Leaves and Shadows
The day had passed quickly. The sunlight had given way to grey and then to wet, the silence broken only by the patter of rain as they made their way along the winding roads which led them ever onward toward a destination known yet truly not known. Roary drove with total concentration. His blue eyes were seemingly concerned only with the road and the steady stream of water which washed across the windshield. The arms of the wipers acted almost as a hypnotically parallel rhythm to the rain's insistent beat. Fiona sat in the front, head bent over her journal, writing occasionally but mostly just staring at the page. They had long since turned off the music as the rain ran counter to the melody, making such a contrast that it was easier just to let it lull them along. It was odd that the drive seemed to pass so swiftly given the circumstances. In normal circumstances a long rainy drive with no conversation would seem like an eternity, yet this one, with each person so trapped in their own thoughts, seemed to slip by in minutes rather than hours.
They found themselves at the edge of the Wicklow Mountains just as the sun was dipping low. This had not been their original destination. They had actually planned on heading into County Meath, so they lacked a reservation for the evening. As they neared town they began to discuss options for how they would locate a reasonably priced place to stay. Fiona retrieved a bed and breakfast guide from her pack and began to page through it looking for places that were near their current location. She provided numbers to Roary and he in turn began calling to see if any vacancies were available. In this round-about fashion they found themselves with rooms in the village of Rathconan. This was a place of legend, if you followed the tales of the rebels of Ireland. So many of the O'Byrnes who had once owned or ruled as Chieftains over this part of Ireland were from Rathconan that it had become a place frequented by tourists who liked to step in the shoes of those who had fought, however failingly, to free Ireland from British rule. Lin let these little snips of historic whimsy fleet through her mind as they wound their way to the B&B that would provide their shelter for the evening, not bothering to dwell on the continued question of why they had come to the Wicklows in the first place. Some odd note in Ian's journal had convinced Roary that they needed to be here, and here they had come. She felt so lost in this whole journey, she did not have the strength to argue. She had just come along for the ride. Perhaps he had a better feel for this than she did, she did not know, though she did not think they had come anywhere near where they truly needed to be.
They were greeted warmly by the lady of the house and shown to their rooms. She offered them a light supper which they readily agreed to. It appeared that no one wanted to face the car again that evening. They ate in silence, only speaking long enough to comment on the quality of the meal, which was outstanding, and to make plans on the time they would meet in the morning. After clearing their plates, they made their way to their rooms. Fiona settled quickly with a book. Lin could not find a peaceful center that would enable her to lay still. Rather than keep Fiona up with her restlessness she picked up the key and let herself out.
Standing outside in the moonlight she gazed up at the rising mountain. It loomed over her with its ranging trees, their leaves softly blowing in the wind. The rain had left a soft scent in the air that reminded her suddenly of home. Home. She remembered the year when they had planted the landscaping around the house. In the years before that the house had only had two trees in the front and a few lillies that were the start of the ring that would eventually line the back of the house. She smiled into the wind. Those lillies had been culled out of her mother's garden. Her Ma and Da had worked side by side digging them up, separating them, replanting and then sending the culled lillies to her to start her garden with. She truly loved her lillies. Every year she waited for them to spill forth the mass of greenery and then burst into color and every year they brought her those gifts and more. They brought her Ma and Da to her in every blade of green and every petal. It was like magic. Wrapping her arms around herself she wandered a bit farther down the walkway. Yes, she remembered planting the rest of the landscaping. They had chosen everything with so much care, but the stand of birch had been the most symbolic. They had wandered the nursery looking at all of them, finally choosing one that had four trunks. They had come home smiling, happy with their choice as it embodied family, a trunk for each member. She remembered digging out the burrow for its planting before it was delivered, each family member taking turns, except for him, except for the father who remained absent. Who would be absent. And then a year later, as if to remark on this clear and total absence, the stand had withered and only three healthy trunks remained and then prospered.
She could see the birch stand now, its leaves rustling like the leaves of the trees on the mountain, in the summer wind, branches entwined. This was the symbol that remained and sustained. She needed her boys and they in turn needed her. Perhaps they should have planted a stand of five, for surely Fiona should be in the stand. That was the center. It did not matter what had happened since. It did not matter that she had recklessly placed her trust in another man. It should not matter that she had placed her heart where it was not valued. The stand mattered. She should have known that. She should not be here and her boys should not be at risk.
She chewed on her lower lip. And what of Roary? Who was he anyway? How had he breached her well-wrought defenses? Why did she want to trust him, to lean on him? She tugged her jacket closer and turned back up the drive, leaving the shadows and the memories behind her. The stand was all that mattered, she had to stay focused. If she had learned nothing else, she had learned that much. At the center was her family, she was never letting go of that truth again. There was too much risk in doing so. As she lifted her face to the wind one last time, she was slapped in the face by a wet leaf. It clung to her cheek, leech-like, abruptly interrupting her reverie. She pulled it off and was about to throw it away when the light of the moon hit it. She was holding a perfectly formed birch leaf. She turned, trying to make out the shapes of the trees in the dark. Was there a birch stand near her? There must be. Still, she found herself slipping the leaf carefully into her pocket and gazing at the moon. Lin breathed deeply and turned to place the key in the lock. There would be time enough to dwell on all the madness in the morning; tonight perhaps she would just get some sleep.
She was startled by his presence in the dark. A soft peat fire blooming in the anteroom behind him, he stood in the foyer, arms crossed as if waiting for her return. "Did ye find it then?" he asked softly. She nodded, not quite finding her voice and certainly not knowing how to respond. Had she found it, she wondered? Perhaps she had found her center, but if she had it certainly felt a bit more shifted at this moment. "I couldna' sleep, so I managed to find a bottle of wine in the cupboards. I don't think the lady o' the house will mind as long as I pay for it in the mornin'," he grinned. "Ye'll join me for a dram or two?" He turned and made his way into the anteroom, and she followed. They found purchase on the hard little settee that faced the fire. It smelled good, warm and earthy and just a bit sweet. She took the glass he offered in silence. He leaned back, seemingly able to find the hard space comfortable. She stayed perched, her elbows on her knees, watching the flames.
"When do ye' think ye'll start?" he inquired. It was an odd question. She stared at the fire as if it would give her an idea of where he was headed with his line of questioning. "I'm just of a wonder as to when you plan to let yerself believe." He left that comment hang in the peaty air, not shifting from his almost lounging pose on the too-hard settee.
"Believe in what? In nightmares and creeping old legends that snap up my boys and send them off to become wild beasts?," Lin asked coldly without deigning to look at him.
"Well, there is that, but I was thinking more of believing that there is something bigger, something more than that lump that ye carry around with ye everywhere. And that perhaps it is in that more that yer boys and the rest of the magic in the world can be found. It's na' as far fetched as it seems really. Not when ye think of all that ye know has happened already."
She turned to him her eyes glistening and cheeks damp. "I don't think you have even the slightest idea what you are asking. My 'lump" as you call it, is my boys and Fiona, too. There is nothing bigger than that."
"I'm not talking about yer love for yer family, Lin. I am talking about yer lack of faith in everythin' else. I've a feelin' there was a time when ye' took believin' for granted it was so easy for ye' and now it's just the opposite. It's as if everythin' has come unraveled inside ye' and ye' don't quite have a clue where to find yer knittin needles."
She started to cry then, not loud racking sobs, just soft weary tears. He leaned forward and put down their glasses and gathered her up, rocking them backward into that lounging position he had held before. He held her there and just let her cry. She had been through so much and other than the racking response to the dream had not really let herself feel it. He smoothed her hair, letting the dark silk fall through is fingers. The scent of peat wafted around them and eventually she grew still.
"I've gone and made your shirt all damp."
"It will dry."
She pressed her hands against his chest and sat up, wiping her cheeks with her sleeves. "I best be finding some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow, whatever it is we are doing, I'm sure." She stood and turned to leave, then picked up her glass. She offered him a small toast, "Thank you then and good night, Roary,"
He sat with his glass by the fire as it slowly ebbed to ember. He was in a fine mess and he wasna' sure at all that he wanted to find a way out.
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