Reluctantly Charmed (30 page)

From what I could gather, Maura wasn’t having much joy. That afternoon in the pub she’d bought drinks for anyone who looked thirsty and tried to coax or coerce conversation from them. They’d talk forever about the village, the prices of things, the noise of Dublin, but when she mentioned the Red Hag, pints were drained, jackets buttoned up, and the conversation was over. Word quickly spread around the village that the woman from Dublin was asking questions about matters that were best left be.

Maura called me from her hotel in Ennis and specifically asked, in that rather abrupt manner she had, if I had visited the old ruin.

I was choosing to keep my enemy close, so I told her I’d seen it from the road, which was true. Since I’d arrived, I’d ridden past every hedgerow, every gap in a field, every corner of Knocknamee, but I hadn’t entered the old ruin. There was something about it that gave me chills—a dark, hollow feeling.

“It has something to do with her, doesn’t it?” I asked Maura.

“Well, nothing that anyone has said, since no one will speak to me. But the song—do you remember the song, that little tune I uncovered? ‘She’s left her big house on the hill’? That could be it. It dates back to 1840, the same era.”

I remembered that the old ruin had looked very grand for a witch. Built of gray stone and still threateningly tall, it had been, back in the day, whenever its day was, a large, imposing building that must have loomed over the town. Now it stood exposed to the wild ocean winds and unprotected by the mountains that turned a cold shoulder to it.

“It’s more likely to have been an English landlord’s, who
probably owned the land around here and all the tenants on it. But I thought I’d ask if you knew it. There’s no other building here that could fit those words.”

“Who owns it now?”

“I don’t know. It’s vacant.”

After that conversation, I decided to go and investigate for myself. It was about time I uncovered some of my own heritage. After all, I’d fallen in love with Knocknamee, and I wanted to know more about my ancestors. Had they loved this sleepy little village, too, I wondered. I certainly couldn’t trust Maura Ni Ghaora to visit the ruin and report back to me. I couldn’t trust her with anything, and while the ruin seemed threatening, my curiosity outweighed my fear.

I decided to take a walk on An Trá Bhán beforehand to blow away the cobwebs. The cold salt air was bracing and walking on the sand exhilarating.

“I’m going to the ruin, I’m going to the ruin,” I repeated over and over to myself to try to put myself at ease. It didn’t work. I froze. “I’m going to the ruin.” Suddenly, it was as if I was encased in a block of ice: my feet sank heavily into the sand, my shoulders snapped into a tense spasm and I could have sworn my heart stopped. I felt a tremor through my body, a shiver that turned into a shake. Soon my whole body was trembling, convulsing into spasms, out of my control. I broke out in a cold sweat. Those weren’t black spots before my eyes but smoke clouds, blinding me. I felt weak. A tight pain shot across my chest. I couldn’t breathe.

As quick as it started it was gone. The moment had passed, the ice had melted away. I shook my head back, feeling strong again. It was something to do with that ruin. The thought of it made me freeze, made me physically react. What was up there? For once, I wasn’t going to shy away from my fears. I was going to
dig deep, be brave and face them. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Isn’t that what they say?

I left the beach still trembling, more from shock than anything else. Then I climbed onto Colm’s bike. I was going to the ruin.

I meandered up a twisty hill, pausing to catch my breath, fiddling with the bike’s gears.

I don’t know if I expected there to be a gate, or a plaque, or some type of landmark to the old ruin, but there wasn’t anything. When I got to the top of the hill, I parked at the side of the road and climbed over a fence and stood in a green field like thousands of other green fields all over the country. The wind pushed the grass in all directions.

I crossed my arms over my middle, aware that I was still trembling.
It’s so cold
, I thought. What was this place? Why was I reacting like this?

I circled the old ruin. Four walls still stood, propped up by the remnants of what once must have been a very grand building. The gray stone was covered in moss and ivy. Grass and bushes grew at the foot of the walls.

There was a doorway under a shelf of gray rock. I was so cold my arms were shaking and my teeth were chattering. I blew into my hands and tried to stamp my feet, but I could hardly move them for the cold.

I shuffled through the doorway into a large bricked room with an earthen floor. Once upon a time it may have been grand, but now, open to the sky, it just looked sad. A huge fireplace filled one wall, with a high chimney rising above it.

As I stood before the fireplace I began to burn up. I was roasting, in fact. I unbuttoned my jacket and took it off. I felt
my cheeks flush and my feet start to sweat. A smell of heavy smoke filled my nostrils. Once more I was struggling to breathe. I stripped off the woolly jumper I’d bought in Martin’s shop two days earlier, but still the heat was unbearable. I leaned on a wall, trying to cool myself against the cool stone.

On the far side of the fireplace, there was a narrow enclave. Stones were laid out in a circle, and a few cans of Dutch Gold lager were scattered around. This was where kids gathered to drink and hang out, I figured, eyeing the cigarette ends and joint butts. There was graffiti scrawled on one wall, most of it in black marker: “The Red Hag lives on,” “666,” “Devil walks,” “Dylan and Nessa.” There were other scrawls, words, half words, pictures. Kids’ stuff, really.

I was sweating. Those smoke clouds were obscuring my vision, and I felt weak. My legs couldn’t hold me. I hugged the wall—I had to get out. The walls were falling in on me. My chest was tight—I couldn’t breathe with the smell of smoke. I was drowning in smoke. Choking. With what felt like my last bit of strength, I pushed myself back through the door.

A sharp blast of icy air smothered me. I fell onto the grass, face-first into a bunch of yellow dandelions. Smelling their freshness, I started to feel alive again. I could breathe. I filled my lungs and my head cleared.

There was something very strange about that ruin and about my connection to it. Why had I felt like I was choking? The smoke clouds, the heat? What had happened in there?

I was in no form to go to a social dinner that evening, especially one with Hugh Delaney and his rude attitude. Although there was something about him, I had to admit. Infuriating, yes.
Handsome, yes. Mysterious, definitely. I’d been thinking about him a lot. No, that didn’t sound quite right. Not a lot, but he had been creeping into my thoughts, in spite of my now 24/7 fairy addiction. I disliked so many things about him. His work, for one—I mean, who the hell works in porn, except drug addicts and sex traffickers? It was what Mam would describe as a definite no-no. His personal hygiene left a lot to be desired, too—what was with the filthy boots, and hair that looked like a comb never went near it? And he’d been so rude to me, belittling my work, accusing me of trying to kill Setanta, and not thinking I was pretty enough to be the face of his porn site. (Obviously I didn’t
want
to be the face of his site and would have turned it down immediately, but surely it’s nice to be considered to have porn-star potential. Maybe? Oh, who knew!) All I knew was that Hugh Delaney still infuriated me. So I decided that, because his brother and his brother’s wife had been so friendly and I didn’t want to appear rude, I’d call in, claim I’d just eaten, have a quick drink and then leave. I’d ignore Hugh Delaney as much as I could within polite company.

I rode Colm’s bike out to Niall and Aisling’s. When I knocked on the door to their thatched cottage, it swung open by itself. A little boy in a pair of SpongeBob pajamas hurled himself down the stairs toward me before tearing off, through to the back of the house. I stepped in, nervous that I was in the wrong house, and squeaked out a feeble hello. A second boy in SpongeBob pajamas appeared. He was smaller than the first, with matted dark hair and rosy cheeks. He banged into my legs and proceeded to run to the back of the house, too. I dutifully followed and, after snaking through a small kitchen, was led by the noise of conversation and low guitar strumming to the back garden.

Multicolored Chinese lanterns hung from trees and washing
lines, illuminating a courtyard, the centerpiece of which was a large wooden table creaking under the weight of salad dishes and wine bottles. There were maybe fifteen people scattered around drinking, all smiling and talking, some dancing. The SpongeBobbed kids raced wildly around the group with Setanta in tow.

A giant pig was strung and skewered over a fire. Hugh Delaney hovered over it, patiently turning the spit. Every now and then he stopped to wipe his brow and sup on a beer. His cheeks were red, but he looked like a natural cook enjoying the sizzle.

“Kate, Kate!” Aisling, dressed in a green halter-neck dress, beckoned me over to a makeshift bar at the far end of the courtyard. She dipped forward to kiss me hello. “So glad you could make it. Look, Niall, Kate’s here.” Niall dipped in for a kiss, too. “Hugh will be pleased!” he said.

“Yes, of course. Thanks for having me.”
Hugh will be pleased? Really? Why?

“Now, what’s it to be? I make the best cocktails you’ll ever have. Spent four years as the best-tipped cocktail waitress in New York, and it had nothing to do with these.” She ogled her cleavage.

I laughed. “What about a Long Island iced tea?”

“Easy.” Aisling set to work throwing bottles together and clinking ice cubes, and then slid a cool glass into my hands. “Enjoy. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

There was a flurry of names, handshakes, and kisses. I learned that most of the people there lived in Galway and were down to party with Aisling and Niall in beautiful Knocknamee. This was their country home. They lived and worked in Galway, too, but let their hair down in Knocknamee every summer. I chatted and meandered, but my plans for ignoring Hugh failed as the crowd
moved and I found myself backed up at the spit with only a pig or Hugh to talk to.

“Aisling’ll get you sozzled on those things.” Hugh pointed at my glass with a giant barbecue fork. “I stay away from them.” He took another long gulp of his beer.

I nodded, suddenly feeling a bit tongue-tied and uptight, in spite of his relaxed demeanor.

“Funny banging into you like that.” He flashed a look at me that I couldn’t decipher. Accusing? Happy? Confused?

“Weird.” I sounded like a soft-spoken mouse.

“Aisling said the universe is trying to bring us together.”

I snorted loudly and rather abruptly shouted: “Hardly!” I quickly put my head back into my drink.

“Well, I’m glad I met you again . . .” He chewed his lip pensively.

“You are?”

“Yes. I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry about the way I spoke to you when Setanta, well, you know . . .”

I nodded.

“I just panicked. I’d never seen him like that. I was so shocked. And I took it all out on you. I’m sorry. It was very unfair of me.” He looked at me earnestly, hopefully.

“You know, I didn’t give him that chocolate. I would never hurt him. I don’t know how he got hold of it.”

“Thank God he’s okay. Look, accidents happen.” He laughed and gestured toward the pig. “Case in point. Old Percy here got hit by a tractor a few days ago. We did everything we could to save him, but there you go. Accidents happen.”

“Percy?”

“Percy. He’s been with me for three years. I have a farm about five miles from here. Just a small place, a few animals. Nothing
fancy, but I love it. I love growing from scratch, and I love the animals. Nothing like a fresh egg in the morning.” And he got that look again, the look of peace and happiness.

A farmer. Well, now, that made sense. The mucky boots, the dirty hands, and the choked-up expression in the city . . .

“I could see you as a farmer all right.” I smiled at him. “You seemed a bit uncomfortable in Dublin.”

“Ha, that’s putting it mildly. Can’t stand the place. I can’t breathe there, and the people, Jesus Christ, they’ll tell you black is white to get money out of you. Nobody talks straight. They’re all pretending to be someone they’re not, better than they are. Nobody just
is
.” He was silent, then raised his hand to his brow. “Ah, no! I’ve done it again.” Enunciating his words slowly and clearly he said: “Not—all—Dublin—people.”