Moon Hook 1 - 6
Part I, Chapter 6 of an ongoing fiction series by Maura McHugh, published every Thursday, for subscribers of Splinister.
Read the first chapter in the series here.
Part I
Chapter 6
‘Muireann’
At exactly 3 pm Muireann rapped on Daria’s front door, contravening the Irish custom of ‘on time’ being anything from five to fifteen minutes after the agreed appointment. Considering how far away Moon Hook was from the epicentre of Ireland’s civilisation (Dublin, according to Dubliners) she could have rocked up at 3.30 pm and would be considered only a trifle late.
Daria’s past career had engrained in her an un-Irish punctuality, so she’d prepared for the girl’s arrival well in advance. A small pyramid of scones awaited selection, the kettle only required boiling, and her laptop and files were stashed in her locked bedroom.
When Daria opened the door the brisk wind and sea salt smell swirled in. Muireann’s fine hair danced about her head lending the illusion that she was the centre of a web of chaos. She wore her rain poncho over black running leggings and boots. A slouch of grimy clouds congregated behind her, indicating another shift in conditions with the approach of dusk. A sturdy dirt bike was propped against one of the Rowan trees at the side of the house.
‘Hello,’ Daria said.
‘I love this house,’ Muireann replied, already peeking down the corridor.
Daria let her in, and Muireann began kicking off her boots, and grabbed a fluffy pair of slippers with a leopard skin pattern. She pulled her poncho over the top of her head and hung it on the coat rack. Underneath, she wore a skin-tight black cycling top with neon yellow florescent stripes on its arms, and over that a giant baggy t-shirt with a couple of holes in it decorated with a faded picture of the band, The Cranberries.
She grinned and presented one slippered foot. ‘These are mine.’
They began walking past the bedrooms. ‘You’re a regular visitor?’
‘I’ve been delivering goods to the house since I was nine years old. Niamh called me her “Moon Courier”. She became good friends with my parents, and sometimes I’d stay over if I had a late supply run.’ Muireann paused and regarded the closed doors. ‘Which bedroom did you choose?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Niamh believed the bedroom you picked indicated your character. She used it as an insight to her guests.’ Muireann furrowed her brow as she sized Daria up. ‘I’m guessing you went for… Serpent’s Eye, and she pointed at the bedroom that Daria had chosen.
Daria unruffled her irritation. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’m right, aren’t I?
Exasperated, Daria asked: ‘What’s your reasoning?’
‘I think it’s the best bedroom other than Niamh’s, even if it’s the smallest. It’s where I always slept. Niamh claimed it was the room for primal dreamers.’
Without thinking, Daria asked, ‘What’s your dream?’
Muireann cocked her head at Daria, and now that they were both in slippers, Daria realised they were of equal height. ‘To be happy again on this island.’
She served back: ‘What’s yours?’
Daria opened her mouth to say something facile, but the direct scrutiny of the young woman sidestepped her defences. ‘To make great work.’
An uneasy moment settled, but Muireann saved it by gesturing at the curving glass corridor that connected the old building to the modern extension. ‘Have you noticed the Chorus?’
‘The what?’
Muireann moved towards the beginning of the corridor and pointed to the first large panel of heavy glass. ‘The etchings in the glass. It’s not easy to see just now, but at sunset and some moonrises, they’re distinct.’
Daria tilted her head back and forth and squinted her eyes, trying to distinguish the lines. Muireann reached up and traced the head of one of the figures. At one angle they snapped into Daria’s view: a double line of people of all sizes and shapes, wearing masks. Some had uplifted hands, and others appeared to be dancing.
Muireann spoke, her voice soft. ‘Niamh spent her first summer after the renovation making it. She etched both inside and outside, so they have that sense of weight.’
She stepped into centre of the short corridor and spun slowly so she could see all the characters who appeared to be observing her. ‘One full moon night when I was twelve, I slept here after a sudden storm hit. I got up to pee, and I saw her sitting in this spot, humming. The people in the glass were lined in silver. I swear they were flickering in space. I nearly wet myself. I had nightmares for a week, and my Mam barred me for staying overnight after that. She and Niamh had a row about it.’
Muireann hummed a few bars of a song as she circled, and the hair on Daria’s forearms shivered. ‘I don’t know how she achieved the effect. She said it was a trade secret.’
She glanced at Daria, gauging what kind of reaction she was eliciting. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nearly the dark moon. The people in the glass won’t show up for a couple of weeks.’
Daria pretended insouciance and headed for the kitchen. ‘So, you’re a moon watcher?’
The girl snorted. ‘Island people, duh! We live by tidal time. Plus, it’s Péist Feist tomorrow. That’s always on the new moon in November.’
Daria walked to the kettle on the counter and flipped the switch on. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Oh, you got scones in Tullys!’ Muireann bent over the kitchen island and smelled the plate of golden crusted goodies with a glad smile. ‘I’ll take the fruit scone, please. And tea.’
Daria had located a giant box of Barry’s Tea in a cabinet earlier, so she dropped two bags of it into a ceramic tea pot crafted to look like a sea urchin with scarlet tips.
Daria noted, ‘Niamh doesn’t do plain.’
‘She wages war on dull. That’s her life motto.’
While Daria divvied up scones onto sunflower plates, she relented and asked the obvious question. ‘This festival, that’s Pharáid na Péisteanna?’
‘Locals call it Péist Feist because it sounds cooler. But yeah, it’s the same thing. A long time ago there used to be an annual observation for the ghosts of people lost at sea. Islanders walked a pattern around Tobergobnat – the well of St. Gobnait – and processed to the village, where they threw offerings into the sea.’
A sudden realisation caused Daria to interrupt. ‘Damn, I forgot butter.’
‘Check the fridge. Niamh loves Nan McNulty’s home-churned butter. It lasts for ages.’
Daria opened the fridge and Muireann continued. ‘From the 1950s the population declined rapidly thanks to emigration, and the practice fell away. Back in 2009, as the island’s fortunes were turning around, some marketing genius re-invented it as a parade of sea monsters. They had a presentation about it at the community centre and sold everyone on it as an off-season tourist booster.’
Daria discovered the butter in a dish that replicated a pat of butter. A memory stirred of a long-ago November tour in Japan. ‘That sounds kind of familiar… did they rip off the Yokai Matsuri?’
Muireann sawed into her scone. ‘Grats. Few people realise it. Our festival programmer is Hijiri McNulty. It’s become popular with the cosplay and Anime crowd. You’ll see a lot of fun outfits tomorrow.’
The kettle boiled, and Daria poured its contents into the tea urchin. ‘This island… it’s a bit… peculiar.’
‘Moon Hook is the common English name for the island now, but there have been many more. Some of our neighbours dubbed it Oileán Iasachta – strange island – but that’s one of the nicer titles. It’s a cracked place that attracts cracked people, they think.’
She slathered butter on the scone. ‘And they’re right.’
Daria poured the tea into cups that looked like upturned bluebells. ‘I’ve only oat milk.’
Muireann grimaced. ‘I’ll take it plain.’
Daria followed suit. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but she would only be able to drink it with regular milk.
Muireann raised her bluebell. ‘To oddballs.’
Daria clinked her cup against Muireann’s, ‘To dreamers.’
For the first time Daria glimpsed a ray of genuine warmth break free from Muireann’s cover of cool knowing.
Charmed, Daria felt her hardened façade break a fraction.
Her tea tasted like a hug.
Read all published chapters here.
