The Place That Kept the Entry

The voice from the dead tone generator named the village again as I passed the Dunmor sign.

“Druim Glas.”

It came through the little speaker at my feet, quiet and level. The unit’s display stayed black. I had removed its battery pack at Carrigan, and the charging lead was still hanging loose from the casing. The van’s dash clock read 03:21.

Rachel leaned over the seat. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard it.”

“Then stop.”

I kept driving. The road beyond Dunmor had narrowed to a lane with hedges close on either side. I could see no houses, though several lights burned ahead at different heights. The route book was open on my lap, its red line trembling with the van’s vibration. The name Druim Glas appeared at the page edge, letter by letter, pressed into the paper from underneath.

Declan shifted behind us. “You said you were taking us somewhere it hadn’t named.”

“I said I was taking us past Dunmor.”

“That’s not what you said.”

He was right. I had given him a sentence that sounded like a choice while withholding the part that mattered. I reached to close the book, but the paper had caught beneath the tone generator’s strap. When I pulled, the page tore across the red line.

The speaker repeated the name.

Rachel took the generator from the floor and placed it on the dashboard. She didn’t look at me. “You’re still following it.”

“I’m following the road.”

“The road keeps turning toward the name.”

The next bend opened onto a fork. A metal sign stood between the branches, its reflective surface clouded with dirt. One arrow pointed to Dunmor. The other had no lettering. The lane I had been following ran between them and ended at a low stone wall.

I braked. The van slowed without the pedal reaching the floor. My car had taught me what a failed brake line felt like; this was something else. The van came to a stop at the wall, its engine idling. A narrow track passed through a gap in the stones. No sign marked it.

Declan leaned between the seats. “Take the left road. It goes back to the river.”

“Does it?”

“I’ve driven county roads here for eleven years.”

I looked at him in the mirror. His jaw worked as he studied the fork. He had been right about the roads before. I turned left.

The van rolled past the sign, then turned down the track without any movement of the wheel. I caught it and fought the steering, but the tyres followed the shallow ruts between the stones. Rachel grabbed the door handle. Declan swore once, under his breath.