The Secret Wound

by Deirdre Quiery

  “In the fourteenth century the Hermitage was commissioned by two Knights who had lived previously as hermits for thirty years on the mountain. I’ve tried to discover where they lived but no-one seems to know. They only know of Ramon Llull’s cave.

  Cornelia passed three tall sentinel cypress trees daggering the turquoise blue sky, then increased her pace along a pathway with cabbages, lettuces and onions growing in the vegetable garden on her left. She spun around,

  “We don’t want to be seen. Quick - you’re walking behind me again. You go first. Do you like it?”

  Angelina tightened the straps on the rucksack so that it would sit higher on her back and walked ahead of Cornelia glancing to her right.

  “Apart from the fact that you’ve put me in front, I don’t know where I am going and I’m as blind as a bat - yes, I’m enjoying it. That’s quite a drop isn’t it?”

  There was a low wall on her right with a sheer drop down into a valley cultivated with light green olive trees and a deeper emerald green oak. There were a few fields tilled already – the grass cut and resplendent with circular tubes of gold. Three gentle rolling hills signposted the way to the town of Manacor in the distance. Two small yellow finches threw themselves into the valley below.

  Cornelia followed Angelina’s gaze.

  “In the morning, before the sun comes up and before a slither of moon disappears, Llucmajor is at its most magical. All of the lights on the roads are turned off and there is an orange glow from a scattering of houses where people have wakened. The buildings still haven’t caught the golden light of the rising sun and lie charcoal grey against the green of the valley floor. It looks like a giant has let a fire go out and the last embers are fading. That’s my favourite time of the day here.”

  Angelina stopped for a moment.

  “It’s magical.”

  “Yes. Keep walking. The monks live in these rooms. She pointed to the left where there was a row of closed windows but one open French door leading into the vegetable patch.

  “I have something else to show you.”

  There was a small path which left the Hermitage behind and climbed further up the mountain, past a building which looked like a small Church. It was, in fact, the sepulchre for the monks who had died. Cornelia led the way to a hidden viewing point where there was no wall but only a sheer cliff face drop from an overhanging rock. She walked to the edge and stood looking into the distance.

  Angelina shouted after her, “Be careful. It could crumble. It doesn’t look safe.”

  Cornelia inched closer to the edge and turned to Angelina, “Come and see the view.”

  Angelina’s heart fluttered, her breathing quickened.

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  Cornelia dropped to her knees and then sat on the outcrop and dangled her legs over the edge. A breeze had picked up from the valley floor blowing in from the West. Her linen skirt opened like a parachute. She laughed as she threw herself back on the smooth grey slab of stone that was the outcrop.

  “What a coward you are.”

  Lying on her back she pointed at the clouds which were forming not so far above them, “Look, a seahorse. What do you see?”

  Angelina’s eyes were closed. She felt her lower lip tremble, her eyes watered uncontrollably. She turned away from the outcrop of rock and began to stumble back along the path they had come. The rucksack caught in the branches of an oak tree. She pulled forward and it released. She shot forward a few steps like an arrow from a bow. Tears ran down her face, mingling with rivulets of sweat. She panted and gulped at the air, stopping only to catch her breath when she reached the vegetable patch. She thought that she heard Cornelia scrambling down the path behind her. There were certainly stones rolling and twigs snapping behind her. She ran along the path ignoring the lettuces and onions pushing their way through dampened red soil on her right. A small black and tan dog ran out from the opened French windows, wagged its tail and followed her. A hawk flew in front of her, so close she heard its wings whistle before it dived into the valley. She fumbled with the secret lock on the gate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cornelia walking along the path, stopping to pet the dog. The dog gave a small bark and then fell silent. Once in the courtyard, she turned right into the Church. She threw herself heavily onto the wooden pew. Her breathing quickly returned to normal. She felt her heart slowing down.

  Cornelia slid into the seat beside her and rested her hands on her knees.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s so beautiful at the edge. You feel that you could fly with the hawks and falcons – dive at a delicious speed, dropping into the valley, fearlessly. You should be here when the sun sets. The clouds are layered – fine parchment white on top, then a layer of patched grey, with fluffy Scotties, Golden Retrievers and Poodles edged in tangerine. The sun sinks onto the horizon as though covered with a fine gauze. A halo of golden light sits above it, surrounded in turquoise like the sea at mid-day. It gently drops towards the horizon which is like purple wine. It dips in slowly, until the valley floor darkens, the edge of the mountain cuts a silhouette against the sky. Then it’s gone. Gone. There’s a hint of orange of where it has been above the dark charcoal horizon – like the glow around a candle. The turquoise turns even more green, the Poodle, Retriever and Scottie dogs head for home, moving south towards the island of Cabrera. As if by magic, you turn left and a path of pink and tangerine opens in the sky towards Manacor as though the sun has sent a last wave, a gesture of goodbye – a kiss to the East to remind it that it will be back tomorrow. You see it’s beautiful – not scary.”

  Angelina pulled her hat off and tied her hair into a ponytail.

  “It’s the heights and edges. They remind me of Argentina.”

  Cornelia stared straight ahead. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands.

  “Well - let’s find Ramon Llull’s cave before it gets too hot.”

  They climbed towards the top of Puig de Randa. Before they got to the Sanctuary of Cura, Cornelia pointed left where a small track wound its way along the top of the mountain.

  “It’s not so far.”

  There were no signposts to indicate the way.

  “How did you originally find it? Angelina walked quickly behind Cornelia.

  “I knew that it had to be somewhere near. I kept looking until I found it.”

  The path swung to the right and the cave was in sight. It was south facing and caught the sun rising and setting. Outside there was a stone statute of Ramon Llull with the head and arms missing.

  Angelina placed the rucksack on the stony path.

  “Maybe someone stole the head and arms for their olive grove. I can imagine the two arms sticking out the dry earth somewhere. They would look quite good. The head could sit in a dish on a garden table, like the head of John the Baptist.”

  Cornelia climbed into the cave with the pineapple in her hand.

  “I think you’ve been working too hard in the art gallery. Pass me the rest of the fruit and we will leave Ramon Llull lunch.”

  After assembling the pineapple, kiwis, coconut and oranges in a circle on the sandy floor of the cave, Cornelia crossed her legs and sat at the entrance to the cave looking over Angelina’s head into the valley below.

  Angelina placed her hands on her hips and took a deep breath.

  “It’s not so steep at this point. Maybe he would have scrambled down the hillside here to find wild strawberries and oranges in the valley below.”

  Cornelia stood beside Angelina, “There is another cave – near to Valldemosa. We can see the sun setting over the sea. Would you like to see it? Few people know that it is there.”

  Angelina nodded.

  “If you wear hiking boots you will feel safer.” She paused and placed a hand once again on Angelina’s shoulder, “What happened to you in Argentina to give you such a panic attack today?”

  Angelina placed her hands over her face and gave a muffled response.

  “It was my father.
He was a journalist. He wrote articles exposing what the military junta were doing. When they captured my father we think that they drugged him, put him on a plane and dropped him alive into the Atlantic Ocean. They didn’t want his body to be found. But we don’t know for sure. We only know that he was taken at gunpoint from my aunt’s house and never came back. I’ve tried to imagine what happened to him. It’s terrible when you don’t know for sure. Your imagination can take you into such frightening places. You fall deeper and deeper into your own worst nightmare. Every day I think of him and what might have happened to him. With each second of his descent must have felt as if he was crossing a terrifying Universe of space and time.”

  Cornelia shuddered, “Well, you’re safe here. No-one is going to kidnap you in Mallorca.”

  “Maybe not, but Mallorca isn’t exactly an island of saints is it? There are people with lots of money here and where there is money there are people who are predators on people with money. Even when you don’t have money – there are still people who are predators. Their motivation is not about money but power and control. I realised that when I was taken hostage in Argentina.”

  Cornelia moved to sit on a smooth rock with a clearer view of the valley below.

  “You never mentioned before that you were taken hostage. What happened?”

  Cornelia handed Angelina a segment of orange.

  Angelina nibbled at it.

  “I was asleep. The ‘militares’ climbed over the roof and entered my bedroom. I shouldn’t have left the window open but it was a sultry night and I needed a breeze in the room.”

  “What did they want from you?”

  “They wanted someone to control – someone to terrify – nothing more. I wondered if they knew about my father but I don’t think so. They never mentioned him. I think that if they had known – they would have liked to use that information to torture me. They would have enjoyed telling me what they did to him.”

  “How did you survive? You could have been another ‘disaparecido’.

  Angelina’s shoulders shook.

  “I did whatever they asked me to do, until they got bored and left me. We all do that don’t we? We do whatever we have to do to survive.”

  DAY 14

  SATURDAY 24TH AUGUST 2013,

  GURTHA AND Paddy flew back to Belfast on Saturday 24th August. Once they landed, Gurtha hired a car and drove to the Accident and Emergency Department at the Royal Hospital. They sat together in the Waiting Room. Paddy smiled at Gurtha,

  “What’s wrong with you, son?”

  Gurtha answered, “It’s you Dad - your chest. We need to get it checked out. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He had dressed Paddy in his best grey trousers, a white shirt and a royal blue cashmere jumper. His hair badly needed cutting as it curled greasily over the neck of his shirt. He had packed a small overnight case with Paddy’s pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers in case they were needed. After a Nurse completed her admission forms, he was admitted to a private room and Gurtha helped him into his pyjamas. He slid down in the bed, with his head only just on the pillow, pulling the crisp white sheets up over his mouth.

  “Where am I?” Paddy appealed to Gurtha.

  “You’re getting tests done. Remember I said that you needed to have your chest checked out?”

  “I want to go home.”

  Gurtha nodded, “I’ll get you home.”

  Paddy pushed the sheets away. His grey hairy chest visible under his white vest. The striped blue and red pyjama top was opened a button or two too many. Gurtha leaned forward and closed the two buttons. Paddy smiled at him, not moving away, not resisting, his head sinking once again deeply into the freshly starched pillow case.

  When Paddy fell asleep, Gurtha continued to sit by his bedside. He felt waves of emotions lapping inside him without being able to label them. Then his body flooded with the dull ache of an ancient familiar sadness. He felt confused about the nature of this man in the bed who was breathing deeply. Who was Paddy? What was his relationship with Nuala? He realised that although he had lived with them for more than forty years, he really did not know.

  He felt a surge of despair rise through his stomach and lodge itself, thumping like a heartbeat, in this throat. His hand moved towards Paddy’s hand which lay like a claw knocker on top of the blue cotton cover. He hesitated to touch it. He didn’t want to waken him. He swallowed deeply and placed his head on top of his arms resting on the sheets. He cried – not knowing why.

  Images of Paddy’s mother – Kathleen – ‘Granny Maloney’ came to Gurtha’s mind. He had visited her with Paddy every Sunday until the age of eleven. Paddy deliberately took him the long way along a country lane over Black Mountain on the outskirts of Belfast. He didn’t hold Gurtha’s hand. He told him that he used to run along that road as a teenager and that he loved cross country running. He would train alone. A solitary thin runner in the mountains, running along the lane and then through fields, not stopping, running from home and running back, smelling the freshly cut grass, hearing the deep breathing of black bulls lying on a carpet of daisies, looking up and seeing white clouds tinged with orange change shapes from scotty terriers into dolphins. Paddy didn’t say much on these walks to Granny Maloney, yet the silence wasn’t an awkward one between them. It felt that there was something being communicated in the silence which didn’t need words.

  In those days, before Gurtha was twelve, they would knock on the door of a small terrace house at the bottom of the Glen Road. Granny Maloney would open the door, unsmiling, and turn her back on Paddy as she jerked the door open, allowing it to crash against the plaster wall. Sometimes the handle would dig into the plaster and a few flakes would fall onto the floor like snow drops. She was a hefty woman with bandaged, ulcerated legs. A skilfully located safety pin ensured the bandages didn’t unravel. She sat on a large armchair and every evening Paddy’s sister, Eilish, would bring a tray holding a large plate of dinner and a bottle of HP brown sauce.

  Gurtha watched her tip the acrid sticky brown liquid onto the potatoes where it formed a small brown lake and then flowed over onto the steak and onions. When she had finished, she would lift a long metal box with seven slots onto her knees. Paddy would put coins and notes into each slot. That was his debt paid for the week.

  These images flickered through Gurtha’s mind as he rested his hand on top of Paddy’s. He felt the gold ring on Paddy’s pinky left finger. It was Kathleen’s wedding ring. He had returned from his mother’s funeral wearing it. That was a quarter of a century before. Gurtha couldn’t remember why he didn’t go to his grandmother’s funeral or why he didn’t say anything to Paddy about the fact that he was sorry that Paddy had lost his mother. Now the hardness of the ring touching his hand was like a judgement.

  Since Nuala had died, this was the way his memory operated. It was as though he was going back in time – the way they say you do when you are about to die and you see your life flash in front of your eyes. For Gurtha it wasn’t so much a single rapid picture show but more isolated images here and there of his sins of omission – of all of the missed opportunities for kindness with Paddy and Nuala. Now he knew the feelings of remorse, guilt and shame. It was not Paddy reminding him – only himself awakening the past. Gurtha recalled how Kierkegaard had said ‘Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.’ Waiting for Paddy to waken from his sleep, he began to understand what Kierkegaard might have meant. There is too much information to be taken in now – in the present moment. It’s registered but not understood and then, when sufficient time has passed, it can be replayed on a screen – the film of our own life. You can laugh or cry for the first time as you begin to understand it.

  He remembered walking with Nuala along the same road as a child. She dragged him by the hand into Kathleen’s house. Inside the sitting room Granny Maloney sat on her favourite chair by the coal fire as Nuala screamed hysterically at her,

  “You’ve taken the money from him. It’s our m
oney. We have nothing to eat and we can’t pay the mortgage. What he hasn’t given you, he has spent on horses and drink and you’ve encouraged him. You’ve had the nerve to take the very wages he earned to feed the family. What kind of mother are you?”

  Nuala sweated and shook as she shouted across the room, standing over Kathleen. Kathleen looked white – all white. White curly hair with a small white clip holding her fringe to one side, a white woollen jumper and white bubbly knitted skirt which covered her knees and the white swollen bandaged legs. There was also a white ball of saliva appearing and disappearing in the corner of her mouth. It appeared when she opened her mouth, said nothing and disappeared when she closed it.

  Kathleen lifted the tin box awkwardly onto her knees from under the armchair. She opened it, handing a roll of notes to Nuala who fell silent for a few seconds, took the money and said in a calmer tone of voice, “If you take any more money from him, I’ll divorce him. I’m going to see a solicitor this afternoon. You’ve been warned.”

  She turned on her high heels, caught Gurtha’s hand, and pulled him through the open front door. Once in the street, she dropped Gurtha’s hand, reached for the door knocker and slammed it shut. That was the last visit Gurtha ever made to Granny Maloney. There were no more walks over Black Mountain and no more stories from Paddy about his childhood.

  DAY 15

  SUNDAY 25TH AUGUST 2013

  “SET YOUR LIFE ON FIRE. SEEK THOSE WHO FAN YOUR FLAMES.”

  J RUMI

  GURTHA PHONED the hospital early on Sunday morning to see if Paddy’s test results were through. They were. He made an appointment to meet with the Senior Care Team Leader who would share the updated situation with him at 3.00 pm. The night before, he stayed in the Holiday Inn in the city centre. He had got up early and had gone for a swim before breakfast. He hadn’t stayed in Paddy’s house since Nuala died. The thought of sleeping there made his stomach flutter and flood with anxiety. The memory of Nuala’s murder seemed more real at night. He decided to go there and find extra clothes for Paddy in case he had to stay longer in the hospital. He called into the corner shop to update Laura.