The Children of Lir

by Marion Grace Woolley

  “Do you love my sister?” I asked Mochaomhog once, when we were alone by the fire.

  “Of course, as I love you all,” he replied.

  “That is not what I meant.”

  He was plucking a water fowl and paused for a moment to study me.

  “I love Jesus Christ, our lord and saviour.”

  “But he is dead, and my sister walks on earth.”

  “Through death, Jesus is everywhere – in everything.”

  “Even in me?” I asked.

  “Yes, if you would open your heart to him.”

  “If I open my heart, you will find my family there. Must they leave so that Jesus may enter? Would you have them give up their place at my table?”

  “I don’t understand why you fight so hard, Aodh. Jesus would not have you forget your family. There is room in your heart for both.”

  “In the three hundred years past, before we came to this island, I watched what Christians did to our people—”

  “What Romans did.”

  “Aye. I saw what the Romans took by force. I saw them put women and children to the blade, turn the sky red until only a shadow rose in place of the sun—”

  “Those were poor Christians, then. They did not comprehend the word of the Lord. They were neither gentle, nor mild, nor just.”

  “Yet it is the gentle, mild, and just Christians I fear more,” I replied. “I grew up a warrior. I do not fear combat. I do not embrace death, but I do not run from it either. All that lives must eventually die, and many nights we have longed for such a death. Yet I fear what you would say to my sister. I fear the thoughts you place in her heart. I fear that you seek to take her from us.”

  “I would claim you all for God if you would allow me.”

  “Whose god? Not mine.”

  Brigid ingen Cobthaig

  I screamed as my mount jumped the rotten log that lay across the road. I hadn’t ridden so hard in months.

  “Ainmuire, wait!”

  I kicked the flank of my gelding and felt his hind legs bounce against hard earth. He thrust up his head and whinnied. My love’s horse was a good length ahead. The sound of its shoes clacking across rock caused us to slow our pace.

  “Looks like somebody’s made an attempt to cobble here,” he said, his cheeks bright from the ride. “Whoever thought? I heard it was just fishermen and brewers out this way.”

  “Even fishermen and brewers need to get their wares to market,” I laughed. “Perhaps you should aid them with supplies?”

  “Aid them with supplies and they’ll supply swords against my throne. These are not safe lands for Northmen.”

  “Then let me talk should we meet anyone on the roads. A southern accent should soften their hearts.”

  “Softened mine, at least,” he grinned.

  We kicked our horses on and by evening we had reached the West Coast. As we rode, the sky greyed and waves crashed white against the rock. Yet, by the time we came to rest, those grey clouds had turned to pink, forming a fine thread which tailed the sun as it set across the horizon. I was so taken by the colours that I almost didn’t see the old woman until I was on top of her.

  “You must be cold?” I asked. She was dressed in coarse wool, her face covered by a hood that looked more like a death shroud, her feet as bare as the day she was born. “My name is Brigid,” I said, remembering my manners. “And this is my husband—” he coughed to remind me, “Bain of Ráth Bhile.” I waited for the woman to lift her face, but she did not. I wondered if perhaps she was crippled in some way, and bending her neck might cause discomfort. “Can you please tell me, which way might we find a ferry to Inis Gluaire?” She raised one bony finger in the direction we were riding. “Thank you,” I replied. Then, with complete abandon for the adventure we were on, I shouted back, “We are going to find the Children of Lir!”

  We found a sheltered spot beneath an oak and laid down thick skins and blankets. Ainmuire built a fire and we set a haunch of deer across it, which we had purchased from a poacher.

  “They were my deer!” Ainmuire protested.

  “Yes, my love, but this kingdom needs resourceful young men, and we need food in our bellies. Perhaps this once, look the other way?”

  “When I am with you, I’m never sure which direction I’m looking.”

  “Then close your eyes, and allow your heart to guide you,” I replied, sliding closer and planting a kiss on his parted lips.

  We ate the meat glazed in honey with onions hot from the embers. It was one of the finest meals I had ever tasted. All my life I had been sitting behind one wall or another: my father’s as a girl, my uncle’s for three years whilst I schooled with my cousins, then behind my betrothed’s fine fort. Nights spent in the open were a rarity. The beauty of the world can only truly be appreciated when observed without boundaries.

  That night passed comfortably. It rained lightly for a moment, but our oilskins kept the blankets dry, and my beloved’s crotch provided a soft seat that warmed me through. When I woke, it was in the very early hours, just as the sun began to dapple the shore. The sea was silent silver and an arrowhead of geese moved overhead, out towards the ocean.

  I watched them until they were out of sight, wondering what it must be like to have feathers. To fly so high above the world that the mountains fall beneath the tip of your wing.

  It was then that I heard singing. A mournful melody caught on the gentle morning breeze. Mist vailed the water, yet I was drawn to it. Barefoot as the old woman on the road, I made my way to the shore and took a few steps in, the hem of my gown catching against its reflection on the surface.

  I must have stood there until I trembled, for I had never heard a song like it in my life.

  “My love, what is it?”

  “Hush, acushla, can’t you hear?”

  My love entered the water beside me, his own feet sinking in the silt.

  “Hear what?”

  His voice pulled me back from the flashing sunlight on the waves, and the sound of that song.

  Fionnuala

  I had never met a man like Mochaomhog. So void of arrogance, so sure of the good in this world. Even when I told him our story, when I told him of Aoife, he seemed to find understanding there.

  “She was a young woman, was she not? Abandoned by her mother in a strange land, perhaps she saw herself as a captive.”

  “You forgive what she did to us?”

  “Judgement is the Lord’s, not mine. But every action must have its reason. Everything may be understood if we wish to understand it.”

  We had talked for hours by the fire those first few months of his arrival. He told so many stories, and our ears yearned to hear them, for we had been repeating the same tales to ourselves over and over since we came to the island.

  It was an accident we learned of the moon. One night, after the fire had burned down and my brothers left for their nest upon the rocks, I remained there, enjoying the warmth. Mochaomhog went to fetch more wine from the house. As he opened the door, the clouds parted, bathing me in moonlight, and I heard him take in his breath.

  “What is it?” I asked, turning.

  Beyond the door stood a tall mirror, and in its reflection I beheld myself. Not the snow-white down of a swan, but myself – Fionnuala – as I had once been. My hair and eyes looked oil-stained in the dark. I tried to search out their brightness but it eluded me. For a moment, I did not recognise myself, and when I did, I became ashamed, for my hair served as my only cloak. I drew my arms across my chest.

  When Mochaomhog regained himself and went for the wine, he returned with a clay carafe and a blanket, which he placed about my shoulders.

  “You are the girl I saw on the beach that night?”

  “Yes,” I replied, hardly able to meet his gaze.

  “Why did you fly from me?”

  “I did not know you then. I did not know why you had come to the island.”

  “Yet you know me now, and you remain.”

  I smiled, and
he reached out his hand, lightly touching my cheek.

  “You were – you are, a beautiful woman.”

  I blushed again and fixed upon the remains of the fire.

  “We believe it will not be long until our curse is at its end. We have spent almost as many moons at Irrus Domnann and Inis Gluaire as we have upon Sruth na Maoile and Loch Dairbhreach. Nine hundred years the curse was foretold. I fear we have reached the last of them.”

  He looked stricken. “What will happen then?”

  “We do not know. That was never told to us. Perhaps we will return to our forms, and I will be as I am now.”

  A cloud came across the moon and I felt a subtle shift in myself. I could see in the reflection of his eyes that he saw a swan, and I could not bear the sight of myself. I spread my wings and flew down to the sea, preferring the open ocean to the stifling weight of that blanket.

  *

  “Fionnuala,” he said, swimming close to me, his own sun-browned skin flushed with pimples from the cold. As the clouds parted, I saw beneath the water that my webbed feet were legs once more, kicking to keep me afloat. In my panic, I reached my arms about his neck.

  I felt my bare breasts press against his chest and let go, separating us.

  “Please, don’t be afraid,” he said. His voice so warm, so kind. It hurt.

  “Leave me be, priest,” I spat, diving beneath the water and swimming further along the coast where the rocks shielded me from his gaze. I do not know when, exactly, I returned to swan shape, but it felt a relief to feel my powerful feet paddling the water, my wings arched behind me like the sails of a ship. After all those years, a swan was the form I was most comfortable with. I was too removed from the realms of man to walk beside them.

  *

  Over the coming weeks, we did not mention that night, or the intimacy of our embrace. Yet at night I found myself thinking on it. With my brothers tucked under each wing, and Aodh at my breast, I remembered the warmth of Mochaomhog’s breath against my frozen cheek. I felt his chest pressed against mine, and I remembered the jealousy I had felt at Aednat, that she should have all the things I could not.

  The next full moon, Mochaomhog went to look for me. I watched him walk out across the machair. Knowing his house to be empty, I went to it and stood before the mirror. I swept my hair back from my shoulders and studied myself. My reflection was that of a young woman, my breasts pert and my hips narrow. I looked more like the whores who plied their trade at port than the fisherwomen who sat gossiping over their nets. This did not displease me, for I knew that it was the whores men desired over the fisherwives.

  “What are you doing?” Aodh asked, appearing at the door.

  “Looking. Do you think I am attractive, brother?”

  He craned his slender neck, for the moon did not play this trick upon my brothers.

  “You have a fine body,” he replied. “What do you intend to do with it?”

  I flashed him a smile and he sighed.

  That night, I lost my nerve, and the knowledge that I would not be able to transform again for an entire month made me so angry with myself that I could hardly be around Mochaomhog or my brothers. Aodh thought me a half-wit for wanting what he had once had, and there was no point in talking to the twins. They had lived longer than any man on earth, yet they had been transformed so young. They saw men and women, they knew what they did beneath the blankets, yet they had never grown old enough to want it for themselves. I envied them their unburdened dreams.

  That next moon, Mochaomhog came looking again. I waited for him in the water, watching as he stripped off his tunic, disappointed he left on his braccae.

  He arrived by my side, panting from the cold.

  When he reached out for me, I laughed and swam away. Understanding the game, he reached out again. Again I evaded him, slipping through his fingers like a selkie. Turning, I saw that he was gone.

  “Mochaomhog!” I called out. “Mochaomhog!”

  Suddenly he was there, rising from the water to wrap his arms about me.

  “You scared me,” I said.

  “And you scare me.”

  He kissed me then.

  My very first kiss. Long, and lingering, and full of want.

  “God has clearly put you here to tempt me,” he whispered.

  Mochaomhog

  Those nights beneath the moon were the most cherished of my life. The scriptures spoke of joy, and they warned of lust.

  I could not give her what she wanted. The way she touched me, the way she spoke so softly in my ear. I knew what it was she longed for, and I longed for it also. Yet I loved her too much to ruin her. She was a maiden still, and I know the place in heaven reserved for maidens. I know the place in heaven reserved for priests. And I know the place in hell for both of those who sin.

  I could not condemn her immortal soul to suffering for a single moment’s pleasure.

  Over and over, I offered the Eucharist. Over and over, I begged them to be baptised. Each time they refused me, and I grew more desperate.

  “If you do not come to God—”

  “If we do not come to God, we will be as we have always been,” she would smile.

  It disturbed me that they could not see what I saw. I read to them every night, the stories of the Holy Bible, and those I recalled by memory. Somewhere in that book I prayed there would be a tale to change their minds. Something to unite us. I prayed for it every night.

  It was spring when I saw the boat approaching. I had been tending vegetables and there was a fresh loaf of bread in the kiln. At first I thought it was Brother Bartholomew, perhaps bringing news of Brendan. I washed the earth from my hands and cupped fresh water over my face. It had been a long time since I left the island, and I feared he might not recognise me, for my beard had grown long and unkempt.

  As I drew nearer, I recognised the ferryman who came each month with fresh supplies. Yet I did not recognise the two beside him. There was a woman in a cloak of rich purple, her chestnut tresses tumbling beneath her hood. The man beside sat proud, an expensive green tunic offsetting hair almost as golden as the sands of Inis Gluaire.

  “Guests for you, Brother,” the gruff oarsman said, tugging his boat ashore and pegging it.

  “Welcome, friends. It is rare to see another face about these parts.”

  I knew why they had come. From time to time young couples paid the boatman well for his service. Couples whose parents were against their match and whose hearts were too young and rebellious to care. Sometimes women who found themselves in trouble, and men honourable enough to reconcile themselves to marriage.

  They looked between one another, and something in their eyes told me they had not expected to find me there.

  “Hello, Brother,” the woman spoke, removing her gloves and wrapping my hands in hers. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. My name is Mary, and this is John.”

  “Good morning, Brother,” the man repeated.

  “I am Mochaomhog,” I replied. “You are very welcome here. There is bread baking, if you would care to join me?”

  And so we sat by the church and broke bread together, its warmth helping to drive out the cold feeling growing in my stomach. We spoke of the mainland, of the conflicts I had left behind, of new marriages and alliances, new betrayals and intrigues. I quite lost myself for a time. I enjoyed my life of solitude, but it was good to be reminded there was a world beyond the waves.

  When the bread was gone, washed down with a little wine, I asked again what had brought them to such a remote place.

  “We have come in search of swans,” Mary told me. “There is a story that four of them live on this island. Tell me, Brother, have you seen them?”

  The bluntness of her question left me speechless.

  “What is the story?” I asked, as soon as I regained my voice.

  “Have you not heard it? Aibric the Wanderer tells it very well.”

  With that, she proceeded to recount the story of The Children of Lir. I listened as th
ough listening to the ghost of a former life, echoing over centuries. My heart begged her to stop, yet my ears betrayed my heart. Parts of the story Fionnuala had told me herself, as we lay beside the fire, or floated beneath the stars. Much of it I had not heard. There were details that astounded me, so much so that I wondered whether they could even be true.

  As Mary drew to the end, and the fire in the kiln burned low, the man put out his hand and raised his chin. “My love, look.”

  By the corner of the church, the swans had gathered to listen.

  “Please,” I said, standing. “I beg of you. Look upon them, then leave.”

  The woman was not listening to me. She reached out her hand and cooed softly, yet the children did not stir.

  “This is a place of peace. They are just swans. Leave them be.”

  “Just swans?” asked the man, rising to his feet. “I wonder you would be so eager to protect them if that is all they were. Here,” he said, reaching into his tunic. “I’ll give you this for them.”

  Opening the pouch, I saw more gold in my palm than I had seen in my life.

  “Now, if you would be so good as to fetch some rope, that I might tie them together.”

  “No,” I said sternly. “We do not have a deal. The swans live here. They are wild creatures – not mine to trade.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. He was about to reply when the lady put her hand on my arm.

  “Good Brother, we have not been entirely truthful with you.”

  “That is apparent.”

  “We are not Mary and John of the mainland. This is your king, Ainmuire mac Sétnai, and I your queen, Brigid ingen Cobthaig.”

  I fell to my knees before him, for I did not doubt her for a moment. By the wealth they possessed and the clothes they wore, I knew it to be true.

  “My King,” I whispered.

  “We are to be wed next month,” she continued. “It will be the largest wedding of the age, and the most peaceful, as our people have been at war for so long. Our union unites Ireland, and we wish to make the celebrations so memorable that none will forget that love is stronger than vengeance.”