The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (2 page)

Grady shot him a black look. “What're ye sayin', boy?”

“Sometimes she talks a little . . . off, is all I mean.”

Before anyone could exchange another word the door opened and Miss Oonagh stepped outside. She strode straight past Seamus and Grady, with a posture and carriage that seemed impossible for her age. Ignoring Grady's outstretched arms, she stopped directly in front of me. I felt myself shrink under the steady gaze of her riveting gray eyes, and the flute in my pocket began to vibrate and hum. Oonagh tipped her head to one side and stared from me to Pru, and finally to Marni.

“Ye arrived, fin'ly and not a moment too soon,” Oonagh said, pulling her shawl closer. There was a clanging sound in the distance, sending a shiver down my spine—it was our ship's bell. The sun suddenly slipped behind a cloud and a misty fog drifted in off the water. With it, the smell of woodsmoke filled the air.

“Mam . . . ,” Grady exclaimed, reaching toward her.

“Inside,” she said, leading the way past him toward the cottage. The mist swirled between us in chilling furls. Was it always this chilly here in July?

“Mam . . . ,” Grady began again.

Oonagh stopped short, turned, and pointed a long, gnarly finger at me. Her eyes seemed almost the same color as the fog. “Just the lass,” she hissed. “I've been waitin' a long time fer the lass.”

3

I
t took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the cottage. Embers glowed in a large stone fireplace, providing the only light besides what little came in through the small windows.

“Sit, girl,” the old woman directed, gesturing toward one of two rocking chairs positioned near the fire. “Sit!” I backed into one of the chairs and Miss Oonagh dropped into the other. She rocked forward and from a brass receptacle drew a long matchstick that she swiped briskly along the stone floor. The tip of the match burst into flame, lighting Miss Oonagh's face from below, giving it the withered look of a month-old jack-o'-lantern. She produced a small white clay pipe and a leather bag from her pocket, pinched a clump of tobacco, and in one practiced move stuffed the pipe, lit it, and puffed, her cheeks hollowing in and out like a pair of worn leather bellows. Once satisfied with her smoke, she settled back and stared at me—or, rather, through me.

“Oh yes, it's her all right, the one we've awaited.”

I turned and glanced over my shoulder. It was as though she was addressing someone behind me. But no. The room was empty. “Who?” I asked. “I don't understand.” The old woman continued to stare, trancelike, ignoring my words.

“Yep, felt it in the land itself, we did, in all the thin spaces . . .”

“Thin spaces? What?”

“Finally it all comes around, it does. And the one of the sea . . . sure, sure . . . waitin' for her even longer . . .”

“Who? Marni?” As if in response the flute in my pocket began to buzz, and something inside the ditty bag slung in my lap started to move. Miss Oonagh didn't miss this phenomenon—her eagle eyes riveted toward the bag as I pulled open the drawstring. Inside, my case of playing cards wiggled and twitched—the ones my great-grandmother had made, the illustrations on their backs providing the clues that had led us to Clare Island in the first place.

Miss Oonagh rose from her chair in a cloud of tobacco smoke and seemed to float toward me, eyes never leaving the scrimshaw box of cards I held in my hands. “Yes! Yes, I see ye now, I do, the whole bunch of ye's, inhabitin' them cards! Long time since ye's been here. Homecomin' now, 'tis, all comin' full circle.”

As she spoke, the lid flipped off the box, and three of the face cards levitated before me. The queen of spades leaned forward and laughed, a wicked cackle. In response, the queen of diamonds, her bulldog jowls jiggling, retorted, “Back here at last!” The king of diamonds snapped up and hovered in the air between the queens. A sly smile spread across his lips.

With surprising agility Miss Oonagh slapped him down with one swipe of her hand. “Yer the cause of this tribulation! But it'll be over soon enough!” At her touch the cards dropped into my lap. I gathered them up and stuffed them back in my ditty bag. The energy had drained out of the old woman as well. She hobbled back to her chair and collapsed into it, blinking into the dim light. The brightness in her eyes was replaced by confusion.

“Grady!” she yelled. “Ye have some nerve keepin' yer old mam waitin'. Get yer arse in here!” She looked at me suddenly, as if just noticing my presence. “Who are ye, lass, and what're ye doin' sittin' by me fire?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but as Grady and Seamus made their way inside, her attention shifted to them. So I got up and tiptoed toward the door. As I passed Seamus he whispered, “Ye see what I mean?” He tapped his temple and rolled his eyes. Grady cuffed him off the side of his cheek and Seamus shrugged. I burst past them into the yard, where Pru, Walter, and Marni were waiting.

“What was that all about?” Pru asked.

Walter chuckled. “You one-upped Grady, that's for sure.”

I groaned, suspecting I would pay a price for that. I was about to explain the old woman's strange ramblings when Marni spoke. “Miss Oonagh,” she began, a faraway look in her eye. “She had the look of a cailleach.”

“A c . . . c . . . cail . . .” I stumbled over the word. It sounded like “ka-lex.”

Pru's eyes opened wide. “Oh, I've read of them,” she exclaimed. “A kind of an oracle—a divine hag. These women have the gift of second sight—they see things the rest of us can't.”

Marni nodded. “Her eyes . . . it was as though she only saw you—not Seamus, not her own son—just you.”

I thought of Oonagh's words—
And the old one, the one of the sea.
. . . “Oh no,” I replied. “She saw you too, Marni. She called you ‘the one of the sea.'”

Marni paled at the words and suddenly seemed even older than her years. Pru laid her hand on Marni's arm. “There's plenty of time for talk. Right now, why don't we try to get settled?”

“We're to take that cottage over there,” Walter said, nodding in the direction of a ramshackle structure set on a grassy knoll behind the main house. “Said the door's open.”

“Come on,” Pru said. “We've had an incredibly long day. I'm sure we'll want to retire early this evening. Best to get the place ready.” We exchanged a look, both of our minds on the same thought—something that happened with remarkable frequency. Clearly, there was some connection between Marni and Oonagh, and it was unsettling.

With an arm around Marni's shoulder, Pru led the way, Walter and I behind. “What happened back there?” Walter asked. I lowered my voice, so as not to upset Marni any further.

“Oonagh spoke, and my flute began to hum. Then the cards . . . I had them in my ditty bag . . . just like before. . . .”

Walter took my arm. “The cards haven't spoken since we were in Australia! What did they say?”

“Nothing much before Miss Oonagh silenced them. She said the king of diamonds—Edward the First—was the cause of all this tribulation.”

“Well, it means something. Proof we're on the right track!”

I nodded.

“Here we are,” Pru announced.

We pushed open the old wooden door to the place. Moss grew between its cracked and warped timbers. It creaked on its hinges, and as it swung open we were met with a musty smell.

“It'll be fine once we air it out,” Pru said, with more confidence than I'm sure she felt. We squinted into the dark interior.

“I'll get a fire going,” Walter volunteered. He moved toward the stone hearth, picked up a brush, and began sweeping a pile of ash to the side. Pru adjusted the dank window curtains to let in as much light as possible. I led Marni to a rocker, not unlike the ones in Oonagh's cottage. She sat back heavily and sighed, and I began to wonder if all the traveling had finally caught up to her. In a moment she was snoring softly.

The door suddenly squeaked open again. “I see ye found it okay,” Seamus said. “There's a bedroom in the back fer the ladies to share. Ye might want to set yer cot in the main room, fella, so's ye can tend the fire.”

“It's Walter.” My friend scowled, turning his handsome face sour. “You want to tell me where we can find some firewood?”

“Firewood? Oh no—here we burn peat.” The curve of Seamus's mouth told me that he enjoyed correcting Walter, and I felt a wave of irritation. “Firewood's scarce, so we dig up the peat—turf—from the ground. Can keep a fire burnin' day and night, it can.” He reached into a box beside the hearth and pulled out a brick made of an earthy mix of soil and some kind of decaying plants. He arranged five or six of these on the stone and knelt to light them afire. In no time a swirl of smoke wafted from the peat. Seamus fanned it and coaxed a flame that flickered and stretched. Walter watched Seamus's every move, determined, I could see, not to ask for his help again. The unmistakable scent that Grady had associated with the “Grey Man” filled the room. “There,” Seamus said. “It'll take the dampness out and cozy up the place, it will.” He winked at me and Walter glared. I didn't know which of them to be more annoyed with. The edges of my aunt Pru's lips fought a smile—she was clearly finding the carryings on between them amusing.

“Thank you, Seamus,” Pru said. “That'll do for now.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, bowing slightly. He pulled a tweed cap from his back pocket, put it on, and, with one last glance my way, ducked out the door.

“This will do nicely,” Pru said, looking around, assessing the interior. “Amazing how a place can come to life once people inhabit it. And lovely country. Lovely.”

“Why don't you ladies get yourselves set up in the back bedroom, while I have a look around the island?” Walter said. “Only six square miles. I can start to get the lay of the land.”

“See if you can find Pugsley,” I suggested. “He was off running around with that little collie.”

He was out the door before I heard his response.

Pru was already rummaging through a cupboard, her wristful of bracelets jingling in a way I found reassuring. I'd come to associate the sound with her competence and determination. There was a confidence about her that never failed to elicit in me a sense of gratitude and excitement. After Mother and Father were lost at sea, I thought I might never find her, but here she was, bustling about our little cottage, preparing for the next stage of our quest together. I watched her with great admiration. There wasn't another woman I knew who self-assuredly wore khaki jodhpurs or trousers, tall leather boots, paired with tailored men's-style shirts one day, an Indian batik print blouse the next, a thick leather belt at her waist. She turned heads as she passed, her mane of long red curls as determined as she not to be tamed.

“Tea? How about it?” she asked. “Irish brew is as good as the English, maybe better!” She already had the kettle in one hand, a tin of tea in the other. We both looked around, and that was when I realized there was no sink—just a large basin with a bucket beside it. Pru grinned. “How about you grab that bucket and go outside and find the pump?”

I smiled. It wasn't what I was used to back in Maine, but the water would surely be fresher than what we'd endured all those months aboard ship. I took the pail and headed outside. What a magnificent view—for a moment it took my breath away. Completely opposite of the stark beauty of the red, gold, and brown landscape of the Australian outback, all the colors—lush green, brilliant blue, peaceful gray—were soft and cool. I thought again about Grady's words—there
was
something inherently magical about the place, as though the ancient rocks and fields themselves held secrets. A ways off, down a rolling hillside, I caught sight of Walter. I recognized the rhythm of his gait, the way he walked, head forward, full of resolve, hands tucked in his pockets. A flood of affection rushed over me—how fate, with Marni's help, had brought us together back in Maine, the unlikely paths of our lives coming together. Another thought crossed my mind—how back on the island of St. Helena . . . I blushed and covered my mouth with my hand. How close we'd come to a kiss . . . and how during all the following months at sea it was as if it had never even happened. I looked away, foolishly thinking that if he glanced back and noticed me watching, he might read my mind. I was grateful for the sight of the old metal pump, its red paint peeling. I strode over, plopped the bucket, and vigorously cranked the handle until the cold water sloshed.

In no time Pru and I were sitting at the rustic table, warming our hands around steaming cups of tea, the turf fire dancing merrily. Marni still sat beside the fire, her face strong and dignified even in sleep.

“Let's look at the cards,” Pru suggested. I removed the box from my ditty bag and placed it on the table between us. With its rectangular, scrimshaw carvings on ivory, it had the look of a miniature coffin. The energy about it sucked some of the warmth and coziness from the room.

“Back at Miss Oonagh's—” I began. Before I could finish the sentence the lid of the box began to tremble. Pru raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” I whispered. “The cards started acting up again.” When I reached for the box, the lid shot off and clanked onto the table. As though shuffled by invisible hands the entire deck rose, then fanned out, facedown, before us. The cards slid this way and that, switching places with one another, until they finally came to rest in three neat rows.

“They've arranged themselves in order,” Pru whispered. “Look!”

We took our time, studying the sequence of illustrations my great-grandmother had carefully drawn on the backs of the cards—two ships, tiny characters having a duel, a man making off with a chest. A woman waving a cutlass as the ship sails away. Men digging a hole on a hill beside a church—a grave? In it they place one of the large chests—or perhaps a coffin? The word
CLARE
is written in the clouds. And there were other depictions as well—the squarish fortress of Gracie O'Malley beside the shore.

My heart thrilled. Of course, I thought, we were exactly where we were supposed to be—it was all spelled out on the cards. My aunt and I exchanged a glance. “Right where we're supposed to be,” she said uncannily, reaching across the table and patting my hand.

Suddenly the door flew open and a swirl of gray vapor wafted inside. Walter appeared in the midst of the fog. A wisp of smoke continued to drift about him.

“I discovered something,” he said. His face was alight with excitement. “Grab your sweaters—come on!”

Marni opened her eyes and stood. “I'm going too,” she announced. She appeared fully restored, her green eyes piercing, her movements decisive.

Without delay Pru and I scooped the cards back into the box, and the three of us set out behind him.