• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 986 0

I heard the person running ahead of me. I waited until the sound of his footsteps was replaced by the buzz of insects and sat on the tarmac, trying to make up my mind whether it was better to retrace my steps or continue walking to the cottage. I chose the cottage because it was closer than Killybegs. I could lock the doors, close the windows and wait for the dawn. There was no phone but I was confident I could hold off an intruder until I was sober enough to drive to the local police station. I got to my feet and began walking as fast as I could only to discover I had overestimated my navigational skills. I veered slightly to my left and fell off the side of the road into a water-filled ditch. When I climbed out of it I felt like a drowned rat. The remainder of the walk to the cottage was slow and painful. When I got inside, I lost no time locking up. I then sat on a worn couch with an axe by my side and a fishing knife in my lap. Whether it was alcohol, stress, or a combination of both, I fell into a deep sleep. I was awakened at dawn by a rhythmic tapping on the kitchen window. I jumped up and the sound ceased. Ever so cautiously I crept to the window and gazed out at the nearby hillsides. To my great relief, all I could see were grazing sheep and goats but two donkeys were munching dried grass next to the cottage door so I quickly surmised the sound I had heard was probably one of them disturbing a patch of gravel.

Daylight made me feel confident so I unbolted the front door and gingerly stepped outside. It was a beautiful morning and there was no sign of anyone as far as the eye could see. I was about to walk back into the cottage when my eye was drawn to an object on the kitchen window ledge. On closer inspection, I found it was a wet, rolled up newspaper. I knocked it to the ground and three fresh mackerel rolled out of it. It was only then I noticed a small, open cardboard box on the gravel. Inside it, nestled on a bed of straw were four small, speckled chicken eggs. I spun around, expecting to see someone watching me from behind a hedge or stone ditch but there was no sign of a human presence. Nor was there a note from the donor of these gifts.

I took the food indoors and was pondering my next move when Patrick Dempsey, the farmer who had rented me the cottage, drove up in his car with a large bag of turf for my fire. I offered him a cup of tea and he readily accepted. He was a big, red-faced man with hands the size of dinner plates and thick, wavy gray hair. I liked him but always felt he was a wily character, innately suspicious of city dwellers. Any time I questioned him about the locals he shrugged his shoulders, yet he thought nothing of asking me endless questions about city life. He also had a habit of inquiring if I truly liked Donegal and who I had talked to in Killybegs on my pub trips.

As he loaded the turf into two large wicker baskets beside the fireplace, I wondered if it would be wise to mention the apparition on the road. I feared he would think I was a crazy drunk and stupid for not carrying extra batteries for my torch. He was definitely not the type of man to find himself without replacement batteries or for that matter to be walking the lane in the early hours. He locked up his house and outbuildings every evening at ten o’clock and did not venture out again until dawn to milk his cows and let the chickens out of their coop. He was a hard working, conservative farmer prepared for every eventuality.

His wife was a brusque woman at the best of times. Like her husband, she was big-boned and strong as an ox. She wore a headscarf which was often pulled down to the tops of her eyebrows and she tied her hair back with a black ribbon. Her daily ensemble was a woolen cardigan, a long skirt partly covered with an apron and rubber knee-length boots spattered with hardened mud. Her callused hands matched the deep lines in her face and testified to decades spent working outdoors with her husband. She was a fine cook and her specialty was a chicken and leek soup. The first time I visited them, the smell