Page 27 of The Scald Crow
“Okay.” I giggled. “Would you like to come in? Maybe do a Faerie sweep with me?” I jingled half a dozen odd-shaped keys, hoping I wouldn’t have to walk down that long, dark laneway alone.
“No, I’m sorry. I have to get back. Is that okay?” Her eyes begged forgiveness. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No worries.” I climbed from the car, glancing at the flat-topped stone post, wondering what creatures danced by the moon’s light. I half intended to see for myself.
“If you need anything, anything at all, call me.” She leaned out the window, her worried expression causing my stomach to clench.
“Thanks.” I waved, watching her drive away. I swallowed my fright, squashing the disturbing Other Crowd thoughts. What were these mystical beings? Saw-toothed, crazed beings whirling evil spells? Or teeny-weeny pixie’s making dreams come true? I chose the latter.
I fumbled with the keys, trying each one in the old lock. A ratchety click told me I’d found success. I hung the lock on a crosser and hauled on the gate, straining at the rusted hinges. I gazed at my hands and grimaced at the rusty residue.
“Come on. Open sesame.” I dug my heels into the mud, yanking until the hinges freed, dragging the gate across the long grass while talking myself into the unthinkable—leaving the gate wide open in the feathery grass.
I slung my backpack onto my shoulder, carrying the basket, and left the main road behind. I ventured deeper into the laneway, into the forest of tall trees. A green canopy dappled with sunlight gave birth to a thick underbrush dancing with bluebells and a filmy carpet of green ferns. A warm tang wafted on gentle currents, freeing the earth from winter’s icy grip.
My awareness heightened. An unearthly chill crept along the ground. I relaxed my shoulders, breathing through my nose.
A trio of blackbirds burst through the underbrush, soaring low over the forest floor and weaving through the standing trees. I took a moment to appreciate their graceful flight. The tinkling sound of rushing water replaced the flutter of wings.
I gazed in wonder at the sight before me. Water tumbled over gentle waterfalls, lingering in shallow pools before searching for the sea. A fairy tale bridge, rounded stones stacked in another age, crossed the stream. Carved by ancient hands, speared stones,broken and moss-covered, told a story of their own. I placed my hand almost tentatively on one particularly gruesome spike. White lights danced behind my eyelids as I stumbled, thrown backward by a powerful force. I steadied myself and ran across the bridge, escaping those old stones.
“Tá tú abhaile, a Rioghain.” A voice rang out in sweet, dulcet tones, and I understood the meaning. You’re home, Rioghain.
“Who’s there?” I hugged the basket, peering into the silent forest, scanning the nearby stand of birch trees for any signs of life. I turned my head, fear holding my feet still. The question—who would call me by my middle name? I had only ever shared that tidbit with one person.
I picked up my pace and followed the beam of light penetrating the woodland while airing my suspicions with the buzzing bees. They followed me everywhere, their hum convincing me that I imagined the welcoming voice. I listed the external elements at play: the rushing water tinkling over the exposed rocks, the wind whistling through the trees, and those damn birds. I would save those gruesome spikes for another day.
“What the…” A big-eyed bird shot straight out of the ground, then zipped in a bat-like fashion between the trees, croaking like a frog in heat. I jumped backward, falling flat in the soft spring mud. I lost sight of him in the underbrush, his tawny feathers camouflaging him perfectly.
“First, sheep. Now a bird,” I sighed. At least I had saved the wicker basket from sailing through the underbrush. I swept leafy debris from my jeans and hiked up the basket. What else could the Emerald Isle have in store?
Colm’s face appeared before me, snatching away the peace. When I thought of him, I lost my breath. I placed my fingers on my lips, remembering his velvet touch. I kissed him, and he kissed me back. How did it happen? How did his thoughts blend with mine? There was a moment where he took control, and I let him. I pushed the memory away. What good was remembering? Being with him or anyone else remained an impossible dream.
I lengthened my stride, leaving the wilds of that enchanted wood behind. The scalloped ridge of a thatched roof showed itself. The tendrils of smoke curling into the sky from the snub-nosed chimney struck me as odd. Did the lawyer mention a caretaker?
The cottage appeared the same as all the cottages on the Glengesh Pass—rectangular and no more than one room wide, with sash windows haphazardly placed across the front wall. The sled-red painted door matched the trim around the windows. A bicycle leaned against the front wall, adding to the charming ambiance.
The cottage surrounded by neatly trimmed grass and tidy cobblestones was expected. But the border of calla lilies? Was that a mere coincidence? I lingered in the courtyard, gazing from the cottage to the barn to the garage.
Saoirse’s musings were correct. Dermot Sweet owned three vehicles, a modest portfolio of stocks and bonds, and the property––a small holding located halfway along the Glengesh Pass ten minutes between Ardara and Glencolmcille––and from what I understood, two hundred head of black-faced sheep. What did I know about sheep?
I dropped the basket and backpack onto the cobblestones and explored the garage. The hinges creaked, revealing a tidy space, a workbench, and shelves lined with glass jars filled to the brim with nuts and bolts, and screws of different sizes.
I ran my index finger along the fender of a candy apple red full-size pickup truck. I concentrated. Nothing.
I discovered the key fob, vehicle registration certificate, and the insurance documents laid out for one purpose. The logbook displayed my name printed in bold block letters.
Who was this man?
A car draped in a beige tarp awaited discovery. I pulled the cover over the long hood of a classic dark green coupe. Chrome accents gleamed while a wildcat leaped from the hood. The steering wheel and stick shift were located on the left.
“Holy mother of God.” I imagined unleashing that beauty on those winding roads.
I returned to the cottage, my mind reeling. Why would this man leave me with everything he owned in the world?
I rested my hand on the half door and nearly jumped out of my skin when a tiny wren flew into my face, flapping her wings and chirping murderous thoughts.
“All right. All right.” At that point, nothing surprised me. I pursed my lips and whistled birdsong to appease my avian assassin. The wren watched me with unblinking black eyes.
