Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

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      “I didn’t see the lights,” he said. “It was the scream that woke me up. Maybe by the time I put my coat on and hurried outside the strange lights had disappeared.”

      Or maybe they were never there at all.

      “And until the deed is done those women should see fit to open the front and back doors of the cottage,” another added.

      A common belief was that if you couldn’t remove a building that was in the middle of a fairy path, you should open the front and back doors allowing the fairies to pass freely through the structures. Fairies, it was said, lived alongside humans, when they weren’t underground, and they simply asked that the humans stay out of their way. Back in the day you had to be careful where you emptied your pails of milk, lest you throw it out and drench a passing fairy. She turned to Macdara. “Is this why she called you?”

      His face seemed to reflect the same concerns. “If it isn’t, I’d hate to see what else is going on.”

      * * *

      As they trudged across the soft meadow, feeling the eyes of the villagers on their backs, Siobhán was grateful for her Wellies. It was hard to traverse the meadow and balance the sack, but she had no intention of dropping her brown bread. Macdara offered to carry it, but she trusted his sense of balance even less and waved him off with a look that made him laugh. The farther in they walked the softer the ground became, rendering the trusty boots a must-have. Once they were over the hill, the rusty gate as described by the councilman came into view.

      It was swaying despite the lack of a breeze, and Siobhán could hear a gentle squeak. Green paint flaked from the gate, and when it yawned open it revealed a narrow dirt path clogged with brambles and briars. Dark clouds swirled in, and the threat of rain hung heavy. Siobhán had a foreboding feeling. The calm before the storm. Her fingertips tingled. Fairies.

      They stopped just before entering the path, as if once they stepped through, there would be no return. “Have you ever seen a fairy?” she asked Macdara.

      “This again?”

      “Never hurts to ask twice.”

      “I beg to differ. You’re giving me a pain.” He paused. “Have you?”

      “No.”

      “That’s sorted then.”

      “My grandfather had some good stories though.”

      “The one who taught you to whittle?” Macdara took the first steps onto the path beyond the gate, and Siobhán followed.

      “The very same.” He’d taught her his hobby because he thought it would help calm her fiery temper. There was something about the never-ending rugged land that made her want to sit down and whittle the days away.

      “I grew up with tales of Cucúlin, and Druids,” Macdara said, as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the branches intertwined above. Tales of Druids and kings. Siobhán smiled, imagining a wee Dara transfixed by it all. “That’s as mystical as I get.”

      Out here Siobhán could almost feel the thin veil that was supposed to separate the human world from the fairy world, and she could not help but wonder, what if? Her grandfather had regaled her with tales of the Tuatha Dé Danann. A supernatural race in Irish mythology, they dwelled in the Otherworld but interacted with humans. The Tuatha Dé eventually became the Aos sí, more commonly referred to as fairies. Siobhán used to lose herself for hours in those captivating tales. She edged closer to Macdara, chiding herself for the twinges of fear. Her brother Eoin would love it here—so much material for his graphic novels.

      The path came to an end, opening up on a stone cottage in the valley to the left and a weathered farmhouse over the hill to the right. They were the only two structures as far as the eye could see.

      “The branches get thick through here,” Macdara said. “Watch out for nettles.”

      Siobhán was well aware of the awful sting of nettles and was always on the lookout for the pointy green herb. “We could make a soup.” Two minutes in boiling water and a handful of other ingredients could transform biting nettles into a nice healing tea or soup. The juice could even be used to cure the sting of a nettle, although it was handier to find a dock plant. Siobhán was starting to feel itchy and hungry in equal measure. She had brown bread in her pack for Jane and Ellen, and lamented that it would be rude to take a bite out of her offerings.

      The ground was uneven, challenging to traverse. “I’m starting to see why Geraldine was carrying a big stick,” Siobhán said.

      “Too bad she wasn’t speaking softly,” Macdara quipped.

      Straight ahead, behind a bush, she caught a flash of red. She squinted. It was a man, crouched down and peering out from behind the leaves. It was his shirt that caught her eye, a bright red flannel. Probably a farmer. Did he live in the house in the distance? If he was going for stealth he should have reconsidered his wardrobe. Seconds later his head popped out, giving her a glimpse of a black hat pulled low, covering his entire brow. He lifted something up to his eyes. Binoculars. Trained on them. A nosy farmer to boot. She waved at him. He dropped the binoculars, then crouched over and ran toward the farmhouse in the distance.

      “How odd,” Siobhán said.

      “What?” Macdara stopped to kick a rock out of his way.

      “There was a farmer hiding behind a tree. Peeping at us through binoculars.”

      Macdara’s head popped up, and he followed Siobhán’s fingers, but the farmer had disappeared. Beyond the tree, just ahead of them and to the left, a slip of a woman was tapping a cane left and right, making her way toward them. She wore a flowered summer dress, and large sunglasses covered most of her face. Macdara hadn’t mentioned that his cousin was blind. She stopped and lifted her head. She had Macdara’s messy brown hair, only hers was longer and falling over her shoulders. “Dara?” Her voice wobbled. “Is that you?”

      “It’s me, luv. How did you know?”

      She attempted a smile, but her lips shook as if it was an impossible task. “You wear the same cologne.”

      “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” Siobhán blurted out. She loved Macdara’s cologne. Intoxicating.

      “You must be Siobhán.”

      “Yes, hello, so lovely to meet you.”

      “There’s no time for introductions,” Jane said, her voice wobbling. “Something horrible has happened.” She swung her cane until the tip pointed at the cottage.

      Their heads swiveled to the stone building with flaking white paint. Moss crawled up the sides, and the red front door yawned open. A large window to the left of the door was shattered. A suitcase lay discarded next to the door. Colorful flowers spilled onto the front yard and manicured paths could be seen on either side leading to a back garden.

      “Were you robbed?” Macdara’s voice was in protector mode, a tone Siobhán knew well.

      Jane was already shaking her head. “Mam,” she said, pointing at the cottage. “I can’t.” She hung her head. “Mam is in there. She’s . . . dead.”

      Siobhán СКАЧАТЬ