The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (7 page)

“But Mam, how kin I leave ye? I's just arrived!”

Miss Oonagh was already retracing her steps.

“Mam!” Grady hollered, and under his breath he muttered, “Dang confounding woman!”

“Me ears are fine,” she retorted. “Ye think I cain't hear ye? Get 'er ready t' sail. Now leave me be. I've packin' t' do!”

“Packin'?” Grady barked. “What packin'?”

“Always wanted t' sail,” Miss Oonagh said. “And now I shall.”

Grady opened his mouth to protest, but Miss Oonagh silenced him with a hawkish glare. “All of ye's better collect yer things,” she said. “And prepare t' cross the sea to Ballyvaughan!”

11

W
e'd barely gotten settled on Clare Island and here we were gathering our belongings, preparing, once again, to sail. Unlike previous voyages, in which our launch was anticipated with confidence and excitement, the atmosphere this time was laden with anxiety. Our skeleton crew—Grady, me, Walter, Pru, and Marni—was worrisome, and although it wouldn't be a long journey, the Irish shore could be a challenge for the best of sailors. Miss Oonagh's insistence on coming brought another layer of concern.

Our trunks were laid open and the cupboards in which we'd carefully arranged our belongings, emptied. Plates and cups stashed back in the sidebar, the fireplace swept and tidied—all of this left the cottage stark and plain, the life we'd brought within its walls waning.

“Just when I was getting used to tea and scones,” Walter said, tucking his oilskins into his seafaring chest.

I made an effort to be cheerful. “When we get to Ballyvaughan, Addie will make you the best scones you've ever tasted!”

“I'll bet Annie and Georgie have gained a few pounds,” Walter teased, smiling at the thought of the two little ones.

The white lace curtains billowed, and the breeze carried in a whiff of smoke-tainted air. I raised my face and sniffed. The Grey Man's presence here unnerved me, and added to the worry about navigating these coastal waters. But this smell was different, not as woodsy. A bitter, greener smell.

“Like hay burning,” Walter said, as if reading my mind. Marni's hand rose to her throat, fingering her pendant, a crease forming between her brows. Pugsley paced by the door, nose raised, whiskers twitching. The hair along his back bristled.

There was a knock at the door. Seamus burst in, his face smudged and glistening with sweat. “All hands,” he yelled. “Bring all the buckets ye can! Old Peader's cottage is a-burnin'—the thatch caught fire!”

We dropped everything and ran up the hill, lugging clumsy wooden buckets that thunked against our calves and blistered our palms. Pugsley hightailed it ahead of us.

“As if the ransacking wasn't enough,” Pru exclaimed, “now a fire!”

Halfway to the abbey we saw dark thick smoke churning up, blackening the sky. The sound of men's voices pierced the air.

We joined a line of islanders stretched between the pump and cottage, passing water pails to a crew desperately trying to douse the flames. Before we even began, I could see it was futile. The thatch atop the cottage roared like a bonfire, huge tufts of flaming hay falling inside. The whole thing blazed and crackled, puffed and belched, the acrid air smarting our eyes and taxing our lungs.

Old Peader stood to the side, his tall frame stooped, shoulders slumped, arms dangling by his sides. His face was black with soot, his mouth slack. For a moment I thought the old man was too stunned to actually realize what was taking place—until I saw the shiny tears running down his cheeks and chin. Rosie sidled up to him, nudging his motionless hand with her snout, whimpering softly. “Smelled smoke all night, I did, but danged if I could find the source,” he mumbled. “Gone. Everythin' I own, gone up in smoke!” He shook his head, raising trembling fingers to his chin. “This is all that's left!” He gestured toward a pile of this and that—whatever he'd been able to grab and heave onto the lawn.

By now the chain of water haulers slowed. Old Peader was right. It was too late to save anything more, the dryness of the thatch and ferocity of the blaze proving to be unbeatable foes. Pugsley nosed through the small but precious collection of things Peader had managed to salvage. I arranged them neatly—a couple of shirts and a worn pair of trousers. A homely wooden box that probably held important papers or keepsakes. Rosie's old blanket and dish. A small pile of books. The well-loved Holy Bible, its spine broken and cover threadbare; a slight volume titled
The Wind Among the Reeds
—poetry, by the look of it; and a third,
Irish Myths and Legends
. This one I picked up, brushed off, and thumbed through the pages of small text and detailed line drawings of many a type of Irish mystical creature—fairies, banshees, leprechauns, and merrows. I stopped, flipped back to a picture of a merrow sunning on a rocky shore, and read the underlined caption:

 

Legend has it that when a merrow comes ashore she must leave her cloak behind. A fisherman and others who frequent the seas, upon finding the cloak, might hide it in the thatch of a cottage, thus holding the beautiful sea creature captive onshore—the merrow can't return to the sea without it. Once she discovers it, however, the merrow's desire to return to the sea becomes overwhelming, and she disappears again, with her cloak, into
the sea.

 

Old Peader glanced my way, and feeling like a snoop, I quickly closed the book and laid it down with the others. What a peculiar passage to underline, I thought.

One by one the volunteers left, offering condolences to Old Peader. “The wife and I can put ye up,” one called. “Me son's gone t' the mainland, he has—his room is empty. . . .”

“We can clean it up and rethatch before winter,” another called. But Old Peader waved them off, mumbling thanks. It was as though his spirit had been doused along with everything else. As the crowd dispersed, we stood together watching the pyre burn itself out. “How d'ye think it caught?” Grady asked. “'Twas one heck of a fire.”

Old Peader snuffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “When the marauders came a-lookin' fer their treasure, the big one took me broom and lit it afire. Waved it at the roof, he did. Thinkin' if I knowed a thing atall 'bout the treasure, I'd spit it out 'fore he set me place aflame. When it was clear I'd nothin' to tell, he shoved me burnin' broom into the hearth. Musta sent a spark flyin' up where it smoldered all night until . . .” His voice faltered.

Walter spit out of the side of his mouth and shook his head. “Wasn't enough to turn the place upside down, they had to burn it besides?”

Seamus muttered, almost to himself, “Had I known, I never would have . . .”

Walter looked at him sharply. “Never would've what?”

Seamus's face paled. He hesitated. “Left the old fella alone.”

Pru and I exchanged a glance. Something about Seamus's demeanor was unsettling—it was the same nervous energy he'd displayed the night he served as lookout, reporting the sighting of the rowboat later than he might have. At the same time I found Walter's accusatory tone distasteful.

Marni laid a hand on Old Peader's arm. “You have fine neighbors who'll be here for you. What can we do to help?”

Old Peader wept silently. “Been better if ye's hadn't dug me up,” he said. “How much can an old man bear?”

Suddenly Miss Oonagh appeared. She must have arrived in the thick of it, unseen. She took in the scene with a sweep of her silvery eyes. “Stop yer bellyachin',” she said. “Day after next you'll leave this place. I sees it clearly!”

“I've nowhere t' go,” Old Peader cried. “Too set in me ways to be stayin' at the neighbor's . . .”

His words tugged at my heart. I knew what it was like to lose everything. To have your home desecrated by ill will and greed. Without thinking the words burst from my lips. “Old Peader, you can come with us to Ballyvaughan! We set sail on Wednesday.”

“But I'm a-scared o' the sea,” he lamented. “And what about Rosie?”

“Rosie too,” I said.

“How in the world am I supposed to sail a ship with a crew o' nothin' but elders and women?” Grady exclaimed.

Walter cleared his throat. “‘S'cuse me . . .”

“Oh, forgive me oversight,” Grady answered. “A crew of elders, women, and one experienced man, save myself.”

Seamus stepped forward, his dark mood suddenly lifted. “Make that two men! I volunteer me service. 'Twill be grand!”

“What good will you be?” Walter demanded. “You don't know anything about sailing.”

“Neither did you, Walter, if mem'ry serves,” Grady retorted.

“A sailor needs to be reliable,” Walter insisted. “Trustworthy!”

“If he can do it, so can I!” Seamus winked at me, ignoring Walter's objections.

“Frankly, Grady, I'm offended that you discount what we women have to offer,” Marni said. “Pru, Lucy, and I can hold our own with the best of them, and you know it.”

I linked elbows with Pru and Marni and nodded vigorously. “We're up for it!” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

Seamus broke in between Marni and me. “I'll be a thorn among roses!”

“You'll be a detriment,” Walter muttered.

I found myself wanting him to prove Walter wrong.

Grady could see he was outnumbered. Or perhaps he was leery about disregarding his mother's premonitions. He shook his head and stared out to sea. “Better get packed,” he said. “We'll need to go aboard tomorrow, set the sails, chart our course, gather supplies. Thank the good Lord it'll be a short journey.”

Walter, Marni, and Seamus stayed behind to help Old Peader see if there was anything else left to salvage. There wouldn't be much he could bring to Ballyvaughan.

“At least he has Rosie,” Pru whispered. My aunt and I walked back to the cottage in silence, then continued our packing in earnest.

Once my things were neatly stowed I looked about. Marni's trunk sat in the corner and she still hadn't packed. I lifted the lid of the trunk and then opened the cupboard where her clothes were neatly folded on the shelves. It wouldn't take long. While Pru tidied the hearth, I began to transfer Marni's things from compartment to trunk, one neatly folded pile at a time. Side by side, I laid them in the traveling chest, pleased that she'd return to find one more task completed.

As I slid the last orderly pile of garments from the cupboard, something caught my eye. Something at the far back of the shelf. I peered into the wooden chamber. A blanket? I reached in. My hand swept across something smooth and soft.

I pulled the hidden parcel toward me, the sleek coolness of it luxurious under my fingers. As I removed it from the shelf, it slipped against the polished pine surface and unfurled into my hands. A fur pelt, silvery gray, and fashioned into a cape. I gasped. Miss Oonagh's words resonated in my head:
“Is there a merrow about?”
That, and the words Old Peader had underlined in the book he'd saved from the fire.

“What is it?” Pru asked. I held the cloak before me, displaying the flowing length of sealskin. “Oh my,” Pru uttered, stroking the fur along the grain.

At the sound of footsteps on the path, we hastily folded the mystical garment and shoved it back into the depths of the cupboard.

Marni and Walter came in, Old Peader between them. “Old Peader's collected what he needs,” Marni said. He clutched a leather sack against his chest, as if it was the last thing he owned, and of course, it was.

“He's ready to sail,” Walter added, in a voice meant to cheer. The old man shuffled in and threw himself into the chair beside the hearth, Rosie at his feet and his bag in his lap. Pugsley plunked down beside the little sheepdog.

“I packed your clothes,” I said to Marni, avoiding her eyes. My voice sounded too bright. False. I could feel her green eyes boring into me. Without a word, she slowly walked to her trunk, knelt, and thumbed through the stack of folded clothing. She rose, shooting a cursory look into the cupboard before closing its door.

“Thank you,” Marni said. “But I would have preferred to tend to my own things.” There was an uncharacteristic tightness in her voice. Questions hung between us.

“Am I missing something?” Walter asked. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing!” Marni, Pru, and I answered, as if in chorus.

“Trouble in the henhouse,” Old Peader muttered.

A peculiar feeling rose in my chest. I wanted there to be a logical explanation for the strange sealskin robe. But Marni's behavior—taking inventory of what I'd placed in the trunk, her quick guarded glance into the cupboard—confirmed to me that her possession of the fabled cape was not something she had wanted to divulge. Her withholding felt like a betrayal, and her secrecy conjured all my old suspicions. Aunt Pru chewed her lip. I could imagine these same thoughts marching around inside her head. “Well then,” Pru began. All eyes turned toward her and she stopped, as if unsure about what to say next. “I . . . um . . . Why don't I put on some tea?”

Relieved at the distraction, we each pulled up a chair to the table and busied ourselves unnecessarily, clinking spoons against cups, moving the sugar bowl here or there, folding and refolding a napkin. Only Marni neglected to join us, heading outside, fingering her locket.

We stared at one another as the door closed softly. I got up and went to the window, watching her stride down the path along the shore.

“Tea's ready,” Pru called, but I remained at the portal, watching Marni's thin form moving, or perhaps pulled, toward the water. I found myself memorizing every detail of her person, eyeing her until she turned the bend and disappeared from sight. “Lucy, tea?” Pru asked.

I shook my head, kept my back to them, fighting the tears that suddenly threatened to spill. Perhaps I'd lose Marni to the sea as well. Maybe it had been fated since the very beginning.