Moon Hook I - 5
Part I, Chapter 5 of an ongoing fiction series by Maura McHugh, published every Thursday, for subscribers of Splinister.
Part I
Chapter 5
‘A Basket’
Tullys Supermarket, Café and Post Office suggested an old-fashioned experience. Its two large windows displayed a diorama of 1950s wares on either side of an arched entrance opened by two double wooden doors with paned glass. As Daria approached, she noticed an inlaid floor mosaic at the entrance with a depiction of three sinewy wolves guarding the central phrase, Fortiter et Fideliter. She suspected it was from the nineteenth century, but it was lovingly maintained despite the foot traffic. Each beast had a slightly different expression, but their red eyes were watchful, and their tongues peeked out of their open maws, as if ready to speak.
She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, hoping to translate the motto later.
A rich, resonant voice, with an African accent, spoke behind her: ‘Fortiter et Fideliter is the Tully motto. It translates as Bravely and Faithfully.’
Daria turned, and surprise rooted her. The tall wiry man was dressed in the plain black robes of a monk, with a tight cap covering his head. It was embroidered with crosses with equal arms. His craggy features were lined as if from contentment, and his face was framed by a full back beard streaked with white. A gold cross hung from a glass beaded chain around his neck, and he carried a beautifully hand-woven shopping basket by its handle. She thought she smelled frankincense, but it could have been an associated memory from her irregular church visits.
‘Ah,’ she said, trying to act like his striking appearance was not out of the ordinary, ‘thank you.’
He waited, smiling gracefully. Her short-circuited brain remembered her mission to buy groceries before the inquisitive Muireann arrived at her doorstep in a couple of hours.
He leaned slightly, and added, ‘The locals claim shoplifters are haunted by the wolves until the stolen items are returned.’ He paused, ‘But I suspect it was a clever ruse to dissuade thievery.’
‘I can pay!’ she blurted, concerned she was projecting felonious intentions.
He raised his left hand as if in benediction. ‘You appear to possess the noblest of characters.’
Daria blushed and curtailed the need to correct his assessment. She turned sharply and reached for the door but they levered inwards to reveal a roomier and more modern premises than she expected. She avoided stepping on the wolves and entered, moving immediately to the right to allow the man to pass so she could take her bearings.
This island… its sly surprised left her unsettled.
Tullys stretched long, with a section to one side for the post office, with a green counter sealed by glass. Behind it she noticed the silver-haired woman she’d briefly met at The Catch the previous night. The lady clocked Daria immediately and turned her head to speak to someone behind her. The woman had the perfect perch to observe the comings and goings of every patron of the establishment, and Daria guessed she was the locus of gossip for the village.
Much of the wooden shelving in the front of the shop looked original, and was stocked with magazines, books, stationary, and beach paraphernalia, along with circular wire racks of Moon Hook mementos such as magnets, tea towels and postcards. After that the modern supermarket dominated the space with well-lit shelving, a deli counter and ice cream refrigerator chests. Even farther back she spotted the small café and glass doors out to a garden terrace.
Tullys was busy, and several customers carried shopping baskets in the crook of their arms that were similar to the monk’s. Everyone greeted him warmly, and she realised he was speaking in Irish with many of them.
Immediately, she felt a wash of guilt at her ineptitude with her mother tongue. Perhaps this excursion was the opportunity to learn more than a few causal phrases and recover from her childhood Irish language trauma.
Daria collected a wire basket and picked out the basics: home-made soda bread and scones, oat milk, coffee, pasta, rice, vegetables, beans, cheese and sauces. She raised her eyebrows at some of the prices, but she was impressed by the range and quality of the goods. Gone were the days when shopping in an Irish village meant a meagre food selection, but she’d have to drive to the mainland at some point or risk going over budget.
Racks of homewares were positioned near the café and included a stand featuring the hand-woven baskets. They were crafted from plain and dyed wicker or hazel. There were boxy handsome containers for logs along with traditional shopping baskets in a variety of styles. A laminated article from The Irish Times was pride of place, showing the beaming monk, surrounded by an array of baskets with the headline, ‘Brother Sadek Weaves Magic on Moon Hook’.
She scanned the article and discovered that Brother Takla Sadek, an Egyptian Coptic Monk, lived in a remote part of the Island, near the site of the seventh century stone beehive monastic cells. He was reported as heeding a divine call to live in solitude and contemplation on the island, following the tradition of monks in the past. During his first winter Sadek learned the art of weaving from a neighbour and took up the craft as a meditative practice. He used the funds from the activity to support his austere lifestyle. Any surplus was sent to his monastery in Cairo.
‘It was a generous portrait of my vocation,’ the words startled Daria out of her reading. Brother Sadek stood with a small selection of items in his basket. Vegetables, bread and honey, from what she could spy.
‘Your baskets are gorgeous,’ Daria said, with conviction. She’d flipped over the price tags and did not dispute the costings but could not afford them.
‘You must have this one,’ he said, and from some secret pocket unfolded a cloth tote with the words ‘Moon Hook is Mighty’ emblazoned on it. ‘I have many.’ He began emptying the contents of his basket into it.
‘No, I couldn’t possibly…’
He shook his head, and held it out. There was something gently implacable about his nature, so she accepted the basket handle, smooth to her palm and warm from his hand. It was oval, predominantly yellow, with rich maroon bands.
A memory bubbled up, of her mother playing Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘A-Tisket-A-Tasket’ and singing along. The faint recollection was like a weathered recording, scratched and incomplete. Daria was tiny, barely keeping up as her Mam held her hands and they danced around a similar basket.
She blinked it away. ‘I must give you a donation…’
Again, the elegant, iron refusal. ‘The generous will themselves be blessed, so you know, I am being selfish in a fashion.’
She felt pressed to offer something of value in return, and to Daria, that was information. ‘I’m Daria Shawe, I’m new here.’
He nodded. ‘Our postmistress mentioned your arrival.’
‘I see,’ Daria said, as she transferred her items from the metal basket into the hazel one. ‘Did you hear of my… collision?’
‘Sylvia enjoys relating the latest events in the village. I heed only the good will behind her enthusiasm, and not any embellishments.’
‘I suppose I am on retreat here too.’ She surprised herself by the admission.
‘How wonderful. I will pray for its success. You must excuse me, but I am on a schedule.’
‘Of course! Thanks, again… if there’s anything I can do…’ inwardly she cursed herself, but somehow the monk elicited spontaneous generosity.
‘The Lord provides me with all my needs but thank you. Be well, Daria.’
He whisked away, and she noticed he wore thick leather sandals over his bare feet.
At the register a petite young woman with the name tag ‘Chandra Tully’, tallied her purchases with speedy efficiency and an infectious smile. ‘Did you find everything?’ Her accent indicated she was from Galway. ‘We can order special items if you’re staying for long.’
Daria detected the curiosity behind the query. ‘No, I got everything I need. Including a surprise gift.’ She indicated the basket, and then marvelled at her divulgence.
‘Oh, Brother Takla is a dote! He’s always doing that. You’re lucky, he’s only in once a week.’ She lowered her voice and added. ‘We could sell his baskets for double the price, but he refuses. We’re the only official seller, so people come from all over to buy them. I’ve heard rumours of people reselling them off-island for a big mark-up.’ She tutted and shook her head with agitation. ‘Marbhfháisc oraibh!’
Chandra placed her hand in front of her mouth in a comical fashion and looked around. ‘He’d be shocked if he heard that. I admire his grace, but the rest of us must make a living!’
‘Slán,’ Daria said, and Chandra nodded as she began processing the next order.
Reluctantly, Daria approached the Post Office unit. Via email, Niamh had strongly suggested Daria introduce herself to Sylvia Fallon, Moon Hook postmistress, since any couriers would check with her if they were unsure of where to deliver.
Daria smiled at the woman through the glass. Sylvia wore a classic black shirt and trousers, offering a beautiful contrast for her silver locks. Somehow Daria sensed she was the kind of woman who would be better suited to a French salon, discussing philosophy and smoking Gauloises. Instead, she was on this island, directing her intelligence at mundane matters. Behind her, an ancient woman wearing a red and green plaid shawl sat in a rocking chair, motionless, but with bird-like attention.
‘Hi, are you Sylvia Fallon?’
The woman pursed her lips and seemed to ponder her response to what she clearly thought was a foolish question. At that moment Daria spotted the picture of Sylvia on the wall proclaiming her to be the resident postmistress.
The woman behind Sylvia cackled. ‘Who else would she be? Her long-lost twin?’
Sylvia ignored the commentary. ‘Yes. And how is the bird? Did it survive your assault.’
Assault! Daria shoved a cork in her volcanic temper and replied with tight simplicity.
‘It vanished. It must be okay.’
Sylvia sat back and looked Daria up and down. ‘Drinking and driving isn’t tolerated here. Moon Hook might be out of the way, but bad behaviour is reported.’
‘Excuse me!’
‘I know you’re renting out Niamh Moore’s place, if that’s what you’re here to tell me. She’s respectful of the island, despite her oddities.’
The old woman: ‘Niamh loves the high places where the bats fly.’
Irritation flickered over Sylvia’s face. ‘That’s enough, Cora.’
Cora’s grandmotherly face wrinkled into something akin to peevishness. ‘Once I was able to hear their cries at midnight.’
Sylvia turned and Daria could not see her expression, but it was enough to make Cora shrink back into her chair, but with an impish smile. She winked at Daria.
Daria wrestled her antagonistic spirit down but could not keep the bite out of her tone. ‘Since you know everything, I’ll leave.’
Sylvia nodded. ‘We guard each other, here. You’ll learn what it’s like on a lonely night, with the winds howling and your foundations rattling.’
Daria shrank back from what felt like a prophesy.
Cora piped up, grinning at the prospect. ‘Howling like banshees!’ She raised an arthritic finger to emphasise her point. ‘And they only flit away after blood is shed.’
Daria moved back a couple of steps and swiftly exited to the main street. Before her, waves curled into the port, crashing into the docks. A tractor trundled past.
The Atlantic wind shoved her like a pushy person in a crowd, with no apologies. She wanted to shoulder it back, but the breeze set the string of holiday lights jangling and the teal banners strung up on the lamp posts thrilled discordant tunes.
She felt mocked. To rail against the weather was pointless. She must direct her energy at her project at hand and figure out how to handle Muireann.
For the first time she registered the writing on the banners and swivelled to read a matching poster in the window of Tullys. ‘Pharáid na Péisteanna’— the annual Sea Monster Parade — was taking place the following evening.
‘What is it with this island?’ she asked out loud.
In response, the wind cracked the banners like a whip.
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