Spilt Stout and Sour Weed
It had been a long night at the pub. One of the local musicians had been in and had gotten the boys all roused up with songs from the long past. Why everyone had to get all blistered over the failed revolutionary attempts from so many years ago never ceased to amaze Padraig. He supposed he woulna' have been a very popular bloke in those times, his not having a rebellious bone in his body. But then again he was good at pourin' a pint and keepin' the whiskey comin' so perhaps he would have made out fine as long as he kept his mouth shut. Which was something else he was typically fairly good at. Still, it was enough of a blow-out the prior evenin' that he had left part of it to clean this morning. He simply did not have the heart nor the steam to scrub down the floors and the benches where the boys had slopped their stout while singing along with the old rebel songs. He paused for a moment in his ministrations over the wood bench and smiled. Of course, seeing Ol' John up on the table bellowing out that drinkin' song and substitutin' his wife's name on some of the bawdier lines had been quite a hoot. It was probably a good thing she was in Dublin with the other ladies for the weekend and not likely to get wind of that. He went back to scrubbing and soon had the pub returned to the spit and polish required to open for the afternoon. He had noticed a few bleary- eyed men wander by and give the closed sign the eye, but he definitely wasn't ready to deal with the hung-over men yet. They could take their chances down the road, where they suspected he would get no sympathy from the proprietress, who happened to be the cousin of the local priest. That thought brought another wide smile to his face.
He took off his apron and glove, the latter of which he knew would have gotten no end of comment had the boys known he used it, and set himself to rights. He had enough time to go visit the pesky birds so he might as well see to it. "Bloody Hell," he muttered, "When I see Roary, I am giving him a piece of my mind for tangling me up like this. I never thought this would turn out to be more'n a lark."
Gathering his necessaries he set out down the path. He made his way with a bit more ease now, having suffered through the climb and the twists and turns several times already. He had learned not to come without gloves or a light. This was not a passage for the soft handed, that was for sure. He had also learned to time it around the tides, having once got caught on the ledge and being forced to spend the night with his unpleasant hosts. Though truth be told, if you did not mind the smell of rank seaweed and swan shit, it really wasn't that bad. He had eventually slept and actually dreamed that he was surrounded by a chorus of angels that kept watch over him with their angelic voices seeing him safely through the night. Though waking to the stench of the cave quickly put paid to the lovely dream. He had brought a bucket with him this time with the intent of mucking out the cave. It couldna' be healthy for the bird to be living in that stink. He had replaced his cooler with a thermos of ice that had the seaweed from the day before tucked in it. He thought that should prove adequate for the feeding. After the pub-scrub he was almost looking forward to this cleaning as he thought perhaps it might smell better than what he had just taken care of, and he had promised himself a long hot bath as a reward for two jobs well done when he was through.
It was upon entering the cavern that he realized something was a bit "hinky". He couldna' place his finger on it, but he knew something wasna' right. He put the light away and went down by the bird, whistlin' the tune that had been caught in his head since his night in the cavern. The big bird didna' even lift its head to stare haughtily at him as it usually would. "Now that is mightily strange," he thought. He took his bucket out along the ledge and tied a long piece of heavy fishing line to it, throwing out and dragging in as full a bucket as he could without tossing himself into the tide. He carried it back and sluiced down the area, repeating several times over until his arms ached with the effort. Not once did the bird stir. It was as he cast the last bucket of water that the other pair swooped in around him, coming so close their wing tips almost touched his cheek. He was so frightened by their unexpected nearness that he almost pissed himself. Instead he held completely rigid. After swooping around him they flew back and began to circle outside, making a few sounds, but not the loud cacophony he would have normally expected if they were truly out of sorts. He relaxed and went to get the feed.
Opening the thermos he was hit with a scent that was nearly as foul as what he had just sluiced out of the cavern. "Damn it all to Bloody Hell," he growled. He had not brought any other stores with him. He was going to have to go out on the damned ledge and use the fool woman's method to try and feed the bird. He looked about and found the silly golf-ball retriever. He rested this against the wall and looked at the bird. It still had not moved. He went back and got her medical kit. Whistling the little tune under his breath, he approached slowly. The last time he had tried to look at the bird he had come way with his fingertips all but snipped off. He wasn't sure he even wanted to try this but felt for certain there was something wrong. He edged up; when he was within a hands-breadth of the bird it turned its head just slightly and stared at him with a single glazed black eye. Padraig wasn't sure how you would know if a swan had taken to fever, but the glaze in this one's eye gave him the feeling that this was so. He reached out so slowly it looked like his own arm was in pain. Still whistling he finally laid a hand on the smooth white neck, just at the top where the line broke from its head into the faint beginnings of the long curve. It was cool to the touch on the back side; stroking down and around toward the line near the breast it appeared to gain heat. It seemed like that would be normal to him. He nudged up his courage and tucked a finger under what would be the bird's chin if it were human. He turned it to look him straight in the eye. "I am needin' to look at yer wing, ye ken?" The bird stared at him, then held its neck away so that the injured wing was revealed.
"Holy Mother, please forgive me," whispered Padraig. The wing seemed to be covered in what was a green slime. He opened the little medical kit and began gingerly cleaning the area. When he had finally cleared the wing of the oozing green mess, he was satisfied that it was not a pustulation; rather the bird seemed to have gagged and left its dinner on itself. "I am thinking that ye ate something that didna' sit vera well, young sir," said Padraig with a wry smile. "Looks like I am after getting ye something a bit fresher. In the meantime, perhaps ye might like a drop?" He pulled out his own cup from his sack and poured some fresh water into it and, with a bit of an afterthought, put just a dash of Tullamore Dew in to make it tasty. Who said a swan couldna' enjoy a drop, and perhaps it might act as an antibiotic from the inside out if any of that mess did happen to still be in it. He set the bowl down, gave the bird a pat without so much as once worrying about a snip, and went off to "retrieve" its dinner.
He sauntered along the ledge like he was a pirate on a well worn deck, twirling the retriever like a bit of cane. Leaning out over the waves he retrieved the bit of weed with self assurance, and then and only then did his mind flash back on the image of the woman balancing with one hand on the upper ledge. He found himself in the sea with that image in his mind, his heavy boots like stones pulling him down, the retriever hard fast in his hand as if somehow it would help him as he flailed about trying to push himself back to the top where sweet air waited. The waves pushed him toward sharp rocks and the sea sucked at him, pulling him downward. He flashed on the men singing, on reverently polishing the wood, and on the lovely chorus from the cavern as he slowly lost air and light and thought.
He felt a rough push at his belt line, like hands thrusting him up. He considered struggling against this intrusive touching, but he no longer had the strength. Let whatever fish was considering him as dinner have him, at least he would add to nature's bounty that way. He felt himself being propelled rather quickly and actually with some discomfort as his pants seemed to be being lifted by the waist and were becoming rather tight in all the wrong places. Seawater coursed through his shirt and trouser legs and still the pressure of moving faster built. He was almost thrown from the sea, landing almost two-thirds of the way upon the little ledge. He noted that he still had the retriever in his hand - and that it was full of weed - just before he passed out.
A large wave hit him square in the face, causing him to wake sputtering long unsaid curses in the Gaelic tongue. He rose slowly patting himself down. Other than scrapes and bruises, he was, in fact, all in one piece, though he thought he might be singing with the girls the next fortnight or so given the pain in his nether-region. He got gingerly up and took the retriever with him, glad to see that he at least had something to feed the bird after his drenching. He leaned on the ledge wall to make his way back only to find his patient staring at him curiously. "Apparently whiskey does a body, anybody, at least in small increments, good," mused the bartender. He managed to procure his flask and then settle in front of the bird. They shared the meal then. Whisky for the wet and battered man and fresh seaweed for the bird. With one last long glance at each other they both curled up on their "wings" and fell asleep, each to nurture their own peculiar wounds.
Its Cold Out Here....but Beautiful....
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tangent
I have been posting components of Participles and Portents since the end of November, and while I should probably keep up the continuity, I find myself wanting to write a bit on another wave length.
I have had the most amazing and bizarre last few days.
Have you ever found yourself sitting on both sides of the table at the same time? Almost as if you are having a conversation with yourself? And no, I am not talking about pondering the universe in a moment of sublime silence in the dark of the moon. I mean talking with a group about an issue and then having someone from that group call you to discuss the issue later. So there you are explaining a component to this person, only to have the phone ring a few moments later and another person raise the issue from another perspective. Off you go again, addressing the issue in a way that brings each party closer together, without ever disclosing that you are somehow creating a thread that will hopefully bring these people together.
Am I a matchmaker? No, by no means. I would never presume to get involved in such delicate matters. I certainly do not have the pedigree for that - definittely not. But have I begun to live in a conscious effort to create more harmony than disharmony when possible? Yes, I think perhaps I have. Lately it seems that more and more often I am running across people who don't even notice that they actually do see eye to eye. They get so hung up on a word or a phrase that is not exactly the way they would say it and poof, everything is wrong in the conversation from that point on. It's as if that phrase turns to gum in their ears. Yet if you manage to get that gooey nuisance out of the way, it suddenly becomes clear to them that there was never any discord at all.
What I find most distracting in all of this is that almost everytime both people at the table have managed to gum up the works. Perhaps we have just become impatient listerners. We hang in there for awhile and at the first note of potential disagreement with our opinions we turn our ears off and allow our minds to start shouting retorts. In doing this we miss out on any possible recovery that may happen while the other person(s) are speaking and end up interjecting our accumulated misjudgement into the conversation. Which brings with it the equal, yet definitely not opposite reaction from our conversational partner. And thus the cycle of communication is complete (not).
I must admit, I am also no saint when it comes to this. I am certainly guilty of throwing up the mind-walls and listening to my own personal rant when someone trips a personal trigger. Luckily I have really great friends (I would include my Mom on this list by the way) who tend to give me a jab or two (three if necessary) to get me over myself and back into reality and listening to what is really going on around me.
So I wonder on this very rainy and grey day in Cow Country, why it is that I seem to be listening more lately, or if that is just a figment of my imagination, and I am about to be given a jab at any moment? I am ever hopeful that it is not the latter, and that I am, if just for this brief moment, a bit more open to the possibilities of the world at large and all the value of the people that surround me.
Just thinking out loud.
Promise next post we'll be back to the story.
I have had the most amazing and bizarre last few days.
Have you ever found yourself sitting on both sides of the table at the same time? Almost as if you are having a conversation with yourself? And no, I am not talking about pondering the universe in a moment of sublime silence in the dark of the moon. I mean talking with a group about an issue and then having someone from that group call you to discuss the issue later. So there you are explaining a component to this person, only to have the phone ring a few moments later and another person raise the issue from another perspective. Off you go again, addressing the issue in a way that brings each party closer together, without ever disclosing that you are somehow creating a thread that will hopefully bring these people together.
Am I a matchmaker? No, by no means. I would never presume to get involved in such delicate matters. I certainly do not have the pedigree for that - definittely not. But have I begun to live in a conscious effort to create more harmony than disharmony when possible? Yes, I think perhaps I have. Lately it seems that more and more often I am running across people who don't even notice that they actually do see eye to eye. They get so hung up on a word or a phrase that is not exactly the way they would say it and poof, everything is wrong in the conversation from that point on. It's as if that phrase turns to gum in their ears. Yet if you manage to get that gooey nuisance out of the way, it suddenly becomes clear to them that there was never any discord at all.
What I find most distracting in all of this is that almost everytime both people at the table have managed to gum up the works. Perhaps we have just become impatient listerners. We hang in there for awhile and at the first note of potential disagreement with our opinions we turn our ears off and allow our minds to start shouting retorts. In doing this we miss out on any possible recovery that may happen while the other person(s) are speaking and end up interjecting our accumulated misjudgement into the conversation. Which brings with it the equal, yet definitely not opposite reaction from our conversational partner. And thus the cycle of communication is complete (not).
I must admit, I am also no saint when it comes to this. I am certainly guilty of throwing up the mind-walls and listening to my own personal rant when someone trips a personal trigger. Luckily I have really great friends (I would include my Mom on this list by the way) who tend to give me a jab or two (three if necessary) to get me over myself and back into reality and listening to what is really going on around me.
So I wonder on this very rainy and grey day in Cow Country, why it is that I seem to be listening more lately, or if that is just a figment of my imagination, and I am about to be given a jab at any moment? I am ever hopeful that it is not the latter, and that I am, if just for this brief moment, a bit more open to the possibilities of the world at large and all the value of the people that surround me.
Just thinking out loud.
Promise next post we'll be back to the story.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Participles and Portents (48)
Crumbled Cheese
Lin walked pointedly away from Roary. Keeping her head down, she wound her way over to the curb and onto the narrow sidewalk. Fiona strode over and took her arm as casually as possible, leaving the confused man to follow in their wake. He could not make heads nor tails of what had happened in the car and was truly confounded by the sharpness of Lin's flickered gaze at him. "Women, especially the women in this family," he thought, "are definitely a breed apart."
Fiona made for a small but smart looking restaurant not far from the car, but Lin pulled up short and forced her to continue walking. In the end, they made almost a full circuit of the tiny square before she finally settled on a beat-up looking pub that smelled heavily of the prior evening's festivities. It was definitely not a place that either Fiona or Roary would have chosen. It was dimly lit and the scent of mutton and beer was strong enough to make it seem rather medieval in character. In fact, if it had not been for the dartboards lining the back wall, one might have expected to find straw on the floor and nothing but stew, brown bread and cheese on the menu. A glance around proved that the place was popular with the locals, the bar was full and many of the tables taken. Lin wandered in, not seeming to be phased a bit by the scents or the sounds, and settled in a table near the rear corner facing the door.
Roary pulled out a chair for Fiona and she smiled at the small gesture. It seemed quite out of place in this particular place. She patted him on the hand as he slid her chair neatly in under her. Apparently, there was peace between them for a moment or two at least. He swung round the table and took his seat facing the bar, noticing that the barkeep was keeping a steady eye on them as he wiped down the glasses he was racking. He gave him a nod in acknowledgment of the gaze and the barkeep turned to pour a pint. The waitress came by and gave them a lilting recitation of the day's luncheon menu. She had barely paused when Lin ordered the lamb stew with cheese and brown bread. "Perhaps she really had followed her nose into this hole of a pub," was all that passed through his mind as he placed an order for a beef sandwich with colcannon. Fiona followed Lin's menu and they all ordered a Guinness; it seemed the easiest way to catch up with the smell of the place, just drink it in.
They sat in silence until the stout came, the rich creamy foam lining the edge of the glass suddenly making them all realize they were actually hungry. Fiona laughed, "I wonder if it's true what they say back home? Is this really like a pork chop in a glass?" Lin gave a small chuckle, a laugh that was half there and half missing.
Roary looked on in bewilderment. "What would they mean by that?"
"I truly don't know. Perhaps they mean it makes you full, or perhaps they mean it's enough in itself to make you fat just drinking it."
"I don't know about that," he replied, "I think it actually has less calories than some beers. It certainly tastes better. An' I'm for believin' that there are a few who have made it their supper now an' again."
They sipped at the stout a bit more. Finally, when the silence was stretched as thin as crepe paper, Roary blurted out, "What was all the bawlin' about back there in the car?" It was not his finest moment of subtlety.
Both Lin and Fiona stared at him completely taken aback. They could not quite believe he had just jumped right in with both feet, splashing around in the muck like that. But there it was, right out in the middle of the lunch table, and no way to take it back.
Lin was cautious in her reply, "I had a bit of dream and a bit of a nightmare. It just shook me up. I don't remember when the last time was that I saw a man killed in my dreams."
Roary nearly spit out the stout that was floating around his tongue on the way toward a satisfied swallow. "Ye' saw a man die in your dream? How?"
"He was gored by a wild boar."
"Well now, that's an original piece of work, that is."
"Not really, it's part of a very old legend. I just seem to have dreamt myself right into the middle of it. And the amazing part is my dog was there too. You remember Grainne, don't you Mum?"
Fiona smiled. Yes, she remembered the high-spirited if somewhat less than genius Irish setter. She had been a blessing as a pet, lovely and loyal, and a good judge of poetry. She missed her greatly. "Yes, I remember how she used to eat my cookies, and how you talked her into turning her nose up at the liver I cooked."
"Well, you have to admit the dog had taste," smiled Lin.
The two women went into a burst of uncontrolled laughter. Roary was having a very hard time keeping up with the rollercoaster of emotions that Lin was spinning through. Luckily, the food arrived and they settled down to eat. Lin gave them a brief perspective on the dream, ending with her attempt to warn Diarmuid from her changeling state. Fiona patted her hand as if to remind her it was just a dream and continued to mop up the stew juices with a bit of bread and cheese.
"I think we should get some of this bread and cheese to take with us, " Fiona remarked. She made no reference to the dream at all. It was as if, in getting Lin to tell it, it had been released and was no more.
For her part, Lin seemed to be much relieved as well. "Women are definitely odd," concluded Roary as he slid from the table and over to the bar to pay the tab.
The barkeep came over and gave him another long look. He took his money and made the change. When he was handing the coins back to Roary, he caught his hand and held it so that Roary was forced to look him in the eye. "I couldna' help but overhear yon' lass's tale. Isna' a good thing to dream that dream, ya' ken? Best no' repeat that where others can hear it again, or the lass will likely not be treated kindly. I canna' explain more 'cept to say people don't care too much for those that have truck with the sidhe in these parts and that dream comes a mite too close to their door."
"But 'twas just a dream, sure'n that's not a problem?"
"Have ye' ever had a changeling dream? Or dreamt hard enough to make ye' cry like that when it wasna' even about your own?" asked the man.
"I'm after seeing yer point. I'll do my best to help her keep it tight to her chest. And thank ye' for the advice," Roary left a bit extra in tip on the bar and made his way back to the ladies. He gestured for them to come along. Not liking to be hurried, Fiona took an infuriatingly long time to tidy her space and finish her pint. Finally she rose and made her way majestically out the door. Roary breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Lin was not there with them.
He went back into the pub, but she was not there either. The barkeep wagged his thumb over his shoulder and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. And that is where he found her, cutting bread and cheeses with the serving girls and giggling. He could have sworn he heard her speak a word or two of Gaelic before he came in, but that simply wasn't possible as he knew she did not know the language. She wrapped up her parcels and paid the girl at the table for them. Then she raised her head and noticed him for the first time. She smiled and came to him. "Bread and cheese, I almost forgot we wanted these," her smile still glowing.
He would never, ever, figure this pair of women out, that much was certain, thought Roary, as he followed Lin out of the pub and into the bright light of the afternoon sun.
Lin walked pointedly away from Roary. Keeping her head down, she wound her way over to the curb and onto the narrow sidewalk. Fiona strode over and took her arm as casually as possible, leaving the confused man to follow in their wake. He could not make heads nor tails of what had happened in the car and was truly confounded by the sharpness of Lin's flickered gaze at him. "Women, especially the women in this family," he thought, "are definitely a breed apart."
Fiona made for a small but smart looking restaurant not far from the car, but Lin pulled up short and forced her to continue walking. In the end, they made almost a full circuit of the tiny square before she finally settled on a beat-up looking pub that smelled heavily of the prior evening's festivities. It was definitely not a place that either Fiona or Roary would have chosen. It was dimly lit and the scent of mutton and beer was strong enough to make it seem rather medieval in character. In fact, if it had not been for the dartboards lining the back wall, one might have expected to find straw on the floor and nothing but stew, brown bread and cheese on the menu. A glance around proved that the place was popular with the locals, the bar was full and many of the tables taken. Lin wandered in, not seeming to be phased a bit by the scents or the sounds, and settled in a table near the rear corner facing the door.
Roary pulled out a chair for Fiona and she smiled at the small gesture. It seemed quite out of place in this particular place. She patted him on the hand as he slid her chair neatly in under her. Apparently, there was peace between them for a moment or two at least. He swung round the table and took his seat facing the bar, noticing that the barkeep was keeping a steady eye on them as he wiped down the glasses he was racking. He gave him a nod in acknowledgment of the gaze and the barkeep turned to pour a pint. The waitress came by and gave them a lilting recitation of the day's luncheon menu. She had barely paused when Lin ordered the lamb stew with cheese and brown bread. "Perhaps she really had followed her nose into this hole of a pub," was all that passed through his mind as he placed an order for a beef sandwich with colcannon. Fiona followed Lin's menu and they all ordered a Guinness; it seemed the easiest way to catch up with the smell of the place, just drink it in.
They sat in silence until the stout came, the rich creamy foam lining the edge of the glass suddenly making them all realize they were actually hungry. Fiona laughed, "I wonder if it's true what they say back home? Is this really like a pork chop in a glass?" Lin gave a small chuckle, a laugh that was half there and half missing.
Roary looked on in bewilderment. "What would they mean by that?"
"I truly don't know. Perhaps they mean it makes you full, or perhaps they mean it's enough in itself to make you fat just drinking it."
"I don't know about that," he replied, "I think it actually has less calories than some beers. It certainly tastes better. An' I'm for believin' that there are a few who have made it their supper now an' again."
They sipped at the stout a bit more. Finally, when the silence was stretched as thin as crepe paper, Roary blurted out, "What was all the bawlin' about back there in the car?" It was not his finest moment of subtlety.
Both Lin and Fiona stared at him completely taken aback. They could not quite believe he had just jumped right in with both feet, splashing around in the muck like that. But there it was, right out in the middle of the lunch table, and no way to take it back.
Lin was cautious in her reply, "I had a bit of dream and a bit of a nightmare. It just shook me up. I don't remember when the last time was that I saw a man killed in my dreams."
Roary nearly spit out the stout that was floating around his tongue on the way toward a satisfied swallow. "Ye' saw a man die in your dream? How?"
"He was gored by a wild boar."
"Well now, that's an original piece of work, that is."
"Not really, it's part of a very old legend. I just seem to have dreamt myself right into the middle of it. And the amazing part is my dog was there too. You remember Grainne, don't you Mum?"
Fiona smiled. Yes, she remembered the high-spirited if somewhat less than genius Irish setter. She had been a blessing as a pet, lovely and loyal, and a good judge of poetry. She missed her greatly. "Yes, I remember how she used to eat my cookies, and how you talked her into turning her nose up at the liver I cooked."
"Well, you have to admit the dog had taste," smiled Lin.
The two women went into a burst of uncontrolled laughter. Roary was having a very hard time keeping up with the rollercoaster of emotions that Lin was spinning through. Luckily, the food arrived and they settled down to eat. Lin gave them a brief perspective on the dream, ending with her attempt to warn Diarmuid from her changeling state. Fiona patted her hand as if to remind her it was just a dream and continued to mop up the stew juices with a bit of bread and cheese.
"I think we should get some of this bread and cheese to take with us, " Fiona remarked. She made no reference to the dream at all. It was as if, in getting Lin to tell it, it had been released and was no more.
For her part, Lin seemed to be much relieved as well. "Women are definitely odd," concluded Roary as he slid from the table and over to the bar to pay the tab.
The barkeep came over and gave him another long look. He took his money and made the change. When he was handing the coins back to Roary, he caught his hand and held it so that Roary was forced to look him in the eye. "I couldna' help but overhear yon' lass's tale. Isna' a good thing to dream that dream, ya' ken? Best no' repeat that where others can hear it again, or the lass will likely not be treated kindly. I canna' explain more 'cept to say people don't care too much for those that have truck with the sidhe in these parts and that dream comes a mite too close to their door."
"But 'twas just a dream, sure'n that's not a problem?"
"Have ye' ever had a changeling dream? Or dreamt hard enough to make ye' cry like that when it wasna' even about your own?" asked the man.
"I'm after seeing yer point. I'll do my best to help her keep it tight to her chest. And thank ye' for the advice," Roary left a bit extra in tip on the bar and made his way back to the ladies. He gestured for them to come along. Not liking to be hurried, Fiona took an infuriatingly long time to tidy her space and finish her pint. Finally she rose and made her way majestically out the door. Roary breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Lin was not there with them.
He went back into the pub, but she was not there either. The barkeep wagged his thumb over his shoulder and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. And that is where he found her, cutting bread and cheeses with the serving girls and giggling. He could have sworn he heard her speak a word or two of Gaelic before he came in, but that simply wasn't possible as he knew she did not know the language. She wrapped up her parcels and paid the girl at the table for them. Then she raised her head and noticed him for the first time. She smiled and came to him. "Bread and cheese, I almost forgot we wanted these," her smile still glowing.
He would never, ever, figure this pair of women out, that much was certain, thought Roary, as he followed Lin out of the pub and into the bright light of the afternoon sun.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Participles and Portents (47)
Gristle and Pestle
The man made his way through the dense growth with ease, using his gun barrel to part heavy growth when it cluttered his way. The hounds ran along with him, crossing his path, neither following nor leading, just keeping pace. The carpet underfoot was a soft moss broken frequently by the twisting roots of the ancient trees that towered overhead. Shafts of light lent a speckled pattern to the day, emphasizing the chirping of the birds as they swooped from branch to branch. It seemed that the forest was in harmony with their progressive march toward "home." Sean. or as he was now called, Coll, was enjoying the romp with Cait, leaving Ian to plod along pondering what this turn of events might hold in store for them.
Ian shivered as he walked. He felt a sense of foreboding that he could not quite grasp the reason for. As he watched his younger brother so obviously enjoying himself, he grew increasingly uneasy. He tried to recall just how long they had been traveling in this forest and could not find a beginning in his mind. The time seemed to have collapsed into a series of images that was no longer marked by definable days. He wondered if this was due to the place or due to his growing attachment to a hound's sense of being. It seemed to him that it was very important to know the difference, yet he could not fathom this, and it made him even more uncomfortable. As he walked on he caught a scent that took him full force. He pressed his snout to the ground, rooting for a stronger link. Finding it, he followed. As the scent grew stronger he picked up his pace until he was at a slow trot. When the scent was in full bloom, he slowed and fell into a crouch. Looking carefully around him, he found what he had tracked. It was a fawn, obviously strayed from its mother, casually nibbling on sweet grass at the base of a large oak tree. He moved upwind of the animal, making sure that he was silent and near invisible to the creature. When he had rounded it, he paused just long enough to be sure of his bearing and then he charged. The fawn had only time to look up, its beautiful long-lashed eyes registering bewilderment rather than fright, before Ian's jaws clamped down on its neck and the light that had been there was snuffed out.
The kill left his pulse pounding and his jaws slack with a hunger he had not known he had until that very moment. Venison, especially young tender venison, was very tasty, Ian determined as he enjoyed his unexpected meal. He took his time, giving the fawn it due. It had, afterall ,sacrificed itself to support his hunger; he could at least savor it in deference to this offering. When he had eaten his fill, Ian dug a small pit and buried what little was left. For some odd reason, he did not want the poor thing to be defiled anymore than what had been necessary to feed himself. He even took the time to move a few rocks, carrying them by mouth to cover the improvised grave near the oak. As he finished, he turned and was stunned to find the human there, watching him in silence. How much had the man seen? How odd would he find his actions? How odd indeed were they? Even Ian could not guess; he had killed on instinct, that much seemed to be from his hound side. Was the burial from his human part? Not knowing what else to do, he simply returned the man's gaze and then slipped off behind the oak. He was very unsettled; it would not do for the human to see too much of his turmoil. Let him think him odd.
The man was confounded. He had seen the blond hound take off and decided to follow at a discreet pace. Watching him track and then take down the fawn had been like bearing witness to an arcane dance. The almost ritualistic way he had eaten the wee thing had drawn him in as well. But what puzzled him most was the hound burying his kill. What was so special about the fawn that he would do a thing like that? He had never seen anything like it. Not once in all his years of hunting with his hounds had he seen any of them do anything other than eat and leave the carcass behind. Truthfully, in all his years he had only seen a hound take down a deer on its own maybe as many times as he could count on his hands. Now here was his own Conn, slinking off in the forest to feast on one all to himself as if he were a prince of the forest and to pay it homage when he was done. The man scratched himself thinking that he should have listened better to the hearth stories when his Gran had spoken of such wild things in his youth. He turned and headed back toward the main path home. It would do him no good to spend too much time wondering at the oddness of this new hound. At least the younger one seemed to fit in easily enough. Perhaps it would just take time for the blond to settle into the ways of a kept hound. He settled his rifle more comfortably on his shoulder and let that thought carry him forward.
The pack was running in circles and baying when they stepped out into the small clearing where a tiny thatched hut stood. The man called out a greeting and a small slim-framed woman with flame-colored hair came out. She helped him with his pack and took the gun. "I've been waitin' to see ye' for two days. Where ha' ye' been? Ha' ye' just been playing with the hounds or did ye' find a pub hidden in the woods?"
"Now Mairy, ye' know your Thom woulna' stay gone from yer side any longer than was necessary," the man grinned back.
"So then, where is the meat and supplies I sent ye' to fetch?"
Thom drew out several well-wrapped bundles from his pack. "I've the herbs ye' asked for and a bit of the cloth, but the meat I will hav' to hunt for at next light. There wasn' a cow nor calf for the askin', least not at a price worth the payin'."
"That might be true if I didna' know how cheap ye' are. Well, at least we can season the wildness that will be on our table. But I won't be waitin' for first light," she said as she handed him back his gun. "Off with ye' now and see to supper. I've not had a decent meal since ye' left and these hounds can't just eat thar bowls ye' know." She turned her back to him and whistled. The pack milled around her as if she had some special magic that made her irresistible, and so perhaps she did as her hands were suddenly filled with small hard biscuits. She led them away in a happy frolic around the back of the hut to a small pen, which they all entered gladly. Only Sean and Ian stood outside the pen and watched. She gave them each a biscuit and a good scratch under the chin, then stepped out and locked the gate. When she turned and saw the two hounds behind her, she let a whoosh of surprise slip from her lips. Then she gathered her wits about her and, seeing that they were new to the pack, made her way to the small porch that bordered the back of the hut. Here she sat and waited with the biscuits in her lap.
It was Sean that made the first move, slowly encroaching into her space. She set out a hand with a piece of biscuit on it. He stretched out his neck and licked it off her hand. She took the opportunity to give him a bit of a scratch on the ear. It felt remarkably good to Sean. He inched closer to her. They repeated this pattern until the whole of one biscuit was gone and he as good as had his head in her lap. They sat there together for a few minutes, the biscuits moved off to the side on the porch and the flame-haired woman gently scratching his large ears and the tuft under his chin. Eventually, Ian creeped up. His needed to check on Sean and his desire to be a part of what was happening was taking over. The woman slid the biscuits behind her, cupping only one in her spare hand. This she fed to Ian as he gently nibbled it in her palm. Then he lay down on her open side and she sat with the two brothers, alternately scratching ears and chins.
This was how Thom found them when he came back with a brace of rabbits for their dinner. "Mairy," he called as he came into the clearing, "The hounds will have to hunt for themselves in the morning. I can hunt for larger game in the new light. If I bring something down, we can dress it and have it for feedin then." He rounded the rear of the hut and almost laughed at the sight of the hounds all cosied up to his woman. She looked up at him with a grand smile on her face. "I'm thinkin' these two will be stayin' in the house tonight."
With that she got up and went in to the hut, holding the door for the two hounds who made their way in as if it were their rightful place. "Could things get any odder with that pair?" wondered Thom aloud. First all the business in the forest on the way here, and now they had his Mairy inviting them in to tea. He laughed and went to skin and clean the game for dinner, listening the the soft grind of Mairy's pestle as she prepared the herbs for their dinner.
The man made his way through the dense growth with ease, using his gun barrel to part heavy growth when it cluttered his way. The hounds ran along with him, crossing his path, neither following nor leading, just keeping pace. The carpet underfoot was a soft moss broken frequently by the twisting roots of the ancient trees that towered overhead. Shafts of light lent a speckled pattern to the day, emphasizing the chirping of the birds as they swooped from branch to branch. It seemed that the forest was in harmony with their progressive march toward "home." Sean. or as he was now called, Coll, was enjoying the romp with Cait, leaving Ian to plod along pondering what this turn of events might hold in store for them.
Ian shivered as he walked. He felt a sense of foreboding that he could not quite grasp the reason for. As he watched his younger brother so obviously enjoying himself, he grew increasingly uneasy. He tried to recall just how long they had been traveling in this forest and could not find a beginning in his mind. The time seemed to have collapsed into a series of images that was no longer marked by definable days. He wondered if this was due to the place or due to his growing attachment to a hound's sense of being. It seemed to him that it was very important to know the difference, yet he could not fathom this, and it made him even more uncomfortable. As he walked on he caught a scent that took him full force. He pressed his snout to the ground, rooting for a stronger link. Finding it, he followed. As the scent grew stronger he picked up his pace until he was at a slow trot. When the scent was in full bloom, he slowed and fell into a crouch. Looking carefully around him, he found what he had tracked. It was a fawn, obviously strayed from its mother, casually nibbling on sweet grass at the base of a large oak tree. He moved upwind of the animal, making sure that he was silent and near invisible to the creature. When he had rounded it, he paused just long enough to be sure of his bearing and then he charged. The fawn had only time to look up, its beautiful long-lashed eyes registering bewilderment rather than fright, before Ian's jaws clamped down on its neck and the light that had been there was snuffed out.
The kill left his pulse pounding and his jaws slack with a hunger he had not known he had until that very moment. Venison, especially young tender venison, was very tasty, Ian determined as he enjoyed his unexpected meal. He took his time, giving the fawn it due. It had, afterall ,sacrificed itself to support his hunger; he could at least savor it in deference to this offering. When he had eaten his fill, Ian dug a small pit and buried what little was left. For some odd reason, he did not want the poor thing to be defiled anymore than what had been necessary to feed himself. He even took the time to move a few rocks, carrying them by mouth to cover the improvised grave near the oak. As he finished, he turned and was stunned to find the human there, watching him in silence. How much had the man seen? How odd would he find his actions? How odd indeed were they? Even Ian could not guess; he had killed on instinct, that much seemed to be from his hound side. Was the burial from his human part? Not knowing what else to do, he simply returned the man's gaze and then slipped off behind the oak. He was very unsettled; it would not do for the human to see too much of his turmoil. Let him think him odd.
The man was confounded. He had seen the blond hound take off and decided to follow at a discreet pace. Watching him track and then take down the fawn had been like bearing witness to an arcane dance. The almost ritualistic way he had eaten the wee thing had drawn him in as well. But what puzzled him most was the hound burying his kill. What was so special about the fawn that he would do a thing like that? He had never seen anything like it. Not once in all his years of hunting with his hounds had he seen any of them do anything other than eat and leave the carcass behind. Truthfully, in all his years he had only seen a hound take down a deer on its own maybe as many times as he could count on his hands. Now here was his own Conn, slinking off in the forest to feast on one all to himself as if he were a prince of the forest and to pay it homage when he was done. The man scratched himself thinking that he should have listened better to the hearth stories when his Gran had spoken of such wild things in his youth. He turned and headed back toward the main path home. It would do him no good to spend too much time wondering at the oddness of this new hound. At least the younger one seemed to fit in easily enough. Perhaps it would just take time for the blond to settle into the ways of a kept hound. He settled his rifle more comfortably on his shoulder and let that thought carry him forward.
The pack was running in circles and baying when they stepped out into the small clearing where a tiny thatched hut stood. The man called out a greeting and a small slim-framed woman with flame-colored hair came out. She helped him with his pack and took the gun. "I've been waitin' to see ye' for two days. Where ha' ye' been? Ha' ye' just been playing with the hounds or did ye' find a pub hidden in the woods?"
"Now Mairy, ye' know your Thom woulna' stay gone from yer side any longer than was necessary," the man grinned back.
"So then, where is the meat and supplies I sent ye' to fetch?"
Thom drew out several well-wrapped bundles from his pack. "I've the herbs ye' asked for and a bit of the cloth, but the meat I will hav' to hunt for at next light. There wasn' a cow nor calf for the askin', least not at a price worth the payin'."
"That might be true if I didna' know how cheap ye' are. Well, at least we can season the wildness that will be on our table. But I won't be waitin' for first light," she said as she handed him back his gun. "Off with ye' now and see to supper. I've not had a decent meal since ye' left and these hounds can't just eat thar bowls ye' know." She turned her back to him and whistled. The pack milled around her as if she had some special magic that made her irresistible, and so perhaps she did as her hands were suddenly filled with small hard biscuits. She led them away in a happy frolic around the back of the hut to a small pen, which they all entered gladly. Only Sean and Ian stood outside the pen and watched. She gave them each a biscuit and a good scratch under the chin, then stepped out and locked the gate. When she turned and saw the two hounds behind her, she let a whoosh of surprise slip from her lips. Then she gathered her wits about her and, seeing that they were new to the pack, made her way to the small porch that bordered the back of the hut. Here she sat and waited with the biscuits in her lap.
It was Sean that made the first move, slowly encroaching into her space. She set out a hand with a piece of biscuit on it. He stretched out his neck and licked it off her hand. She took the opportunity to give him a bit of a scratch on the ear. It felt remarkably good to Sean. He inched closer to her. They repeated this pattern until the whole of one biscuit was gone and he as good as had his head in her lap. They sat there together for a few minutes, the biscuits moved off to the side on the porch and the flame-haired woman gently scratching his large ears and the tuft under his chin. Eventually, Ian creeped up. His needed to check on Sean and his desire to be a part of what was happening was taking over. The woman slid the biscuits behind her, cupping only one in her spare hand. This she fed to Ian as he gently nibbled it in her palm. Then he lay down on her open side and she sat with the two brothers, alternately scratching ears and chins.
This was how Thom found them when he came back with a brace of rabbits for their dinner. "Mairy," he called as he came into the clearing, "The hounds will have to hunt for themselves in the morning. I can hunt for larger game in the new light. If I bring something down, we can dress it and have it for feedin then." He rounded the rear of the hut and almost laughed at the sight of the hounds all cosied up to his woman. She looked up at him with a grand smile on her face. "I'm thinkin' these two will be stayin' in the house tonight."
With that she got up and went in to the hut, holding the door for the two hounds who made their way in as if it were their rightful place. "Could things get any odder with that pair?" wondered Thom aloud. First all the business in the forest on the way here, and now they had his Mairy inviting them in to tea. He laughed and went to skin and clean the game for dinner, listening the the soft grind of Mairy's pestle as she prepared the herbs for their dinner.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Participles and Portents (46)
Beards and Blinds
Ian and Sean had a relatively easy time chasing down the two squirrels that they carried back in the direction of the human's camp. It was not hard to find given the stench of the man and the loud racket he was making. He was obviously calling his pack to him. He seemed to have gotten most of them in, as over the last few paces what they could hear was a single name being repeated. "Cait, Cait, here lass, here," cried the man in his rough voice. Sean broke through to the small clearing just in time to see his she-hound come bounding through the trees on the other side, obviously answering the man's call.
He proudly stepped out after her, his prize dangling from his jaws. If he had bothered to look at the other hounds, he might have noticed that they looked rather perplexed by what he was doing. But he only had eyes for "Cait" and so he did not fathom how silly he looked until he found himself next to her. Standing there proudly offering his gift of food, he was forced to notice the glint of blood in the fur of her chin and the sated look in her eye. She had hunted on her own and clearly did not need his help in taking care of her. Suddenly the bravado went out of him. He did not quite know what to do with the squirrel hanging there in his mouth. Should he give it to the man? Ian jostled him in the shoulder, moving him aside just barely. He looked Cait in the eye and then with almost a courtly bow laid his offering at her feet. She nodded at him with what could almost have been taken as a smile, then she turned her gaze on Sean. He stood a bit more firmly and bowed toward her as gracefully as he could manage, putting his offering on top of Ian's. Staring her directly in the eye he backed off just two steps and waited.
Cait was full to bursting but something told her that eating these squirrels was very necessary. She lowered herself slowly and neatly in front of the offerings and put herself to the task. The human watched humorlessly. He was greatly confused. He had never seen hounds act in this fashion before. He thought back over the last few hours. First had been the strange fight with the young pup facing his best hound and winning in what looked strangely like a modern wrestling move. All this was made stranger still by the fact that the other hound had not made a challenge at all. In fact, that one had gone to check the injured one. Following that had been the incredible actions of the pack in the burial of the old hound. That in itself had seemed like a moment with the Tuatha de Denaan. It was as if the Fair Folk had stepped out of the old world and were influencing these hounds. And here they were again, bringing food back to a perfectly healthy she-hound as if she needed to be cared for and protected like an honored mate. That last thought took him by surprise. "Could that be it?" he wondered. "Was the young pup trying to care for his new mate?" Running this around his mind gave the man a new idea. It was very possible that this was somehow true. That being the potential case, these two hounds were now basically his. It was clear the younger one could fight and the older one could lead; perhaps between the two of them they made up for the loss of the one he had just put down.
He walked over to the grey and lifted its chin.
Sean smelled the human approaching. He stood as still as he could. When the man touched him, it felt neither right, nor totally wrong, just somehow very odd. He let him lift his chin with only a bit of a struggle. He found himself staring back into a pair of strong brown eyes. Eyes, he imagined, that were almost the color of his own, or would be if he were still human. "Coll," said the man. "Ye' I think I will call this, as I remember the old roots, this has something to do with children or being young, and ye' remind me of youth. Will ye be answering to this I wonder?" Sean just stared at him. It did not matter what he called him, he had but one name and the man would not ever know it.
The man turned to Ian next. He dropped to a squat in front of the blond hound. He did not even try to touch him. He just stared into the blue eyes. "Ye' will have to be named after someone wise. I'm after thinkin' we should call you Conn. Aye, that's the name for a proud hound such as ye'." Ian looked at him for a moment and then moved over to sit with Sean. "Vera well then," the man waved to the pack, "Welcome Coll and Conn to our little group and off we go. We've a far trek ahead if we plan to have our suppers at home instead of in the wood this evenin'."
He turned and picked up his pack and his gun, then set his fingers in his mouth and gave a short whistle. The hounds gathered round him in what may have been order for them but looked like chaos to Ian and Sean. Without glancing back to see if "Conn and Coll" were with him or not, the man strode off.
Ian and Sean sat together in silence for a minute or two. Then, as if by mutual consent, they rose and followed their noses in the direction the man had gone, careful to stay just out of sight.
Ian and Sean had a relatively easy time chasing down the two squirrels that they carried back in the direction of the human's camp. It was not hard to find given the stench of the man and the loud racket he was making. He was obviously calling his pack to him. He seemed to have gotten most of them in, as over the last few paces what they could hear was a single name being repeated. "Cait, Cait, here lass, here," cried the man in his rough voice. Sean broke through to the small clearing just in time to see his she-hound come bounding through the trees on the other side, obviously answering the man's call.
He proudly stepped out after her, his prize dangling from his jaws. If he had bothered to look at the other hounds, he might have noticed that they looked rather perplexed by what he was doing. But he only had eyes for "Cait" and so he did not fathom how silly he looked until he found himself next to her. Standing there proudly offering his gift of food, he was forced to notice the glint of blood in the fur of her chin and the sated look in her eye. She had hunted on her own and clearly did not need his help in taking care of her. Suddenly the bravado went out of him. He did not quite know what to do with the squirrel hanging there in his mouth. Should he give it to the man? Ian jostled him in the shoulder, moving him aside just barely. He looked Cait in the eye and then with almost a courtly bow laid his offering at her feet. She nodded at him with what could almost have been taken as a smile, then she turned her gaze on Sean. He stood a bit more firmly and bowed toward her as gracefully as he could manage, putting his offering on top of Ian's. Staring her directly in the eye he backed off just two steps and waited.
Cait was full to bursting but something told her that eating these squirrels was very necessary. She lowered herself slowly and neatly in front of the offerings and put herself to the task. The human watched humorlessly. He was greatly confused. He had never seen hounds act in this fashion before. He thought back over the last few hours. First had been the strange fight with the young pup facing his best hound and winning in what looked strangely like a modern wrestling move. All this was made stranger still by the fact that the other hound had not made a challenge at all. In fact, that one had gone to check the injured one. Following that had been the incredible actions of the pack in the burial of the old hound. That in itself had seemed like a moment with the Tuatha de Denaan. It was as if the Fair Folk had stepped out of the old world and were influencing these hounds. And here they were again, bringing food back to a perfectly healthy she-hound as if she needed to be cared for and protected like an honored mate. That last thought took him by surprise. "Could that be it?" he wondered. "Was the young pup trying to care for his new mate?" Running this around his mind gave the man a new idea. It was very possible that this was somehow true. That being the potential case, these two hounds were now basically his. It was clear the younger one could fight and the older one could lead; perhaps between the two of them they made up for the loss of the one he had just put down.
He walked over to the grey and lifted its chin.
Sean smelled the human approaching. He stood as still as he could. When the man touched him, it felt neither right, nor totally wrong, just somehow very odd. He let him lift his chin with only a bit of a struggle. He found himself staring back into a pair of strong brown eyes. Eyes, he imagined, that were almost the color of his own, or would be if he were still human. "Coll," said the man. "Ye' I think I will call this, as I remember the old roots, this has something to do with children or being young, and ye' remind me of youth. Will ye be answering to this I wonder?" Sean just stared at him. It did not matter what he called him, he had but one name and the man would not ever know it.
The man turned to Ian next. He dropped to a squat in front of the blond hound. He did not even try to touch him. He just stared into the blue eyes. "Ye' will have to be named after someone wise. I'm after thinkin' we should call you Conn. Aye, that's the name for a proud hound such as ye'." Ian looked at him for a moment and then moved over to sit with Sean. "Vera well then," the man waved to the pack, "Welcome Coll and Conn to our little group and off we go. We've a far trek ahead if we plan to have our suppers at home instead of in the wood this evenin'."
He turned and picked up his pack and his gun, then set his fingers in his mouth and gave a short whistle. The hounds gathered round him in what may have been order for them but looked like chaos to Ian and Sean. Without glancing back to see if "Conn and Coll" were with him or not, the man strode off.
Ian and Sean sat together in silence for a minute or two. Then, as if by mutual consent, they rose and followed their noses in the direction the man had gone, careful to stay just out of sight.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Participles and Portents (45)
Roads and Dreams
The lull of the music seemed to call to Lin. The small banter carried on between Roary and Fiona made a pleasant counterpoint, and soon the words melded with the pipes and bass, forming waves as consistent as the ocean breaking on the Irish shore and she succumbed to sleep. If Roary and Fiona noticed her head lolling on the back seat, it was only with a nod of mutual pleasure to see that Lin appeared to be finding some brief solace. As the car continued to eat along at the miles that separated them from their destination, they endeavored to keep their voices low in an effort to extend her slumber.
Lin found her dreaming self wandering in a field of green, her legs taking long strides that seemed not the least encumbered by the heavy skirts she wore. At her side was the setter she had adopted in college. Grainne paced her, the flowing red-gold of her pelt striking a jewel-like contrast to the green of the field. She laughed as the dog scented something and went to point, forming that strong and beautiful line that designated the direction of the game she had found. Lin lifted a hand to shield her gaze as she tried to find what Grainne was seeking. The lithe animal took off, her speed breathtaking for she was at her side in one moment and hundreds of yards away in what was only seconds. A brace of quails, startled by the setter's sudden appearance, flew up from the grasses. Grainne turned in circles, happy to be so free to run. Lin lifted her skirts and took flight as well, finally reaching her pet. She gave no thought to her dress as she threw her arms around the setter and rolled to the ground laughing and growling with her. They settled there, the dark-haired woman and fire-haired setter, enjoying the sun and the sky and the freedom of being together. The deep bellow of a horn interrupted their reverie. Grainne lifted her head from Lin's shoulder in question of the call, then stood. Sensing that the moment was over, Lin stood and straightened her skirts and hair as best she could. The setter took off in the direction of the horn's call and she followed curiously.
They walked up the long slope and through a grove of tall trees; as they broke the cover she found herself staring at an image from the pages of her old childhood book of tales. It was the castle of Cormac D'Art, High King of Ireland. She was at Tara. Suddenly she found herself surrounded by any number of cackling women, young and old, and being hurried inside. Grainne managed to weave herself in and out of the group as if she knew her place within this company. The women pushed and prodded Lin, leading her to a chamber where she was stripped of her simple dress and encouraged to don a more elaborate gown of green and gold. She was practically forced to sit as they began to comb her hair and weave it with ribbons. Through all of this, Grainne stayed comfortingly at her feet. She found herself beginning to pick up on some of the scattered conversation. Tonight was apparently a big feast. The High King had finally agreed to host Fionn MacCumhal and members of the Fianna. This was followed by giggles and blushing. A question was directed to her. She was too stunned to answer. They had called her Grania. She glanced down at the setter, whose eyes were liquid with knowledge. The dog at least knew who truly carried this ancient name. Lin smiled. This made all of the women breathe more freely. Apparently satisfied that she had answered their question, they finished preparing her and left. Lin tried to unravel what she could remember of the tale that had inspired her to give her pet its name. She was interrupted in her musings by a summons to come to table.
The High King, Grania's father, introduced her formally to the leader of the Fianna, Fionn MacCumhal and to the higher ranked members of the Fianna he had brought with him. To be truly honest, Lin was not really paying that much attention to the names of the men she was introduced to as she had just finally caught on to the reason for the gathering. She caught the name of MacCumhal's son, Oisin, but that was all that she remembered though the host was not that large. It seemed that this was a betrothing dinner for herself and MacCumhal. She kept finding herself looking back at the man who was clearly older than Cormac. What would possess someone to marry off a young girl to such an old man? It was not until they were seated and she looked across the table from herself that she saw him. In that one gaze she felt her heart fairly stop. His eyes were a strange shade of blue, for when the light caught them one way, they were almost grey, yet when caught in another they were so blue it was like looking at the sky. His hair was a wild mess of curls. His chin was square and hard, but it was his smile made that made the room stop. She knew then that she could never marry the old man, and felt certain the real Grania would not either.
She called to one of the women who had helped her at her dress that evening. Without even understanding how she knew what she was asking for, she bade the woman bring her the largest jeweled cup from Grania's dowry. Lin filled the cup with her own hands from the wines that were available and added a powder from the locket she wore. She took it to Fionn, who was well pleased that she offered it to him first. Then she made the round of the table, leaving only the core of the Fianna before she approached the blue-eyed man. Speaking boldly she told him that she loved him and asked him to accept her geasa to take her from the castle this night so that she might be his and never suffer the marriage to Fionn.
Diarmuid, for that was the name of the man she had approached, was completely torn. He was a loyal member of the Fianna. Yet with one look he had known he loved the Princess Grania deeply. He asked several of the men in the Fianna in turn and each agreed that such a geasa could not be ignored. They urged him to go, but to remember that Fionn would hunt them 'til the end of their days, such would be his anger at the loss of his prize and the wounding of his pride. And so it was that Lin found herself leaping the high wall of the castle that night with Diarmuid, her only regret leaving Grainne within the walls.
Oisin, bound by his love for both his father and Diarmuid, could do no more than secure two good horses for them. These they found outside the castle. They rode hard into the night and when the horses could travel no more, Diarmuid used them one last time to lay several false trails before he and Lin set off on foot. The sun rose and still they traveled. It was not until the moon bade them welcome on the second night that Diarmuid took her to wife.
Roary and Fiona noticed that Lin's dream seemed to be moving into more troubled areas as she moved restlessly in the seat behind them. Fiona moved as if to wake her, but Roary held out a hand to stop her. "Sometimes it's best if we work through the worst in sleep; it leaves the soul a clear head in the mornin'," he noted. This seemed to be enough for Fiona though the troubled look remained on her brow.
In the dream, the faces of Diarmuid and Roary seemed to slip and shift replacing each other, until the shaft of light fell upon her and she found Grainne's muzzle on her leg. Diarmuid moved quickly. "We mus' go," he said in the Gaelic tongue. "Surely Oisin has sent your pet ahead as a warning to us. They canna' be far behind." They made haste to leave. A few moments of tension occurred as Lin tried to convince him to let her keep Grainne with them. But it was clear that this was dangerous for the couple as well as for the setter. She kissed the dog and sent her on her way.
When the dog returned, Fionn was furious. It was clear to him that someone had sent her out as a warning. The dream wove together as a patchwork quilt from then on. Brief visions of bright days and laughter, warm languorous nights and flashes of danger. Lin was taken from a fort by Angus Og to Brugh na Boinne, and protected within the arms of the Tuatha de DaNaan, as Diarmuid had been his foster son. Diarmuid had leapt over the heads of Fionn's own militia and danced his way back to her. When the mercenaries had come to support Fionn's search for them, Diarmuid had bested them by challenging them to three feats. They had lost over thirty men trying to replicate his balancing of a barrel on the cliff's edge, standing on the tip of his pike and walking the edge of his sword. After this he had revealed himself to the remaining twenty and cut them down like wheat.
Still Fionn pursued them. Finally, Diarmuid found a place of refuge for them in a forest guarded by the Tuatha de DaNaan. Each of these triumphs were pieces of the dream that led Lin full circle back to the Castle of Cormac where she found herself, older and riper, yet still living with the square-jawed hero of her dreams. "Rath Grania," she whispered and smiled in her dream. She was preparing a feast; the Fianna was to be there. Diarmuid had gone out to hunt. There was something, something that Lin would know and Grania would not. Something she needed to tell this man about the day. He should not go. She could not remember what it was. Lin could see him there in the forest, his pike at the ready. She saw from above, as if she were a bird, a wild boar crashing through the wood. She remembered then. "Run," she screamed. It came out only as a loud caw. She had remembered. He was under a geasa from his time at Angus Og's court. He could only live as long as this boar. It was another old tale, and it twisted through her like a knife.
As the boar charged out of the wood and the tusk drove into Diarmuid simultaneously with his pike driving into the boar, Lin woke. She was sweating and breathing hard, then tears came, unbidden and unstoppable.
"Lord, how I miss that dog," was all that she said aloud.
Fiona caught this last statement. There were only three dogs she could recall that would cause her daughter such grief; each had held a very special place in Lin's heart as they had in hers. But only one could be tied directly to this land, to Ireland. Grainne. They were heading toward a place that centered around the stories of the original Grania. "Could this somehow tie into what Darby had been talking about?" she wondered. Putting this thought aside, she suggested that Roary find a place to stop so that they could stretch their legs and refresh their pallets and spirits. Seeing the tears rolling down Lin's face and feeling completely helpless, Roary readily agreed.
As Lin stepped from the car, she stopped and gazed at Roary. Her look was so long and intense that it made Roary shiver under it. Whatever the dream had been, it had not given her comfort or rest. It appeared to have left her with more questions and uncertainties.
The lull of the music seemed to call to Lin. The small banter carried on between Roary and Fiona made a pleasant counterpoint, and soon the words melded with the pipes and bass, forming waves as consistent as the ocean breaking on the Irish shore and she succumbed to sleep. If Roary and Fiona noticed her head lolling on the back seat, it was only with a nod of mutual pleasure to see that Lin appeared to be finding some brief solace. As the car continued to eat along at the miles that separated them from their destination, they endeavored to keep their voices low in an effort to extend her slumber.
Lin found her dreaming self wandering in a field of green, her legs taking long strides that seemed not the least encumbered by the heavy skirts she wore. At her side was the setter she had adopted in college. Grainne paced her, the flowing red-gold of her pelt striking a jewel-like contrast to the green of the field. She laughed as the dog scented something and went to point, forming that strong and beautiful line that designated the direction of the game she had found. Lin lifted a hand to shield her gaze as she tried to find what Grainne was seeking. The lithe animal took off, her speed breathtaking for she was at her side in one moment and hundreds of yards away in what was only seconds. A brace of quails, startled by the setter's sudden appearance, flew up from the grasses. Grainne turned in circles, happy to be so free to run. Lin lifted her skirts and took flight as well, finally reaching her pet. She gave no thought to her dress as she threw her arms around the setter and rolled to the ground laughing and growling with her. They settled there, the dark-haired woman and fire-haired setter, enjoying the sun and the sky and the freedom of being together. The deep bellow of a horn interrupted their reverie. Grainne lifted her head from Lin's shoulder in question of the call, then stood. Sensing that the moment was over, Lin stood and straightened her skirts and hair as best she could. The setter took off in the direction of the horn's call and she followed curiously.
They walked up the long slope and through a grove of tall trees; as they broke the cover she found herself staring at an image from the pages of her old childhood book of tales. It was the castle of Cormac D'Art, High King of Ireland. She was at Tara. Suddenly she found herself surrounded by any number of cackling women, young and old, and being hurried inside. Grainne managed to weave herself in and out of the group as if she knew her place within this company. The women pushed and prodded Lin, leading her to a chamber where she was stripped of her simple dress and encouraged to don a more elaborate gown of green and gold. She was practically forced to sit as they began to comb her hair and weave it with ribbons. Through all of this, Grainne stayed comfortingly at her feet. She found herself beginning to pick up on some of the scattered conversation. Tonight was apparently a big feast. The High King had finally agreed to host Fionn MacCumhal and members of the Fianna. This was followed by giggles and blushing. A question was directed to her. She was too stunned to answer. They had called her Grania. She glanced down at the setter, whose eyes were liquid with knowledge. The dog at least knew who truly carried this ancient name. Lin smiled. This made all of the women breathe more freely. Apparently satisfied that she had answered their question, they finished preparing her and left. Lin tried to unravel what she could remember of the tale that had inspired her to give her pet its name. She was interrupted in her musings by a summons to come to table.
The High King, Grania's father, introduced her formally to the leader of the Fianna, Fionn MacCumhal and to the higher ranked members of the Fianna he had brought with him. To be truly honest, Lin was not really paying that much attention to the names of the men she was introduced to as she had just finally caught on to the reason for the gathering. She caught the name of MacCumhal's son, Oisin, but that was all that she remembered though the host was not that large. It seemed that this was a betrothing dinner for herself and MacCumhal. She kept finding herself looking back at the man who was clearly older than Cormac. What would possess someone to marry off a young girl to such an old man? It was not until they were seated and she looked across the table from herself that she saw him. In that one gaze she felt her heart fairly stop. His eyes were a strange shade of blue, for when the light caught them one way, they were almost grey, yet when caught in another they were so blue it was like looking at the sky. His hair was a wild mess of curls. His chin was square and hard, but it was his smile made that made the room stop. She knew then that she could never marry the old man, and felt certain the real Grania would not either.
She called to one of the women who had helped her at her dress that evening. Without even understanding how she knew what she was asking for, she bade the woman bring her the largest jeweled cup from Grania's dowry. Lin filled the cup with her own hands from the wines that were available and added a powder from the locket she wore. She took it to Fionn, who was well pleased that she offered it to him first. Then she made the round of the table, leaving only the core of the Fianna before she approached the blue-eyed man. Speaking boldly she told him that she loved him and asked him to accept her geasa to take her from the castle this night so that she might be his and never suffer the marriage to Fionn.
Diarmuid, for that was the name of the man she had approached, was completely torn. He was a loyal member of the Fianna. Yet with one look he had known he loved the Princess Grania deeply. He asked several of the men in the Fianna in turn and each agreed that such a geasa could not be ignored. They urged him to go, but to remember that Fionn would hunt them 'til the end of their days, such would be his anger at the loss of his prize and the wounding of his pride. And so it was that Lin found herself leaping the high wall of the castle that night with Diarmuid, her only regret leaving Grainne within the walls.
Oisin, bound by his love for both his father and Diarmuid, could do no more than secure two good horses for them. These they found outside the castle. They rode hard into the night and when the horses could travel no more, Diarmuid used them one last time to lay several false trails before he and Lin set off on foot. The sun rose and still they traveled. It was not until the moon bade them welcome on the second night that Diarmuid took her to wife.
Roary and Fiona noticed that Lin's dream seemed to be moving into more troubled areas as she moved restlessly in the seat behind them. Fiona moved as if to wake her, but Roary held out a hand to stop her. "Sometimes it's best if we work through the worst in sleep; it leaves the soul a clear head in the mornin'," he noted. This seemed to be enough for Fiona though the troubled look remained on her brow.
In the dream, the faces of Diarmuid and Roary seemed to slip and shift replacing each other, until the shaft of light fell upon her and she found Grainne's muzzle on her leg. Diarmuid moved quickly. "We mus' go," he said in the Gaelic tongue. "Surely Oisin has sent your pet ahead as a warning to us. They canna' be far behind." They made haste to leave. A few moments of tension occurred as Lin tried to convince him to let her keep Grainne with them. But it was clear that this was dangerous for the couple as well as for the setter. She kissed the dog and sent her on her way.
When the dog returned, Fionn was furious. It was clear to him that someone had sent her out as a warning. The dream wove together as a patchwork quilt from then on. Brief visions of bright days and laughter, warm languorous nights and flashes of danger. Lin was taken from a fort by Angus Og to Brugh na Boinne, and protected within the arms of the Tuatha de DaNaan, as Diarmuid had been his foster son. Diarmuid had leapt over the heads of Fionn's own militia and danced his way back to her. When the mercenaries had come to support Fionn's search for them, Diarmuid had bested them by challenging them to three feats. They had lost over thirty men trying to replicate his balancing of a barrel on the cliff's edge, standing on the tip of his pike and walking the edge of his sword. After this he had revealed himself to the remaining twenty and cut them down like wheat.
Still Fionn pursued them. Finally, Diarmuid found a place of refuge for them in a forest guarded by the Tuatha de DaNaan. Each of these triumphs were pieces of the dream that led Lin full circle back to the Castle of Cormac where she found herself, older and riper, yet still living with the square-jawed hero of her dreams. "Rath Grania," she whispered and smiled in her dream. She was preparing a feast; the Fianna was to be there. Diarmuid had gone out to hunt. There was something, something that Lin would know and Grania would not. Something she needed to tell this man about the day. He should not go. She could not remember what it was. Lin could see him there in the forest, his pike at the ready. She saw from above, as if she were a bird, a wild boar crashing through the wood. She remembered then. "Run," she screamed. It came out only as a loud caw. She had remembered. He was under a geasa from his time at Angus Og's court. He could only live as long as this boar. It was another old tale, and it twisted through her like a knife.
As the boar charged out of the wood and the tusk drove into Diarmuid simultaneously with his pike driving into the boar, Lin woke. She was sweating and breathing hard, then tears came, unbidden and unstoppable.
"Lord, how I miss that dog," was all that she said aloud.
Fiona caught this last statement. There were only three dogs she could recall that would cause her daughter such grief; each had held a very special place in Lin's heart as they had in hers. But only one could be tied directly to this land, to Ireland. Grainne. They were heading toward a place that centered around the stories of the original Grania. "Could this somehow tie into what Darby had been talking about?" she wondered. Putting this thought aside, she suggested that Roary find a place to stop so that they could stretch their legs and refresh their pallets and spirits. Seeing the tears rolling down Lin's face and feeling completely helpless, Roary readily agreed.
As Lin stepped from the car, she stopped and gazed at Roary. Her look was so long and intense that it made Roary shiver under it. Whatever the dream had been, it had not given her comfort or rest. It appeared to have left her with more questions and uncertainties.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Participles and Portents (44)
Hard as Stone
They compared notes over tea. The conversation was oddly constrained. It felt as if someone had stretched a fine web between them and they were talking carefully, afraid a strong breath might break a fragile weave.
Roary had urged Lin to tell Fiona of her rather un-natural or to some extent super-natural experience at Dun Aenghuis. Lin refused, stating simply that she wasn't at all sure it had not just been exposure to cold and excess worry. Roary was certain she knew that is was a vastly different cause. In fact as he sat there he ground his teeth over it. He was more than a bit angry, he mused, "She simply willna' face the facts. An' it makes no sense, what with her boy's bein' what they are an' all that to boot." He put his cup down a bit hard on the table causing Fiona to give him a rather sharp glance. "How could Lin pretend anything else had happened? Somehow in the midst of all the mess she was still fightin' to keep the Fae at arm's length." His thoughts settled on the night and to what degree she must have had her guard down to have been taken at the Dun. It was either that or the sidhe who used her as a host must have been very strong. It was common faith that a person who had no faith at all in the fair-folk would never see them and never be touched by them. "An' that is a two-edged sword," he thought.
Fiona's silence stemmed from the suppressed hangover, her desire not to divulge how she had spent the night in sport at the pub in such an indecorous way and of course the holding to her heart of the last bits of the night. These last were starry and warm and pressed close. They were not for sharing, they were hers and hers alone. She pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed, praying for a sliver of relief.
Lin just wanted the two of them to focus. Whatever the strange night had brought, its frights and its comforts was past. She itched for action. She ached to move. She could not comprehend why they were still just sitting there. Her whole body wanted to spring forward and scream, to pummel, to force time forward into the moment when all of this would be a distant memory and Sean and Ian would be back again. "Damn and bloody hell," she raged inside, "they were all right when they said I had no cause for running off. It did far more harm than good. Blast the damn swan and its bloody neck. I just want my boys back." This last thought was accompanied by a great heaving sigh as she stood and moved to put her cup on the counter.
Returning to the table she found to her relief that Roary and Fiona had finally, after an eternity of time taken up the conversation again. They were arguing points of location in the general area, trying to get a plan set for the day. Lin interrupted, suggesting an alternative course all together. "I think we are in the wrong place all together." Her partners in the search, much to her surprise, readily agreed. They set their minds to considering which path might be a better one to follow. Each had specific destinations in mind. What was interesting, however, was that all of the paths lead eventually toward the same general area. There was, it appeared, a concentration of Dowths in County Meath. Which was, rather oddly, the conjectured ancestral home of Lin's Irish roots.
It was with this in mind they set out to visit the most celebrated of the sidhe sights, New Grange. The tension still hanging like thick drapery in the car as the mellow strains of a Clannad ballad attempted to ease the air.
They compared notes over tea. The conversation was oddly constrained. It felt as if someone had stretched a fine web between them and they were talking carefully, afraid a strong breath might break a fragile weave.
Roary had urged Lin to tell Fiona of her rather un-natural or to some extent super-natural experience at Dun Aenghuis. Lin refused, stating simply that she wasn't at all sure it had not just been exposure to cold and excess worry. Roary was certain she knew that is was a vastly different cause. In fact as he sat there he ground his teeth over it. He was more than a bit angry, he mused, "She simply willna' face the facts. An' it makes no sense, what with her boy's bein' what they are an' all that to boot." He put his cup down a bit hard on the table causing Fiona to give him a rather sharp glance. "How could Lin pretend anything else had happened? Somehow in the midst of all the mess she was still fightin' to keep the Fae at arm's length." His thoughts settled on the night and to what degree she must have had her guard down to have been taken at the Dun. It was either that or the sidhe who used her as a host must have been very strong. It was common faith that a person who had no faith at all in the fair-folk would never see them and never be touched by them. "An' that is a two-edged sword," he thought.
Fiona's silence stemmed from the suppressed hangover, her desire not to divulge how she had spent the night in sport at the pub in such an indecorous way and of course the holding to her heart of the last bits of the night. These last were starry and warm and pressed close. They were not for sharing, they were hers and hers alone. She pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed, praying for a sliver of relief.
Lin just wanted the two of them to focus. Whatever the strange night had brought, its frights and its comforts was past. She itched for action. She ached to move. She could not comprehend why they were still just sitting there. Her whole body wanted to spring forward and scream, to pummel, to force time forward into the moment when all of this would be a distant memory and Sean and Ian would be back again. "Damn and bloody hell," she raged inside, "they were all right when they said I had no cause for running off. It did far more harm than good. Blast the damn swan and its bloody neck. I just want my boys back." This last thought was accompanied by a great heaving sigh as she stood and moved to put her cup on the counter.
Returning to the table she found to her relief that Roary and Fiona had finally, after an eternity of time taken up the conversation again. They were arguing points of location in the general area, trying to get a plan set for the day. Lin interrupted, suggesting an alternative course all together. "I think we are in the wrong place all together." Her partners in the search, much to her surprise, readily agreed. They set their minds to considering which path might be a better one to follow. Each had specific destinations in mind. What was interesting, however, was that all of the paths lead eventually toward the same general area. There was, it appeared, a concentration of Dowths in County Meath. Which was, rather oddly, the conjectured ancestral home of Lin's Irish roots.
It was with this in mind they set out to visit the most celebrated of the sidhe sights, New Grange. The tension still hanging like thick drapery in the car as the mellow strains of a Clannad ballad attempted to ease the air.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Participles and Portents (43)
Cotton and Wool
The air was heavy and her tongue felt thick. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed cotton or a cotton boll. Her head was playing a low percussive beat. It did not hurt exactly, unless she tried to move it off center with anything approaching a normal speed of responsiveness. She had discovered this very unpleasant sharp pain that shot up the back of her neck and into her eyebrows when the mistress of the house had asked her how she would like her eggs, and turning to answer, she was pierced through. She managed to answer croakingly, acutely aware of her bloodshot eyes and the traumatized look on her face which surely gave away how she had spent her evening the night before.
Did she really drink an entire bottle of wine on her own? Surely not. The barkeep would certainly not have kept pouring in a quantity that was certain to put her more than in her cups. She was fairly certain that she had never been more than just a bit tipsy. If this was a hangover, she mused, then she was certain she would never want to be drunk again. She wondered for a moment why anyone would take to drink if this was the aftermath. But the effort of thinking caused her brain to seize up and crackle with little shoots of pain like a wounded puppy. Apparently it had a mind of its own. This thought made her laugh, which in turn made her wince, which in turn made her laugh again. Realizing that this was a pattern destined to create nothing of value, she carefully took a sip of her tea and calmed her mind. She pulled up pictures of her garden at home, the azaleas and gardenias in bloom. She let the picture form and ease away some of the tension.
Her breakfast arrived and she nibbled on some toast dipped in the fresh hot egg yolk. She barely tasted it. She reached into her bag and pulled out her small emergency kit. It did not contain much, some alcohol swab packets, bandaids, antacids and, wonder of wonders, aspirin. She dropped two into her hand and took them with her juice. Then methodically ate her toast, tea and bacon. She knew she should try and get the egg down, but it just wasn't going to happen. She cleared her table and helped herself to another cup of tea. Sipping the tea, she checked her phone. Still no message from Lin. She was beginning to worry. It was after eight in the morning, surely Lin was up and about by now. She tried calling her but the call did not ring through. She was either out of range or out of battery.
Fiona took her cup and moved to the little alcove that served as a sitting room-cum-library for the guests. She would have to wait it out. As she did so, she began to rerun the prior day through her head. She felt the warm rush of the night's starry ending and sighed. She was a lucky woman in so many ways. She thought again of what Darby had said. What did he mean about hounds and dogs and history and family? She knew that somehow that message could help her unravel part of this messed-up mystery. She just could not see how.
She put the cup and saucer on the kitchen cart and went upstairs. She gathered what little she had with her, as most of her belongings were in the car where Roary and Lin had parked before they took the ferry over. It was a good thing that she always carried the essentials, toothbrush and paste, comb, etc. with her in her backpack, she mused. She put on her coat and, thanking the lady of the house, she let herself out. The day was clear and bright. With no particular idea of where she might be heading, Fiona walked into the little village. She made her way around to the sprinkling of shops and down by the ferry. She read the sign for times of crossing. Well, according to the sign, they should be on their way back soon. She took out a note pad and paper and found a convenient rock to perch on. She would just be there when they arrived.
Lin was more than a bit put out when she realized that she was not going to be able to call her mother before they got on the ferry. As it was, they barely made the first one on time. Of course that might have been different if they had taken the bus into town, but they had both agreed to hike in rather than deal with the oddness of being the first persons to board for a return from the Dun in the early morning hours. It was odd, she thought, how little tension there was between them. She would have thought that somehow last night would have tightened the bow string between them. It felt more like the opposite. Roary seemed at ease with not acknowledging that anything had occurred, and that certainly was something that made her comfortable. It would be best for all concerned if they left that moment on the Isle. Something like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" - only Aran Island style. Still, all in all, it was not something she would choose to forget either. It was just a complication that did not need to be there. She glanced up at him and found him looking at her. There it was again, that clear blue gaze that had her wondering if he was looking straight through her as if she was merely a window. She could not think of any reason that transparency would be of any great value at this particular moment in time. Blinking, she pulled her eyes away and put herself into a faster trot. They needed to catch the ferry. She needed to find her mother. They all needed to find the boys.
Roary was both pained and amused by Lin as the morning progressed. She was so clearly leaving their moment behind here. He would have liked to talk about it, but he could sense that she was not open to discussion. How could he make it clear to her that leaving the moment here was not actually possible? They took themselves and their memories wherever they traveled. This memory would go with them too. And as they were traveling together, it was likely to stay in the forefront. Well, it would for him, definitely, and he suspected it would for her too. He was no fool; he knew that finding the solution and getting the boys back would be and had to be her primary focus. "But the fire, aye, the fire, it would heat up the room when left untended and that is the part she doesna' get," he mumbled to himself.
"What?"
"Just that I think we made it jus' in time," he muttered a bit louder. Then he strode ahead of her to pay the fare.
The air was heavy and her tongue felt thick. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed cotton or a cotton boll. Her head was playing a low percussive beat. It did not hurt exactly, unless she tried to move it off center with anything approaching a normal speed of responsiveness. She had discovered this very unpleasant sharp pain that shot up the back of her neck and into her eyebrows when the mistress of the house had asked her how she would like her eggs, and turning to answer, she was pierced through. She managed to answer croakingly, acutely aware of her bloodshot eyes and the traumatized look on her face which surely gave away how she had spent her evening the night before.
Did she really drink an entire bottle of wine on her own? Surely not. The barkeep would certainly not have kept pouring in a quantity that was certain to put her more than in her cups. She was fairly certain that she had never been more than just a bit tipsy. If this was a hangover, she mused, then she was certain she would never want to be drunk again. She wondered for a moment why anyone would take to drink if this was the aftermath. But the effort of thinking caused her brain to seize up and crackle with little shoots of pain like a wounded puppy. Apparently it had a mind of its own. This thought made her laugh, which in turn made her wince, which in turn made her laugh again. Realizing that this was a pattern destined to create nothing of value, she carefully took a sip of her tea and calmed her mind. She pulled up pictures of her garden at home, the azaleas and gardenias in bloom. She let the picture form and ease away some of the tension.
Her breakfast arrived and she nibbled on some toast dipped in the fresh hot egg yolk. She barely tasted it. She reached into her bag and pulled out her small emergency kit. It did not contain much, some alcohol swab packets, bandaids, antacids and, wonder of wonders, aspirin. She dropped two into her hand and took them with her juice. Then methodically ate her toast, tea and bacon. She knew she should try and get the egg down, but it just wasn't going to happen. She cleared her table and helped herself to another cup of tea. Sipping the tea, she checked her phone. Still no message from Lin. She was beginning to worry. It was after eight in the morning, surely Lin was up and about by now. She tried calling her but the call did not ring through. She was either out of range or out of battery.
Fiona took her cup and moved to the little alcove that served as a sitting room-cum-library for the guests. She would have to wait it out. As she did so, she began to rerun the prior day through her head. She felt the warm rush of the night's starry ending and sighed. She was a lucky woman in so many ways. She thought again of what Darby had said. What did he mean about hounds and dogs and history and family? She knew that somehow that message could help her unravel part of this messed-up mystery. She just could not see how.
She put the cup and saucer on the kitchen cart and went upstairs. She gathered what little she had with her, as most of her belongings were in the car where Roary and Lin had parked before they took the ferry over. It was a good thing that she always carried the essentials, toothbrush and paste, comb, etc. with her in her backpack, she mused. She put on her coat and, thanking the lady of the house, she let herself out. The day was clear and bright. With no particular idea of where she might be heading, Fiona walked into the little village. She made her way around to the sprinkling of shops and down by the ferry. She read the sign for times of crossing. Well, according to the sign, they should be on their way back soon. She took out a note pad and paper and found a convenient rock to perch on. She would just be there when they arrived.
Lin was more than a bit put out when she realized that she was not going to be able to call her mother before they got on the ferry. As it was, they barely made the first one on time. Of course that might have been different if they had taken the bus into town, but they had both agreed to hike in rather than deal with the oddness of being the first persons to board for a return from the Dun in the early morning hours. It was odd, she thought, how little tension there was between them. She would have thought that somehow last night would have tightened the bow string between them. It felt more like the opposite. Roary seemed at ease with not acknowledging that anything had occurred, and that certainly was something that made her comfortable. It would be best for all concerned if they left that moment on the Isle. Something like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" - only Aran Island style. Still, all in all, it was not something she would choose to forget either. It was just a complication that did not need to be there. She glanced up at him and found him looking at her. There it was again, that clear blue gaze that had her wondering if he was looking straight through her as if she was merely a window. She could not think of any reason that transparency would be of any great value at this particular moment in time. Blinking, she pulled her eyes away and put herself into a faster trot. They needed to catch the ferry. She needed to find her mother. They all needed to find the boys.
Roary was both pained and amused by Lin as the morning progressed. She was so clearly leaving their moment behind here. He would have liked to talk about it, but he could sense that she was not open to discussion. How could he make it clear to her that leaving the moment here was not actually possible? They took themselves and their memories wherever they traveled. This memory would go with them too. And as they were traveling together, it was likely to stay in the forefront. Well, it would for him, definitely, and he suspected it would for her too. He was no fool; he knew that finding the solution and getting the boys back would be and had to be her primary focus. "But the fire, aye, the fire, it would heat up the room when left untended and that is the part she doesna' get," he mumbled to himself.
"What?"
"Just that I think we made it jus' in time," he muttered a bit louder. Then he strode ahead of her to pay the fare.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Participles and Portents (42)
Snips and Blisters
Padraig was in a bit of a snit. Perhaps snit was an understatement. He could not quite get his head around why he had agreed to help the snarling bit of fluff in the damn cave. Sure Roary was a fine fellow and he had no grievances against that new lass and her kin, but at this particular moment in time he would dearly love to wring both their lily-white necks.
Did they have any idea just how impossible it was to pour a perfect tap with two fingers wrapped like sausages? And did they give a thought as to what it would bloody feel like to have the alcohol from the beer fight him behind the bar every night as those same sausages absorbed his nightly work? Blast and bother, if he wasn't a decent man who believed in keeping his word, he would let the stupid swan starve.
He took a long soothing draw of his Guinness and sat back behind the bar. He had closed up for the night and was letting his hand rest before he tended to the cleaning. Resting he found himself smiling a bit. He was rather pleased with himself for coming up with the solution to the general feeding issue. There was absolutely no way he was going to fling himself out over that tiny little ledge and grasp at straws like that woman did to feed the bird. He had pondered a bit on how to gather the food for the bird without having to go to those lengths. In the end he went with fishing. He smiled again, a large self-satisfied grin. Resting his beer on his stomach, he allowed himself a low, gutteral grunt of satisfaction, followed by a wee-bit of a whistle. He had enjoyed taking the curragh out and tossing his tackle out to sea, dragging it back as soon as it had fallen, by his estimation, deep enough to be in the weed. It had taken a bit over an hour, but he had hauled in more seaweed just fishing for it than he bet the fool woman did in two or three days of using that fool pole. He had used his bucket to pull in sea water and iced it to keep it cold. On the shore he had separated enough for a day's feed and put it into his flask with a bit of chilled sea water.
He was really very proud of that much. It wasn't until after he had scraped himself up getting to the cavern that he began to have second thoughts about the whole caretaking idea. Then he saw the wee bird, though in reality it wasn't that small. It did look sad there. He could see from where he had stood that the wing was still not all healed. There was a certain redness to it where the feathers should have covered the torn area. It made him wince a bit to think how hard it must be to need something like that to be whole and to have it severed. He had looked down at his own arm and studied it from his shoulder to his hand, flexing it just to feel the sinew and muscle move. Yes, it would be very hard indeed he had thought.
He should have been thinking about what they had told him. He knew that. But he had only thought to take the bird its food. He moved too fast and he moved too close. As he set out the weed offering, the bird had reared its long neck up, craned over to stare him briefly in the eye and then bit him savagely. His index and middle fingers were torn at mid and tip. Yet, at that moment, all he could do was stare into that lone black eye and read the warning there. He had stumbled back, ripped at the cloth of his undershirt and bound up his fingers. Then he had stared at the bird. It was sitting there, its neck fully elongated, staring straight at him. He wasn't sure how long they paired off, but eventually the bird turned its gaze to the food and began to eat. Apparently, Padraig had been dismissed. He had climbed out and made his way back to the pub. That first night had been grueling, the pain of the bite second only to fending off the questions of the patrons.
It had not been quite so bad today. The bird had simply waited until he had dropped off the proffered food. Gave him the haughty glare and then began to eat. Perhaps they had made a sort of peace. Padraig pushed himself to his feet and began the laborious process of cleaning the bar. Normally it was a favored part of the night. He enjoyed wiping down the lovely bottles and cleaning and polishing the wood and brass. Every night these simple tasks reminded him just how lucky he was. Tonight though, they were just one more set of duties that kept him from his last Guinness and a well-earned bed. He hoped Roary and the two women found what they needed soon. He doubted very much he had the courage and patience to tend that bird long term.
Padraig was in a bit of a snit. Perhaps snit was an understatement. He could not quite get his head around why he had agreed to help the snarling bit of fluff in the damn cave. Sure Roary was a fine fellow and he had no grievances against that new lass and her kin, but at this particular moment in time he would dearly love to wring both their lily-white necks.
Did they have any idea just how impossible it was to pour a perfect tap with two fingers wrapped like sausages? And did they give a thought as to what it would bloody feel like to have the alcohol from the beer fight him behind the bar every night as those same sausages absorbed his nightly work? Blast and bother, if he wasn't a decent man who believed in keeping his word, he would let the stupid swan starve.
He took a long soothing draw of his Guinness and sat back behind the bar. He had closed up for the night and was letting his hand rest before he tended to the cleaning. Resting he found himself smiling a bit. He was rather pleased with himself for coming up with the solution to the general feeding issue. There was absolutely no way he was going to fling himself out over that tiny little ledge and grasp at straws like that woman did to feed the bird. He had pondered a bit on how to gather the food for the bird without having to go to those lengths. In the end he went with fishing. He smiled again, a large self-satisfied grin. Resting his beer on his stomach, he allowed himself a low, gutteral grunt of satisfaction, followed by a wee-bit of a whistle. He had enjoyed taking the curragh out and tossing his tackle out to sea, dragging it back as soon as it had fallen, by his estimation, deep enough to be in the weed. It had taken a bit over an hour, but he had hauled in more seaweed just fishing for it than he bet the fool woman did in two or three days of using that fool pole. He had used his bucket to pull in sea water and iced it to keep it cold. On the shore he had separated enough for a day's feed and put it into his flask with a bit of chilled sea water.
He was really very proud of that much. It wasn't until after he had scraped himself up getting to the cavern that he began to have second thoughts about the whole caretaking idea. Then he saw the wee bird, though in reality it wasn't that small. It did look sad there. He could see from where he had stood that the wing was still not all healed. There was a certain redness to it where the feathers should have covered the torn area. It made him wince a bit to think how hard it must be to need something like that to be whole and to have it severed. He had looked down at his own arm and studied it from his shoulder to his hand, flexing it just to feel the sinew and muscle move. Yes, it would be very hard indeed he had thought.
He should have been thinking about what they had told him. He knew that. But he had only thought to take the bird its food. He moved too fast and he moved too close. As he set out the weed offering, the bird had reared its long neck up, craned over to stare him briefly in the eye and then bit him savagely. His index and middle fingers were torn at mid and tip. Yet, at that moment, all he could do was stare into that lone black eye and read the warning there. He had stumbled back, ripped at the cloth of his undershirt and bound up his fingers. Then he had stared at the bird. It was sitting there, its neck fully elongated, staring straight at him. He wasn't sure how long they paired off, but eventually the bird turned its gaze to the food and began to eat. Apparently, Padraig had been dismissed. He had climbed out and made his way back to the pub. That first night had been grueling, the pain of the bite second only to fending off the questions of the patrons.
It had not been quite so bad today. The bird had simply waited until he had dropped off the proffered food. Gave him the haughty glare and then began to eat. Perhaps they had made a sort of peace. Padraig pushed himself to his feet and began the laborious process of cleaning the bar. Normally it was a favored part of the night. He enjoyed wiping down the lovely bottles and cleaning and polishing the wood and brass. Every night these simple tasks reminded him just how lucky he was. Tonight though, they were just one more set of duties that kept him from his last Guinness and a well-earned bed. He hoped Roary and the two women found what they needed soon. He doubted very much he had the courage and patience to tend that bird long term.
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