by Unknown
~~~
Her first challenge, when she arrived at the Sligo airport, was to rent a car. She asked for something small, something easy to drive on the left side of the road without hitting anything. She’d read the roads were unbearably narrow with no shoulders to speak of, and in many places, built alongside shrubbery that invariably scratched the cars travelling its route.
The rental agent was a young man with a belly that could rival St. Nick’s and a cheery disposition to match. He led her to the tiniest car Catherine had ever seen—a blue Peugeot.
“Is that it?”
“It ‘tinks it’s a car,” he said, his belly shaking with laughter.
“It’s not much bigger than a bicycle.”
“Too small? I can find you somet’ing bigger.”
“No, it’s perfect.”
Armed with a map and a guidebook she’d picked up at the airport, she set out for Killybegs, a fishing village north of Donegal Bay. An hour and a half’s drive away, it was to be the diving team’s home port during their salvage operations. Although she left the rental lot with a smattering of confidence, she quickly found the pipsqueak auto wasn’t small enough to subdue her qualms of driving in the Irish countryside. The road to Killybegs was even narrower than she expected. She sat erect, with her legs tense and her foot hovering near the brake. Her knuckles turned red from her tight grip on the wheel and her Claddagh ring bit into her skin with the constant pressure. Even the side mirror seemed to fold in fear. In order to avoid hitting the vehicles whistling by in the opposite direction, she had to keep close to the hedges on the passenger side. Too close, obviously, as she heard the shrubbery scrape against her car from time to time. She hoped the exterior paint could handle the abuse.
As if the drive wasn’t challenging enough, she also had to contend with the distraction of the picture postcard scenery. Though the skies were grey, the greens of the landscape were unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was as if God, the artist supreme, had selected every green paint available on the market and then some. There was kelly green, avocado, forest, willow, apple, lime, and mint. One green flowed seamlessly into another as it marched over the hills and into the beyond. She passed thatched cottages behind old stone fences, neon colored pubs by the roadside, and new mansions set back on large properties. She even welcomed the times she had to stop to let farmers cross the road with their flocks of sheep. The gentle landscape was a welcome contrast to the frenetic pace of New York.
Once she got used to driving the tight roadways, she relaxed. When she reached Donegal, she was tempted to take a tour of its fifteenth century castle—the dominant feature of the town—but she was afraid to dawdle, even though Killybegs was only a half-hour away. For all she knew, the road ahead could be treacherous. And with the evening light fading, she didn’t want to risk driving in the dark.
As she drove on, past the villages of Mountcharles, Dunkineely, and Bruckless, the heather-covered land reminded her of a story she’d read as a teenager. She remembered being swept up in the romance of a man and a woman galloping across the moors, only stopping when they were out of breath or their horses needed a rest. There, at the base of some glorious tree, they kissed as if their love for one another had no bounds.
She frowned, thinking of how different her life had turned out from her romantic daydreaming. She tried to dispel her frustration by putting the radio on. Unfortunately, the Irish tunes did little to extinguish the craving her thoughts had ignited.
When she finally arrived at the outskirts of Killybegs, she stopped on a hill overlooking it. The village’s magnificent harbor, with rolling hills nearby, projected a sense of tranquility. Further out, islands dotted the sea. In the midst of town, there was a white church with a steeple surrounded by enough old cottages to give her the feeling she was stepping back in history. As she absorbed the sweeping vista, she realized it was more than that. It was as if she was coming home.
SEVENTEEN
Sea Breeze Bed and Breakfast was accessed by a one lane bridge a few minutes from town. Advertised on the internet as lodgings with a view of Killybegs harbor, it was everything it promised to be. It was close to the marina, but yet some distance from the hotel on Main street where most of the crew were staying. Catherine had learned from past assignments that too much familiarity affected her objectivity.
The hosts of Sea Breeze, Adam and Doreen McCall, were helpful and friendly, confirming what Catherine had read on an advisory web site for travellers. Doreen, a short middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair—no doubt steamed unintentionally during that morning’s breakfast preparations—gave her a village map; and Adam, a beanpole of a man with a boyish face, handed her some brochures on Killybegs and its surroundings.
As Catherine filled out the registration form, Doreen said, “I see you’ve already been shopping.”
“What?” said Catherine, looking around, as if she’d left a telltale bag nearby.
“Your ring. I see you’ve already purchased a ring.”
“Oh, that,” said Catherine, smiling. “I didn’t buy it here. I picked it up at a flea market in New York.” She held up her hand to the light. Doreen straightened her reading glasses to have a better look at the ring.
“It’s a lovely one. Looks very old.”
“I’ll say,” said Adam, bending his towering body towards Catherine. “Did you know the Claddagh ring originated in these parts?”
“It was Galway, where it all began,” said Doreen.
Catherine raised her eyebrows. “How far is Galway from here?”
“Only a matter of hours,” said Doreen. “You could drive that in less than four.”
“They’ve a shop there,” said Adam. “One that’s made a Claddagh ring for Queen Victoria and many celebrities. Maureen O’Hara, the actress, they made her one as well.”
Catherine admired her ring anew. “I wonder if they could tell me how old mine is.”
Adam grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they could.” He hesitated a second, then said, “Just a minute.” He went over to a small walnut bookcase by the telephone table and pulled out a thin booklet. On the cover was a drawing of a Claddagh ring. “For a moment there, I’d forgotten we had this pamphlet.” Handing it to her, he said, “It’s from the shop. You’re welcome to take it.”
“Thank you,” said Catherine, looking at the cover for a moment before tucking the pamphlet into her bag. Then, after politely declining her hosts’ offer of tea, she followed Adam to her room. The Victorian bedroom overlooking the sea had an iron bedstead adorned with a pastel floral quilt, a small antique table for her laptop, high speed internet access, and a private bathroom with both a shower and a tub.
“Breakfast is between seven-thirty and nine. We have a few more guests coming in tomorrow, but it’ll be quiet tonight.” With a wink, Adam was gone, shutting the door behind him.
After he’d left, Catherine tried Skyping Alex, but there was no answer. She then tried Richard’s cell phone, and got his voice mail. Catherine checked the time again. She was five hours ahead, meaning it was late morning back in New York. Maybe he was seeing a patient. Then she remembered that Richard had said he was taking the day off and driving Alex out to his mother’s in the country. Catherine called his cell phone again and left a message that she’d arrived.
Satisfied she’d done her best to reach Alex, she booted up her laptop and checked her email. There was one from Frank saying he hoped she’d found her accommodations satisfactory and that Daniel was arriving the following day. Daniel. She’d thought the final test of her courage had taken place in Wreck Valley. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Muttering to herself, she sat down on the bed and opened the booklet Adam had given her. Leaping out at her were the words —We are the original makers of the Claddagh Ring and the oldest jewellers in Ireland. She immediately went online and found their website. The jeweler boasted they’d been making the Claddagh ring since 1750. She also discovered to her amazement there were different w
ays of wearing the ring. She’d been wearing it the wrong way. She had the crown instead of the heart pointing towards her fingernail, meaning she was taken. She wondered if Doreen or Adam had noticed and what they might’ve deduced from that. She quickly corrected her mistake, pointing the heart outwards instead, insuring whoever knew about such things would see she was unattached. Not that she was looking.
~~~
Daylight had all but vanished when Catherine threw on a rain jacket and left her room to have dinner in the village. Frank had warned her weather in Ireland was either wet and cold, or wetter and colder. She hoped the dry evening was a sign that Frank was wrong.
Trudging down the gravel road, she relished the stretch but not the foul odor from the fish processing plant. Doreen had mentioned that the smell rolled in from time to time and she’d get used to it. It all depended on the direction of the wind. Doreen had gone on to say that the locals barely noticed it now. And anyway, the stench represented economic security for the village, so no one was in any hurry to lobby it away. Doreen turned out to be right about the smell. In a matter of minutes, Catherine found the odor had gone, or maybe, she’d gotten used to it.
As she walked further down the road with only a chorus of crickets for company, she marveled at the view again. The town of Killybegs looked dreamlike in the twilight that covered it like a cozy blanket. It was magic hour; a time when everything looked like it had an inner glow. She could see Main Street with the Shamrock Inn lit up along with the other establishments that catered to the evening crowd. And beyond that, the midnight blue of the bay.
For the first time since she’d left New York, she reveled in being alone. She hadn’t had that concentrated time to herself since her last assignment, which was before Alex was born. Even her breath seemed different. She had the sensation she’d embarked on a journey to find something she didn’t even know she’d lost.
~~~
She spent the evening savoring a bowl of Irish stew and a Guinness at a local pub. Although alone, she didn’t feel lonely in the friendly atmosphere, where several fiddlers and a drummer with a bodhran had gathered to play. She didn’t stay long as her jet lag was starting to get to her. She also wanted to get up early in the morning to find Hennesey’s boat and snap more photos. But before heading back to the B & B, she stopped at the Shamrock Inn to get a guest pass for its pool. Between dives, it would keep her limber.
The slog back up the road was a chore. She’d only had one glass of beer, but traversing an unfamiliar area was hard at night so she walked slowly, mindful of the uneven ground. She was comforted somewhat by the aroma of peat burning in a fireplace somewhere in the dark. It reminded her of old stories she’d heard, ones of families around the hearth; the mother knitting, the father smoking his pipe, and the children laughing as a cat chased a ball of yarn. Suddenly, a black cocker spaniel appeared out of nowhere, startling her and causing her to stumble.
The dog was jumping around her legs when a man’s voice called out, “He’s not going to bite ya. He wants a pat.”
Catherine watched an elderly man with a hand-carved cane walk towards her. She wondered where he’d come from. She hadn’t seen anyone on the road.
“He’s only a pup.”
Catherine opened her palm to let the cocker spaniel sniff her hand.
The old man smiled. “Ah, ya couldn’t ask for a finer night. Have ya found your bearings yet?”
“Pardon?”
“Aye, it’s grand. Are ya planning to stay awhile?”
Another odd question, but she answered with little hesitation, “Not too long. A few weeks. Enough time to do my job and get home.”
“And what might that be?”
Again, his question was abrupt, and this time, she paused. He was now close enough for her to see his face. His face was badly wrinkled and he had a trimmed white beard. He wore a tweed jacket, well-worn corduroy pants, and one of those wool newsboy caps over his white hair. But what puzzled her even more was that there was something memorable about his eyes. She rummaged her brain, trying to recall where she’d seen his face before.
Seeing he was waiting for her to reply, she said, “I’m an underwater photographer. I’m here to take photos of some divers for a magazine.”
“Ya’ll be going under, then. There’s lots to see, I suspect. Many a boat has gone down in these parts. The sea is full of tales, but mostly sad ones.” His face abruptly changed, as if he’d recalled some tragic news.
“Are you all right?”
He blinked and said, “Ah, lassie, ya know how it is. There are many stories.” He nodded his head as if to confirm what he was saying.
“Have you lived in these parts long?”
“All me life.”
“Are you a fisherman then?”
“Aye, and me father before me, and his father before him. We O’Donnells have toiled in this fair land for centuries.”
“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of changes then.”
He laughed. “Lassie, when you get to my age, there’s not a t’ing that surprises me.”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Catherine Fitzgerald.”
“You’re Irish.”
“Yes, on my father’s side.”
“Martin O’Donnell.” He shook her hand warmly, putting his other hand on top of hers. His skin was rough. She wondered if he was a farmer. “And that is Begley.” He pointed to the cocker spaniel, who’d gone off to explore the brush beside the road. “Well, I’d best be on me way, making sure Begley here gets a chance to chase anything worth chasing. I see y’are staying at Sea Breeze.”
“How did you know?”
“Why else would ya be walking this road so late in the evening?”
Catherine grinned.
“Fine folk at Sea Breeze. If ya need anything, you can find me in the yellow cottage.”
Catherine looked in the direction he pointed but since it was dark, it was hard to make it out. He walked off, and with his back turned, waved his hand at her. It wasn’t until she got back to her room that she remembered where she’d seen his face before. He looked like the old man in her dreams.
EIGHTEEN
Catherine dreamt of riding a horse in the sky behind Alex who was galloping a few lengths ahead of her. At first, they both laughed as they rode over cities and lakes and farmland. Before long, they dropped to the ground to continue their ride. Tiring, Catherine yelled at Alex to slow down as she wanted to stop and rest, but Alex kept going, with her feet working the stirrups, urging her horse to go faster. Catherine then realized her daughter was hurtling towards an abyss. She tried to warn her of the danger, but she couldn’t make a sound. She had no voice.
She awoke with a start, and it took her a moment to realize it had only been a bad dream. Relieved, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and then out the window. It was after seven, and the coastline was shrouded in mist.
Stretching, she tried to figure out her nightmare. She decided it had to do with not reaching Alex the day before. They’d never been apart like this. That had to be it. She was out of sight, over the cliff with Sybil. Catherine looked at the photo of Alex she’d put on the nightstand. Motherhood was fraught with peril. At least, this was one dream she could make sense of.
She forced herself out of bed. Walking by the desk, she spotted her ring and put it on. Ever since she’d last dreamt of the woman in the white dress, she’d slept without it. While she wasn’t convinced it had any power over her dreams, she wasn’t convinced it had none. She didn’t want to risk another terrifying episode at night with a drowning woman and an old man coming to the rescue, if that’s what he was doing.
Catherine found the dining room empty. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the buffet and was barely seated when Doreen came out of the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with bacon, a basted fried egg, a sausage, some baked beans, sliced tomatoes, black pudding, hash browns, and two slices of homemade wheat toast with jam.
“What a feast!” sa
id Catherine, placing her napkin on her lap.
“We call it a fry. Enjoy,” said Doreen, putting the plate down in front of Catherine. “Did you find everything alright in the village?”
“Yes.” Catherine swallowed some black pudding. “This is tasty.”
“It’s not for everyone, but what would an Irish breakfast be without it?”
Catherine peppered her egg, “I met one of your neighbours. Martin O’Donnell.”
“Martin O’Donnell?” Doreen looked confused.
“Yes, an old man with a dog.”
Doreen rested her back against the door frame. “I can’t say I know him. Where did you meet him?”
“On the road, when I was walking back to your place.”
“Did he say he was my neighbour?”
“No, but I assumed he was since he knew of you. He indicated he lived nearby.”
“The village is small, but I wonder…” Doreen’s voice petered out.
“He had a white beard and wore a tweed cap,” said Catherine, spreading jam on her toast. “He called his black cocker spaniel, Begley.”
Doreen shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t know any Martin O’Donnell. Are you sure that was his name?”
Catherine nodded but she was beginning to doubt it herself. Were her diving fears playing havoc with her reason? Wasn’t it enough she’d seen visions underwater and disturbing events in her dreams? Had she also now talked to a man who didn’t exist?
~~~
By the time Catherine climbed aboard the Golden Eye an hour later, she had put the stranger on the road out of her mind.