The Swan Lake

by Lisa Ryan

  Christmas will soon be here. Last night, when she stood outside to curse at the pale sickle moon, the faint sounds of singing were carried across the valley on the breeze. She tried to stop her ears to it but, even when she hobbled back inside, faint echoes followed her, reverberating through her head and somehow merging with the voices of the ghosts of the past. After a while it seemed that they too were singing to her.

  In the pantry are several meals on a tray, made ready to heat up in the range, left by Siobhan some time ago. It was her last visit. Although Mairie does not blame Siobhan for her troubles, she does not wish to see her or John, and she made that clear to Siobhan. Mairie stands stiffly and Blackfoot rises and stretches, ready to follow her wherever she goes. She hobbles to the pantry and takes out the trays of food. The compost is the only place for them.

  A thick frost has formed, making the ground slippery. Mairie struggles to stay upright, holding the tray carefully as she negotiates the doorstep. The moon gives out little light and Mairie’s eyes are not as sharp as they were. The arthritis in her hands prevents her from keeping a strong enough grip on the sides of the tray, and as she shifts position she loses her balance. When her head makes contact with the hard ground she sees stars for a moment, hears a great rushing sound, and as her eyes close she thinks, Thank the Lord, they have come for me at last!

  Seamus yawns as he opens the cottage door and whistles to Shep. Taking the cows to the milking shed is hard work on these cold pre-dawn mornings. He did not sleep well last night; his dreams were vague but unsettling. Shep trots out ahead of him, tail wagging, as Seamus steps over the threshold. He glances across at Mairie’s cottage. It is in darkness but he can see a pale shape on the path a few yards from the door. His pace quickens as he realises that it is Mairie who lies, still as death, beside a fallen tray of food. Her face is white, but her lips curve in a slight smile.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he exclaims, bending down to check for signs of life. Her skin is icy cold but a faint pulse flickers at her throat when he presses a finger against it. With an agility that belies his years, he runs to his cottage to phone for an ambulance. As an afterthought, he rings Astarte. She seems to know how to deal with the old woman who has been the plague of his life.

  Astarte, a coat thrown over her pyjamas, arrives just as the paramedics are lifting Mairie’s sturdy body onto a stretcher. She helps the men wrap the prone figure in insulating blankets. ‘It’s hypothermia,’ she tells Seamus, ‘as well as a possible head injury. I’ll get the van and drive to the hospital.’

  ‘I’ll take you in my car.’ Seamus’ face is creased with worry, and his hands shake as he lifts his keys from the hook inside the cottage door. Astarte looks at him, assessing. The poor man is in a state of shock, and no wonder. Together they follow the ambulance, and drink tea that tastes of soapy water while they wait to hear how Mairie is.

  When the doctor comes to speak to them, they both rise, expecting the worst. The woman smiles at them. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘We’re warming her up. There are no broken bones, and she’s regained consciousness, but it’s best to leave her to rest for a while. Come back later.’

  They thank her, and drive home in silence. The cows will be waiting; it is long past their milking time, and they will be desperate by now. Seamus looks distressed and Astarte, thankful that Mairie is no longer in danger, succumbs to the exhaustion that has followed in the wake of the surge of adrenalin. She longs for hot, sweet tea and her warm bed.

  At the gate she kisses Seamus on his stubbly cheek, smiling gently at the surprise on his face. He looks hard at her. ‘I have no wish for Mairie to come to harm, the silly old bat,’ he says, anxiety in his voice. Astarte pats his hand.

  ‘I know,’ she tells him. ‘She’ll recover, and will be driving you up the wall before the week is out, I’m sure.’

  With the animals fed, and a cup of tea inside her, Astarte falls into bed and sleeps soundly until midday.

  Before returning to the hospital, she phones Siobhan and Flynn to tell them of the accident. Flynn offers to visit his father before going to the hospital and Siobhan, her voice breaking, says that she will go to see Mairie later on. ‘Although I don’t know that my presence will be welcomed,’ she says sadly. ‘’Tis too much of a reminder for her.’

  ‘Go anyway. I think it will do her good to have visitors.’ Astarte replaces the receiver and collects the keys to her van. She will stop off for flowers on the way.

  The roads are treacherous and she shudders, thinking what a miracle it is that Mairie survived a night outside. When she arrives at the hospital she is amazed to see Seamus sitting beside her, his hand covering hers. They both look up, smiling, when Astarte approaches. She lays the flowers on the bedside locker.

  ‘Well, this looks cosy. Am I to understand that a truce has been made?’ She looks from one to the other.

  Seamus squeezes Mairie’s hand, releasing it so that he can fetch a chair for Astarte. ‘I’m just making sure that she stays put.’

  Mairie’s bright eyes fix on Astarte’s. ‘There’s a fine line between love and hate, my girl. I crossed from one to the other many years ago, and now ’tis time to step back over it.’ She cackles as understanding dawns on Astarte’s face. ‘Yes, this old goat is the one my parents banned me from. I would wish for Sinead to be here to share in the joke, but I’m sure she’s watching over us, laughing at our foolishness.’

  Tears spring to Astarte’s eyes as she rises to hug them both. ‘I’m so glad that you’ve buried the hatchet,’ she tells them. Mairie raises her free hand in greeting and Astarte turns to see Siobhan, her face tense, walking down the ward. Siobhan visibly brightens at the gesture of welcome, increasing her pace. She lays a cake tin on Mairie’s lap.

  ‘’Tis good to see you are alright,’ she says, her eyes flicking curiously between Mairie and Seamus. Marie glances slyly at her and opens the tin, breathing in the aroma of honey and ginger cake. Footsteps echo down the ward and they all look up. It is Eden and Linda, with a terrified looking Jamie. Siobhan’s hand flies to her mouth. Mairie stares hard at Jamie, who is finding it almost impossible to meet her eyes, and then she holds out her arms.

  Jamie bursts into tears and throws himself into Mairie’s arms. She holds him close for a long moment and then pushes him away, hands on his shoulders, and looks into his eyes.

  ‘Mairie, I’m so sorry,’ he sobs.

  Her voice is gentle. ‘’Twas not your fault, Jamie. And you should be with your family. ’Tis too precious a thing to lose.’

  Eden smiles and lays a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, covering Mairie’s small hand at the same time. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to go home, my friend?’

  Jamie nods and looks at Siobhan. Tears are streaming down her face as she holds him close.

  Chapter Fifty

  On the way home, Astarte calls in to visit Ryan. She parks the van and knocks on his door. There is no answer. A cold north wind bites through her clothes, and she stamps her feet and rubs her hands together before knocking again. Ryan is usually home at this time, sitting by the fire, watching television with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Astarte goes back to the van, then changes her mind as she hooks out her keys, and returns to the house to peer through the window. Through the late afternoon gloom, a dark shape is visible on the floor. Her heart accelerating, she tries the door and finds it unlocked.

  Ryan lies in a pool of blood on the floor beside a cold fireplace. Swiftly Astarte checks his pulse, knowing that it is too late; it is obvious that he has been dead for several hours. ‘Oh, Ryan,’ she whispers, stroking his hair. She rises slowly and goes to phone for an ambulance. The emergency services will be familiar with my voice by now, she thinks, as she sobs out Ryan’s address.

  When his body has been taken away, she looks around the room. She wants to scrub it clean, but for the moment it must be left as evidence. Ryan’s presence had fled even before his body was discovered; there is no trace of him here. A faint scent of sa
ge blends with the metallic tang of blood and a base note of whiskey. The empty chair has a pathetic poignancy. Wiping her tears away, Astarte leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

  Flynn is dishing up dinner when she knocks on his door, entering before he has stepped across to open it. He takes one look at her and enfolds her in his arms. When she sobs out the news of Ryan’s death, a tear runs down his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into her hair. ‘He was a good man. He did not deserve this. Come, sit down. You’re wiped out.’

  She rests her head in his lap, staring into the fire while he strokes her hair gently, soothingly. ‘We did all we could, Astarte. You were a good friend to him,’ he murmurs.

  ‘He haemorrhaged.’ Her voice is small. ‘I knew it would happen, it’s been going on for some time. But what a terrible waste of a life.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Flynn takes a deep breath. ‘I have Mark’s number. I’ll call him now.’ Astarte nods. She cannot break her promise to Ryan, and Mark has no inkling of the truth of his parentage. He will be terribly upset.

  Flynn is visibly shaken when he sets the phone down. He makes mugs of tea, and insists that Astarte shares his meal, carefully dividing it in two and putting it into the oven to warm. They pick at the food in silence, sitting side by side. Afterwards, Flynn opens a bottle of wine. He raises his glass to Astarte. ‘May Ryan rest in peace now,’ he says solemnly. Astarte nods her agreement, and drinks.

  The food and wine revive her, and the shock recedes. Ryan has what he wanted, she thinks sadly, and then remembers why she went to visit him.

  Flynn bursts out laughing when she tells him that Mairie and Seamus seem to have ended their war. ‘Can you credit that?’ he shouts, slapping his thigh. ‘I never knew they were once in love! Well, it explains a great deal. This is good news indeed.’

  Astarte regards him fondly. The firelight casts a rosy glow across his features and picks out streaks of gold in his fair hair. His blue eyes sparkle with astonished amusement. She looks down at his arms, noticing the pale down that covers muscles honed by physical labour.

  ‘You really are a man among men, Flynn,’ she says softly, raising her eyes to meet his. His laughter stops abruptly, and he stares at her with a longing that pierces her heart. She puts out a hand to run her index finger down his arm. Flynn holds his breath, letting it out in a sigh when she curls her fingers around his. He leans towards her, hardly daring to hope, and she turns her face up to meet his, returning his kiss with a passion that turns his limbs to water.

  Hours later he lies beside her, watching her sleep. The covers have slipped from the bed, and gently, so as not to wake her, he reaches down to retrieve them, to keep her from the cold. She stirs, smiling in her sleep. Flynn’s hand touches her hair, gently unwinding a curl, watching it spring back into a spiral as soon as he releases it. He wriggles down the bed so that they are lying eye to eye, and kisses her forehead, her closed eyelids, her lips; breathing in the scent of her skin.

  Astarte murmurs and snuggles close, opening her eyes as she reaches for him. A look of shock passes over her face, and she sits up suddenly and slaps a hand against her forehead. ‘What am I doing? I must be crazy!’ Leaping out of bed, she casts around for her clothes, shivering as she puts them on.

  ‘But Astarte, I thought …’ Flynn wraps the duvet around him and swings his legs over the side to stand in front of her. His voice rises. ‘What are you doing? You started this, and I’m not a toy to be played with and then cast aside! Don’t do this!’

  Ignoring him, she pulls on one boot and, the other one still in her hand, hops towards the doorway. Flynn, his stride longer than hers, arrives there first. He places a hand on her shoulders. ‘Please. Don’t do this. Don’t leave,’ he pleads.

  She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘Flynn, I’m sorry. I truly am. I keep coming back to you, I know, and a part of me wants to be with you, but it won’t work. I’m no good at this, and I swore I’d never have another relationship. I don’t trust myself. Jesus, I can’t even cope with my own parents, let alone a lover!’

  Flynn’s face sets into a mask. ‘Astarte, if you would only speak to your parents and treat them as human beings instead of idiots, you’d find that they are not bad people. They care about you, and so do I.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t need any of you, so leave me alone!’

  ‘Fine, if that’s how you want it,’ Flynn fires back, stepping aside. ‘Go your own way, Astarte. But it’s a lonely road that you are setting out on, with your closed heart and your pig-headedness!’

  Stepping aside, Flynn watches her go through the doorway. He turns back to look at the dishevelled bed, and climbs back in, pulling the pillow over his head.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  The roads are empty. It is three o’clock in the morning, dark and cold, and the wind is rising. It buffets the van as Astarte hurtles around corners, furious at herself. She knows that Flynn is not to blame. He has never hidden his feelings for her; he has always been fair and honest, accepting that she will not allow more than a friendship. And now she has blown it all away through letting her emotions get the better of her; she has hurt the man she most cares for.

  Slowing down, she pulls the van over at the side of the road, and sits at the wheel, dashing angry tears from her face. Flynn’s last words ring in her ears, combining with Mairie’s comments back in the summer, before Sinead died. Setting her jaw, she turns the key in the ignition, and drives to the one place she has sworn never to visit.

  All of the community are awake. It is Winter Solstice, and they will watch the sun rise to herald the return of the light to the land. When Astarte arrives she finds them easily, drawn by the huge bonfire that blazes merrily. A crowd of people sit around it, eating and drinking, smoking joints, playing music. Children run wild, chasing each other in and out of the groups of adults.

  A small man wearing a jester’s hat points to the area where Astarte’s parents are sitting. When she approaches them they look up, unsurprised but pleased, almost as though they were expecting her. She sits down beside them on the grass and glares at the fire, avoiding looking at them. The wind blows the flames in a frantic dance, but still it is very cold out here. Astarte rants at both of them, her harsh words blowing away on the wind, pouring out all of the resentment that has been locked inside her for years. They listen intently, making no attempt to stop her or make excuses.

  She talks for a long time, telling them that she has never felt she belonged; not with them, nor at school in Portsmouth, nor in the hospital where she worked in Intensive Care. She confides that she has always felt herself to be on the outside, looking in and yearning to feel part of something. And she cries as she describes how much she loves her life here, how she feels that she has found her niche, and how difficult it is to cope with close involvement.

  ‘When you love people they die, or go away, or turn out to be different to who you thought they were. I don’t want that intensity! Nothing in my life makes sense, especially not you. I ran away from you when I was fourteen, and here you are now, haunting me!’

  When the words falter and run out, Rainbow touches her arm and offers her a large ceramic chalice of mulled wine. Astarte takes a cautious sip. The beverage tastes of spices, and sends a glow to her solar plexus that spreads out swiftly to course through her veins. ‘Drink it. It’ll do you good,’ Leaf tells her. Astarte drinks, feeling her resistance melt away as tense muscles begin to relax.

  Rainbow takes her daughter’s hand. ‘Astarte, you think that your life has been so hard. Has it ever occurred to you that your childhood prepared you for living here? You’ve settled in easily. You’ve made good friends. That’s unusual in a small community where outsiders are regarded with suspicion. You’re part of this place now. You feel a connection with the land, with the lake, with the people here. And they trust you, which is a tremendous gift. All this in such a comparatively short time! The wheel that started moving at the moment of your birth has turned a
nd brought you to a new cycle, a new beginning in the spiral of life that will keep on turning until you take your last breath. We didn’t plan to move here but, just like you, we fell in love with the place and its people. That is all. We cannot change each other. We cannot change for each other.’

  Placing a hand on Astarte’s shoulder, Leaf looks deep into her eyes and smiles. It makes a change to see his daughter listening instead of blocking her ears. ‘We wanted you to be strong and independent, and you are. We hoped you’d be influenced by our relationship; that you’d know that love can endure if you find the right person. There’s always a choice, Astarte. You can be happy or wretched. You can take the risk of love in all its forms, or reject it because you’re afraid of what it might cost you.’

  Astarte sits bolt upright as though struck by lightning. ‘I told Ryan he had a choice, and he chose to die,’ she says wonderingly. ‘And Mairie said I needed to be less afraid that thieves would steal my heart.’ She leans forward to plant a small kiss on the cheek of each parent. ‘OK,’ she sighs. ‘I understand what you’re telling me. Thanks.’

  Together they watch the first pale rays of the sun break free of the horizon, while all around them drummers greet the new dawn. Astarte drinks deeply of the spicy brew. She does not notice how light-headed she feels until she stands to leave, and finds that her legs will barely carry her. Leaf drives her home to an ecstatic welcome from her animals.

  It is still not yet fully light. The wind has increased to a gale, and rain begins to fall in heavy sheets as Astarte sits at the kitchen table. The sky darkens, until it seems that night has changed its mind and returned before day has taken hold. A crash of thunder rolls close by, but Astarte, lost in thought, and aware only of a vibrancy that sings through every cell of her body, does not hear it. She is warm inside, warmer than she has ever been, and the glow is almost more than she can bear. She goes to open the door and the wind takes it from her, slamming it back against the outside wall. Filled with a strange sense of exhilaration, she laughs.