by Guran, Paula
The daffodils smelled sweetly, of overturned earth warming in the sunlight. Anthea had loved daffodils, planting a hundred new bulbs every autumn; daffodils and jonquil and narcissus and crocuses, all the harbingers of spring. He inhaled again, deeply, and replaced the flowers on the sill. He left a light on beside the sink, returned to his room and went to bed.
He woke before 7:00. Thin sunlight filtered through the white curtains he’d drawn the night before, and for several minutes he lay in bed, listening to the rhythmic boom of surf on the rocks. He finally got up, pulled aside the curtain and looked out.
A line of clouds hung above the western horizon, but over the headland the sky was pale blue, shot with gold where the sun rose above the moor. Hundreds of feet below Jeffrey’s bedroom, aquamarine swells crashed against the base of the cliffs and swirled around ragged granite pinnacles that rose from the sea, surrounded by clouds of white seabirds. There was a crescent of white sand, and a black cavern-mouth gouged into one of the cliffs where a vortex rose and subsided with the waves.
The memory of last night’s horror faded: sunlight and wheeling birds, the vast expanse of air and sea and all but treeless moor made him feel exhilarated. For the first time since Anthea’s death, he had a premonition not of dread but of the sort of exultation he felt as a teenager, waking in his boyhood room in early spring.
He dressed and shaved—there was no shower, only that dinghy-sized tub, so he’d forgo bathing till later. He waited until he was certain he heard movement in the kitchen, and went downstairs.
“Good morning.” A woman who might have been Harry’s twin leaned against the slate sink. Slender, small-boned, with straight dark hair held back with two combs from a narrow face, brown-eyed and weathered as her brother’s. “I’m Thomsa.”
He shook her hand, glanced around for signs of coffee then peered out the window. “This is an amazing place.”
“Yes, it is,” Thomsa said evenly. She spooned coffee into a glass cafetière, picked up a steaming kettle and poured hot water over the grounds. “Coffee, right? I have tea if you prefer. Would you like eggs? Some people have all sorts of food allergies. Vegans, how do you feed them?” She stared at him in consternation, turned back to the sink, glancing at a bowl of eggs. “How many?”
The cottage was silent, save for the drone of a television behind the closed door and the thunder of waves beating against the cliffs. Jeffrey sat at a table set for one, poured himself coffee and stared out to where the moor rose behind them. “Does the sound of the ocean ever bother you?” he asked.
Thomsa laughed. “No. We’ve been here thirty-five years, we’re used to that. But we’re building a house in Greece, in Hydra, that’s where we just returned from. There’s a church in the village and every afternoon the bells ring, I don’t know why. At first I thought, isn’t that lovely, church bells! Now I’m sick of them and just wish they’d just shut up.”
She set a plate of fried eggs and thick-cut bacon in front of him, along with slabs of toasted brown bread and glass bowls of preserves, picked up a mug and settled at the table. “So are you here on holiday?”
“Mmm, yes.” Jeffrey nodded, his mouth full. “My wife died last fall. I just needed to get away for a bit.”
“Yes, of course. I’m very sorry.”
“She visited here once when she was a girl—not here, but at a farm nearby, in Zennor. I don’t know the last name of the family, but the woman was named Becca.”
“Becca? Mmmm, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Harry will know.”
“This would have been 1971.”
“Ah—no, we didn’t move here till ’75. Summer, us and all the other hippie types from back then.” She sipped her tea. “No tourists around this time of year. Usually we don’t open till the second week in March. But we don’t have anyone scheduled yet, so.” She shrugged, pushing back a wisp of dark hair. “It’s quiet this time of year. No German tour buses. Do you paint?”
“Paint?” Jeffrey blinked. “No. I’m an architect, so I draw, but mostly just for work. I sketch sometimes.”
“We get a lot of artists. There’s the Tate in St. Ives, if you like modern architecture. And of course there are all the prehistoric ruins—standing stones, and Zennor Quoit. There are all sorts of legends about them, fairy tales. People disappearing. They’re very interesting if you don’t mind the walk.”
“Are there places to eat?”
“The inn here, though you might want to stop in and make a booking. There’s the pub in Zennor, and St. Ives of course, though it can be hard to park. And Penzance.”
Jeffrey winced. “Not sure I want to get back on the road again immediately.”
“Yes, the drive here’s a bit tricky, isn’t it? But Zennor’s only two miles, if you don’t mind walking—lots of people do, we get hikers from all over on the coastal footpath. And Harry might be going out later, he could drop you off in Zennor if you like.”
“Thanks. Not sure what I’ll do yet. But thank you.”
He ate his breakfast, making small talk with Thomsa and nodding at Harry when he emerged and darted through the kitchen, raising a hand as he slipped outside. Minutes later, Jeffrey glimpsed him pushing a wheelbarrow full of gardening equipment.
“I think the rain’s supposed to hold off,” Thomsa said, staring out the window. “I hope so. We want to finish that wall. Would you like me to make more coffee?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Jeffrey dabbed a crust into the blackcurrant preserves. He wanted to ask if Thomsa or her brother knew Robert Bennington, but was afraid he might be stirring up memories of some local scandal, or that he’d be taken for a journalist or some other busybody. He finished the toast, thanked Thomsa when she poured him more coffee, then reached for one of the brochures on the sideboard.
“So does this show where those ruins are?”
“Yes. You’ll want the Ordnance map. Here—”
She cleared the dishes, gathered a map and unfolded it. She tapped the outline of a tiny cove between two spurs of land. “We’re here.”
She traced one of the spurs, lifted her head to stare out the window to a gray-green spine of rock stretching directly to the south. “That’s Gurnard’s Head. And there’s Zennor Head—”
She turned and pointed in the opposite direction, to a looming promontory a few miles distant, and looked back down at the map. “You can see where everything’s marked.”
Jeffrey squinted to make out words printed in a tiny, Gothic font. TUMULI, STANDING STONE, HUT CIRCLE, CAIRN. “Is there a fogou around here?”
“A fogou?” She frowned slightly. “Yes, there is—out toward Zennor, across the moor. It’s a bit of a walk.”
“Could you give me directions? Just sort of point the way? I might try and find it—give me something to do.”
Thomsa stepped to the window. “The coastal path is there—see? If you follow it up to the ridge, you’ll see a trail veer off. There’s an old road there, the farmers use it sometimes. All those old fields run alongside it. The fogou’s on the Golovenna Farm, I don’t know how many fields back that is. It would be faster if you drove toward Zennor then hiked over the moor, but you could probably do it from here. You’ll have to find an opening in the stone walls or climb over—do you have hiking shoes?” She looked dubiously at his sneakers. “Well, they’ll probably be all right.”
“I’ll give it a shot. Can I take that map?”
“Yes, of course. It’s not the best map—the Ordnance Survey has a more detailed one, I think.”
He thanked her and downed the rest of his coffee, went upstairs and pulled a heavy woolen sweater over his flannel shirt, grabbed his cell phone and returned downstairs. He retrieved the map and stuck it in his coat pocket, said goodbye to Thomsa rinsing dishes in the sink, and walked outside.
The air was warmer, almost balmy despite a stiff wind that had torn the line of clouds into gray shreds. Harry knelt beside a stone wall, poking at the ground with a small spade. Jeffrey paused t
o watch him, then turned to survey clusters of daffodils and jonquils, scores of them scattered across the terraced slopes among rocks and apple trees. The flowers were not yet in bloom, but he could glimpse sunlit yellow and orange and saffron petals swelling within the green buds atop each slender stalk.
“Going out?” Harry called.
“Yes.” Jeffrey stooped to brush his fingers across one of the flowers. “My wife loved daffodils. She must have planted thousands of them.”
Harry nodded. “Should open in the next few days. If we get some sun.”
Jeffrey waved farewell and turned to walk up the drive.
In a few minutes, the cottage was lost to sight. The cobblestones briefly gave way to cracked concrete, then a deep rut that marked a makeshift path that led uphill, toward the half-dozen buildings that made up the village. He stayed on the driveway, and after another hundred feet reached a spot where a narrow footpath meandered off to the left, marked by a sign. This would be the path that Thomsa had pointed out.
He shaded his eyes and looked back. He could just make out Cliff Cottage, its windows a flare of gold in the sun. He stepped onto the trail, walking with care across loose stones and channels where water raced downhill, fed by the early spring rains. To one side, the land sheared away to cliffs and crashing waves; he could see where the coastal path wound along the headland, fading into the emerald crown of Zennor Head. Above him, the ground rose steeply, overgrown with coiled ferns, newly sprung grass, thickets of gorse in brilliant sun-yellow bloom where bees and tiny orange butterflies fed. At the top of the incline, he could see the dark rim of a line of stone walls. He stayed on the footpath until it began to bear toward the cliffs, then looked for a place where he could break away and make for the ancient fields. He saw what looked like a path left by some kind of animal and scrambled up, dodging gorse, his sneakers sliding on loose scree, until he reached the top of the headland.
The wind here was so strong he nearly lost his balance as he hopped down into a grassy lane. The lane ran parallel to a long ridge of stone walls perhaps four feet high, braided with strands of rusted barbed wire. On the other side, endless intersections of yet more walls divided the moor into a dizzyingly ragged patchwork: jade-green, beryl, creamy yellow; ochre and golden amber. Here and there, twisted trees grew within sheltered corners, or rose from atop the walls themselves, gnarled branches scraping at the sky. High overhead, a bird arrowed toward the sea, and its plaintive cry rose above the roar of wind in his ears.
He pulled out the map, struggling to open it in the wind, finally gave up and shoved it back into his pocket. He tried to count back four fields, but it was hopeless—he couldn’t make out where one field ended and another began.
And he had no idea what field to start with. He walked alongside the lane, away from the cottage and the village of Cardu, hoping he might find a gate or opening. He finally settled on a spot where the barbed wire had become engulfed by a protective thatch of dead vegetation. He clambered over the rocks, clutching desperately at dried leaves as the wall gave way beneath his feet and nearly falling onto a lethal-looking knot of barbed wire. Gasping, he reached the top of the wall, flailed as wind buffeted him then crouched until he could catch his breath.
The top of the wall was covered with vines, gray and leafless, as thick as his fingers and unpleasantly reminiscent of veins and arteries. This serpentine mass seemed to hold the stones together, though when he tried to step down the other side, the rocks once again gave way and he fell into a patch of whip-like vines studded with thorns the length of his thumbnail. Cursing, he extricated himself, his chinos torn and hands gouged and bloody, and staggered into the field.
Here at least there was some protection from the wind. The field sloped slightly uphill, to the next wall. There was so sign of a gate or breach. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode through knee-high grass, pale green and starred with minute yellow flowers. He reached the wall and walked alongside it. In one corner several large rocks had fallen. He hoisted himself up until he could see into the next field. It was no different from the one he’d just traversed, save for a single massive evergreen in its center.
Other than the tree, the field seemed devoid of any vegetation larger than a tussock. He tried to peer into the field beyond, and the ones after that, but the countryside dissolved into a glitter of green and topaz beneath the morning sun, with a few stone pinnacles stark against the horizon where moor gave way to sky.
He turned and walked back, head down against the wind; climbed into the first field and crossed it, searching until he spied what looked like a safe place to gain access to the lane once more. Another tangle of blackthorn snagged him as he jumped down and landed hard, grimacing as a thorn tore at his neck. He glared at the wall, then headed back to the cottage, picking thorns from his overcoat and jeans.
He was starving by the time he arrived at the cottage, also filthy. It had grown too warm for his coat; he slung it over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his cheeks. Thomsa was outside, removing a shovel from the trunk of the sedan.
“Oh, hello! You’re back quickly!”
He stopped, grateful for the wind on his overheated face. “Quickly?”
“I thought you’d be off till lunchtime. A few hours, anyway?”
“I thought it was lunchtime.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “That can’t be right. It’s not even ten.”
Thomsa nodded, setting the shovel beside the car. “I thought maybe you forgot something.” She glanced at him, startled. “Oh my. You’re bleeding—did you fall?”
He shook his head. “No, well, yes,” he said sheepishly. “I tried to find that fogou. Didn’t get very far. Are you sure it’s just ten? I thought I was out there for hours—I figured it must be noon, at least. What time did I leave?”
“Half-past nine, I think.”
He started to argue, instead shrugged. “I might try again. You said there’s a better map from the Ordnance Survey? Something with more details?”
“Yes. You could probably get it in Penzance—call the bookstore there if you like, phone book’s on the table.”
He found the phone book in the kitchen and rang the bookshop. They had a copy of the Ordnance map and would hold it for him. He rummaged on the table for a brochure with a map of Penzance, went upstairs to spend a few minutes washing up from his trek, and hurried outside. Thomsa and Harry were lugging stones across the grass to repair the wall. Jeffrey waved, ducked into the rental car and crept back up the drive toward Cardu.
In broad daylight it still took almost ten minutes. He glanced out to where the coastal footpath wound across the top of the cliffs, could barely discern a darker trail leading to the old field systems, and, beyond that, the erratic cross-stitch of stone walls fading into the eastern sky. Even if he’d only gone as far as the second field, it seemed impossible that he could have hiked all the way there and back to the cottage in half-an-hour.
The drive to Penzance took less time than that; barely long enough for Jeffrey to reflect how unusual it was for him to act like this, impulsively, without a plan. Everything an architect did was according to plan. Out on the moor and gorse-grown cliffs, the strangeness of the immense, dour landscape had temporarily banished the near-constant presence of his dead wife. Now, in the confines of the cramped rental car, images of other vehicles and other trips returned, all with Anthea beside him. He pushed them away, tried to focus on the fact that here at last was a place where he’d managed to escape her; and remembered that was not true at all.
Anthea had been here, too. Not the Anthea he had loved but her mayfly self, the girl he’d never known; the Anthea who’d contained an entire secret world he’d never known existed. It seemed absurd, but he desperately wished she had confided in him about her visit to Bennington’s house, and the strange night that had preceded it. Evelyn’s talk of superstring theory was silly—he found himself sympathizing with Moira, content to let someone else read the creepy books and tell her what to do. He b
elieved in none of it, of course. Yet it didn’t matter what he believed, but whether Anthea had, and why.
Penzance was surprisingly crowded for a weekday morning in early March. He circled the town’s winding streets twice before he found a parking space, several blocks from the bookstore. He walked past shops and restaurants featuring variations on themes involving pirates, fish, pixies, sailing ships. As he passed a tattoo parlor, he glanced into the adjoining alley and saw the same rainbow-hatted boy from the train station, holding a skateboard and standing with several other teenagers who were passing around a joint. The boy looked up, saw Jeffrey and smiled. Jeffrey lifted his hand and smiled back. The boy called out to him, his words garbled by the wind, put down his skateboard and did a headstand alongside it. Jeffrey laughed and kept going.
There was only one other customer in the shop when he arrived, a man in a business suit talking to two women behind the register.
“Can I help you?” The older of the two women smiled. She had close-cropped red hair and fashionable eyeglasses, and set aside an iPad as Jeffrey approached.
“I called about an Ordnance map?”
“Yes. It’s right here.”
She handed it to him, and he unfolded it enough to see that it showed the same area of West Penwith as the other map, enlarged and far more detailed.
The woman with the glasses cocked her head. “Shall I ring that up?”
Jeffrey closed the map and set it onto the counter. “Sure, in a minute. I’m going to look around a bit first.”
She returned to chatting. Jeffrey wandered the shop. It was small but crowded with neatly-stacked shelves and tables, racks of maps and postcards, with an extensive section of books about Cornwall—guidebooks, tributes to Daphne du Maurier and Barbara Hepworth, DVDs of The Pirates of Penzance and Rebecca, histories of the mines and glossy photo volumes about surfing Newquay. He spent a few minutes flipping through one of these, and continued to the back of the store. There was an entire wall of children’s books, picture books near the floor, chapter books for older children arranged alphabetically above them. He scanned the Bs, and looked aside as the younger woman approached, carrying an armful of calendars.