Over the years, my poor mother gradually shared her knowledge. As a child I’d traipsed after her like a puppy as she gathered herbs and roots from the Mountain. She showed me how to make her special tea. She guided me when I had my visions, when I knew Mrs. Rafferty was going to be hit by a car a week before it happened, when I felt a pain in my own head as I held the O’Connors’ baby and it later died of a tumor. She told me how to turn it off, how to blend in, and she encouraged me to leave the Mountain, go to Dublin. To have a life, at least for a little while.
It wasn’t until that day she arrived on my doorstep in Rathfarnham and announced it was my time, my turn, that she finally told me about Slanaitheoir and how I’d need to serve Him until my death. My birthright. The Devlin legacy.
The woods were chilly and I was glad of my heavy cloak. As I approached the clearing, my arms tingled with that familiar feeling, half dread, half anticipation. But the clearing was empty, the entrance to the cave dark and Slanaitheoir nowhere in sight. Had I misunderstood?
Had He not summoned me?
I stopped for a moment and opened up my mind, searching for some sense of Him. Often, as I walked alone along the lanes of the Mountain, I would feel a buzzing and would know He was near. Cloaked as a bird, a fox, a goat, He would follow me, observe me. Love me. I walked away from the cave, drawn to the cliffs.
Slanaitheoir stood on the cliff overlooking the Feale River, shirtless, His arms stretched out. His black hair danced in the breeze.
“My lord?”
He said nothing.
“My lord?”
Without turning around He growled, “What do you want?”
“I thought-- I thought you beckoned me.”
He spun around. “Why would I beckon you, old woman?”
“Bobby and Caroline left, so, I, uh...”
“I know they left. Do you not think I know all that happens on my Mountain? I know all.
Remember that.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He reached over, grabbed my arm and dragged me to the cliff’s edge. He shoved His face in mine and took a deep breath.
“Death. The smell of death is upon you. If you’d had the sense to produce an acceptable daughter you would’ve joined your mother in the river long ago.”
I said nothing. I looked into His angry eyes, as turbulent as the roaring river below. “I am sorry that I displease you, my lord.”
He smiled then. A leering, mischievous smile. “Last night I tasted young flesh, you know. Firm. Supple. Sweet.”
I said nothing.
He touched my cheek and in a smooth and seductive voice cooed, “How can I go back to mutton now that I’ve tasted lamb?”
I brushed His hand from my cheek. “She’s going home next week.”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“No, my lord. She is going home next week. She is my son’s and she is not a Devlin.
Caroline is not yours. You’ve no right to her.”
He laughed. An unearthly sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Right? Who are you to tell me my rights?”
My mother had always told me not to bait Him. Not to contradict Him. But for my son, I would withstand any punishment. I forced the panic out of my voice. “You agreed. You agreed to let them all go in exchange for the Devlins.”
“That’s when the Devlins produced the most beautiful women in the county. You have to admit, Mary, your bloodline has gone thin. You’re lovely, or at least you were, but you’re nothing compared to Roisin. Or your great-grandmother. But that daughter of yours. Short, squat.
And her voice, it would shatter glass. No, it is you, my love, who has not kept your side of the bargain. It is you who decided to breed outside my bloodline.”
I held His eye, and didn’t back down. “You promised to help my Bobby. To send them a child. A son.”
“I don’t recall that I was that specific.”
“You were. I made the request in writing and sealed it in my blood. That is the law.”
“The law,” he scoffed. “What are you going to do, call the guards on me?”
In a tone now hard and bold, I declared, “My mother taught me well. My request was specific and properly made. You are bound, my lord. Even you are bound by the Agreement.”
A roar unlike I’d ever heard came from His mouth. The cliff shook and I grabbed onto a tree, afraid I would be thrown onto the rocks below. Slanaitheoir, His face contorted, no longer the smooth handsome prince of the woods, His mouth, twisted, His teeth like fangs. He was ugly and fearsome in a way I had never seen before nor could ever have imagined.
“I should’ve let you die, all of you. Starve. But no, I was merciful. Generous. I saved you.
I saved all of you. And this is how you repay me?”
The wind picked up and nearly swallowed my faint words. “It is what you agreed, my lord.”
“It is what I was tricked into. By a Devlin woman.” He dropped to His knees. Black tears coursed down His face. “Why, why did my children abandon me? I gave them life, I gave them everything. They are mine! I own them!”
I could feel His pain as if it were my own. I knelt before Him and wiped His tears with the edge of my white sheath. I kissed Him gently on the mouth. “No, my lord,” I whispered.
“Now you only own me.”
Chapter 7
Caroline
“Come on, Caro, it’s almost our last day.”
“I know, and that’s why I need to see Dot. Three weeks, and I’ve only seen her once.”
Bobby nibbled my ear and caressed my now full breasts. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured.
I laughed. “Stop it!”
“Lunch. Come and have a picnic with me, and Dot can have you all to herself tonight.”
“Lunch? Is that all you have in mind?”
Bobby tried to arrange his face in an innocent smile. “Only lunch. I swear.”
“Okay.” I kissed his cheek. “You convinced me.”
Ten minutes later we left Mary’s cottage with a basket filled to the brim with last night’s chicken and the bread and cakes baked by her neighbor Bridget. Bobby walked briskly, and thanks to my three weeks roaming the Mountain, I was able to match him step for step. Since our overnight trip to the Collins cottage, we’d avoided the south side of the Mountain. Bobby never mentioned that night, and neither did I. What was there to say, really? We both drank too much, maybe got a little crazy. That was all.
We soon walked past the Griffins’ home, which consisted of the small original cottage where their son Conor lived and a much larger, more modern five bedroom bungalow where the parents and the younger children lived. Unlike the Collins cottage, the Griffins’ home was bursting with life. We waved to a dark-haired, green-eyed girl of around seven who could have been Bobby’s sister. Or daughter.
We continued past the Griffin’s and continued down the Mountain until we reached the banks of the Feale River. Bobby led us to a clearing above the river surrounded by wildflowers.
It was warm in the sunlight, although the ground felt damp. We spread out an old quilt. I unpacked our lunch.
“What a beautiful spot.”
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites. Did I tell you I first kissed a girl here?” Bobby smiled.
The sun in his eyes turned his eyes a lighter shade of green. In New York Bobby was a considered a handsome man, whether in his investment banker garb or slightly more casual weekend wear. More handsome than I deserved. Even some of my closest friends thought he was
“out of my league.” But here, his beauty, and honestly that is what it was, his beauty was striking. Surrounded by the soft green fields, it was almost as if he belonged to the landscape, was part of the land. Part of the Mountain. The tense look in his eyes from a broken deal or an unhappy client was gone, and replaced by a light, an energy absent in Manhattan. A spark, a fire.
Would he return here if it wasn’t for me? Me, with my shrunken ovaries and broken dreams.
Was I worth being separated from t
his beautiful, mysterious land? I wasn’t sure.
I forced myself to smile my carefree smile and mock-punched his arm. “Who was she?
Let me at her!”
Bobby laughed. “Easy, killer. It was Nuala Murphy, we were around twelve and I think she moved to Australia.”
“Okay, I won’t need to take her out.”
He felt my arm for a nonexistent muscle. “I’m sure she’d be quite relieved to hear that.
Ah, my jealous wife. The thought of a cat-fight is turning me on.”
I laughed. “Everything seems to turn you on.” Which was true. Even before our marathon baby making sessions, which after a while felt more like a job than anything else, our sex life had always been satisfying, if not spectacular. It had been fine, normal. But up here, Bobby couldn’t seem to get enough of me. And he had awakened something in me as well.
“Can I at least have a sandwich?”
He unbuttoned my blouse. “No.”
Bobby pushed me onto the blanket and kissed my neck. He pulled down my bra and nibbled my nipples. I flinched, afraid he would do more. His teeth only grazed the skin. They did not draw blood. Despite myself, I moaned. Bobby looked up. His emerald eyes sparkled in the sunlight. I gasped, reminded of something, I didn’t know what, though. I tried to sit up, but his arms, his now strong arms, held me down as his lips traveled lower.
I fell back and allowed him to take off my khakis. His mouth continued its descent and I now pushed his head down further, anxious for him to reach his destination. When I thought I couldn’t take it another moment, he stopped and flipped me on my stomach.
“Bobby?”
“Shut up.”
I turned my head to see him. He grabbed my hair and pulled hard. Oh no, not again! This couldn’t be happening again. Teeth sunk into my shoulder and I screamed. Bobby, or whatever had taken over Bobby, slammed my head against the old quilt. Its musty smell filled my mouth.
I felt something like a claw spread my legs wide. He entered me. Not slowly, gently as he usually did, but with force. He pounded at me. I lifted my head, and the old goat from the woods stood now not two feet from me. Its black eyes full of desire, of hate. As I stared into the eyes of that strange animal a fire ran through my veins, and what had been painful now thrilled me.
Sharp nails dug into my breast and I screamed with pleasure, with pain, never moving my gaze from the black pools before me.
Bobby didn’t stop thrusting into me, as if trying to split me open. His hands like claws tore away the flesh of my back with each thrust. Our bodies were slick with sweat and blood. I tried closing my eyes, but it was as if the goat forced them open and wouldn’t allow me to look away. I looked into His eyes as my body shuddered in ecstasy, in agony. Before I passed out I heard a strange voice whisper, “Mine.”
The sun was low when I opened my eyes. I was fully dressed, as was Bobby. With his dark eyelashes against his pale skin, he looked sweet. Angelic even.
I sat up and felt my back. While it was a stiff from sleeping on the damp ground, the skin was unbroken. It was fine. I shook Bobby awake.
He opened his eyes and smiled. “What time is it?”
I looked at my watch. “Almost four.”
“Wow, that was some lunch. I passed out.”
“Lunch? We didn’t eat lunch.”
He sat up, and smiled. “Caroline, you devoured the chicken, remember?”
I opened the lid to the basket, and there was nothing left except chicken bones and a few crusts of bread. “I guess we worked up an appetite.”
Bobby cocked his head, and looked at me. He smiled and said, “Yeah, that was a long walk.”
“Walk? But we...”
“We what, Caroline?”
He’d ripped my skin and fucked me like an animal while a goat looked on. Sweet Jesus, I must be losing my mind. I took a deep breath. “I meant we’re not used to all the exercise, I guess. I guess that’s why we passed out.”
“It’s the Mountain air, love. Didn’t I tell you it would do you a world of good?”
“You did.”
He smiled. “It put roses back into those cheeks. I’m glad we came here, aren’t you?”
I looked at my sweet Bobby’s face and felt such a rush of love for him. He was my world and had stood by me through so much. I didn’t want to worry him with my silly nightmares. My hallucinations. And we had had a wonderful time these past three weeks, for the most part. I felt and looked better than I had in months. Of course he was right. Coming here had been the right thing to do. I kissed him on the lips. “I’m glad we came.”
“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 parti
cularly 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.
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