Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

“Now, Mammy, you were just singing a bit of something just there, do you remember? A little snip of a song you used to know.” She hummed a fragment of melody, and patted the old lady’s hand in time, as Cormac silently pushed the record button again, and Mrs. Cleary squeezed her eyes shut in an effort of concentration. Then the old woman opened her mouth, and from it came a voice as sinewy as old leather. There was nothing of conventional beauty in this voice, but it lay on the ear and invaded the chest in a way that no youthful, thrushlike strain could equal.

Here the old woman’s voice faltered, but the daughter held her hand fast, bringing it forward in a slow circular motion in time to the song, almost like the piston arm on a locomotive. Nora watched, fascinated, as Rita continued humming the melody: “‘But tell to me your true love’s name,’” she prompted. Something clicked in the old woman’s head. She began again:

Again she stumbled, and again the daughter’s low voice kept the music going until the old lady had cleared enough cobwebs from her memory to deliver up another few lines:

This time the singing ended abruptly. “Sin e,” said the old woman. “That’s all. Ah, there’s more, but I’ve lost it now. I can’t—”

“It’s all right, Mammy,” said Rita. “Whisht now; you did grand, just grand.”

“You got the best part of it,” Cormac said. “Not to worry.”

“That was wonderful, Mrs. Cleary, really,” Nora said. The sound of her own voice grated on her ears, and she knew that she could never truly be a part of what was happening in this room. It was not the first time she’d felt it. There was an intimate form of communication taking place here, an exchange from which she was excluded, cut off by the broad chasm of culture and experience. The sound of Mrs. Cleary’s ancient voice and the image of the grieving soldier in the old lady’s song merged with the red-haired girl and the vision of Triona’s smiling face, and Nora felt filled again with the terrible, aching sadness that had overcome her as she stood alone in the lab with the red-haired girl.

“Well, Mrs. Cleary, we don’t want to be wearing you out,” Cormac finally said. “Perhaps we could come back and visit another day. Thank you so much for talking with us.” The old lady had warmed to Cormac now, and clearly didn’t want him to go. She reverted to her cranky persona in an instant.

“Do what you like,” she said, waving a hand indifferently. “Makes no difference to me.”

Cormac could see that Nora was upset as they left Mrs. Cleary’s, so he didn’t speak until they were some distance down the road: “Sorry, that was a bit rough. Are you okay?”

“Not really. I’m thinking of that old woman sitting there day after day, with all that inside her—doesn’t it overwhelm you sometimes, Cormac? All that’s been squandered and lost?”

“But it’s not all lost. That’s what I’ve been thinking about as we’re digging at the priory. Things do remain. People carry on, without even knowing. You can’t kill that, as hard as you might try. It’s almost like something embedded in our subconscious, like a virus, that only shows itself in certain conditions. Sounds daft, I know, but doesn’t it make sense, when you think of all that’s managed to survive? I hear it all the time, Nora. I hear it in your voice.” He watched a solitary tear spill down her cheek.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she said. They were going uphill now, and she was struggling with the gearshift. “Bloody buggering hell.” Neither of them saw the sheep until it was nearly too late.

“Look out!” he said, and she swerved instinctively to avoid hitting the animal. The car veered wildly as she tried to maintain control, then landed with a thud as the left front tire skidded over the edge of the small embankment. “Are you all right?”

Nora nodded, and let out her breath. Cormac peered out his window, testing to see whether the movement would cause the car to tip further. When he was satisfied that it wouldn’t, he cautiously opened the door and climbed out, circling the car to assess the situation.

“It’s not too bad,” he said. “I might be able to push us back up onto the road. Put the gearbox in neutral, would you?” He pressed his back against the passenger door, grasping the bottom edge of the door, braced his legs, and heaved. He could feel the car rock slightly, so he heaved again, to no avail.

“It’s no good,” Nora said. “You can’t do it alone. I’ll give you a hand.”

“The ground’s a bit soft to get any traction,” he said, looking down at the high grass that brushed against his thighs. “I doubt if even the two of us would have much luck, but come on.” They positioned themselves with their backs to the car, on either side of the front wheel well, and began to shove. “If I’d been watching the road—” Nora said. With the sudden force of the push, her feet slipped out from under her and she disappeared into the wet grass.

Cormac dropped to his knees and parted the thick blades with his hands until he found her lying on her back about halfway down the embankment. Tears streamed down her face, and her body shook as though wracked with sobs, but when she opened her mouth, the sound that floated upward was a silvery peal of laughter. He couldn’t blame her; the whole situation was ludicrous. She lifted her arms and, seeing that they were coated with mud, dissolved into helpless laughter once more.

Cormac sat back on his heels. “This isn’t going to work, is it? Come on, then. I suppose we can walk back.” She grasped the hand he held out to her, and Cormac pulled her toward him, and didn’t stop until he was kissing her, cradling her dark head in his hands, aware only of her vital electricity and the soft warmth of her lips. He let her go and sat back abruptly. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “I had no right.”

“No,” she said. They were both breathing hard. He struggled to stand, but felt her hand grasp the front of his shirt. She held him there until the distance between them began to close again, ever so slowly. He felt her eyes travel across his face, intimate as a touch, and this time he tasted her salt tears, the gritty smudge of mud on her chin, the softly perfumed whiteness of her neck. But the image of the pair of them on their knees in the ditch must have been too much; she had to pull away to release another helpless whoop of laughter. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s a good thing I’m not easily offended. But I’m afraid you’re alarming the sheep.”

Devaney rapped on the kitchen door at Bracklyn House. Through the small squares of wavy glass, he could see a figure approaching.

“Mrs. Osborne? I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Devaney said when a slim, dark-haired woman opened the door. “There was no answer upstairs. Detective Garrett Devaney.” He presented his identification, which she studied with interest.