The Night Swimmer (29 page)

Her globed eyes flashed in the torchlight. The song ended and Bill went over and engaged in a short discussion with the band, and they nodded and smiled and took up their instruments again for one more. As they began to play Bill took his wife into his arms and held her close, Nell burying her nose into his chest with obvious delight.

I forgive you,

'cause I can't forget you

you've got me in between

the devil and the deep blue sea

It's their wedding song, Ariel said. Every year he has it played for the last song.

We watched them stagger along the patio's edge, two people who spent so much time in each other's arms.

Ariel sighed and hugged her thin arms. It isn't often you see a love like that, she said. It's a rare, true thing.

The woofers wandered away, despondent, crawling under the hedges to sleep. Fred put his arm around me, cigarette clutched in his teeth. He was golden from the sun and wind, and his teeth were strong and white in the moonlight, and we watched the old couple stretch out that moment. Bill and Nell were really lost in each other, edging around a few square feet of flagstone, and as the song ended Bill bent over his wife like an aging willow. They were lucky people. I turned to say this to Ariel, but she was gone.

I am grateful that Bill and Nell got to share such a moment, over and over, that brought the past and present together with such sincerity and joy. I wish I had the words to tell it.

The wind shifted and brought the smell of cattle and bramble wrapped in the salty Atlantic, the smell of the west. I could feel it on my back, the warm wind of America, coming across all that
expanse of blue, a breath or exhalation, and the remaining pockets of illumination slowly faded out, all the cities of America, in the house of my parents, Fred's father, in the homes of everyone we ever knew.

Fred chucked away his cigarette, angrily. His eyes were wet with tears.

That has to be, he said, the most romantic fucking thing I've ever seen in my life.

*  *  *

The days began to warm, and the howling wind turned to the steady pounding gale that was springtime on Cape Clear. Fred went back to Baltimore to open up the pub and I spent another few days on the island to swim. I promised Fred that after this I would spend more time at the Nightjar to help with the spring crowds that were due to descend upon us. It was a struggle, however, and I spent much of my time circling the Ineer, an eye to the open ocean, or sitting on the seawall watching the slender line and flash of Fastnet. Each strobe of the light was like a heartbeat. There was something so attractive about swimming such a long line in deep water, all that open space on every side. The sensations of my body, that tiny speck of gristle moving in its spasm across such a vast space, gave me a feeling of incredible power and utter insignificance. There was great comfort in this. Maybe it's like a kind of reverse astronomy, the inverse of stargazing. This is something Fred would have been able to put a name to.

I could feel Miranda up on the cliffs, watching, and one evening I saw her standing on an outcropping, her white hair whipped by the wind. I held up a hand, but she only turned and disappeared into the heather. I knew what she wanted me to do. But I just couldn't do it.

*  *  *

A few days later when I got off the ferry in Baltimore and came up the quay the air was thick with nightjars soaring through the dark,
silent as moths. They came up from the harbor in waves, sweeping up the street and rising at the last moment over the storefronts, working through the streetlights and signs with a few turns, searching out the insects. Fred was hosing down the floor and squeegeeing the water out onto the sidewalk. He was humming some kind of Irish tune, bobbing and shuffling his bare feet. Under the streetlights I could see he was still smudged around the neck from his forge and his shorts were stained with black handprints.

Put that down, and come out here for a second, I said.

I put my arms around him and kissed him on his furry face and he murmured his appreciation. He was drunk, with a three-day musk on him.

Look, I said, pointing at the birds flashing in and out of the light.

Our namesake.

Fred squinted into the lights, hands on his hips.

Nightjars, I said. They're feeding.

Ah.

If you look close you can see the mouth gape, I said. They can unhinge their jaws, almost like a snake, fly wide open and funnel the insects right in.

We watched their graceful turns and quick arcs, their long tails rippling with each quiet beat of their wings. Fred looked out over the harbor, the faint lights of Sherkin, shimmering.

Who told you that?

About nightjars?

Yeah.

I read it somewhere. They also have special feathers that allow them to fly without sound.

Fred put his arm around my waist and gave it a squeeze. We stood there quietly for a few moments and watched the birds swoop and feed.

That's pretty cool, he said. It's a good name for a pub, either way.

Yeah, it is.

I love this place, he said.

I know.

It's like a new world, he said. I don't know what I would do without it. I think maybe the Nightjar saved me.

It's our world. It saved us.

I love you, he said.

I love
you.

Not as much as I do.

Oh, I think you are wrong.

Fred turned me in his arms and we rubbed noses.

No, my husband said, this is one thing I'm sure about.

*  *  *

We clutched each other in the hallway, shuffling on the floor, Fred kicking over a stack of books as he fumbled with my shirt buttons. His breath was hot and sharp with whiskey, his beard scratching my neck and chin. I clutched at his broad back with both hands. I wanted to lie down and have him loom over me, to fill me entirely, to blot out the world. On the bed he peeled off my jeans and buried his head in my crotch, and I saw clouded shapes in my head. Something was forming, a shape gathering in the dark knot of Fred's hair as he clutched my ass and put his tongue inside me. I was dreaming of an animal, an animal rising up between my legs, as Fred was putting my knees over his shoulders and entering me, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. I shuddered with the fullness of him, cried out, and pushed myself up to meet him. I grabbed handfuls of his chest hair, put my fingers through his beard and into his mouth. I felt swallowed up, as if I was being consumed by an epic force, and warmth spread up my spine and took my brain in its hands and held me, carefully cupping me like a small bird. I held on to him.

O
'Boyle was sitting on the edge of the quay, his fat bare legs dangling, sandals hanging from his toes. I crawled up the slick steps, stripping off my goggles and cap. He grinned at me and swigged from a can of Old Peculier.

Oi, a good one?

Yeah, I said. Good time.

Stayin' in the Ineer these days?

Yeah.

I stretched my arms over my head, bending side to side to loosen up. I had finished a few quick laps across the inner mouth of the bay, just enough to saturate me. I wrapped myself in a towel, and used another to dry my hair.

Like a drink? O'Boyle said, pulling another can of beer from out of his pocket.

No thanks.

He cocked his ear for a moment, like he was listening to something, then sighed and looked at his hands.

I have to ask you something, he said.

Yeah?

You've seen her, he said. The one who walks Highgate's fields at night?

You've seen her, too?

You know . . . where she lives then?

He gave me a shaky grin.

Where she lives?

Yeah, O'Boyle said, Highgate hasn't . . . he hasn't shown you where she lives?

He tried, I said, but she didn't want to meet me yet.

I opened my gear bag and took out my jeans, sweater, socks, and shoes. I sat next to O'Boyle to dry my feet.

But, you have a general idea, yeah?

Why don't you just go ask Highgate?

O'Boyle crumpled his beer can and kicked his legs on the quay, looking down in the water.

'Fraid I can't do that, he said.

Why not?

Highgate doesn't like me much.

Really?

Yeah, well, the dogs definitely don't like me.

Why not?

O'Boyle stood and cracked the fresh can of beer.

You wanna come back to the van for a smoke?

It was still early, not even noon, and the clouds were streaming in from the sea to the west, low and purple, which meant heavy rain.

You have anything to eat? I said.

I make a wicked grilled cheese. Plenty of lager.

*  *  *

The rain thrummed on the roof of the caravan, the shifting wind causing the plates and glasses on the table to wobble. I picked at the crusts of my grilled cheese, made with heavy soda bread and hunks of Irish cheddar. The ground outside the window was already a giant mud puddle. His new house now had the skeleton of a roof, a door cutout, and a small wooden gazebo to one side. Through the door you could see a sodden leather armchair and an iron bed frame with an ornate scrollwork headboard. The barbecue kit in the yard had an orange sheen of rust. O'Boyle tidied up around his hot plate, washed his hands, and handed me the glass pipe and lighter. He was such a slovenly fellow, yet remarkably fastidious in the kitchen. The hash in
the pipe looked like tiny squares of chocolate, but it tasted like deep earth.

You've spent a lot of time with Highgate, eh?

A bit, I said. He's an interesting guy.

That he is.

What's the problem?

O'Boyle stretched and shrugged.

Usual blow-in stuff, he said.

The smoke pooled on the roof of the caravan in shifting shadows. The gas lantern on the table began to fluctuate and flicker, and I knew that I was getting high.

Like what? I said.

You know, mainlanders comin' in and trying to change things. Thinkin' they know how the island should be run.

But Highgate is running a fucking organic goat farm! I exploded. You of all people . . . I would expect that you would be supporting such a thing.

O'Boyle swilled his beer.

It's not that, he said. Sure, the organic farming thing is fine. But Highgate has a way of getting people stirred up. He thinks he knows how things are supposed to be.

But, who cares?

This is an old place, O'Boyle said. Older than any other part of Ireland. This is the first giant's tear, the first to rise from the ocean. There are things here that are older than any of us.

I couldn't help but laugh. O'Boyle looked cross.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I think I'm high already. I got it, older than all of us, the giants, I got it. But really, you're talking about Kieran, right?

The flickering light showed only half of his generous, ogre face. He smiled wanly, and put the pipe to his rubbery lips.

Tell me about him, I said. And about you.

Why?

I want to know.

If I do, will you take me to her? If I tell you everything?

Miranda?

Ah, he said. Miranda. Yes, Miranda.

I slouched down in the chair and squinted at rain spattering on the window. The light in the room seemed to be draining out, and I was having trouble thinking.
Do me a favor,
Highgate had said.
Keep Miranda a secret.
Why? What did it matter?

But I don't know where she lives, I said.

You have a good idea, yes? A general approximation? You can show me?

Tonight?

Yes.

Why?

Because we can help you. Because I'm going to tell you what you want to know. Now listen.

*  *  *

O'Boyle's mother was a woman known simply as Maeve, who in her final years lived in Coosadoona, in the ruins of the Dún an óir, the Castle of Gold. She was known in her youth as a great beauty gifted with an ethereal singing voice. For many years she had assisted islanders with herbal remedies and sung strange airs that no one could identify at weddings and funerals. She was unmarried when she gave birth to O'Boyle, and she never identified the father. Just before the birth she received a visit from Father Cadogan, a stately man much cherished by the parish. An hour later he fled her rude hut with his cassock torn and cursing under his breath.

Soon after O'Boyle was born, Maeve began to drink, starting at daybreak and continuing until she collapsed in the ashes of the hearth, the mewling baby latched at her breast. She began to rant and claim that she talked with the spirit of her sister who had died many years before. Maeve's sister had wandered off from her cottage when she was a teenager, and was missing for a month. A group of islanders, led by Kieran's father, finally found her in a cave on Blananarragaun cradled in a nest of auks and storm petrels, her skull picked clean.

Maeve said that her sister came to her in daytime dreams dressed in a white shift, the collar ringed with blood, a screaming blizzard
of snow in her wake. Her sister told Maeve the future. Her visions always contained ashes and smoke, fire, raw earth, deep tombs of rock, and always death, but not the transfiguration of a watery death, a passage through to some other state, the prevailing vision of death on islands like Clear, but rather the eternal tomb of the soil.

At some point in her madness Maeve seemed to forget her son was there. As a toddler O'Boyle roamed the cliffs and shorelines like a feral animal, scavenging for bird eggs and tubers. He took to lurking outside the pub, ferreting through the garbage and listening to the traveling buskers through the window. The island women eventually gathered the boy, and an old woman named O'Boyle who lived on the exposed moorland of Ballyieragh on the western cliffs took him in. O'Boyle took this woman's name and she left him her cottage and land. Flat broke and without a vocation, O'Boyle sold the land to the Corrigans soon after his mother's death and took up living in the caravan.