‘You knew her, then, Maggie?’
‘Oh, yes, we all knew her. I’d have been, what, twelve or thirteen. Jason was just little—don’t think he’d even started school. They used to come down to the shop together or we’d see her in town. I remember she was real pretty, long blonde hair like you said, and she wore those long, floaty Indian dresses. Bit of a hippy, I suppose, though that sort of thing had really gone out of fashion by then. As I say, she was a bit odd the way she’d play with the boy. Like, she’d get overexcited, more like a kid herself. Then we wouldn’t see her for ages and his dad would take Jason out.’
‘So, what happened to her?’
‘I don’t know, but it must have been something major. The police were called, and then an ambulance, and she was taken into hospital. I can remember there was a lot of gossip among the other mums—you know the sort of thing, whispering and people suddenly changing the subject for no reason. What did happen, Mum?’
‘You know as much as I do. Though there was plenty of gossip, people’s imaginations running riot. She got sick and they took her away. That’s all I know.’
‘And she never came back?’
‘No. As I say, she ended up at Harston House. Still there as far as I know.’
‘And where is this place exactly?’
‘Not far. It’s off the main highway, just the other side of town.’
A
ND
there it was, just where she’d said. I drove straight there after I’d left Maggie. It was shortly after noon when I arrived.
A discreet sign announced the address but said nothing about its purpose. I had expected closed gates set in a high wall, some kind of security. There was a gate but it was wide open and led onto a broad driveway winding through a gently sloping shrubbery. There was no one in sight. Trees gradually gave way to neatly trimmed lawns sculptured with rose beds. The house was sublimely elegant, white weatherboarding and three levels of leadlight windows.
Still no one in sight, so I left the truck next to a line of parked cars and headed through what seemed to be the main entrance. I was painfully aware of my clumsy boots on their marble tiled floor and hoped I wouldn’t have to climb that sweeping, wooden staircase.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice echoed round the vaulted hall and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
‘Jeez, you scared the shi—Um, sorry. I was looking for someone.’
‘Well, I can probably assist you. I’m Janet,’ she pointed to a
badge bearing her name. It was pinned to a white shirt that had never seen a tomato sauce splat and never would. Her lipstick matched her nail varnish exactly. ‘I’m the secretary and I also act as receptionist if we have visitors. Unfortunately, that’s not as often as we’d like. Who is it you’re looking for?’
‘Well, I was told Mrs Sullivan was staying here.’
‘Ah, Sarah, yes. And you are?’
‘Er, Maggie, Maggie Connors.’ That was quick thinking. ‘She won’t know me. I’m a friend of the family and I’ve been spending Christmas with her husband and son,’ that was nearly true, ‘and I thought I ought to get to know her.’ Let Janet make what she would out of that.
‘Sarah’s probably over at the art centre—she spends most of her free time there. I’ll just check if it’s OK.’ She moved to the reception desk and turned her back to me while she spoke into the phone. Then she said, ‘Yes, Sarah is there. Henry’s with her. If you’ll come this way, I’ll take you over.’
Obediently I followed a trail of perfume, trying to figure out how those stilettos managed to stay upright on polished marble. We passed through the back of the house where, thank goodness, there were people; I was beginning to wonder if Sarah and Janet had the place to themselves. They all looked fairly ordinary, some sitting on the deck reading or playing cards and a group on the lawn playing bowls. Janet entered a single-storeyed building and took me into an office where a man sat in front of a computer.
‘Miss Connors, this is Henry, our art therapist. As I told you, Miss Connors has come to visit Sarah. I’ll leave you with Henry. If you could let me know at reception when you’re ready to leave.’ Then Janet departed, her perfume wafting after her.
‘Hey, grab a seat. You look worried.’ Henry was a small man with thick glasses and blue paint on his chin. I decided he was OK.
‘I’ve never been in one of these places before. I didn’t know what to expect.’
‘And you don’t know what to expect of Sarah?’
‘That’s right. I’ve never actually met her, only heard about her from her family.’
‘Well, there she is.’
Henry nodded at the wall which, I then realised, was an internal window looking out over a huge art studio. There was the usual clutter of workbenches and cupboards and easels with works in progress. But the room was empty except for one person.
She sat at one of the benches, her back towards us. Her shoulders were rounded and plump beneath the muslin print of her dress. I was thinking of her as a young woman, but of course she would be nearly fifty by now. But the hair was hers. It reached down to her waist, one long, loose plait that had once been light gold, now faded and intertwined with silver and white. There was no doubt: it was Sarah.
But it was all a bit sudden. Less than two hours ago I was searching for a hidden grave. Now here she was, resurrected and waiting for me. Having found her I had no idea what to say or even what I was doing there.
‘She hasn’t been told about you yet. When you’re ready I’ll let her know she has a visitor. That’s if you still wish to meet her.’
‘Yes. Yes I do. It’s just that I know nothing about this sort of thing. How ill is she? I mean, is she likely to…you know?’
‘It’s perfectly natural to feel nervous,’ said Henry, ‘especially if you’ve had little contact with mental illness. This place is an asylum in the true sense of the word, a sanctuary from everyday pressures that our people are simply not equipped to handle. The dangers are all out there, not in here. Sarah’s a charming woman. I’m sure you’ll get on very well.’
‘What should I say to her? Suppose I say the wrong thing and she gets upset.’
‘Treat her like anyone else you’re meeting for the first time. It’s true that you may inadvertently hit on the wrong subject and she may become distressed. That’s a risk we take every time we meet someone new. If that should happen, and it’s highly unlikely, remember it’s because Sarah’s the one with the problem and you’re not responsible for how she deals with it. I’ll be in here, keeping half an eye on things. If you feel uncomfortable just walk away and come back to me. OK?’
‘OK.’ I tried to smile.
‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’
I stood at the back of the room while he spoke to Sarah. Then he beckoned me forward and she turned to look at me. Her face held confusion and a trace of fear. But it was a beautiful face, despite the damage worked by time and torment. The years had added weight but taken nothing from the delicacy of her features, her skin retained the creamy freshness of youth and, though sagging round the jaw line, held tight across high cheekbones. Her eyes were a striking blue, small and round. She wore a long dress of dusty blue, one of those Indian things, and a collection of copper and silver bangles jangled on her arms.
‘Hello Sarah.’
‘Maggie Connors? Do I know you? Have we met before? I can’t always remember.’
‘No, you don’t know me. I’m sorry to arrive unannounced like this. Bit of an impulse really. But Jason had told me about you—’
‘Jason? You know Jason?’
‘Yes, we were, well, we’re friends.’
‘And how is he? Is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. I spent Christmas with him and his father.’
‘With John? You were with John?’ A shadow of something changed her expression.
‘Only for Christmas lunch. Is it long since you’ve seen them?’
‘I never see them. It’s best that I don’t. Besides Jason wouldn’t know me now. He must be nearly a man.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, Jason’s twenty now. He’s tall and very good-looking. He has your hair—in fact he looks a lot like you.’
‘He does? Really? Twenty, tall and very good-looking.’ She repeated this to herself as if trying to memorise the words. Then she smiled and for a while her eyes looked at some place far away. She came back to me suddenly.
‘And do I know you? What did you say your name is?’
‘I’m Maggie.’
‘No, I don’t know you. You’re very pretty. And how do you know my son?’
‘I met him while he was working. He’s a photographer.’
‘Yes, that’s right. They showed me some of his pictures in a magazine.’
‘Yes, he’s quite famous. An artist really, only he works with a camera. His work is amazing. You have every reason to be proud of him.’
‘I do, yes. And John? How is John?’
‘Mr Sullivan? Oh, he’s OK. He, er…takes life easy.’
‘And you’re Maggie.’ She laughed, a nervous little giggle.
I tried to hide my awkwardness by looking around the studio. ‘So you come here to paint?’
‘Yes, whenever the room is available.’
‘May I see what you’re doing?’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ She picked up the board on which she’d been working. It showed a partially completed tree, its stark branches twisting against an autumn sky.
‘But this is good, Sarah. Really good.’
‘You know about painting?’
‘Yes, a little. I can see where Jason got his creative talent. Do you have any others?’
‘Yes, these are all mine.’
She drew a sheaf of papers from an art folio and spread them over the bench. Trees, all trees. Trees of every race and every season, all colours and characters. Some were charcoal sketches and pastels, some delicate watercolours, others vigorous acrylics. But all trees.
‘These are wonderful.’ I said and I wasn’t bullshitting her. Sarah was obviously skilled and the paintings were expertly done. But the trees looked so alive that something was beginning to squirm inside my stomach.
‘So, where did you learn to do this? Did you go to art school.’
‘No, I learned here. They sent me to art therapy sessions. That’s not really about painting, more about externalising feelings and inner conflicts. That’s what they tell us, anyway. I found the sessions rather harrowing, although I think they helped me work through some of the bad things. It was all very difficult when I first came here, you know. But through that I started to enjoy the painting, so they arranged some proper lessons for me.’
‘Well, you certainly have a special gift. And these trees, are they the ones I passed on the way in?’
‘Oh, no. I never go near them, the ones I paint are inside my head. No, that’s what I like about this place. The trees all keep their distance.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Things aren’t always what they seem, you know. Not all trees are harmless.’
‘And yet you paint them?’ That knot in my stomach was tightening.
‘Yes. They have a particular beauty. Still, they’re not to be trusted.’
‘And what about the paintings? Do you ever sell any?’
‘Oh, no. I keep them for a while to look at. Then, when I feel satisfied, I burn them. It’s better that way.’
Not sure how to respond, I changed the subject. ‘I’m staying in the cottage. I hope that’s all right with you. I know it’s a place you used to enjoy.’
‘You’re staying there?’ She looked alarmed.
‘It’s only for a few weeks. I needed to be on my own, you see. But if you’re not happy about that…’
‘No. No, that’s all right. Just a few weeks, you say? And you’re staying in the cottage, not the house? No, you should be safe enough there.’
I wanted to ask her what she meant, but was too afraid of what she might say. She said it anyway. ‘The Sullivan property, it’s not a good place for women. You would have felt it too, wouldn’t you?’
‘Felt what, Sarah?’
‘It’s always there. In the trees. When they whisper at night, you know it’s there. Be careful. The land is always hungry.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do. Did you find their graves?’
‘The family plot, you mean?’
‘Anne and Mary and Jane, like three sisters. He tried to kill me too, you know.’
‘What?’
‘John did. He tried to kill me. He said I was his best beloved. That’s what he used to call me. Then he tried to kill me. Of course nobody would admit they believed me. I was mad anyway, you see, so it was easier to believe him. When you’re crazy they pretend they can’t understand you. But you can understand me, can’t you Maggie?’ She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging deep into my flesh. ‘You know what I’m saying?’
Not daring to pull away, I desperately looked around for Henry. He saw what was happening and sauntered over.
‘I think it’s nearly lunchtime, Sarah.’
She let go immediately and smiled as if all were well. ‘Goodness, we were having such a nice visit I forgot all about lunch.’
‘Yes and it’s time I got going too. It’s been really good to meet you, Sarah. I’ll come again if you’d like me to.’
‘Yes, I would like that,’ and she kissed me on the cheek.
‘Goodbye, Maggie.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
And then, to my eternal shame, I turned away from her and left as quickly as I could.
I did believe her and yet I betrayed her like everyone else. I should have stayed and listened. God knows, that’s the least she deserved.
T
HAT
night I dreamed about the mirror. I was looking into it, seeing faces. I saw myself, then Sarah, then other faces I didn’t recognise, but all were women. Their features were constantly changing, one masking the other, then melding together to form only one face. I dreamed all that night and woke up sweating and thrashing in my bed.
I got up early and tried to concentrate on the sculpture. My mind was elsewhere, my thoughts not moving with the grain of the wood but trying to catch those faces. I felt twitchy and jumpy as if I’d overdosed on caffeine, though I’d had only one cup. The wood and I, we usually work together, but this time it would not co-operate. I was becoming irritable and that’s probably why the chisel slipped. As it clattered to the floor I yelled, furious with myself, and a jagged line of red bloomed on my finger. I didn’t need this and I should have known better. Any artisan worthy of respect should be able to control her tools and I’d thought my days of self-inflicted injury were over. I squeezed the wound, hoping no splinters had found their way into the cut. Blood sluiced out, sliding the length of my finger and falling in a shower of droplets, bright as berries, a cascade of scarlet against the grey morning. Dark circles formed on
the decking where they fell and, where sawdust had drifted, it formed into clots.
I was back in the butcher’s shop with my mother, her body pressed against the glass case of the counter while the man in the red-stained apron wielded his knife. When you’re very young, and so much closer to the ground, ground-level smells feature sharply in your landscape: freshly turned earth, the playground tarmac melting in the sun. And there was sawdust. That’s where I first knew the fragrance of wood and, though it has since become a permanent element in my life, to me it’s still as exotic as incense. But not the blood; not the red stain that dripped from those pink and white carvings that scarcely resembled lambs and piglets. I knew the knife-wielding sculptor was responsible for the smell of death and I hated him for it. But I loved the smell of the wood. I scooped up handfuls that hadn’t been contaminated and let it run through my fingers like gold dust. All the way home I held my hands over my face to inhale the aroma that lingered on my skin.
The pain cut through and dragged me back to my injured hand. I rinsed the wound under the tap and, for want of a better dressing, wrapped a wad of toilet tissue round it. This was hopeless. I needed to walk off this excess energy or agitation or whatever it was. I needed the serenity of the trees, needed their energy to counter-balance my own. What I didn’t need at that moment was to be spied on, so I took the path round the far side of the lake; Liam would be off in the other direction seeing to the sheep or whatever he did.
As soon as I got into a rhythmic stride I started to calm down. The early sun struck straight at eye level but, as the path curved round the head of the lake, it cut sideways and threw long shadows over the grass. In the reeds water birds were squabbling. Early clouds were breaking up and sunlight was already warming my skin.
I moved to the edge of the path, my boot leather collecting
dark, wet patches where the sun had not yet cleared the dew from the grass. The coolness of silver droplets brushed over my shins and offset the hot throbbing in my finger. I breathed deeper, and a tightness, of which I hadn’t been aware, uncoiled from my shoulders. My mind stretched and opened, eager to drink in the day.
And it was there again, that flicker on the edge of thought, that shadow that wasn’t a shadow. It was waiting for me; I knew that, though how I couldn’t say. But it was all right because it was really only the trees, wasn’t it? The wind moving the branches?
Only there wasn’t any wind.
It moved on higher ground, keeping pace with my own steps. Then it reached out and touched my thoughts as it had before. A gentle nudge. ‘This way,’ it said, ‘this way’ Less than a whisper, less than a breath. But I heard it somewhere inside my head.
A broad trail cut off to the hill, wide enough to have been used by a farm vehicle but not recently as the grass was long and uncrushed. I followed the steep incline until the lake dropped away below me. Then another trail branched to the right, this one only a narrow passage through the undergrowth. Here the air was cooler and alive with insect scrapes and screeches. I pushed my way through fern fronds in a tunnel of indigo shadows. Roots rose in tortured coils then sank again beneath a sea of dank moss.
Abruptly the shadows parted, opening into a clearing filled with sunlight. There was an outcrop of large rocks and I sat down on one, wishing I had brought my water bottle. No matter, I scooped the dew from the grass with my good hand and licked the wetness from my fingers. It was cool and strangely sweet.
The rock I was sitting on was a large, flat slab, a few centimetres off the ground at one end and sloping up to half a metre at the other. Its surface was pitted and brown, stained by
time and the elements but, as I ran my hand over it, surprisingly warm. I scrambled onto it and lay down full length, gazing up at the wisps of cloud fragmenting to promise another hot day. But what a place to spend the night, to bring a blanket and stretch out under the stars and watch the moon rise and fall. However, after a few moments I realised that hard rock does not make a comfortable bed and rolled over to sit up. As I did so, something jabbed in my thigh.
Reaching into my pocket I found the little penknife, the Christmas gift from Jason. I’d attached it by the chain and clasp to my belt loop. I flicked it open, carefully though; one cut was enough for that morning. At one time, when I was young and even sillier than I am now, I would have carved my initials on the rock. But you don’t vandalise nature, do you? Still, it was a good stone on which to sharpen the blade. As I stroked it carefully over the rim of the rock the metal caught the sun, firing rays of blue and orange light into my eyes. When the knife was honed to a fine edge I tested it on a stem of grass and was satisfied.
Then a hollow pang in my stomach said ‘breakfast’ and I decided it was time to make my way down again.
Back at the cottage there was a reception committee waiting for me. Bramble came leaping forward, paws on my shoulders, and Badger thumped his tail. Liam sat on the deck steps twirling a twig in his fingers, his eyebrows pulled together in a dark scowl.
‘Thank God you’re all right,’ he said. ‘We were about to organise a search party.’
‘Why? I’m fine. I just…OK, so I went for a walk.’ I was a rebel teenager out after curfew, expecting him to growl me out. ‘I’m not a prisoner, you know.’
He got to his feet and came up to me. ‘No, of course you’re
not.’ His voice was so quiet. ‘We were worried about you, that’s all.’
He stroked my hair gently and his eyes were full of concern that was far worse than any growling. I almost died of guilt.
‘Did you think I was out on the hills chasing Anne Sullivan’s ghost?’
‘No, I don’t think it’s ghosts we should be worrying about.’
‘Don’t you believe in ghosts then?’
‘I think there are such things. Sometimes, though it’s quite rare, a poor soul will be traumatised by the suddenness of their death, the violence of it perhaps, or sheer disbelief. They wander around lost trying to be what they were. They need help but they’ll do you no harm.’
‘Then why were you so worried?’
‘There are bloodstains on the deck. Have you hurt yourself?’
‘It’s only a cut finger.’
‘Here, let me see.’
He unwound the tissue. Some of it had stuck to the wound by then and he took me into the kitchen and re-washed it.
‘You’d think there would be a first aid kit in this place.’
‘Perhaps there is. I didn’t think to look.’
He rummaged through the cupboards and located a red-crossed box.
‘What else do you think causes ghosts?’
‘I think they’re mostly the remnants of events recorded on the energy fields of a place. It’s as if the intensity of emotion around the event causes the image to repeat itself. Rather like the flare from a flashlight repeating on your retina, completely harmless. That’s all speculation, mind, and I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here. I believe it’s something much more real and much more dangerous.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ He was fiddling with the little plastic strips on the plaster. ‘So, where did you go this morning?’
‘Round the other side of the lake and up the hillside. Did you know there’s a small clearing there with some big slabs of rock in the centre?’
‘No, I haven’t been round that way much—’ He froze, astonishment flooding his face. ‘All the saints in heaven! Could you believe I could be so stupid?’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s you saying about the rocks. That stuff we had from Ireland. I was so busy looking for the family and the women that I skipped right over it.’
‘What is it? Tell me?’
‘A stone circle. He said there was a stone circle there. On the Sullivan estate. Of course that…’
He was still gripping my finger with one hand, the plaster held in mid-air with the other. He seemed to be working through some personal dilemma and a dozen expressions passed over his face.
‘What’s wrong, Liam?’
Then he looked at me with his grey eyes, his expression suddenly softening. He nodded. ‘Yes. It’ll be OK. It’ll have to be. I’ve got some things to do now. Come over later, I’ll fix us a bite of lunch.’ He wound the plaster round my finger. ‘And bring your laptop with you.’
And with that he abruptly departed, leaving the dogs to keep watch over me.
I was able to fall back into the rhythm of working and the rest of the morning went well. The dogs heard Liam returning and alerted me, so I gave him a few minutes before walking across to the woolshed.
‘It’s only soup and bread. I’m afraid the soup’s out of a tin but the bread’s fresh baked—I picked it up this morning when I went to get supplies for Sullivan. So, how was yesterday? Did you do some shopping?’
‘No, but I visited some interesting places.’
‘Well, I hope the day off did you good, though I can’t say you look much better.’
‘I didn’t sleep well.’
‘You look as if you haven’t slept well for a month. Here, get some food down you. I’ll say this, whatever’s going on here it doesn’t seem to affect your appetite.’
‘Fresh air. Makes me hungry.’
‘Well, eat up then.’
I knew not to ask questions and that, whatever he was up to, he’d get around to it eventually. If nothing else, he was teaching me to be patient. So I ate the soup and bread and then fresh peaches and waited while coffee brewed. When the table was cleared he set up the laptop, plugged in the phone line and accessed the Internet. Then he sat for what seemed ages, just staring at the screen, rubbing one hand over the knuckles of the other and biting his bottom lip. He didn’t seem to mind me looking over his shoulder, so the hesitation wasn’t about me this time.
Suddenly he took a breath and attacked the keyboard, firing a jumble of letters and numbers into the search box. I was still trying to decipher the address when the screen changed and the University College of Dublin came up. Again he tapped the keys and flipped through some pages, moving deeper into the website. It asked for a membership code, which he entered immediately. The next window asked for a PIN and there he stopped.
His hands hovered over the keys and then withdrew; he was back to rubbing his knuckles and biting his lip. Standing behind him I could see the tension building in his shoulders. Then he turned to stare at me, as if weighing me up. Was I worth the next step? Apparently I was, because he nodded, almost imperceptibly, then tapped in a number. He was through the security barrier and another page appeared.
‘How the hell did you do that?’
‘Special dispensation from the Pope.’
‘No, tell me.’ I thumped his shoulder, which he ignored. ‘How come you’ve got a membership number? You have to be part of the faculty, have proper security clearance and everything.’
But he wasn’t listening. His fingers skittered over the keys as page after page jumped onto the screen. He obviously knew exactly where he was going as he negotiated his way through the labyrinth of academic archives. The fancy designer web layouts gradually gave way to plain type text as he ran deeper and deeper into the maze until, abruptly, he stopped.
‘That’s it. I knew there would be something.’
All I could see was pages of text, but I did catch the words ‘Ancient Ireland’ and ‘worship’.
‘I’m going to download this and put it with those other files. You’d better put the kettle on again. I think I’ll need more coffee if I’m going to pick the bones out of this lot.’
By the time I had set the fresh cup on the table beside him he was well down the page, highlighting and cutting out huge areas of text.
‘What’s that you’re deleting?’
‘Academic waffle mostly. But I’m getting down to the nuts and bolts of it.’
I’d nearly finished my drink when he scrolled up to the top of the file and sat back from the screen.
‘There,’ he moved his chair over so I could see more easily, ‘you have a read of it. Dry as dust, of course, as most of his stuff is. But I think it’s what we’re looking for.’
I started to read out loud.
THE ASSOCIATION OF TREE WORSHIP WITH THE STONE CIRCLE
The pre-Christian tribes of Europe saw the natural world as imbued with an intelligent, living force, a spiritual power, which was manifested through
features of the environment. This natural energy was then perceived to take on the characteristics of the place or object through which it was manifested, something that individuals could relate to on a personal and more meaningful level.
‘Whoever the author is, he’s no Stephen King. Is it all like this?’
‘Bear with it. It gets better.’
European paganism is not alone in its reverence of the tree. Throughout the world, in almost every culture, man has been influenced by the presence and power of trees. Tree spirits were given respect in the folklore and mythology of many cultures. The Druids, particularly, believed that trees possessed mysterious powers, especially the rowan and the oak.