The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  Mairie resumes her seat and leans back, closing her eyes. Sleep is no friend of hers lately. It beckons her, but just as she thinks she will be wrapped in its embrace, it vanishes, leaving her with a head full of useless thoughts and an ear cocked for the voices of her long-dead family whose claim on this place is as strong as her own.

  Today she feels her age and more. The arthritis that sends twinges through her joints and bones through the summer months asserts its hold in winter. Her back aches constantly and her fingers struggle to keep their grip. It makes her angry with her treacherous body. Her mind is as sharp as it ever was but sometimes, when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror that Sinead insists on having in the bathroom, she is shocked at the face that looks back at her. That face is not her own, she is certain, but on days when her bones ache, and make creaking noises that no bones in a living body should make, she has to accept that she is growing old. She worries about who will look after Sinead when she is gone.

  Blackfoot, always alert to his mistress’s moods, comes to sit beside her, his head in her lap, concerned brown eyes gazing adoringly up at her. She pats his head. ‘You’re a good boy, so you are,’ she tells him. His tail wags slowly. ‘And you’re not so young yourself,’ she adds, stroking his grey muzzle. His tail moves faster in agreement, and Mairie’s face wrinkles in a smile.

  ‘Well, ’tis no good sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves.’ She hauls herself to her feet, and hobbles to the window to gaze out at the pale landscape. Her eyes alight on Seamus’ cottage, and it pleases her to see that the clouds above it are a little darker than the ones immediately overhead. A shape in the snow catches her attention, and she squints, trying to make it out through the blur of snowflakes.

  Stepping into her boots and struggling into her coat, she goes outside to take a closer look. Only when she has crossed the border to Seamus’ land does she realise that a duck is sitting silently by his cottage. She frowns, and cautiously moves closer. The bird does not move. ‘Now, what would you be doing here?’ she asks it. The duck looks away, as though embarrassed.

  Careful not to slip, for she knows how fragile old bones are, Mairie approaches the duck. Its face turns towards her, and it gives a hoarse, miserable quack’ Mairie stops.

  ‘May the saints preserve us!’ she exclaims, bending down to examine the duck from all angles. It appears to be frozen to the spot. Mairie stands with her chin in her hands, thinking. A bellow from close behind her makes her jump, and she almost loses her balance.

  ‘What are you doing, trespassing on my land?’ Seamus shouts. He flaps his arms. ‘Be off with you, before I call the Garda!’

  Mairie assumes a dignified expression, and raises her head so that she can look down her nose at her adversary. ‘You have a duck trapped here,’ she tells him defensively.

  Seamus laughs. ‘Now that’s a good tale, and one I’ve not heard before.’

  Silently Mairie steps aside. The duck quacks, its voice weaker than before. Seamus stares, his jaw dropping. He squints at Mairie. ‘Did you put it there?’

  ‘Ah, to be sure, I always go for walks with a duck tucked under my arm, just in case I can find a likely spot to freeze it in. No, of course I did not put it there, you eejit. It must have landed and become stuck. Now, help me rescue it instead of gawping like a schoolboy.’

  Seamus guffaws. ‘Rescue it?’ he cries in disbelief. ‘There’s roast duck for dinner this night!’

  ‘There is not.’ Mairie steps in front of the duck, her hands outstretched as if to shield it. ‘The poor beast is there through no fault of its own. If you shot it flying overhead, that would be a fair catch. But this duck deserves its freedom.’

  The laughter stops, and Seamus leans forwards threateningly. ‘This duck is on my land and therefore, by law, is my property. I reserve the right to eat it.’

  ‘Rights? You talk of rights? You will help me release this poor creature, Seamus, for surely it will poison you if you eat it!’

  Seamus pauses. He wouldn’t put it past Mairie to cast some spell to turn the meat bad as soon as he took it inside. He looks the duck up and down appraisingly.

  ‘’Tis a skinny thing,’ he comments disparagingly. ‘No meat on it. ’Tis hardly worth the bother, now I’m close enough to see it properly.’

  Mairie hides a smile. ‘Well, in that case will you fetch some warm water so that we can defrost its feet?’

  Grumbling loudly, Seamus stamps through the snow to his cottage and pours hot water into a bucket. He refills the kettle and switches it on, glad that Flynn decided recently that it was time he entered civilisation, and donated it. Still muttering, he adds cold water to the bucket, and hauls it across to where Mairie stands guarding the duck. He hands the bucket to her.

  ‘If you want to rescue the creature, do it yourself,’ he growls. He has no intention of being pecked, and the duck is looking mightily unhappy with its plight and could become vicious.

  Mairie, aware of his nervousness, grins to herself as she carefully sloshes water over and around the duck’s feet. The snow and ice begin to melt. The duck, sensing freedom, struggles and finally takes a cautious step forward, then another. They stand and watch as it flaps its wings and clumsily lifts into the air. Mairie hands the bucket to Seamus.

  ‘A fox or pine marten will have it, you mark my words,’ he mutters.

  Mairie casts him a scornful glance as she moves back towards her cottage. ‘Well, at least ’tis not a sitting duck now,’ she calls over her shoulder.

  Chapter Forty

  By late afternoon the snow has stopped falling. The countryside, clothed in a pearly sheen, reflects blue in the moonlight. Tiny footprints mark the passage of wild creatures. Lace-edged trees provide less than adequate shelter for birds that, all afternoon, have swooped low to snatch up the crumbs scattered outside Astarte’s door. Horace has been shut indoors all day; his predator instincts are strong, and Astarte is determined that the birds will be kept out of danger while she feeds them. When evening comes, and she opens the door, he dashes out, glancing back once at her in rebuke.

  Rainbow and Leaf were invited to pass the afternoon in the cottage. Astarte feels slightly guilty about being warm and snug indoors while they brave the elements in their van at the end of her garden, even though she knows that they have lived in it for many winters without complaint. The hours flit by surprisingly peaceably, fuelled by mugs of hot chocolate fortified with whiskey and cinnamon. Despite slow, almost non-existent conversation, the currents that flow between them are companionable. Daisy has developed a fondness for Leaf, and lies close beside him, snoring softly while he scratches her ears. Rainbow meditates on the flames as they lick their way between logs and peat, changing colour as they move.

  When the sun sets, Astarte yawns and stretches, refusing all help to prepare the meal. She doesn’t want to take the risk of crumbled marijuana leaves in the sauce that she has studied the recipe for so carefully. She wonders whether Siobhan and John will be able to drive here, and whether Flynn will come. She cooks vegetables and pasta with one ear cocked for the sound of a car engine.

  As she lays slices of goat’s cheese on top of the pasta dish and slides it carefully back into the range oven to finish cooking, she hears voices outside. Siobhan’s laugh rings out, and there is a tap at the door. Dusting her hands together, Astarte rushes to open it.

  ‘We need sustenance, quick! ’Tis freezing outside, and not a Saint Bernard with a brandy bottle to be found, near or far!’ Siobhan rushes inside like a whirlwind, hugging Astarte on the way, and rubbing her hands together as she goes to the fire and greets Astarte’s parents. ‘I’ll not shake your hands, for fear of giving you frostbite. Hello! How are you? ’Tis good to meet you!’

  John follows more slowly, pausing to stamp his feet on the mat inside the door. He lays a hand on Astarte’s shoulder and presses a cold cheek against hers, laughing when she jumps back. From beneath his coat he produces a bottle of his home-brewed wine and places it on the table.


  ‘Look at her.’ He inclines his head towards his wife, who, still in her coat, is perched on the arm of the chair, chatting animatedly to Rainbow and Leaf. ‘A few flakes of the white stuff, and she’s like a child with a new toy.’ Siobhan glances across, makes a face at him, and resumes talking.

  Astarte makes hot toddies for them, pouring a generous measure of whiskey into each glass and adding cloves, hot water, and lemon slices. They take a sip gratefully before removing their coats and scarves.

  ‘Isn’t Flynn coming?’ she asks, irritated with herself at the plaintive note that somehow creeps into her voice.

  John looks puzzled. ‘I don’t know. I thought he’d be here already. We haven’t seen him this week.’ He chews one side of his lip pensively. ‘What thoughtless friends we are. We should have phoned to offer him a lift.’

  ‘Oh well, he knows the way here,’ Astarte says tartly. She checks the pasta bake. It is almost ready. Shrugging off her disappointment, she opens the wine and slices a baguette, while John steers Sirius away from the table, and goes to introduce himself to Astarte’s parents.

  Flynn walks slowly down the lane, telling himself that he could just keep going and visit his father instead. He knows that he’s fooling himself, though. Each step brings him closer to Astarte’s door.

  When he reaches her gate, he stops to lean against it and look out across the lake. A few stars wink at him, and he raises his head and winks back. The snow illumines the night with an unearthly glow, and he wishes that he could paint the scene, but art is not one of his gifts.

  He turns to observe Astarte’s cottage. The curtains are open, as usual, and warm golden light escapes through the windows and flows towards him, beckoning. He can see John and Siobhan by the fire, with an older couple. Astarte is moving towards them with glasses in her hands, smiling at something John is saying. Her hair forms a nimbus around her face, and the light from the fire casts a soft glow across her features. Flynn sighs, and trudges up the driveway.

  Sirius barks before Flynn has reached the door. It opens swiftly and Astarte, her face radiant, pulls him inside.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asks, laughing as she hugs him briefly. ‘I thought you’d left the country!’

  He couldn’t say which pleases him more, the hug, or her pleasure at seeing him. Beaming, he takes off his coat and hangs it up with the others before accepting the hot toddy she pours for him. Astarte takes his arm and steers him across the room.

  ‘Meet Rainbow and Leaf, my parents. This is Flynn.’ He shakes hands with them, noting that Astarte has inherited Rainbow’s nose and Leaf’s determined chin.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he says. He just can’t wipe the smile from his face.

  Siobhan nudges him when he sits down beside her. ‘So, you were honoured with an introduction. We had to do it ourselves,’ she says slyly.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry! I’m so rude!’ Astarte looks shamefaced.

  ‘And you were given a hot toddy immediately,’ Siobhan adds, grinning. Flynn winks at her.

  Astarte goes to take the pasta bake from the oven. The goat’s cheese topping is crispier than intended, but overall she’s quite pleased with how it looks. She carries it carefully to the table and places it on a mat, before throwing her oven-gloves at Siobhan, who catches them deftly.

  ‘So were you, you trouble-maker. You were drinking it before you even took your coat off!’ she calls. She gestures towards Rainbow and Leaf. ‘Meet my friends!’ she says grandiosely, and waves her hand at each of them in turn. ‘In the corner is John, estate agent extraordinaire. By the fire is Siobhan, cookery instructor, and good friend to all. And over there we have Flynn, the most magnificent builder in Ireland!’ she announces with a flourish.

  Flynn looks up from patting Sirius. ‘In the world, you mean,’ he says indignantly, smirking.

  ‘Ah yes, I almost forgot. As these walls bear witness, the best builder in the world!’

  ‘Astarte,’ Siobhan stares at her, smiling mischievously, ‘have you been drinking?’

  She giggles. ‘Not really. A hot chocolate or two, and then there’s the fumes from my parents’ dodgy little smoking habit to contend with. I thought you wanted introductions, so I introduced you.’

  The evening drifts by in a flurry of conversation, stimulated further by the food and wine. Astarte sits on the floor beside Flynn, resting her back against Siobhan’s chair. John shares the sofa with Rainbow and Leaf, and Astarte glances across when their voices drop lower, surprised at the intensity of their conversation.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she asks.

  Leaf smiles. ‘Private matters,’ he tells her with a smile, stroking the owl feather that tickles the side of his face. Flynn leans towards her and touches her hand lightly, distracting her. A glow emanates from him that is warmer even than the fire.

  ‘Would you like to come with me to see the house I’m working on? I think you’d like it.’ He watches her face closely, waiting for the shutters to come down, but to his amazement, her eyes light up.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she says simply. ‘One day next week?’ He nods, smiling broadly.

  Tonight, Astarte sparkles. Siobhan, observing her, is amused. A wild element is surfacing this evening. Astarte’s eyes are bright, and her blue irises are vivid against their frame of dark lashes, lending a luminous glow to her skin. Her hair spirals out around her face as though electrified, and she laughs easily. Even her parents, who Siobhan knows are viewed resentfully, are given the full benefit of her charm. Siobhan wonders what has lit the spark within her. Her eyes drift to Flynn. He too glows. His eyes hardly leave Astarte’s face. The poor man is spellbound, she thinks, pushing away a stab of worry. Flynn is a good man, and she hopes he will not be hurt.

  Rainbow and Leaf are out sight-seeing all day on Sunday. Astarte busies herself with cleaning, in preparation for Linda’s visit the next day. She wonders what Eden’s glamorous agent will make of her cottage, and her somewhat lackadaisical relationship with her animals. While she scrubs and polishes, she chastises herself for worrying about the impression she will make. No doubt Linda lives in a penthouse with a doorkeeper, and breakfasts on caviar and champagne, but she has frequently stayed with Eden and his family, and seems at home with the rough-and-tumble of life there. Astarte stows the furniture polish beneath the sink, and sits at the table to flick through her new cookery book for ideas. The luscious-looking photographs make her mouth water, but she winces on reading the recipes that accompany them. Her only culinary accomplishments so far are soups, pasta dishes, and home-baked bread. She closes the book and pushes it aside. ‘That’s dinner settled,’ she mutters, getting up to make a cup of coffee.

  When Astarte hears her parents’ van draw up late in the evening, she goes to the door and signals for them to come inside. A large pan of soup, her staple winter diet, bubbles on the range, and she ladles it into bowls. Thanking her, they sit at the table and accept the mugs of tea she brings over.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ she asks politely.

  Rainbow and Leaf exchange glances, and shift in their seats. ‘Oh yes. It’s beautiful around here,’ Leaf says carefully. They both look slightly guilty.

  Astarte sits opposite them, glancing between them, her brow furrowed. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asks.

  Leaf tastes the soup, lays his spoon down, and takes a deep breath.

  ‘Astarte, we have something to … er … tell you.’ He smiles gently at her curious expression. Astarte suddenly fears that Rainbow might be pregnant, and glances swiftly at her mother’s stomach, hidden beneath her baggy clothes. Although she should be past childbearing age by now, anything is possible where her parents are concerned. She sits bolt upright.

  ‘Yes?’ she prompts, fervently praying that she is not about to become a sister.

  Leaf and Rainbow clasp hands, gaining strength from each other.

  ‘We’ve decided to live here,’ Rainbow says, her voice high with nerv
ousness.

  Astarte’s heart plummets. This is even worse news than a prospective sibling. ‘Here? On my land? I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ She leans back as far as the chair will go without falling over.

  Rainbow and Leaf exchange glances again. ‘Oh no, we wouldn’t ask that of you. We’ve been to see some land with John today. Ten acres, going very cheaply. We’ve decided to use that nest-egg that you banked for us when my mother – your grandmother – died.’

  The chair clatters to the floor as Astarte springs up, her face white with shock.

  ‘Now, let me get this right. You’re going to move over here, on ten acres of land, and interfere in my life?’ Her voice shakes with fury. ‘What are you planning to do with this land? And John! Good God, how could John take you looking at places without telling me first?’ She pauses for breath, and Leaf interrupts, his voice calm and reasonable.

  ‘John was only doing his job. And we have no plans to interfere with your life, Astarte.’ He tells her mildly. ‘Our minds are made up. We’ve never settled anywhere before, but we feel at home here, so here we will live.’ He pushes the bowl of soup aside. Conflict is detrimental to the digestion, he knows. ‘We’re going to set up a community here. Invite some friends to live with us, and start up a healing centre and a whole-food co-operative.’

  Astarte shakes her head repeatedly. ‘No! No, no, no, no, no! I won’t have you following me over here, bringing that bunch of drug-soaked rogues and charlatans that you hang out with! It’s taken me years to get over having to live with your crazy ways, and I won’t live with them now.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Leaf says, standing up. He helps Rainbow into her sweater, carefully disentangling a feather that catches in the thick wool. ‘It’s three miles away; not too close. You can choose whether to see us or not. But Astarte, our minds are made up, and you won’t change that. We respect your feelings, but our karma is here, just as yours is.’