Devil's Mountain Page 2

  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.

  Seamus’s old cat was the only creature to accompany me to my car. I nuzzled his ears before I opened the boot and retrieved my bags. I brought them inside and hung the sensible navy blue dress I’d worn to Bobby’s wedding in the wardrobe. Next to Nellie’s sparkly mother-of-the-bride dress, I’d looked like a poor relation. But I hadn’t wanted Him to get suspicious if He’d heard I’d been shopping at Nolan’s Dress Shop in town. Fool that I am, I shouldn’t have bothered. I should have worn what I wanted. I’d pay the price tonight anyway.

  But despite Him, I escaped to New York to see my beautiful Bobby and his plain wren of a bride. Plain, but good-hearted. Unlike the mother. Please God, they’d be happy together. And safe.

  I wrapped the navy pumps in paper and placed them in an old shoe box. Those shoes likely wouldn’t go farther than Kilvarren town now. At least they’d gotten a chance to dance in New York. To dance with my son and my sweet, sweet Paul. My Paul, and only mine. Nothing He did to me tonight could take that away. Nothing.

  The bed my grandfather had made for my grandmother as a wedding gift beckoned me. I suddenly felt tired. And old. No matter what He and the magic had done to my face, to the outside of my body, these sixty year old bones get tired. I slipped under my mother’s eiderdown and released myself to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  * * * *

  I pulled the long red cape close to me. Its ancient wool protected me from the strong damp wind that whipped along the fields. My mother’s shoes pinched as I made my way along the pitted lane. In the distance I could hear the mournful lowing of Seamus’s brown heifers. A black rook flew before me, beckoning me along the lonesome lane.

  I turned right into the copse of trees and followed the narrow path. The thicket blocked all but a trickle of light. The dark woods that had frightened me as a young girl enveloped me, embraced me now in its cold arms.

  In the clearing before the foot of His cave was a fire and beside it, a carved table. On the table was a roast pig and two goblets filled with an amber liquid. Behind me a rush of wind lifted my cloak.

  “My love.”

  I turned around. Slanaitheoir took my hand in His strong one. The blood roared in my ears. This apparition, Slanaitheoir’s most beautiful, most cruel. He stood over six feet, His broad shoulders draped in a golden silk tunic. His bright green eyes danced with desire and malice.

  Despite myself, my cheeks burned. I lowered my eyes, suddenly shy, unable to face Him.

  “My lord.”

  “Come, my love. See what I have prepared for you.”

  He led me to the fire and removed the cloak from my shoulders. I covered my chest, aware that my thin silk sheath offered little protection from His probing gaze. He laughed.

  “You hide yourself from me? My sweet child. Please, sit down. Eat. I know you haven’t feasted in many days.”

  How? How did He know my every move? With my stomach in knots since I’d left for New York, I hadn’t eaten more than tea and toast for days. Suddenly ravenous, I devoured the meal before me.

  The meat, succulent and unlike anything to be found in Dorothy Collins’s butcher shop, almost called to me. Its sweet juices ran down my chin, and I, like an animal, tore the pig’s flesh.

  His lordship joined me as we cleared the table of meat and mead.

  When we were sated, He led me to the fire. We sat on the finest furs. “My love, I’ve missed you. Tell me, tell me about your trip.” His eyes, soft now and tender, glowed in the firelight. His fingers burned my skin as He stroked my hand.

  And I told Him. Everything. How Nellie called me a witch, how my sweet Paul held me in his arms and cried. The beautiful creature before me entranced me, bewitched me, and I burned with love for Him. With desire.

  He laughed softly. “My love, why do you leave, when you know the world will only cause you pain? I am all you need.”

  The buzzing in my ears grew louder, and all I could think about was His strong arms. His musky scent--old, as old as the earth. Why do I leave Him? Why do I fight Him? I fell into His eyes and could see our past, the past of all the Devlin women. My skin was on fire and I didn’t stop Him when he ripped the thin sheath from me, scattering the pearl buttons on the ground. He parted my lips and I yielded. I closed my eyes. I loved Him. Oh, God forgive me, how I loved Him.

  He pulled my hair and His lips left mine. I heard before I felt the tearing of my cheek’s tender flesh. I opened my eyes and could see His hand was now a claw. Warm blood fell onto my breast.

  He dragged me to the entrance of the cave. He smiled. “It is time, my love.”

  * * * *

  Seamus’s cat licked my face. I tried to open my eyes, but they were slits. I didn’t need to see where I was. I knew He had left me under the hawthorn tree. Every inch of me screamed in agony. The wool cape, carefully draped over my naked body, was like lead, heavy with the early morning rain. And my blood.

  I struggled to sit up. The cat meowed at me in concern. My arms, too weak to support me, collapsed and I fell back into the mud. The morning drizzle continued, as if to cleanse me from the previous night’s sins.

  The cat cried, as did I, as helpless as a kitten. When I could cry no more, I slept.

  The ground shook from the distant rumble of cattle. The sharp bark of the dogs erupted above the mournful lowing of the cows. I opened my eyes and in the distance saw a tall figure. I croaked out a greeting.

  “Move on, you whore,” Seamus shouted to an errant heifer. I called out again. He turned toward me, his green eyes, eyes common to the Mountain families, shone through the gloom like a beacon.

  He strode through the mud. I groaned in agony, and relief. Seamus gathered me in his strong arms, unsurprised to see me in my usual spot, unfazed by my injuries and my nakedness.

  “You poor woman,” he murmured as he carried me through my garden gate. “You poor, poor woman.”

  Chapter 3

  Caroline

  “Of course, I understand,” I said into the phone, struggling not to cry. “I’ll stop the shots immediately.”

  “Mrs. Connelly, I am sorry.” For once, a bit of warmth broke through Dr. Feinberg’s cool reserve. “I thought with the new drug regime you’d have a better result this time.”

  “Me too. When should I start another cycle? Next month?”

  He was silent for a moment. I stared vacantly out the apartment’s window and barely noticed the hum of the Park Avenue traffic below. “We generally don’t recommend more than four cycles. With your poor response, I can’t recommend you continue. I think it’s time to consider other options.”

  Numb, I asked without inflection, “Other options?”

  “Donor egg, donor embryo, adoption.”

  “No, no,” I said, suddenly frantic. “I want my own baby. I need t
o have my own baby.”

  “Many of my patients use third party options to build their families.”

  I could see a woman struggle to fold her stroller into a waiting cab on the street below.

  “There must be something else we can try. More drugs. There have to be different drugs. A second opinion?”

  “Mrs. Connelly,” Dr. Feinberg said, the cool professional remove creeping back into his voice, “we’re the foremost fertility clinic in the country. I can certainly provide you with the names of some other fine centers here in New York, however, I’m afraid their opinion will be the same as mine. You were on the highest dosage permissible by the FDA. We did everything we could. Unfortunately, IVF can’t help everyone.”

  “I’m only thirty-one!”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Call the office and make an appointment if you want to explore donor eggs.”

  Pointless. Arguing with him was pointless. “All right, Dr. Feinberg,” I choked out.

  “Thank you.”

  The midday sun from the window blinded me, and I closed the heavy custom made curtains. I sank into the couch, unable to think what to do now that my precious embryos had disintegrated in my useless womb.

  Bobby wasn’t due back from Brazil until this evening. I had no job to go to, since we’d decided six months ago I should quit. We blamed my infertility on stress, although to be honest, my job as an assistant marketing director at the small advertising firm was hardly stressful. I’d gladly given it up and immersed myself in all things related to Project Baby.

  I’d taken up yoga. I’d drunk vile shots of wheatgrass at least twice a day. We only ate organic meats. Bobby wore boxers. I’d cut back on dairy, but later read an article saying dairy increased IVF success, so I drank two glasses of organic milk a day. I meditated. I’d gone back to church and lit candles after Mass. I’d visited the store-front psychics that lined Lexington Avenue. I’d joined an online chat-room for other Manhattan Wanna-Be Moms. I went to acupuncture three times a week. And of course I’d turned myself into a human pincushion with upward of five shots a day whenever we were “cycling.”

  And poor Bobby had stood by, bewildered. He’d bought flowers and chocolates whenever we’d gotten bad news and paid the clinic’s astronomical bills without complaint. He was unfailingly optimistic, a saint, really. I didn’t deserve him.