Rifiuto: Non Miriena
"Um, excuse me." The older woman that ran the small coffeeshop looked up, to find Ziva staring at her.
"How can I help ye, Lass?" She asked, a thick Irish lilt coloring her words. Ziva swallowed, accepting the coffee the woman handed her, for she'd ordered before deciding to ask. The woman gave her a warm smile, and Ziva relaxed slightly. A moment passed, before she pulled the book out of her bag, setting it on the counter. "Ah, Ringed With the Stones. Quite a wonderful book; one can see why she won the Nobel for Literature in eighty-five. Are ye enjoying it?"
"Yes. I am not very far, but it is wonderful. Um, but... I... I was wondering if you could tell me where she is buried." And at that, Ziva pulled out the obituary, laying it atop the book. "I... I would like to see her grave."
The woman seemed to think for a moment, scanning the obituary. Finally, she took a pencil and quickly wrote down the address. "Kilimnery Cemetery just outside of Kinvara, and is where Kathleen McGee is buried. 'Tis a shame, not that she is buried there, but the Church would not allow her to rest within their cemetery. Because of how she chose to die. But you will find her buried there, in the section known as Literary Hill, beneath an old and crumbling Celtic cross. She and several of the other well-known authors in Ireland are buried there, beneath the shadow of that cross."
"Thank you." She whispered, and the woman nodded. With that information, Ziva headed off, catching a ride to the cemetery. She'd walk back, but balancing everything called for a ride out to the old graveyard.
Once there, she stopped, pulling out her camera and taking a photograph of the gates before slipping through them. The cemetery was beautiful, in its own, heartbreaking way. Stones stuck up out of the ground, some leaning to the side, others to the back, like crooked teeth. Some were so eroded from the weather that the names couldn't be read. Others were brand new, smooth, the writing clear. Weeds sprouted up in some places, reaching out for her as she moved past.
"Literary Hill. What Literary Hill?" She looked around; after several minutes of searching, she came to the conclusion that there was no sign indicating Literary Hill was anywhere near, and so that must mean that there was no Literary Hill. She turned to go, hoisting her bag further up on her shoulder.
"Iva."
She stopped, a cool breeze wrapping around her shoulders. Slowly, she turned back, moving towards an old tree, the gnarled roots twisted and pointing back. As she stepped around it, she was surprised to find the small section of the cemetery entirely seperated from the rest. A small iron fence split the two cemeteries in half, leaving the larger half for current funerals and burials. As her gaze moved up, she saw the cross the older woman had told her about.
As she stepped into the small cemetery, she caught sight of the plaque waiting to be read.
Literary Hill, the resting place of some of Ireland's most well-known authors, including James O'Brien, Michael Patrick, and-
"Kathleen McGee." She breathed, reading the name. She glanced up before she began picking her way through the graves. Some were older, some relatively new. All were beautiful in their own way. As she reached the back of Literary Hill, she stopped. No, there is no way that can be it. It... it cannot be her grave...
She took a deep breath, glancing behind her, but finding she was the only one in the cemetery.
"Iva."
Something pushed her forward; perhaps her own curiosity, perhaps it was the spirit of Kathleen herself, but either way, she stepped forward, quietly, carefully, afraid to disturb the body resting beneath her feet. She felt as though she were intruding, and moved to step back. No, she shouldn't be here. This wasn't her place to pry. She had no right to dig into her marine's past-
She stumbled, losing her footing and landing on her back. With the wind knocked out of her, she sat, struggling to get her breathing back. As her breathing returned to normal, she let her gaze wander about the grave. Kathleen was buried beneath a slab of stone, a weeping angel draped over the top, a Celtic cross dangling from her hand; with her information carved in the middle of the stone. It was beautiful in its own way.
Slowly, Ziva pushed herself up, dusting herself off as she moved towards the stone and knelt in front of it. She reached out to touch it, but pulled back. She had no right to touch the stone, and yet... she couldn't help herself. She grabbed her camera, snapping several photographs before reaching out and gently tracing the letters with her fingers. The script engraved upon the stone was itself a beauty, and only added to the stone's own beauty. Her gaze ran over the writing, drinking it in.
With distance and the coming of grace,
I see in you beauty I could never replace
In Loving Memory
of
Kathleen Aislin McGee
May 4th, 1956 - September 11, 1988
Ziva swallowed, something striking her. She pulled out her cd player, put her headphones on, and quickly pressed play. After listening for several minutes, her head snapped up. The inscription on her sister-in-law's stone was the same line in Fiona's song. So... if she was correct, Fiona was talking about Kathleen's death, not Eithne's. Though, it could also be seen as a reference to her sister, Ziva doubted it for some reason. It hadn't been Eithne's phantom that she'd watched jump from the cliffs. It wasn't Eithne's novel she was reading, it was Kathleen's. For some reason, Kathleen wanted the young Israeli to see her stone, to touch it, and realize that she was real, that her son was real, and that Ziva wasn't making this up, like she'd begun to think. A moment passed, before she removed the locket from her bag and laid it at the base of the stone. She said a quick prayer in Hebrew for Kathleen, and then stood, making her way out of the cemetery.
"Iva."
She turned back around; great, she was hearing things again. She stuck her hands in her pockets and sighed, but stopped, when her fingers wrapped around something. Slowly, she pulled it out, eyes widening at the sight of the locket in her hand. With a quick glance at the stone, she realized that though she'd returned the locket, Kathleen meant- somehow, from beyond the grave- for her to have it.
