Lake of Sorrows

At the topmost point of the hill they came upon a huge pile of ashes, the remains of a bonfire. They walked around it, either side. Nora saw two sets of deep footprints, the heel marks deeper than the rest. “Look at this,” she said to Cormac. “What do you suppose happened here?”

“Did you ever hear of midsummer bonfires?” Nora shook her head, and Cormac continued, “It’s one of those leftover pagan traditions that’s probably fallen off in most areas. Sometimes it was just a family, but sometimes a whole community would come together and build a fire big enough to burn all night. It was supposed to be a time for blessing the house, the crops, the animals. People walked three times sunwise around the fire to ward off sickness, and sometimes young people would leap the flames.”

“You think somebody jumped over this fire?”

“Looks that way to me. After the fire died down, you were supposed to drive the animals through the ashes or singe their backs with a hazel wand. Everyone carried a burning stick home from the bonfire, and the first one to bring it into the house was supposed to bring good luck with him. They’d also take home a glowing ember from the fire and carry it around the house three times, and save some of the ashes as well, to mix with the seed for the following spring. I didn’t know anyone here still built a midsummer fire. I’d love to know who it was.”

You could ask Brona Scully, Nora thought, but she said nothing. Perhaps Brona and Michael Scully would like to keep their family matters private, and she wasn’t about to talk about things that had been told to her in confidence, even with Cormac. “I meant to ask what Mrs. Foyle said about your father. Is it something serious? You’ve never had to go up there to sort them out before.”

“No, it’s not that. My father’s had a small stroke,” Cormac said, trying to downplay it, no doubt for her benefit. “Not life-threatening, but Mrs. Foyle doesn’t want to be overstepping her bounds, she says. I’ve got to go and see what’s going on. I’ll probably be back in Dublin before you have to leave; I just won’t know what’s happening until I get there.”

“I could come with you for a couple of days—”

“Ah, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that, to miss the exam on the bog man. It’s important.”

“You’re important to me too.”

He took her hand. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer. But I know how much that examination means to your work. You’ll never have another chance at him, not like this one.”

“Why does Donegal have to be so far away? Why couldn’t your father be from Kildare?”

“I suppose he could be, but then he wouldn’t be my father, would he?”

Nora thought of Joseph Maguire, whom she’d never seen except in pictures, a fierce-looking, white-haired oak tree of a man. “No, you’re right.”

They came over the top of the hill and the sudden sight of Brona Scully’s fairy tree, bedecked in all its ragged finery, once more took Nora’s breath away. She leaned her back against its trunk and looked up into the twisting branches. “What is it about this place that I love so much? I just wanted to come here once more, because it might look very different when I come back, and I want to soak up every detail.”

Cormac leaned on a low branch beside her. “Are you saying you will come back?”

His doubt was a quick knife. “I know I’ve not been very forthcoming. I hope you can understand why I have to go home. It’s not that I want to be away from you—”

“I understand loyalty. I understand keeping a promise. So even if you have to go away for a while, it can’t be for too long. Too long doesn’t exist.”

“I want to believe that…. I just don’t know that we should make any promises.” The searching look in his eyes unsettled her.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe it’s best if we just leave things as they are. But wait here for a minute, will you?”

She stretched out beneath the tree while he crossed to a stand of hazel wands growing from a nearby stump. Taking a penknife from his pocket, he sliced through several narrow green shoots, cutting pieces about twelve inches in length. Then he came back and stretched out on the grass beside her. “It’s well known that hazel is a powerful charm against mischief,” he said. She watched intently as he bent the supple greenwood in his hands, then quickly fashioned a simple plait, like those she had seen in museums—a love knot. “Here,” he said, “keep this with you.”