This wasn’t quite the international trip I had always had in mind. I had wanted to go to Rome and London and Paris, not some Irish town in the middle of nowhere. That is, if it could be considered a town. To me, it looked more like someone came as far as they could from humanity and decided to build a pub and a few houses and name it Lontrála.
Plus, our new house wasn’t even one of the few scattered about the place. It was a few miles away from Lontrála, precariously perched among the tall hills that made up the Irish landscape.
The car we had borrowed rattled up to the pub, screeching in protest as Mom halted abruptly in front of the decrepit pub. Its ancient orange paint was peeling, and the sign that must have once read the name of the place had faded to the point of illegibility. The tinted windows were smeared and coated in filth, looking as though they hadn’t had a good washing in years. The whole building emulated dilapidation and decay.
The heavy door took all of my weight to open, its metal handle was discolored and worn. As I pulled the door ajar, an eruption of chaotic sounds hurled itself at our ears. About five rowdy old men sat at the bar of the pub, all causing an uproar that almost blocked out the sound of our entrance.
Almost.
The rusty creak of the hinges exuded over the men, causing their laughter to die and their grins to fade. All of them looked like they had been planted in their seats for decades, engaged in their steady stream of verbal mayhem. Newcomers must have been a complete oddity in their little town, especially Americans. Atlas shifted closer to me under their scrutinizing gaze, his hands still grasping his dinosaur.
The room stayed like that for what seemed like eternity- Mom and Atlas and I frozen in the doorway, the Irish men staring at us like they hadn’t seen outsiders in years. Which, of course, was probably the case.
Finally, Mom broke the tense silence.
“We are the Kelly’s- here for the key,” she clarified hesitantly, her eyes betraying her confident composure as they darted from one man to the next. A wisp of her blonde hair fell from her bun, softening her face slightly.
“The Ceallaigh’s!” One of the men exclaimed. “They’re back!”
The other men slowly understood, their eyes lighting up as they exchanged small tidbits about my grandfather.
Grandfather had lived here a long time ago. He died before I was born, but gave the cottage that he had built here, in Ireland, to Mom and Dad. We hadn’t ever talked about it, much less visited it, and Mom choosing to move us halfway across the country was insane. In fact, I was pretty sure Mom had lost it when Dale went missing.
One of the men, Mr. Seanan, who had apparently known Grandfather well, offered us a ride out to the old house in his clunky old van. Its blue paint was peeling to reveal the original metal of the vehicle, and as we got in we discovered that the seatbelts were just ropes tied across the seats.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath, “Let’s hope he knows how to drive.”
Mom glared at me from the front seat, willing me not to mess up our chances of a new life here. I didn’t want a new life. I wanted to find Dale! Why were we countries away from where he had gone missing? People don’t just vanish. I guess Mom didn’t understand that.
Atlas clambered into the van next to me, and I helped him tie himself into the contraption. We drove up and down the hills, the old unused tires spinning in hesitant ellipses along the bumpy road. After a few minutes of driving through the hills, our house came into view.
I didn’t know what I had expected, but this was a typical example of an Irish cottage. It was rather small, with white washed walls and a thatched roof. As in, the roof was made of straw. With my luck, I would probably end up setting the whole thing on fire. I shook that vibe off as Mr. Seanan showed us the house. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and one big central room. The central room was basically the kitchen, dining room, and living room in one, which Atlas found cool and I found weird. But, it was a cottage in the middle of the rolling hills of Ireland. What was I to expect?
After Mr. Seanan had finished explaining how everything worked, we walked back outside and he made some small talk with Mom. Before he climbed back into the van, his gaze fell on me and Atlas. His eyes seemed to deepen and darken.
"You kids," he said roughly, "You see that hill?" He pointed out to one of the taller hills that surrounded us.
I nodded, confused, and squeezed Atlas' hand.
"Never climb that hill." His deep voice was grim, and I could tell he wasn't playing around with us.
Atlas looked up at me, and I tried to convince myself that it was just some prank that Mr. Seanan wanted us to believe. I could see in his eyes, though, that this was no joke. I nodded again, glancing back at the hill and up at the old Irishman. What could be on that hill? Atlas squirmed, still clutching my hand, and I managed to pull myself back into reality.
"Yes, sir," I choked out, trying to disguise my worry. Atlas couldn't know that I was scared, or he wouldn't get any sleep for weeks. To Atlas, if I thought something was upsetting, he would completely freak out.
Mr. Seanan kept his stern scrutiny over us for another moment before turning and clambering back into the rickety van, waving to us as he called “Slán! Goodbye!” out of the window.
Mom and Atlas swiveled back to the house as he left, taking in the place that would be our home for what was probably the hardest time of my life.
My gaze, however, fell on the very hill that Mr. Seanan had told us not to climb.
That’s when I started to wonder.