The Search for Katie Muldoon

By Barbara Degler

Who is Katie Muldoon? And why is Gillian drawn to find her? Intrigued by a cryptic message, Gillian McCall embarks on a desperate journey through the lush hills and along the windswept cliffs of Ireland. But the closer she comes to answers, the more she is caught up in an adventure she never could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257407620

Book preview

1977

1

If Katie had not been so determined or I had not been so resilient, I would have stayed aboard the Stockholm Lady and sailed on to Denmark as planned. But that wasn’t what happened. It all began when we were approaching Ireland.

Leaning my arms on the ship’s rail, I watched the dawn burst out of the North Atlantic, splashing a brilliance of rose, tangerine, and apricot across the horizon and the sleeping water. I wished I’d brought my camera on deck with me. This spectacular sight was not the usual morning fare. Was it an early welcome to Denmark, a few more days away, I wondered, or to Ireland whose southern coast we would reach early the next morning? Or was it simply a nautical alarm clock?

Wake up, ocean! Wake up, travelers! I’m here to announce a most beautiful morning, and I don’t want you to miss a minute of it!

Not that I’d be likely to miss it. Every morning I was up before dawn, positioned at the ship’s bow like a figurehead. Sleeping poorly and waking early were what I’d come to expect, but at least this morning’s colorful show gave me reason to appreciate being up. I stayed at my post while the eastern sky went through various phases of grandeur, settling on a soft shade of turquoise. Then I went below to have breakfast with members of the Stockholm Lady’s crew.

It was nearly mid-morning by the time I’d finished my meal, showered and dressed, and spent a couple of hours developing photos. I took my usual brisk walk along the deck of the Swedish freighter, and then it was time to head for the afterdeck and some more work. While I composed captions for my pictures, I thought again about what good luck it had been that Bart, the first mate, was also a photographer and had a darkroom on board.

For the first time in months, photography was enjoyable. I was even thinking about putting together a book. My fellow passengers were encouraging about my work even though they thought it was a hobby. I’d never mentioned to them the fledgling career I’d abandoned in trying to deal with my family’s recent tragedies. I’d been trying to discard some of the baggage that had come aboard the Stockholm Lady with me, baggage quite apart from a suitcase or duffel bag. It was the emotional kind that you stow, not in a closet or cupboard, but in the dark corners of your soul. I’d been healing a little on the ship—away from Boston, away from my grieving mother, and even away from well-meaning friends.

That had been Rachel’s intention, of course—Rachel, who had been my mother’s best friend for half a century. She was determined to coax me out of my protective shell. Of course Rachel could persuade a rabbit to fly. She was going to a conference in Copenhagen and—never one to do things the ordinary way—she decided to go by freighter and allow for unscheduled ports of call. Rachel had the means to allow anything she wanted.

So I went along, and my photo equipment went, too. For the first two days I had ignored it. Then Bart ever so kindly had urged me to check out his darkroom. Once in that familiar setting, once enticed by the aroma of the chemical bath, once hooked by the emergence of shadowy forms on celluloid, I was back in the game.

The glorious dawn was followed by a glorious morning, warm for a mid-October day in the North Atlantic. I found a sunny spot away from deck chairs, a place to be alone and concentrate on my work—or not concentrate on anything at all if that’s what I wanted.

On the western horizon, purple clouds looked like mountains rising out of the sea. Storm clouds, I supposed, but I ignored them. The ship was moving smoothly over tranquil water. Leaning back with my face lifted to the sun, I dozed briefly, and when I awoke I felt blessedly relaxed. I picked up my photographs and studied them.

Engrossed with finding clever captions, I lost track of time. When I looked up again, I saw that the clouds were much darker and much nearer, and the wind was picking up. A crew member scurrying about securing ropes and things ordered me below. I obeyed, tempting though it was to watch the drama. I stayed for a while in my cabin, feeling fretful. I could go look for Rachel, but I’d probably find her with others, playing bridge. That didn’t appeal to me; certainly not as much as the idea of photographing a storm at sea. I could probably get some terrific action shots, and I wouldn’t stay long.

Once on deck, with rain and salt spray pelting me, I soon realized that I had made a bad decision. I gathered up my equipment and some photos I’d pulled out of my bag. As I started to make my way back along the deck, the ship was bouncing like an amusement park ride. I headed toward an open hatch, felt the deck start to tip, and grabbed a metal bar. I dropped my pictures, groaning as some of them whipped away in the wind while others slid across the deck and over the side.

Then my feet went out from under me, and it was all I could do to hold on. Briefly the ship righted herself. I lunged for the opening and was thrown the other way. I’d have followed my pictures over the side if I hadn’t slammed up against a lifeboat. Maybe it was panic that reminded me of the abandoned-ship drill and the flotation vests inside the boats. In desperation I fumbled with the fasteners of the canvas cover, finally making an opening wide enough to hoist myself into the boat. Once in, I gave up any thought of a life vest. I’d just stay tucked inside.

I don’t know how long I stayed huddled there, knocked about as the ship rose and fell. I hadn’t been seasick, but now my stomach churned. I tried remembering all the survival stories I’d ever heard, but my thoughts were having a hard time getting past my chattering teeth. I was soaked and thoroughly frightened.

When the storm passed, I realized how tired I was and knew there must be bruises I’d really feel in a few hours. I was miserably cold, but grateful to be alive. I’d be even more grateful if somebody would come looking for me before I shivered to death. I didn’t have the strength to climb out of the boat and, once out, wasn’t at all sure I’d trust the deck that had betrayed me. Luckily I had my photo bag and dug inside for the little flashlight I always carried. It would be nice if I could find something to lay my head on.

It was a basic boat, I discovered, just seats and life preservers and some stowed gear. Then I shone the light along the side of the boat to a place just above my shoulder. There was something carved there. No, it looked more like burned into the side, letters a couple inches high. ‘Katie Muldoon, 1875.’ Was Katie a survivor, too? Had she been at sea in this lifeboat? Could this boat be a hundred years old?

I gave up thinking. It took too much effort. My head cushioned by a life preserver, I started to doze, rousing almost immediately at the sound of a rescuer’s voice. The doctor gave me a thorough examination, assuring me that I was fine—no broken bones and no concussion. He warned that I’d be sore and bruised, but I already knew that. I refused the sedative he offered. I just longed for a hot shower, dry clothes, maybe some rich broth, and definitely a soft bunk.

Well, that was my first encounter with Katie. As I said, if it had been my last, I’d have sailed on to Denmark. Katie, Katie, if only you were not so determined and I were not so resilient. After a few hours of deep sleep, I woke feeling fairly rested, a bit stiff, and very hungry. It was about an hour to supper, an early one because of the planned stopover in Cobh next morning to off-load some cargo and discharge three passengers. One was Mrs. O’Neill, and I had promised her and some other passengers photographs for their memory books. I grabbed my camera and went up on deck.

What a difference! A blue sky and a ship that was once again sailing smoothly over a satin sea. The storm was speeding away to the east, chased by wispy white clouds. I found Rachel asleep in her deck chair. Mrs. O’Neill and three other women were standing by the rail. They made a great fuss over me before I got them to pose.

Midway through the session, Mrs. O’Neill rushed back to the rail. Is that Ireland? she cried. Faith and I’m that excited. I fancy I see the Mizen Head and beyond it Skibereen.

Well, then you have super vision, I told her, laughing, but understanding of her feelings. There’s not a speck of land to be seen, but it won’t be long.

Bart offered to develop the pictures, insisting that I needed to eat. He gave them to me as I was finishing dessert, and I passed them around to others at the table.

Who’s this? Rachel asked. I haven’t seen this young woman. Where can she have been keeping herself?

I took the photo and saw in the background the fuzzy figure of a girl in a long dress with a shawl around her shoulders. She was young, maybe seventeen, and pretty, with long dark hair. She was touching a cross—large for a piece of jewelry—that hung on a chain around her neck. While the others in the picture were smiling directly at the camera, the girl was half turned, her head tilted, gazing out to sea. Her expression was dreamy, almost pensive.

Well, do you recognize her, Gillian? Rachel demanded.

I can’t remember seeing her. I passed the snapshot to Bart.

Strange, he said. Her image is grainy, not like the rest of the picture. He hailed the captain and ship’s doctor who were passing by. Either of you seen this girl? He winked at me and added, She’s a stowaway.

Nonsense, said the captain. He squinted at the photo, and then handed it to the doctor.

Not one of the housekeeping crew, he said after he had studied the picture.

Well, we’ll keep an eye out for her tomorrow when we dock, said the captain. With that statement and a comment about improved weather conditions, he went on his way.

My suspicions were growing. You won’t find her, I murmured, then added with unreasonable certainty, She’s not a stowaway.

Later I showed the picture again to Mrs. O‘Neill who said, Well, dear, she’s fashionable enough for the young ladies of today with her shawl and her long hair. But she also reminds me of me grandmother’s servants. Closer to Ireland, Mrs. O’Neill’s speech was taking on more of a brogue.

You mean like an Irish girl around, say, the mid-1800’s? I asked.

Well, yes, I suppose that could be.

Maybe I’ll name her Katie.

Oh, then her Christian name would likely be Kathleen, Mrs. O’Neill said.

Kathleen. Had there been a surname? I couldn’t remember. And the date ... 1975? No, I remembered 1875. But how could that be? A hundred years ago? I decided to go back for another look, briefly questioning what I’d find. After all, I’d hardly been my calmest and most rational when I’d seen the writing.

Flashlight in hand, I lifted the canvas and let the light play along the side. Nothing in a dozen years could have prepared me for what I saw written there. Katie Muldoon, County Cork. And under that, Bless you, Gillian McCall.

2

Rachel sat up in her deck chair and stared at me, slack-jawed and disapproving. When she found her voice, she said. Leaving the ship? What can you possibly expect to accomplish, Gillian? You have no proof of anything and you’ve no idea where to begin!

I know. But I have to do this, Rachel. I have to go on this ... this ... quest.

She snorted; I winced. It was such an archaic word, but it seemed to fit what I was about to do.

Gillian McCall, I never thought of you as a female Lancelot! What will your mother say? Noting my glare, she added, Well, you know ...

I threw up my hands in annoyance. I’m not a child. I’m twenty-two years old and a college graduate. I can take care of myself. I have enough money and a good sense of direction. Ireland is just an island. It’s not huge like ... like China! And they even speak my language.

Don’t bet on it, said Rachel.

"Oh, Rachel. I’ll only stay a week. Then if I haven’t learned anything, I’ll come join