The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  ‘He’s a lovely young man. You must be very proud of him.’

  Siobhan sighs. ‘Well, he’s been a bit odd lately. Teenage moods, I suppose. But he’s fine again now – very cheerful in fact. Jamie!’ she shouts, and the boy turns. ‘Avoid the whitethorn!’ She leans forward confidentially. ‘Never touch whitethorn,’ she tells Astarte. ‘It’s guarded by the fairies, and they take offence if you disturb it.’

  Astarte informs her that she’s already heard this, and jokes about superstition, which Siobhan insists is the truth and nothing but the truth. As they banter Astarte thinks fleetingly that Rainbow and Leaf would no doubt enter into a long discussion over this, about the various elementals who inhabit the landscape. As far as she is concerned the dark fairies and even darker neighbour can keep to themselves.

  She leans forward and speaks quietly so that Jamie cannot hear. ‘Siobhan, I met Mr Connelly a while ago. He was hostile, to say the least. Threatening, even. ‘

  Siobhan pats her on the arm reassuringly. ‘Poor you! He’s the worm in the apple around here, I’m afraid. A bit of a bully, but for all his bluff he won’t do you any harm. Just avoid him and try to ignore him.’

  ‘What’s the Old School? He said he was a member, and made noises about kneecapping. I thought all that sort of violence was over with.’

  Siobhan’s lips tighten. ‘Mostly it is, Astarte. You get your gangs here, same as in the city. The Old School are a bunch of men who think they make the rules around here, and put it about that they’re more powerful than the Garda, our police. Bad things happen to those who cross them. But you’ll have no dealings with them – they’re not interested in incomers unless laws are being broken. And, despite Ned’s big words, they are under the jurisdiction of the Garda just as much as we are. There’s no need to worry – it’s all snarl and no teeth with Ned. He’s farting in the wind. But if you feel threatened just tell John and me. And, better still, Flynn. Gentle as he is, your man packs a hefty punch.’

  Jamie wanders towards them, stick in hand, and Astarte quickly changes the subject, telling Siobhan about the strange cries in the night.

  ‘Ah, ’tis a fox you heard.’ Siobhan says. ‘There are a lot of them around here, and ‘tis a sound to chill the blood when one is in full cry. When you get your hens you must be sure to lock them up at night, or they won’t last long. A fox in a hen coop is disaster – they kill the lot and leave most of the carcasses behind. Flynn will help you build a predator-proof coop and hen-run.’

  As if the mention of his name has conjured him up, Flynn’s van pulls up near the gate. His hair shines like gold in the sun as he goes to the back of the van and hauls out a heavy-looking sack. Jamie immediately joins him, brandishing the stick as though challenging him to a sword fight and the women watch them jesting with each other, each insisting that they are stronger as they unload three more sacks and carry them over to the cottage.

  ‘Men will be boys,’ Siobhan comments, with a sideways glance at Astarte. She gets to her feet. ‘We’d better be off, and leave you to your work.’ She calls to Jamie that it is time to leave, and strolls across to speak to Flynn. Astarte follows her, touched that Siobhan thought to call in with the makings of a meal.

  At the car, Siobhan takes out a dish of eggs and a bottle of wine and passes them to Astarte, shrugging off her thanks. ‘Jamie!’ she shouts. ‘Time to leave the workers in peace!’

  Jamie drops his sack of stones by the cottage door and slouches over. He’s not used to his height yet, Astarte thinks. He must have grown a lot recently. She feels a rush of tenderness towards him. She can remember being sixteen years old, trying to figure out what her place is in the world, and she doesn’t envy him at all.

  ‘I thought I might stay and help,’ he tells Siobhan diffidently. ‘If that’s all right with you, Astarte.’

  Siobhan looks pleased and glances at Astarte, her eyebrows raised enquiringly.

  ‘That would be much appreciated, Jamie. Thank you.’ Astarte intercepts a look that passes between mother and son. Siobhan is justly proud of her boy.

  The hours pass swiftly. A breeze springs up, cooling them, and a few clouds gather. Astarte works as hard as the men, sorting through piles of stone to find pieces that will fit into the gaps in the cottage walls. It’s like working on a gigantic three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle; selecting and discarding until just the right shape can be found that will fit tightly into place. Flynn uses concrete to seal the tiny gaps, explaining that in the old days this would not have been needed, that walls created in this way can stand for centuries if the stones are fitted carefully. Jamie says little but works hard, concentrating on the area around the window that overlooks the lake. Astarte, glancing across every now and then, notices that the lake draws his attention as much as it draws hers. A dreamy expression comes over his face and he pauses briefly each time he looks out, as though someone or something is calling to him.

  In the afternoon they take a break. Astarte makes tea, feeling that soon it will run through her veins instead of blood, and brings out the flan. They sit outside the van, the long grass dampening their clothes. Astarte suppresses a yawn. Her back aches from lifting and bending and her arms are straining in their sockets, but she wouldn’t admit that to the men. She’s filled with an intense sense of satisfaction, a feeling of work well done. One wall is gradually growing solid and sturdy, her home is taking shape. She turns to Jamie.

  ‘You’re a good worker. If you’d like a summer job, I’d pay you, Jamie.’

  He smiles, surprised and pleased, then switches off his expression. It would not do to be too enthusiastic. ‘That would be good. But I might not be free every day. I have some plans.’ His voice is diffident but his eyes sparkle. With the extra money he can take Sinead out. He can buy her gifts. He thinks of unlikely things; a jewelled hairbrush, a long-handled mirror. Sinead reminds him of a mermaid; fey, otherworldly. He longs to celebrate her mystery and beauty, to show her how he sees her in his dreams.

  Astarte studies his face. She feels warm towards this boy who is clearly poised on the brink of manhood. There is softness beneath the rough edges, a smudged look to him, as if he is rubbing out the child and redrawing himself in a new image. She wonders what he will become, and experiences a glow of pleasure that she will be here to see it.

  ‘You’re on,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Come whenever you like. There’s plenty of work to be done.’

  Flynn has been quiet, lying on the grass, watching the clouds as they scud past, changing shape, breaking up into wisps, reforming. He pulls himself upright, stretches and nudges Jamie’s shoulder, trying not to look in Astarte’s direction. She has a long smudge of dirt down one side of her face, and another on the tip of her nose, and he knows that if he follows his impulse to gently wipe them away she will not be impressed and the harmonious atmosphere will be lost. Instead he collects the mugs and takes them inside the van to rinse them out.

  ‘You’ll need more water later. I’ll show you how to bring it up from the well. When you have electricity installed I can fit a pump, but for now you’ll have to use a bucket and filter.’ He registers Astarte’s blank expression and shakes his head, tut-tutting. ‘No bucket,’ he states.

  Astarte narrows her eyes. ‘Flynn, I do have a bucket. I have two buckets.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t have a filter though.’ Jamie sounds smug.

  Astarte turns to poke him in the arm. ‘Whose side are you on?’ Jamie grins slyly and gazes up at the sky, pretending to whistle. ‘Ah, let me guess. The male side.’ Jamie whistles louder, looking ostentatiously away from her.

  Flynn watches, glad that he has a legitimate excuse to focus on those extraordinary eyes. They remind him of the ocean on a sunny day, full of strange lights that change colour depending on the angle you view them from. Astarte catches him staring, and blushes. The air crackles with a peculiar tension, as if a storm is coming, and Astarte has always been afraid of storms. She steps back a pace and stares at Jamie then raises he
r hands in surrender.

  ‘OK, I admit it. I have no filter. Is it so important?’

  Flynn shrugs casually. ‘Not really. It only keeps you from drinking the spiders and beetles and strange bugs that can lay you out for a few days.’

  Astarte shudders. ‘Ugh. So where can I buy one of these filters?’ She moves towards the van, digging into the pocket of her jeans for the ignition keys.

  ‘I have one at the yard,’ Flynn calls after her. ‘I’ll go and fetch it for you.’ Astarte stops and reluctantly nods her thanks. It irks her to look as though she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

  Jamie mutters that he has to go, and when Astarte pulls out a wad of notes, insists that she can pay him tomorrow.

  ‘Sure, and Flynn can set the wages,’ he tells her with a cheeky grin. Laughing, Astarte goes to make yet another mug of tea before she tackles the cottage again.

  The stillness in the garden is tangible, yet when Astarte relaxes into it and listens, it is far from silent. Birds call, grasshoppers signal to each other, the breeze ripples through the long grass, making shushing sounds. Astarte’s heart feels lighter than ever before. She’s certain that if she closes her eyes she will be lifted from her body to soar over the landscape.

  Resting on her back, propped up by her elbows, watching the reeds perform a slow dance, she is aware that every atom of her being is singing with love for this place. Her thoughts turn to love, to its many forms and expressions, and when the image of Steve and Marianne comes, as it does frequently, she does not shy away from it.

  At this moment she is almost grateful to them. If she had not caught them in flagrante she wouldn’t be living here, in the most beautiful place she has ever known. Astarte takes a clear look at her relationship with Steve, and it is like immersing herself in cold water. She never burned to be close to him. She never lay awake at night thinking of him, or found herself desperate to haul him upstairs and strip him naked when his keys turned in her front door. Astarte wonders now, shocked at the thought, whether she really loved him, or whether he merely represented the security she craved. She feels little sense of loss at this moment, thinking of her lover and closest friend. They have retreated like shadows, to a past that seems distant enough to belong to another lifetime. This cottage, this land, this lake, those swans serene on the water, fill her consciousness more than any lover ever did.

  Astarte lies so still that two butterflies, absorbed in their courtship dance, land on her shoulder. Their wings flicker and shimmer like dreams, and Astarte slows her breath. She doesn’t want to disturb them. She knows what dreams can do; how they can keep you warm and hopeful on cold winter nights when it seems that dawn will never spread its fingers across the horizon. She wonders what these frail creatures think of, whether they dream of sweet flowers, of beds of buddleia and phlox where their young will hatch. The butterflies take off, rising and dipping through the air as though riding an invisible rollercoaster. Astarte looks down, fixing her attention on the earth.

  Celandines wink brightly, their delicate yellow petals open to embrace the light, quivering under the weight of tiny insects. Ants go about their business in the grass, bees hum lazily among the clover, drunk on nectar. A lone magpie scavenges for worms in the soft damp ground, its ridiculously long tail a miracle in aerodynamics. Its feathers catch the light, reminding Astarte of petrol spilled in puddles. She whispers ‘Blessed be,’ under her breath; an old habit from childhood. A solitary magpie is said to be a harbinger of misfortune, and Astarte is determined that only good will inhabit this place.

  With a deep sigh Astarte sits up and drains the last of her tea. She stands, flexing her back, and returns the mug to her van. If Flynn returns and catches her taking it easy he will tease her about laziness and weak women. Gritting her teeth, Astarte makes her way along the path that their feet have mapped out between the van and the cottage, and begins to sift through the hillock of loose stones.

  A movement catches her eye. Ned is leaning against her gate, watching her balefully. Their eyes meet and hold, and Astarte’s heart bumps momentarily out of rhythm at the loathing etched into his face. Ned turns slowly and walks away down the lane. Suppressing a shudder, Astarte returns her attention to the stones, trying to shake off a sudden feeling of foreboding.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Eden is loath to leave the house in daylight. Shadows lurk behind every bush and when he wanders out into the garden he finds himself flinching at every crack of a twig, waiting for a posse of paparazzi to surround him. Despite their promises to leave him alone, stray members of the press have lurked for weeks, accosting his parents and sisters at every opportunity. It distresses him that their freedom as well as his has been curtailed, although to his relief the past few days have been quieter. All he ever wanted to do was make music. Never in his worst nightmares could he have imagined what that would lead to.

  At night the bedroom walls seem to shrink towards him, narrowing his world to a tiny cube of space that he can barely breathe in. Sleep brings dreams of flashing lights and howling crowds, from which he wakes shivering and drenched in sweat. To escape from them he goes to the lake, treading softly through the velvet dark, glancing behind each time he hears an unfamiliar sound. All that matters here, in his sanctuary, is the gentle splash as pike rise to the surface, the eerie call of an owl, the scuttering of leaves when the wind sends them dancing past him. Here he is nobody, a mere watcher of the forces of nature at work and at play. Here, he is content.

  Often he stays until dawn, watching the sky gradually lightening, the sudden threads of scarlet, gold, and violet that break above the horizon, spreading out into bands as they perform the alchemy of creating a new day. The trunk of the willow tree at his back feels warm, alive, a tower of natural strength that he can lean against and draw from. This tree has stood here, a constant witness, while generations of humans have been born, lived and died, fought and loved, and it will remain here long after Eden McDonagh’s name has vanished from living record.

  It is here that Astarte finds him when, waking early, filled with an urge to watch the sunrise, she takes a flask of tea and sandwiches made from Siobhan’s home-baked bread down to the lake. Eden hears her coming as she weaves her way through the pale blue mist of pre-dawn, and he leaps to his feet, startled and wary.

  Astarte stops in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat, dizzy with adrenaline. When they recognise each other they both laugh nervously.

  ‘And I thought you were a ghost.’ Eden’s voice is unsteady.

  ‘I thought you were some crazy poacher.’ Astarte nudges some twigs aside with her boot, making space to sit down. Eden’s features are indistinct but she can see his rueful smile. He settles himself beneath his tree and gratefully accepts the flask that she offers.

  ‘Crazy perhaps, but no poacher.’ He takes a swallow of tea.

  Astarte divides the sandwiches and hands half over to him, exchanging it for the flask. ‘Eden,’ she says softly, ‘You’re not crazy. You just need time to recover.’

  He stares at her, taking in the tangled curls and too-large sweater, the mud-spattered boots more suited to a labourer than a woman, and feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. She exudes an air of capability and gentleness, and it strikes him that she must be a good nurse. When she came to his parent’s house following his arrival back home he had known instinctively that he could trust her, and he had been surprised when John had commented afterwards that she seemed to be running away from something. We all have our demons, he thinks, yet she looks calm and clear, at ease with herself.

  Astarte shuffles and changes position, drawing her knees up to her chest, aware of his scrutiny. The unattainable god on a stage has vanished to be replaced by a fellow watcher of dawn that now swells with the sweetness of waking birds. Eden hears an echo of inner music that prompts him to sing softly under his breath.

  There’s something about you,

  That touches me deeply,

  It’s more than the grac
e of your smile

  Or the lights that reflect from your hair …

  Astarte shivers, her eyes fixed on Eden. She has never heard this song before. As his voice fades their eyes meet and hold, and she smiles, lost for words. He pushes a strand of hair back from his face and shakes his head slightly as though emerging from a reverie.

  ‘Tell me your story. You know mine well enough, and I am at a disadvantage.’ He picks up the flask, pours more tea into the plastic cup, and hands it to her. Astarte curls her fingers around it, savouring the warmth, musing. A bird swoops through the trees, then another, and together they vanish into the mist that still veils the lake. Astarte stares at the point where they disappeared.

  ‘My story. Once upon a time there was a girl.’ She stops and takes a sip of the tea before handing the cup to Eden, glancing quickly at him, then away. Astarte is accustomed to men who want to know who she is now, not how the child became a woman, but Eden, she senses, is different. He is so connected with the depths of his own soul, so willing to expose it in his music, that she feels touched by a longing to reveal her own, to immerse herself in the magic of this moment. Even without looking at him she knows that he is watching her intently, waiting.

  ‘The girl grew up quickly because she lived a strange life compared with others. She travelled the world with her parents, who believed that freedom was all-important, and that the path to freedom comes from breaking down the barriers that the mind constrains itself with.’ Eden’s face is calm and attentive. He nods slightly, encouraging her to continue. It is growing lighter. A heron comes into view at the edge of the lake, its form striated as the breeze removes the mist strand by strand. Astarte watches its beak dip down into the water.

  ‘She had never stepped inside in a house, not until she was sought out by her grandmother, whose rift with her daughter, the girl’s mother, was a source of great sadness to her. And the times with her grandmother were brief but happy. The girl lived in a tepee and often slept outside beneath the stars. She looked after her parents, who took too many drugs and who wanted the world to be a perfect place. But she never understood them, nor they her, and she fought with them constantly. When she was fourteen she ran away, hitchhiked across the country and knocked on the door of her grandmother’s house, begging to be taken in. She went to school and revelled in being surrounded by books, and in the sweet discipline of learning. She became a nurse because looking after others was what she was accustomed to.’