I stared into his eyes, felt the warmth of his breath on my face and met his lips as they descended on my mouth. It was a kiss filled with desire and promise as he first brushed my lips gently and then pressed his mouth more firmly, more sensuously on mine. It was practised and rousing and I opened up to the kiss and the possibility of him.
After a while he pulled back and said softly in my ear, “Will you come to mine after the session?”
And following that possibility I nodded my head and said, “I will.”
19
Saoirse
His house was a two-bedroom brick townhouse that had been renovated into something approaching modern and airy. It seemed to fit Luke, and yet it didn’t, but I conceded that it was hard to tell in the dim light of the arc lamp that shone on the open space of the living and dining area where we sat.
My flute case was safely tucked next to the case that held his pipes, in the corner where they also kept company with other cases of musical instruments that included unmistakably a guitar, concertina and some others that might have had a mandolin among them.
“Are you having a session here? Is that why you asked me here?” I said, nodding to the musical corner. I was sitting next to him on the sofa, holding a glass of whiskey, a “why not” move that I hoped wouldn’t haunt me in the morning. It was a modest glass, I told myself, a baby’s finger, well, perhaps a fat baby.
He laughed. “Ah, no, no. They’re all mine.” He stroked my hair, up in its usual coronet around my head. “It was an entirely different reason why I asked you here.”
I smiled at him, reading the desire in his eyes. Slowly he began to remove the pins from my hair, unwound the plait and started to loosen it. I was suddenly reminded of Smithy and I turned my face away, trying to stifle the memory.
“Is something wrong? Don’t you like me doing this? It’s just your hair…it’s something I’ve wanted to do since I saw you.”
He stroked it again, running his fingers through it. He loosened the hair even further, so that it fell around my shoulders and down my back. I made myself turn toward him and allowed his actions to soothe me.
“Your hair seems darker than it used to be.”
I smiled at him. “It’s just you and your dimly lit room changing the colour.”
“Mmhm,” he said. “Maybe.” He leaned over and kissed me.
I opened my lips, feeling his slide against mine, first teasing and then deepening. He put his arms around me and drew me to him. I moved into his embrace, jumping, falling and full of a need to experience all of him, to lose myself in the process. I tasted whiskey and desire and let it wash over me, pull me under.
He kissed behind my ear, nibbled softly. I slipped my hand up inside his T-shirt, feeling the firm muscles along his stomach and chest. He skimmed his hand inside my peasant top. I felt the pleasure of the heat of the press of his aroused body against mine as he kissed and nibbled along my neck and down my breastbone. It was sensuous and arousing, there was no denying, and my body responded. I felt the rush of his passion, someone wanting me and that was enough. It would be enough. My body would be open to this experienced wooing and the rest of me would follow.
He pulled away, his grey eyes darkened with desire. “Will we go up to bed?”
I was careful to limit my answer to a simple nod, wanting to keep it all simple. A man craving a woman. He would get that woman.
He took my hand and pulled me up from the sofa and slowly led me up the stairs to his bedroom. He turned on a small lamp by his bed.
“I want to see all of you,” he told me.
I was happy to oblige and watched his eyes as they took me in while I shed my clothes one by one. When I’d finished he pulled me towards him.
“Now you,” I said.
I began to tug on his T-shirt, but he was there ahead of me and made short work of all it, until we were together on the bed, kissing and caressing. I was a woman desired and pleasured.
The mood was on me still when I woke up the next morning. That “why not” mood that drove me to enjoy his body enjoying mine until we finally fell asleep. The “why not” mood led me to wrap my legs around him when I’d returned from the toilet, and leave a trail of kisses on his body as all of him woke up and rose to the occasion.
It became a “why not” day as we lazed in bed and then made our coffee and switched on the TV and watched a mindless show, our limbs entangled, until we retired to bed to entangle our full bodies. As the day began to fade we took ourselves out for dinner, entangling fingers so that some bit of us was always touching, woven together like the threads of one of the leather bracelets around his wrist.
No instruments or any part of music figured in the “why not” day, because the “why” would lose its “not” and lead me into thoughts and places I didn’t want to go. The day belonged to those two words together, and I would keep them together as long as I could.
With a plan like that, it was impossible for the “why not” day to slide smooth as silk into another “why not” night, a night of more entangled limbs and bodies, of kisses and tongues and every part of us that would meet and unite.
The “why not” talk was filled with banter that alternated with lazy chatter about places we’ve been or not been, food we’d tried or not, and matters that were no matter at all. By the morning after the second “why not” night, I wandered around the kitchen waiting for the kettle and stared at the photos hung on the walls depicting the surfer side of Luke. The “catch that big wave,” Luke with his sculpted body, holding an equally sculpted surfboard.
He came up behind me and slid his arms around my waist, resting his head on my shoulder. A shoulder that for most men would have been no place to pitch a chin, but to press a nose. He was tall, this surfer boy, surfer dude. As tall as Smithy, I realised, but then hid the thought behind my “why not” grin and “why not” mind.
“How long have you been surfing?” I asked.
“A long time.”
“You obviously love it. How did you get started in it?”
He shrugged. “My father, well the person I looked on as my father. He and his son drew me into it.”
“They both surf?”
“They do. Mon is really good?”
“Mon?”
“My foster father’s son. One of them. He’s like a brother to me.”
I nodded, getting a better sense of Luke.
He kissed my neck. “Come surfing with me.”
I turned my head in surprise. “What? Me? I’ve never been surfing.”
He kissed my mouth. “No bother. I’ll teach you.”
I blinked and grabbed onto the “why not”, who took the reins and said, “Good. Yeah. Okay, When?”
“This weekend.”
“This weekend? That’s, well…”
He grinned. “Now. Yeah. Why not? We can go by your house so you can pick up some things and we’ll head out.”
The “now” joined the “why not” couple and the threesome had me first showering with Luke (limbs entangled) and helping him load his board on the roof of his SUV. The threesome cheered as we headed to my house (fingers entangled) and I packed a small bag to take to the “why not” and “now” beach.
We headed west in his surfer dude SUV to the sound of “why not now” music, the threesome well and truly joined, entangled and entwined, leaving trad music and everything else that carried too much with it behind. My “whynotnow” lover sang along, raising his hand from our periodically entwined, entangled fingers to shift gear or stroke my hair, which now fell everywhere and nowhere, entangled in itself. I’d come undone in Cork, and now I was wrapped up, entwined and entangled with my fingers, limbs and hair with this “whynotnow” man.
20
Smithy
Smithy brought his motorbike to a stop, resting his feet on the ground. He stared across to the house. “The Rookery”. She was known as “Maura the Rookery” for a reason, and that reason was circling overhead, cawing. A murder of cr
ows. Isn’t that what they called the collective, thought Smithy. Appropriate, he thought. Though at the moment it was more likely he would murder her and her crows. Well, he would if he could. And therein lay the crux of it all. The reason that “rookery” and Maura, who she was, were synonymous. Why she thought her name was a great joke. And so it was. And the joke was on them, on him and anyone else who didn’t like war, didn’t like armed confrontation, or was so sick of it and its consequences. For people who would rather try other things before war. Because war was Maura’s food, it was her life’s blood, it was who she was. She was Morrigan.
And because Smithy knew who she was, he also knew that her love of conflict had drawn her into this little scheme of Anu’s. This ridiculous crazy notion that she could bring the real Bríd back to life and lure him from his stance. Had Anu known he’d lost the magic? He’d kept it as hidden as he possibly could. Maybe she’d sensed it, or Morrigan had. But regardless of what had driven Anu, Smithy knew what drove Morrigan. She must have enjoyed every moment of his encounters with Saoirse. And he knew without a doubt she’d contrived to bring Saoirse into contact with him at every possible situation. She probably had a hand in sending Saoirse down to him the first time they met. The thought of it drove him through the gate and along the footpath to the door. He banged on it loudly. He knew she was in. Her main henchman was up in the tree overhead, cawing down at him loudly. He looked up and glared at him, lifted his arms as if he had a bow in them and was releasing the arrow. The crow cawed louder then flew up to a higher branch.
Behind him, the door opened.
“Goibhniu.”
No, “hello, how are yous”—they were beyond that and more. It was an exchange of looks, of eyes that spoke amusement and fury, dancing around each other like too ill-timed partners. Smithy crossed his arms over his chest to stop reaching for his sword that wasn’t there. That’s what she wanted, and regardless of the fact it wasn’t there, he cursed that it was his first instinct and told him everything he wanted to deny.
“Smithy,” he said, voice tight.
She laughed, her eyes alight and full of spirit. This was her territory, a battle of wits almost, almost, but not quite, as good as any battle of swords, spears and fists. It was the “not quite” that had her placing a hand on Smithy’s shoulder. He flinched and shrugged it off. More laughter came, though the eyes danced an angry rhythm and he thought, good.
But still she touched him again, this time gripping his upper arm. “Did you come to see me or fight with me? Because you know which one I would prefer.”
“I would never fight you physically,” said Smithy.
She laughed again. “Why would you? You know the outcome.”
His anger flared again and he grasped it, grateful that it reined him back onto the path he meant to go.
“You had no reason to meddle with me. No reason at all. This will not get you a battle, a war or any other conflict you might be yearning for.”
He’d tried to keep his voice even, hard, the way it had all sounded in his head on his ride over. A ride that been like those Furies from Greece, the hum and roar of his motorbike acting like a voice for his rage. It was a rage that told him he could still come alive with it, his body become a fire, a furnace that would forge once again the fighting man, the warrior he’d left behind. It flared in him now and gave fire to the words and phrases that spilled out of his mouth, bitter and awful.
“I am not one of your battle toys to be tossed about and thrown into the fray to see what would happen. I am not someone to provide amusement for you. I’ve done nothing to you to deserve that, but I can assure you that I won’t take your meddling lightly.”
Her eyes sparkled and he bit his lip and reminded himself that he’d just given her something to savour and delight in, ah the pure feck of it. The pure, shittin’ hell of it. He couldn’t win.
“Just stop it. There’s no point,” he said finally. “I told Anu I won’t have any part of it. Even with her attempts to recreate Bríd.”
She made a tsking sound. “Oh, Goibhniu, Goibhniu. Don’t lie to yourself, or me. You know that’s not true.”
“It is true. There’s no point in any of this.”
“Ah, no, you’re wrong. And you know it. There’s a large point. A huge point. He’s come back. It’s time to stir ourselves, wake up to the facts and see what he’s doing to us. To all of us. Everything could die. It’s happening now, faster than we’d like and we must do something.”
Smithy gave her a sceptical look. “You don’t care. You only want the means that gets that end. The end has nothing interesting to offer you.”
She snorted, frustrated. “You fool. You think I’ll be able to exist if there’s nothing here? I can die just as easily.”
Smithy contemplated that, and not for the first time wondered what could kill her. Did she mean that the lack of conflict, of war, would render her null and void? Kill her, in essence?
“So you want to help,” he said, his tone still doubtful.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“And not just because your assistance would contribute to bringing about a monumental battle with leftover Fomorians and whoever else has joined Balor since then. A battle more terrible than anything seen before it. More terrible than the first and second battles of Magh Tuireadh.”
She grinned. “I can’t deny that holds certain appeal, but I do realise what’s at stake and that compels me, too.”
Smithy shook his head. It was still difficult to believe, but for now he would take her at her word, because he knew she would admit nothing else.
“Well, how nice it is you’ve developed such a helpful spirit this late in your career, Morrigan,” he said, enunciating her name slowly. “But you can leave me out of your helpful efforts.”
“But my efforts have aided you, Goibhniu. That’s my point. My other point. She’s drawn your magic up. Admit it. She’s entwined with you, become your other half again. It was obvious to me even at the Inchigeela session what was happening. I can only imagine now…after you slept with her. Well, you didn’t sleep at all, did you, really?”
He stiffened. “You’re wrong. She’s a girl. Just a girl, nothing more.”
“Oh, Goibhniu, it would be amusing if it weren’t so tragic.”
He turned and started to walk away. He’d had enough of her taunting and besides, he’d said what he’d come to say. There’d been no victory, but then he hadn’t expected one. It was Morrigan after all.
“She’s gone, you know.”
He halted and turned, even though his mind said to keep on walking. To get on that motorbike, feel the thrum and roar of it, the rage and power of it and ride back to his forge. His own source of being just Smithy and put that “justagirl” out of his mind. But his body betrayed him and he turned to look at her. At Morrigan with her glittering eyes, knowing that she was enjoying this just as much as she’d enjoyed every event that had involved himself and Saoirse.
“Gone?” a voice said. It was a voice his mind knew was his, but at this moment he was disowning it, emphasis on the “dis” because his mind wanted nothing to do with it.
“She left a few days ago. Right after she spoke to Anu. Right after you dropped her off, or so I’ve heard.” She glanced up at her henchman and smiled softly. “A little birdie told me.”
I glanced up at her henchman, Rook. “Don’t pretend you had Rook keep an eye out and not you. You wouldn’t have been able to resist watching the moment I took Saoirse back to her grandmother and discovered just who she was.”
She shrugged. “I can’t pretend it wasn’t deliciously fun. And later, when she walked down the road like the Hounds of Hell were after her.”
“Hounds of Hell? Really.”
“Great expression, isn’t it. And so apt in this case. I did manage to speak with her. So dotey, she is in her glamour. Though I have to say Anu needs to do something about that. It’s fading.” She gave Smithy a speculative glance. “Perhaps too much not sleeping
with you?”
Smithy reddened. “What do you mean, her glamour is fading? She doesn’t look like Bríd at all. Not really.”
“Come, come, Goibhniu. Even Anu couldn’t create a glamour that would fully disguise the height of her, the colour of her hair, the eyes. All of it still has a vague suggestion of who she was. Or, I mean, is. And now she’s even more so. Her hair, even when I saw her walking down the road was a darker red. No longer the Titian colour she likes to describe it. I didn’t get a close look at her eyes, but her body, well,” she made a gesture towards her chest. “Fuller. More mature. Like the woman Bríd was.”
Smithy stared at her, tried to make sense of it, to see the way through what Morrigan had just said. His mind still at odds with his body, reprimanded and yelled, but the body still wouldn’t answer. Finally, when any terms of unification seemed impossible, his body agreed, turned and strode to the motorcycle.
No fire lit the forge, but the heat was unmistakable. It wasn’t the kind of heat that, spinning whirling dancing, created a keen edge, a flawless shape that wove two metals and magic, the tra la la and fiddle dee dee that set a blade to light. There was no light about it. It was a dark and heavy heat. A heat that emanated from him and filled the place with bile, bitter and strong. It was the heat that looked at all the blades, half made swords and other articles of war and said “beware.”
But his mind reared again and fought for its place at the helm with reason and caution. It issued orders in a firm and calm tone. Smithy unclenched his fists. Put on his safety glasses. Lit the forge and slipped on his gloves. He was a smith. He would practise his craft. It was a slip, what had happened. But that slip jumped around, jiggled and poked with a snicker. “Practise.” He muttered a mental “feck off” and set to work.
He took a bar of metal and turned and ran it through his gloved hands to get a feel of its weight. To understand its shape and the shape it was to be. This was him, this was how he fashioned and created the objects of beauty and purpose. He made a careful choice with each one of those words and ran them through his mind, thought them to himself, the himself that was paying attention, or so he hoped. He grabbed his tongs and gripped the metal bar, placing it in the forge. He watched it heat, himself and his running, humming mantra. The words “creation and beauty” stood out and he liked their boldness, thought it showed who was boss and what would come of things.
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