The old moon was in the new moon’s arms that December night, and I was trying to forgive transgressions – mine and others’ – and failing. I didn’t know yet that the year ahead would hold undoing after undoing. I was mired in my anger, raising hurts to the heavens like a chalice. But hope was chinking through, though I couldn’t quite grasp it, because I couldn’t hold on to anything good then. Not yet.
But I need to go forward, then back a little. No, actually, no – let me stay in that moment. Me, alone in a hotel room, in a Donegal town, a strange place to me, with sharper seasons than those in my own county. And the moon a seductive opaline slice, clinging to its darker half. I wanted to go outside and stare at the moon, the way it always begs staring. So, I pulled on my new silver coat – a cheer-me-up purchase – and went out into the cold night to walk.
I was in Donegal to work through everything about myself and Cormac, to decide whether I wanted to go forward side by side or not. I thought the distance, and ancient immutability of Donegal – the very Donegalness of it – would reset me, or clarify things, or give me solid, obvious answers. But, of course, none of that was happening because I was resolutely stuck, cantankerous and wounded.
It was frosty beneath the glory of the waxing moon, pinned above the Atlantic. I followed the seawall and kept my eyes to the sky and that joyful crescent. The tide was low, but I could hear the water’s lullaby a little way off and its call was sweet to my ear. I wandered and gazed at the moon, parsing out its seas and craters where I could, basking in its glow. And, because my eyes were hooked heavenwards, I managed to slam right into a man who was walking the path; he yelped and leapt backwards.
“For the love of Mary,” he said, “watch your step, miss.”
And all I could say was, “Oh my God, it’s you!” while I gawped at my grandad’s face, complete with planetary glasses, and heard his walking stick percuss against the footpath in frantic tip-tap-tips.
Grandad pushed back his hat and squinted at me. “Ah,” he said.
I was stunned. “But you’re ... we buried–”
He cut across me. “What has you here, my miss?” He dipped his head closer to mine and, on his foggy breath, I caught the fust of whiskey, and deep, wet clay.
Something snagged at my heart, the nicking edge of guilt, the soggy memory of mine and Cormac’s last fight
My miss! Grandad always called me that. I blinked hard. “The moon has me here,” I said.
“With your pike upon your shoulder, by the rising of the moon,” he sang, his rebel’s voice potent as ever. He giggled. “No, I meant here. Donegal. What brings you so far north?”
“Oh, things,” I muttered. Should I burden him? “Thoughts. Life,” I said, and I stared full at him, because what else was there to do? Eight years dead and safe in a Galway graveyard, yet he was standing before me, with stick and tweed hat, casually talking. I squeezed my eyes tight and opened them again. Grandad wavered. I reached for his hand, but he jinked back.
“You’re heartsore, girleen,” he said, “it’s written on you.”
I nodded. “What has you here tonight, Grandad?”
He peered towards the ocean. “I’m searching,” he said.
“For what?”
His eyes snapped to mine. “A person. A girl. Star-clad. One made of silver.” He tapped the seawall with his stick. “Or maybe a woman?”
We stood side by side and looked out over the dark sand, the black water; the moon, suspended in the ink above, threw pearly light. Waves danced towards us, lithe and gyrating, a chorus line of foam. The ground glittered, the wall too. My ears burned in the cold; I pulled my coat tighter around me.
“So beautiful here,” I said.
“What’s to be done, miss?” Grandad asked, and his voice was softer now, a muffled whisper.
Something snagged at my heart, the nicking edge of guilt, the soggy memory of mine and Cormac’s last fight. I tried to push it all down, willing the feelings to rot away like old leaves.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. The heart-pull was visceral now, but I couldn’t catch its exact meaning.
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“Trust yourself,” Grandad said. “Trust that clarity is coming. Polish your mind a bit.” His words were soupy to my ear.
“Yes,” I whispered, “I’m trying.” And my voice came drowsy, from somewhere beyond myself. I breathed deep of the crystal air, listened hard.
“Remember, my miss,” Grandad called, “forgiveness is a beautiful thing.”
Placing my hand chest-wise, I mustered my senses to help me. “Forgive,” I said. “Keep on.”
I fixed my eyes to the moon’s curve. A star began to appear off its northern tip, dazzling silver. I turned to smile at Grandad, grateful to him, but all I found before me was the smoke of my own outbreath; below me, the unblemished frost of the footpath.
