Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  Amy was thrilled when she found a small liquor aisle in the market. She joyfully purchased three flasks of Irish whiskey which would fit in her purse. She also purchased a bottle of wine, some grapes, four apples, and a can of peanuts.

  She walked back to the hotel and waved at the innkeeper before bolting up the stairs.

  Amy used her allotted time in the shower to get a start on the whiskey. She turned on the water for a cover noise. Then she slid to the floor, pulled one bottle from her purse, and quickly consumed several gulps. Once prelubricated, Amy took the bottle into the shower, so she could drink and wash at the same time. When she emerged – fresh, showered, and fairly buzzed – she was ready for the next part of their journey.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Amy sat on the bed towel drying her hair while Sam spread the map and some printouts on the comforter.

  “So I have three different maps of this Saint Patrick’s Well that I downloaded from blogs, and they all point to a different spot. However, I also printed these three travel guide descriptions which say it’s easy to follow the signs off the road from Clonmel to Cahir.” He pointed at the map. “I guess that’s the N24. So we should just get on the N24 and drive toward Cahir, and it’ll be a cinch.”

  About thirty minutes later – having gathered their stuff, maneuvered the car out of town, and found the highway – they reached a roundabout that let them choose between continuing northwest on the N24 or taking a hard left toward Cahir.

  “This isn’t right,” Sam said as he took the left to Cahir and found a safe place to pull over.

  Amy was examining the printouts. “Yeah. It should have been closer to Clonmel. All of these sources say it’s just outside Clonmel to the south.”

  Sam rubbed his head. “The yellow on the outside and white in the middle is making me feel even more backward than the driving on the left.”

  Amy looked out the window and inspected the road. The two-lane road was marked with a white line in the middle. Yellow lines indicated the shoulders.

  “Sometimes that white line is dashed,” he said. “That’s when it throws me.”

  Amy realized how an American driver would react to lanes separated by white dashes. “Because suddenly you feel like you can drift over to the other lane.”

  “Yes, especially when my mind is on finding a side road.”

  “No worries. You’re doing really good.”

  “Yeah. Just getting us lost.”

  “No, I mean I’m really impressed with how well you are driving. I couldn’t do it. You’d be crawling in the back seat screaming if I were driving.”

  “So I take it that you being here in the front seat is a good sign then?”

  “A very good sign. Now let’s head back, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled on the south side.” She was in that wonderfully precise point of a buzz where she felt calm, yet completely able to concentrate on what she was doing. Nevertheless, twenty minutes later they were on the N24 driving north around Clonmel, having clearly missed their turn in spite of Amy’s rapt attention to the side roads.

  “Go back to that roundabout,” she suggested. “The one we just passed two minutes ago.”

  Sam found a safe place to turn around and headed back to the roundabout at the west edge of Clonmel.

  They passed through it and headed back toward Cahir.

  “No. Go back. Try this side road.” She waved the map in the air.

  “Okay. I get it.”

  Sam reversed directions, and they traveled on the side road for about a mile before turning around and heading back toward the roundabout once again.

  “I give up. This well is a phantom. Impossible to find.”

  “Maybe we can ask someone in town. Have them draw it out for us.”

  “Okay. We’ll stop at one of the churches on my list. Ask them about Emma and at least get something accomplished. What time is it? Eight already?”

  “Wait,” Amy shouted. She jumped up in her seat. “There it is.”

  As they approached the roundabout for the fourth time in the past hour, they saw a brown sign which indicated that Saint Patrick’s Well was down a small road to their left.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Sam shouted.

  Amy grabbed his arm. “We did it.”

  “Okay, Saint Patrick. Where is your well?” He turned onto the side road.

  “This road doesn’t have any colored lines. No lines at all.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s less disconcerting.” He moved slightly to the left to give an oncoming car room to pass and exchanged a friendly index finger salute with the other driver.

  Amy smiled. “You’re fitting right in.”

  It was a scenic little road. Fields on the left, trees and bushes on the right. They passed a house with a stone fence.

  “I see what you mean about the shades of green,” Sam admitted. “Look at this hedge. There must be at least five shades of green in this hedge alone.”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s really nice. I think Emma would like it here.”

  On their right, a very old stone wall about twelve feet high appeared. A lush creeper plant spilled over the top.

  “Take this wall for instance,” Amy said. “The stones: how old are they? And the magical way green grows from the ground up the wall as well as over from the other side. Oh, look, a blocked gate. Is this someone’s property? I think I want to climb this wall.”

  Sam pulled over in a little space next to the wall where three roads came together.

  “I’m kidding, Sam. What are you doing? I’m not really going to climb the wall.”

  “I know.” Sam sat in the driver’s seat, a devious smile on his face.

  “What?”

  “Look over your shoulder.”

  Amy turned around and saw a brown sign that pointed up the hill. Saint Patrick’s Well. She grinned. “What are you waiting for?”

  Sam savored the moment for just a second before he proceeded, maneuvering right onto a narrow road. They continued around the same property with the tall stone wall.

  “Still itching to climb it?” Sam asked.

  “No. I’m eager to see the well.”

  They passed two old houses before they found a pullout on the left. Once they were both out of the vehicle, Sam patted the sign.

  Tobar Phadraig

  Saint Patrick’s Well

  “Easy signage,” he said.

  “Visible from the road,” Amy added playfully.

  He took her hand, and they walked toward the entrance. A long ramp with a foot-high stone wall led to a flight of stairs dozens of steps long. The air smelled fresh, a blend of wet foliage and damp dirt.

  As they descended the stairs, they saw water peeking from behind the trees. When they were about halfway down, Amy noticed a very old stone structure standing in the water. It appeared to be a Saint Patrick’s cross. By the looks of it, the cross could easily date back to the age of the now-beloved saint. At the very least, it was over a thousand years old. A tingle sprinted up Amy’s spine, and she grabbed Sam. She pointed at the cross but didn’t make a sound.

  When Sam wasn’t looking in her direction, Amy spontaneously made a sign of the cross. It all happened before she could consciously make the decision to perform the movements, as if her body subconsciously carried out the ritual.

  At the foot of the stairs, a white statue of Saint Patrick stood on a pedestal. Two bundles of wild flowers and a pink bouquet of carnations had been laid near his feet.

  Amy turned away from the statue and looked out over a very large, oblong pond about a hundred feet long and forty feet wide. At the far end, the stone cross seemed to float above the water. It rested on a submerged pedestal. On the other side of the pond, a cluster of walls looked like a tiny house with no roof. A man and a woman lingered near the house-like structure, and they took a photo of the old cross in the water.

  Sam made his way along the path to another curious item on the property. To the right, branching off f
rom the pond, a small canal linked the main body of water to something surrounded by a one-foot wall constructed out of stones. The wall made a circle around a little pool of water. A gate with a cross was the only opening in the wall. There was a walkway around the inside of the enclosure. If they wanted to, they could go inside, sit on the ledge, and dangle their feet in the shallow water. Smooth stones graced the bottom of the well, no more than six inches from the surface.

  “This is the actual spring,” Sam said. He pointed along the canal. “It goes into the pond there and out the other side.”

  “Looks like a stagnant pond,” Amy said. “It’s so quiet.” She peered into the well, examined the canal, and could clearly see the water flowing. When she stopped for a moment and ignored the sounds of insects and the other couple talking, she could hear water pouring out of the other side from some unseen waterfall.

  “It’s moving,” Sam said. “Just enough.”

  The other couple passed them on their way out of the holy site. They stopped to take a picture of the Saint Patrick statue before ascending the stairs.

  Now alone on the property, Sam and Amy headed toward the roofless stone building.

  “This was once a church,” Sam explained. “Maybe sixteenth century.”

  “You’re kidding. It’s tiny.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “Big enough for a traveler to stop and pray.”

  They walked into the church. Nooks and shelves on the interior walls probably once held statues. A tomb lay near the center. Everything was covered with moss and white lichen.

  They returned to the water’s edge. Now they were on the opposite side of the pond with a very nice view of the old cross. The sun was low in the sky behind them, but it would not set for another hour and a half.

  “What do you know about the cross?” Amy asked.

  “Depends upon who you ask. Many believe it was erected during Saint Patrick’s life, fifth century, but some say it dates back to the eighth century.”

  “Either way, quite old. It is amazing you can still make out that it’s a Celtic-Christian cross.”

  “Barely.”

  “But that actually makes it all the more, I don’t know, spirit moving to me.”

  “Your spirit is moved?” Sam asked slyly.

  “Isn’t yours?” Amy retorted.

  He reached out for her hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “In more ways than one.”

  They stood there hand in hand, staring at the cross, until they heard a family laughing boisterously while descending the stairway. Sam took a hasty photo with his flip phone, which he knew wouldn’t turn out to be anything. He frowned when he looked at it on the tiny screen.

  “We have it in here.” Amy touched his chest. Then they wandered off the property, fully refreshed and ready to seek out persons who might know something about Emma. But it was nearly nine o’clock, so they decided to pop into a pub, have some dinner, and get a fresh start in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They stopped at a pub on their way back to the hotel.

  Amy first visited the restroom, discarded the empty bottle of whiskey, and drank half of one of the remaining two bottles in her purse. Then she stopped by the bar and ordered another shot. Sam had settled at a table in the corner by a window. He raised an eyebrow when Amy approached, glass of whiskey in hand.

  “There’s a menu on a chalkboard near the bar,” she said.

  “Okay. Do you know what you want?”

  She tilted her head and smiled sweetly. “The shepherd’s pie sounds good.”

  “Of course.”

  Sam jostled his way through the crowd and leaned over the bar. Amy watched as he spoke with a pretty petite woman who was listening intently. The woman jotted down a note with her right hand while shaking a cocktail mixer in her left hand.

  Sam returned with a glass of ale.

  Most people appeared to be finishing up dinner, but the place was lively and the noise level increased steadily as the sun slipped below the horizon and a beautiful twilight settled in.

  Sam and Amy laughed and talked, telling stories and sharing wisdom. Amy was surprised to find that the experience at Saint Patrick’s Well had unearthed some happy memories of her childhood. A day at the beach by the Chatfield Reservoir, building sand castles and watching the sailboats. A hike in the mountains on a warm evening in September. An early Easter mass when the light through the stained glass danced across the altar. It was as if those memories were waiting patiently for a massive layer of anger to dissipate and allow them to surface.

  “Two shepherd’s pies,” the bartender-turned-waitress announced as she placed the plates on the table.

  “Oh,” Sam said, flustered. “I was supposed to pick that up, wasn’t I? It’s our first day in Ireland. Still trying to beat the jetlag.”

  “I’ll take care of you folks.” She grinned. “My name’s Katie. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Katie.”

  She looked over her shoulder toward the bar and returned her attention to Sam and Amy. “First day, huh? You’re lucky. It’s been dreary and misty all week. Bucketing down this time yesterday. First sunny afternoon we’ve had since…” She looked up at the ceiling. “Since last Thursday.”

  Sam grinned. “Well that explains all the green, Amy.”

  Katie nodded, considering the idea. “True. If you put it that way, we’re blessed.” She looked at Sam’s still full beer and Amy’s empty glass. “Can I get you another?” she asked Amy.

  Amy wanted to say yes, but she shook her head no. She resolved to talk Sam into opening the bottle of wine when they got back to the hotel room.

  Katie slipped away.

  “You know what’s weird?” Amy said. “They don’t seem to hate Americans.”

  Sam tipped his head and gave her a bemused smile.

  “I mean,” she continued, “I had this stereotype that all Europeans hated Americans, that’s all. I feel kind of stupid. Clearly, I’m the one making assumptions about other people.”

  “Aye, my lady, but remember that both the Irish and the Americans fought the same oppressor, the British Imperialists.” Sam said the last two words in a barely audible whisper, as if a couple of redcoats might be sitting behind him.

  Amy thought about this for a minute.

  “Just kidding,” Sam said, grinning.

  “Maybe because a lot of people here have ancestors in America.”

  Sam burst out laughing and slapped his hand on the table. “Amy, if someone’s ancestor went to America, then that person would have been born in America.”

  Amy blushed. Alcohol had made mush out of her brain, and she tried to dig her way out of the blunder. “I mean like ancestral cousins. You know, my uncle’s father went to America.”

  Sam looked at the ceiling. “I think that would still be your grandfather. Does he give birth to your father in Ireland and your uncle in America?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  “Shall we ask Katie?” Sam proposed.

  “No. That would be embarrassing.”

  “Why not?” Sam seemed emboldened by the beer he had not yet consumed. He casually waved at Katie who was wiping down an abandoned section of the bar counter.

  She nodded, spoke with another customer, poured the man a drink, and wandered over to their table.

  “You don’t seem to hate Americans, Katie,” Sam declared when she appeared. “Is that an Irish trend or are you just nice?”

  Katie suddenly became serious. She glanced from Sam to Amy and back again. “Are you worried someone is going to make fun of you? Just be yourself, pet. Honestly. You’re easy enough to get on with. People will like you.” She winked.

  Encouraged by her flirting, Sam continued. “It’s really Amy who’s concerned. Well, actually, she’s not concerned. She’s delighted you don’t hate her. And she’s wondering about your ancestral cousins—”

  “Sam, stop it,” Amy said. She glanced up at Katie, morti
fied. At that point Amy figured to hell with it, and she ordered another drink.

  Katie touched her lightly on the shoulder. “He adores you.” Then she hustled back to the bar.

  Amy gazed at Sam. “Is that so?”

  He smirked. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Sam headed over to the bar, canceled Amy’s drink order, and paid for their meal. Then they made their way back to the hotel.

  In such a situation, Amy might have experienced the thrill of a kind, handsome man’s attention. Instead, she was annoyed and preoccupied with the drink he’d denied her when he decided it was time to leave.

  Once back in the room, Amy immediately locked herself in the bathroom and finished the half bottle of whiskey in her purse. Only one full bottle remained, but the availability of that one bottle quieted her anxiety.

  When she emerged, Sam had already opened the wine. He offered her a glass. Amy became progressively more oblivious as she consumed two – or was it three – glasses of wine. She also made a few trips to the restroom for a swig from the bottle in her purse.

  She flirted with Sam more and more aggressively as one hour turned into another. She remembered kissing him, wildly violent with her tongue, and tumbling into the bed.

  And then nothing, the rest of the evening swallowed up by an alcohol-induced blackout.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When Amy awoke, the room was quiet and the bed was empty. She had a headache but was surprisingly otherwise unaffected by yesterday’s heavy drinking. The sheet felt cool against her bare skin. She realized she was naked, and her heartbeat quickened. Amy maneuvered herself into a sitting position, adjusted the sheet to cover her chest, and looked around.

  Sam sat in a chair in the corner, scowling. It was reminiscent of the first day she met him, when he sat near the bed clutching a yearbook. This time he held a near-empty bottle of whiskey.