Awakening the Gods Page 4

  “Saoirse.”

  I turned towards the carpark to see the aforementioned person walking towards me, clad in a bulky wool pullover, wool skirt and wellies. The thick grey braid she wore was in its usual dishevelled state. She gave me a wide smile and a nod. I found myself nodding back, not knowing how to greet this woman who said she was my grandmother. She solved the problem for me by enfolding me in her arms and giving me a solid hug. Tentatively, I lifted my arms and placed them around her, aware of her very capacious breasts that seemed without any kind of support at the moment. The hug was motherly, warm and deeply reassuring.

  She pulled back from me and smiled again. “You’re almost home, now. Welcome.”

  “Thanks,” I said, words still deserting me.

  She took my case, bundled me into the aged SUV she had and we were on our way.

  “Is it far?” I asked after a short while, just to make conversation.

  “No, not at all. It’s just along the road a little.”

  I nodded, uncertain what to make of that vague measurement. A little could be as long as a piece of string, I somehow felt. That piece of string seemed to endlessly unspool as we followed the road which kept winding along, past cow- and sheep-dotted fields and scattered houses. Finally, we turned right, and the road wound upward, in a series of bends, until it eventually levelled out. To the left sprawled an old stone house with a yard and several stone sheds. In the front stood several very tall fir trees, their boughs covered in clumps of what appeared to be nests.

  “What’s in those trees?” I asked.

  “Crow’s nests.”

  I turned to look again and I could see huge numbers of crows circling and cawing above the trees. A murder of crows, I suddenly thought. I looked away, uneasy.

  We made our way along the road that became more a boreen than a road and had shrubby tree filled ditches rising on either side. We passed a few more farm houses before we pulled into a small yard in front of a small white farmhouse, its walls rendered smooth. Beyond the stone wall that marked the end of the yard was a large open field that sloped down to a valley then rose up again to a hill opposite. The sun poured in over the field. It was as though we’d entered a different world after the semi-dark road.

  The thought echoed in my head when we got out of the car, the air pungent with slurry spreading and cow dung. I paused a minute, taking it all in. The sense that I had left my own world and entered another remained with me.

  After a silent tug on my sleeve, my grandmother ushered me inside. The house was very simple and small with a small entry way that had a door on either side of it. My grandmother entered the door on the left and I followed, towing my case behind me. I stopped almost immediately, too stunned to go much further. It was as if I’d somehow stumbled into a heritage park. Limewashed stone walls, flagstone floor and a huge fireplace, complete with working crane, greeted me. My grandmother headed over there, picked up a poker from the side and gave some of the turf a little shove around, before taking a padded cloth and swinging the arm that held the kettle and pulling it off.

  My grandmother nodded to the large settle against the wall opposite. “Take off your jacket and sit yourself down. I’ll just make some tea. You must be hungry too, after your journey. I’ve got some bread and stew here for you.”

  Wordlessly I walked around the small deal table and two chairs, over to the settle and perched on the end. After a moment I unzipped my grey cord jacket and after a brief glance at my Doc Martens to assure myself I hadn’t slipped back in time I looked back over to my grandmother.

  She handed me a mug. Modern. Normal. A cuppa anyone would have anywhere in Ireland. I stared down at the tea and took the familiar comfort it offered. I took a large sip. Perfect. Sitting at the table now, my grandmother nursed her own mug. It took me a moment to realise it wasn’t tea, but milk.

  “Don’t you drink tea?” I asked.

  “Milk is my drink, she said. “And sometimes water.”

  I nodded as if I understood but my unease returned unbidden. I tried to shoo it away, but it wouldn’t listen. I glanced across at the little doors that closed off the stairs to the rooms above. Who knew what lay beyond those stairs? I could only imagine. And if it came to it, perhaps I didn’t want to imagine.

  It was later, after we consumed a lovely and warming stew that did much in shoving the unease into a dark corner, that my grandmother took me up the stairs to my bedroom. I had to bend my head to go through the door to my room, which was at the other gable end, just off of the little corridor. A bed covered in a knitted blanket and coverlet stood against one wall, with a small rag rug on the floor in front of the bed. Against the chimney wall was a press, wash stand and chair. A single window provided the only light. It appeared the heritage park extended to my bedroom. I sat down on the bed and sighed after my grandmother left, the notion of sleeping becoming a scenario that wasn’t particularly appealing. I opted for a book half-read on my tablet. Better to escape into a world I understood and knew wasn’t real.

  A watery sun greeted me the next morning when I pulled back the curtains from my window and opened it. It was a mild enough day that held promise. Outside, the huge ash tree still lay bare, but I could see the buds of leaves on the branches. The small yard was below and my grandmother’s little car was parked there where she’d left it the day before. Through the trees of the ditch that lined the border to the next field I could just about make out some cows. I looked at the sun again and tried to make out the time of day, but it left me clueless except that to guess it was still probably morning. I went over to the little chair I’d put beside my bed the night before and picked up my phone. Nine o’clock. I looked back at the bed, its cosy nest drawing me, and resisted its lure. No, it was best that I make an effort.

  A while later I went downstairs and was relieved to see my grandmother seated at the small deal table, a filled bowl in front of her.

  “Saoirse, Dhía dhuit.”

  I nodded. “Good morning.”

  “Ar chodail tú go maith?”

  I reddened. “Uh, sorry, I don’t understand. Um, ní thuigim?” I thought those were the words for I don’t understand.

  My grandmother raised her brows. “No?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, my Irish is dismal. I only have cúpla focail.”

  My grandmother frowned and sighed. “We’ll have to do something about that.” She paused. “I asked you if you had a good night.”

  I brightened. “Oh, I did. Grand. Best I’ve slept in a while.”

  My grandmother nodded and gave a pleased smile. “Good. Now, will you have some porridge? Or there’s some bread. Or both if you prefer. I have some blackcurrant jam and honey as well.”

  I gave her bowl of what I realised was porridge a dubious look. I hadn’t had porridge since boarding school. I saw there was also a plate of bread slices. Beside it were earthenware pots of butter, jam and honey. My stomach grumbled.

  “Maybe I’ll start with the bread and see how I get on from there,” I said.

  I helped myself to the bread, grabbed a knife and began to spread honey on it. It spread beautifully and looked heavenly. I loved honey. I took a big bite of the bread. The bread was divine and the honey, well, I’d never tasted honey like it.

  “Oh this is fabulous,” I said. “Is the honey local?”

  My grandmother gave me a wry smile. “Yes, very. It’s from here.”

  “You have hives?” I don’t know why I found this so amazing.

  “Of course. Many of us have hives around here. I’ll show them to you later, if you like. In fact, I was thinking of giving you a small tour of the farm after you’ve finished eating.”

  “You don’t have to do the milking or anything?”

  My grandmother laughed. “No, the milking was done some time ago. It’ll be a while before the next one.”

  “Oh, of course. That was stupid of me. The milking would have been done earlier.”

  My grandmother shrugged. “Not to
worry. You’ll soon get to know what goes on around here.”

  I peered inside the milking shed, blinking at the dim light. Light poured in from a small window at the back, but other than the door where I stood there was no other source of light. Still, despite the limited illumination, I saw that there were few stalls, perhaps eight at most. They looked very basic, with little modern equipment in evidence.

  “How many dairy cows do you have?”

  “Ten,” said my grandmother.

  I looked at her. “Ten?” That didn’t sound like much.

  “I have some dry cows as well. About forty in all.”

  I knew nothing about farming, really, so I just nodded doubtfully.

  She smiled at me. “It’s enough for me. My needs are simple.”

  I looked away, uncomfortable because it seemed as though she’d read my thoughts.

  “Come,” she said, taking my hand. “I’ll show you the hives.”

  I followed her down the ramp and away from the shed, passing by a stone enclosure that I realised was a piggery. Inside was a large pig. Sow? It wasn’t until it turned slightly sideways that I saw the teats hanging down and felt a little pride that I had guessed correctly. We crossed the yard. This yard was bigger than the one my room faced, its concrete worn and cracked from age and use. It was immaculate, though. Swept and clear of the farmyard detritus I’d noticed in a few of the farmyards on my journey here. I stepped through a small gate and onto a field, my Doc Martens squelching against the wet grass.

  The field dropped away on a slope and at the bottom I could see a row of hives, or what looked to be hives. As we approached them I saw that they weren’t the usual kind of hives I’d expected. Instead of boxes, they were the dome shaped old fashioned sort, but instead of straw, or whatever it was that they were usually comprised of, the domes were thatched with grass and underneath, briars, stripped of their thorns, were coiled.

  “Isn’t that a different way to construct hives?” I said.

  My grandmother smiled. “Yes, I made them in more of a traditional manner.”

  I raised my brows but said nothing because that was precisely what I knew about beekeeping.

  My grandmother grinned at me, a look so incongruous it startled a laugh from me. She was so unexpected. As if to prove my thoughts, she turned and began to amble around the hives, murmuring, humming and even singing a little while I watched, fascinated.

  A while later, she looked up and straightened. “Now, so. They’ll be cutting silage today in the far fields and they’ll be needing feeding later, so I must get on. Feel free to wander around, if you like, but don’t go into the field next door. The bull’s in there and you wouldn’t care to meet him, I think.”

  “I would not,” I said and grinned. I glanced around and nodded. I had no intention of clinging to her all the day, just because it was all so new and strange. “I will go for a walk, I think. Just a little one, to get the idea of the area.”

  “Good notion.”

  I nodded and paused, uncertain how to bid her farewell. In the end I just turned and headed up the field to the road, conscious of her eyes on me. I reached the road and looked back down the field for my grandmother, to give a wave so she knew where I’d gone, but I could only see the distant shapes of the hives and the ditch and few trees beyond. I shrugged and after a few seconds decided to head down the road, back towards the house with all the crows. I was curious about it.

  The cows were still in the field to my right as I passed by and I wondered if they were the dry cows that my grandmother had mentioned earlier. I peered at them closely, but all I could see was that there wasn’t an udder in sight. Not a rural bone in my body, really, I thought. Any culchie had long ago been bred out of me.

  I heard the crows before I saw them, perched in the branches of the fir trees that towered over the house next to them. Caw and caw again. The sound echoed through my head. I studied them, several perched on the high branches of the fir trees, squawking at each other like gossips. There was a rhythm and beat nearly, so. A just beyond reach tune that seemed to speak to me. I stilled, trying to hear it, but then three of them flew down to the grass at that moment and stalked around, eyeing me balefully. “Where shall we gang and dine the day?” I thought, remembering the lyrics from the Scots folk song, The Twa’ Corbies. I stared at the most aggressive looking one and then I swear it winked at me. I cocked my head, wondering for a moment if I’d imagined it. A dog barked. I looked down and saw it approach and sniff at my feet. He continued to sniff as I made some soft soothing sounds and hoped that it wasn’t mistaking me for some errant cow, sheep, or a piece of meat. Some of the farm dogs, I knew from my grandmother, were bred to work the farm and not always given to affectionate and friendly interactions with strangers.

  “Don’t worry, he’s grand,” said a voice.

  I raised my head and saw a woman heading towards me from the direction of the house and trees, dressed as black as the crows with hair and eyes to match, creating an effect both striking and compelling.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling her intense gaze. “I wasn’t sure. Is he yours?”

  “She. And yes. She belongs here, though she loves to visit the neighbours down the road.”

  “Do they have dogs?”

  “They do, but it’s more the scraps that get left out that draws her. She often as not beats the others to the best ones.”

  I looked down at the dog cautiously. Any dog with that much fight in her needed to be treated warily.

  The woman laughed. “Ah, but she’s got no harm in her, really. Just when it comes to food.”

  I gave the woman a weak smile and nodded. “Is this your house?”

  “Oh, sorry, now. I’m Maura. And yes, this is my house.” Her voice was warm and friendly.

  “Saoirse. I’m staying with my grandmother down the road, there. I just arrived yesterday.”

  “You mean, Anna?”

  I nodded.

  “Isn’t that grand. I’m sure she’s delighted to have you. You’ve not been before, though, have you?”

  “No. I’m only new to her, really. I only met her recently.”

  “Mmm,” said Maura. “I had heard something of it.”

  At that moment a crow landed on her shoulder and cawed softly. I watched her curiously as she turned and smiled at it.

  “Sorry,” she said. “He’s somewhat tamed. He was injured as a chick and I tended him.”

  “I see. How lovely.”

  Maura grinned. “It is.” She paused. “Look, I’d invite you in for a cup of tea but I’m off out. We’ll do it another time, will we?”

  “Of course. That would be good.”

  “In the meantime, if you’re out exploring, you would do well to head up the other direction. You’ll get some fab views and if you walk far enough you’ll see the holy well and St Gobnait’s shrine. Eventually you’ll come to the village.”

  “St Gobnait? I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

  “If you’re to live around here, you must get to know about St Gobnait. She’s the local patron saint. Also patron saint of bees.”

  “Bees? Is that why so many people have hives around here? My grandmother was mentioning it only this morning.”

  “Did she? Well, it might be the reason. Who’s to say?”

  “I suppose different things motivate people. Who can resist honey, anyway?”

  Maura smiled. “True enough.”

  I collected myself, knowing that I didn’t want to hold her up. I raised my hand. “I’ll let you be off then. Thanks for the tip. It’s much appreciated. It sounds perfect.”

  “No bother,” she said. “No bother at all.”

  6

  Saoirse

  I walked down the steep winding road. Trees rose up along with higher ditches, creating a little shelter from the wet misty rain that had managed to soak through my thin dark jacket and the T-shirt underneath to my skin. My Doc Martens had preserved my feet for the most part, though I could now
feel a little bit of damp on the toes of the thick tights I wore under my fuchsia plaid skirt. My hair was wet as well, and for once I wished I had the one hoodie I owned.

  It had started out fine enough, but it seemed as soon as I swung down from the upper road to the lower one leading towards the village the mist had crept in, getting heavier and heavier, until it had become an outright rain. Very soon too, any shelter from trees or shrub lined ditches had disappeared as the road rose and fell, completely open to the fields around, except for the very low ditches on either side. The limited view I had of the landscape around me was lovely, and I knew on a different day I would have slowed down to appreciate it more. But my sole aim had changed its focus to one of finding a cafe where I could shelter until it improved.

  A short while later I saw heritage signs to my left. One had said tobar which I knew meant “well” in Irish and another that I felt indicated St Gobnait’s shrine and cemetery. I paused, my curiosity aroused. I may as well have a look. Sure, I couldn’t get much wetter.

  I opted for the well first, since that had the stronger draw for me. I walked up the path and saw a large pollarded tree with loads of clouties and tokens hung on branches and scattered at the tree’s foot. Below the tree was the well, its entrance outlined in stone. Above it and beside it were mugs and cups for drinking. Light shone down on the well from the gap in the trees and I could see the glint of coins at its bottom. The silence cloaked me and I withdrew into its world. Apart. Separate.