The Dying of the Light

The Dying of the Light

1987 words

The village of Rathmullan is a special place, surrounded by steep hills and a forest of millennial oaks. The road from the coast corkscrews down under the green canopy of the trees until it reaches the valley floor where the houses nestle on either side of the Avon Beg river, connected by a steep stone bridge. It is a world-apart, out of time, where the only sound is the wind in the trees and water running over rocks. On one side of the bridge is a shallow ford where children paddle in summer, racing paper boats and catching sprickly bags in jam jars tied with string. The valley is so isolated that only an occasional car disturbs the peace – usually a tourist or someone lost.

The village church stands at one end of the main street. At the other end the gates to the manor house lie open. In fact, nobody in the village can ever remember them being closed. The Woodvilles own most of the land in the area and have lived in the “Big House” as long as anyone can remember. They are not stuffy or stand offish. Flora and her father, Owen Woodville, know everybody in the village by name. Owen breeds horses, famous for their speed and stamina. ‘It’s in the blood people,’ say and dealers come from all over to pay top dollar for his yearlings. Flora has a gift for healing and no one who needs her help is ever turned away from the kitchen door at the back of the house.

Flora was hot and flustered as she stood over the vat of sweet smelling strawberry jam that was bubbling on the stove, when a figure appeared at the kitchen door.

“Sorry to bother you. Car’s broken down on the bridge. Think the axel might be smashed. Know any good mechanic round here?”

Flora brushed a stray lock of hair back off her forehead and looked at the handsome stranger. It was the combination of blues eyes and the mischievous smile that did it: love at first sight.

“Flora Woodville – would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”

In the end he never left and a year to the day later they were married in the village church. On the day of the wedding her father had warned her.

“You know what will happen if you step onto the stranger’s land. We Woodvilles are tied to the land and the woods.”

 She had nodded but hadn’t ever thought about it since. The farms and the village and the valley were her world. She had never needed anything else until Peter came along and some things were better left alone. Her time would come in the usual way and when the light began to go she would fade into the night. For now, she was content with her handsome husband and their three beautiful daughters, Rose, Poppy and Daisy.

Peter was a sales rep and had to travel around the county selling farm machinery, so it was not unusual for him to be away for days at a time. One day as Peter reached over to kiss her goodbye; Flora thought she detected an unfamiliar perfume. She was so surprised that she blurted out “Oh did you get a new cologne?” ‘The smell was the light and flowery scent of late summer roses. Very different from his usual cologne of sandalwood and vetiver.

“Oh it’s a tester they had in the chemist shop – I gave it a squirt to see what it was like. A bit too feminine for me. “

Flora looked at her husband but decided to make light of it. “Typical male!” she laughed as she went out into the garden with the girls. At the door she turned back to say something to her husband and then forgot what it was. Their years together had been happy, idyllic even. Peter O’Brien was still the handsome, charming man she had married. His dark brown hair was beginning to show signs of silver but, other than that, he hadn’t changed in all this time. ‘ Where have the years gone?’ she thought as she went on out into the late October sunshine. It would be Hallowe’en on Saturday and she wanted to collect some apples and the last roses from the garden. She would make a wreath of roses and honeysuckle berries for the door. Her grandmother used to say it protected the house from witches. Flora liked to make a fuss at Halloween, for the children, but also for herself. It was a time for ritual and remembering and sharing. It was her grandmother who had taught her everything she knew about healing and the ancient rituals were a way of remembering her kindness. 

The next morning Peter looked at her sheepishly.

” I have to go to Galway for a couple of days. “There’s a big trade fair on in The Ardilaun Hotel over the weekend and there’s a chance of a big deal.”

As he spoke the light flickered and Flora shivered. For a moment her vision blurred and she put her hand up to wipe her eyes.

Peter looked at her. ” What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing” she said. “Someone must have walked on my grave.”

Peter pulled Flora close. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be back on Monday and we can celebrate Halloween together then. I know what it means to you.”

After Peter left Flora went out into the garden. It was time for the last tidy-up before winter and a couple of hours pruning and raking would calm her down. The house was surrounded by a ring of hawthorn and elder broken up with an occasional rowan. She loved the jewel colours of the berries in autumn and the perfumed air of the blossoms in spring. It was where she felt most at peace, walking in the dappled shade of the woods. She was in the middle of cutting back a large buddleia when she heard a phone ringing. Instinctively, she patted her pocket but there was no call. She walked back into the warm kitchen. Peter’s phone was flashing on the dresser.

‘God!,’ thought Flora . ‘He’ll go mad when he realises he’s forgotten it’. As she picked up the phone she realised it was his old Nokia. They had both got new smart phones as part of a deal with Eircom and she thought he had consigned the trusty old Nokia to the drawer in his desk. The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unfamiliar number. Without thinking she clicked on the message.

“Looking forward to tomorrow night. Don’t forget to bring your costume. Love, Tara!” it was followed by a heart emoji.

This time the flicker in the light was almost visible. ‘Maybe it’s my blood pressure. I should get it checked out.’ At the same moment she remembered her father’s last words to her before he died.

‘The only thing that can kill love is the dying of the light.”

Flora knew what she had to do. Her glamorous witch costume was hanging upstairs and with ghoulish face paint and a hat she would be next to invisible. There was only one problem. None of the Woodvilles ever stepped out of the safe enclosed world of the valley. Flora looked at her winter boots and an idea occurred to her. She went out into the garden and brought in a bag of soil from the orchard. She took the insoles out of her boots and put in a layer of the rich dark soil, pressing the insoles firmly back into place. It might be a bit squishy but it would do the job.

Sitting at the bar of the Ardilaun Hotel sipping a virgin mojito, Flora didn’t have long to wait. With a witches face and straggly hair on top of a young body her own mother wouldn’t have recognised her. The man in the Pierrot costume sitting beside her looked her up and down.

“Jaysus! Great legs, pity about the face.” as he got off his stool and staggered drunkenly in the direction of the disco. The bar filled up steadily with people of all ages, some in costume others not, but most of them well on towards getting roaring drunk. When the crowd thinned in the middle of the room she saw them sitting in the corner. He was dressed as Dracula and she was dressed as a sexy vampire in a costume that left very little to the imagination.

Flora thought she was either, going to faint or vomit as the room spun around her and her vision blurred. She got off her stool and walked unsteadily in the direction of the ladies. It felt like walking through a thick mist. For anybody watching she was just another tipsy party goer. She saw them glance briefly in her direction but they were too engrossed in each other to pay much attention. Flora felt as if the world was closing in on her and knew she needed to get home. The next day she was tired and withdrawn. The children sensed something was wrong and were clingy all day. She thought the day would never end so she could go to bed and be on her own. When Peter walked in at lunchtime on Monday he was his usual perky self. He gave her a big kiss and then out of the blue asked.

”Why are the gates on the avenue pulled over.”

“No Idea,” said Flora. “Maybe it was the wind. It was very stormy here last night. Must have been wild in Galway, what with the wind from the sea.”

The edge to her voice was unmistakable. Peter looked at her. “Are you alright? You sound a bit distant.”

Flora stared at her husband as if seeing him for the first time. “You know something, Peter? The essence of a lie is being found out – otherwise there would be no such thing as a lie. Did you know that?”

Before he could say a word she went on: "Do you remember what you said to me the day we got married? You said I was the light of your life.”

“What on earth are you talking about? And what’s with the light in here? – surely it can’t be getting dark already?”

He knew he was in trouble and needed to escape for a bit to get his story together.

“I need to clear my head, I feel a bit groggy. One too many at the show.” He laughed but now he sounded brittle and empty. Flora could see the fear in his eyes.

“I’ll walk down the avenue and wedge the gates."

As Peter turned the corner onto the avenue he looked back and saw Flora and the girls standing in the lighted doorway. He could feel the damp mist rising around him.

“Must be coming up from the river.” he muttered to himself.

 By the time he got to the gate the mist was so thick he could only see a few feet in front of him. He kept going and found himself standing on the stone bridge looking back towards the gates that now began to close, very slowly.

“What in God’s name is happening?”

Slowly the mist began to clear and Peter looked around him in disbelief. There was no sign of the gates, or the village: just a wall of ancient trees.

“I must be hallucinating. Someone must have spiked my drink last night." He looked at his watch to check the time. The hand was wrinkled and blotchy with liver spots and sausage fingers – the hand of a very old man.

“This can’t be happening. Flora, where are you? I need you!”

There was no reply. In fact no sound at all. Nothing, except the sound of running water and the wind rustling in the trees.