Participles and Portents (72)

Dust and Smiles

Thom was aggravated by the pack's lack of progress in finding a trail to follow.  The rains had washed clear much chance they might have had of finding any tracks and the scents were apparently just as muddied.  The hounds had taken to weaving in and out amongst the foliage, and the occasional bay between them only served to set his teeth on edge.  He knew that if they did not find something in the next hour or so it would be time to call them all in as there was literally no chance they would find the two hounds he sought, given the time that had elapsed since he had taken the fresh meat on.  He pulled off his hat, gripping the brim with his thumb and forefinger, and slicked his hand through his hair.  Mairy, he thought.  He could see her face rising up in front of his.  Her beautiful smile, those trusting eyes. It was those eyes that would break him when they went from his face to the door behind him and saw nothing.  He could see her now, her eyes traveling from joy in seeing him, to the empty door frame behind him, and back to his eyes, where the truth would be written. Conn was not coming home.  Would it crush her?  How attached had she become?  He feared that she had come to love the hound as much as a child.  He wiped his hand across his eyes to still the wet that was gathering there.  It was a time for action. He would deal with sentiment later, if and when he had to.  For now, there was still a small chance that he might not have to see her face crumble before him.  He slapped his hat back on his head and broke into a long stride.  He certainly intended to do everything he could to avoid hurting her.

As the day lagged on, his spirit waned.  He was going to have to turn for home, but he hated the idea of it. Not going home, just giong home under these circumstances.  Well, perhaps he might take down another good size deer on the way.  Her heart might be empty but her stomach did not need to be, and perhaps come the spring she would be singing.  His Mairy did not stay down for long.  He smiled with that thought gripped hard in his mind and whistled to the hounds, turning with purpose on the path.  It was time to head toward home.

They had been traveling for nigh on a half of an hour when the smallest of the pack broke and ran off to the right, silent as a whisper, but straight and sure.  The other hounds stopped dead, sniffing the air, then began to spread out a bit.  There must be a strong scent in the wind for them to be acting this way, mused the hunter.  The pack circled out from him, fanning in an arc and moving off in the direction his smallest had gone.  He waited for a signal from them, testing his patience on the path.  Then he saw the nose of the small one break just ahead of him around the curve of a large oak.  The hound turned in a circle, looked at him again, and circled once more.  It appeared that he had been invited to the party.  So be it, he smiled grimly and began to close in on the path.  It was harder for him to travel as silently as the hounds, but he had practice and he found himself moving almost as quietly, close enough to be mistaken for wind in the boughs.

He followed the small reddish hide for what seemed an eternity, though it could not have been that long.  He certainly had not waited that long on the path, or had he?  Then he noticed a small bit of grey fur tangled on a bit of briar.  It could have been one of the pack he traveled with, had they not all arced away from the small red's path.  He plucked it from the briar gently, careful not to prick himself on the thorns.  It was hound hide, wiry and soft all at the same time.  He wondered at the possibility that this could be Coll's.  Was it the right height?  He eyed the bush.  It seemed the spot where he had found the tiny sample was about the right height for the grey's haunch.   Yes, it was possible.  He could feel his pulse begin to quicken.  Could it be that they were on the track again?  Was there anyway for him to know for sure?  He could only rely on the hounds for guidance. 

He called out to the red, but he kept moving forward, some destination in mind.  Thom followed, suddenly much lighter in step.  Clearing the foil of briar bushes, he found himself near a very small slit of creek.  A lone oak grew there, as if the creek sprouted from it.  Along the base of the tree, just opposite the small jagged line of water, the leaves were crushed and rumpled. Some bones, recently chewed were splayed on the ground.  The rest of the pack was circling in, and as they approached, they began to sniff and whimper, but they did not actually approach the spot full on.  The red came back to Thom and sat at his feet.  The warm liquid eyes looked up at him, then he gave one short almost quiet yip of a bay.  They had done it, found the trail. 

Thom's relief flooded him.  His knees were actually weak.  He scratched the hound between the ears and dug out a bit of biscuit from the sack at his hip.  He did not usually give the hounds his own food, but this was worthy of a grander gesture.  He fed the hound from the palm of his hand, enjoying the slip of the slightly rough tongue on his skin.  Wiping his hand on his trousers, he moved to the rest of the pack.  "Aye then, so we've a mite more to do here then.  Find them for Mairy for me," he spoke low and even, catching them each with his eyes.  Then he stood and waited, waited and watched as they each took a turn snooting through the leaves and the bones before they turned and went off in their weaving pattern to search for the hounds that had vanished and the promise of his wife's smile.

Participles and Portents (71)

Sky and Stones

Fiona studied the map that she had of the area. The hill of Tara, apparently from the earliest period of which there was history, had long been the celebrated seat of the Irish Kings.  After the death of Dermot, the son of Fergus, the seat had been  deserted, having been said to be cursed on a pronouncement of Saint Ruadan of Lorha against Dermot and his palace.  After all this time, the elements of the city, which at that time would have been considered remarkable, could still be distinctly traced.  They consisted for the most part of circular or oval enclosures or mounds, within or upon which the city had stood.  The names by which the various areas were presently known according to the Ordnance Survey map laid down by Dr. Petrie and J. O'Donovan Esquire were based on ancient documents.  The primary Rath, called Rath Righ, was apparently now nearly level with the ground.  Oval in shape, it ran nearly 850 feet north to south on the land and was built of stone  Within the enclosure were the ruins of Forradh, a mound of considerable height which was flat at the top.  In its centre stood a remarkable stone which used to stand by a smaller mound within Rath Righ, known as the Mound of Hostages.  Fiona wondered if this might be a  possible site for the missing silk.  It had some poetic justice given the plight of the swans held hostage in those forms for so many years.  She marked the spot on the map as a potential area and continued with her reading.  Apparently Rath Righ also included the Teach Cormac, the house of Cormac.  Fiona discarded this as a possibility as they had not yet come across any references to Cormac in any of their wanderings, as important as he might be in the line of Irish history.

As she read on, she was struck by the continued discussion of the pillar stone. Apparently it was moved to the Dumhana-n-Giall, the Mound of Hostages, to  mark the grave of some men slain in an encounter with the King's troops during the rising of 1798.  More importantly, Dr. Petrie  suggested that it was extremely probable that the stone was no other than the Lia Fail, the actual Stone of Destiny.  Fiona paused. This was really quite amazing since so many had thought that this stone had been removed from Ireland to Scotland for the cornonation of Fergus Mac Eark, a prince of the blood-royal of Ireland.   It was amazing that it would truly have been brought back, this ancient stone upon which the monarchs of Ireland had been crowned for so many ages.   She looked at the map again. Perhaps this was actually the correct site.  After all, the swans were the transformed children of a king.  She circled the site more heavily on the map. 

She read further, and three other primary Raths - Rath Caelchu, Fothath Ratha Graine, and Rath Graine - were listed.  Fiona drew up short at the mention of the last two.  Something rang with the mention of Graine.  It tied in so easily with Lin's dreams.  Rath Graine, according to the literature which accompanied the map, was said to have belonged to and to have been named after Graine, the daughter of Cormac Mac Art and the eventual wife of Finn Mac Cumhail.  Rath Graine lay to the northwest of Rath Righ. She put the map down.  It seemed that there were two likely places, at the feet of the Stone of Destiny or somewhere in Rath Graine.  The only decision was which to try first.  Consulting the map, she decided that given her location she would start with Rath Graine and, if that did not yield results, circle to the Stone.  She could only hope that the clouds would lift soon and she would be able to find Lin and Roary.  Perhaps they were already at Rath Graine.  With this in mind, she put her things away and set off.

The clouds were so dense it was like walking in grey soup.  She could barely make out her own feet as she moved through it.  She wondered if it was a good idea to be attempting to find Rath Graine with such a hazard in her path.  She moved on, taking smaller steps.  The sun provided brief streaks of light that revealed her path in quick panes like snapshots of clarity.  She trusted in these as she moved forward, reaching into her pocket to grip the star stone, rubbing it with her fingertips and drawing strength. She found herself on a rise and, sensing that she had reached the edge of Rath Graine, she moved up carefully. A bold ray of light found her as she neared the upper plateau.  It stayed with her as she crested the ridge.  She walked a tight spiral, winding her way inside to an outward loop, testing her field of vision for any possible opening into the world of Rath Graine.  Seeing none from her vantage point, she moved down the other side, hoping to find more. The light stayed with her almost to the very bottom and then suddenly she was surrounded by cloud.  She grasped the star stone.  She stumbled and ended up in a sort of half-gaited run just short of a tumble that took her to the bottom in a rush.  There she stood, trapped by the thick cloud, feeling completely blind and utterly alone.  She shuddered, wishing that she had not lost Lin and Roary; company would enhance this moment. 

She caught a glimmer of light just beyond the edge of her shrouded enclosure and moved toward it.  It seemed to travel away from her as she chased it, an ephemeral beacon of hope. She sent her fingers out ahead of her, one hand questing for the light, the other grasping her anchor, grasping the stone. When her foot twisted and she fell, she automatically threw both hands forward, landing roughly on the ground and wholly in the light.  She rose, dazed by the fall and dazzled by the light. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and noticed then that her stone was missing from her hand.  She immediately checked her pocket; it was no longer there.  In a panic she began to search the grass around her, the long blades surrendering nothing but green and dirt to her hands.  Growing more frantic she began to sob and tear at the grass, hoping that she could clear enough away to find the stone.  The light began to fade as she ripped at the grass, the cloud roughly moving in as a wind picked up around her.  "No," slipped from her in anquished recognition that soon she would see nothing at all.  And then she heard it, the music, pulling her, tugging at her as the clouds covered her and she faded into them, becoming one with the mist.

She was swept from the ground in a whirl of music that curved into a staircase of stars.   She found herself surounded by an indigo night, the music swelling to fill her, almost replacing the ache she felt at the loss of the stone.  A warm breath moved across her neck, making her spine tingle, moving down all the way to her toes.  A feeling of warmth, like the stroke of a hand traveled through her hair, down the curve of her cheek, around the swell of her breast and into the curve of her waist.  She drew in her breath, gasping sharply, her eyes closing with the heat and the pleasure.  She felt herself being drawn against the full strength of him, the lean hip, broad chest, the scent that was only him.  She breathed him in.  Finally, she dared to look.  His warm dark eyes stared into her, reaching through to her belly and sparking her smouldering fire.  Then he began the dance.  They moved as only he could move with her.  The music a perfect foil for the fluidity of their unique motion.  It built slowly as they moved in their union and rose to a crescendo that was indescribable in its delicacy and perfection.

And then without warning, there was silence and the indigo slipped to black as the stars blinked and were gone.  Fiona felt the sudden sting of his absence.  She sucked in her breath as if she had been hit, the tears coming unbidden and flowing down her cheeks silently.  She was ever so cold.  The darkness was overwhelming.  She heard a trickle of laughter and the ire that rose in her could not be put down.  To have given her so much and taken it away so harshly.  She steeled her spine and moved to wipe the tears from her face.  As her hand neared her cheek, she felt the sudden rush of a sweetly scented current of air and the brush of silk through her fingertips, then the tug of something rough against her palm. Then the dark swept her down completely and she was empty of all thought.

Fiona drifted on the current of the clouds, finally breaking to consciousness as the light found her spread on the ground.  She lay, one hand twisted into the grass and the other clutching something both hard and silky.  She turned onto her back carefully.  With an unsteady hand, she moved so that her lap provided as solid a base as possible and then dared to open her other palm.  Curled in her fist was a trail of indigo silk, almost a perfect match to the sky she had so recently danced in.  She fingered the silk and brought the edge to her face. It even smelled somehow both like the stars and like him. Unraveling it, she began to feel her heart pound.  She thought perhaps it was her star stone, returned to her.  She was disappointed for a moment when the unfurled silk revealed not the original stone, but a different stone.  This stone was in the shape of two half moons, curved into each other, each half a perfect complement to the other, the stone complete only with the curves bonded together.  It was absolutely beautiful.  A curve of green, perhaps Connemarra marble and a curve of white, a stone she could not name.  A stone that was impossible, yet here it was in her hand, almost as impossibly as the silk was. 

She let the tears flow and used the indigo scarf to catch them.  The silk soaking up the tears as if they were the purest of rains.

Participles and Portents (70)

Smoke and Ruins


The mist rose off the green hills like smoke from a chimney.  Great puffs hovered, hugging the curves, providing only glimpses of the lush grandeur that was all that remained of the former glory of the home of kings.  Tara was a series of rolling hillocks with a few outcroppings of ruins set here and there, nothing compelling really, at least compared to the other ruins that could be found throughout Ireland.  It made a sad effort to tell the story of what was once the crowning jewel in the system of the Chieftains and their rule.

They parked and made their way toward the fog-bound site.  It seemed a bit foreboding in its present state.  Here and there a shaft of light broke through the clouds, illuminating the green of the fields in a way that almost made the scene look unreal, as if painted on rather than actual grass.   Fiona stopped to look at the small drawing she had that laid out the basic groundwork for Tara.  It reflected the various chambers, their considered uses and names.  When she looked up again, Roary and Lin had been consumed by the fog.  It was unnatural the way they just disappeared into the mist and it chilled her.  She called out to them, but there was no answer.  She briefly considered running in the direction she thought they were traveling, and then decided against it. Running in this soup was likely to send her head over heels down one of the slopes with a root tucked under the toe of a boot.   She would be better off waiting for the sun to burn off the mist and looking for them in the clear of the afternoon.  In the meantime, she could try to discern where in the devil a silk might be among these hillocks.  It certainly did not seem that there were all that many hidden spaces here at the remains of the ancient home of the king of Ireland.   She sighed.  It was sad, really, that this part of the old legends was so far gone, there were so many tales that revolved around this very special place.  It would have been grand to have more to visit than just your imagination when coming here.  She turned her attention to the map, determined to force her attention to more useful musings.

Roary and Lin had moved through the fog and down the slope to the small component of remaining exposed ruins.  The incline was surprisingly steep near the bottom and Roary had instinctually moved closer to clasp Lin's elbow and hand, steadying her progress downward.  At the base, near the ruins, the cold seemed less sharp and the sun a bit stronger.  It felt like this spot was being illuminated, or perhaps it was merely the fact that they felt illuminated themselves that made the small area appear to have a halo of sorts.   Roary reached out to grasp her other hand, pulling her around to fully face him.

"Why don't ye say it out loud?"

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is that has itself stuck on yer tongue.  Ye've been tied up in it all mornin'."

"I'm fine."

'Aye, an yer sure about that," he tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and stared at her, daring her to hold firm.

"I . . . it's just . . . I had a rough night."

"Were ye ill?"

"Actually, yes, but that wasn't the worst part."

Roary waited for her to continue.  Lin took her time, weighing her words, testing the idea of telling him, and then it just tumbled out.  The first dream: its lightness, the joy and the awful carnal end; the time at the sink (though this certainly in less detail); and then the second dream, only not diluted as she had repeated it to Fiona.  She moved as she spoke, not far, one or two steps, then back again to catch his eye - to seek a nod of comprehension.  As she told the second dream, Roary found it hard to listen.  He knew too much already.  He certainly knew more than he should.  He should never have read the little green notebook.  It was an act that could not be undone.  He felt like a thief who had stolen her privacy, only perhaps a bit worse because she didna' even know it had been stolen.  By the time she came to the end of the dream she was crying softly.  He did the only thing he could think of, he cradled her in his arms and waited.  He waited for his guilt to pass and for her tears to slow.   He felt her move to wipe the salt streaks from her cheeks.  Then she tipped her face to his.

"Thank you,' she fairly whispered.

"Yer welcome," he growled as he kissed her.  It wasna at all what he intended to do, but the frank, open look on her face, the fragility of it, had undone him. 

Lin gasped at the touch of his rough cheek and the pressure of his lips against hers.  Then she just let herself sink into the moment.  She let him slide his strength around her and lift her up.  She let him make her breath whole.  How they found their way to the soft grass was lost in just that one source of connection.  Once there, though, it was a series of fluid motions that sent the embers to flames and the flames to full conflagration.  The fire burned and consumed, engulfed, declared itself unquenchable and finally burst into its zenith - all of its energy expended in reaching that brightest, hottest burning moment.  Equally stunned by what they had just dared to share with such public abandon, Roary and Lin stared as if seeing each other for the first time. The moment hung in the air, transcendant.  Lin broke the spell as she cracked a wicked little smile and started to laugh just a bit, rolling to start putting herself back together.  Roary looked at her askance.

"Well, you have to admit that was a bit over the top even for the wildest tourist fantasy,"

"I'm no tourist, Lass, and I'd like to think that what just happened was no' bit of fancy,  But, aye, I suppose we could have found a more private spot," he replied as he helped her to her feet.  He kissed her soundly.  "Though I wouldna take a moment o' it back, mind ye."  She stayed in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.  "Definitely a memory worth having, I have to agree."  Then she did the one thing he did not expect.  She stood on her toes and she kissed him.  Leaning back with a smile she asked, "I don't suppose you know where my mother is?"

"Och, ye don't suppose she came upon us and decided to visit again a wee bit later?"

Lin gave him a horrified look. "Surely not, I'm certain she would have let us know she was here.  Wouldn't she? Oh, my, that would be embarrassing," she mumbled at last.

"I imagine she's aware yer not a virgin."

"That's different than watching, you clot!"

"I'm aware of that, but what else could ye hear that would make ye feel better? Ye've a fine arse?"

Lin punched him in the arm and they began to laugh, the tension breaking at the absurdity of the moment.  It really was a good thing that they had not been seen.  They would have enough explaining to do in any event.

Lin tried for a serious face, "Really, though, its been quite a while, hasn't it?  Where is she?"

Participles and Portents (69)

Porridge and Milk

Lin felt lethargic and largely apathetic as she pushed the porridge around the bowl.  Its usual tempting texture and scent did not stir her senses or even make an impression on her as she spooned the occasional amount.  Roary and Fiona had yet to have made it down for breakfast, which was just as well as she doubted she would have been able to muster the courage for conversation.  This day was destined to lead them to a place that she simply did not want to go.  She had no rational reason for it, she just felt numb with the mere thought. Actually it was a bit more than that. Her chest felt constricted and her body drained of energy.   She pushed the bowl away; she was clearly not going to be able to eat.  She needed to let go of the images of the night.  Hell, she needed to let go of the images of the past and of those from the night.  She was carrying around too much and she couldn't afford to let any of it get in the way of finding the next and final silk and getting her boys back.  She flashed on her dream of the hounds.  What if it was too late?  What if they had already let go of each other and had taken to those forms?  The tea cup slipped from her hand and rattled on the table.  Thankfully she had almost finished and had not been holding it far from the surface, though the noise was still enough to startle her back to the present.  She cleaned up the small mess and her breakfast things and made her way back to the room to pack for the day, feeling the tightness in her chest and knowing that she needed to find a way to free herself of it, to be stronger for what was yet to come.

Fiona had showered and changed, dressing in layers as she was uncertain what the day would hold.  She packed her bag and then sat at the window.  The night before had been hard for her daughter.  There had not been much she could do for her.  Point of fact, there had not been much she had been able to do so far really. She felt rather useless, or perhaps the better word was helpless. They had experienced so much and yet were only partially complete with their task.   She was worried about Sean and Ian. What had become of them?  What would become of them?  Even if they managed this incredible task and brough them safely home, how would this experience affect them?  How did one live as an animal, in the world of the Fey, and not be touched forever after by the experience?  She fingered the star stone in her pocket.  Her short time within their world had transformed her and she had not even stepped into another skin, only another plane of existence. Though she would not trade those moments for anything, she could not help but wonder if the boys would say the same.  She clasped the stone tightly and closed her eyes, willing her mind blank.  It was time to start this day and this fretting and mulling would not help get her moving.  She pressed herself upward with a sigh and grabbed her bag, bracing for the coming day.  She gave Lin a silent nod of greeting as they passed each other in the hallway.

Roary leaned into the spray of the shower though the water had long since lost its heat.  That was one of the problems with the bed and breakfast arrangements.  If you did not get an ensuite bathroom, you often ended up with a cold shower, especially if you were on the late end of the users for the day.  He felt surprisingly alert - though perhaps that was just the cold speaking.  He was looking forward to the day.  It felt somehow exceptionally freeing to have gotten through the prior day with no more than the internal scrapes and scars that seared his memory.  And he had to admit, he was proud to have delivered one of the silks up to Lin and Fiona.  They were at least that much closer to the end of this quest.  He turned off the tap and stepped out, grabbing his towel and rubbing  himself down vigorously.  Yes, he was damn proud of that part.  Now if today could yield a similar result, perhaps they could finish the task Aiofe had set. 

He paused. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had no idea what finishing the task truly meant.  He did not actually know what completing the task would bring for the swans, for the boys or for himself and for Lin.  Perhaps it was this last that left him deflated.  He found himself sitting on the edge of the tub rubbing his head with the towel and feeling a bit less energetic than he had just moments before.  He stood abruptly, dropping the towel and starting to dress. In the end what mattered was getting Ian and Sean back, the rest - well that would be what it would be.  He buttoned his shirt and picked up his items.  It was time to get down to breakfast and well past time to start the day.

He found Fiona at table; Lin had apparently eaten early and was upstairs packing.  He fixed his plate from the sideboard absentmindedly.   At table, Fiona remarked on the odd combination of  oats, tomatoes and brown bread.  Roary merely grunted in response to her remark and dug in. 

Given Roary's abstracted behavior and her own pensive state, Fiona had a feeling that the day did not bode well for pleasant company. She finished her toast and tea and cleaned her space.  "Lin and I will be down in a few minutes," she relayed as she left the room.  Roary's silence filled the vacuum of her exit.

He finished his odd breakfast and poured another cup of tea.   His pack was already put together and at his feet.   He wondered where they would head today.  He was hoping that the decision would be made easily, though he doubted that was possible. The two women joined him shortly and they sat over tea, each trying to find the courage to begin the discussion of where the day would lead them. 

It was Fiona who finally broke the barrier.  She brought up the topic of Tara, mentioning that it was closer than Finvarra and that perhaps it might be best to try there first.  It seemed innocent enough, but somehow it was clear that there were other reasons behind her determination to go there first.  After all, the day before the decision had been less than clear and ease of access had not been weighed that heavily in their earlier discussions.  Roary waited for Lin to add her voice to the conversation. When she did not, he was not only confused, he was disappointed.   He tried drawing her out on the topic, but she simply deferred to Fiona.  Apparently she was willing to let her mother make this decision.  As he could not think of a reason not to go along with Fiona's desire to go to Tara, he simply nodded and suggested that they head out.  However, he could not help but feel a great sense of unease as they ventured forward.  It was unlike Lin to be so reserved, especially when it came to something as important as deciding the next destination in their quest. Something was amiss, he just did not understand what it was.

The drive was unexpectedly easy.  Fiona broke the silence with tales of her prior travels through the area.  Her rich descriptions and inclusion of characters from the past brought the scenes to life, and Roary could easily see why her travelogue pieces were so popular.  It seemed as if they had scarcely been on the road at all when they came to the roundabout that would send them to their destination.  It was here that Lin spoke for what seemed like the first time all day, asking if they might stop for lunch before they went on to the site.  While it was early yet, both Fiona and Roary agreed  it was a good idea as they would not likely be back to town before the late afternoon.

They found a cafe that was just opening for the luncheon crowd and settled around a table near the window.  Roary and Fiona each made their selections fairly quickly, picking among the cafe's array of sandwiches and chips.   Lin, on the other hand, sat with the menu in her lap and stared out the window.  "Do ye whay ye'll have then?" Roary inquired softly.  Lin looked at him blankly at first and then finally seemed to catch on to the question he had asked.  "Just a sandwich. Can you order whatever you got for me as well?"  "Aye," he murmured.  He turned to Fiona but she merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulders in response to her daughter's odd behavior.  Whatever it was, Fiona was not going to press her.  Either that or she already knew and was not about to step into it.  The order placed for lunch and the drinks delivered, the trio was left in silent observance of the street scene.

A young girl sat on the opposite curb patiently trying to urge what seemed to be a stray cat to come to her.  She had a carton of milk and some cookies and was alternately taking a bite or sip for herself and offering her fare to the cat.  The cat, a patchwork tabby with wiry fur and wild whiskers, sat with its head cocked to the side watching her.  Occasionally it would dart a paw forward as if considering moving toward her and then rear back to its original position.  It appeared that the two had reached a stalemate, when the girl suddenly turned and stared at the shop behind her.  Someone must have called to her.  She set the crumbs of a cookie out and split the carton of milk open next to it, gave the cat one last broad toothy smile and then scrambled up from the curb and disappeared into the shop.  The patchwork cat made its way in halting movements to the offered treat and had just settled in to sup when their own meals arrived.  A grateful sigh rose from the table. Whether this came from the relief of the stray at last being fed or from their silent vigil being broken by the arrival of the food, no one noted the cause of the collective easing, they simply enjoyed the change that came over the table.  The fare was good if not exceptional, yet all the better for the sudden lifting of the tension.  Though conversation remained sparse, it was with a much lighter sense of being that they ate together and this held with them even as they dorve off to find Tara.

Participles and Portents (68)

Colcannon and Seaweed

Padraig woke early feeling greatly refreshed and famished.  He made a great pot of steel cut oats to go with his morning tea.  He sliced some brown bread and slathered it thick with butter, then took out some raisins and honey to add to his porridge when it was done.  He captured the loose tea in the fine wire mesh ball with an ease grown from years of practice.  The dark rich scent of Irish breakfast tea begain to rise in the room.  It might be cliche, but it was his morning tea of choice.  All the fancy teas held no attraction for him.  Pomegranate oolong - what did they really put in that anyway, he wondered?  He sipped at his tea and added a bit of milk, sighing with satisfaction. Pulling the oats from the heat, he was surprised to find them cooked to a creamy perfection.  He normally managed to leave them on just long enough to overcook them into a stiff cake that the spoon could literally stand straight up in.  Adding his honey and his raisins, he stirred up a large bowlful and  moved off to the table with his tea, oats and bread all neatly balanced in his meaty hands. 

Settled he found every bite more succulent than the last and even returned to scrape out the pot, eating all that he had made.  Surely he would need no lunch with the amount he had eaten for breakfast. He showered, shaved and changed all in preparation for another day at his pub.  A smile tugged at his lips.  His pub, an' his father's afore that, his grandfather's afore then.  It was a fine business to pass down.  'Twas a shame that it would pass to a cousin, still it would remain in the family, an' that was a good proud thing.  He made his way out of the upper flat and down to his own entry to the workplace.  His door opened directly into the space behind the bar.  He loved that first moment when the wood gleamed its welcome and the bottles winked good morning to him.

Warmed by the rush of familial roots he felt from this glowing reception, he made his way to the kitchen to begin his prep for luncheon.  His mother and Megan would soon be along to help open  the pub and begin the long day that was broken only by the mid-afternoon hours that separated one meal from the next.  He would spend these behind the bar pouring the occasional drink, while his mother prepared what was
necessary for the evening menu and Megan did whatever was her fancy during her hours off.

Padraig opened the cooler and extracted the largest pot of chowder to put on to simmer.  He pulled out the roasted beef joint and sliced it thinly. Then he scraped the juices into a shallow pan and added fresh garlic and chopped shallots, simmering it into a thin gravy which he knew would thicken over the course of the day.  Next he set to peeling potatoes and slicing them into the great pot which he used for his famous colcannon.  Then he cleaned and squared the cabbage.  When Megan arrived Padraig was just finishing the last bit o' peel from the parsnips and beginning to chop them into the boiling pot that would eventually become the whipped potato concoction  that would accompany most of the entrees and many sandwiches served to the luncheon crowd.  Padraig's colcannon recipe was handed down from his grandfather and was ordered by most of the locals and a great many of the tourists as well. 

Megan's arrival flustered him so much he nearly cut his fingers on the sharp knife. Odd, he thought, he had never really looked at Megan before. She was pleasin' enough to the eye, that was true, and no hard bit on the nerves, but he had never really seen her.   He had to admit he had never really seen any woman he would have fancied enough to change his ways for. He watched as Megan tied her apron on and moved out of the kitchen.  There was a decidedly appealing sway to her skirts that he could not help stopping to watch as she moved through the room. In her absence the kitchen felt duller somehow. Padraig shrugged and went back about his business.  By the time his mother arrived he had completed his kitchen duties and went out to secure the bar.

The pub fairly hummed to him.  He felt his face open to a wide beaming smile.  "Och, Megan 'tis a fine brau day,  'tis it not?"

The auburn haired girl looked up in surprise, "That it 'tis, sir."

"Ye can call me Padraig.  We've known each other for how long?"

"For nearly six years, sir, since I came home from school in Dublin."

She'd been working for him for all those years and he had never even noticed her.  No wonder she kept  calling him sir.  "Tell ye what, Megan, ye drop the sir an ye can take yer supper early, afore the business starts."

"Yes sir, I mean, Mr. Padraig."

"Close enough," he grinned.  "Off with ye now."

He was going to have to pay more attention to people and not just the gleaming wood and sparkling glass.  He finished up and flipped the sign, unlocking the door.  About a quarter past he began to see his first customers.  He had thought it might be a light day but the pub was full and he and Megan moved almost continously taking care of the clientele. When the rush was over there was not a spoon of colcannon left, the beef joint was all but gone and hardly a drop of chowder remained.  His mother was aleady clucking about being tied to the kitchen for the rest of the day if they were going to serve dinner.  He gave her some funds from the till and she bustled off to find what she would for the night's menu.

Megan and Padraig worked to clean the pub and the kitchen, whistling together as they went.  It was a wonderful way to spend the late hours of the afternoon.  And by the time they were through with the last bit of polish, Megan had even managed to call him Paddy.  He wasn't quite sure about that, but it was leagues better than "sir" so he decided to go with it.

Dinner and the evening pub hours were just as busy as lunch, if not more so.  Padraig was beginning to wonder if all the other places in town were closed, but he clamped his mind tight, remembering not to question good fortune.

His ma shooed them out of the kitchen after dinner.  Inspecting the odd plate now and again, she concentrated on prepping for the following day, cleaning while she went. Padraig could manage the clean as you go approach behind the bar, but had never quite figured it out in the kitchem.  He was quite simply a very messy cook.  When the morrow's preparations were done and the kitchen was set to rights, his ma called at the entrance to the pub that she was off.  A chorus of "G'night to ye, Missus" greeted her and she beamed the regulars a smile worthy of Kathleen O'Hara and swished out the door.

Padraig sent Megan home a couple of hours later when the crowd had thinned down.  She was flushed pink from work and the excitement of the full jingle of coins in her apron poacket.  'Had a good night of it, eh?'

"Aye, it was a grand night.  I could use a few more of these."

"Really, saving for something big?"

"It's supposed to be a secret, but I don't see as ye'll be tellin' the town.  Me brother's been accepted down to Trinity and we're all chippin' in to make sure he can go."  Her eyes seemed to hold a spark of a dream in them.

"Guess that's where ye wanted to go."

"Aye, but was a different time then, an' the family could no have made it work.  I was quite lucky to have me two years secretarial.  I'm fine with it.  I just don't want Daniel to miss his chance."

"Well, then, if ye want more shifts just let me know."

"That I will, an' thank ye."  Megan went to the kitchen and hung up her apron, moving her tips to her pocketbook and collecting her coat.  She stepped out with these in her hands to say goodnight and turned back to the door.  She almost dropped her bag when Padraig stepped behind her and murmured a thank you for her hard work that day.  'Twas the first time he had ever done more than acknowlege her efforts with a quiet nod.  She felt a blush flush her features as the smile grew across her face.  Padraig was really quite an interesting man.

After seeing out the last of the pub patrons and completing his ritual polishing of the pub, Padraig put his evening tackle together and headed out to visit his charge at the cavern.  The cool night air felt grand on his skin and he felt braced and somehow expanded by the stroll down to the strand.   The sea was exceptionally beautiful with a bit of twinkle from the moon as it shed its light on the ripple and cascade of the crashing waves.

Entering the cavern his light mood was instantly shifted to one of extreme alarm.  The swan was missing.  He was not in his accustomed nest.

Padraig did a quick search of the immediate area but could not find him, nor did he see the other two birds.  He had not judged him well enough to fly during his last visit.  How much could the bird have improved overnight?  He made his way out to the ledge where he normally "fished" for the seaweed the bird ate.  And that is where he found the swan.  Sitting with its neck elongated staring out at the sea.  From his vantage point the pose had a look of pure longing to it.  But that, of course, was mere fancy on his part.  The bird was being fed and cared for, who was he to ascribe emotions to the animal?

As he approached, the graceful neck made a slow swivel so that the lone peering black eye took him in.  The bird stared at him for a moment as if to acknowledge him and then returned to his gazing.  Padraig wandered over to join him.  Looking out from this viewpoint, he could just barely discern two flecks in the air, creating a woven pattern in their flight.  It was somewhat like a reel-dance, only performed by the two birds to a music all their own.  He stood with his companion and watched transfixed until one of the birds broke formation and dove toward the sea, plummeting at great speed.  The bird looked like an arrow released by the Fey.  Just before impact with the rough waves it pulled up and soared back into the sky, joining its dance partner.  It was breathtaking.  He looked at his charge, and the lone swan's yearning gaze was heartwrenching.

Padraig left the bird to its gazing and went back to the cavern to collect the retriever and begin the process of getting his charge's meal set out.  He came back to the ledge and worked to gather the fresh weeds, then returned to the cavern, all the while avoiding looking at the swan who sat so pensive at the edge of the sea.  In the caven he set out a bed of ice and put half of his catch into it, then he placed the rest in the cooler to keep.  Next he put out fresh water.  As he completed setting the swan's table, the bird appeared.  It was walking with relative ease.  When it saw the meal it rose and extended its neck and expanded its wings.  This time both wings seemed to unfurl at approximately the same height, though he noticed that the one seemd to fold down more quickly. "'Tis feeling better ye are, is it?  Well, truth be told, I'll miss ye when yer gone.  But I'd not put that bit o' selfishness ahead of ye returnin' to full health."

Padraig took out the bit of bread and cheese he packed for himself and ate quietly.  He mused over his grand day.  This was a fine way to cap it off, finding the bird healing so well.  It was only a matter of a day or two at most and the swan would be ready to test its wing at flight.  He might not be able to fly long but he should be able to join his friends and wheel in the dance with them. That would be a fine sight.  A fine sight indeed.