Reluctantly Charmed (29 page)

An Trá Bhán was a white sanded beach that swept majestically for miles and melted into the ocean like the head of a pint of Guinness. The sea flapped with great urgency and intention, frothing, at the cool, frosty beach. There wasn’t the shadow of another person, or the footsteps in the sand of those who must have walked there before me, my ancestors. As I admired this unchanged landscape, I knew I was looking at the same view, crunching the same sand underfoot as they had.

I walked for over an hour, enjoying the peace and stillness. And then the happiest thing happened—it felt like a dream—and my heart overflowed. Bounding up the beach, heavy paws flying, ears flapping, and gray curly hair rippling in the wind, was Setanta. It was a healthy, robust Setanta, much happier than the last time I’d seen him slumped weakly in Hugh’s arms and practically foaming at the mouth. I couldn’t believe it. The west of Ireland: hadn’t Hugh said they were heading
back to the west? Wasn’t the west home? Where was he? Where was Hugh?

Setanta recognized me immediately and threw his big paws onto my shoulders in a loving embrace. All was forgiven, by him, at least. I struggled to keep my balance under his weight but eventually had to give in. I fell to the sand, his nose on my nose, licking my face. Laughing, I pushed him off and rolled away, conscious of the sea inching toward me. I turned my head to see a familiar pair of mucky hiking boots. A giant hand appeared, and a shocked-looking Hugh smiled down at me. Our eyes locked. Lost in his gaze, I took his hand and heaved myself up. Setanta bounced around us.

“You . . .” Hugh stopped, and his face exploded into a giant smile that stretched from one end of An Trá Bhán to the other. “Where did you come from?”

“I think I just ran away,” I admitted.

“This is so strange.”

A dark-haired couple were approaching us. Setanta knew them and in a few strides he’d encircled us all.

Hugh turned to the couple and then looked back at me. “Kate, this is my brother, Niall, and his wife, Aisling. They’ve got a place near here.”

I moved forward and shook their hands, noticing that Niall had the same gray eyes as Hugh but looked a bit older—mid-thirties, maybe. Aisling jumped forward to kiss my cheek, her straight brown hair getting caught in the wind.

“Are you from Knocknamee, Kate?”

“No. Dublin. I guess I’m just visiting. It’s beautiful here. I’m staying in Martin’s B and B in town.”

“Ah, Martin. I know him. We’ve had friends stay there when our house got too crowded with guests.”

“You’re from Dublin and you know my brother?” Niall looked at me quizzically. “You’re a friend of Long Hugh’s?” He turned to Hugh and laughed. “I thought you hated Dublin people!”

“Long Hugh?” I chose to ignore the Dublin comment, knowing it to be true.

“On account of the height, not any other part of his anatomy.” They all laughed; a family in-joke.

“We worked together. Well, kind of, but not really.” Hugh looked at his shoes.

“We just love it here. There’s something special about this place,” Niall said, his face glowing.

Setanta started to bark, anxious to keep moving.

“Well, any friend of Hugh’s is a friend of ours.” Aisling smiled at me, revealing straight pearly-white teeth. “Will you come for dinner tomorrow night? We’re going all out, with a pig on a spit. A few friends are calling around. God, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

I shook my head.

“That’s set, so. You’ll come, won’t you?”

I wanted to, I definitely wanted to. This lovely, friendly couple, Setanta, handsome Hugh—he couldn’t still hate me, could he? I looked over at him to see whether it was okay.

He flashed me that million-dollar smile. “Come if you want.”

Hardly a glowing invitation.
Damn him
, I thought,
I’m coming anyway.
“I’d love to, thanks for asking.”

Aisling scribbled down their address, some directions, and all three of their phone numbers. We said good-bye and I carried on along the beach, still enjoying my walk but now with an excited, nervous feeling bubbling in my stomach.
Breathe in the air
, I thought.
Breathe it in
.

23

B
ack at my rosebudded HQ I flicked on my phone with great trepidation. Every time I turned it on I was opening the gateway to the outside world, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

Jim: “Yo, babe, wondering where you at? We’re playing a gig Saturday, would love you to come?”

I hit delete.

Matthew: “Kate . . . I’m so sorry. I just . . . I’m so sorry.”

Delete.

Matthew: “Kate, I’m sorry. Where did you go, anyway? You just ran out of here.”

Delete.

Colin: “Kate, I apologize for anything I might have said to offend you. I really didn’t mean to. I panicked. Call me back.”

Delete.

Matthew: “Call me.”

Delete.

Mam: “Hi, love, how’s Knocknamee? Your father says I’m not to disturb you, but I couldn’t help myself. Hope you’re doing OK. Love you, pet, call me back.”

I went downstairs to the grocery store–pub, mistakenly swinging my handbag around, just millimeters from creating a baked bean avalanche.

Martin was hunched over the countertop, reading a newspaper.

“Tea?”

I shook my head. I fancied something else: atmosphere, ambience. There I was, miles from home and yet feeling strangely at home. My worlds were beginning to collide in Knocknamee, and I had to wonder why. Why had I ended up here? What cosmic forces were at play? I was sure that it had to be related to the Red Hag and that I owed it to her and to me to see if I could uncover more about her past. Who knew where the past could lead me?

“I might go for a walk up the town. Admire the view.”

I walked into O’Donahue’s pub, three doors up, promising myself I’d buy a postcard of the view. O’Donahue’s was a dark pub with a scattering of knee-high stools and small round tables dotted with beer mats. There were four old men perched at the bar like budgies, dipping their heads in and out of their Guinness. A heavyset woman with rosy cheeks stood chatting to them from behind the bar.

I bought a pint of Guinness.
“Sláinte
.” I mumbled the Irish word for “cheers” quietly to myself.

I chose the table in the corner, conscious of being there alone, and glanced around to see who else was there. A very drunk man was slumped in the opposite corner, speaking and swaying softly to the audience in his head.

Then a chilly gust of wind blew into the pub. The door banged shut, and the room froze for a nanosecond as all eyes turned.

Only I recognized her. Maura Ni Ghaora. She glided, catlike, across the room. Sitting opposite me, she ran her hands over her straight hair and clawed at a gold brooch on her neck.

“Maura. How did you . . .” I whispered.

“I thought I could assist you, and the fairies, in your quest,” she said in a low purr.

“How did you know I was here?” Her presence made me nervous. I still hadn’t been able to prove anything, but I was almost certain she was involved in a cult, a cult that dabbled in the dark arts. Her motives were sinister, I was sure of that now.

Maura ignored me. “As I explained previously, we are always interested in Knocknamee. It’s a gateway to the fairy world.”

Tír na nÓg
, I thought.

“I’m researching the Red Hag and life during those times to understand her connection to the fairies.” Maura leaned in so close to me I could see the glue on her false eyelashes. “We’re getting close.” Her breathing quickened, and for the first time she seemed to be showing an emotion—excitement.

She removed her gray cashmere jacket, revealing a cream lace blouse. “It’s always helpful to speak to local people, to try and build up an image of the past. Often history lives in their current stories and lives.”

I nodded in agreement. If I could, I should keep her onside.
Anyway, there was no way anyone in Knocknamee would speak to Maura. She was too different, too strange. I decided to play along with her. “Is it likely there’ll be any stories?” I asked. “I mean, really, the Red Hag died over one hundred and thirty years ago.”

“Given she was a witch . . .” Maura paused and looked at me. “It’s likely she left a legacy. Her story will be here.” She looked around the pub. “It’ll be here.”

“How will you find out?”

“I’ll talk to people. I’ll do it quietly, see if they’ll open up to me.”

I shrugged, remembering she was a journalist: she’d be used to getting things out of people. And just because I found her odd didn’t mean everyone else would.

Maura produced the brown leather folder in which she kept the Steps. New pages had been added to it. “These are some notes, archive information about the era. Postfamine, 1850 onward, was a difficult time in the west of Ireland.”

My face scrunched up. I felt guilty. In my head, the history books ended around 1852. I never thought about life after the famine, what it must have been like to pick up the pieces in a place where all that was left were ghosts of the past.

“Knocknamee, this tiny little spot, lost fifteen hundred people in the famine. That was almost two-thirds of the town’s entire population. After the famine, the poverty was immense.” Maura’s fingers, gloved in cream leather, were flicking through her notes. “No money, no land. Just graves and emigrants. Times were hard. For example . . .” She pushed a piece of paper under my nose.

It was a record dated 18 April 1849, from a workhouse in Limerick.

There were 120 applicants, of whom 52 were children, many of whom were evidently in the last stage of starvation. Provisions were available for 83 applicants only. Thirty-seven applicants were rejected.

“It’s awful.”

“Back then, people were worried about the basics: food and shelter. And the church—they believed in the church—and, Kate, they believed in fairies. They really did. The other world gave them hope. Same as it gives me hope, gives everyone hope.”

“Everyone?” I thought I’d stick my neck out. “Maura, the group that you’re with . . .”

Her eyes widened.

“What do they want?”

“The same as anyone wants.” She eyeballed me.

“Love? Happiness?” I questioned.

“For eternity.”

“And you think the fairies can give you this?”

“We know the fairies have it. I doubt they’ll give it to us. But we’re willing to get it by any means possible.”

That veiled threat again.

“Me? Am I one of those possible means?”

She looked at me and smiled thinly, probably debating whether or not to answer truthfully. “Maybe, but you’re not the only one—or way.”

I shivered. I felt scared. Her threats, the way she constantly insinuated that she knew a lot more than she was giving away, frightened me. Something told me I shouldn’t let my guard down around her. I put on my game face and forced a laugh. “And there I was thinking I was special.”

“You are. There is a connection, but you’re not unique. They’ve done this style of crossover before. There are many ways
to contact them to try and enter their realm.”

“Is that what you want to do? Has anyone done it before?” I asked cautiously, unsure how much I should press her.

“Maybe, we don’t know. We think so.”

“And these people that you’re with, this group, they all want the same thing?” I knew I sounded nervous.

“And they’ll stop at nothing to get it.” Her face hardened, and I was left under no illusions as to what she meant. This woman who liaised with gangsters, the media, and politicians was determined to get her way.

The drunk in the corner must have heard us talking about the famine, because his mumbles turned into a song, a low, deep tune. He sang with his eyes shut and his mouth wide open, revealing the two yellow teeth in his head.

Pale mothers, wherefore weeping—

Would to God that we were dead;

Our children swoon before us,

and we cannot give them bread.

“Do you think the villagers here know about the Seven Steps?” I said out loud to no one in particular. “About everything that’s going on?”

“Well, there’s no more media circus around you, is there?” It was the way she said it, the tone of her voice.

“You? You stopped the paparazzi?”

“Let’s just say they’re on hold temporarily.”

Who was she? How could she do these things?

“Remember, Kate, you can trust me.”

I nodded, pretending to agree, too scared not to placate her.
But I knew I could never trust her. Aside from the fact she creeped me out, she seemed far too connected to dangerous people for me to want to have any dealings with her.

I looked at the drunk in the corner and the men at the bar, who were probably in the same positions they’d occupied for years. The Seven Steps and the fairies weren’t having an impact on their life one bit. Not yet, anyway. That would happen soon enough.

24

A
stranger in a small town will never know the rhythm of the place.
A stranger will always cause an eyebrow to raise or a throat to clear. There is a language, a code built into the locals that a visitor cannot translate. When Annie drummed her fingers on the bar in O’Donahue’s pub, the Guinness drinkers knew it was half an hour until last orders and someone had better organize a taxi for Dermot Flynn, because he was too drunk to walk and she wouldn’t be the one to turf him out. When a dark cloud hung over the Devil’s Bit, it meant not rain but an icy wind from the ocean that would make tears stream from your eyes. When Johnny Logan, the town mayor, rubbed his crooked nose, he’d put a bet on the horses, and if his mouth twitched, the odds were long. It was common knowledge that Sarah Mitchell was having an affair with Billy the pig farmer, but no one discussed it. It didn’t spark idle banter out of respect for her poor long-suffering husband, who everyone knew was a good man. Everyone went to mass on Sundays, even though at least half the congregation thought religion was a load of old nonsense, but just in case, just in case, they were there every Sunday. And just in case, Billy the pig farmer wouldn’t farm the land in the fairy ring in his back field, even though, Lord knows, he could have done with the
extra acreage. And just in case, the schoolkids spun three times when they saw a lone magpie, and just in case, a voice turned into a whisper when fairies were mentioned.