Lake of Sorrows

Nora opened her eyes. Directly before her stood a small whitethorn tree, covered in a colorful mishmash of ribbons and rags. Thick vines twisted up the trunk, and faded white blossoms peeped out from between the weathered scraps of fabric. Nora’s mouth opened in wonder, and she moved to examine the strange man-made foliage, overwhelmed by the wild assortment of fetishlike objects that had been tied to the branches: neckties, old gloves and socks, numerous rosaries, a scapular, several handkerchiefs, a hair ribbon, a frilly wedding garter, three hairbands, a holy medal of the Virgin, a hairnet, a knitted bag, several plastic bags with bits of cloth inside, a tiny stuffed bear, a Sacred Heart bookmark. Around the trunk hung a black patent-leather purse, as though the tree had grown up through its handles. It was impossible to believe that this was the work of one consciousness, one pair of hands. Despite the fact that it had been created from a jumble of mad-looking, cast-off junk, the little tree presented an aura of holiness. It was like a prayer of some kind.

She stood still beneath the branches, absorbing its weird energy, until Cormac came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She shivered slightly and leaned back into him, feeling the roughness of his face on her neck.

“Astonishing, isn’t it? I haven’t seen anything like this in years. My grandmother’s neighbor, Mrs. Meagher, used to save bits of things all year and tie them on the whitethorn bush outside her house on the first of May. I once made the mistake of asking why she did it, and she told me I’d no business being so bold. I don’t think she even knew. I suppose she’d been doing it her whole life and didn’t think it a good idea to stop. My grandmother said people used to do it as protection against the fairies. Anyway, I hope you like it—my offering to you.”

“I love it, Cormac.” She kissed him, and in the kiss was a fervent prayer that they might stay here, forever sheltered in this sacred place. She felt a breeze come up from the east, setting all the ribbons into an excited flutter, and had an unmistakable premonition that this deceptively calm evening held mischief or malice, or both. She shivered again, and Cormac held her more tightly.

“I saw Brona Scully up here the other day,” he said.

“Tell me about Brona, Cormac. I think I saw her watching us from upstairs when we went over to the Scullys’ house last night.” The girl’s sudden, erratic movement at the window came back to her. “Is she—is she all right?”

“Right in the head, you mean? Hard to say. As a child, she used to speak, but she suddenly went silent—about ten or twelve years ago, I think. I can’t remember exactly.”

Nora thought back to Ursula’s conversation with Charlie Brazil, and her callous reference to Helen Keller. That little girlfriend of yours, Ursula had said. Who could she have meant but a girl who didn’t speak? “Why would someone just stop speaking?”

“Most people seem to think it was brought on by some sort of trauma, but they’re just guessing, and of course she can’t—or won’t—say.”

“What sort of trauma?”

Cormac hesitated, then looked away. “Well, it was right around the time of her sister’s death. Some people think Brona may have watched as the sister drowned herself.”

“How awful.”

“Nobody knows if it’s true, Nora. It’s only supposition.”

She knew from experience how uncomfortable Cormac was in the realm of supposition, and she wasn’t surprised when he changed the subject. “See that gravel ridge over there?” He pointed to a grassy knoll where the earth rose to a point and its rocky underbelly spilled out below. “Probably a bit of the Eiscir Riada that Michael Scully mentioned—the Great Road. What’s left of it, anyway.” Nora had begun to see the landscape differently since being with Cormac. She wanted to see what he saw, to know what he knew about these places, to see under the skin of the landscape down to the bones.

“I’m glad you liked the surprise,” he said, when they were back home in bed. “I only wish I had such wonders for you every day.”

Nora was silent for a while, listening to Cormac’s steady heartbeat, mustering her courage. She would never be ready; she had to just open her mouth and speak.

“Cormac, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I don’t want to do it—I’ve been putting it off, but I can’t any longer. It’s not fair.” She stopped to gather strength, preparing herself for his justifiable anger. “I can’t stay here.” She held her breath.

He was silent, unmoving against her. She hadn’t wanted to blurt it out like that, with no warning, no preparation. What a coward she was, not able to look him in the eye.

But when he did respond, it was not in any of the myriad ways she had imagined. He only reached out and gathered her in closer until she could feel the warmth of his body all along the length of her own.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve always known you’d have to go home. We’ve both been avoiding the subject. I just hoped it might be later rather than sooner.”