. Then she nodded slowly.

  “Yes, I can sense that,” she said quietly. “I think I’ve known it from the beginning.”

  There was a pause before Bridie cleared her throat and said briskly, “Now take yourself back into the house and finish that floor. You can’t leave it half done; it looks like the before-and-after pictures in a magazine advert.”

  Linn smiled wanly and went inside, Bridie’s words repeating themselves in her mind.

  If you win him, Bridie had said.

  Linn picked up the bucket of soapy water and moved it to a new spot on the tile.

  She wanted very badly to win him.

  * * * *

  The weekend came and Bridie stayed with her family in town. Linn spent Saturday going through the books in what was laughingly known as the library. This was a back bedroom with a massive fireplace, the walls lined with shelves. Books were stacked from the floor to the ceiling in a haphazard fashion that would have sent any self respecting librarian running for the bottle. There was also a black-and-white television which received three stations, RTE (Radio Telefis Eireann) 1 and 2, and BBC Wales. Linn spent Saturday night trying to start a fire and watching an old British war movie on the Welsh channel. When she finally got a blaze going she switched to RTE 1, which was giving the weather report. She watched in fascination as the “news presenter,” as they were known in Ireland, gave the forecast in English and then switched smoothly to Gaelic, repeating what she had just said in the native language. The Irish were valiantly trying to resurrect their dying tongue and all signs and public notices, as well as broadcasts, were done in both English and Gaelic. All media personnel had to be bilingual. Linn listened to the liquid syllables of the poetic tongue, the spoken version of which was musically beautiful, and wished that she could understand. She felt that a treasure chest of literary and cultural delights was at hand but that she didn’t have the key to unlock it. When the presenter went back to English for the finale, Linn was almost disappointed.

  The forecast was for “bright intervals” the next day. She had to smile at the difference from the weather reports back home, which predicted “patchy clouds.” Here the assumption was that the sky would be overcast; at home it was just the opposite. She switched to RTE 2 but it had ceased broadcasting for the night. The test pattern featured a large clock with the minute hand sweeping serenely around its face, telling the current time. At the bottom was the Gaelic legend Nos Da. “Good night.” Nos da to you too, Linn thought, and shut off the set.

  The telephone rang. She had a wild moment of hope but it was Sean Roche, trying again when he knew Linn would be alone. She put him off with some feeble excuse about getting the house in order and hung up the phone. She walked to the front door and looked out across the yard.

  Where was Con? Down in the pub getting chummy with Kate Costello? Wandering aimlessly around the grounds, tortured by grim memories? Working, thinking, sleeping? She forced herself to march back to the den and pick out a book. Mooning around, as Bridie put it, was getting her nowhere.

  She drifted off to sleep with the book still in her hand.

  * * * *

  On Sunday Linn decided on a more aggressive approach. She got dressed early and took a walk, skirting the gatehouse carefully, making sure that she wasn’t seen.

  She had a perfect right to stroll around her own property, didn’t she? Of course she did.

  The trip was wasted. The gatehouse looked deserted and the Bentley was gone from the barn which Con used as a garage. He wasn’t home.

  He didn’t come home for the rest of the day.

  Bridie returned on Monday but Linn didn’t mention Con’s absence until Wednesday, when two more days had passed without a glimpse of him.

  “I haven’t seen Con around, have you?” she asked, in what she hoped was a casual manner.

  “I have not.”

  “His car is gone too,” Linn persisted.

  “Is it?”

  Bridie’s stilted responses were significant. Her customary manner was more voluble.

  “Do you know where he is?” Linn asked directly.

  Bridie surprised her by fidgeting with her dishtowel nervously. Linn paused with the teapot in her hand, really alarmed now.

  “Answer me,” Linn demanded. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I’d only be guessing,” Bridie hedged.

  “Guess, then,” Linn said impatiently. “Where?”

  “In the past when he disappeared of a sudden like this it was because he was called north.”

  Linn set the pot on the stove, afraid that she would drop it. “He told me he wouldn’t go back there,” she whispered. “He said he was through with all of that.”

  Bridie shrugged. “The boy doesn’t lie. If that’s what he said he meant it at the time. Something must have happened to change his mind.”

  Linn swayed unsteadily, gripping the edge of the sink for support. “He was shot once before,” she said fearfully. “He could be hurt.”

  “He could,” Bridie agreed.

  “I’ve got to do something,” Linn said wildly.

  Bridie turned to her, astonished. “And what do you propose to do, my lass? Tear off after him up to Belfast and get killed yourself? They don’t ask for citizenship papers before they throw the bombs.”

  “But we can’t just sit here and wait to see if he comes back in one piece,” Linn wailed.

  “We can do no other,” Bridie said quietly. “Now you know what it feels like to be one of us, waiting for the phone call, the knock on the door. Waiting to see if the loved one will come back maimed…or come back at all.”

  “Maybe he just took a vacation or something,” Linn said, grasping desperately at straws.

  “Maybe,” Bridie said. She didn’t sound convinced.

  Linn picked up her sweater from the kitchen chair. “I’m going to walk over to the gatehouse and see if he’s there.”

  “Go on if you like.”

  Linn paused in the hall. “I don’t suppose there’d be any way to trace him if he did cross the border.”

  Bridie shook her head. “They vanish into the hills like the mist. You’ll just have to learn patience.”

  “I’ve never been very good at patience,” Linn muttered, heading for the door.

  The gatehouse was still empty and the barn housed nothing but stale air. Dust motes danced before her eyes in a shaft of sunlight as she closed the wooden door.

  Linn kept up her vigil for the next couple of days, checking the cottage frequently, but it remained deserted. Her anxiety increased with each passing hour. By Friday night she was frantic. She was certain that Con lay dead somewhere, unidentified, his body burned beyond recognition. Just after sundown she walked out to the gatehouse for the third time that day, practicing a ritual which she no longer expected to yield a result.

  The car was still gone. Forlorn, she was walking past the door of the cottage when she noticed that it was ajar. While this was not unusual in itself (“What is there to steal?” Bridie said), Linn was certain that it had been closed earlier in the day.

  Her heart pounding, she edged up to the door and pushed it inward. She gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

  Con was sprawled across the single bed, unconscious. His leg from crotch to knee was covered with blood.

  Chapter 4

  Linn rushed into the room and fell to her knees beside the bed. Con was sprawled on his back with the uninjured leg bent at the knee, one hand trailing to the floor. He was waxen, his forehead beaded with sweat, his lips dry and chapped. His face was covered with coarse black stubble and his eyelashe
s were matted with rime like a child’s. He looked as if he’d been tossed on the bed like a discarded handkerchief, crumpled and very still.

  Linn touched his clammy forehead with a trembling hand. Con stirred, mumbling, his lashes fluttering. Linn sobbed aloud with relief.

  “Con, it’s Linn. It’s Aislinn. You’re hurt; what happened to you?”

  He continued to ramble, slurring his words so badly she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She stroked his cheek gently and his eyes opened, then widened in recognition.

  “Aislinn,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said softly. “Oh, Con, how did you get hurt like this?”

  “Leg opened up,” he answered hoarsely.

  “You mean where you were shot? It’s bleeding badly. You need a doctor.”

  “I’m all right,” he rasped. “Be all right.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Linn snapped. She was frightened for him and in no mood for macho theatrics. “I’m going to get help.”

  His fingers curled around her hand. “Bind it,” he said.

  “You need a doctor!”

  “Cut the pants,” he gasped, “and bind it. Aislinn, do as I say. Get the scissors from the drawer there.” His head fell back in exhaustion from the effort of speaking. When she remained unmoving he added, “Please.”

  “Please,” from him, she couldn’t refuse. Linn got up and rummaged through the dresser. She came back with the scissors and knelt again next to the bed.

  She was afraid to touch his wound. Avoiding the injured area she cut the jeans away from his ankle and worked her way upward to his knee. From there on the cloth was soaked with blood and fluid, the skin below it parched and hot.

  Con was watching her through slitted eyes. Linn’s fingers pressed onward to his thigh and he gripped the sheets, twisting them, his knuckles white. He didn’t make a sound but his mouth was contorted with pain. Linn hesitated, close to tears, unwilling to hurt him.

  He saw her reluctance. “Go on,” he directed, his teeth clenched around the words.

  Linn took the severed material in her hands and ripped it apart. When she saw the wound she made an involuntary sound, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.