Concentric Circles

by Aithne Jarretta

He pulled the wooden knob to open the door. Its hinges squeaked in protest, sending waves of unpleasant vibrations up his arm. “Ugh.” He jiggled the door, loosening the mechanism and retrieved two tankards from the interior. Passing the wall shelves on his way to the long oak table, Meekal grabbed a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt Scotch whisky. With a grunt, he plopped on the bench and poured.

  The golden ambrosia spilled into the antique tankards, filling the air with the scent of potent Scottish history. Meekal shoved one drink across the table to his many times great grandfather, and then buried his face, drinking deeply. He refused to choke on the brew, allowing its burn to pass over his tongue and down his throat. “Ah!” he said, gasping with the last swallow. “How many ways can a Scot say pished, Grandfather? Let’s count them.” He poured another round.

  Black Bryan’s brows came down into a tight furrow. “Blootered? A dinnie ken,” he answered, slipping into a wide brogue for full effect. “Nev’r counted. Yer mum’ll flay us both if ye get drunk beyond reason.”

  Meekal snorted, tossed back the tankard and emptied it. “That’s two. Safe here.” He hiccupped, stood and shook his jacket off, allowing it to pool in the floor before the fire. “Ole Syther the Quitch can’t pass through the megaliths to get in here. You know that.”

  “Aye,” Black Bryan said, sternly. “That’s still no reason for recklessness. Steamin will be another one.”

  “Never heard that one.” A flash of heat raced under his skin. Meekal pulled his shirt apart and added it to the coat on the floor. He turned and passed a hand in front of the flames, lowering the fire’s potency. “Hot,” he muttered and belched. A rough chortle escaped. “Rec’n I see your point,” he slurred. “Steamin. Pished.”

  Black Bryan rolled his eyes and stood. “Ye should eat something. Drinking fine Scottish whisky on an empty stomach, yer already pished. Two tankards. Where’s the family resemblance?” he teased, walking around to the magically supplied larder.

  “Resemblance is here,” Meekal said, pointing to his face. “And here.” He held his palm over his heart. “When it first happened, I wanted to kick your arse for not telling me.” He eyed his grandfather while he threw some food together. Fresh baked bread and rabbit stew warmed with a charm.

  Black Bryan set a steaming bowl and plate with slices of bread in front of him. “Eat. Ye’ll feel better.”

  “Might still do it,” he grumbled, wavering over the food. “Not hungry. Thirsty.” He reached for the tantalizing green bottle.

  It vanished.

  “Dammit!” he roared, rising with furious anger, ready to retrieve another bottle. The bench legs scraped the stone floor, grating on his spine.

  A strong hand stayed his progress. “Not now. Ye need to eat and get some sleep.”

  “Why’s it like this?” He tapped his heart in rhythm to the pulsation racing within. “Separate ways. That’s what Shayla said. We need to go our separate ways to make sure this bond is real? Why’d she say that, Grandfather?” Despite life’s experiences, magical or otherwise, he felt like a kid. The sound of his own voice didn’t change the initial impressions stirring in his heart and mind. “I love her. Why doesn’t she understand that?”

  “She understands, son. Ye have to remember, everything happened in rapid succession. Chaeli told me Shayla grew up without being taught her magical heritage. I believe that’s the real source of her leaving. Magic, death and love. It’ll take some time. She’s bonded to ye, just as ye are to her. It’ll come together when the time’s right.”

  “Pish.” Meekal snored, face flattened against the tabletop into an opened mouth caricature of himself.

  * * * * * *

  “Ah, my son. The forlorn heart. Love is a splendor, once ye accept its potency.” Black Bryan tapped his own chest, and then rested his fingers on the pendant under his shirt. “I never told ye because I could only hope ye’d be so lucky.”

  The concentric circles sterling piece against his skin marked him as Fae royalty and provided the only means for separation from his soul love that proved bearable.

  He shook Meekal’s shoulder. “Up ye go, son. A man must walk to his own bed regardless of how buckled he gets.”

  Meekal shook with drunken laughter, momentarily coming out of his stupor. “Buckled? Geez Bry, you’re a walkin’ thesaurus.” He belched, sending the recycled aromatic Glenfiddich outward.

  “Regardless, it’s still just plain ole drunk. Chaeli will flay us both.”

  Meekal grinned drunkenly and pressed an index finger to pursed lips. “Our secret.”

  Black Bryan pulled Meekal’s arm over his shoulder and hauled his grandson upward and toward the footbridge. “One foot in front…”

  His toe caught on the wood planking, Meekal nearly toppled into the burn.

  “Ho no! I don’t desire a bath,” Bryan growled, bracing them against near disaster.

  “Luv her. Gonna kick yer arse. Mornin’. After sleep.”

  “Fine. It’s a date, as they say.” He braced them at the bottom of the stairs, gazing upward, calculating the hazards of dragging Meekal aloft.

  “What cha waiting for?” Meekal took the first four steps fine. On the fifth, he teetered and grabbed the rail with one hand while the other clasped Bryan’s plaid draped over his shoulder.

  “Sure wish ye were smaller,” Bryan groused, putting his shoulder into it and hauling Meekal up the final steps.

  Meekal chortled and stumbled through the master bedchamber door and collapsed on the oversized bed. All with Black Bryan’s help of course.

  Bryan paused, gazing down at Meekal. “Ye would come home. Do ye realize that’s what Shayla did?”

  “Oof,” Meekal said, pressing his face into the pillow.

  Black Bryan spread a quilt over his erstwhile grandson and exited the chamber, closing the door softly.

  Back in the kitchen, he bent to pick up Meekal’s leather coat and shirt. Something fell from the inside pocket, clattering across the stone floor and ending under the table. With a ‘come here’ motion with his fingers, the tiny car zoomed into his palm. He scrutinized it for damage. “Fine.” He placed the small Jaguar on the mantle and hung the shirt and coat on a wooden peg. “Place needs some modernizing if we’re going to be here long.”

  He hesitated, but then decided to make the changes. A wave of a hand and the kitchen became a modern standard. He turned the coffee maker on and allowed it to process in real time. “If he doesn’t like the changes, then he can revert.”

  * * * * * *

  Dry mouth and bloody sunshine. Meekal moved, pulling the pillow over his head, blocking the brilliant blaze of daylight. The simple action caused sharp, jagged pain to thunder through his skull. He groaned and tried to melt into the mattress.

  A scraping screech penetrated the air. He jerked up, roaring in pain, voice in opposition to the sound of bagpipes echoing across the glen. He gripped his head and made a feeble attempt to sit with steadiness. “Gonna kick your arse,” he growled.

  The rhythm of calda-wailing picked up.

  He grabbed a tankard from the bedside table and flung it out the window, leaving a trail of water in its wake.

  Momentary silence. Then it all began again.

  “Bloody hell. Old bastard.”

  The floor beneath his feet wavered. “Be still,” he admonished, wagging his finger at the floor’s rudeness. He stood, knees shaking and head spinning. The door in the corner, leading to the head swung open easily. He froze.

  “Bastard. Been playing, I see.” He stepped into the marble ensconced, modern bathroom and relieved himself. With a sigh of release, he closed his eyes, and smiled the smile of wicked playfulness. One thought.

  The air went out of the infernal instrument below in the dooryard. Peaceful silence fell within the glen of Raven’s Gate.

  A quick shower, several gulps of black coffee left on the dresser by grandfather, and then he headed down the stairs to fulfill a promise.

  Crisp cold air brushed his face when
he opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine.

  Black Bryan stood ready within the duel circle. A remnant of by gone days, it imprinted the earth with a circular stone foundation, marked with the crossing of an X through its center. The blood of many had stained the ground within the sanctified space. Justice and truth ruled the outcome from conflict carried out within the stones.

  “You’re late,” Black Bryan stated. Dressed in leather breeks and white poet shirt, he looked the part of an ancient gentleman warrior—clean, but never the less an effective warrior.

  “Fitting,” Meekal said raking his grandfather with an appraising glance. “Weapons?”

  “Fists,” Bryan said with a grin.

  He snorted. “Fine.” He squinted at his grandfather. “Knives,” he said, suspicion overcoming his thoughts. Two blades escaped Bryan’s clothing and shimmered across the circle. “Thought so,” Meekal said, grabbing them from the air. “Never try to fool a trickster, Bry.”

  “Ah, young one. Ye have much to learn.”

  Meekal swung, making contact with his firm jaw. The hit wasn’t satisfying enough. He lunged. They rolled, swearing, fists flying.

  “Corbie!”

  “Not a crow! Bastard! Damn fidget!” Meekal ducked a fist. “Bloody bagpipes!”

  “Grown in the low lands. No proper respect ‘n appreciation!”

  He rolled to his feet, and then hop-scotched over Bryan’s swinging leg. “On your feet!”

  They circled, breathing heavily, eyeballing their opponent, waiting for an opening.

  “What do you expect to accomplish?” Bryan asked.

  “Said I was gonna kick your arse. First, for not enlightening me about the bond, and then for that infernal racket you call music.”

  “Some things can’t be put into words, son.” Bryan jumped forward, fist making contact with Meekal’s gut. “Love’s one.”

  “What, no upper cut to the chin?” Meekal taunted, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. “Don’t go easy, Grandfather. Old age catching up?”

  “Age be damned.” He swung.

  Meekal blocked the attempt with his forearm and introduced his other fist to Bryan’s gut, followed through with the uppercut right on schedule.

  A vice grip encircled his knee. It pulled.

  He landed on his arse with an expelled breath of air, staring up at Black Bryan’s lopsided grin.

  “How’s your arse, son?” His brows rose in inquiry, waiting.

  Meekal glared up at his ancestor, but then the anger dissipated, melting into the ground around him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Already answered that. The bond can’t be put into words. Even by a poet. Besides, I could only hope you’d be so lucky.”

  He plopped backward, staring up at the cerulean blue sky above. “How am I going to defeat Syther with this distraction? I can’t even think straight without her.”

  “Who says you have to?”

  “Huh?”

  Black Bryan laughed, held his hand out to assist Meekal up and winked. “Ye do what any sane man would do in yer shoes. Go after her. Get up off yer arse and go get ready. Ye’ll be needing another shower,” he said, jesting.

  Meekal clasped the proffered hand and rose, heart beating with a new steadiness and determination.

  [14] The Gorge

  Shayla sat huddled on airline seat, number 27A contemplating personal misery. She hated flying. The idea that she had flown so far away from home irked her on this return trip. She sighed and squirmed in an effort to get comfortable.

  This was the last part of her journey, New York to Cleveland. If she did not start moving her feet, she would have problems walking. The pilot had just started the plane’s circle and descent to Cleveland Hopkins Airport. Exasperation escaped in the form of a slow breath. Almost home.

  “Long trip, deary?”

  Ugh! What is it with people calling someone they don’t know terms of endearment? She let her thought trail away into oblivion as she plastered a sweet smile on her face. “From Bristol.”

  The silver haired woman sitting next to her gave Shayla a friendly wink. “Ooh. Beautiful place, Bristol. Did you go to London while you were over there? Did you see Big Ben? Windsor Palace?”

  Shayla wiggled one more time to stretch her long legs. “No, I didn’t go to London. I was in the UK for other reasons.” She knew she was being abrupt. Turning away, she studied the landscape below, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Jacob’s Field.

  There it was in all its fall glory. The diamond shaped field lacked its usual cut green lines, grass dull in preparation of Ohio’s winter blasts. The toothbrush lights marked the stadium’s perimeter with pride. Shayla bit her lip, hearing the screams of the crowds, an echo in her mind. The first game she truly remembered was in 1997.

  While she had been a kid, jubilant over the Tribe’s successful season, Meekal had been in the midst of turmoil and hiding from an evil wizard. She brushed fingers across her cheek. The moisture there was due to the sentimental view below. There had been many long happy hours spent in those ball field stands.

  A soft laugh escaped the woman beside her. “Ah, so you are a fan. I couldn’t help but notice the glare you gave that young man wearing the Yankee’s cap.”

  She arched her brow and turned to the woman. “How can someone live in northeast Ohio and not be an Indian’s fan? Do you live here?” Curiosity eclipsed annoyance at being disturbed while the plane continued its descent.

  The lady smiled. “My grandchildren live here. They’re fans.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York.” She gave Shayla a smirk. “Been a Yankee fan since the early sixties. Can you imagine how it feels to be so surprised to find your granddaughter’s favorite team is the Cleveland Indians? She’s about your age. Rooted for them in ninety-seven. Thought I was going to have to hide her in the closet.”

  Shayla could not repress a giggle.

  “That’s better. You have such a pretty smile, you shouldn’t be so sad. Is there a problem? Is that why you’ve come home?”

  “No. Just coming back from vacation.”

  “Ah, then there’s something else that causes you sadness.”

  Tears blurred her vision.

  With an understanding nod, the woman said, “Love is very powerful. You should follow your heart.”

  “Sometimes that’s harder than you’d think.” She turned back to the window, gnawing on her lip.

  Minutes later, the plane touched down with a jolt at the coming together of machine and tarmac.

  Shayla braced herself. The fast journey along the runway lasted only moments, and then they pulled up to the gate. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, there was a flurry of activity. Passengers began to stand, gather their belongings out of the overhead compartments and wait in the isle for the doors to open. Shayla reached up and pulled her black bag down. Its red bandanna marked it as being hers in the sea of similar carryon bags. She grunted and pulled a bag down belonging to the silver haired lady.

  “Thank you, deary.”

  “You're welcome, ma’am.”

  * * * * * *

  A mass muddle of people, heads wall to wall, crowded the concourse with bustling activity and mixed conversations. Many leaving Cleveland, others arriving to be greeted by friends and family, children mingling among the grownups.

  Bags on wheels, bags on shoulders and the airport cart zooming through the confusion gave the terminal a distinct feel of a world set apart from all else. Shayla looked around at the crowd congested on the lower level. Passengers were the only ones permitted to the gates due to security measures. Over many heads, Shayla caught a glimpse of her friend Barb wearing a red bandana in her hair—placed there on purpose so she would stand out in the masses.

  Barb waved excitedly.

  A sense of relief and warmth spread through her. Before she knew it, Shayla engulfed her best friend in a tight homecoming hug.

  Laughing, Barb pulled away. “O
oh. Shay, you look so great. How can you spend so much time on a plane and still look fresh?”

  “Ugh.” She grunted and tried to shake off travel exhaustion. “I feel horrible. I hate flying. Next time I decide to take a trip like that, remind me.”

  “Oh my God!” Barb stared at her hand. She reached forward and grabbed it. “When did you get this awesome tattoo? Isn’t it the same symbol as on the Well?”

  Shayla pulled her hand free from scrutiny. She glanced away, looking anywhere but her friend’s face. “I got it in Glastonbury. Later, I’ll tell you later. Can we go to baggage claim? I’d like to get home and soak in a hot tub.”

  “Sure.” Barb paused, giddy with happiness, to study her closely. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged, still avoiding Barb’s eyes. Life long friends, Shayla did not enjoy the discomfort of keeping secrets. “Like I said, later,” she murmured.

  * * * * * *

  Shayla inhaled deeply, pulling in the fall scents of the Gorge Park. She wanted to remember forever the way this place of such awesome beauty felt and smelled. Standing in Mary Campbell’s cave, brought back so many memories. It washed over her with the same power expressed by the falls below. Prior to her trip, she had felt the energies of the park and its glacier carved stones. Now, after the events in Glastonbury, she experienced their vibrations more deeply.

  “DO NOT FEAR, PRETTY ONE. YE WILL BE HAPPY IF YE LET YERSELF BE.” CIARANLEXISS said from her boot.

  Shayla sighed, looking around. They were alone. She couldn’t help it. Talking to an artifact still came over as more than a little insane. “I guess happiness seems elusive. How does someone leave their home with the possibility of never coming back?”

  “YE WILL NEVER TRULY LEAVE. YE CAN ALWAYS COME BACK.”

  “Humph.” Shayla began walking along the leaf blown trail, stepping around roots and large stones. “Humans have a saying. ‘You can never go back.’ It’s already different, CIARAN.” She decided the shortened name felt comfortable rolling off her tongue. “What am I going to tell mom? What about my friends? I could care less about my job. I can get a job anywhere.”