Prologue
Her heart raced in her chest. The heavy gown dragged and snagged the ground with each painful step. The sharp cries of ravens echoed in the distance, their shrill voices lamenting the approaching twilight. Jagged stones protruded along the trail. Her bare feet suffered painfully from the brutal terrain. Rich soil began to take on a sandy texture as she neared the shoreline. Daylight faded and washed shadows over the lush landscape. If she could only find her way back to the safety of the main road, back to the village of Kinvara. The aroma of the sea was rich, intoxicating. Woodlands quickly gave way to an open shore. Dark waters raged and heaved against the rising tide. Rock cliffs on both sides surrounded her. She had followed the wrong path.
The icy water rolled toward her as she slowed at the sandy bank. With resignation, she watched the churning waves of Galway Bay. Dunguaire Castle appeared like a phantom beacon on the foggy haze. Dim lights glowed in the windows of the grand building. Cold ripples drifted over her battered feet. The water was salty and harsh on her open wounds. Taking a deep breath, embracing the pain, she made the sign of the cross and whispered a silent prayer to Jesus and the Mother Mary. Heavy footsteps made their way toward her. Inhaling the aroma of the overlapping waves calmed her mind. He stood directly behind her in silence. The young woman held her ground. Rough hands encircled her delicate neck. Her locket ripped from her throat as she was pulled under the frigid water. It floated away on the currents. Her last thoughts were of Daniel.
Copyright © 2015 by AnneMarie Dapp
All rights reserved
The Wall People
Cover Art: Konradbak: Dreamstime.com
Graphics: Dale Dapp
ISBN: 978-0-9968755-0-9
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales,
And seize whatever prey the heart longs for,
And have no fear.
Everything exists,
Everything is true,
And the earth is only
A little dust
Under our feet.
W.B Yeats “The Celtic Twilight”
CHAPTER 1
Katie awoke with a jolt. The radio alarm sprang into action with Rhianna’s plaintive vocals. Its digital numbers clicked to reveal the hour of 4:30am. Darkness and fog drifted outside her window. Florescent lights flickered from the street below. It was a typically cold San Francisco morning. Leaving her warm bed, the sound of her feet echoed down the hallway on their way to turn up the thermostat. Half awake, she made her way into the kitchen and found a recycled paper cup. Within a few minutes, the whistle shrieked its welcoming call. She stirred in an extra spoonful of the instant coffee and added a generous portion of sugar. As her drowsiness faded, the reality of the day became apparent. The excitement of new opportunities eclipsed the anxiety of the work ahead. For the next few hours, she gathered her remaining possessions. Box after box was methodically removed from the cubicle-sized residence. When the last of her supplies were finally carried out, she took one last look and closed the door. The apartment key was placed carefully inside a small envelope and slipped quietly under the manager’s mat. The job was over, a weight lifted.
She walked the length of the corridor leading to the dark garage. The blue jeep was completely full. The old car was half her age and still going strong. The back of the vehicle was piled high with boxes and clothes. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she quickly noticed her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her bright green eyes radiated the promise of new beginnings.
Life had worn her down over the years. Perhaps it had started with the men in her life. If only you could erase the past. A romantic at heart, she would soon learn that relationships do not always end well.
Her marriage of ten years had ended bitterly. She’d discovered that words had the power to puncture one’s soul. Not to say that she had never felt the back of her husband’s hand. Jake had a mean way to him after a few drinks. But it was the words she could not let go of. They echoed in her mind, painful and cruel, each driving its own special agony. Her self-esteem and confidence had been slowly chipped way. Now, at age forty, she searched for traces of herself.
As she exits the apartment complex, she is struck by the beauty of the morning. The brisk air drifts from open vents on the driver’s side. She breathes in the fresh breeze mingled with a distant scent of chimney smoke. Fall is beginning to stake its claim in Northern California. The morning sky stirs brightly with scarlet streaks. The Golden Gate Bridge waits in all of its industrial glory. The unforgettable jewel, beckoning the dreamers of the world to celebrate and become one with her beautiful city.
Katie is always struck by a sense of nostalgic loss when leaving. The Bay is magnificent, subtle in its simplicity. The Pacific waters churn and cascade in orchestrated rhythm. A thousand little boats dance and play on its tides. The fog slowly burns away to reveal the glorious cityscape, the skyline reminding her of an old saying:
Red sky at night, sailors delight.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning;
The image reminds her of her family. The O’Brien’s were seventh generation Irish immigrants. Stories of the old country had been passed down from mother to daughter over the decades. Magical tales of the emerald isle had always intrigued her and left her with a sense of nostalgia. As a young woman, Katie had found it laughable that her mother considered the history of the Potato Famine, or as she called it, The Great Hunger, a personally upsetting experience. But as she grew older, the stories of the past resonated more deeply for her.
At times it seemed as if her Irish ancestors were whispering to her from the shadows. She never shunned an opportunity to pick up a nice book on the subject. She was particularly fascinated by the way the Celtic people seemed to embody great humor while falling prey to their darkest depression. She found it best summed up by Yeats. In describing a character, he wrote “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy; which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.”
The same could be said of her personality. It was too easy to become lost in the injustices of the world and the cruel circumstances of the innocent. She often had trouble sleeping after watching the evening news. Images of violence and horrific crimes troubled her mind and heart. Sometimes it was too much.
The day opened up before her. Late morning found her craving a warm breakfast and the opportunity to stretch her legs. With a little patience she would be home in a few hours. What do you do with a dream materialized? She would soon learn.
CHAPTER 2
The jeep was headed to Napa Valley. The region is known for its rolling hills, lush vineyards, and lavish living. For Katie, the Valley conjured images of paintings hanging in quaint bed and breakfasts. These artworks always possessed a similar composition. The canvases displayed quiet country cottages surrounded by vineyards. Interestingly, the scenes often suggested the late afternoon sun. As car after car rolled by, she began to fantasize about her new life as if it were a work of art. The image of an unfinished painting surfaced in her mind.
A little cottage off in the distance. It would not take long to reach this residence. The path was bordered with strawberry plants. The air was warm and smelled faintly of honeysuckle. The home came closer into view with each footstep. She climbed the weak stairs one by one. Her hand on the cold ceramic doorknob, she twists and the door is already ajar. She gives the wooden barrier a gentle push and is suddenly met with the shriek of squealing, rubber tires and the deadly blare of a car horn’s maddening wail.
In her daydreams, the jeep veers dangerously close to the dividing line on the country road. This small lapse i
n judgment had almost brought her into a head-on collision with a silver Porsche. The glint of the car’s passenger mirror caught the glare of an elderly man. My God, she thought to herself. What are you doing? This was not the first time she’d lost track of time. Nor would it be the last.
Her heart pounding in her ears, she pulled the car to the side of the road. Reality poured over her like cold rain. After several minutes, her pulse regained its normal rhythm. A strand of cold sweat trickled down the small of her back. She was startled to realize how much time had passed. Her low blood sugar threatened to undermine her. Her empty stomach protested with a faint rumble. She had to find a place to eat and to regain her bearings.
Katie turned the key in the ignition and shifted her car into neutral. The grinding of metal jarred her senses. Great, she thought. The clutch was out again. She followed the exit into the town of Petaluma. Main Street was lined with modest cafés and bookstores. If she were not in such a hurry, she would spend the afternoon hunting for books in the quaint shops. Katie loved to have a nice stock on hand when the winter rains began. After a couple blocks, a café called “Grandma’s Cookie Jar” caught her eye.
She found a parking spot in the far corner of the front entrance. Eagerly driving over, she realized that an old Ford pickup had taken up half the space. It took three tries before her jeep would fit into the spot. “Nice.” She slipped out from the driver’s side and squeezed between the two vehicles. She noticed the peeling primer from the truck. A tattered Confederate flag was tied to its cab bed. Entering the café, she was greeted by the familiar aroma of espresso beans and warm baked bread. The specials were written on a black board by the front counter. Someone had added their own personal touch to the illustrations. The details appeared professional.
An assortment of tempting pastries lined the display cases. Two large flies hovered over the desserts. A woman in her early twenties absently wiped down the counters. The server appeared annoyed when asked about the specials. Katie asked if their eggs came from cage-free chickens. The idea of chickens confined in cramped cages was simply barbaric. Satisfied with her answer, Katie ordered an egg salad croissant and a soy latte. As the girl prepared the order, she took in the place.
The café had a country farm theme. There were several paintings of baked apple pies and scenes of whimsical livestock. The tables sported red and white checkered tablecloths. A frail, elderly woman at the front counter appeared mesmerized by her plate of waffles. Syrup dripped lazily down her mouth and chin. Katie quickly looked away. As she placed her order, she noticed a sleeve of tattoos on the girl behind the counter. The ink depicted a dark and moody forest. The bright eyes of the wild animals gazed through the tangled woods. It was remarkable. She looked up at the young woman’s face. Her jet-black hair was cropped haphazardly. Two gauges matched the silver stud in her nose. It had been many years since Katie had lived the life of a rebellious art student, since she’d dyed her hair every color under the sun. These youthful memories seemed too far away.
Katie paid for her lunch and found a quiet table in the back. A painting of dancing pigs hung above her chair. She took a bite of her croissant and experienced the unpleasant sensation of biting into a broken eggshell. It felt like nails on a chalkboard. It was a subtle reminder that a vegan diet might be more suited to her tastes. Her mind drifted to all of the work ahead. It was going to be a long afternoon. Movers would be arriving in a few hours. They would be bringing her furniture to her new home. She tried to relax and finish the rest of her meal. A little silver bell jingled over the front door. Two young men entered the café. The wind played with the curtains behind them. They were dressed in work jeans and tight fitting t-shirts. Their clothes were covered in dried mud. The shorter of the two wore a dirty blond ponytail. His companion’s hair was dark and cropped close to his head. Their deep voices carried from the back of the café. They seemed to know the waitress. She smiled coyly as they placed their orders. The shorter man leaned over the counter and appeared to whisper something to the girl. She laughed nervously as she poured the coffee. It was interesting to watch. Thank God, those days are behind me, she thought. It was fun in the beginning. Though good times never last. She took out her purse and left a few dollars by her plate for a tip. Heading for the door, she noticed the taller of the two men turn and stare. She caught his blue eyes. The scent of Old Spice and dried sweat lingered in the air. He gave her a quick wink and lopsided smile. The effect was unexpected. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks. She feigned a smile and quickly made her way to the door.
The wind was fierce. Silence hovered over the town. Small black birds moved through the darkening sky. Heavy humidity suggested a storm. She quickly headed over to her car. The old truck was still blocking her way as she squeezed inside the jeep and started the engine. Rain began to spatter her windshield in a hollow, rhythmic beat. The weather report had not mentioned a storm. It caught her off guard. There were few things she loved more than the changing of the seasons. But, this was not the right time. She could see the boxes and furniture being drenched. It was time to move. If all went well, she could be home within the hour.
Katie headed for the nearest freeway entrance. She drove north heading towards the Napa Valley mountain pass. A few more miles of windy roads would bring her to where she was going. She eagerly started her descent. Her jeep hugged the road with ease. The street began to narrow after about a mile. Cars passed in a blurred, distorted rhythm, and her windshield wipers set pace with the increasing volume of rain. The approaching headlights seemed out of focus in the dim haze. This would not be a passing drizzle. The wind seemed determined. She could feel her jeep struggling against the force of the gusts.
Taking a tight curve, Katie’s eyes were drawn to a white, wooden crucifix propped up on the side of the mountain. A bouquet of pink roses had been carefully placed at its base. They were fresh, possibly hours old. The raindrops glistened on the colorful petals like precious diamonds. Next to the roses was a large, cinnamon colored teddy bear. The stuffed animal had fallen on its side and was flecked with mud. Its face appeared to be gazing up to the sky. One eye was missing. The image chilled her to the core. Focus on your driving. Think about it later. The inside of the jeep was growing colder as she made her way up the hill. She reached down and turned on the heater.
Warm air filled the interior. The windows began to fog up and the cars driving by became even more distorted. The darkness was disconcerting and out of place for this time of day. It became more difficult to focus. The windshield reflected the distorted lights from the passing vehicles impeding the visibility. She felt disoriented and conceptually disjointed. The first stages of panic descended like soft butterfly wings upon her chest. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
Don’t lose it now! It’s just a storm! The voice inside her head was frantic. Focus on your new life. Focus on your new house. Don’t think about the jeep losing control and careening off the side of the mountain. You’ve come so far. Cool it! She took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure. It took effort not to give into the panic, which was painful and primitive and somehow provocative. She hated to lose control. Breathe. All right that’s better, she thought. The storm continued. She searched for the final turnoff that would bring her to the last stretch of her journey. Only a few miles of windy roads remained. The redwoods were thick along the edges of the road. After several minutes, she discovered the turnoff and made her way down a narrow dirt road. She followed it as it curved through a dense forest. The jeep’s tires struggled against the thick mud.
As the vehicle made its way down the path, the light became increasingly dense and filtered. The trees created a protected canopy. After driving several hundred yards, a clearing emerged. Her little cabin was nestled comfortably among the seemingly endless woods. She guided her jeep toward the front driveway. Her heart raced. This was it. She wanted to make the moment last. Carefully letting herself out the jeep, Katie shut her door, and the sound echoed through the
woods. Her white Keds slipped down into the thick mud. She could feel the cold, wet soil filling the spaces in her shoes. The rain continued pouring down. It felt sensual. She breathed in the fresh pine. The fragrance was inviting. The sharp cry of a Stellar Jay rang out from the top of an old oak. “Yes, little one. I hear you,” she whispered. An orchestra of sound was emanating throughout the forest. Birds and insects were setting pace. Oh God, this was all so familiar. The simplicity was delightful. The one-bedroom cabin nestled within the heart of the woods.
She walked toward the modest building. Rain rolled down her face like sparkling tears. The dark, wooden logs appeared black from the steady downpour. The cabin was approached with reverence. She climbed up the old, wooden steps. A collection of moss and mushrooms had made their home on the planks of the front porch. Her fingertips moved gently over the wooden beams. She brought her face against the front wall and breathed in the sharp, earthy scent. A slow, deliberate movement caught her attention. A dark purple salamander made its way along the wooden landing. Tiny, golden spots dotted its back and sides. Beads of precipitation covered its moist, delicate body. Katie squatted down on her haunches to get a better view. The little creature’s head cocked slightly as its shiny, black eye gazed up at her. After a moment’s pause, the tiny amphibian continued its shuffle along the cabin wall. The discovery filled her heart with joy. How many more treasures awaited?
Katie reached into her pocket and pulled out the house key. She carefully placed it into the old-fashioned ceramic doorknob. The door clicked opened. She gingerly stepped over the threshold and went inside. The room was stale and musty. There was a strange, dense quality to the air. For a moment, it felt as if she were inhaling a thick serum, but the sensation was gone as quickly as it begun. She told herself that quite some time must have passed since anyone had stepped foot inside the cabin. It was bound to feel stuffy and slightly oppressive. A thin beam of light was making its way through the curtains above the sink. She walked over and pulled the cord, opening them further. The afternoon light filled the cabin. She grabbed hold of the latch above the window and clicked it open with a dull scraping sound. No doubt a little WD40 would be a welcoming addition to many of the old doors and windows. Breathing in the crisp, clean mountain air refreshed her. She continued her exploration of the cabin.
The Wall People Page 1