A CRY FROM THE DEEP (27 page)

The early morning light wasn’t enough to shake her dream. The man in it was young. She hadn’t dreamt of him before. Who could it be? Then she recalled the brass button. Could it have belonged to a man named James? Had she called on his spirit when the button was in her hand? At the time, an old ship caught in a storm had flashed in her mind, as well as a young man in a sailor’s jacket. Was he James, and was he related to the young woman? As she thought some more, she recalled that the man in her dream was the spitting image of Daniel.

TWENTY-NINE

The morning brought rain and with it, the winds. It was too hazardous to go out on the boat, so the dives were cancelled. As before, Hennesey told everyone to keep their cell phones on in case the weather calmed down enough for them to go out in the afternoon.

Catherine stayed at Sea Breeze and went online to the
Guildhall Library
website. She searched the list of nineteenth century ships insured by Lloyds of London, but found no mention of the
Alice O’Meary.
She ended up writing the director of the library for any information he could provide on the vessel.

Next, she checked a website entitled The
Shipwrecks Index of Ireland
, an online resource similar to a book she’d seen in Hennesey’s wheelhouse. There was no mention of the British barque but she did find a record of it on the
National Historic Ships
website. Her heart sped when she read the year it was built and the name of the ship builder: Sunderland, England. That was the name engraved on the capstan they’d found. She also learned that the ship had been piloted by Captain David Bryce and that the 398 ton barque with its iron hull was used for trading. It carried general cargo, including tea, and on occasion, a small group of passengers.

She was transfixed by what she read next. According to the posted story, in 1878, the
Alice O’Meary
was on its way to Liverpool to pick up some immigrants for passage to America when a storm came up. It was noted that the British barque had broken up somewhere off the coast of Ireland leaving no survivors. According to records, the ship
was never seen again.

Until now. Was that the storm she dreamt about? The one that had sunk the
Alice O’Meary?
She shuddered as she thought she’d somehow entered the past. But how could that be?

It was then she remembered a movie she viewed with her mother. It was called
I’ll Never Forget You.
It was about a scientist, who went back in time to the eighteenth century after reading a diary. There, he fell in love with a woman who hadn’t been mentioned in the journal. When he returned to the future, he met a woman who looked exactly like the one he’d fallen in love with hundreds of years before. It was a story that had captured her young imagination, much as it had her mother’s. It left them both with the notion that the couple in love had travelled through time together. Their love hadn’t been forgotten.

Back then, it was only a story. But now—having encountered the ghosts—Catherine wondered if it was possible to travel through time. Maybe no one mentioned it for fear they’d be locked up in a home for the insane.

Catherine re-read the record of the
Alice O’Meary’s
demise. The young woman’s spirit had led her to the ship’s grave site, and then later, to Martin’s headstone. They were connected but how?

On a hunch, she entered ‘Martin O’Donnell Ireland’ in the
Google
search bar. With genealogy being so popular, it was possible he could show up in someone’s family tree. She found a considerable number of O’Donnells, even one from the same era, but none that had married Elizabeth Mary or had ended up in St. Catherine’s cemetery.

She did however find a reference to a book about a young woman called Margaret O’Donnell. According to one reviewer, the book told the tale of Margaret’s doomed marriage. After leaving Killybegs in 1878 to marry a sailor at sea, she and her groom had drowned when a storm capsized their ship. Afterwards, the villagers, a superstitious bunch, spent the next two generations blaming one another for the tragedy. Something about a curse. At first, Catherine found the storyline curious, but then it struck her that she’d seen the year 1878 cited on the
National Historic Ships
website with respect to the
Alice O’Meary
. That was the year it had gone down in the storm. Was this the same ship then that had carried Margaret O’Donnell? Was Margaret a relative of Martin’s?

There was a storm in her bad dream, one that pummelled the old ship. The young woman, who looked like her, was wearing a white dress. Was that a bridal gown? And did her dream have any connection to this story of Margaret O’Donnell?

The short synopsis in the book review was too coincidental to ignore. Catherine’s heart beat as fast as if she’d run a race. Another piece of the riddle seemed to be within reach. Catherine grabbed a pen and wrote down the book’s title:
The Curse of the Stones.

~~~

Thinking the book would be of some local interest, Catherine went straight to the Killybegs library, a small two-story stucco building on Bridge Street, off the main road.

The librarian, an elderly woman with spectacles and a grey bob hairstyle, said they’d had a copy of
The Curse of the Stones
, but that it had gone missing a few years back and had never been replaced. It was also out of print. Seeing Catherine’s disappointed reaction, she said, “But maybe I can give you something to go on.”

She bent down and pulled out from under the counter a long, narrow, cardboard box. It was marked, O
ut of Print
. She thumbed through the index cards inside and found one she studied for a moment before showing it to Catherine. “It says here, it was written in 1937 by Liam Athol, the grandson of a local villager.”

“You mean, here, in Killybegs?”

The librarian nodded. “Appears so.”

Catherine had seen Liam’s name on the book review, but there’d been no mention of any village connections. Wondering if he was still alive, Catherine did some quick math in her head. “Do you know if he might still live here?”

“Don’t know if he ever did. The Athol family had land in Donegal county, but whether they still do, I don’t know.”

“Is there any way I can find out?”

The librarian shrugged. “You can try one of the local realtors, they might be able to help. There also might be something in church records. Mind you, that’d be going back a number of years.” She scrunched her face, as if to underline the fact that searching for anyone in the county was a daunting task.

Catherine found the librarian’s response discouraging. If the Athols were hard to trace, the O’Donnells would be impossible. She was still considering her options when the librarian said, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Catherine nodded. “Yes. I’m curious about a ship that went down north of Donegal Bay. The
Alice O’Meary
. If there’s anything you can find about her, I’d appreciate it.”

The librarian wrote the name down. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It wasn’t much of a library, but Catherine had learned through working her farm in Provence, that one could never underestimate the determination and resourcefulness of local people. They might be missing the sophistication of urban dwellers, but their common sense and shared history were definite assets in problem solving.

While she was waiting to see whether the librarian could perform some magic, Catherine used one of the library’s computers to scour the net for any mention of the book. She was astonished to discover a used copy of
The Curse of the Stones
on an obscure website that dealt with books out of print. With any luck, through expedited shipping, she could have the book within a few days.

Satisfied with her find, she looked up to see the librarian walking towards her. Unfortunately, the elderly woman was no magician and found no mention of the
Alice O’Meary
.

Catherine was about to leave, when her cell phone rang. She mouthed an apology to the librarian and took the call outside.

Daniel’s deep voice was a pleasant surprise. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“At the library. I was about to walk down to the Donegal carpet factory. I thought maybe I could find a carpet for my place back home.”

“How about I meet you there and we go from there to grab a bite to eat?”

She should’ve said no. With the way she lusted after Daniel, she knew she was on dangerous footing.

~~~

When Daniel picked Catherine up at the Donegal carpet factory, the rain had stopped but the winds were still lashing the coast, sending most residents and travelers indoors. Despite the inclement weather, they decided to make the one hour drive to the tearoom at the Glencolmcille Folk Village Museum. As the museum was situated on the Slieve League Peninsula north of their dive site, it would be an opportunity to view where they’d been anchoring from a different perspective.

They took the route through Kilcar, which gave them a magnificent panorama of Killybegs and the ocean. As they rode away from town, Catherine glanced back at the seascape. Although the day was grey, the pounding surf and the dancing trees invited romance. She couldn’t take her eyes off the waves of Donegal Bay. It was as if the elements were calling her to take part in some grand theatre. Her mind flashed with an image of herself dressed in a dark dress, standing on a hill searching the vast horizon for someone. She was so taken by the vision that her breathing stopped for a second. She inhaled quickly and looked over to see if Daniel had noticed anything. He hadn’t; he was focused on the road.

Why had that picture crossed her mind? Who had she been searching for? It was as if she was recalling a time she’d stood there, looking out to sea. Was this déjà vu or something else? It was one more event that—added to the others—made her feel she was traveling at warp speed and out of control. She thought of telling Daniel about her strange sensation, but she hesitated. Maybe it was her mind's eye playing tricks on her. She’d shared enough as it was.

As they continued on the narrow highway, Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling she’d traveled this way before. Every curve and bob of the road revealed new and yet familiar green vistas. Though the weather invited little joy, the trip was pleasurable due to the unfolding scenery and of course, the fact she was traveling with Daniel.

She snuck a peek at him as they crested a rise revealing a shepherd by the side of the road herding his flock. She loved the way his black curls grazed his neck. Even from the side, his eyes sparkled with integrity. Daniel met her gaze and smiled, showing those dimples she found so appealing.

“Ah, the gentle life,” he said.

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

Outside of a few words, they hadn’t said much, but there was no awkwardness in their silence. There was a connection between them that was indefinable. The serenity of the ride was a welcome relief to the intensity of working with others in close quarters.

They crossed soggy black bog lands, that would’ve been bleak, if it weren’t for the green and red heather-covered hills beyond. Half-way to the museum, they had to take a detour. The road got so narrow, it was hardly wide enough for two cars.

Daniel chuckled. “I feel at any moment, this is going to turn into a cow path.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

“Sure beats riding the subway.”

“Ah, c’mon,” she teased. “Don’t you miss being jostled and pushed?”

“I could get used to this.” He turned to her. “You’re lucky. You already have it on your farm.”

“That’s true. I do.” It wouldn’t be long before she’d be returning home with Alex to Provence.

They soon passed the tiny village of Cashel, with a sign directing them to the Glencolmcille Folk Village Museum. She read the sign with ease, surprising herself. “I love these names. It’s like they’re from another time.”

He laughed. “They are from another time.”

“Of course.” When she was around him, she seemed to have a propensity for saying the obvious.

Brushing her awkward feelings aside, she took the museum brochure out of her bag and read the highlights. To celebrate three centuries—the seventeenth to the nineteenth—a Catholic priest had built a cluster of six small cottages on a hill overlooking the beach.

The first cottage had a plain red door, a couple of old wagon spokes leaning against its whitewashed exterior, and a sign out front advertising tours and the museum tearoom’s specialties— scones, apple tart, and Irish coffee.

After they’d parked, a magpie flew overhead and landed on the cottage’s thatched roof. The black and white bird had come out of nowhere. Catherine had the strange notion she’d seen this event before. The magpie was then joined by another one. Not knowing what to make of her thoughts, she took out a notepad from her bag and wrote
look up magpie
.