The Summer King (5 page)

“Come up outa dat, before ye catch your death.”

He must have come from the spinney. That would explain the sticks. But she didn’t see or hear anything when she went through it. Had he been hiding? Watching her? Her alarm was growing. She had to get off the ledge. She wished someone would come, but it was a secluded spot, and there was no sign of other hikers. There was nothing else to do but grab his hand.

His grip was sweaty, but with one strong pull he yanked her up and onto firm ground.

The first thing she noticed was his smell, like moldy earth. She stepped away quickly, from him and the cliff edge.

“The roly-poly man,” she said.

“Is that moniker here to stay, then?”

He frowned, and in that moment she saw something older, darker, and bloodred. Something displeased. But the impression passed quickly, like a flare. Still, it left her uneasy for though he appeared to be harmless, in her heart she knew he wasn’t.

“Not to worry,” he said, with a quick laugh. “Call me what ye want to, just don’t call me early in the morning.” His voice took on an ingratiating wheedle. “And isn’t it a grand thing ye got here at last? We almost gave up the ghost, and us after sendin’ ye messages all year long. Do ye not mind your dreams at’all?”

She stared him, confused.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Her own voice sounded strange to her, hollow and robotic, like someone in shock. But hadn’t she come looking for him? Didn’t she hope he would show up?

“I … I … don’t understand,” she stammered.

“Ye mean ye don’t know the story?”

Only then did Laurel admit to herself that she didn’t really know why she was there. She had been acting on instinct—so unlike her—even worse, on compulsion. She felt as if she were sliding toward a chasm. She needed to grasp onto something, anything, to keep from falling in.

“It’s because of you,” she burst out. “It’s your fault she died!”

Yes, that was it. That was why she had come. To confront him.

The blackberry eyes stared back at her without blinking.

“Is it now? And why, then, does the guilt be hangin’ off ye like a cloak? It’s not me ye blame but yourself, I’m thinkin’.”

The chasm was drawing nearer. She dug in her heels. She wouldn’t let him trick her with words.

“I should’ve protected her from you.”

He was quick to reply. “I didn’t harm a hair on her head. ’Twas herself came after me, though I did me best to hide. ’Twas
ye
, not her, we wanted.”

Laurel was at the brink, peering into the abyss. She stepped back again. Tried a different tack.

“Are you some kind of cult? Drugs? Religion?”

His gaze was implacable.

“Ye know very well that’s not the case, and ye know what your sister was at.”

“She didn’t give you a name,” Laurel said quickly. The pressure was excruciating, the force of something she couldn’t accept. “Whenever she mentions you, it’s always vague.”

“She knew the rules.” His tone was matter-of-fact but Laurel heard the challenge. “’Tis bad luck to say too much about us.”

He rummaged in the pockets of his vest and pulled out a little brown bottle. Unstoppering the cork, he took a long swig, then regarded her sideways.

They had reached the crux of the matter.

“Go’wan, grasp the nettle,” he prompted. “I dare ye to say it. The F word. And I don’t mean a curse.”

“Fairies.” She nearly choked. “Honor believed in fairies.”

For the first time she truly met his eyes. Red pinpricks of light glinted inside the dark irises. There was no emotion there that she could recognize, no sympathy or concern or even judgment. His look was utterly alien and disinterested. In that gaze, she caught a glimpse of an impossible reality, ancient and unknowable. Anywhere else she might have been able to dismiss it, but not here, not on the side of a lonely mountain that fell into the sea.

Laurel began to back away. She felt her thoughts unraveling, her mind threatening to unhinge. Her words came out strangled.

“I … can’t … do … this.”

“Don’t be afeard! Your sister needs ye! We need ye!”

His shouts trailed behind her as she stumbled back down Bray Head. Crashing through brush and briar, she grabbed at trees to keep from falling. Nettles stung her, brambles scraped her, but still she ran, like a deer fleeing before the hunter.

At last she broke from the greenery onto the stone steps that led to the sea front. But she almost barged into a familiar figure.

Ian did not react immediately, but stood gazing at his hands.

Still distraught, Laurel was about to accuse him of following her when she saw what he was holding. It was a large black bird, a crow or a raven. The dark wings were limp and ragged. Blood spattered the feathers, a livid red against the glossy black. Its neck had been wrung.

Ian looked up, eyes burning with shame.

As Laurel took in the stillness of the broken body, a primal rage tore through her. She stood helpless in the face of death.

“Murderer.”

He jerked back as the word struck him.

Then she brushed past and raced down the steps, toward the beach. Her need to escape was overwhelming, as if her very survival depended on it. When she reached the seashore, she kicked off her shoes and ran into the water. The shock of cold knocked the breath out of her, but she plunged in regardless. When she dove, seeking solace in the depths, she kept her eyes open though the salt sea stung.

Laurel knew it was her own mind torturing her, yet she continued to stare at what she saw. There in the blue-green shadows of the water, caught in laocoön strands of seaweed, was Honor’s body, deathly white and beautiful.

The image drove her to the surface, gasping for air.

Back on the beach, shuddering with cold, she pulled on her shoes. The icy water had condensed her thoughts to the clarity of crystal. She knew why she had returned to Ireland. The truth was simple, if absurd and insane.

She had come to save Honor.

he day was warm and sunny. Laurel rested in the back garden of her grandparents’ house. It was a green leafy place surrounded by old stone walls covered with ivy, clematis, and sweet-scented honeysuckle. A cobbled path wound through flower beds spilling over with color. Bees hummed in the bright blossoms. At the end of the garden was a small orchard of crabapple trees. The terrace where Laurel sat was a chessboard of blue and gray flagstones. The tables and chairs were a lacy wrought-iron, painted white.

She had played in this garden as a child, the summer her father brought the twins to Ireland. Eyes half-closed, she gazed down the path that disappeared into the trees as the veil of her memory fluttered.

There they were, two little fair-haired girls running and giggling. They were playing hide-and-seek in the rhododendron, scattering the red petals over the grass. Honor wore a light sundress. Laurel was in jeans and a Tshirt, with a baseball cap turned backward on her head. Their game changed in an instant when they spotted something flitting through the air. Something tiny and winged. With squeals of laughter, they chased it to the bottom of the garden where it settled in a patch of blue-bells.

Their shouts and laughter broke off. A breathless silence. Holding each other’s hands, they bent down to look.

“It’s a fairy,” Honor whispered.

“No it’s not! It’s a butterfly!”

Now Laurel strained to capture the image, but all she could recall was the faint impression of white wings veined with gold, lambent in the sunlight. Why couldn’t she remember anything else? A sliver of doubt entered her mind.

She had not slept well the night before and had risen early that morning, disturbed and restless. Though she blamed her jet lag, she knew it was something else. Over the past year, she had grown accustomed to wandering through her days like a ghost, pale and insubstantial, not really there. But her experience on Bray Head had torn her out of her malaise. She felt as if she had emerged from a fog only to find herself standing on the edge of a precipice. Her terror made sense, a rational reaction to an irrational situation. Yet whatever the little man might say he was—and she didn’t believe him for a minute—at least he existed. She needed to find him again, but did she have the courage?

“Give us a hand, pet,” her grandfather said, pulling Laurel out of her reverie.

Granda carried a wooden tray rattling with cutlery, crystal, and china. Behind him came Nannaflor, bearing the food. A white linen tablecloth lay folded in front of her, waiting to be spread. As Laurel shook the cloth into the air, it fluttered like wings.

The summer meal was light and delicious: cherry tomatoes in a nest of crisp lettuce with cucumber and green onions, chunks of old cheddar, pink rolls of ham, slices of smoked salmon, artichoke hearts in olive oil, and a round loaf of brown soda bread. For dessert, there were fresh strawberries with cream, and to drink, cold lemonade and a pot of strong tea.

When everything was laid out, Nannaflor grew flustered. Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks.

“By the way,” she announced, her voice rising slightly. “I’ve invited Ian for lunch.”

Laurel and her grandfather both looked sour.

“It’s always pleasant to have company,” Nannaflor added briskly, “and he’s a good lad, no matter what may be said of him, and if people can’t speak well of each other, they shouldn’t speak at all.”

Laurel and Granda remained silent.

Not long after, Ian arrived, wearing a freshly ironed shirt and blue jeans. Though he had combed back his hair, it insisted on falling into his face. He handed a bunch of flowers to Nannaflor and kissed her on the cheek.

“Is that a cut?” she said, brushing his hair aside anxiously. “Were you in an accident?”

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I came off the bike, but it wasn’t moving.”

Laurel felt a pang of guilt as she spotted the red weal above his eye.

“I should take a closer look at it,” Nannaflor pressed him. “My bag’s in the hall.”

“No, please don’t.” He laughed. “Honestly, I’m fine. Let’s eat. You’ve put on a great spread as usual.”

“Oh, it’s not much,” she said, delighted.

Laurel was surprised by the obvious affection between them. Ian’s tone was warm and respectful when he spoke to Nannaflor, and she seemed to dote on him.

“There’s plenty of cheese and salad,” she said, heaping food onto his plate. “I know you won’t take meat or fish.”

Despite the friendly talk between the two, it was an awkward meal. Laurel only picked at her food. Since Honor’s death, she ate very little, as nothing seemed to have any taste. Though she had muttered a quick hello to Ian when he arrived, she made a point of sitting away from him. He, in turn, ignored her, aside from an occasional sullen glance. It soon became obvious that he and Granda were also estranged. After a brief handshake on greeting, neither spoke to the other throughout lunch.

When they were finished eating, Ian insisted on clearing the dishes away and brought them into the house.

While he was gone, Nannaflor chided her husband. “You could at least be civil.” Then she turned to Laurel with a sigh. “I think your grandfather is jealous of the attention I pay him.”

“Now, Florence, you know that isn’t so.” Granda shook his head. “He’s trouble and always has been. And though he is the son of my dearest friends—and a favorite of yours—I’ve come across his like before and I don’t trust him.”

“People can change,” Nannaflor argued. “Where’s your faith?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table and grew worse as Ian’s absence lengthened.

“What’s taking him so long?” said Granda, suspiciously.

Nannaflor looked hurt.

“He’s not robbing you, William.”

When Ian returned at last, with a box of chocolates to add to dessert, Nannaflor threw her husband a triumphant glance.

Later, after their guest was gone, Laurel went to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Her grandmother joined her.

“I was hoping you and Ian …”

“I’m sorry, Nanna, it’s not possible.”

That night at supper, they heard the news. They had only sat down to eat when Nannaflor was called to the telephone. Moments later she returned, upset.