Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  When he returned with the drinks, ferrying them in stages, he felt calmer and resumed his seat with a smile for all. He caught Maura looking at him speculatively. She was up to something, he could tell. She had been for a little while, now that he thought about it. It wasn’t just at Anu’s behest that she’d met up with him. And tonight was no accident, he was sure of it. She’d not paid him this much attention for a long time. Not since time beyond thinking about. Maura the Rookery. He nearly laughed at the thought of it. Crows all right. Carrion. Just picking over the bones of trouble she stirred. He sighed. He’d find out soon enough, he supposed.

  “Saoirse, play us a tune on the low whistle there I see you hiding at your feet,” said Finn.

  Saoirse narrowed her eyes, but they were full of humour. “And how do you know that it’s a low whistle I have at my feet? It could be something else altogether.”

  Finn’s eyes slid over to Maura. “A certain bird told me.”

  Saoirse laughed. “A certain bird next to you by any chance?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter who. Just give us a tune?”

  “No, you’re grand. I’m not worth all that fuss.”

  “Let us be the judge of that,” said Catherine. Her voice was strident and deep throated.

  “And I’m sure the judgement will be overwhelming,” said Finn. “Besides, we’ll join you if we can.”

  Saoirse gave a weak smile and leaned over to pick up the soft case that held the low whistle. Watching her, Smithy hoped that she’d picked up Finn’s hint to pick an obscure tune or Catherine was sure to join in and drown her out. He knew Catherine meant well and she was enthusiastic, but it was difficult sometimes to fully appreciate this intimate session when she contributed her talents.

  Saoirse struck up her slow tune. It was a haunting air, one that was vaguely familiar to him, the notes striking something at the edge of his mind. It pulled at him deep in his psyche and for a moment he allowed access to that part of him. The tingle was there, that fullness of body. Before he knew what he was doing he raised the fiddle to his chin and stroked the bow across it slowly and softly. He played along with her, a supporting note, a slightly counter note. The air held him in its grip and he knew he dared not look at Saoirse for fear what he could see there. It was then that he realised that the whistle itself couldn’t support the tune. Not in the way it should be, so that the air filtered in through your heart and opened up your soul, becoming your very own anam cara that would see you to the world beyond. Suddenly, for this very air he wanted to re-tune his fiddle to the old way. The real way, and play it like it was meant to be played.

  The air was coming to a close, he could feel it, so he wound down his playing, became fainter and then disappearing altogether just before Saoirse stopped. There was a hush across the pub of the most reverent kind. The moment passed and shouts of appreciation rang out.

  “Not worth all the fuss is it?” said Finn. “Tá se go hailinn, Saoirse. Truly.”

  The others murmured their assent, but Smithy had no words to utter. Not yet. He was struggling with the turmoil that threatened to overflow inside him. He forced himself to nod and breathe slowly.

  “Thanks for the accompaniment,” Saoirse said softly next to him. “It was perfect.”

  Smithy managed another nod and muttered words that he hardly knew he was speaking, so that he barely heard when Cían asked her where she got the air from.

  “Oh, uh, it’s mine,” she answered.

  “Yours?” said Catherine. “You mean you composed it yourself?”

  Saoirse shrugged and nodded, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah. Last year.”

  The discussion went on about the tune for a little while, but Smithy heard none of it. The details, whatever they were, became too much extra weight to the already heavy burden pushing on his chest. How could she have done that herself? Surely she’d picked it up from a few strands here and there that he knew had made their way down through the centuries when one of them had slipped in a bit here and there. Like Lugh. He was one for something like that. And the gods knew he’d done it a few times. It couldn’t be helped, it was too much a part of them to discard. Not if they wanted to play music. And without the music there was little else to keep him sane in these times. Especially with the magic gone from him. He pushed down the niggling hope that had rekindled just now, when he’d been playing that air with Saoirse.

  He was jostled out of his thoughts when Catherine struck up a jig on her fiddle. It was The Banshee’s Wail Over the Mangle Pit, Catherine’s version of an obscure tune. He suppressed a snort and just raised his fiddle and glanced over at Finn. The guitar was already in his hands and the strum begun, a little lyrical picking to fill it in as well. Finn caught his glance and cocked his head. It was his version of “the poor cratur, she knows nothing”. Maura was tapping on the bodhran and Cían’s fingers flew over the buttons of his concertina. They blended well and nearly masked Catherine’s fiddle, forcing a sound that was acceptable and good. Saoirse joined them finally, her low whistle packed away and the flute out once again.

  The tune became lilting and so full of life they were nearly all tapping their feet, feeling the joy of it. Smithy became immersed in it, his previous worries forgotten, shoved aside because they were too difficult to contemplate. The tune blossomed and became something else, moved on by a perfect instinctive bridge of key change and finesse. When the set finished, Smithy felt a sense of completeness and joy he hadn’t experienced in a long while.

  The tunes moved on and Smithy was happy to follow, desperate to maintain that joy and thrill of the music. Finn gave him a shove under the table to acknowledge the pureness of the session, the rare synchronicity of this night with these musicians. He glanced over at Catherine and he could see that even she was feeling it. Her bowing was more subtle and the rhythm and notes finding their right place.

  After a few more sets Finn called a halt for a short break. Smithy nearly protested, so concerned that they might lose this close intuitive playing they’d had now, but he said nothing because he knew by the look on Cían and Catherine, that some of them needed to come up for air. Once again he recognised how Finn read the group’s energy so well.

  He decided to go outside. He was feeling hot for many reasons, not least of which was the pub was heaving. He nodded to the others and made his way outside and leaned up against the wall. The road in front was quiet, but several people gathered in bunches along the pub’s walls in front of the few picnic tables that held the pub’s spillover in the fine daytime weather. A few of them nodded to him, but sensing his need for a bit of solitude they let him be.

  It was a small village with a few shops along the one side of the crossroads that led to the church. Across from the shops were homes with curtains pulled against the night. Sleepy old village, he thought fondly as the murmuring voices from the nearby group nearly lulled him to sleep. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  “They’re a great group of players.”

  Smithy opened his eyes and looked at Saoirse. “They are that.”

  “Do you play here often?”

  He nearly laughed at what almost sounded like a clichéd pick up line. “I play on and off. When the feeling strikes me.”

  “I’d come here all the time if it was always like that playing with them. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

  He studied her a moment, weighing her sincere tone and the joy in her face. “Tonight is rare. I haven’t often experienced it like this, either.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Really.”

  ”What do you think made it so tonight? Musicianship?”

  He considered what he should say. “In part. Sometimes, though, there can be an intuitive communication born from musicians who are sympathetic in their approach to music.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he left it at that. How could he explain what he knew in his heart to be true when he wouldn’t even acknowledge it himself?

>   “It was more than that,” she said softly. “You felt it, I know. While we were playing that air. It was there so strongly. It was as if you knew the music before I even played it. I never felt like that before playing the air. The music became part of me in a way I can’t explain. As though I was the music and nothing more. It was magic.”

  He started at that last word, even though he knew she was saying it only in a trivial trendy manner. But it made him want to cry out, even so and he had to clench his hands to stop himself from uttering the cry. Deep breaths, deep breaths, he told himself.

  “Your low whistle is fine enough, but the air would sound better if you had a slightly different tuning to it,” he said finally in desperation. “There’s a few notes that don’t quite ring right.” It was almost true but it was the best he could do to explain what he meant without saying more than he wanted to.

  “Really?” she said. “I hadn’t noticed. But then I don’t have your ear, obviously.”

  “Obviously? Why obviously?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not the class of musician you are.”

  “You are. I just know, because I make flutes and whistles on occasion.”

  “Do you, so?”

  He nodded and before he could rein in his mouth he said, “I’ll make you a low whistle that will suit that air, if you like.”

  Her face lit up and any regret at his foolhardy offer vanished. Even in the dim light of the few street lamps he could see the fine bones sculpting her face.

  “Would you do that? Ah, now, that’s too much.”

  “No, no. It’s no bother. I’d enjoy it.”

  She gave him a shy smile. “If that’s the case then, I would love that.”

  He nodded his affirmation and took a deep breath. He was lost now, he knew it, deep inside. But he was determined to enjoy these moments, whatever was behind it. For something was in the air and it was more than magic.

  10

  Saoirse

  Sinead’s chatter filled the car as we turned off the main road onto a rough back road. She’s lovely, I thought. So full of enthusiasm and anxious to share her love for the local history and land. I tried to concentrate, but it’s too early for me and the coffee hasn’t really seeped into my blood. Sinead talked on as Maura sat silent beside her, head turned towards the window, looking out at the passing scenery. In the passenger seat next to Sinead was another woman, Ingrid, who was from the Netherlands or Germany, I still hadn’t made up my mind which.

  “Have you done this yourself before, Maura?” I asked when there is a lull in Sinead’s conversation.

  She turned to look at me. “Not like this, no. But trust me, you’ll enjoy yourself.”

  I looked at her dubiously. When I’d seen the mountains in the distance they seemed harmless enough, but now, as we approached, I wasn’t so certain.

  “Relax, there are plenty of people climbing the Paps today,” said Sinead. “And many do it every year.”

  I nodded, reassured a little. When Maura had first suggested this trek up the Paps, I hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t just the chance to walk the landscape on what promised to be a glorious day, but the chance to participate in a local tradition, or rather ritual, added extra qualities I couldn’t explain even to myself.

  The Paps. It was a strange name for a set of mountains, at least that was what I thought until Sinead had explained that paps were another word for breasts. I could see it then, the two mounds rising up from the ground rounded in just such a manner a woman with generous curves might have. Voluptuosity? Voluptuousness? The terms turned around in my head, their sound as rolling as the mountains we were about to climb.

  “Will she mind?” I suddenly asked. I was being facetious but then felt silly.

  “Will who mind?” said Maura.

  “The woman with the paps?”

  Sinead turned and gave me a puzzled look. Next to me Maura laughed.

  “Ah, I’m sure she’ll be grand,” said Maura. “She probably loves people walking all over her breasts.”

  “She’s a goddess,” said Sinead severely to Maura. “Anu. The mother goddess.” She glanced over at me. “I’m sure she is happy to have us there, as long as we approach it in a respectful if not reverential manner.”

  “What goddess?” I asked, curious. I looked out of the window up to the mountains that rose on my left. The other one was slightly behind it. I could see something perched on top, like a nipple.

  “Anu,” said Sinead. “She was the goddess of the Tuatha de Danann, which means ‘the people of Anu. You know all that, from university?”

  “Oh, right,” I said.

  Something stirred vaguely in my memory. I supposed I learned it, not in university though. Maybe somewhere else. Too many boarding schools, too many teachers and I never really started paying attention until secondary school. And then for some reason I excelled. It was as if a switch had been turned on and suddenly I was very curious and able to soak it all up. The trauma of being shoved around and feeling adrift finally focused into discovering things.

  “Were the Tuatha de Danann around here then?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Sinead. “There’s lots of legends about where they were. The other gods and goddesses associated with her and Daghda take place all over Ireland, but with the core of them at Tara, of course.”

  Beside me Maura gave a soft snicker. “What? You disagree?”

  “Me?” said Maura. “Not a bit of it. It just seems odd hearing about it. It’s been a while.”

  “They’re just tales,” I said. “But they’re interesting and in some ways are metaphoric I guess.”

  Maura raised her brows. “Metaphoric is it?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re right, Saoirse,” said Sinead. “The Paps of Anu are the ancient idea of Mother Earth and how we related to the feminine energy of the Earth, It’s no harm to think of it that way, and if everyone did, we might not be so quick to pillage the Earth for her resources until she’s so depleted she can no longer support life.”

  Maura rolled her eyes. “Ah she’s not doing so badly, all the same.”

  The Dutch woman (or maybe German) turned to Maura. “You cannot say that. We are poisoning the planet with our pollution of the air, the ground and the oceans.”

  Maura sighed. “I wasn’t saying that nothing was going on. I just was pointing out that Mother Earth wasn’t dead yet.”

  “But not for want of trying on our part,” said Sinead. “We must now take responsibility for our past actions and stop those who are trying to make it worse.”

  Maura shrugged. “I’m not condoning it.”

  “We must do more,” said Ingrid. “Don’t you agree, Saoirse?”

  Her manner and voice were so full of certainty. If she would have it so, it would be so. “Of course,” I said. Who could disagree with that?

  “Have you read the applications for planning permission for the new transmission station and wind turbines that Balor Energies Group are submitting? Supposedly offshore but I’d say it’ll creep inshore if given half a chance. It’s a disgrace, like that company. You can be certain something else is behind it as well. They’re the same company who are trying to get approval for fracking up in Galway. And they want to build a refinery in Cork. The company’s safety record is a disgrace.”

  I listened to Sinead’s passionate words and for a moment admired that she could feel that way about these issues. I knew they were important and I should be doing my part, but honestly, it seemed more than I could manage at this point in my life. I didn’t even have a job. I was living with a grandmother with whom I had little more than a nodding acquaintance. How could I take on these worldly issues when I could barely solve my own?

  “Have you signed a petition about the company?” I said. It was the only thing that occurred to me at the moment.

  “Oh, I’ve signed the petitions. There’s plenty of those, so. And what good are they? No, it’s time for greater action.”

  “Protest?”
said Maura.

  I detected a sardonic tone to her voice and I almost nudged her with it. Instead I gave her a glare. She looked back at me with a “what did I say?” innocence.

  “Radical protest,” said Sinead. “We need to do something that will get everyone’s attention. Focus on Balor Energies and show that company as the poison chalice they are, with their iPads for schools and green spaces for inner cities.”

  “Have you anything planned?” I asked.

  “Nothing certain,” said Sinead. She glanced across at Ingrid and then turned to me. “But you’ll know when the time comes.”

  The path was smooth enough at first and the sun felt good as it began to peek out from the horizon. The other walkers were sparse, but behind me I could see that they were some winding their way to the starting point. Immediately in front of me was Sinead, strands of her curly blond hair escaping the tie at the back of her head. She wore all the walking gear but it seemed more functional than high tech display on her. Some pieces were faded and her shoes looked as though they had seen more than a few outings on them. Ingrid, up ahead of her, looked a little more just out of the North Face shop. She was lanky and seemed to take one step to my two, so I couldn’t dispute her experience, either.

  Behind me was Maura. I was surprised she’d made little concession to the fact that we were undertaking what I judged to be a difficult climb through sections of boggy land under a sky that welcomed the first day of summer. She wore her usual black shirt, jacket and jeans with black lace up boots. Her hair flew around her wildly in the breeze. I’d worn jeans, but had borrowed my grandmother’s jacket in case of one of the sudden misty rains that could descend on the mountains developed. My hair was in its usual crown.

  “There’s more people than I imagined,” I said. “Are there this many every year?”