As the Storm Raged

Could this be the entrance to a cave or just something worn by the force of the water through the centuries? There was only one way to find out and that was to go down this impossibly steep cliff and peer inside. However, even a mountain goat would have a problem doing that and if I or any other human tried, we’d take the quick way down and wind up impaled on the sharp rocks below.

A mystery has always intrigued me, but the hole in the side of the cliff would remain a puzzle.  Perhaps a boat, launched elsewhere, could make its way close enough to discover whether it seemed to be a cave, but I had no boat and didn’t want to battle those murderous waves.

A seabird lit near-by, its harsh voice interrupting my thoughts. Turning away from the water, I climbed back to my cottage. If the wind and rain kept up, it’d be a grand day to stay inside and write. 

Ireland has an abundance of superstitions and of people who still believe in them. One of those concerns the fairy rings. My research into these magical places gave me reason to include them in another book and there was something about the gray day, the sounds of wind and waves, and the smatterings of rain flung against my window that was perfect for writing a mystery, so I wrote.

Around noon, I stopped writing in favor of lunch. The rain and wind had intensified and I, lost in a fanciful world at the computer, hadn’t noticed. Now, I did. Beginning to worry about the fierceness of the gale, I went to the door and opened it. Wind and rain blew in with a vengeance. The day was so dark that I couldn’t even glimpse the sea, but I could hear it. This house of mine had looked picturesque and perfect on the day I fell in love with it, its white walls gleaming against the backdrop of blue sky above and green sea below. It was perched on top of a rocky cliff and fairly begged me to buy it and live there. So, I did. But now, I was uncomfortably aware of the nearness of the cliff’s edge and the sheer drop onto rocks below. Was my house sturdy enough to withstand such a storm? Was this just a brief bluster of weather? Could an Atlantic hurricane venture up this far? 

Trying to shrug off my worries, I decided to build a fire in the small fireplace. Surely the warmth of a cheery blaze would ease my mind. And, I’d put on the coffee pot in the kitchen and then fix a nice bowl of clam chowder. First, the fireplace. Grabbing the lever to the damper, I pulled. It wouldn’t do to forget to open this and have smoke fill the house. I tugged at it with all my strength. Evidently, nobody had used the fireplace for a long while. The damper seemed to be rusted shut. Determined to have a fire on this chilly day, I braced my foot against the hearth and gave the damper lever a mighty yank.

A rock thudded into the firebox. Coughing from the cloud of dust and ashes fogging into the room, I backed away. Where had the rock come from? How long had it lain against the damper? Was it safe to build a fire now or had the rock been vital to the chimney’s safety?

I grabbed a flashlight from off the mantel. Getting down on my knees, I peered into the dark recesses of the fireplace and beamed the light upward. Aha! I could see an empty space where the rock should have been. 

Blowing soot and ashes from my face, I pushed halfway into the fireplace cavity and felt along the inside. My fingers touched the hole left by the rock. Could I put the rock back in place? Would I need to hire someone who knew about such things? Sliding my hand along the bottom of this vacancy,  I felt a bump of some sort. What? A metal ring? It seemed to be attached. I tugged on the ring and heard a noise above me. Fearing that the whole pile of rocks and cement was about to descend on my head, I fell backward onto the hearth. The creaking noise continued as the fireplace mantel moved outward from the wall.

(Chapter 3 on Monday)