An Irish Heart Read online

  This time, though, she opened the door straightaway. She welcomed me with open arms, ushering me in with hugs and kisses – one on either cheek. She was always happy when I came by, for I was one of the only visitors she ever had. She was a solitary woman, her home being fixed almost five miles from town. She had trouble with her legs, and seldom left the house. The only caller she ever had (save for me, and a woman named Ethel who liked to play rummy) was the delivery boy, who brought her groceries twice a month.

  Her late husband had been the sort who does not take very well to most people; and so had situated them in that somewhat lonely place. When he passed, Aggie had no thoughts of moving either herself or her many possessions to a different location. Of course, my father never came to visit his own sister – what an inconvenience that would be.

  “Hello, Auntie,” I said, setting my parcels down on the kitchen table. “How are you today?”

  Aggie smiled brightly. “Oh, I’m just wonderful, dear. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? Why, one couldn’t have asked for better weather!”

  “Certainly not – and it’s all the better, I must say, after all the rain we’ve had.”

  Aggie shook her head. “You know, that old rain does help me sleep. That special sound it makes against the window – pitter pat, pitter pat – like the footsteps of fairies!”

  I shuddered, as I remembered my sleepless night. If those troublemaking fairies were the culprits – well, I would bring my window down upon their pitter-pattering little feet; and see how they danced, then!

  Aggie pulled up a seat for me. “Sit down, Katharine. Tell me all about your week.”

  “Oh, Auntie! You know I’ve never anything new to tell you.”

  “Probably that’s as true for you, dear, as it is for me. But give an old woman some happiness!”

  “Oh, all right, Auntie.”

  “That’s my little Katharine Penelope.”

  All around the room, on numerous shelves which Uncle Albert had installed over the years, were some of Aggie’s beloved objects. There were porcelain dolls, ornate wooden boxes, intricately woven baskets, and a great number of elephant figurines. There were white elephants (only white, mind you, and no other colour whatever) all about; on the table, over the stove, below the ceiling, and beside the door. Some were small, and some were large; some were so large, that they had to be kept on the floor.

  Aggie made a pot of tea, and sat down beside me; and we talked for a while. Visits with Aunt Aggie can only be described as offering an otherwise elusive feeling of peace. It seemed that we were only chatting back and forth, passing a bit of time as we sipped at our tea; but before I knew it, evening had fallen and the kettle was empty.

  I glanced at the clock. It was already past five.

  “Oh, look at the time!” I said, setting my teacup aside. “Thank you for having me, Auntie, but I really should be going.”

  Aggie stood up, and looked at me (as was a rare occurrence with her) rather seriously. “Are you sure you won’t stay the night, dear? It will be awfully dark soon.”

  I sighed. “I would like to, Auntie, really I would. But Da –”

  Aggie laughed. “Oh, that brother of mine! He’s just a breath of winter in spring – that’s all he is! Come now, I won’t hear of you walking all that way in the dark.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I really must go.”

  Aggie looked troubled, but she put up no more fuss about it. I went for a convincing smile, and gave her a quick hug. Then I gathered up my parcels, and made my leave.

  I stood on the stoop for a few moments, looking up at the bloody sky. Come to mind was a line from Lord Jim, that ever-wandering, lonesome soul who seemed so much (at least in my own mind; and at least on account of the lonesomeness) to resemble myself. As his Jewel begged him not to leave, and wept over his pride, it was said that the sky streamed like an open vein. The sky now was just that way, bleeding over my eyes; and though I did not have a lover to weep for my pride (or rather my fear), still Aggie had argued with me just enough, to make me feel at least half as loved as Jim must have felt.

  It was one of the only books I owned, having had it given me on my thirteenth birthday by Mrs Stiles, whose husband has tossed it away with the peevish declaration that he “understood not a word of the confounded thing.” But then – for a man with so little honour himself, it was not very surprising at all that he should fail to understand the sting of golden honour lost.

  It would be pitch dark soon. I set off at a brisk pace down the lane, the parcels of bread and potatoes swinging somewhat painfully on my arm.

  I reached the end of the lane, and looked to and fro. To the left was Old Church Road. Somewhere along it stood the First Church of Ireland (not really the first; just so named). Though I was something less than devout, I could not help but feel a little safer as I walked down that road, as if I was somehow protected from those things which lurk in the gathering night.

  Darkness was settling in now. It was as though the church snuck up on me; for suddenly, it loomed out of the murk, standing tall and proud amongst the shadows. I studied it as I passed, but did not slow my steps. It was a huge stone edifice, with its name carved in thin, spidery-looking letters over the entrance. Its doors were tall and foreboding, studded with great iron spikes all down the sides.

  There were few windows, and the light in the church – even during the day – was very dim. I had not been inside the place for years; and that eerie dimness was fairly all I could remember of its interior appearance. I remembered grandness, and beauty; but also a kind of emptiness, which I am quite sure was not imbued by the soul of the church itself, but rather by the cold hearts of its visitors.

  The villagers for miles about made their way to the church every Sunday morn, walking and riding the sometimes-considerable distance in their very best dress. My father even went on occasion, for fear of being called a heathen. I had never met such a hypocrite!

  Yet I wondered if anyone had ever called me a heathen. But, even as I wondered – still I was much more satisfied with my absence from the church, than I would have been with the presence of my body; and then the absence of my soul. What had I to offer but just another cold heart? Was mine, really and truly, more redeemable than any other? Was it not enough to think of it, when the rain fell down outside my window, and I suffered through yet another sleepless night? Was it not enough to imagine my cold heart growing warmer, and lighter, as it rose to board the ark for which it was destined?

  I stopped – in both movement and track of thought. Wasn’t there another way, a quicker way, to get home from this place? I thought of a path, a path that would take me all the way round Schullery Road; and then very near to Wimple Street. Children called it the “berry trail,” due to the overwhelming number of wild berries that grew down its sides. Yet it was a path by which the traveller must enter the thickness of the forest. I had trodden it several times – but only ever in the light.

  I shivered; for the air was growing cold. I looked into the dark distance before me, and knew already what I would do.

  I took a sharp left, and began to cut across the field beside the church. The woods lay about half a mile away. After that, the path continued on for a little over three miles; a distance which would verily halve my journey.

  I moved quickly through the field, and reached the entrance to the forest in next to no time, slowing my jog to a hasty walk as I mounted the path. Every so often, a thick root jutted up into my track; and I tripped over several before I was forced to cut my speed once again.

  The night was quiet. My footsteps sounded loud in the expanse of the forest, crunching over dead leaves and echoing between the trees. Moonlight streamed down through several openings in the thick dark canopy above my head, lighting up my moving feet on interval.

  I had been walking along the path for perhaps half an hour, when I heard an odd sound. I hesitated for a moment; but then decided upon either the movements of some harmless animal, or the excess ac
tivity of own imagination, and resumed walking.

  It was only a few seconds, however, before I heard it again. I halted full in my tracks this time. The sound was almost, I discerned, like growling. I stood, stock-still, and frozen by fear; but the noise persisted. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that the creature would flee.

  But of course it did not. It seemed, in fact, that the sound only grew louder, and drew nearer. My heart skipped a beat, and my breath came in quick, shallow bursts, making my chest ache. Should I maintain my pause – or should I run? Perhaps not the latter; for they do say, that four legs are somewhat faster than two.

  While in the process of attempting to calm myself, I felt the brush of fur against the bare skin of my ankle. This was, naturally, quite injurious to my purpose of serenity. The beast was no longer growling at me – merely sniffing. My breath stopped full in my throat, as the tip of its cold, wet snout touched my skin. I felt the creature raise its head.

  There was complete silence, then, devoid of any and all movement. There was no warning, save for perhaps a brief instance of even thicker, even heavier, silence; and then the animal pounced.

  I screamed as it took me down – but only once. After that, I was rather preoccupied with a pang that sparked down in my lower back, as I struck something hard and sharp upon the ground. The air was stripped from my lungs in an instant.

  I wrestled with the creature, which had finally been revealed by the light of the moon. Its face was full in mine, its paws set firmly against my chest. I found myself staring into the shining yellow eyes of a wolf.

  Its teeth bared menacingly, a mere four or five inches from my face. It was heavy, and the pressure of its weight, full on my chest, was causing my breath to come short. Saliva hung in thick ropes from its strong jaws, glinting in the pale light and falling down onto my face and neck. I wanted to let out a shriek to pierce the silence of the forest; but I found that my voice was lost to me.

  I knew that, once the strength of my arms had been depleted, that gleaming set of razors – showcased most impressively inside the fierce mouth – would lower themselves to my throat. I had no weapons, and there were no houses anywhere near. No one to save me. Death had come to call upon me; and there was not a soul on whom I could call, so that I might turn his tables!

  Arms before my face, and covering the greater part of my vulnerable flesh, I curled my legs up under me, and allowed myself to be mauled. I knew not what to do, except to cry for all of the people I would never see again (though there weren’t a great many for whom I might cry), and all of the things that I would never do. I cried for the bread and potatoes, in the sacks that had flown from my arm, that I would never eat.

  It was in that exact moment of misery, however, that an unexpected thing happened. Just as the wolf was beginning to succeed in prying my arms away from my face, and had managed to swipe a clawed paw from my left cheek to the right side of my throat – narrowly missing my eye – I heard a voice. Impossible, I thought.

  Yet the voice was terribly loud. I could not make out the words, but I heard the sounds they made as the shouting continued; I heard the vicious growling of the wolf; and then I heard its cry of pain. I tried to lift my head, to catch a glimpse of the scene taking place above me; but, enervated by fear and pain, I could only lie motionless.

  I could not move. I could not breathe. I could not even open my eyes, when I felt someone touch my arm. I heard them speak, heard them speaking to me, but I could not look. I shivered once, and the voice began to fade.

  Chapter 2

  I woke to the smell of food, and the sound of whistling. I opened my eyes, and tried to raise myself up; but immediately fell back onto the bed, having been bowled over by a ridiculous wave of dizziness.

  When the lightheadedness had ebbed away, I propped myself up on an elbow. The lovely aroma, which could be wafting only from the kitchen, was making my mouth water. Only then did I realise, that I had not eaten since the hard bread of the morning before. But that smell! Surely my father had never so much as fried an egg in all of his life – and certainly whistling was far too jolly an activity for a man of his demeanour.

  I tossed the blanket aside, and saw that I was wearing my nightdress. I had no idea how that had come to happen – but then, I could not even remember how I had gotten into my bed to begin with. I struggled up to my feet, stumbled to the doorway and gripped the jamb for balance; then closed my eyes until the room stopped spinning. I proceeded down the hallway, a hand fluttering along the wall, my safeguard from another fit of vertigo.

  The kitchen was bright. I reduced my eyes to slits, staggered over to the table and pulled up a chair. I looked to the stove, expecting to see my father standing over the griddle. But my eyes were startled by the unanticipated sight of a stranger.

  I jumped up from my seat, tripping backwards over the uneven floorboards. I probably would have gone falling all over myself, had the stranger not rushed to catch my arm. I closed my eyes – was certain I would have lost my stomach, had it not been empty to begin with – and tried to still my body. Then the stranger – a young woman – led me back to the table, stooping to right the chair I had upset in my fit of fright.

  She went to the griddle and stirred its contents, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

  It took me a moment to respond. I wondered, briefly, if I should be even required to make conversation, with a strange woman who stood over my stove.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  “I suppose,” I said. Though, certainly, I believed that I had been merely unconscious since my exit from the forest. And the exit I could not recall. I only remembered that it was preceded by a wolf; a wolf and a voice . . .

  My head snapped up in an instant, and I found myself staring at the young woman. Her back was to me now, and I could see naught but the rear of her head. Her hair was let down, sweeping like a golden waterfall past her waist. It shone more brightly than a brand new coin – the kind I used to like to hold up to the sun, to cast glimmers of light across the walls. (If ever I should have been so lucky as to find one, I would slip it unscrupulously into my pocket, so that my father would not find it and take it for himself).

  “You were the one on the path?” I asked.

  She looked back at me with a wondering face – wondering, I knew, if I was daft.

  “I found you there, yes.”

  “But I don’t remember coming back.”

  “You weren’t quite all there, if you know what I mean.”

  She tapped her head.

  “But what were you doing on the trail?”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Hmmm. That was a good point.

  “Coming home from my aunt’s,” I said. “It was a short-cut.”

  “A short-cut that nearly cost you your life.” She looked hard into my face. “You ought to think more carefully next time on which is more important to you.”

  She brought the griddle to the table, and set a plate before me, heaping it full of the eggs she had cooked. There was toast, too.

  “I took the liberty of putting your groceries away,” she said. “I assume that the potatoes belonged in the cellar?”

  I nodded in thanks, and began to pick at my plate. I saw the young woman scraping the rest of the eggs into a plate of her own. She took a bite or two, chewed thoughtfully, and then leant back to study me. I said nothing of the discomfort this caused me.

  While I ate my breakfast, I took in her appearance; for I had not been much able to see her while she stood over the stove. I took it in very carefully – and was much impressed. Her beautiful golden hair lay atop a head, and a face, that seemed flawless. Dark blue eyes gazed out at me, curious and penetrating. Her age must not have been much of a difference from my own (though, if there was any difference, I suspected that she would be the older of us). She was of a slender build, certainly no bigger than me.

  For this reason, I came to the conclusion that she must be a wit
ch; and must therefore have simply lifted me up into the air, so that I might float all the way home.

  “I suppose I should thank you for your help, Miss . . .”

  “Alaster. Theodora Alaster.”

  “Well – you have my undying gratitude, Miss Alaster. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

  “I didn’t do it for the thanks,” she said. “Just something my mother taught me, you know, besides please and thank you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why – not to simply watch, while someone is being eaten by a wolf! Any predator, of course, can be used to fill that last space.”

  I thought to ask whether her mother had really said this; but did not, for a laugh had escaped my throat, before I could even sense its coming. I nearly clapped a hand over my mouth in surprise. But then I shook my head, and took again to my eggs.

  “May I ask you something, Miss Alaster?”

  “Call me Thea, please.”

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “You told me.”

  “Did I?”

  “Just as I was putting you up on my horse, you opened your eyes. You said to me, ‘Why, hullo, miss. I’m Kate O’Brien. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ I asked you where your house was. You said, ‘Oh, just at the top of the track. When you come out of the woods, you’ll see it, straight ahead of you. There are other houses nearby, but mine is right at the top of that little hill you’ll see . . .” And that was all you said.”

  “Oh.”

  Whatever expression twisted my countenance, then, must have been one of strained recollection. Yet there must have been something comical in it, as well – for it seemed that Theodora Alaster was laughing at me. But I did not mind; for her laugh was a sound which I had already dubbed immensely pleasant.

  “May I ask,” she said finally, “why you took that track to begin with?”