Devil's Mountain (2 page)

Everyone began to relax. Even Bobby. The strained look he’d worn ever since his mother arrived faded.

In between courses, I circulated among the tables of our friends and relatives. A few of my mother’s relatives danced on the makeshift dance floor. As I chatted with my aunt, Dorothy, I thought to myself, “Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe it will all settle down.”

And then I saw her.

My mother had cornered poor Bobby on his way to the bar. From the expression on Bobby’s face, it didn’t look like they were talking about the food.

Aunt Dorothy was mid-sentence when I stormed over to the bar.

“Bobby, you’ve been in my house, what, at least a dozen times,” I heard my mother say.

“I don’t understand why you never mentioned your people were from Kilvarren. What were you hiding?”

“Honestly, I never thought of it. I grew up in Dublin. You know that. Sure, everyone in Dublin has family down the country. My father’s family is from Roscommon. I didn’t tell you that either.” Bobby’s delivery seemed a bit slick, even to me. His voice had the slightly false bravado I’d only heard him use when he’d taken me to dinner with clients, the same tone I imagined he used when he was trying to close a deal.

My mother’s face was scarlet at this point. She grabbed his jacket and hissed, “You’re lying. My daughter may buy this, but I’ll tell you, my little jackeen, I do not. You knew. You knew that if I knew who your family was, what your mother is, I would never permit my daughter to marry you.”

I grabbed my mother’s arm. “Permit me? Since when do I need your permission? I’m a grown woman. If you’re not careful, Mother, you’ll find yourself uninvited to this wedding!”

Aunt Dorothy came up behind me. “Bobby, love, you’ll have to excuse us. I think these ladies have a case of wedding jitters. Come on now, girls, let’s head to the ladies and fix our makeup. Bobby, dear, could you ever go over and make sure that husband of mine’s not boring your poor father to tears?”

With a vise-like grip, Aunt Dorothy dragged me and my mother away. The bathroom door hadn’t closed before she lit into my mother. “For God’s sake, Nellie, what the hell is going on?”

“Tell her, Dotty. Tell her about that family. About that woman.”

“Mary Devlin? Why, she’s one of my best customers. She comes in every Tuesday for her groceries. She’s a lovely woman.”

“What are you talking about?” My mother was crying at this point. “Tell Caroline. Tell her about the Mountain.”

“Nellie, would you ever cop onto to yourself? No one believes in those old stories any more. It’s 1997. Ireland’s changed since you left. It’s a different world now.”

“It’s not that different.”

Aunt Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know? You haven’t been back to Kilvarren since Daddy died.”

My mother wiped her eyes. “It’s an accursed place, Caro. Ever since the Famine. It’s cursed and it’s evil and it’s ruled by those Devlin women. Look at her. How old does she look to you? If I didn’t know better I’d say she wasn’t a day over thirty-five. But, Caro, Mary Devlin’s five years older than myself. How do you think she got that way? It’s His doing. Sure, Dorothy, wasn’t Mary’s mother the same? I’m telling you, Caroline, if you marry into the Devlin family, you’ll rue the day. That, I promise you.”

Aunt Dorothy’s expression softened and she touched my mother’s shoulders. “Nellie, love, how many years has it been? Thirty-five at least. You’ve a lovely husband, a lovely family.

You need to let Jimmy go.”

Ignoring her, my mother stared at me. “I know what I know, Caro. If you go through with this, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I love him, Mama. I don’t care--”

The door swung open and little Brendan barreled in, followed by the harried Orla. “Hiya, ladies. What a fantastic place, Caroline. The food is beautiful.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Orla noted my mother’s red eyes. “Oh, sorry, are we interrupting?”

I took my mother’s arm. “No, not at all. We’re done here, right, Ma?

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “We’re done.”

The restaurant was hushed as we walked in from the bathroom, with everyone’s eyes on the small dance floor. The band played an old Irish love ballad. Bobby’s mother and father danced alone. Paul Connolly held Mary close as their bodies swayed to the music, his face buried in Mary’s silky black curls. The air was charged with their emotions, making it impossible to look away. The song came to an end. Paul lifted his face out of Mary’s curls, tears streaming.

Fiona, Paul’s new wife, banged her drink on the table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and stomped past the couple and out onto the street. Paul didn’t notice. His eyes never left Mary’s.

* * * *

The air was cool, crisp, and the sky a sparkling clear blue when the limo deposited us outside the church. My father offered me his arm, and smiled even, as we walked up the stone steps.

We were early, the church still quiet, with only the florist there arranging the altar’s enormous flower displays. My mother, who seemed reconciled to this wedding going forward, once again became the efficient mother of the bride and led me into a small room off the entranceway to fix my veil, which she told me was crooked, and my lipstick, which she told me was too light.

The florist, who for some reason failed to deliver mine and the bridesmaids’ bouquets to my apartment as ordered, had deposited them in this room. My soon-to-be mother-in-law was holding my bouquet in her hands.

“Mary,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“My cab dropped me off early and I thought I’d fix my face before everyone got here. I was looking for the bathroom and I saw these. They are beautiful.”

My mother grabbed the bouquet from her. “And the wrong color. I ordered deep blush roses, not pale pink. Oh, Caro, these won’t do. These won’t do at all!”

“Leave them, Ma. They’re fine.”

“You look lovely, Caroline,” Mary said in her soft, lilting brogue. She touched my veil.

“I’m happy I was able to come. My son is a lucky man.”

“Thank you, Mary. We’re glad you made it,” I said, almost meaning it. After her dance with her ex-husband last night, the mood changed. Orla ran after her stepmother, who came back to the restaurant with red eyes. Orla and Bobby had argued in the corner, my mother and Aunt Dorothy kept disappearing into the ladies room, and Paul had continued to stare at Mary like a lovesick schoolboy, despite Fiona’s glares. After dessert was served, guests made their excuses and the rehearsal party had ended more than an hour early. I couldn’t help thinking the night would’ve gone much smoother had Mary stayed up on her mountain.

My mother was a woman possessed as she plucked the deeper pink roses out of the bridesmaids’ bouquets and stuck them in my own. She was almost done, when she pulled out a small purple flower.

“What is this, Mary?”

“I, uh...”

“I’ll ask you again. What is this?”

“Just a little something for luck, Nellie.”

My mother tore through the bouquet. Petals scattered at her feet. “What else, you she-devil? What else did you put in here?”

“Nothing, Nellie. ’Twas nothing.”

“Nothing?” My mother held a small mud-colored heart in her palm. “Then, what is this?”

“Please, Nellie,” Mary pleaded. “Only a charm. For luck. Please leave it there!”

My mother threw the small heart to the floor and crushed it beneath her new Jimmy Choos. “I’ve had enough of your charms. I’ll not have you interfering with my daughter. Keep your black magic and His evil powers to yourself.”

Mary deflated before us, and for the first time, I could almost see her sixty years in her green eyes. “I meant no harm. Truly, I didn’t. I’ll leave you now.”

Without another word, my mother reconstructed the bouquets and they were almost as good as new. She fixed my lipstick and my veil. I was ready to go.

Years later, I’d often wonder what would’ve happened if my mother hadn’t disturbed Mary’s charms.

Chapter 2

Mary

Though my mouth was dry, I couldn’t face the strong tea offered by the stewardess and I dared not stop on the way home from Shannon Airport. I tore across the country in my battered Ford Fiesta, the only thing I’d taken from Dublin after the divorce. The weak morning sun shone through a light mist. In the distance I could almost see Devlin’s Mountain. My mountain now.

Well, not quite my mountain, as His lordship would quickly remind me. It was almost nine-thirty. I said a quick Hail Mary, for what it was worth, and prayed He still slept. Three days.

If I reached home before ten then I’d have been away only three days. Surely, the price for being away three days wouldn’t be that high.

I slammed on my brakes as a lorry turned onto the N-23. The lorry heaved up the small incline and my tiny Fiesta crawled behind. Damn, if the lorry didn’t turn off soon I’d be late.

I couldn’t be late.

Thanks be to God, he turned off at the cross. Quarter to. I might make it.

The hedges seemed to have grown overnight, almost blocking the small pitted lane that led to my cottage. Seamus had cut them back the week before I’d left. I’d have to tell him to cut them again. Anyone else would be astounded by their rate of growth, but not Seamus Griffin.

The Griffins were one of the five families. He knew.

A branch tore at the side of the car as it groaned up the steep incline. The road was dark.

A giant cloud suddenly appeared and covered the top of the Mountain, blocking the morning sun.

He must be angry.

As I neared the cottage, the lane was quiet, devoid of all life. Even the birds seem to have scattered. There was nothing around. Except Him.

The yellow eyes of the old goat--
pucan
, as we called it in Irish--glowed beneath the shadow of a hawthorn tree. I drove the last few minutes home, stopped near the shed and shot out of the car, leaving my bag in the boot. If I could get into the enclosed garden, within the protection of my beds of foxglove, angelica, betony and nettle, I’d have a few hours to myself.

After some sleep and some food, I’d be able to face Him.

But I was too late.

The
pucan
blocked the gate. “My love.”

“Sir.” I bowed deeply.

“I’ve missed you, my love.”

Willing my voice to remain steady, I said, “I’m sorry. Orla’s baba was sick. She needed me in Dublin.”

A wind ripped across the back field, blowing grit into my eyes. The
pucan
looked at me as I rubbed my poor eyes, tears streaming down my face. “Did she?”

The wind continued to assault me. I lifted my hand to shield my face. “Yes, but it’s only been three days.”

The
pucan
stared at me, eyes glistening. The wind stopped. “That it has. Isn’t it amazing how far one can travel in three days.”

I wiped the last of my tears with my sleeve and forced myself to smile. “Sure, with the new road to Dublin, I’m up and back before I know it.”

“So you are. And how is the lovely Orla?”

“Fine. The same.”

The
pucan
came closer, His hoof almost crushing my toe. His breath, the same in every apparition, smelled of moss and dampness. It smelled as old as the earth. “Did she enjoy New York?”

Sweat dripped down my back. “New York?”

“Ah, love, I always know where my children are. Even those who have left me.”

I said nothing. I stared at the ground, praying it would swallow me. But that would be too easy a fate for a Devlin woman. It would be bad tonight, no matter what I did now. I looked up.

“You knew then?”

“I knew. I’ve known for a while. How ever did Bobby find one of his own in a big place like New York? What are the chances?”

My stomach dropped. So it wasn’t a coincidence, my Bobby falling in love with Nellie’s daughter. It had never occurred to me He would have had something to do with it. But how?

Why?

I feigned disinterest. “She’s a lovely girl. That’s all that matters to me.”

“That she is. It makes me happy when two of my children find each other. I told your mother you’d have been happier with Seamus. With someone who understands, who shares the blood. You wouldn’t listen.”

I looked at my cozy cottage, guarded by the foxglove. How I longed to be within its protective walls. I turned to the
pucan
. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re together now, in a way.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seamus lumber over the back field. He must’ve seen me with the
pucan
, because he stopped, crossed himself and spun around.

“We are, yes.”

“My love, you must be tired after your long journey. Go in and rest yourself. I will see you tonight.”

I bowed low to the ground, “Yes, my lord.”

When I raised my eyes from the ground, He was gone.

* * * *

Only three days away and yet a hint of mildew still seeped through the cottage’s cold stone walls. Seamus had left me a stack of peat. I tossed two blocks into the ancient stove. A few moments later the fire sputtered to life, the tang of peat replacing that of the mildew.

I filled the kettle and threw two tea bags into my mother’s chipped blue teapot. Later, I would drink my mother’s special tea, a combination of the fennel, nettles and borage I grew in the back garden. Fennel for strength, nettles for protection, and borage for courage and fortitude.

It was the same recipe her mother drank and her mother before her. A poor arsenal against
Slanaitheoir
, but it was all I had. All any of the Devlin women had ever had. Strength and fortitude. I would need both tonight.

Seamus had left a loaf of his wife’s brown bread on the kitchen table. I cut a thick slice and slathered it with butter. As I bit into its nutty sweetness, my stomach settled. The strong tea warmed me. Consoled me. I was home, and for the next few hours at least, safe.

The mist burned off and a strong midday sun greeted me as I opened the cottage’s heavy wood front door. The birds had returned to my garden as had a few fat bees, which burrowed in the foxglove blossoms. Despite myself, I smiled. My years in Dublin had offered me freedom, respite from my fate, but at a price. Our four bedroom semi-detached in Rathfarnham, my husband’s pride and joy, had always made me feel closed in, cut off from God’s green earth. I guess I’m an old countrywoman at heart, for better and for worse.