Later that day, Laurel set out for Bray Head. It was early evening, still bright and sunny with the long June hours. Though she could feel her jet lag slowing her down, she was too uneasy to rest.
The sea front was bustling with a summer festival. The air rang with a medley of musics from a carousel of golden horses, a folk group on the bandstand, and drummers on the boardwalk beating lambegs and bodhráns. Clowns on stilts strode through the crowds, while children with painted faces played chase below them. As the Ferris wheel twirled overhead, screams echoed downward like the cry of the seagulls.
Laurel walked along the promenade, a little dazed by the din. On her right, green lawns accommodated the festival rides and stalls. Behind them was a Victorian terrace of hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, and noisy pubs with canopies over open-air seating. On her left, beyond the wrought-iron balustrade and a stony strand, shone the Irish Sea. The tide was out. Ripples stirred the glassy surface that mirrored the silvery blue of the sky. Children paddled in the shallows or built castles in the wet sand by the water's edge. But Laurel noticed little of this, for her attention rested on the small mountain ahead of her.
It rose up at the end of the boardwalk like a humpbacked giant tumbling into the sea. Though cloaked in heather and gorse, its uneven slopes showed bare patches of rock that shone white in the sunlight. On the summit stood a concrete cross.
Like a tombstone, she thought.
She had dreaded returning to this place. There were cruel reminders everywhere. Circling the peak were hang gliders soaring like giant butterflies. Were they the young men she and Honor had flirted with on the day of their picnic? The same shocked witnesses who had raised the alarm and reported what happened?
I saw her climbing onto the ledge. She was moving slowly, carefully, but then she lost her balance.
The winds were strong that day. Gusts were coming from every which way.
I heard her cry out, saw her waving her arms before she fell.
There are signs and warnings all over the Head, but people still take chances. They assume it's safe because it's only a hill, but it can be dangerous.
There was no one near her. No one to help her.
I saw her hit the water. It was awful. I'll never forget it. A boat went out, but not soon enough.
By the time we got to her, it was too late. She was already gone. Laurel's feet dragged, as if reluctant to continue, but she forced herself onward. The iron railings along the promenade became a low stone wall where people sat, eating their ice creams. The boardwalk itself tapered away into a tarmac road that curved upward to the Head. She knew where she was going. There were passages in her twin's journal that she knew by heart, and they were her guide.
There are lots of holly bushes up here. "The gentle tree" they call it. Hardly any berries, though. The birds eat them. The same birds that are doing all the cheeping and peeping, I bet. The air is thick and sweet. It's like an earthy perfume, lush and green. I love being here with the sea and the sky and the mountain. It makes me feel part of something so much bigger than myself.
Laurel did not share Honor's love of nature. The pungent leaf mold caught at her throat, making her cough. The dense press of greenery was suffocating. Twigs cracked underfoot like brittle bones, and gnarled roots kept tripping her. The wind made a mournful sound in the ragged branches of the Scots pine.
It wasn't long before she discovered the tract of nettles that had attacked her sister. Though Laurel's jeans protected her legs, the weeds stung her hands as she pushed her way through them. She didn't stop to look for the dock leaves Honor had mentioned, but took some comfort from the shared experience. She imagined her twin forging ahead and yelping in panic as she tried to spot the hornets she thought were biting her.
The higher Laurel climbed, the harder it got. The brambles grew thicker, the briars thornier, and the path so steep her legs ached. She began to feel uneasy. A stray thought crossed her mind. The mountain's working against me. Though she told herself not to be ridiculous, she kept looking behind her. The shadows seemed to deepen in the undergrowth. The air had grown chill.
Then someone burst out of the bushes and onto the path! She cringed instinctively, but the runner veered past her and up the hill. An athlete in shorts and sneakers, with red hair tied in a pony tail, he had barely even noticed her. She tried to laugh at herself, but she was shaking.
As Laurel approached the peak, she heard the hang gliders calling to each other high in the air. She hunched over in case they saw her. She didn't want to meet them. They were not the people she was looking for.
Now the path brought her through a spinney of tangled trees. Many were shattered and blackened by lightning. With a pang, she found the one Honor had described as a witch pointing upward.
At last she came to the edge of the mountain where it sheered into the sea. White gulls wheeled in the air, screeching at each other. She could see the strand far below, the tiny people on the promenade, and the Ferris wheel twirling like a toy in the wind. But she was more interested in what lay only a few feet down. There a narrow shelf jutted out from the cliff, like a brow frowning over the rock face.
Laurel was overcome with the knowledge that this was where Honor had spent her last moments alive. She could see her twin sitting in the sun, journal on her lap, writing a story about meeting "them." But what madness made her climb onto the ledge? If only Laurel had been there, she could have, would have stopped her.
On a sudden impulse, Laurel lowered herself over the cliff edge. Ignoring her own protests, as if driven against her will, she inched her away along the shelf, slowly, carefully. Her sister believed it led to a doorway. Was there an opening somewhere along the ridge? A high cave in the mountainside? Where she pressed against the rock face, the stone was surprisingly cold despite the sunshine. She could hear the sea crashing below her, but didn't look down. Though she had a head for heights, she felt dizzy. What was she doing? This was crazy! A gust of wind blew around the corner. The sudden buffet nearly threw her off balance. She teetered on the edge of terror. A chilling thought slid into her mind. This is where Honor fell. Would she follow her? Was that why she had come here?
No.
As quickly as she had decided to do it, Laurel changed her mind. Battling a wave of despair, she retreated to the point where she had started. Only then did she discover, with a shock, that she was not alone.
He was carrying a load of dried sticks in his arms: a short, stout, red-faced man. His ginger hair sprouted out from all angles—curly locks that fell to his shoulders, bushy beard, and tufts that grew from his ears and nostrils. He was just under five feet, more stocky than plump. His woolen trousers were tucked into rubber boots and he wore a tatty vest over a grimy red shirt. A patched top hat was perched on his head. Something about him made her think of a red badger. The eyes, dark like two blackberries, squinted down at her.
"Ye shouldn't be at that," he said. His voice was gravelly. "Ye might fall, and then where would ye be?"
She felt a shiver of fear. Honor had made him sound cute and funny, yet this little man seemed neither. There was something vaguely unpleasant about him. She was struck by a terrifying suspicion. The gliders might not have seen him from the air. He could have crouched down. Did he push Honor? Would he push her?
He dropped the sticks and reached out his hand.
"Come up outa dat, before ye catch your death."
He must have come from the spinney. That would explain the sticks. But she didn't see or hear anything when she went through it. Had he been hiding? Watching her? Her alarm was growing. She had to get off the ledge. She wished someone would come, but it was a secluded spot, and there was no sign of other hikers. There was nothing else to do but grab his hand.
His grip was sweaty, but with one strong pull he yanked her up and onto firm ground.
The first thing she noticed was his smell, like moldy earth. She stepped away quickly, from him and the cliff edge.
"The roly-poly man," she said.
"Is that moniker here to stay, then?"
He frowned, and in that moment she saw something older, darker, and bloodred. Something displeased. But the impression passed quickly, like a flare. Still, it left her uneasy for though he appeared to be harmless, in her heart she knew he wasn't.
"Not to worry," he said, with a quick laugh. "Call me what ye want to, just don't call me early in the morning." His voice took on an ingratiating wheedle. "And isn't it a grand thing ye got here at last? We almost gave up the ghost, and us after sendin' ye messages all year long. Do ye not mind your dreams at'all?"
She stared him, confused.
"What? What are you talking about?"
Her own voice sounded strange to her, hollow and robotic, like someone in shock. But hadn't she come looking for him? Didn't she hope he would show up?
"I… I… don't understand," she stammered.
"Ye mean ye don't know the story?"
Only then did Laurel admit to herself that she didn't really know why she was there. She had been acting on instinct—so unlike her—even worse, on compulsion. She felt as if she were sliding toward a chasm. She needed to grasp onto something, anything, to keep from falling in.
"It's because of you," she burst out. "It's your fault she died!"
Yes, that was it. That was why she had come. To confront him.
The blackberry eyes stared back at her without blinking.
"Is it now? And why, then, does the guilt be hangin' off ye like a cloak? It's not me ye blame but yourself, I'm thinkin'."
The chasm was drawing nearer. She dug in her heels. She wouldn't let him trick her with words.
"I should've protected her from you."
He was quick to reply. "I didn't harm a hair on her head. 'Twas herself came after me, though I did me best to hide. 'Twas ye, not her, we wanted."
Laurel was at the brink, peering into the abyss. She stepped back again. Tried a different tack.
"Are you some kind of cult? Drugs? Religion?"
His gaze was implacable.
"Ye know very well that's not the case, and ye know what your sister was at."
"She didn't give you a name," Laurel said quickly. The pressure was excruciating, the force of something she couldn't accept. "Whenever she mentions you, it's always vague."
"She knew the rules." His tone was matter-of-fact but Laurel heard the challenge. "'Tis bad luck to say too much about us."
He rummaged in the pockets of his vest and pulled out a little brown bottle. Unstoppering the cork, he took a long swig, then regarded her sideways.
They had reached the crux of the matter.
"Go'wan, grasp the nettle," he prompted. "I dare ye to say it. The F word. And I don't mean a curse."
"Fairies." She nearly choked. "Honor believed in fairies."
For the first time she truly met his eyes. Red pinpricks of light glinted inside the dark irises. There was no emotion there that she could recognize, no sympathy or concern or even judgment. His look was utterly alien and disinterested. In that gaze, she caught a glimpse of an impossible reality, ancient and unknowable. Anywhere else she might have been able to dismiss it, but not here, not on the side of a lonely mountain that fell into the sea.
Laurel began to back away. She felt her thoughts unraveling, her mind threatening to unhinge. Her words came out strangled.
"I… can't… do… this."
"Don't be afeard! Your sister needs ye! We need ye!"
His shouts trailed behind her as she stumbled back down Bray Head. Crashing through brush and briar, she grabbed at trees to keep from falling. Nettles stung her, brambles scraped her, but still she ran, like a deer fleeing before the hunter.
At last she broke from the greenery onto the stone steps that led to the sea front. But she almost barged into a familiar figure.
Ian did not react immediately, but stood gazing at his hands.
Still distraught, Laurel was about to accuse him of following her when she saw what he was holding. It was a large black bird, a crow or a raven. The dark wings were limp and ragged. Blood spattered the feathers, a livid red against the glossy black. Its neck had been wrung.
Ian looked up, eyes burning with shame.
As Laurel took in the stillness of the broken body, a primal rage tore through her. She stood helpless in the face of death.
"Murderer."
He jerked back as the word struck him.
Then she brushed past and raced down the steps, toward the beach. Her need to escape was overwhelming, as if her very survival depended on it. When she reached the seashore, she kicked off her shoes and ran into the water. The shock of cold knocked the breath out of her, but she plunged in regardless. When she dove, seeking solace in the depths, she kept her eyes open though the salt sea stung.
Laurel knew it was her own mind torturing her, yet she continued to stare at what she saw. There in the blue-green shadows of the water, caught in laoco?n strands of seaweed, was Honor's body, deathly white and beautiful.
The image drove her to the surface, gasping for air.
Back on the beach, shuddering with cold, she pulled on her shoes. The icy water had condensed her thoughts to the clarity of crystal. She knew why she had returned to Ireland. The truth was simple, if absurd and insane.
She had come to save Honor.