by Helen Cullen
Nollaig reappeared in the kitchen, dressed now in the white velvet pinafore and red polo neck her mother had bought her to wear on Christmas Day. “Has Mam not resurfaced?” she asked, her face flushing.
Murtagh absorbed the questioning expressions of his three children and shook his head. “I’d better wake Sive,” said Nollaig, and pounded back upstairs.
* * *
Sive had turned sixteen that summer and relished her new, more mature-sounding number. Obsessed with the Manic Street Preachers, Suede and Placebo, she wore fandom like a uniform, a jet-black bob curled under her chalk-white-painted face like the Lego hair of the figures she’d played with as a child. Eyeliner rimmed her eyes in rivers of kohl black, the same dove-gray eyes she saw mirrored in her mother. Bloodred lipstick emphasized how little she smiled, although the melancholy music elated her. She reveled in the secret world inside her headphones and fantasized about escaping to London. Discovering her musical tribe had made her feel less alone, more optimistic for future connections, romance and inspiration. For now, she advertised for her ilk through her clothes, usually striped, always sooty black, battleship gray or midnight blue, that she wore in layer upon layer, with garlands of silver stars draped around her throat. A full-length fake-leopard-print fur salvaged from a charity shop on Eyre Street in Galway city was her most prized possession. It was this she wore over her nightdress now as she reluctantly followed Nollaig into the kitchen. She pulled the coat tighter around herself upon detecting the tense cloud that lingered in the air, observing the private smoke signals her brothers passed from one to the other. Her father was busily burning sausages in the pan. She was surprised to hear him curse when the sizzling oil spit at him.
“So, what’s the plan? Is Christmas canceled, then?” Sive asked, checking the temperature of the coffeepot with the palm of her hand.
Murtagh poured her a mugful and scoffed. “Don’t be daft! We’re going to have a little fortification and then perhaps we can all take a stroll and go and meet your mother. She’s lost track of time, that’s all.”
Sive reached for the mug, and they both held it for a moment. “So, a search party. That’s what you’re saying. Great.” She slumped in a chair at the kitchen table and elbowed Mossy to give her more room.
Her father turned back to the stove his voice strained. “That’s not funny, Si. And it’s nothing of the sort. I just think we’d all like to start the day together and, you know your mam, she’ll be having a great time walking the roads and will be delighted to see one of us coming to meet her.” He put the ham that Maeve had prepared the night before in the oven and set the timer for noon.
Not long afterward, as the rain started again to pour, the brothers forged ahead toward the rusty shipwreck on the east of the island.
Nollaig and Sive elected to walk past the chapel, on to Tigh Ned’s pub, and agreed to then carry on to the castle ruins if they hadn’t found their mother first.
Murtagh set out for the lighthouse, convinced if Maeve was gone this long that must be the road she had taken. Although, the thought struck him, he did not know how long it had been since she left the house.
Why hadn’t he insisted she come to bed with him? She was too restless, she’d said. Too full of the moon for sleeping.
After they reached their destinations, they would reconvene back at the house instead of continuing on; the chances were their mother would be waiting at home when they came back, wondering where they had all gallivanted off to.
* * *
Nollaig and Sive returned empty-hearted first. Nollaig scraped the ashes from the grate in the living room while Sive set the kindling for a fire. They stood in front of the mantelpiece in silence, waiting for the others, warming their hands near the flames without feeling the heat at all.
The twins burst in next, drenched, Dillon’s fluorescent trainers squelching as he walked. When they saw the sisters were alone, they backed out of the living room without a word; Mossy climbed back under his duvet, fully clothed, his brown brogues dangling over the foot of the bed, and pretended to read a book of poetry by Keats. Dillon drained the tank of hot water in the shower, his discarded clothes a steaming pile outside the bathroom door.
* * *
When Murtagh’s arrival wasn’t accompanied by the fluttering singsong of their mother’s voice, Sive’s eyes flooded. Nollaig snapped, told her to pull herself together and hurried toward the kitchen to speak to their father alone. The aroma of roasting ham percolated throughout the silent house, as if in spite. When the electric beeps heralded its readiness, Nollaig turned off the oven without even looking inside. She hoped her mother would be home soon to reprimand her for not taking greater care. Dinner was sacrificed to a god she wasn’t sure she believed in as her father prepared to face the elements once again. Nollaig called her brothers and sister together and they divided up the island paths between them for a second search. Nobody spoke as they marched out of their cottage in single file, back into the storm.
Minutes of acute expectation bled into hours of increasing anxiety. By midafternoon Murtagh and his four children were wet, exhausted and turning on each other. In vain, their father encouraged them to eat bowls of lukewarm vegetable soup that he ladled out slowly. He choked his own down, spilling some on his cardigan, dropping his spoon on the floor tiles with a clatter. Nollaig caught his eye and he nodded.
“We need more help,” he said as he eased himself up from his chair. “I won’t be long.”
Murtagh walked to Tigh Ned’s, where the islanders were gathering before evening Mass for hot whiskeys and shepherd’s pies amid the owner’s begrudged festive decorations; a lime-colored plastic Christmas tree on the windowsill wore a Galway jersey and was circled by pint glasses holding beeswax candles donated by the parish priest, Father Dónal. The RTé Guide bumper Christmas edition stood on display by its side with a small laminated sign perched against it: Not to be removed from the premises. The air was heavy and moist as a result of the condensation rising from damp clothes and human bodies huddled together.
Murtagh spoke to Father Dónal, whose white denim jacket sat stark against his black shirt and slacks, a sprig of holly pinned to his breast pocket. With head tosses and clicking fingers, Dónal summoned a semicircle of islanders before draining his tumbler in one go, crunching an ice cube with his back teeth as he delivered instructions. The Moone children would come to the pub, eat some dinner there, no objections entertained. Murtagh himself was to wait at home for Maeve.
“In case,” Father Dónal said, before correcting himself, “I mean, for when Maeve comes back by herself.”
In groups of twos and threes, they dispersed, half-consumed pints of Guinness left resting on the grille in the hope of a speedy return.
* * *
And so Murtagh found himself pacing the floorboards of the hallway, fingering rosary beads in the pocket of his cardigan out of superstition more than faith. What little light had broken through that day had once again dissolved into darkness.
Through the small window in the hallway, he watched the streetlamps flicker into life in quick succession as the cuckoo clock chirped four with inconsiderate glee. He shouted at it to stop and then found himself apologizing to the little yellow bird.
A knock pounded the front door.
Murtagh hid in the study for a moment, covering his ears. He didn’t want the news a knock like that would bring. What he wanted was a hand to reach for that door that belonged to someone who could unlock it, walk herself in and wrap her arms around him.
He blessed himself with the ruby-red beads and opened the front door a crack. Father Dónal stood on the doorstep, his denim jacket soaked through, his hands wringing a tweed peak cap. Over the priest’s shoulder, Murtagh saw Seamus McCann and Áine O’Connor waiting outside the gate, huddled under a huge canopied umbrella advertising Tayto crisps, their eyes focused on the laneway beneath their feet.
“Why don’t they come in, Dónal?” Murtagh opened the door wide and beckoned them with his arm, but the priest reached for it and held it in his own.
“Tell me, Murtagh. Your currach, is it still in the boatyard? When did you last have her out?”
Murtagh took a step back, the priest a step forward, still holding his arm.
“Only yesterday, sure where else would it be? No one would be out in this weather. No one. What are you asking me that for?” He shook himself and stood up straighter.
Dónal squeezed Murtagh’s arm tighter, his frozen fingers exposed in black fingerless gloves. “There’s a currach caught in the rocks by the westward cliff. A few fellas are climbing down now to release it. Could you come with me, Murtagh? Just so we know it’s not yours. To eliminate it.”
Murtagh shook away the priest’s hand and pushed past him without stopping for his coat.
Dónal hesitated before pulling the door closed behind them and followed Murtagh up the path, his hands clasped together.
* * *
Murtagh threw his shoulders back as he repeated his walk from that morning to the pier. His name designated him protector of the sea, and now he pleaded with the melanoid Atlantic for his own protection.
Father Dónal, Seamus and Áine rushed behind him in silence, but no one tried to match his step.
At the boathouse, he found the door unlatched, and the discovery stuck the soles of his boots to the sandy ground. Áine stepped forward, gently swung the door wide and pulled the string to light the bulb that dangled from the ceiling. With a glance, she quickly knew what Murtagh’s eyes would not believe, however hard they scanned and searched.
The boat was gone.
From the distance, Murtagh heard voices calling from the shore. Ignoring protestations from the priest to wait until he had learned more, he staggered down the sand dunes to where a cluster of men stood in a half-moon around a currach, their hunched shoulders turned away from him. As he approached, Peadar Óg, owner of the whining sheep, moved toward him. His clothes were saturated, his face red raw and freezing, eyes wild.
“I’m sorry, Murtagh,” he croaked. “It’s Maeve. We have her. She was tethered to the currach by a rope. Her pockets.”
His voice broke.
“Her pockets were full of stones.”
He stood aside, and Murtagh dropped on his knees in the wet sand beside the boat. In the silver light, blue veins traced delicate pathways across Maeve’s face, like tiny cracks in a porcelain vase. He traced a line over each one with his little finger while the islanders turned their faces away.
Father Dónal began a decade of the rosary and, in quiet voices, each person joined in, even the ones who weren’t believers.
In fact, theirs were the loudest voices of all as, with each “Amen,” the darkness crept closer.
Two:
Days of Crow
Dublin: May 1, 1978
Noon
IT WAS THE shoes he noticed first.
Tomato-red suede platforms tied with white ribbons for laces.
Double knots.
Loopy bows.
Feet crossed at the ankles.
Black-and-white-striped stockings stretched over the knees.
An inch of milky skin.
The rest of the woman who would one day become his wife remained hidden behind the stone campanile at the center of Trinity College. Her left foot beat a determined rhythm; the right foot carried along in lopsided surrender.
Murtagh smiled.
Stepped forward.
Hesitated.
He transferred the weight of his leather satchel from one shoulder to the other. Wiped his nose once again in vain (it had not stopped running for days) and fingered the fraying blue handkerchief in the pocket of his new brown duffel coat.
Later Maeve would describe it as “Frank Sinatra eyes blue,” but he could not know that yet.
Nor how the big toe of her left foot poked through a hole in one of those pedestrian-crossing stockings.
Nor that she had spray-painted those tomato-colored shoes herself, with an aerosol can she found abandoned, next to an unfinished graffiti portrait of Lady Madonna, on Francis Street that morning.
All he knew for now was his compulsion to discover who owned those shoes, those stockings, those knees. He nodded at Sir William Lecky, eternally patient upon his green granite perch, and stepped onto the grass.
Murtagh grimaced as the soles of his Chelsea boots squelched in the soft earth. The hems of his corduroy flares were trailing in the mud from that morning’s summer showers. Scanning the silver skyline for nimbus clouds to prophesy whether another downpour was in the post, he was relieved to detect only a hazy veil of stratus.
Too much time with his head in the clouds.
Or so his mother, Teresa, had always said. As a consequence, he learned to name every one and became an official cloud-spotter.
Not all children were fortunate enough to have their very own Mother Teresa.
His hand reached automatically to smooth his messy mop of hair, as if she had just appeared before him, but he resisted the impulse. Instead, he wrapped the emerald green scarf she had knitted him tighter around his throat.
Murtagh circled the campanile.
Stood silently for a moment piecing a little more of the puzzle together.
Her slender frame bore the burden of an oversize denim rucksack. It was covered in dozens of embroidered patches: yellow roses and purple stars, green-and-orange concentric circles, two crows perched on a branch, a white lighthouse with a red flag flying, rainbow stripes, slogans for anti-apartheid and anti-Trident, badges shouting Led Zeppelin and The Ramones.
A coil of blue-black braid was pinned loosely under a scarlet beret as her head rested against an army-surplus jacket she had crumpled against the wall as a pillow. A low-pitched whine got louder as he inched closer.
Was she in pain? What on earth was wrong with her?
He tentatively tapped her beret with his forefinger, cringing to see the potting clay embedded still under his nails. She swiped sideways with her bare arm, so pale that blue veins traced fragile lines beneath the translucent skin. Her fingers clenched his arm in a surprisingly viselike grip, and he stared at the plum nail polish perfectly applied to her round fingernails. She turned her head to look at him; suspicious dove-gray eyes peering out from beneath a thick fringe. Her face was that of a bird in human form: the point of her nose, the angles of her bones and jaw, the heavy eyebrows for protection.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, releasing his arm and clambering up into a stand as she rested her backpack on the ground.
An American!
She was tall, thin, threatening, wearing short red velvet dungarees and a shimmering ivory vest; it looked more of her than on her.
Murtagh held his hands up as if she were the police. “You sounded—that noise you were making—I thought you were sickening from something.”
She emitted a dirty, guttural cackle. “That noise was me singing a Patti Smith song. Well, trying to. I guess I’m a little outta practice.”
He watched her waiting for him to speak, but when nothing was forthcoming, she filled the silence herself.
“Do you go here?” she said, stretching into a yawn. “I’m waiting to get into my dorm, but reception doesn’t open until two. I almost fell asleep there, my bag coulda grown legs.”
Murtagh found his voice, a croak though it was, and mustered up a question that felt unworthy of the effort it took.
“Whereabouts have you traveled from?”
She leaned her head to one side, cocked one leg behind her like a flamingo and squinted at him.
“Can’t you tell?” She waited a beat.
Murtagh nodded, his head light as he struggled to hold her gaze, blinded by the beams of silver sunlight scattering fr
om her vest.
“I’m from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, to be precise.”
He began to ask her how similar New York really was to how it seemed in the movies but stopped midsentence. “Mother of God!” he yelled as he held his head, swaying back and forth, moaning, cursing and stamping his feet.
Maeve reached out to him then took a step back. “What’s the matter? Are you having a fit or something?”
He looked up at her, his eyes red, streaming.
“A bee.
“I’ve been stung by a bee.
“On my ear.
“Like a hot poker in the side of my head.
“It stings.”
Maeve stifled a snort as she rustled in her backpack, extracting copper tweezers, a miniature tincture bottle and a crumpled orange paper napkin with numbers written on it in blue ink.
“Here, let me.” She pulled his hand away from his face and inspected the wound. “Sit down. I’ll get the venom out.”
She sat on the stones beside him, curled her army jacket into a ball on her lap and patted it in invitation for him to lie down. He slid forward so he could place his head in her lap, the offended ear turned toward her, his nose buried in the folds of her coat.
It smelled of apples.
He took a deep breath and sighed.
So, this is what all those songs are about.