Rosewater and Soda Bread (33 page)

“No such thing on these roads,” he said, grimacing at the bent fender. He pointed to the peace signs. “That's false advertising, that. Better to have the skull and bones, if you ask me.”

“No one did ask you,” Marjan remarked. From the truck's passenger seat, the black-and-white sheepdog gave a short bark.

“That dog there saved your skin. His barking had me stopping in time. You'd be on your way to New York if not for him.” Beyond the ditch, the hill split straight to the western shores of Clew Bay. As he flicked his head to the back, the man caught sight of the passenger in the van. A strange expression came over his face, and Marjan knew immediately that he recognized the
girl. She whipped around. The young woman was staring back, her mouth a perfect O of horror.

Marjan stepped closer to the cantankerous driver. “Do you recognize this girl?” She pointed to the young woman in her van. “Do you know who she is?”

He didn't give her a chance to ask any more questions. Rounding his own truck, he hastened to open the door. He had started the engine and reversed the truck before Marjan could find the right question. “Wait.”

She rushed in front of the truck, waving her hands over her head. “Wait a minute!” The crunch of wheels on the gravel drowned out her voice. “Wait! Stop!” Escher barked sharply, twice.

The truck gunned along the stony path and disappeared down the hill Marjan had just come up. A moment later all that was left was a hazy pillow of powdered gravel, rising to meet the misty air.

Marjan sighed, letting her arms fall to her sides. She gazed through the van's dusty windshield to the girl in the passenger seat. “Did you know that man?” Marjan asked. But the girl held her silence. Her delicate face, moments ago ready to open, was now veiled with fresh pain. Her eyes were a muddled marble, staring at the cliffs and glimmering ocean, far away from there.

MARJAN STARED OUT
of the van, slowing down as the wind battered the side panels. To her right were the fog-encrusted waters of Clew Bay, a patina of phosphorescent greens and grays reflecting the recent shower. She couldn't make much of what lay beyond the wall of dense air, just the large stone dock fading into the haze. She could barely make out an antiquated trawler bouncing against the wooden stumps, fighting to free itself from its tether. The westerly had picked up since she'd left the café, leaving a still sullen Bahar to take care of the breakfast plates.

Marjan parked the van in front of the pub as she had done the week before, and grabbing Layla's knapsack from the passenger seat, she walked across the road. The stone dock was studded with prehistoric moss and white shell, providing perfect traction against the constant rain. As she reached the edge of the dock, the black-and-white dog inside the cabin of a small boat bolted
from his sleeping position. He gave a short bark, alerting his owner.

“Escher, you stay now. Good boy. Stay.”

The man came out from the cabin, wiping his oily hands on a towel. He was wearing his usual dark rain jacket, but its hood was down now, showing his scruffy, windblown hair and a face darkened by a beard.

He didn't seem too surprised to see her.

“Before you try to pin me for a bastard, you should know it's my job to keep tourists at bay. Not everyone with a sickness deserves help.”

“Is that what she does? She cures people?” Marjan asked, keeping her gaze on his dark eyes.

“Weren't you the one with her? Shouldn't you know that answer?” He climbed onto the dock and began to uncoil the anchorage from its stump, his back turned to her.

“I don't understand. Why did you drive off so quickly?”

The man threw the coil of rope onto the deck and turned around. “Whatever the two of you were doing was no business of mine. If she wants to take on the likes of your food poisoning or what have you, that's her bad luck.”

Marjan took a breath, pushing her hair back from her face. She'd have to be more diplomatic if she wanted answers.

“This isn't about me or my café. Look, I really would appreciate your help.” She had already decided to tell him the story, knowing it was the only way he would help her. “I took a chance coming here. Please, just give me a moment.”

WHEN SHE FINISHED, both man and dog were staring at her in silence.

“So, can you help me?”

He looked at the sea for a minute. Escher perked up his ears, his head tilted.

“Inishrose,” he said, finally.

“I'm sorry?”

“Inishrose. The girl you were asking after. She comes from Inishrose. Her name's Teresa McNully”

Marjan moved toward the duo. “How do you know her?”

“I know her family well enough, I suppose. They live on one of the drumlins, a place called Inishrose.” He nodded toward the foggy water.

Marjan nodded, feeling a sudden surge of determination.

“How can I get to Inishrose? Is there a ferry or something? From Louisburgh?”

He threw the rope onto the deck. “Next ferry out from the Pier won't be until the morning, and even then you'll be hard-pressed to convince them to make a detour. At least not for the likes of the McNullys.”

He stepped back onto the slippery deck, then turned to Marjan again. “Only one way out and one way in. It's up to you to take it, so.”

THE MIST LIFTED as the blue trawler churned across the water. All at once Marjan could see the small islands, the dollops of green on the slowly brightening bay. Some were as small as Fad-den's Field, others larger than the whole of Ballinacroagh. What most had in common was a sense of departure from ordinary landmasses, as though they had been dropped from another universe already formed.

Marjan looked at the man by her side. He had introduced
himself as Dara O'Cleirigh, and among a number of occupations he had remained fairly vague on, he ran the postal system for the inhabitants of the various islands that dotted the Bay.

Marjan steadied herself against a chipped stool in one corner of the cabin. Her stomach gave a turn, knocking against her sides; the wind had picked up bitterly as the trawler traversed the choppy waters, and the small boat was beginning to sway on the swells. Her eyes scanned the cabin as Dara shifted the trawler's gears beside her. It hadn't occurred to her that what she was doing could be dangerous. Bahar was manning the café, but she certainly didn't expect her older sister to be out all day.

“Do you have a telephone on the boat?” Marjan asked, swallowing back her fear.

Dara notched down the gear and turned the helm south-southwest. “No, but I have a radio transmitter.” He focused his dark eyes on her. “You're not getting the willies now, are you?”

“No. Not at all,” Marjan quickly replied. “Do I look frightened?”

“A little bit.” He gave a self-satisfied smile and returned his gaze to the heaving water.

Marjan frowned. “I'm not scared. I just want to know how long I'll be out.”

“Not long. We're almost there, now,” Dara replied, gesturing ahead.

Marjan peered through the gray air; a green mass was coming into view, then a wooden pier. Behind it were a sandy cove and a large dune, from which jutted out wooden steps and a boardwalk that curved as it rose.

Above the boardwalk, on a plateau showered with dandelions, sat a circular structure made entirely of fieldstones. It grew from its circumference like a medieval monks' fort, not unlike the one on the grounds of Ashford Castle.

Dara steered the boat to the pier. As soon as the bow hit the end of the wooden stilts, the black-and-white sheepdog took a running dive and leapt onto the pier with four paws steady.

“Someone lives up there?” Marjan pointed to the round structure.

“Just the McNullys. Teresa and her father. No one else on the land.”

Dara turned off the boat's ignition and stepped out of the modest cabin. As he tied the boat to one of the posts, Marjan lifted the knapsack onto her right shoulder and joined him on the pier.

The water lapping against the landing was considerably less angered, and her fear eased as she felt the ground steady beneath her. It was hard to tell how big the island was from where she stood, but she suspected it was one of the smaller ones.

On the western end, the cliff rose like a giant limestone wave, under whose shadow were burrowed nests of jolly black-and-white birds.

“Those aren't penguins, are they?” Marjan pointed to the chubby creatures.

“Puffins. Though it's out of season, them being here. They usually leave the drumlins by Samhain.”

“So these islands, they're called drumlins?”

“That's it all right. Take a good look, they won't be here forever,” said Dara.

With Escher leading the way, Marjan and Dara climbed the long boardwalk steps, the wind lashing them from all sides. Sea spray seemed to reach them even at the plateau point, and prompted by the puffins' exuberant squawks, Marjan felt as though she were rising from the depths of the ocean itself.

The hulking figure at the cliff top intensified the sensation that she was surfacing; his ice blue eyes pierced through her,
causing Marjan to gasp inwardly. He had a Saint Brigid's cross in his hand and held the boomerang of woven rush with defiance. He lowered the talisman when he saw Dara O'Cleirigh.

“How's it going, Sean? Don't mind us dropping in on you like this, no notice and all.” Dara shook the man's hand.

“Nearly had you for one of those Yanks. Was going to give them the Saint Brigid's blessing and be done with them.” He pointed to Dara's face. “What's that now, a beard you've gone and got yourself?”

Dara reached up and touched his chin. He smiled sheepishly. “When in Rome,” he replied. “Or in my case Patagonia. Why, don't you like it?”

Sean McNully stared at the facial hair for a moment. “It's grand, so. Suits ya.” He waved his hand. “Well, come on in then. You're here now, so there's nothing to be done about it.”

He started walking toward the round house, peppery Escher at his side. Marjan followed close behind, unsure of her welcome. The man had made no acknowledgment of her presence during his chat with Dara O'Cleirigh.

She remembered what the postman had said about the islanders as they set off from the stone pier: “Some of the islands have only a single person living on them. Take Seamus Harvey of Biggle's Rock. That's past Clare, just west. I've been running the post for five years now, and not once in that time have I known old Seamus to leave its shores, not for provisions even. I get a list of wants from him every month, and he's happy with that.

“He's eighty-three, been on that rock since birth, saw both parents live and be buried, and still he stays. You'll find a lot of characters just off the Bay, that's for sure. I'm only warning you now, for Sean McNully might not even want to speak to us.”

But if they'd come about his daughter he would, thought Marjan, as she hoisted herself up the wooden steps.

The boardwalk led right to the short fieldstone wall surrounding the house. Similar walls ran circles throughout the patchy plateau, though it did not look like there were any animals to take advantage of what grass there was for the feeding.

Marjan turned back to the house. Round windows sat on either side of the door, a studded circle of alder wood. On the roof grew a patch of thick grass dotted with more dandelions to match the front yard. With the ivy and wisteria traveling along its façade, the grass roof was an ideal insulation, nature providing all the comforts of home.