Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

An old woman’s croaking voice came from the dark, cool interior of the house. “Tar isteach. Come in.” Cormac entered first, and Nora followed. After the brightness of the day, her eyes took a moment to become accustomed to the gloom. She could dimly make out an old lady sitting beside the open fireplace at the far end of the room, propped up in a tall, uncomfortable-looking upholstered chair. She was small-framed and thin, and wore a plain wool skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a cardigan. Age accentuated the hawklike curve of her nose, and the bony, arthritic hands that gripped the chair’s arms further underscored the avian impression. Despite the warmth of the day, a turf fire glowed orange in the grate.

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up,” she said. “My daughter should be in the scullery there, just getting the tea. Rita—Rita, where are you?”

“Quite all right, Mrs. Cleary,” said Cormac, taking a small bottle out of his coat pocket. “I hope you were expecting us. My name is Cormac Maguire, and this is Nora Gavin. We’ve brought you a drop of whiskey.” He advanced a little cautiously, knelt beside the chair, and pressed his gift into one of the bent hands. The woman’s wrinkled face brightened as she fingered the bottle. Nora could see that she had the same milky-white eyes as her nephew.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Nora said. The old lady cocked her head at the sound of an American voice.

“What’s the matter with the Irish girls, then, Maguire?” she asked abruptly. Nora’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Dr. Gavin is a colleague, Mrs. Cleary. We work together.”

The old woman ignored him. “Well, sit yourselves down, the two of ye. Rita—where is that lazy girl? She was to put the kettle on for tea.” She gestured vaguely toward a table arranged against the wall, where the tea things were laid out. “And I’d have a drop of that whiskey now, meself.” Cormac took the bottle from her and handed it to Nora, who found a glass on the table into which she poured a generous shot.

“We appreciate you taking the time to see us,” he began, venturing to sit on the edge of a chair across from Mrs. Cleary.

“Ah, sure, what’s a useless old woman like me got besides time?”

From the door of the scullery came the voice of the “girl” to whom Mrs. Cleary had referred; she must have been nearly seventy. “Now, Mammy, go away out of that, you’re not useless. You’re enjoying a well-deserved retirement.” Rita Cleary was quick to gather what had gone on in her brief absence. “You haven’t already been passing remarks on these nice people, have you?” To Cormac and Nora she said, “I hope you can bear with her. She usually loves visitors, but I’m afraid she’s been in a rather unpredictable mood this afternoon. Go on and sit down there. She’ll be fine as long as I’m here to keep an eye on her.”

Cormac and Nora sat down again. “Here’s that whiskey now, Mrs. Cleary,” he said, taking the glass from Nora and guiding it to the old lady’s hand. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

“Do what you like,” she said.

He fished in his pocket and drew out a tiny tape recorder. “I’m not sure if Ned mentioned what we’re looking for, Mrs. Cleary. Any songs or old stories you may have heard over the years about a famous outlaw from these parts, or perhaps a young girl who was beheaded. Perhaps some story about a famous murder, or someone being executed for a crime.”

Mrs. Cleary smiled and took a tiny sip of the golden liquor. “I don’t know when I’ve had so much attention. First the crowd from Radio Eireann coming down last week to record me, and now the likes of you. I’ll have to start charging by the hour.” She looked pleased with herself, but Rita crouched down beside the chair, took the old lady’s hand and stroked it as she said in a soothing tone, “Now, Mammy, you remember it was a long time ago that the men from the radio were here. It’s more than thirty years ago. You know that, don’t you, Mammy?” The old lady looked sorely put out, and the volume of the daughter’s voice dropped as she addressed them, somewhat apologetically, still holding her mother’s hand. “She usually doesn’t start getting like this until much later in the evening. It’s possible she’s a bit tired.” Nora was beginning to wonder if they were on the wrong track entirely, but surely Raftery wouldn’t have sent them out here if he’d known the trip was going to be a waste of time.

“This girl—what’s she got to do with you?” Mrs. Cleary demanded sharply.

“Well, nothing personally,” Cormac replied. “We just happen to have dug her head up a few days ago in Drumcleggan Bog.”

“Red-haired, was she?”

“How did you know?” Nora asked.

Mrs. Cleary pursed her lips. “People talk. No secrets around here.”

“Would you have many red-haired people around these parts?” Cormac asked.

“Well, there were a fair number, in certain families. The Clearys—my husband’s family—the Kellys, and the McGanns always had a good deal of ginger-hair amongst ’em. Not them all, now, but always a few.”

“What was significant about red hair?” Nora asked. She knew it supposedly indicated a hot temperament, but maybe there was more.

“My father always said meeting a red-haired woman at the gate was terrible bad luck. Ah, you never know but they might have powers. With cures and curses, the evil eye and such.”

Nora realized she hadn’t asked Robbie specifically about what might happen to a young woman suspected of practicing witchcraft.

“We found a ring as well,” Cormac said. “It had some initials inscribed inside, COF and AOF, and a date, 1652. We’re hoping it might help us find out who this red-haired girl was. Do those initials mean anything—”

“And supposing you do find out who this girl is? What difference will it make?”

“Well, no difference at all, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things,” Cormac said, accepting a steaming cup of tea and a biscuit from Rita.

“I think we feel—responsible,” Nora said. “At least I do, to try to find out who she was, and how she came to be there. You might feel the same, if you’d seen her.” Nora realized her blunder, but did not apologize.

The challenge in her words had a strange effect on Mrs. Cleary. The old woman’s eyes narrowed; her lips curved into a scowl, but she seemed to be considering. They waited.

“I know nothing about any red-haired girl,” Mrs. Cleary muttered.

“Nora’s got a suspicion that the initials OF might stand for O’Flaherty,” Cormac said. “Ned was telling us about the last of the O’Flahertys from these parts, a young fella called Cathal Mor, who was transported to Barbados. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about him?”

Mrs. Cleary’s right hand grasped the arm of the chair as she thought. Her clouded eyes were downcast as if focused on some scene from the past. The left hand, which held the whiskey glass, rested slackly in her lap. For the first time, she seemed a little hazy, worried about something. “I used to remember it all. Used to hear the auld ones talking, and I remembered things. People came to me. It’s all gone now….”

“Perhaps we could call around another time,” Cormac said. The old woman gave no response, but her daughter nodded from across the room, and he switched off his tape recorder. What else could they do? He gently took the glass from Mrs. Cleary’s hand and set it on the table beside her. All hint of her former peevishness was gone, replaced by pitiful confusion. “Rita,” she said. “Rita, where are you? I’m thirsty.”

Nora was just turning her key in the ignition when they heard a voice calling sharply from the doorway: “Mr. Maguire, wait! Come back.” Rita ushered them back into the dimly lit room, where they took their former places on the straight-backed chairs beside the old woman. This time the daughter sat down beside Mrs. Cleary, and stroked her hand.