Rosewater and Soda Bread (29 page)

“I came as early as I could, I can't stay longer than a minute the most.”

“Is there something wrong? Are you all right?”

Marie tightened her lips, looking as though she might burst into tears right there on the spot.

Marjan opened the back door wide. “Please, come in.”

FADDEN'S MINI-MART had changed very little since Marjan had bought her first bag of groceries there. The same rows of raggedy turnips, rhubarb, and parsnips piled in deep wooden bins; fishing tackle interspersed with ladies' stockings and cans of Batch-elors baked beans; jams and biscuits galore, lined in neat pyramids along the back wall. The same leprechaun haunting its midnight aisles. “Hello, Danny. How are you doing?” Marjan said, stepping into the shop.

Behind the Formica counter, Danny Fadden jumped in surprise. “Oh! Hello there, Marjan! Grand, grand. On a bit of a creative zephyr, to be exact.”

Danny pushed his large glasses up his red nose and smiled. As Marjan approached the counter, she noticed the shopkeeper's hands: they were covered by Rorschach splotches of indigo ink, which had also found its way onto his chin and wrinkly brow.

“What are you up to now?” She glanced at the large bound notebook opened on the countertop.

“Back on the C's. I've the first draft finished, you see, so now it's the meticulous act of correspondence, check entries against entries, making dead certain I've not missed any cross-references.”

Danny pushed his glasses up his nose again. “You see, Marjan, every fairy creature out there has a like, a relative or twin, in every language and culture there is. Take the cluricaune, for example.
A happy cousin of the leprechaun but for his preference for red
vino
instead of the Kilkelly stout. Now, the cluricaune meets his mirror in the English boggart—not to be mistaken for that lovely scoundrel of the silver screen, mind you—which in turn is almost identical in temperament to the croissant-mad
rongeur d'os
of the Normandy coast. Who, in a roundabout stroke of fairy paterfamiliarity, is similar to the bullbeggar of Somerset, and the spirit—which, to be perfectly frank, has a bit in every pot of every land.” Danny took a deep breath, his eyes burning with inspired light.

Marjan shook her head. “My goodness. And how's your Finnegan doing?” she asked, following local protocol. It was customary practice to ask after the shopkeeper's fairy before tending to the more prosaic business of groceries and the like.

“Mighty. Had his summer holidays in Cabo San Lucas. That's Mexico country. Got back and left me this just on the Monday.” Danny disappeared under the counter and emerged a few seconds later with a large piñata bull.

“Tucked in behind the case of Beamish, so he was. Wouldn't have a clue what it was doing there but for his IOU.” The grocer cleared his throat and read from a piece of green felt he held in his hand:

A stranger to Ballinacroagh would have been quick to flee the mini-mart right around then, but like the rest of the patrons
who frequented the shop, Marjan knew that Finnegan was a leprechaun who visited the mart on Sunday nights for a rig or two of his favorite stout. The wily shoemaker would always leave an IOU note promising the shopkeeper payment in full someday soon, but payment never came. Payment enough, most patrons agreed, was the smile of camaraderie brightening Danny Fad-den's usually lonely face.

In fact, Marjan was one of few in town who knew of the leprechaun's true origins: according to Fiona Athey who had in turn heard it from Evie Watson, whose information came straight from the horse's mouth, her on-again off-again boyfriend Peter Donnelly, Finnegan was a high school prank gone out of hand. Although graduated and on their way to larger debaucheries, the Donnelly twins still kept up their ruse of a leprechaun stealing stout, for they knew how important it was to Danny Fadden's creative life.

Marjan trailed her hands slowly along a display of Cadbury's chocolate fingers. The biscuits were among Layla's favorites. She grabbed a box and approached the counter again. “Danny, what do you know about healers? People who have special powers?”

The grocer sat up on his stool. “Well now, that is one of our greatest legacies. Going back to the times of the Druids themselves. Sure, those bearded fellows had their work cut out for them, planning out fates and fortunes for all those kings and minions.”

“Could any of them bring out sickness, heal with their hands maybe?”

“Let's see now. … What I know of healers is limited, not as standard as I'd like to be on the matter, that's for sure. Spent too much time on this
Encyclopedia of the Folk
, you know. … Healing with hands, you say?”

Marjan nodded. “Special hands. Not like ordinary fingers. Sort of like webs.”

Danny's bulbous eyes blinked rapidly behind his glasses. “Webs,” he whispered and tore through his notebook, flipping pages until he reached the middle. “Webs … only one bit about webs here. But nothing to do with healing. That's it, here we go: the merrow.”

Marjan waited for the grocer to read from his encyclopedia.

Danny cleared his throat once more. “The merrow: siren of the sea, Irish to the core. Cousin to the mermaid, who finds her home in Atlantis, or as the Celts call it, Hy Brasil.

“Merrows have legs like the rest of human folk but carry fingers with webbed skin. From time to time they make their way to the land, escaping the chains of domesticity below. It seems the poor creatures are mated to rather ugly mermen, squat little toads. They much prefer the company of men onshore.”

Danny looked up from the book and grinned. “Sure, why wouldn't they?” he said mischievously, pushing his glasses up his round nose.

The mermaid again.

That fairy tale wasn't going to help solve this problem, Mar-jan told herself. She thought of what Marie Brennan had warned her about that morning:

“They've written to the bishop in Tuam. It'll take a month to reach him; he's off on his holidays at the moment. But there'll be a mighty price to pay when he gets the letter. Oh, a mighty price.”

Despite Marjan's offer of tea, Marie had chosen to remain standing just inside the kitchen door.

Marjan had leaned forward in her seat. “What do you mean? What price?”

“The price—the price we all have to pay!” Marie's voice quivered; she clutched her black purse fervently to her chest.

Marjan thought that the older lady might faint. She certainly did not look well.

Marie lowered her voice. “Dervla is going to tell the bishop that Estelle Delmonico's practicing devil worship. And that she's got some sort of witch up there with her. And that Father Ma-honey is in on it, channeling the source from his radio station! There's no way to stop it! It's done already!”

Marjan shook her head at such a preposterous accusation. Imagine Father Mahoney channeling spirits. What would Dervla Quigley think of next?

“Will I ring this up?” Danny pointed to the products on the counter.

“Thanks, Danny. I'll have a bottle of buttermilk as well.” She pointed to the large glassed-in refrigerator in the corner.

Danny tapped his fountain pen against his broad forehead. “Now that's what I was picking at my mind just then! You'd think I was off with the fairies!” He rushed out from behind the counter and made his way to a refrigerator filled with soda and milk cartons. “I knew there was something I was meaning to give you as soon as you walked in. I just wasn't able to pin the thought, for my Finnegan.” He swiveled around, a bouquet of luscious red roses in his hand. “This came for you late last night. From Buds of Mayo in Castlebar. Café was closed, so they dropped it off here. Had to keep it refrigerated, so.” He handed Marjan the flowers. “There's a card in there.”

Marjan opened the envelope. It was from Julian.

MARJAN HAD PLACED
the roses in a ceramic vase next to the samovar in the dining room. The red petals gave the tea boiler's golden belly a healthy blush, reflecting with a satisfied glow. As she always did in the mornings, she lifted the top half of the samovar and filled it with water before placing the top back on and plugging the whole thing into the wall. She flipped the power switch, listening for the hum of the samovar's inner coil as it started to heat up.

The samovar had come with them from London, along with most of their knickknacks and crockery, the delicate fluted teacups with their filigreed handles and the multicolored pots that lined the mahogany service counter.

Everything had been packed and shipped over within days, their plane ticket to Ireland bought with the last of their savings. The money they had borrowed from Gloria to start the business,
along with Estelle's generosity, had seen them through those frightening first months of business.

In Marjan's estimation, Estelle Delmonico had a heart bigger than the whole of Ireland. It seemed almost preordained that she should be the one to have found the mermaid girl, that it was Estelle who had taken her in and not someone who might have gone straight to the authorities.

Bubbles began to surface inside the samovar. With a spoon in her hand, Marjan leaned down and tapped its center, testing the sound. The lower the
ting
, the closer the water was to tea quality. The sober sound reverberating back told her she needed to wait a few more minutes for that perfect cup of bergamot. Nothing like a good cup of tea, especially on a cold morning like this.

“Where did you get those?” Bahar asked, coming in with a tray of baklava. She slid them into the glass cabinet and walked to the mahogany counter. “Very expensive,” she commented, gingerly touching one of the rose blossoms.

“I suppose they are,” replied Marjan nonchalantly, turning away from the vase.

“So?”

“So?”

“So, where did you get them?”

Marjan picked up a purple teapot, took off its lid. “They were delivered from a florist. Julian sent them.”

“Huh.” Bahar crossed her arms over her thin chest. “Keen, isn't he?”

When Marjan did not respond, Bahar turned to her with a penetrating stare. “What's going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“This Julian. Are you in love with him or something?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Siobhan said you were all made up and walking into the Wilton Inn the other night,” Bahar replied. “Said he never showed up.”

Marjan scooped up two spoonfuls of loose bergamot leaves, added them into the teapot. She had wondered when Bahar would mention her non-date with Julian. She had been prepared for a grilling about it for the last two days.

“My whole life is an open book, I see. When did you get this bit of news?”

Bahar shrugged. “Just yesterday, when I was at the Fish Hut getting the whiting.” She paused. “She asked about you-know-who as well.”

Marjan whipped around, the tea leaves sprinkling across the countertop. Bahar pretended not to notice the small mess. She took a teapot of her own, relishing her hold on a bit of information.

“What did she want to know?”

“Who?”

“Siobhan,” Marjan said, impatience tightening her voice. She put down the jar of tea leaves, her hands on her hips. “What did she want to know?”

“She asked if I had heard about Estelle's kin. Was it true that she had a relative up at the cottage, and who was she—that kind of thing.”

Marjan frowned. “And? Did she ask anything else?”