by Clare Austin
Table of Contents
Selkie’s Song
Copyright
Praise for Clare Austin...
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A word about the author...
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Selkie’s Song
by
Clare Austin
Fadó Trilogy, Book Three
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Selkie’s Song
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Máire Clare Austin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-903-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-904-9
Fadó Trilogy, Book Three
Published in the United States of America
William Butler Yeats. 1899. “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” The Wind Among the Reeds. New York: J. Lane, The Bodley Head.
Praise for Clare Austin...
“Austin delivers a heartwarming love story, filled with characters who come to life on the page. I thoroughly enjoyed SELKIE’S SONG!”
~Award-winning author Melissa Mayhue
~*~
“In ANGEL’S SHARE Ms. Austin has created a fast paced, suspenseful tale, full of twists and unexpected turns, and a love story that will touch your heart.”
~Kate Stevenson, author
~*~
“The musical imagery in BUTTERFLY makes the story sing with magic that encompasses the senses of the reader. It reveals sadness, joy, hope, and deep, hidden needs—physical, spiritual, and emotional. Enchanting reading!”
~J. Thomas, The Long and the Short of It Reviews
~*~
“Sexy but sensitive, powerful but poignant—HOT FLASH is not your daughter's romance! This is a story for real women. Savor every word!”
~Award-winning author Deb Stover
Dedication
To my mother, Maude Owen,
for my Irish DNA and sense of humor.
…
To Mary McCleskey, a true Anam Cara.
…
And, as always, to my husband, my hero.
Acknowledgements
The Fadό Trilogy is a product of my love of music, family, and Irish culture. I gratefully thank all the wonderful people who have advised, assisted, and encouraged me in this project.
I want to especially thank Brid Ní Chualain, my Irish language teacher, Inis Oirr, Co. Galway, Ireland, for her help with my Irish language and grammar and Nora McGuire of Sligo, Ireland, for reading excerpts from Selkie’s Song and making suggestions regarding culture and customs.
And to Imelda and Barry Lyons of Clarecastle, Co. Clare, for the best way to wake up on an Irish morning…a kitchen session. Tea and Irish traditional music. Heaven! It felt like a scene right out of one of my novels.
Special gratitude to Mary McCleskey and John Kane of Finglas, Dublin, for the great gourmet food and making me laugh until my sides hurt.
Much of the help and inspiration for this series comes from the many hours spent sitting in pubs and homes of Irish friends, listening and playing the traditional music of Ireland. Thank you all for tolerating a violinist learning the fun of fiddle tunes and sharing your knowledge and enthusiasm. Míle buíochas agus beannachtaí oraibh go léir.
Prologue
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
~William Butler Yeats
Fadό.
Once upon a time in the West Counties of Ireland, the voice of the wind moaned up the cliffs and across the fields in an ancient, plaintive song. Padraig Ó Conghaile held his breath as he listened to the unceasing babble of land and sea. Sleep would not overtake him. Not this night.
His wife lay beside him, restless in her dreams. Beautiful Muirghein. He believed she was, as her name testified, born of the sea. Whether rumors surrounding her were true or tale, she owned his heart. Her pulse beat inside his chest. He could not live without her. But the vast deep called to her. Of this he was as certain as the moon and tides.
Caught between her happiness and his family’s survival, Padraig had no choice.
He laid a kiss on her cheek. She turned toward him, but did not wake.
The floorboards creaked as he stood and dressed in breeches and a linen shirt before climbing the ladder in the corner to reach for the package he had secreted between the layers of thatch.
A child whimpered in her sleep. Mara, his youngest, lay snuggled, a rag doll adorned with pink shells picked from the strand, clutched in her delicate hands. She was the image of her mother, Padraig thought, as his eyes roved from her dark fall of waves right down to the lightly webbed toes on her pretty feet that poked out from beneath her quilts.
Bardán, his son, lay on his own cot in the corner by the fire. Tall and strong like an oak, the poet son, the seanchaí, was this night lost in a dream that would surely become a tale of adventure with the rising of the summer sun.
For these children, he would find the courage to complete the task he had set for himself.
The fortress of the Ó Mháille chieftain clung to the cliffs with the tenacity only the Irish could summon. Dark against the glow of Midsummer’s Eve behind stirring clouds, its strength had prevailed. It was the only safe resting place for the treasure Padraig now held tucked beneath his elbow.
In his work shed, a pot of hot tar waited atop the peat fire. Out from under the carefully piled turf bricks, he pulled a box, a small casket built of hardest wood. Carefully painted with the same tar he used to seal the moisture out of his currach, this box was sturdy enough to last long past his mortal life and into the future of his clan.
The sky opened and, as though the an
gels wept, rain washed over him as he hurried toward the tower on the cliff. A lone whitethorn tree, young and tender, bare of its springtime flowers now that summer was at her peak, guarded the entrance to the stone house of his chieftain.
Padraig found a shovel and dug as deep as he could at the base of the tree, being careful not to damage the roots. When the space was deep enough to cover the box, he unwrapped his parcel and caressed the silken fur. It had her scent still after all these years. The perfume of the sea, wind, and sand. The feel of her, alive and warm.
His tears fell and wet the surface of the pelt like a baptism marking an end as well as a beginning. There would be no turning back.
With a prayer that she would forgive him, Padraig tucked his precious cache, more valued than any golden hoard, into the watertight box, sealed it with additional tar from his bucket, and nested it in the ground. As he patted the turf in place, he thought he heard a cry of despair come from the cottage.
Perhaps it was only the wind.
Chapter One
Today on the west coast of Ireland
Muireann Ní Mháille planted her booted feet shoulder width apart and braced against the wind that swept up the cliffs at the rim of Galway Bay. She breathed in, filling her lungs with the salt of sea spray and the sweet scent of turf, grass, and gorse. She closed her eyes and reminded herself there was nothing new about her task this morning. Generations of the Ó Mháille clan had challenged authority—Viking, Norman, the Roman church, and that English devil Cromwell, on the very ground she now trod.
She opened her eyes and backed away from the cliff edge.
The spring tide had ebbed with the new moon, and boats that would otherwise float upon the grey-green waters of Ballinacurragh harbor sat in a lopsided posture of repose until they would once again be pressed into service. The shrill squawk of seabirds split the silence as they wheeled, dove, and grabbed the random fish left behind by the receding foamy brine. And forever, the harbor seals hauled out for a long rest from fishing the seas, their round, spotted bellies turned up to catch the first rays of the sun.
It was almost time. The morning light warmed her face and spread its golden fingers across the paddocks where she had played since time forgotten.
A whitethorn tree grew a mere two meters from the road edge. She bent a branch and tied an amulet from a silken cord securely on the flowered limb. Before letting go, she rubbed her thumb over the spirals embedded in the disc and recalled the joy with which she’d carved it, enameled it, and fired it in her kiln. She liked to believe those spirals held power beyond understanding.
Muireann’s stomach twisted into a cramp as she tried in vain to shake off the image of industry, the rumble of lorries, and the eager grasp of a stranger’s hand on this fragile place. It would mean the loss of the white sand of the strand, the seabirds nesting in the rock ledges, and, more painful than she could imagine, the loss of her seals.
The demise of the old fortress would rip the heart out of a world she revered. Bertie’s land and the derelict cottage were the last impediment to the progress she feared. Each stone discarded wrenched her heart with a painful blow that left her cold and empty.
“Are ya ready for this?” Simon called as he slammed the door of his junk-heap excuse for a car. He approached with a box full of paraphernalia. Tools of the trade for any good solid insurrection, she reminded herself.
“Sure, have you ever known me to not be ready?” Her vocal chords tightened and her voice rose a major third from its usual mellow alto. Even in the chill of the June morning, anxious sweat trickled from her armpits. She regretted having a third cup of tea with her breakfast. Trepidation had clouded her mind and she’d forgotten to take a last trip to the toilet. But it would be a short day. Of this she was certain.
Simon pulled a stout chain and a large padlock out of his box.
“Give me a few minutes.” She took a breath and tried to settle her nerves. “Let people gather first.”
From the east, like visions out of the rising sun, folks started to appear. “Lovely day, Muireann O’Malley…Any day without rain is a good day, don’t ya know…Grand day for a mutiny.”
She hoped so.
They came forward hand in hand or singly, pink-cheeked youngsters and sallow-faced elders. With trinkets and tokens they approached.
Muireann scanned the crowd and immediately saw her mother. Dervla stepped forward with a small bundle of dried herbs and sea grass tied with a scrap of green ribbon and gently slipped it onto a branch of the tree.
“Where’s Da?” Muireann asked, though she already knew.
“Ah, a grá,” she whispered an endearment meant to soften the truth. He was home, disapproving of the crusade she had taken to heart.
“It’s all right, Ma,” she said in a useless attempt to hide her distress. She turned away from her mother as other neighbors and friends approached.
Each took his turn—a knitted baby sock, a rosary, paper birds folded in the Japanese style, a favorite thimble hung from a string, Emma Flaherty’s pop-bead necklace…treasures all. Soon the squat tree boasted a panoply of the hearts and souls of Ballinacurragh.
Muireann smiled and her lips quivered. Attempts at calm only prompted additional nervous body responses. The one thing she would not allow herself was tears. Strength was needed today, not emotional outbursts.
She held her hands out to Simon.
“Ya don’t have to do this, ya know,” he said.
The tension in her jaw created enough force to crumble teeth. She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to cool the anger that surged in her blood. “Just do it,” she urged.
Simon dragged the chain to circle the base of the tree. Thorns on the low branches caught his Aran jumper, snagging the wool and slowing his progress.
“Simon, would you get on with it?” She was rarely afraid and never lacking in pure nerve. Perhaps it was the exhilaration of protest prompting her heart to a frantic tempo.
He stood, brushed dirt and fallen white blossoms from his shoulders and knees. “Ach, there you go now.” Simon slipped both ends of the chain to the handcuffs and snapped them around Muireann’s wrists. He held up the handcuff key. “Where do you want this?”
“Feck it off the headland.”
“Are ya mental?”
“Probably.” She set her jaw.
“But—”
“I’ve got it under control.” The words had barely passed her vocal chords before she regretted snapping at him. Simon had been her best friend since before time began and, though he was as annoying as a hole in her wellies on a wet day, he always stood by her when she needed him. “I’m running out of time.”
She crept under the tree, awkward with her hands shackled, and settled with her head resting on a mound of grass. Thankfully, the sheep had avoided this area. It didn’t appeal to Muireann to lie down in a pile of sheep dung…not even for a good cause.
“Okay, everyone circle this tree and clasp hands now,” Simon ordered the crowd.
For a moment, Muireann felt just like a Druidic sacrifice—the virginal female—well, granted, that was a stretch—whitethorn tree, and loyal worshippers, a shield of protection for the holy ground under their feet.
Through the branches, the white blooms looked like clouds against the blue of a clear sky. Muireann closed her eyes and listened. The omnipresent rhythm of the sea, whispered voices speaking the Irish, the bark of a dog far in the distance, and the wind…always the wind. This was as silent as her world ever became.
Muireann refused to lift her head to look, but she clearly heard a car pull up, brakes squeal, a door slam.
“Muireann O’Malley, if you think you’re going to accomplish anything here today, you’re dumb as a bag of horseshoes!”
That gobshite, Ian Feeney. Well, she’d expected him and she was ready. She rolled her head to the side and saw his highly polished shoes and the cuffs of his expensive suit pants. Feeney’s bank held liens against most of Ballinacurragh, which certi
fied him a pig and a shitehawk as well. “That’s Ní Mháille to you and yours.”
“A name’s a name. In the Irish or the English, you’re still just one of the many O’Malleys in this part of the counties.” He snorted in disdain as though her name alone relegated her lower than pond scum.
“Ian, you have no right to be here,” she reminded. “This is private property.”
“Sure it is, but not yours. Simon Flaherty, get this woman out of here.”
“Can’t do that, Feeney. Don’t have the key...”
A vibration as subtle as the beat of a bird’s wing stirred the air next to her ear. The earth under her back quivered and then calmed. But, instead of quieting completely, the shaking advanced, tremor evolving into a steady rumble.
The thunderous reverberation reached its peak and ceased, leaving behind only a huffing diesel engine. Muireann turned to face the treads of a bulldozer, only inches away. She felt frail compared to the power of the big, yellow machine.
Mud-coated wellies hit the ground with a thump. “Ian, if ya think I’m takin’ out that fairy tree, yer as much a mentaler as the girl chained to it.”
Muireann recognized the gruff country accents of her neighbor, Mícheál Delaney.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Delaney,” Ian sneered. “I hired you to do this job—”
“You didn’t tell me it was this tree. You said come take out a tree. I’ve a family to consider…and a farm.” Delaney headed toward the big diesel.