Broken Mate, Unbroken Bond

CHAPTER 4 - ASH

I didn’t sleep. Of course I didn’t, how could I? Apart from spending the moonlight hours contemplating the nature of my very existence - super dramatic, I know - I was also nursing a hangover from the whiskey, and consumed by worry for Aunt Dee. I had called back and we had a brief discussion, though she shared no details with me as to the nature of the emergency, just that she needed me. That woman had been everything to me growing up, and she was the only family I had left, so you had better believe I would drop it all to go to her whenever she asked.

At around 6am, I fired off a quick email to the park’s chairman, explaining about a family emergency and promising to return as soon as I could, and booked myself a seat on the next flight to Dublin out of Barcelona. Just before the taxi arrived, I dropped by Juan’s cabin, needing to make sure that the Irish boys had kept to their word. Juan seemed confused; though whether that was from tiredness or something else I wasn’t sure. He’d opened the door, eyes squinted from sleep, but otherwise seemingly whole and healthy. Our exchange was brief, but I made him promise to call me once he was properly in the land of the living.

Saying goodbye to the pack was the hardest part of the morning, which was no surprise. Stumpy greeted me at the usual spot, but I didn’t loiter. We merely shared a look and after a few long, drawn out moments, I backed away and returned to the predawn darkness. I had no reason to think I would not be back soon, but despite that, there was something within me that told me it could be quite some time.

I left Lobos without seeing Dominic Mac Nessa and his weird little entourage again. As I sped toward the airport in the back of my taxi, I felt relief for that small win, though in the cold, harsh light of a hangover-laden day, I was beginning to wonder exactly why they had been there in the first place. It was a mystery I hoped I’d never have the opportunity to solve.

The flight was a relatively short one, but I remember nothing of it. It’s likely that after the distraction of the hustle and bustle of the airport, as soon as my brain had time to stop, it decided to sleep. I’d never slept on a flight before. I’ve always been far too uncomfortable. There’s something to be said for that cocktail combination of whiskey, weirdness and worry, it seems.

While flying into Ireland, I’m always struck by just how green it all is. Every single time, no matter how much I travel, or how long I’ve been away for, I always miss that colour. And the smells, they’re just so unique to us, so native. But the sky above me when I walked quickly up the path to Dee’s narrow townhouse was gray and close - too close. The skies in Spain were huge and open and always a beautiful shade of blue, even in the height of winter, but here in Dublin somehow the above just felt lower. It felt oppressive, pushing down on me, the huge, thick clouds angry-looking and heavy with the promise of rain.

Subconsciously, I ducked as I walked, my collar pushed up against my jawline as my shoulders hunched. I opened the front door with my key and stepped inside, my nerves settling a little as the comfort and familiarity of the home I’d grown up in enveloped me.

I was barely two steps in the door and had just enough time to drop my bags, when Aunt Dee was upon me. I managed to catch a glimpse of a tired, worried face before she wrapped her thin arms around me. “Hey…” I muttered, immediately returning the hug, my brows drawn together in a worried frown.

Dee was only in her early fifties, and in truth had really been too young to take responsibility for me when I had been just a baby. She was a tall, willowy woman, with dark hair, now streaked with some salt and pepper gray. Her eyes were large and watery-blue, her nose too long for her to be considered classically beautiful, but it certainly added to her striking appearance. She didn’t dress like someone of her age either, always favouring jeans and Doc Martens. That morning though, she was still in her nightwear, which in itself was highly unusual.

When I pulled back from the tight embrace, I could see the signs of her sleeplessness. Lines on her pale face were deeper and her hair was loose, unbrushed.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I held my breath and waited.

She didn’t answer. Instead, in typical Dee style, she turned the question back on me. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Dee.” I was frowning again. Sure, I wasn’t strictly “fine”, but she had been the one to call me back home. “What’s going on?”

She stared at me in silence for a few moments. Meanwhile, the headache that had been plaguing me since my meeting with Mac Nessa spiked, and I winched with pain, unable to hold it back.

“What happened…” Dee asked, a tremor in her voice.

Despite my worry for my aunt, I began to feel irritated. “What do you mean, what happened? You called and left me millions of messages telling me to come home. Why? What is going on, Dee?”

She pulled her nightgown around her tightly and took a step back, eyes still wide and on me, anxiety rolling off her in waves.

“We need to talk, Ash.”

No s**t.

The townhouse is over 200 years old, and Dee always said that it had been in our family for generations. It’s close enough to the city center that you can enjoy the hustle and bustle and vibe, not to mention a short bus journey to my university, but it’s also far enough away to enjoy a somewhat quieter, more community type of feel.

It’s three storeys of high ceilings and ornate banisters, narrow rooms and small juliet balconies, which Dee fills with various plants and flowers. She’s all about the plant life, sustainability and veganism. She’s tried with me, bless her, but I could kill a cactus just by looking at it and honestly, there’s really no better dinner than a properly done steak and a cold beer.

The house is filled with pictures and memories, and other eclectic object d’art that Dee collects. There are dream catchers, huge, colourful crystals on most available surfaces, candles and there’s always this faint scent of sage. I’d grown up thinking this was all perfectly normal, of course, and so at this stage I barely notice it. There’s a space on the mantelpiece in the living room that Dee says is dedicated to my parents, though I do not recognise the people in the silver-framed photograph.

The kitchen is cluttered but it is without a doubt Dee’s domain, and leads out into a small garden, which is her favourite place in the whole house, hands down. It’s the kitchen that we go to to have this “talk”. While she puts the kettle on for her tea I lean against the counter, watching her movements. It’s something that my aunt has done thousands upon thousands of times, but yet her hands were shaking.

She glanced at me. “Ginger tea?”

She knew I had a headache. She’d always known when I was unwell, but I’d always put it down to her being very perceptive. Now I was thinking that it was something more.

“Yes,” I replied, then pressed my lips together in a line.

Dee’s eyes slipped away from mine, and while she prepared the tray, I got the distinct impression that she was now suddenly trying to avoid looking at me. My irritability soared, and I heard Mac Nessa’s voice in my head.

You should have known what… who you are.

“I met someone yesterday,” I said, my tone a little flat as I watched her begin to slice the ginger root.

Dee continued chopping; one slice, two, and then she stopped. She placed the knife down and with very measured movements, she turned toward me and finally met my stare again. “Did they hurt you?”

You are Mac Tíre.

Well, that was a hard question to answer, so I didn’t answer it. I pressed on instead. “What’s a Mac Tíre, Dee?”

My aunt’s shoulders slumped and to me, the tall woman suddenly seemed quite small indeed. “It’s an old legend.”

It was a curious choice of words, I thought. A legend was usually something that was believed to have happened in a historical sense, yet it was also something that could never be confirmed.

“Authenticated?”

“By some.”

“By my parents?” The throat was tight, my patience wearing very, very thin.

“Yes.” Aunt Dee gulped audibly. I found it odd that I could hear it, of course, but to be fair, she did look very uncomfortable at that moment. But it wasn’t just discomfort, I realised after a moment as I inhaled deeply through my nose in an attempt to center myself, she was afraid.

Afraid of what? Me? No, something else.

“Tell me, Dee. Either you tell me, or I’ll find out some other way, from someone else. Please.”

“Sit down, Ash, love. I’ll finish making this tea, and then I’m going to tell you about your parents.”