The Seeing

Chapter Twenty-One

A surging wind broke against the Connemara coast that night, pounding the sea side of Skyhead and stirring eddies of sand on the flat beaches running north. The wind rode hard through the streets of Ballytone and over the ridge of hills that rose from the village toward forbidding skies.

It raced along the cragged coasts of Connaught and Mayo, past towns named Castlebar, Innisscrone and Screen, churning up sprays of white water in Donegal Bay before finding its match in the high escarpment that stood above the town of Ballydrum and served as a storm-break for the Mallory cottage where, at this moment, old Liam Mallory had paused with a hand on the tea kettle to say to his wife, Corinne, “I fear something, woman...”

“What are you fearing?”

“I cannot tell. But I have the feel of it.”

Placing the kettle on the iron arm hinged to the fireplace, the old man looked through the windows at the mists coming up above the cliffs.

“All week they’ve been telling me,” he said. “The eggs with triple yolks, then the birds — quiet in the trees — stopping their cries, and your mother’s wedding plate, for forty years on that shelf wall, falling and shattering itself.”

“It’s only the winds, Liam.”

“Was it just the wind that opened the Bible to the death pages? Showing the names gone before us?”

Staring at the white mists, he shook his head. “No, they’re telling me about the girl who was here. Warning us...”

The old man tried to remember the name of the lady who had brought Jessica to their cottage but the name remained elusive at the edge of his thoughts. Then Liam recalled that the woman with Jessica Mallory had talked of their village in the south and mentioned the name of the priest there. “Was it not Father Malachy, Father Malachy from the town of Ballytone?” And when his wife nodded, old Liam made his decision...

From the top of the meadow, Jessica heard snatches of shouted conversation. Soon afterward came the sound of car engines rising to life, then the orange beams of headlights slashing through the trees.

The green sedan Eric Griffith had rented at Shannon Airport disappeared south of Easter Hill. The black convertible with the new groom and Tony Saxe in the front seat headed toward the road to Ballytone.

Jessica ran across the field, sod springy under her boots. She planned to cross the trout stream at the bottom of the meadow, then climb the next hill toward Skyhead, a course that would take her away from Easter Hill and from the village of Ballytone. She knew it would be foolish and reckless to head for Miss Charity’s, even the rectory tonight. With two cars and four sets of eyes, Uncle Eric and Aunt Maud and the two strangers could easily cover all the approaches to the village.

When she reached the summit of Skyhead, she could hear the seas booming in long breakers on the shores below. Starting down a winding footpath, Jessica crouched low to make her body a smaller target for the buffeting winds. Gripping tufts of grass, she cautiously descended the steep incline.

The ocean side of Skyhead was cold and wet. When the path angled sharply, Jessica’s boots slipped out from under her. She slid a dozen feet, shale rattling, until she managed to throw both arms around a boulder and stop her fall.

The wind blew her hair into a tangle and her silk scarf flapped like a piece of torn sail. At the base of the cliff, with hard-packed sand under her feet, she began to run, keeping well clear of the powerful waves crashing and sucking at the shore.

Scrambling over clusters of rock wigged with seaweed, she ran until her sides were hot with pain, until her breath came faster than the pound of her heart. Only then did she slow down, half-walking and half-running toward her goal, the snug and hidden beach where she had so often picnicked and swum with Andrew and the dogs — Angel’s Cove.

One road led from the bluffs to these beaches, a worn cart-trail, starting from the Ballytone Road and curving down the sea side of Skyhead.

At the junction of the beach and cart-road, Jessica stopped to catch her breath, the cold air searing her lungs.

But she would be safe at Angel’s Cove. And the embrace of the rocks would shield her from the winds. At dawn she would climb the cliff and make her way to Miss Charity or Father Malachy.

The sea winds changed direction. Jessica listened intently, raising her eyes to the crests of Skyhead. Above the crash of wave and wind, she thought she had heard the sound of a car — a mechanical, throbbing beat somewhere above her on the cart-road. She couldn’t be sure because when the winds changed again, the vague rhythmic vibrations were lost in the heavier crash of the waves.

She held her breath, listening with her imagination and will, as much as with her eyes. But she heard nothing then except the water and the winds against the granite cliffs. Tightening her scarf, she ran on toward Angel’s Cove, dodging the curling waves that were aimed like frothing scythes at her ankles.

And then from above and behind her, lights flickered on the beach, gleaming like bright fires in the waves. Turning, Jessica saw the headlights of a car bouncing down the cart-trail from the Ballytone road.

Ignoring the pain in her side and the winds stinging her cheeks, Jessica ran even faster, knowing she had been trapped and realizing that her only chance of escape was to find natural hand-holds and to claw her way back up the face of the raw cliff.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. The headlights had winked out, but she could still hear the car grinding behind her like a sullen dog. Suddenly, that muted sound crescendoed into a heavy roar directly behind her on the beach itself. At the same instant the glare of the headlights exploded around her, pinning the girl in a circle of relentless illumination.

Risking another desperate glance, Jessica saw the sedan bearing down on her, Aunt Maud and Uncle Eric’s faces shimmering and ghost-like behind the windshield.

Then Jessica paid the extravagant price for that glimpse of danger — her flying feet collided with a piece of driftwood half buried in the sand. She cried out and fell sprawling headlong to the damp beach. The impact knocked the breath from her body, and created a sickening vibration in her ears. She was barely conscious of the icy waves surging over her out-flung arms.

Footsteps sounded and they were beside her, turning her body with strong hands onto a woolen car rug.

“You shouldn’t have put us to this trouble, princess.” Eric’s voice was edged with sarcasm. “Your Aunt Maud might just catch a cold.”

They bundled the girl in the heavy rug, imprisoning her arms and legs. When she recovered her breath and tried to scream, it was too late; a fold of the blanket was tight across her face, covering her mouth and eyes.

Jessica was aware of being lifted and laid flat in the rear of the car. She heard the doors slam, felt the wheels backing and turning, then felt the damp wind on her face as the sedan rushed along the beach toward the cart-road.