Fairy Circle

by Johanna Frappier

  “Come, my Li, let us make up.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Be cheered. Although I play with Saffron in her dreams, she no longer remembers. Her days are filled with happiness. I have made it so.”

  ***

  Saffron was pissed. She was starting to have frequent dreams about Ny again. She slept a lot during the day and there he was - him and his gross girlfriends. But even worse, he’d show up while she was awake and give her visions…

  At night, when Jethin visited, Saffron found she could keep Ny at a distance.

  Ny felt the separation, but couldn’t figure where she went during those times. He assumed she was in a sleep-pattern that he could not penetrate. It never occurred to him to leave the fairy world to confirm this.

  Saffron was naïve to her power. Ny knew a human could open her mind to magic and knew too, that humans could close their minds to magic. He certainly would never let Saffron know she obtained the power to deny him. She was tapping into the power now, while she was with Jethin, which might have made her stronger, but tapping in unknowingly…that made her weaker.

  Alas, poor Markis got nothing. Saffron tried hard to appear attentive when he came to the store to visit. They had long talks together. He helped the girls by mopping the floor before the end of the shift. He’d get takeout and he and Saffron would share it out of the same carton while he sat cross-legged out back, doing his school work.

  But Markis often got the feeling that Saffron wasn’t really listening to him, as if he was so boring her mind had to wander when they were together. The circles under her eyes were gone. So that was good. Her hair was shiny and braided in a cool way, but she seemed more out of it now than ever before. To make things worse, Saffron would suddenly realize what she was doing, perk up, and slather Markis with put-on, over-the-top sweetness. It was humiliating to Markis to chase this “preoccupied” girl; it hacked at his pride and left him with a cloying, pathetic feeling.

  At night, Saffron cleared her mind of everything so she could relax and let Jethin’s voice soothe her, restore her, and give her the strength to face another day. Jethin loved telling Saffron stories about his life, before and after the change.

  He told her he was born in Ireland in 1698 and was the son of a poor farmer. Potatoes, of all things. He rolled his eyes. “Whenever I tell this story, I feel like someone should break out some bleeding violins.” With an indignant sniff, he continued his tale. He felt his youth had been uneventful. Sometimes they had enough food to get by, and sometimes he was so hungry he gnawed at the corner of his blanket as he lay upon his infested, grass-stuffed mattress. But, that was only during the very worst of times. For the most part, his large family could scrape together something to eat.

  Something had been bothering Saffron, so she interrupted him. He seemed irritated by her interruption and listened to her question with disdain. After he heard her out it was all he could do not to jump up and slap her silly mouth. She had asked about his origins, his skin color.

  Saffron’s face was twisted in confusion. “Irish? Ireland? Dude, aren’t you like black or something? I thought you were from Puerto Rico.”

  Jethin ground his teeth as he fought for control. How he despised this stupid question, only the dead knew, for he had killed everyone who had asked him up until this point. “Saffron,” he shook his head and raised his eyebrows as he stared at the apple tree. “I don’t know why,” he spoke slowly, as if to a child or an impaired person, “but you can find Irish aplenty that look like me. Go look it up.”

  “Well, don’t you know your own lineage? I think it’s cool the way you look. Don’t you know why you look like that?” She had obviously missed his ill-disguised malice.

  He clucked his tongue, looked at her in amazement. “I glad you find me fascinating in this way,” lie, “may I go on with my story?” She shrugged. He saw fear dawning in her eyes.

  He told her his family was devoutly Catholic. Every Saturday night, they went down to the river that rolled past their cottage and bathed in the frigid waters to rid them of the week’s dirt. Every Sunday they spent at church praying, attending mass and celebrating whatever holy day was currently on the calendar. He moaned that there was always a holy day on the calendar.

  “I know! Maybe you’re a gypsy!” She smiled at her stunning thought.

  Jethin spoke low and dangerous, “Saffron, do you think you can shut up now?” She sat back and pursed her lips.

  Jethin readjusted himself on the peak of the roof, rested his forearms on his knees, and left his big hands dangling. He began one more time.

  His brothers and sisters accepted the poor potato life, with little complaint. After all, they would say, what else could they possibly do? They accepted themselves as simple folk, trying to live a harsh life as simply as they could.

  Jethin was not so accepting. He felt he was meant for something more. He would not accept this dirty, poor, heavily-burdened existence. He was constantly looking for a means of escape. He was a thorn in his parents’ side. He was the most beautiful boy that anyone had ever laid eyes on - the meanest as well. He brooded, day in and day out, about their wasted lives, their embarrassing heritage. His mother never let him go into town if she could help it, for as soon as Jethin were to spy a gentleman there or someone well-to-do, his brooding turned into a white-hot rage of insatiable jealousy. His father took the belt to him on many drunken occasions, accusing him of ungodly and uppity behavior.

  By age fifteen, Jethin felt he was man enough to leave home and change his life. In doing so, he would change the lives of everyone in his family. Even though they appeared content with their miserable existence, he was embarrassed for them and determined to pull them from the muck.

  He tied some potatoes and carrots up in a cloth, and with nothing but his bare feet and the worn clothes on his back, he was ready to set out at dawn the following day.

  During the night, his father died. He had let himself waste away over the past many years, poisoning himself with drink. It was a family concoction - a vodka - born of his own potatoes. His father had once been a proud man of a well-to-do wool-exporting family. Jethin’s grandfather had given his son half of his flock when Gethin’s father married in 1697. One year later, their first son was born. Jethin, they named him, after an estranged uncle who, most surprisingly, had bequeathed them a fortune in pearls from his maritime adventures. In 1699, English Parliament passed the Woolen Act. It stated that Ireland could no longer export woolen goods to any country whatsoever. Within a few short years, Jethin’s father had found himself and all of his relatives in complete poverty. Wool had been his family’s trade for generations. They hardly knew what else to do. Jethin’s father decided to turn to potato farming, hoping for the best. Until the day he died, a broken man with a broken heart, he never again experienced “the best.” He left behind his wife and seven children living in a cottage that was really no more than a shack on the side of a rocky, sloping dale. Jethin’s only brothers were four and seven years old. Jethin became the man of the family. He was miserable, and sickened at the thought that he would now have to stay and provide for his family from this barren, hilly land. His worldly dreams were dashed. Two years passed. Jethin toiled silently on the rocky farm. He worked from before sunup till after sundown, and took his meal only when the others had gone to sleep. He spoke very rarely.

  One day, a peddler came along the rocky path that lined the sea. She picked her way carefully, so as not to stumble and roll down to the icy waves. She was young, voluptuous, and much too intoxicating for a mere peddler. She made her way under the hot sun, out over the dry dirt where Jethin worked alone. He discouraged his brothers and sisters from loitering around him and they heeded him without question.

  Jethin was monotonously hoeing the parched and caked earth. When the tool slipped, the skin of his finger split from the nail. He cursed and stared at the wound as the blood mixed with the dirt permanently lodged under his nails. Her shadow fell across him. He did not look up. “Ay
e?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Jethin looked up, annoyed, but immediately his quick temper was curbed. His dry, dusty mouth began to water.

  The peddler could see why her mistress wanted this boy. Now that she got a good look at him, she wanted him for herself. But she knew better - were she to move on him, she could then welcome death with open arms. He had soft eyes, big, faded-pink lips, and ruddy cheeks. He was dirty, true, but the way his thick, black eyelashes closed over his flinty, dark eyes was so beautiful and perfect, that one could look far, far beyond the dirt. The peddler smiled provocatively. She threw her hair back over her shoulder and stood a little straighter.

  Jethin was already half mad with too much sun; he had to look away before the sight of her healthy bosom put him over the edge. Her exotic beauty pulled at his eyes, demanded his attention. He had never seen such a woman before. But, unlike his brothers and sisters, Jethin was no country simpleton. “You are no peddler; state your business.” He tried to give his voice a strong, deep edge, to seem commanding. He needed to get hold of himself and bury this sudden urge to throw the girl, whoever she really was, over his shoulder and carry her off into the woods. He knew just the tree he would put her on, too. Don’t be a fool; he told himself, the most beautiful blossom hides the bee.

  “I am a seller of wares, Sir. I wish to show you my wares.” She had the voice of a siren with a little nettle and a little honey. She had no wares about her.

  Jethin snorted. He was no ‘Sir,’ and she knew it. He hoped he appeared bored and annoyed. But his lust was growing. He wanted her to go away. He was afraid she would bring him trouble. Somehow, she meant to bring him trouble. He did not trust her, but he wanted her all the same. Out here on the farm, he did not chance any meetings with any girls, never mind ones the likes of this. He was losing his fight with control.

  The peddler watched him squirm.

  Jethin looked up and noticed her smug, satisfied grin. He jumped to his feet and loomed before her, snorting like a bull. “State your business or be off!”

  Her bright smile lost its shine. The smirk remained all the same. “I am here on behalf of my mistress, Jethin. She would like very much to meet you.”

  “Who is your mistress? How do you know my name?”

  The peddler rolled her eyes and considered a distant hill. The wind, wet and briny, played with her dark hair. “Why is it they always believe it shocking that a person can find out their names?” Her muttering was almost incoherent.

  Jethin narrowed his eyes. “Eh?”

  “If you would like to be enlightened, meet my mistress in O’Donnell’s tonight, upon the witching hour.” She took Jethin’s hand and placed it on the flat of her chest beneath her long, sun-kissed throat, and just above the swell of her breasts. “And do say yes, Jethin - you appear to be absolutely delicious.” She laughed. Almost cackled.

  Jethin ripped his hand away as if her skin had burned him and silently pointed her back down the path. He wiped his hand on his shirt as he watched her hips saunter off. He licked his lips and swallowed his saliva before he could drool.

  As usual, he took his dinner late in the night. Sometime around eleven, he set off for O’Donnell’s; two miles away across the moonlit moors.

  His mother watched him leave but said nothing. He was a man and could do as he pleased. She rolled over on her sparse mattress, being careful not to jostle the children, and fell into a fitful sleep. She dreamed of blood and unending suffering and of corpses that walked in the gloaming. Pale and sweating, she awoke hours later, fearing for Jethin’s soul. She prayed.

  When Jethin entered the tavern, it was booming with men’s voices and bustling with men’s business. It was so crowded and smoky, Jethin could hardly see. It made things much more difficult that he didn’t know who he was looking for. His feet stuck to the spilled muck on the wide, uneven boards as he limped through the crowd and suffered elbows and bumps from indifferent drunks. Just as his temper was about to flare, he saw her. It had to be her.

  She was in a booth in a dark corner, staring evenly at him and smiling. She was out of place in this shady pub. She was exquisite - a rare flower in a barn among dirty beasts. Didn’t she fear for her safety? Jethin admired her fearlessness.

  He strolled to her table, pressed his thighs forward on the table edge, folded his arms across his chest and tried to stare her down. When she didn’t waver, he held her gaze as he slid onto the seat across from her. They remained this way, as if in a trance, for quite some time.

  One of the locals had long since taken notice of the crazy heifer in the corner. His drunken, fish-eyes were pale and mean. He swiped his thin hair off of his high forehead. The loud, red veins webbing his bulbous nose warned of a seasoned drunk, but Jethin was oblivious of him, wrapped up in the fascinating woman before him. The drunk was annoyed by the brazen action of the wench who had entered his pub and who was now staring gaily at the young pup - that impoverished slob - who lived on the edge of town. The drunk tripped over to the booth to have some fun with them before getting rid of them both.

  “Wastin’ your time with a little lad, luv? You look like you need a man!” He cupped his groin, jiggered his lumpy sack with his sausage fingers, then reached for her as his friends goaded him on, hooting and howling and jeering. Nobody stood to stop him. This was more fun than usual.

  The woman broke her stare with Jethin in time to grab the man’s hand before it could touch her skin. She looked into the eyes of the man, a coy smile upon her lips. Jethin was awestruck. She wasn’t afraid! He watched her closely as she watched the foul-smelling man. Suddenly, her eyes widened and their color changed from green to black - a deep, dark black so solid there was no difference between her pupils or the rest of her eyes - just great, black orbs that seemed to bulge out of her head. Her grip tightened on the man. He keened and moaned quietly. He tried to pull his hand back, but she held firm. Jethin could not believe his eyes as he looked down at the growing wet mark at the man’s crotch. Finally, the woman released him, and the man ran out of the pub and into the moonlit night, weeping like a child. She faced Jethin and folded her hands in her lap. The man’s friends muttered and turned away from the two odd people in the booth. The men made motions with their hands to ward off the evil eye and the ancient gods of the pagans.

  “Are you the Devil?” Jethin, having spent so much time listening to Catholic priests, knew a great deal about the Devil - all the townspeople did. Her laugh was soft and warm. She reached across the table for Jethin’s hand. Jethin flinched and snatched his hand away. “Ah…no. I don’t want to become like that chap who just left.”

  “I would never do that to you, Jethin, just as you would never treat me as that man did just now. True?”

  “Of course, it’s true. I would never do that to you. But, tell me, who are you?”

  “My name is Cecilia. I live my life as I wish. Will you join me?”

  Jethin took in her graceful hands, her long throat, her high bosom and inviting mouth. “Of course.”

  Saffron made a barking laugh. “You are kidding, right? I mean, she was the one, the one that made you a vampire?”

  “Yes.” His tone was flat. “What do you mean, ‘you’re kidding’?”

  “My God, Jethin! Somebody asks you to give up your entire life and you just agree with them like they’re asking you to choose between regular or diet?”

  Jethin displayed great patience. “Saffron, tell me, what life was I giving up? A life of poverty? Of starvation? Of pestilence? Of disease? Of loneliness? Of failure? Which one of these things was I was supposed to deny her for?”

  “And you never regretted your choice? Are you sure?”

  He didn’t look her in the eye when he answered. He turned his head toward the sea, where he saw nothing but blackness, then tilted his eyes toward the moon. “Never.” It was only the faintest whisper. It was an odd sound filled with an unfathomable amount of sadness, which Saffron missed altogether.

  She was
wrapped in her own emotions; his subtleties blew by her like white noise. “I still can’t believe you changed your entire existence over some fluttering lashes and a nice set of wahoos.” She wondered if her own wahoos would one day hold such power. She ran her hand down the board and tennis balls that were her chest. She should Google when wahoo development stopped.

  “You have it all wrong. Maybe I was somewhat attracted to her in the beginning, but our relationship quickly developed into something more complex, something more powerful. She told me she was the lonely widow of a dead count. She used his fortune to travel the world and hopefully bring light to her sad, desperate life.”

  Jethin continued to pick his way through his tale.

  Countess Cecilia asked Jethin if he would be interested in being in her employ. She told him she would pay him well and reward his good work with ample prizes, money and jewels. Jethin agreed wholeheartedly. But, for once in his life, it was not the monetary reward that lured him, but the unearthly beauty of this woman.

  She dipped her finger in her wine, which was cheap and soured. The barkeep told her she was lucky to get any such thing in his bar and not to complain. She ran her finger around and around in the liquid. It was as dark as blood. She tasted a drop by pressing it to her lips and darting her tongue to catch it, wincing at the bitter flavor. She pushed the glass away.

  Jethin didn’t notice the wince. He was lost back where the tongue darted to grab the drop from the lips. Lost in lust, lost in love. From that point on, he couldn’t save himself. (He didn’t tell Saffron this part.) Countess Cecilia reached below the table, within the flow of her robes, and retrieved a black velvet bag heavy with gold and silver and foreign coins. She beckoned Jethin to give her his hand, which he did now without hesitation. As she placed the satchel in his ruddy palm, she stroked his wrist. Smiling prettily, she bid him adieu. She let him know that her servant, Claudia, would inform him on the morrow of some jobs he might perform for her.