Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series)

by Caroline Greyling

  ‘We are not as we seem. No one in this hall is human… and neither are you.’

  She pauses, waiting for a reaction but I just stare at her. I’ve heard wrong, I’m sure. She didn’t just say what I think she did – did she?

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ I ask, glancing around the room at the others.

  Nan smiles, as though she knows what I’m thinking.

  ‘We’re not human,’ she repeats.

  I give a nervous giggle and look around the horse-shoe again but nobody else is laughing.

  ‘Not human?’ I ask, ‘you’re saying we are…what? Aliens?’

  ‘No, dear, that’s silly,’ Nan says with a laugh and somewhere to her right there is a snicker. I start to relax but she continues: ‘Our kind was here long before the human race. This is our planet and we are the original custodians.’

  ‘Our kind? Custodians?’ I whisper, feeling my shoulders tense up again, ‘What are you talking about, Nan?’

  ‘Custodian is one of the words we use to describe ourselves,’ Nan says. ‘But there are many others too, by which we are called: ‘caomhnoir’, ‘daoine maithe’, ‘coimeadai’, and of course, the name we prefer, ‘Maor’ which means ‘steward’.’ Nan gestures toward the door. ‘The humans have another name for us: ‘Sidhe’.’

  I glance in the direction of her gesture, to the world outside where the sun shines brightly and everything is as it should be, then I turn back to Nan, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question and she replies:

  ‘It means fairy.’

  The hall is silent, strangely void of the laughter I am expecting.

  Fairy.

  A hundred images race through my mind. Are these people insane?

  What they are talking about exists only in the imaginations of children and story-tellers. Have all the fairytales done something to Nan’s brain? Is there something wrong with my brain that’s causing me to hallucinate? Is this some kind of cult they are trying to drag me into? My eyes dart toward the door again and I consider making a run for it.

  ‘Shaylee,’ Nan says, in a placatory tone, ‘I know it sounds like something from a fairytale and you have pictures of one-inch, winged creatures with wands in your mind. That may be the image humanity has created of us through folklore but I assure you, reality is far less romantic. Please, just listen to what I have to say.’

  Something in her voice gives me pause. I relax slightly on the edge of my chair and Nan nods, and continues:

  ‘The Maor have existed since the beginning of time. We are the keepers of the earth, stewards of Mother Nature. There are many Maor Glen’s around the world, each Glen is responsible for the forest, desert, mountain or river valley in which they live and work. The Maor you see in this room are the keepers of the Forest of Dean.

  ‘We do not have wings, magic fairy dust or wands. We do, however, possess talents. Each talent is different from one to the next, some have one and a rare few have multiple. These talents enable us to protect the fauna and flora of our forest; to ensure its continued existence and our own survival, which are co-dependent. ’

  I lean back in my chair, my expression a combination of confusion and skepticism. Nan scans my face and turns to the young woman seated on her right.’

  ‘Sarah?’ The woman stands, tosses her strawberry curls back over her shoulder and gives me a disdainful look. She narrows her green eyes into slits and raises her hands, palm up toward the window. I frown at her, and follow her gaze.

  Outside, I see only the two birch trees closest to the window, their broad leaves glinting in the bright sunlight. The leaves begin to move, rustling in restless protest against the shadows enveloping them. In the space of a few seconds, the sky above turns an ominous dark-grey and the sun disappears. There is a clap of thunder and it begins to rain, a moderate shower that gently sways the boughs of the trees outside.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ I whisper, picturing the brilliant blue sky that I’d admired just moments ago. There had not been a single cloud in sight, let alone a storm but my mind refuses to consider the possibility that Sarah could influence the weather. Only God can make it rain.

  Sarah glances at me, purses her lips and returns her concentration to the window. She raises her hand, like a conductor increasing the tempo of the orchestra. There is a loud clap of thunder, a flash of lightening and a torrent of rain falls from the sky. The branches of the trees outside whip in the howling wind and bolts of lightning dart in zigzags across the angry sky.

  ‘That’s enough, Sarah,’ Nan says after a moment, a hint of censure in her voice.

  Sarah looks at Nan with a contrite expression, curls her fingers in and just like that, it stops raining. The clouds dissolve into blue sky, the sun comes out of hiding and the only evidence of the storm that has passed is the sparkle of sunlight reflecting off the water-logged leaves.

  My mind begins to race. How did she do that? What if it’s true? What does this mean for me? The rush of thoughts makes my head spin and I lift one hand to my temple, then I drop it and stare at my wrist. The tiny scar there looks the same as always, but it has begun to tingle strangely.

  ‘Speed, healing, flight,’ Nan says, drawing my attention away from the scar, ‘manipulating the elements of water, wind, earth and fire - these are just some of the many talents we possess. Each Maor has a talent that is manifested between the ages of eighteen and twenty five. Each talent must be practiced and developed and could take years to master.’

  Nan’s eyes take on a glassy sheen as she stares out the window across the room.

  ‘Our ancestor’s talents were more powerful than ours, far more intense and numerous. Over the centuries though, our kind have inter-bred with humans. It was to be expected, with us living amongst them in secrecy. Human blood has mixed with Maor blood and with each generation, our talents have diluted with our genes.’

  She looks sad, but brightens a little as her eyes come to rest on me.

  ‘Some of our ancestral monarchs realized the effect that inter-breeding was having on our kind, and in turn, on our planet. They managed to keep the blood lines relatively pure in recent centuries through the blood promise ritual.’

  Nan’s eyes flicker to the opposite end of the horse-shoe but before I can follow her line of sight, she looks back at me and explains:

  ‘The blood promise is a sacred ritual whereby two children are bound together as a promise by their parents that they will one day marry and procreate.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, ‘do you mean an arranged marriage?’

  Nan frowns at the obvious abhorrence in my tone.

  ‘There’s more to it than that. The dilution of our genes has weakened our talents and is having disastrous consequences on our planet. Without us, the earth will die. It is the responsibility of our monarchs to ensure our survival. This brings us to you, Shaylee.’

  Nan stands, takes both my hands in hers and tugs me up beside her.

  ‘For centuries, our kind has been waiting for you. You are the fulfillment of the prophecy. You are the chosen monarch!’

  Chapter 9

  Overwhelmed

  Tastes like: Chocolate sauce over peppermint crisp tart.

  Smells like: Too much aftershave.

  Sounds like: The cacophony of voices on the stock exchange floor.

  Feels like: A cashmere polo-neck too tight around your neck.

  Looks like: A rock-star amid paparazzi.

  The room has begun to tilt. I need to sit down, breathe and give my body and mind a moment to catch up with what’s happening – with everything that has happened the past few days since my birthday. I take a step back and feel my chair against the back of my knees but before I can sink down onto it, I hear another chair scrape against the floor on the opposite side of the horse-shoe and look up.

  My eyes meet his and for a moment, time seems to stand still and I forget to breathe. There is something so familiar about the golden-haired young man, who stares at me as he glides panther-like across the
floor. He stops on the other side of the table that separates us and leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on mine.

  ‘Can I see it?’ he whispers. His voice is like a touch, silky and smooth, cultured with a hint of Irish accent. He doesn’t specify what it is, but I know. Of its own accord, my hand moves to lift my crochet shirt and cami, just high enough to expose the grey butterfly. In the distance, I hear a gasp and soft murmurs, but all I see is the beautiful man before me.

  ‘Beautiful’ is perhaps an understatement. He is a billboard for the Levi jeans that cling to his narrow hips and the Calvin Klein t-shirt that hugs his sculpted chest. He has the same small frame that everyone here possesses, but somehow, on him, it is charming instead of weak. I lean toward him, so close that I can see every long, black eyelash that frames his aqua green eyes and every hazel speckle dotting his irises. He smells strongly of expensive men’s cologne and everything about him makes me think of old money and university fraternities.

  He holds my gaze a moment longer, drops it to my stomach and stretches his left hand over the desk between us. His fingers hover for an agonizing second above the butterfly marking, and then his skin touches mine. His fingertips are like sunshine on my skin, soaking into every pore, sending tiny ripples through my body, from the point of contact, to my right hand wrist and back again. My mind is telling me to step back, to put some space between myself and this stranger but my body strains toward him, attracted by some unseen force.

  Then he drops his hand and I want to cry out at the emptiness that settles in the pit of my stomach. His eyes darken as he lifts a reverent gaze to mine.

  ‘Mo cheannsa,’ he whispers.

  With effort, I drag my eyes from his and give Nan a questioning look. She stares between the young man and me, and I am suddenly aware that everyone is watching this strangely intimate exchange. I yank down the hem of my shirt, cheeks blazing.

  ‘Shaylee,’ Nan says, breaking into a pleased smile. ‘This is Tristan. Your betrothed.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Nan’s words are like ice on my skin, dulling any lingering warmth from Prince Charming’s fingertips. I’ve heard wrong again. She couldn’t have said ‘betrothed’. The very word itself is archaic and couldn’t possibly have any place in this day and age, let alone in my teenage life.

  ‘Tristan is your fiancé, Shaylee,’ Nan repeats. ‘You have been blood promised.’

  My gaze shoots from Nan’s serious expression to the man in front of me who has suddenly lost the irresistible appeal of moments ago. The room moves again and I feel a hard knot of nausea at the base of my throat.

  ‘This is a joke, right?’ I say, trying to focus on Nan’s hazy features.

  She looks a little uncertain for a split second and her eyes flit from me to Tristan, but she gives her head a tiny shake.

  ‘Give him a chance Bluebell, within a few days you’ll be hopelessly in love with him just like your mom and dad.’ I jerk at the revelation but Nan doesn’t seem to notice. ‘You are the chosen one. You will be married to Tristan and fulfill the prophecy. Your virgin’s blood will bring power and immortality once again to our kind.’

  Just like mom and dad? In love in a few days? Immortality? Virgin’s blood?

  ‘Prophecy?’ I say, ‘I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about Nan, but I will not be marrying anyone. I mean – it’s just ridiculous. I don’t even know this man.’ My heart is racing now and the room is not just tilting on its axis anymore, it’s doing full sun-rotations.

  ‘Calm down Shaylee,’ Nan says, giving me a funny look, ‘you’re over-reacting -’

  ‘Over-reacting?’ I’m gesturing wildly now and my voice is high-pitched and fast, but I can’t seem to stop myself. ‘I’m seventeen! How can I – get – married - I’m - not…I’m – not…’ My mind has switched from flashing red lights to drifting and I’m suddenly gasping for breath. I can barely make out Nan’s face anymore, let alone form a coherent thought.

  ‘Shaylee!’ Nan says. Her voice sounds alarmed but distant as the room starts to spin violently. There is a low buzzing in my ears and then nothing…

  When I wake, it is to the feel of strong arms around me, a chest that pillows my cheek and a heart that beats a steady rhythm against my ear. He smells different from the Prince Charming whose fingers feel like sunlight on my skin. This savior smells like my favorite place beneath the old oak tree. I turn my face into his chest and take a deep breath; of rain, dirt, mint, musk and life.

  If I open my eyes, he will put me down. I’ll have to stand on my own two feet and face the mortifying fact that I just fainted in front of bunch of strangers. If I open my eyes, I’ll meet my savior.

  The gentle cadence of his gait changes, my knight adjusts his grip around my knees and back, and lowers himself down onto something. As he settles me into his lap, my wrist brushes against his and a stream of electricity races from his skin into mine.

  We both inhale sharply and my eyes flash open and lock on his. We stare at each other in shock, unaware of anything but the sparks that seem to be charging the air between us. My right wrist is hot and throbbing and I know he feels this too, because he quickly slips his hand out from mine and gives it a little shake, like he’s been electrocuted.

  The heat dulls with the loss of contact, but continues to hum along my veins in a quiet melody. Neither of us speaks and a strange, gooey warmth fills me as I look into his striking eyes. It’s not the hue of the green-grey irises that rivet me, but rather the storm that seems to brew in them. If the eyes are truly windows to the soul, this boy’s soul is haunted.

  My knight speaks, his mint-musk scented breath stirring the tendrils at my temple. I don’t hear what he says because my attention is diverted to his moving lips, crimson and full.

  ‘Shaylee?’

  ‘Huh?’ I mumble, and immediately blush as he raises an eyebrow. I can’t believe that was the first word out of my mouth. I flick my gaze to the tree beyond us – anywhere but him.

  ‘Are – you - okay?’ he repeats, perhaps for the third or fourth time by the way he draws out each word.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, cheeks still blazing. How weak and silly I must appear to him, first fainting and now unable to string even a basic sentence together. I give my head a little shake, feeling angry with myself. I don’t even know this boy – so why am I worrying about what he thinks of me? But for some reason – I do.

  ‘Shaylee!’ Nan’s voice breaks into the space between us, my rescuer jerks and hastily shifts me from his lap to the wooden bench, like we’ve just been caught making out. The thought makes me glance at his lips again and my color deepens. Control yourself, I think.

  ‘Are you alright, Bluebell?’

  Nan walks toward the wooden bench, which is still wet from the recent rain, now soaking into the seat of my pants. My knight stands, slips his sweat-shirt over his head and places it on the bench for Nan to sit on. I stare at the broad set of his shoulders, at the muscles bunched across his chest, at the wet circle blooming on his derrière.

  ‘Shaylee?’

  I wrench my eyes away, focus on Nan and flush again.

  ‘I’m f-fine, Nan,’ I stammer.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ She smiles at me and I’m relieved that she didn’t seem to notice the direction of my gaze. ‘I see you’ve met your seastnan.’

  ‘Huh?’ I say, realize what I’ve done and add hastily: ‘I mean, what’s a seastnan?’

  The word is foreign on my tongue but it has a nice ring to it – like something exotic, from another place and time. Nan sighs and reaches up to brush my ponytail back over my shoulder.

  ‘I don’t want to scare you, Bluebell,’ she says, ‘but you need to know the truth.’ She waves toward the young man, who is leaning against the trunk of a nearby oak tree, watching us. ‘Kael comes from a long line of seastnan – royal Maor bodyguards responsible for the protection of our family.’

  ‘Protection?’

  ‘Your blood is a great temptation, Shaylee,’ Nan says, cupp
ing a cool hand against my cheek. ‘Its promise of power and immortality is sought after by many and because your blood is powerful, your aura is strong – much stronger than any I’ve ever known.’ Nan pauses and traces an imaginary line along the side of my neck and shoulder. ‘It’s like a bright energy field, surrounding you.’ She drops her hand onto my shoulder and returns her attention to my face. ‘Your mother told me what happened with your friend Luke. That is just a small taste of what’s to come.’

  I shiver and try to crush the memory. Nan notices and her expression is deadly serious.

  ‘We can’t take any risks. You and Tristan must be married as soon as possible.’

  Chapter 10

  Powerless

  Tastes like: The vegetables your mother piled high on your plate that were a prerequisite to desert.

  Smells like: Chocolate cake baking in a hot oven when your nose is blocked.

  Sounds like: The pitiful scream from a throat raw with laryngitis.

  Feels like: Sitting in the back seat of a run-away car.

  Looks like: An infant, bowled over by a Saint-Bernard.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ I stare at Nan.

  She stares back.

  ‘But I’m seventeen, Nan!’ I say.

  ‘The same age your mother was when she married your father,’ Nan replies.

  ‘But…’ My voice trails away. There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t be married now, but I can’t seem to think of one. I must be in shock.

  ‘Shaylee,’ Nan says, squeezing my shoulder, ‘you’re in great danger, you need to marry Tristan. It’s the only way to keep you safe.’

  ‘But how is marriage going to help?’ I ask, and watch in astonishment as Nan’s ivory cream cheeks bloom bright red. She glances at Kael, still leaning against the tree trunk and drops her eyes to our hands.

  ‘It’s not the marriage itself…’ she says quietly.

  ‘Then what…’ I stop mid-sentence and my cheeks turn the same shade as Nan’s.