The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  ‘How do you stand it?’ he asks.

  Eden smiles ruefully. Linda had asked him the same question before she left for the plane to London. But she meant the fame, the intrusion, the feeling that you are owned by strangers who view your private, personal self as merely fodder for the masses. He rubs his chin thoughtfully and takes his time answering. He understands what Jamie is asking him.

  ‘You have no choice,’ he says slowly. ‘You look into her eyes and let her see what is in your heart, and if she is kind she will take you for her own. The pleasure and the pain become equalised, my friend. Love is more powerful than the pull of the moon upon the tides.’ He gestures upwards at the softly glowing orb above them. The owl calls again, and Jamie shivers and draws up his knees until they touch his chin, but his face is turned towards Eden, bright with questions. Eden sighs softly and stretches out his legs. ‘The heart is like a bowl, a precious chalice, and love is the stuff of life that fills it to overflowing. If you don’t let it spill over, if you try to contain it or withhold it, it will break the vessel apart and your heart will shatter. Share it, and there is enough for the whole world.’

  Jamie nods slowly. He knows what Eden means, and wonders how and when he came by the knowledge, but feels that there will be other nights, other conversations. The thought comforts him.

  The swans have paddled to the edge of the lake. They rest close together, feathers mingling, beside the tall bulrushes. Soundlessly, simultaneously, they both stretch their necks, then the female lowers hers into a question mark. The male strokes his beak upwards, towards her head and they settle, faces tucked down, to sleep. Swans mate for life, Eden knows, and the loss of their mate is a fatal blow. He ignores the old familiar ache that surfaces from deep inside, and rises stiffly to his feet. Jamie puts his hands behind him and pushes to spring up, then extends a hand to Eden, who smiles and aims a high five at it. ‘Thank you,’ Jamie murmurs, as he turns towards home.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to see you,’ Eden calls after him. He leans back against the cool bark of the willow tree and turns his attention to the sky, lit by the glow of false dawn. For now, he feels safe. The moon sails further away, growing paler, but a few more hours remain until he has to face another day.

  Chapter Twenty

  Seamus O’Malley scowls across the border between his land and that of Mairie Hennessy as he weeds his vegetable garden. A beam of sunlight has broken through the clouds and is shining directly over her cottage. The old bat even seems to control the weather, he thinks sourly as he bends and pulls angrily at a few weeds that have the temerity to attempt a grasp on life. His own cottage remains stubbornly in shadow. Seamus has a mental image of her cackling to herself as she dances around a cauldron at full moon, and that darkens his countenance still more. Mairie Hennessy has a reputation for herb-lore and, with Ryan O’Riley continually indisposed, she has numerous requests for her tisanes and potions; not that Seamus would touch them, of course. He shudders to think of the concoctions of beetle wings and frogs innards that he suspects her of creating on the nights when her candles shine out through the windows and the sounds of incantations issue out into the gloom and send him nightmares. Seamus has no time for her nonsense, and it irritates him even more that many of the villagers swear by them. Mairie is highly regarded in the community, and considering this fact does not improve the old man’s humour. As he casts stray weeds over his shoulder into the wheelbarrow parked behind him, he plots his revenge for the butter incident.

  The feud between the O’Malleys and the Hennessys goes back a long way; five generations, to be precise. 1884 had been a bad year for the O’Malleys, and that summer it took yet another turn for the worse. And the final spark that set alight long-smouldering resentments and brought about a state of neighbourly warfare was set off by poteen, the potentially lethal contraband Irish whiskey.

  Back then, as everyone knew, a friendly rivalry had always existed between young Paddy Hennessy and Sean O’Malley. But this had turned sour after their parents died and they each took on the running of their respective farms. On the very edge of Hennessy’s land stood a milking shed that was coveted by O’Malley, who kept more cattle. He had tried various means, involving threats and persuasion, to convince Hennessy to sell him the sixty-foot wide strip of land that the milking shed stood on, but to no avail. Then, to add injury to insult, Maeve, the local beauty, spurned all of her suitors, including O’Malley, and married Hennessy on Midsummer’s Day. Sean O’Malley brooded a great deal over what he viewed as Paddy Hennessy’s undeserved good fortune.

  On a cool night when the harvest was in and the peat blocks stored ready for winter fires, the menfolk gathered in Eoin’s Bar to celebrate. O’Malley and Hennessy stood back to back, ignoring each other until Eoin, a natural peacemaker, made the mistake of placing a large pitcher of poteen on the bar. Before long the merriment lead to backslapping, swiftly followed by bragging and bravado, and O’Malley challenged Hennessy to a game of cards. The winner would gain (or keep) ownership of the stretch of land with the cowshed. O’Malley would have liked to bid for Maeve as well but the days when this was possible were, unfortunately in his opinion, long gone.

  A pack of cards and more poteen were produced. Vision became blurred, memories foggy, and a fight broke out between the two men, though none could decide afterwards who started it. The next morning the women marched in force to Eoin’s bar to drag home their semi-conscious, bruised and hungover husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers. O’Malley and Hennessy both claimed to have won the game and their compatriots had drunk too much to be of any help in settling the dispute. And soon the dispute became merely academic, as the milking shed was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, as though the heavens themselves were sending a message to both adversaries. A state of snide and bitter warfare has existed between the two families ever since, except for a brief attempted reconciliation in the 1950s that was quashed before it could come to anything.

  Seamus O’Malley stands and stretches, hearing his bones creak in protest, and looks towards Mairie’s cottage. The sun still illuminates the roof, while the surrounding landscape looks dull and gloomy. A memory catches him unawares, of days when the sun shone and clouds had seemed far away on the distant horizon, and he shakes his head forcibly to expel it from his mind. The past is dead and buried, his wife is long gone and his remaining son in Ireland has no interest in the farm. Seamus heaves a sigh and turns away towards his field, stomping through the mud to open the gate wide as he whistles for his dog. Shep comes running, his tongue lolling and ears pricked up as he waits expectantly for orders. A few cows look at them incuriously and swish their tails. They know it is not yet milking time.

  Seamus speaks tersely to Shep, who moves off sideways and circles the cows, his belly close to the ground as he utters short sharp barks. Together they drive the cows through the gate, across the border and into Mairie Hennessy’s vegetable garden.

  Confused, the cows try to herd together then scatter, trampling tender plants and leaving heaps of dung in Mairie’s vegetable and herb beds. Seamus, whistling cheerfully, climbs into his tractor and drives off over the hill to the next field.

  Mairie arrives home to find her garden overrun and the cows grazing peacefully. She climbs carefully out of her battered old car, followed by Blackfoot, surveys the damage with narrowed eyes then walks across to the border and shouts for Seamus. He is nowhere to be seen, and his tractor is missing. Swearing under her breath she enlists Blackfoot’s help to round up the cows and drive them back into their field, then goes inside for a cup of tea and a tot of whiskey. As soon as she hears Seamus’ tractor chug into his yard she walks outside and stands squarely with her hands on her hips. He pretends not to see her and strolls towards his cottage, jangling his keys in one hand.

  ‘Seamus O’Malley, don’t you dare ignore me!’ Mairie’s voice carries across the valley. Jaysus, he thinks, no wonder the woman doesn’t need a telephone; they must be able to hear her all the way
to Ennis. He stops and slowly turns to face her, contriving to look innocent. The cows are gone from her garden, he notes, trying not to smirk.

  ‘And you can wipe that sneaky smile from your ugly old face,’ she calls. ‘You set those beasts on my land deliberately!’

  ‘What beasts?’ Seamus follows the sweep of Mairie’s arm to take in the trampled plants and heaps of dung that are scattered throughout. He looks around ostentatiously. His cows are grazing contentedly in their field, and the gate is closed. ‘I see no beasts on your land apart from your dog! And yourself,’ he mutters under his breath.

  ‘Your cows were on my land, eating my hard-grown vegetables with not a care in the world. I set them back where they belong, but if I catch you or them trespassing one more time, Seamus O’Malley, the Garda will be called out immediately.’

  ‘Someone must have left the gate open. And you cannot sue cows for trespassing, you stupid old woman.’ With an affronted but dignified glare in her direction he whistles to Shep and ambles towards his cottage. Mairie stands firm, and shouts at his rigid back as he moves away.

  ‘Well, Seamus O’Malley, you’ve saved me the bother of having to lay manure down now.’ He turns, his mouth dropping open, as she walks regally into her cottage and closes the door. A fly buzzes close to his face and he shuts his jaw with a snap, just in time to avoid swallowing it.

  ‘The devil take her,’ he mutters to himself, shaking his head as he walks disconsolately towards his back door.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Rainbow and Leaf Weaver pride themselves on their intuition. They nurture it with meditation. They coax its doors to open wider with the aid of psychotropic plants and psychedelic drugs. They pay rapt attention to synchronicities. And on this particular morning, over a cup of sage tea brewed in the small cauldron over their campfire, they both agree that they should visit their daughter immediately. It’s been several years since they last saw her, but Rainbow had a dream about her last night and Leaf has a funny feeling that change is in the air.

  As any meeting with Astarte creates tension at best, and unalloyed conflict at worst, Rainbow and Leaf prepare themselves before leaving their temporary camp near Avebury, where they have been attuning to the beings who created the latest crop circle. They stand beneath the rising sun, arms raised and outstretched to draw its life-enhancing energy into the cradle of the solar plexus, soaking in the strengthening warmth. Then they each take a hand-made chalice and fill it with water collected from the sacred Red Spring at Glastonbury, adding gorse flower essence to facilitate the painless processing of anger, before sitting cross-legged on the damp grass to slowly sip the rust-coloured liquid. It tastes of iron with a faint fiery hint of brandy, but they savour each drop, focusing on peace, harmony, and goodwill among all sentient beings. Few words are exchanged beyond a salutary blessing. Rainbow and Leaf have lived together for thirty-six years and have never been separated except across the occasionally differing space-time continuum created with the aid of psilocybin, LSD, and peyote. When the chalices are empty they pack them carefully in their battered van, deconstruct their tepee, look deep into each other’s eyes, and drive to Portsmouth.

  Along the way they sing. Praises to the Great Goddess issue from their lips and soar through the open windows, helping to hearten them. Their faith in their daughter’s ability to find the right path for her life-purpose is strong, but her rejection of their lifestyle saddens them. Astarte is much like Rainbow’s deceased mother, and the knowledge of this twists at times in Rainbow’s tender heart. She worries that her daughter will become cold, distanced from her feelings. Leaf calms her when she voices her fears, reminding her that Astarte has her own destiny to follow, and that they must focus on positive vibrations.

  The city is repugnant to them. The lack of greenery, the grey and grimy buildings, the paltry glimpses of sky all conspire to hem them in and to constrict throats already tightened against the prospect of pollution. Outside Astarte’s house they pull up and stare at the closed curtains. Although it’s possible that she could be sleeping after a night duty, the empty, shut-down feeling that emanates from the building makes it apparent that no-one is home.

  Rainbow clambers into the back of the van to retrieve the chalices and the bottle of well-water. She pours a drink for each of them, adding a few extra drops of gorse essence. They sit silently and wait. After an hour, Rainbow delves into her voluminous velvet shoulder bag, embroidered lovingly with a large Om symbol, and draws forth a package wrapped in black silk. Carefully unfolding the fabric, she takes her tarot cards from within their soft nest, shuffles them with her eyes closed, extracts one and looks at it.

  The image shows a chariot drawn by two horses plunging in opposite directions. A charioteer wearing a breast-plate stands confidently, staring straight ahead. No reins are evident, yet there is an aura of control around the figure. As Leaf bends his head sideways to look at the card, Rainbow smiles.

  ‘Change,’ she says in her soft sing-song voice that always makes him think of birds in flight. ‘She won’t be here much longer.’ Her voice drops lower. ‘Across the water, across the sea, change is in the air. We came at the right time.’ She slides the card back into the deck and wraps the silk cloth around it before returning it to her bag.

  Leaf takes a pouch from his pocket and rolls a joint, savouring the sweet scent that fills his nostrils as he crumbles the dried leaves into their bed of tobacco. He swiftly licks the cigarette paper and tears a small piece of card to make a roach, inserting it skilfully into the space at the tip. Silently he lights it, inhales deeply, and passes it to Rainbow. As she draws the mixture into her lungs, feeling her cells sing in sympathy with it, she relaxes.

  The day wears on, the van fills with scented smoke, and the sun begins to edge its way down towards the buildings that form a framework against the horizon. Rainbow and Leaf drift gently, watching thoughts scud like fluffy clouds against the backs of their eyelids.

  A tap on the window sends a ripple of alarm through them. Their eyes fly open and focus on the shocked face of their daughter, white and ghostly in the evening gloom. Rainbow opens the door and clambers out, her movements mirrored by Leaf on the opposite side.

  Astarte stands squarely, her chin high, staring suspiciously at her parents, the last people she expected to see in Portsmouth. Rainbow opens her arms and moves forward, and Astarte steps back, automatically recoiling. She turns and bends to pick up her travelling bag and marches to the front door. Rainbow and Leaf follow more slowly, weaving slightly from the effects of the joints that have passed between them this afternoon, as Astarte unlocks the front door and flicks a switch to flood the hall with electric light. A faint scent of stale air mingled with the tang of Astarte’s home-mixed incense escapes through the doorway, then the evening breeze breathes into the house, waking it and blowing a moth indoors to spin determinedly around the light bulb.

  Astarte drops her bag in the hall and makes straight for the kitchen, shedding her jacket over a chair as she picks up the kettle and fills it at the cold tap. ‘Well, what a surprise. You’re the last people I expected to see here,’ she calls over her shoulder while Rainbow and Leaf stretch their legs and roll their shoulders, standing close together near the polished pine table. Astarte turns to see them watching her silently. They look like a pair of elves in their colourful ethnic clothes. Feathers and beads are woven into Rainbow’s hair, and strands of bright wool are twined around Leaf’s thick matted dreadlocks. They remind her of two children, unsure of whether they will be chastised or praised, their expressions cautious but hopeful.

  Astarte has been dreading returning to the empty house that no longer feels like home, and finds that although she is never pleased to see her parents, for once she is willing to tolerate their company, providing it is not prolonged. Her heart had given an uncomfortable jolt of dismay at the sight of their van, rapidly replaced by something akin to relief that she will not be alone. However, she is certainly not willing to let her parent
s know of her feelings. She rummages through cupboards in search of herb tea to offer them. She finds none, but her eyes alight on the rack of wine bottles that sits cosily in the corner.

  ‘Forget tea,’ she says, taking a bottle and delving through a drawer for the corkscrew. ‘This is a celebration.’ Rainbow smiles at Leaf while Astarte fills three wine glasses. It appears that the gorse essence has been extraordinarily effective, and she resolves to use it more in the future. Never before has their arrival been greeted as a celebratory event.

  Astarte ushers them into the living room and nods in the direction of the sofa, then sits in the chair opposite them and takes a large gulp of her wine. Her parents haven’t spoken one word so far, but that’s not unusual. They rely more on telepathy, and she’s certain that they share the one brain cell that she suspects is all they have left from the vast quantities of drugs that they imbibe. She takes another sip of wine. ‘Mmm. Nice. So what brings you here?’

  As Rainbow and Leaf rarely give a reason for their infrequent visits, Astarte expects to be regaled with the health, mental, and physical, of numerous strangers who are all named after fruits and flowers or cloud formations. She almost chokes on her next sip of Cabernet when Rainbow leans forward and earnestly tells her, ‘We had to come and see you before you leave.’

  When the coughing fit is over, Astarte draws a deep breath and looks wide-eyed at her parents. Their elvishness suddenly seems vaguely gnome-like, and her heart misses a few beats before resuming its normal rhythm.

  ‘How on earth did you know I was leaving?’ she asks, frowning.