Eden is loath to leave the house in daylight. Shadows lurk behind every bush and when he wanders out into the garden he finds himself flinching at every crack of a twig, waiting for a posse of paparazzi to surround him. Despite their promises to leave him alone, stray members of the press have lurked for weeks, accosting his parents and sisters at every opportunity. It distresses him that their freedom as well as his has been curtailed, although to his relief the past few days have been quieter. All he ever wanted to do was make music. Never in his worst nightmares could he have imagined what that would lead to.
At night the bedroom walls seem to shrink towards him, narrowing his world to a tiny cube of space that he can barely breathe in. Sleep brings dreams of flashing lights and howling crowds, from which he wakes shivering and drenched in sweat. To escape from them he goes to the lake, treading softly through the velvet dark, glancing behind each time he hears an unfamiliar sound. All that matters here, in his sanctuary, is the gentle splash as pike rise to the surface, the eerie call of an owl, the scuttering of leaves when the wind sends them dancing past him. Here he is nobody, a mere watcher of the forces of nature at work and at play. Here, he is content.
Often he stays until dawn, watching the sky gradually lightening, the sudden threads of scarlet, gold, and violet that break above the horizon, spreading out into bands as they perform the alchemy of creating a new day. The trunk of the willow tree at his back feels warm, alive, a tower of natural strength that he can lean against and draw from. This tree has stood here, a constant witness, while generations of humans have been born, lived and died, fought and loved, and it will remain here long after Eden McDonagh’s name has vanished from living record.
It is here that Astarte finds him when, waking early, filled with an urge to watch the sunrise, she takes a flask of tea and sandwiches made from Siobhan’s home-baked bread down to the lake. Eden hears her coming as she weaves her way through the pale blue mist of pre-dawn, and he leaps to his feet, startled and wary.
Astarte stops in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat, dizzy with adrenaline. When they recognise each other they both laugh nervously.
‘And I thought you were a ghost.’ Eden’s voice is unsteady.
‘I thought you were some crazy poacher.’ Astarte nudges some twigs aside with her boot, making space to sit down. Eden’s features are indistinct but she can see his rueful smile. He settles himself beneath his tree and gratefully accepts the flask that she offers.
‘Crazy perhaps, but no poacher.’ He takes a swallow of tea.
Astarte divides the sandwiches and hands half over to him, exchanging it for the flask. ‘Eden,’ she says softly, ‘You’re not crazy. You just need time to recover.’
He stares at her, taking in the tangled curls and too-large sweater, the mud-spattered boots more suited to a labourer than a woman, and feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. She exudes an air of capability and gentleness, and it strikes him that she must be a good nurse. When she came to his parent’s house following his arrival back home he had known instinctively that he could trust her, and he had been surprised when John had commented afterwards that she seemed to be running away from something. We all have our demons, he thinks, yet she looks calm and clear, at ease with herself.
Astarte shuffles and changes position, drawing her knees up to her chest, aware of his scrutiny. The unattainable god on a stage has vanished to be replaced by a fellow watcher of dawn that now swells with the sweetness of waking birds. Eden hears an echo of inner music that prompts him to sing softly under his breath.
There’s something about you,
That touches me deeply,
It’s more than the grace of your smile
Or the lights that reflect from your hair …
Astarte shivers, her eyes fixed on Eden. She has never heard this song before. As his voice fades their eyes meet and hold, and she smiles, lost for words. He pushes a strand of hair back from his face and shakes his head slightly as though emerging from a reverie.
‘Tell me your story. You know mine well enough, and I am at a disadvantage.’ He picks up the flask, pours more tea into the plastic cup, and hands it to her. Astarte curls her fingers around it, savouring the warmth, musing. A bird swoops through the trees, then another, and together they vanish into the mist that still veils the lake. Astarte stares at the point where they disappeared.
‘My story. Once upon a time there was a girl.’ She stops and takes a sip of the tea before handing the cup to Eden, glancing quickly at him, then away. Astarte is accustomed to men who want to know who she is now, not how the child became a woman, but Eden, she senses, is different. He is so connected with the depths of his own soul, so willing to expose it in his music, that she feels touched by a longing to reveal her own, to immerse herself in the magic of this moment. Even without looking at him she knows that he is watching her intently, waiting.
‘The girl grew up quickly because she lived a strange life compared with others. She travelled the world with her parents, who believed that freedom was all-important, and that the path to freedom comes from breaking down the barriers that the mind constrains itself with.’ Eden’s face is calm and attentive. He nods slightly, encouraging her to continue. It is growing lighter. A heron comes into view at the edge of the lake, its form striated as the breeze removes the mist strand by strand. Astarte watches its beak dip down into the water.
‘She had never stepped inside in a house, not until she was sought out by her grandmother, whose rift with her daughter, the girl’s mother, was a source of great sadness to her. And the times with her grandmother were brief but happy. The girl lived in a tepee and often slept outside beneath the stars. She looked after her parents, who took too many drugs and who wanted the world to be a perfect place. But she never understood them, nor they her, and she fought with them constantly. When she was fourteen she ran away, hitchhiked across the country and knocked on the door of her grandmother’s house, begging to be taken in. She went to school and revelled in being surrounded by books, and in the sweet discipline of learning. She became a nurse because looking after others was what she was accustomed to.’
Astarte glances at Eden again to see whether he is bored. He smiles gently and nods once more. She breaks a chunk off her bread and casts it towards the lake. It disappears among the reeds.
‘One day her grandmother died, the saddest time in the girl’s life, and left the girl rather a lot of money. So she bought a house in the city and tried to be like everybody else. She took a lover, she made a few friends, and she tried to pretend that nothing was missing from her life. But sometimes she woke in the night and thought of fields and water and open spaces, and she hated her parents for giving her these things without preparing her for the world and all its demands, because she thought that to live free in this way meant following in their footsteps.’
A wave of sorrow sweeps over her; for the childhood she had never been a child in, and for the loneliness and alienation that her young self had felt. Eden, sensitive to the slight change in her voice, leans across and takes her hand in his, stroking her palm with his thumb. Astarte comes back to the present with a jolt and smiles damply at him. His expression is serious, enquiring. How beautiful he is, inside and out, she thinks, and takes a deep breath.
‘Her lover went off with her friend. But sometimes bad things turn to good. She realised that she could make her own rules, that she could create a new life. So she came to Ireland and fell in love with a cottage. And here she is now.’
Eden squeezes her hand, puts it briefly to his lips, and lays it in her lap. ‘Thank you. ‘’Tis good to have you here. Astarte Weaver.’
She laughs and shakes her head. ‘Likewise, Eden McDonagh.’
The sun has risen and the lake is tinged with a golden haze. Eden stands and offers his hand to Astarte, pulling her to her feet. Flashes of brightness flicker through the trees, birds zigzag through the dappled light, hunting for breakfast. Astarte throws the last crumbs of bread beneath the tree and a blackbird dives for it, chattering. They walk together to Astarte’s gate, and Eden watches her stroll up the path, swinging her flask in one hand, then turns and heads for home. He knows now that he can face the day and all that it brings. He feels giddy with a sense of release.
At sunset Siobhan arrives at Astarte’s cottage, a curious look on her face. Astarte and Flynn are skimming off concrete from the edges of newly set stones, and Siobhan hands the evening paper to Astarte without saying a word. Puzzled, Astarte puts down her trowel and glances at the front page. There is a fuzzy photograph of Eden kissing her hand, and a heading in large block letters. ‘Love At Last For Haunted Star’ it trumpets. Astarte looks at it in horror as Flynn, nudging her playfully, goes to peer over her shoulder. ‘What’s this? Are you famous already, Astarte?’ he teases, and then he sees the photograph and steps forward to look closer, his lips tightening.
‘Well, you wasted no time, did you?’ His voice is harsh. Astarte stares at him, her mouth open in an ‘O’ of shock. Flynn shoots a look of disgust at her, strides quickly to his van, and roars off.