Lake of Sorrows

Nora had only been here a couple of days, but it was obvious to her that Rachel Briscoe stuck out among the archaeology crew. She thought it must be awkward for Rachel, effectively ostracized by her colleagues yet having to work and live and eat with them, day in and day out for weeks. No doubt this was like every other human endeavor; alliances and divisions were formed through no one person’s conscious effort, under nobody’s control. A group of people was something like a primitive organism, affected by mood and atmosphere and even weather, resistant to change, with each member playing a specific role. Leaders, followers, scourges, clowns—every group had them, and people slipped into their parts as easily as actors taking on familiar stock roles.

The boy had mocked Rachel for bird-watching, or was it for bird-watching at night? The bog was a great place for birders, Nora knew, but why should such an innocent interest provoke such an extreme reaction? Perhaps it wasn’t innocent; perhaps there was some subtext, some implication she was missing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The Bord na Mona minivan pulled up beside the hut and the crew began to pile in for the ride home. Nora saw Rachel hang back, perhaps reluctant to face her tormentor. The minivan driver shouted, “Are you coming, then?” The girl shook her head, and the driver backed out of the gravel parking area and stepped on the gas. Rachel set out walking.

When she had packed up her things, Nora pulled the car alongside Rachel and let the window down.

“Can I give you a lift?”

The girl seemed annoyed that Nora was bothering her. She marched stoically onward. “I’ll walk. It’s only a couple of miles.”

“You shouldn’t really walk alone out here. Please, Rachel, I insist.” At the use of her name, the girl hesitated momentarily, and Nora thought she might run. But there was nowhere to go, only black bog for acres and acres to the horizon. She finally climbed in, hefting her heavy rucksack onto her lap. She sat quite still, and her beetlelike posture spoke volumes about defensiveness and mistrust. Nora wondered what was inside the bag, besides her precious binoculars.

Nora said, “The friend I’m staying with is part of the archaeology department at UCD—you didn’t happen to study there?”

“No,” Rachel said curtly. She obviously hadn’t accepted the lift because she was starved for conversation.

“You’ll have to tell me where I’m going. I’m not sure.” Rachel gave her the route, then was silent again. “Do you all share the same house?” A wordless nod. “What is there for people your age to do out here all summer? Sorry, I don’t mean to interrogate you; I’m just curious. Ten weeks out here must seem like an eternity—”

“I don’t know what the others do. I don’t spend time with them when we’re not working. They mostly go home at the weekends.” Implying that she didn’t. Rachel Briscoe seemed particularly young at that moment, vulnerable and alone. Nora didn’t know what else to say.

They turned near the McCrossans’ cottage, then navigated a few sharp turns on narrow little roads before arriving at an old two-story white farmhouse. The minivan was just leaving; Nora had to stop beside the gate to let it pass. When she pulled into the drive, Rachel opened the door and slid out quickly.

“Thanks for the lift, but I’ll be all right on my own from now on.” It was a final dismissal, as if Rachel had realized she shouldn’t have let anyone get this close. Why not? She shut the door and marched stolidly toward the house. Nora could hear thumping music already coming from its open windows, and felt again what it was like to be somehow apart from all those around you. She had some firsthand experience of not fitting in, but she had early on taken refuge in books and music, in the elegant, abstract beauty of the biological world. She had spent many hours in school peering through a lens at microscopic bacterial colonies, oblivious of the corresponding macroscopic social activity around her. Perhaps it had been just as well. Solitary bird-watching might be Rachel Briscoe’s escape. Making yourself an outcast was one way to avoid the pain of having it done to you.

It wasn’t until she pulled into the driveway behind the McCrossans’ cottage that she noticed a folded paper down beside the passenger seat. Unfolding it, she found a brief, polite form letter requesting the return of several books borrowed from the Pembroke Library in Ballsbridge, Dublin. It must have fallen from Rachel’s pocket as she climbed out of the car. Scanning it again, Nora noticed that the letter was addressed not to Rachel Briscoe, but to someone named Rachel Power. Was the girl using a false name here? Unless Power was the false name. Kids knew enough to use fake identities on the Internet; maybe they did it elsewhere as well. She might have a very good reason for going by two different names. Nora left the letter folded on the passenger seat—she could return it in the morning.