The Fire Opal (26 page)

Other pieces of furniture like it stood at various places and at different angles in the room, and I passed through feeling an excited chill, as if they were watching me. I went down a hallway of closed wooden doors and ascended another set of stairs to the highest and dimmest floor. Looking out the open arch, I saw that dusk had suddenly gathered, as if time had passed rapidly.

It was then, as I gazed down to the yard below, that I had the sense that there was something urgent I was supposed to be doing, but I could not recall what it was. It pulled at me as I stared at the night-blooming flowers beginning to open their white trumpets to the moon.

“What is it?” I asked myself, half deliriously. But whatever it was seemed to have detached itself from details and memory. The sweetness of the air, its clarity and coolness, relaxed and intoxicated me. The heads of the flowers trembled on their long slender necks. I could not concentrate on anything but the proximity of Francisco.

The dim reverberating tinkle of a bell sounded from within the house. “Francisco,” I whispered, and closed my eyes. “Where are you?”

A moment later I sensed him there, and smelled him on a gush of air. I remained very still, my attention finely tuned to the atmosphere, every sound, every slight change in temperature and fragrance. I took in my breath. This game served only to intensify the ache I felt
to see him and eclipsed the other sense that there was somewhere I needed to go and something I needed to remember.

As I roamed the deepening shadows of the rooms, the wind blew, and doors creaked and slammed downstairs. Instead of frightening me, this excited me.

He was hiding, but I would hide, too. We were playing an exhilarating game, the feeling of expectation invigorating to the point of distraction.

I opened the door to a room and saw dozens of flickering candles burning and pulsing before shrines to unknown female saints, some wearing thorny roses and ruffled mantles sewn with silver thread, all romantic-looking with dark eyes and red glistening lips. One of them, who looked like the figurehead on
La Hermana de la Luna
, turned her head slowly toward me and blinked her eyes. It did not seem strange that the statues in this place moved. She nodded, and I nodded back, and for a moment I felt it again, that uneasy urgency that I had something important to do. But I dismissed it when, from my peripheral vision, I saw movement and a flash of light near the stairwell. I hid in a recess behind the door, holding my breath, certain it was him at last. When I could bear it no longer, I jumped out. Instead of Francisco, I discovered an image of myself in a long mirror. Yet I did not really feel that the figure was me. She wore an extraordinary jewel-encrusted dress, more ornate than any I had ever seen. She smiled playfully, moving forward, and suddenly the mirror was gone. She tilted
her head, little wheels of light turning in her eyes, a palpable physical presence, breathing near me. She stifled a laugh as if I amused her.

“Go on,” she urged. “Keep looking for him.”

I felt a vague revulsion and unease. I reached out to touch her, but my fingers found a flat, cool surface. The mirror was there again, and the self looking back at me was just me, weathered by my journey, my pupils very large and shining as if I were suffering with fever, dusky circles beneath my eyes. My hair was intensely wind-matted, and I could see my chest rising and falling very hard as I breathed.

Shaken, I rushed away and told myself it had only been a hallucination caused by my exhaustion. My desire to see Francisco was so strong, my heart palpitated. I went down to the second floor and began listening at each door, until I heard breathing. All my pulses raced. I threw the door open.

My stomach fell like a lead weight. She was there again in her shimmering multifaceted dress. A smile crept across her face, and her eyes went wide. She was looking at something over my shoulder behind me. She pointed. “There he is!” she whispered.

I gasped as I turned. Francisco was there, an arm’s length away from me, his fragrant proximity warming the air between us. He grasped my hands and broke into a full smile, the two masculine dimples deepening, the ruby shining between his white teeth.

But it was the depth of his eyes, dark and flecked with
amber, that made me sure of him—sure that this was no flight of fancy, no illusion. Danu’s warnings came vaguely to mind. But who she was to me, and why she had warned me, had become unclear. No, whatever I had tried so hard to remember earlier was gone, leaving only the residue of a lost dream. Strangely, it didn’t matter that the rooms shifted and that things around us moved or disappeared. In every tingling fiber of my body, I knew that Francisco, at least, was real. “Maeve, Maeve,” he whispered, then embraced me and sighed; I felt then that he had been longing for me as much as I had for him.

He touched the side of my face and my hair, as if it were he who needed reassurance that I was real.

I heard soft laughter behind me and, looking back, saw the reflection watching us with fascinated eyes. Francisco seemed unperturbed by her presence.

“Let’s leave here, Francisco,” I pleaded.

No sooner had I said it than we found ourselves outside at a gypsy camp where men and women danced around a fire in the moonlight. A man sang, a melodious howl to the moon, and the others whistled and hooted and clapped, and two women danced, one shaking a tambourine, the other playing tinkling finger cymbals. The night sky was vivid blue and filled with stars, so many of them shooting it was like fireworks, leaving streaks and threads of light on the sky.

The sea roared and the moon slid across the heavens. A group of stars fell into the sea all at once and caused an
explosion of light, and those particles flew and floated everywhere, like lit cinders from a fire.

Francisco made a necklace of night-blooming flowers for me by weaving their green fronds together. Slow, pleasurable shudders moved over the surface of my skin as he hung it around my neck.

Time seemed to contract and stretch, clouds sometimes rampaging over the sea, rapid ebbs of passing days and nights while we remained on the periphery of the gypsy camp dancing or entangled in each other’s arms. The necklace of flowers stayed alive, breathing at my ear, sighing sometimes, closing at daylight, opening again at dark as full-throated as trumpets.

Early one morning, I awakened to the sound of a harp, swirling scales of music ascending and descending. At first, the music gave intense pleasure, but it soon began reawakening the nagging urgency, the sense that I had forgotten something. In waves of anxiety, accompanied by the shiver of harp strings, I struggled to remember. But my concentration was broken when Francisco pointed to a figure approaching from a distance. It was a priest in a long brown robe with a belt of rope tied around his waist and a large, heavy crucifix hanging around his neck. He married Francisco and me, blessing us with the sign of the cross, then kissing us each on the forehead. The gypsies cried out in celebration, then led us to a secluded beach where, hidden behind an embankment of rock, we found a bed with an iron frame, the sea rushing around its legs.

We lay down side by side and embraced as the others receded and left us to ourselves. At some point, the tide carried the bed into the water. We lay facing each other, the bed gently rocking on the waves like a boat.

We slept. I’d awaken for brief periods to the sound of the sea, or the sensation of Francisco’s lips pressed at my temple. But then a moment occurred when I heard the music coming again from somewhere nearby. I listened, hardly breathing as the harp transformed into voices. I suddenly recognized “The Canticle of Fire,” though I did not know the name of it or where I had heard it before. I knew only that I had heard it and that it was related to the confused urgency that haunted me. My eyes dampened and an unnameable yearning filled me. It was all there very close, like shadows behind a curtain. I ached to see everything clearly.

Francisco was sound asleep. The tide had gone out, and the bed stood again in the sand, having sailed and beached itself in front of the house with Francisco’s name above the lintel. On the departing tide, I saw my shawl, the tiny red jewels glistening, while on the nearby shore a group of gypsies stared at it covetously, intent upon it; two of the women began to wade in toward it. I dove into the water, and before they could get the shawl, I retrieved it and swam back to shore and to the bed, where Francisco still lay.

Everything felt ominously wrong. I stared at Francisco, and saw with horror that with each exhalation, he grew transparent, partially invisible; with each inhalation, he took solid form again. My heart raced with panic,
and “The Canticle of Fire,” which had remained softly playing on the air the entire time, grew in volume. The closer I looked at him, the stranger he appeared: his smooth forehead now furrowed, and his full lips were thin and tense and squeezed at the corners.

One of the night-blooming flowers on the necklace, which was wound around the iron curlicues of the bedpost, began to whisper, “He isn’t real. He isn’t real.”

His eyes, when he opened them, were not brown but a dull, pale green, the whites a wash of pink. Perhaps it was my astonishment that kept me staring into his face, or maybe it was a wish that this not be true, but as I did, gray fur began growing over his skin, and his ears became long and pointed. As I backed away, the bed disappeared and he began to dissolve, leaving only an outline in the sand.

I heard a crackling sound and looked toward the house, where the curtains were on fire, and soon the walls were ignited. The orange trees in front shimmered blue at their edges, staggering like men before they fell. Instead of Francisco’s name above the lintel, I saw my own name carved there: MAEVE O’TULLAGH. And beneath it, looking out the open door, stood the reflection that looked like me wearing the heavy jewel-encrusted dress. She gave a wistful smile, unperturbed by the flames that were now engulfing her. The jewels on her dress popped and snapped in the heat, some flying off in arcs. The letters of my name glowed deep orange in the flames above her, and soon the entire structure collapsed over her in a rage of fire. And far more quickly than if any of it had been real, the house was gone in a gust of black smoke.

Tortured by an awful confusion, I knelt down and touched the sandy outline of the man I had thought was Francisco. A tide rushed in and washed it fully away.

Everything changed suddenly. The trees disappeared. It was a dead island, nothing but dry dust and stone.

On the vacant shore, gilded by the lowering sun, I saw Danu watching me, waiting. On the sand beside her stood her large, ornately wrought candelabra. It held three burning candles, the flames leaning and rippling in the wind. As I approached, dusk deepened around us, great banks of dimming cloud rearing and dissolving.

Mam and Ishleen flashed through my thoughts, and I was gripped with panic. I remembered the black iron boxes and the urgency that I return before the narcotic wore off. Overcome with remorse and dread, I began to run toward the goddess.

“How long have I been here?” I cried out.

“Three days,” she answered calmly.

“I thought it was longer.”

“Time is distorted here in the Realm of the Shee. You ate the goblin fruit.”

“I was hungry, and I thought I had already left the waters of the Shee.”

Danu shook her head. “I have been here on this beach almost the entire time waiting for you. But you were in the thrall of your dream. Even I could not have brought you back, and I worried that you might not return at all.”

“It was real, Goddess,” I said, and began to weep. “He was real.”

She looked at me sadly and shook her head. “No.”

“Where is he, Goddess?” I asked. “Is Francisco still alive?”

“He may be alive, but if he is, he has undergone some great transformation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes people don’t die in the usual way. They transform. But there’s no time now to speak about that. Because you long so much for Francisco, you are too vulnerable to the illusions of the Shee. Take this with you.” She pointed to the candelabra. “These flames will never go out, and the light they issue will help you distinguish between what is real and what is illusion.”

“Have I ruined everything?” I asked.

“The plan will not be so seamless now, Maeve. They’ll know that you’ve been gone when you return. Just remember everything I’ve told you.”

“Where is my boat?”

“It’s drifted off, or it’s traveled back without you.” She pointed seaward, and to the west I saw the faint ghost of
Nuestra Señora de la Soledad
drifting at anchor. “Grasp the candelabra,” she instructed. “It will take you.”

I reached down and took hold of the heavy yoke below the burning candles.

“Kick the hem of the dress softly and deliberately,” she said.

I obeyed her, and the dress lifted me into the air. She watched me gravely from below as I sailed toward the ghost ship.

The dark green skies gathered again as we moved through the Realm of the Shee. The ghosts of Francisco’s former crew members listened as I struggled to come to terms with what I’d experienced.