Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  I squatted beside the well and let the peace settle over me. Music of no distinguishable pattern or rhythm drifted about faintly, difficult to pinpoint. I shut my eyes and tried to let it just be. The tree rustled overhead, shushing the air and adding its own support to the music. I leaned over and scooped up a handful of the water and drank. It was cold and tasted pure. Would I say a prayer? It seemed like I should, but I had not one in my head. I had only a vague memory of my first communion and my confirmation, but it was too hazy to be a statement of any commitment on my part. I saw the rosaries and other religious items strewn around the well. It was a holy place, if only for those items, but it somehow felt more. I scooped another handful of water, drank deeply and then stood. On impulse I crossed myself and then shrugged. But somehow it didn’t feel part of this world I’d been in.

  Retracing my steps along the path, I reflected on how different it was here to Dublin. But yet here I was. But who was I? Was being a barista my path in life? I baulked at the thought, even though I’d hardly been successful at it. I had no further insights, though.

  I went through the metal gate and turned again to look one last time at the well. It was then I noticed, just beyond the tree by the well, a group of men standing in the shadows. Those men. The “four corbies” I thought wryly. I stopped and gazed at them, feeling suddenly bold. They stared back, no whispers, no gossip exchanged, not even a murmur I couldn’t quite hear, just the eyes staring back. They were all about the stance, the look, the stare. No scuttling or shadow seeking, no sudden disappearance.

  I moved back from the gate, too unnerved to speak. I turned away and walked quickly away. After several metres I looked back through the trees that surrounded the clearing where the well was situated. I could make out the cloutie filled tree. Behind it, where the men had stood, only the scattered shrubs and trees remained. And their shadows. The men, with their stares, were gone. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. They hadn’t ever seemed threatening. Just unnerving. In so many ways. But this time, strangest of all, they had seemed different. And it wasn’t until I remembered their expressions that I realised what it was. Most of them had been happy. One had even grinned.

  It was the music that drew me to the little farmyard. I’d decided to have a look at the shrine, even though it was off the main road. My initial thought after the experience at the well was to go to the village, to walk among people, to connect to the reassuring world of café and shop, but yet another impulse changed my mind and took me backtracking a little ways and taking the road to the shrine. It was then, as I passed the stone buildings that surrounded a small farmyard, that I heard the music and then the singing that accompanied it. It was a man’s voice, deep and lyrical. I stopped, pausing to see if I recognised the song. I drew closer and the sounds of metal tools greeted me. Curious, I opened the small gate and walked down into the yard, heading towards the outbuilding containing the music. Double doors were flung open to let in the light. I peered in and saw a man working at a bench to the side and a large metal chimney over a raised hearth in its centre. It was a forge. The man looked up at my appearance and stopped singing. The music played on without him on a phone lying on the bench beside him. His emerald green eyes regarded me curiously, his thick black curly hair framed his face and hung loosely at the back to his T-shirt. I noticed his arms and torso, thick and ropey with muscles that gave credence to his trade.

  “You’re blocking my light,” he said.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said quickly moving inside the doors.

  “Come in, so,” the man said dryly.

  I flushed. “Sorry, again. Would you prefer it if I left? Only I heard you singing and I was wondering what it was. I’m a musician. Well, of sorts. I only play at sessions and I sing a bit too.” I forced myself to stop, cursing the blathering that suddenly spilled forth.

  “Do you, so?”

  I blinked. “Do I now what?”

  “Sing. Play.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “And what is it you play?” The amusement was clear on his face.

  “Flute, mostly. And the low whistle.”

  His brow raised. “Trad?”

  She nodded. “Do you play?”

  “Not flute. But I do play some. On the fiddle.”

  She brightened. “Really? It sounds like you sing as well.”

  He shrugged. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  He laughed. “For saying it sounds like I sing.”

  She reddened again. “You sing well. There’s nothing ‘sounds’ about it.”

  He looked her up and down. “You’re wet through. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea? Dry off a bit?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not. I was just finishing up.”

  “Grand, so.”

  He put down his tools, went over the forge and shut the drafts and scattered the coals. I could see the sweat marks on his T-shirt and the damp curls on his forehead. The heat from the forge was strong, its warmth felt good to my chilled body.

  “What are you making?” I asked, curiously surveying the metal form on his bench.

  “It’s a weathervane.”

  I looked at it closely. I could make out the traditional shape of the cockerel, the directional points, but the cockerel had an arrow going through it.

  “Unusual,” I said neutrally. “The work is really lovely though.” I eyed the finely executed detail on the cockerel and the arrow.

  The man snorted. “It’s a commission. The design concept is nothing to do with me.”

  I looked up, a glint in my eye. “You mean you’re not delivering any subliminal message here?”

  “Not me, no.” He shut the box on the tools he’d placed inside. “Right. We’ll go into the house. The sitting room should be warm enough and the kettle won’t take long to boil.” He paused. “Unless you’d prefer a bit of punch? Or straight whiskey?”

  As much as the whiskey tempted me, I decided to be cautious. “Cup of tea would be grand.”

  7

  Smithy

  Inside the small kitchen he flicked the kettle on and turned to look at her. She was quirky. He didn’t know if it was that, or something else which appealed to him. Piqued his interest. But he found himself smiling at her as she surveyed his little kitchen. Her wet hair, coiled in a braid around her head was certainly not a fashion he often encountered around here. Nor were her clothes.

  “I’m Saoirse, by the way,” she said, pulling him out of his reverie.

  “Oh, Smithy,” he said. He reached into the press beside the sink and pulled out two mugs.

  “Smithy? That’s original.”

  He heard the dry tone and allowed himself a smile. “It is, isn’t it.”

  “I take it that wasn’t your given name.”

  He shook his head. “My given name is something unpronounceable in Irish.”

  “Oh,” said Saoirse. “I better stick to Smithy, so.”

  “Everyone does, so don’t feel bad.”

  She studied him a moment. “So are you a Lynch, O’Sullivan or McCarthy, or one of the others?”

  He laughed. “One of the others. I’m a Shee.”

  “Shee? That’s one I’ve not heard. Did the priest run out of ink?”

  “What?” he asked, puzzled. And then it hit him. “Oh, Sheehy, you mean. Aren’t you the riot.” He grinned and shrugged. “Ah, you know yourself. It was desperate times, long ago. Ink was very scarce.”

  She giggled. “Now who’s the riot.”

  He snorted. He wasn’t often accused of being funny, not for years, but for some reason this girleen, for that’s what she seemed at first glance, brought it out of him. He poured the boiling water into the two mugs where tea bags were draped.

  “Milk, sugar? I’m afraid I’ve no biscuits. Only bread and butter, if you have a fancy for it.”

  “Nothing to eat, thanks. Just milk in the tea, please.”

  When the tea
was ready he led her into the main room and offered her a seat by the warm stove that sat in the large fireplace. He took the chair opposite.

  “Now, what are you doing out in weather like this, with only the light jacket to protect you?” he asked once they were settled.

  “The weather was grand when I left the house.”

  “You’re visiting here from…Dublin?”

  She shrugged. “I am. Does that make a difference?”

  “Well if you were from a rural area you’d know that the weather can change quickly enough. It can’t be that different in Dublin, though.”

  She considered it. “I guess I could always take shelter somewhere.”

  “So, you are visiting, then.”

  She nodded. “My grandmother. She lives up the hill. It’s my first time here.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re forgiven, then.”

  “For not being a local?”

  “For that, if you like.”

  She smiled and took a sip of her tea.

  “Would you like a little whiskey in it?”

  She paused, considering. “Go on, so.”

  He rose and left the room, returning a moment later with a bottle of Powers. He gave her a generous tot and did the same in his own mug. He resumed his chair, placing the bottle beside him.

  “How long are you visiting?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t really set a time. A few months, I suppose. Until my father’s estate is settled and I can move into his house.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, but we weren’t close. I hardly saw him.”

  “That’s a shame. Family is important, especially in this area. But you have your grandmother.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I do I suppose, though I don’t really know her. She wasn’t around when I was growing up.”

  Smithy, looked at her closely. He could see the confusion and the hint of vulnerability there. “Pity. Grandmothers are important.”

  “I never really had a chance to know any of mine, for various reasons. Were you close with yours?”

  Smithy gave a harsh laugh. “It’s complicated.”

  Saoirse looked at him wryly. “Isn’t it always?”

  He nodded slowly. “I suppose.”

  She scanned the room, looking at the books that lined one wall and then the little desk and chair and finally the fiddle case that sat beside it. “Is that your fiddle?”

  He nodded. “It’s old, but I like it.”

  She rose and went over to it. “Do you mind?”

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  He watched her open the case and examine the violin. Carefully, she lifted it up to her chin, took the bow and stroked it across the strings tentatively. She paused, adjusted her chin and then moved the bow again, this time playing a little melody. She took the fiddle from her chin, looked up at him and shook her head.

  “It has a lovely tone to it.”

  “I didn’t realise you played.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I only dabble. Flute is my thing. And low whistles.”

  She handed the fiddle to him. With only a shade of reluctance he took it and the bow and began a tune. It just came to him, it wasn’t planned, but he started it, low and plaintive. He was conscious of Saoirse watching him at first, but then he got lost in the tune and it took him back, long ago. When it was finished he frowned. He hadn’t allowed himself to play that music, ever. But here he was, bow moving through the tune in front of this girleen. Someone he hardly knew.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never heard it before. What was it? It’s modal, isn’t it? Or something like it. Old in any case.”

  “It is old,” he acknowledged. “It’s close to how it would have been played, but the fiddle has a modern tuning, so it’s not quite accurate.”

  “Modern tuning? You mean the pitch?”

  He smiled. “Something like that.”

  “Still, it’s very beautiful. I’d love to learn it sometime.”

  “You should come to one of the sessions in the village,” he said, putting the fiddle back in the case.

  “They have sessions? Where? I’d love to go to one.”

  “Usually on a Thursday, at the pub in the west end of the village.”

  “Do you go then?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. There’s another on a Saturday at the other pub. Sometimes I’ll go there. That one is fairly loud, raucous and not top shelf, but fun.”

  She grinned. “Thanks. They both sound good. Maybe sometime, at either one of them, I could have that tune off you. I think I might have some of it already. It’s really haunting.”

  “You might,” he said, and decided to leave it at that.

  She picked up her mug, drained the last of its contents and rose. “I’d better be off then. Thanks for the hospitality.”

  Smithy glanced out the window and frowned. “There’s still a heavy mist, though it looks like it might be clearing in a bit. Do you want a spin back to your grandmother’s?”

  “No, no, you’re grand. I’ll walk. I’ll have to get used to hoofing it if I want to go anywhere. I somehow think my grandmother is too busy to ferry me around when the notion takes me. And I can only imagine that I’d be more a hindrance than a help to her around the farm.”

  Smithy walked her back through the kitchen and to the door. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am,” Saoirse said. She gave him a smile that lit up her face and made her hazel eyes look positively green. “See you soon.”

  “You will,” said Smithy.

  “At a session.”

  “At a session,” he said.

  He watched her as she crossed the yard, slipped through the gate, and made her way back up the road, her lilting fluid walk capturing his gaze until she disappeared from sight. With a sigh, he turned back into his kitchen and shut the door. He still wasn’t certain what had happened. All he knew is that it left him uneasy, in both a good way and a bad way.

  Smithy was restless after Saoirse had gone. Eventually, he gave up trying to read a book and ventured back out to the forge. There was still some heat in the coals, it would take some time to work them back up to the temperature he needed to make something. But still, he couldn’t resist it, if only for a little task, a little experiment that suddenly struck him. It was the curve of a hilt. He could see it in his mind, suddenly and its graceful shape wouldn’t leave him, the moment he thought of it. He looked around on his bench, rifling through half completed swords that he’d discarded earlier, until he found the one he’d remembered might suit this design, this approach, best. He laid it aside until he was ready for it. With the key he’d retrieved from its hiding place, he opened the locked box on top of the bench and withdrew some of the precious silver metal and began to prepare to work it.

  The work began methodically, his skill and experience driving him, and at first it was just a process, a little trial to see if he could fashion the image that had come to him. But that changed. He couldn’t say specifically when, only that the tune in his head, the one that he’d played earlier, the one that represented an entirely different time, a different life, was playing louder and louder, the sorrow of it pushing him, the pain of it, and, he realised, the joy of it. It was when the joy entered his heart that another tune hummed under it, which flowed and vibrated through his body and down his arm. It took him over and entered the metal, twirling, twisting with that joy. It weaved its own joy, joining his and a web of metal, slinky and curling.

  It was only later, when it was attached to the hilt, became the hilt, that he realised what had happened. But he was too astonished to put words to it. And it would be tempting fate. And sure, it was only a hilt. The sword was just a sword.

  8

  Saoirse

  I gripped the door rest as Maura swung left off the main road. The road gradually descended then wove up and down and a sharp left, then a sharp right. I thought painfully of my flute and whistle
cases in the back, sliding along the seat. I should have put them on the car floor. But Maura had been in a hurry and hardly had given me time to think when she’d rung me on my phone and asked me if I wanted to join her at a session at a nearby village. I’d only seen Maura once after our initial encounter, when she was walking by and I was emerging from the milking shed one morning. We’d exchanged pleasantries and phone numbers then, but not much more, so the invitation to the session, when it had come, was a surprise.

  “Thanks for ringing me,” I said, trying to distract myself from the increasingly bumpy excuse for a road. “Did you know I played trad music?”

  “Ah, maybe so,” said Maura cryptically. She turned and grinned, her jet black hair hanging straight and almost Goth-like from her head. She didn’t wear the makeup but everything else about Maura suggested Goth. Though, to be fair, there was nothing fake about her hair. Which, with her very pale skin, gave an otherworldly appearance that was almost fae.

  “Oh, did my grandmother tell you, then?”

  “Mmmmhn.”

  “Do you farm as well?”

  Maura let out a raucous laugh. “Jaysus, no. Not at all. Your grandmother is enough of a woman of the land for the two of us.”

  I smiled. “Have you known her long, then?”

  “Yes, a long time. All my life, you could say.”

  “She seems a good woman,” I said. “Though we’re only just getting to know each other.”

  The words were true enough. Something about my grandmother made me feel as though I’d known her a very long time, but sometimes it was as though I would never know her. It had been over a week since I’d arrived, but other than the mundane daily things I’d seen her do, there was little more I could say about her. Any questions I’d asked about my parents she deflected. I put it down to her grief and sensitivity about the whole subject, but it still would have been nice to know something about my parents. Something to give me a picture of who they were. It wasn’t as though knowing about them would change how I defined myself, not really. Or would it? Defining myself had sometimes seemed elusive. I would call myself a musician. Yes. But did it give me a direction, a way forward? I already knew I wasn’t a barista. Or any kind of wait staff. What did my degree give in the way of hints? Not much, I decided, except my naive dream of writing. I’d brought my notebook with me from Dublin and had even jotted a few musings down that might at some point make a poem. Or perhaps a song. I’d dabbled in both poetry and song writing at university, but had produced nothing of consequence in my clever, but not too clever attempts.