Dreamweaver

by Judie Chirichello

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  Dreamweaver

  by Judie Chirichello

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  Fantasy/Paranormal

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.net

  Copyright ©2003 by Judie Chirichello

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2003, Judie Chirichello All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

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  Dedicated to

  Mary (Leahy) Moynihan

  12-22-1902 (Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland)

  03-27-1984 (W. Hartford Connecticut)

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  AKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the members of the Paradise Bar Critique Group: Dr. Don-"I like it and I'm keeping it"-Argo, Jim Harris and his color-coordinated editing style, and Captain George Harrison “It really happened that way"Reid. I will be forever grateful for their constructive criticism and liberal use of red ink. To my steadfast critique partner Jonell Kirby, for her honesty and female perspective. To Cricket Pechstien for her knowledge, encouragement and advice. To my editor, Karen Babcock for her attention to detail and infinite wisdom.

  Learning to fly can be hard work.

  Thanks for the wings, guidance and patience.

  Thank you to my husband Carmine for understanding my need to pursue my dream even when doing so meant putting up with dirty dishes in the sink, fast food for dinner and hearing me say, “Just one more sentence", -a lot! To my children, Angela and Carmine for putting up with their mother “the writer", not that they had much choice. To my Aunt Marygail for reading my very first, rough draft manuscript and still encouraging me to keep writing. To the members of the Space Coast Writer's Guild, the many generous writers I have met along the way, to my friends, and to my many co-workers and library “Friends” throughout the Brevard County Library System, especially June Bell, Rita Fetterhoff, and Evelin Reid-thank you for your friendship, support and honesty.

  You are my wind.

  Thank you to Orlando Sentinel Op-ed page editor Michael Murphy, for giving me my first break, the chance to spread my wings, and for the space to soar.

  Without a place to fly, what's the use in having wings?

  And a special thank you to Linda Eberharter

  "Dreamweaver extraordinaire"

  for turning my dream into a reality.

  The view is great when you're flying high on the wings of a fulfilled dream!

  * * *

  Chapter One

  St., George's Channel

  off the Coast of Eire (Ireland)

  AD 966

  An agonized cry shattered the calm. The grisly sound lingered, its unspoken promise of agony and despair seeming to echo through the night sky like a Banshee's mournful wail.

  As Galynne MacFarlane lay sprawled on the crowded deck of the wayfaring vessel Leachlainn, straining to bring forth the precious life from her exhausted body, she refused to believe herself capable of producing such an ungodly sound. Aye, denial and resolve had gotten her through so far, but she had to face facts; female pride and determination had their limits.

  Even Galynne's unruly mane of vibrant, auburn curls appeared defeated as wet clumps of hair clung to her head, face and shoulders like russet-colored seaweed. Her damp woolen plaid no longer offered protection from the elements, and her skirts lay bunched beneath her, soiled with an offensive combination of bodily secretions. Fleeing her homeland in the dark of night due to the threat of a Norse invasion had been difficult enough. Enduring twelve hours of labor amidst a crowd of weary kinsmen and strangers was taking its toll.

  At least the tingling sensation in her thighs had ceased. The exposed flesh had finally gone numb, and for this alone she was thankful. As if escaping Norse raiders is na’ bad enough? Curse the dreaded Fin-gael! Now me own child refuses to cooperate. Indeed! What have I done to anger the gods, so? What will become of us all?

  White light flashed in Galynne's mind as if in answer to her thoughts. She recoiled from the intensity, then squeezed her eyes shut and bore down. Blurred colors and shapes melded in her mind's eye and she knew it was only a matter of time before they developed into sharp images, clearly depicting the future. It always happened that way; her abilities as a Seer relied on such vivid, foretelling visions. This night, however, Galynne resisted her gift of divine knowledge. She knew it was a selfish and lame attempt, at best, to forestall her own, tragic fate.

  Death seemed inevitable.

  Galynne's husband, Kendahl, sat holding her close while supporting her back. “You're doing fine, love. A strong, bonny lass you are. Try to hold on. Just a bit longer, now.” He brushed a kiss against her temple.

  Galynne sighed, thinking it impossible to love him any more than she did at that instant. Aye, at times like these, his brutal, Highland-warrior image paled in comparison to the love and devotion expressed in his tender actions.

  “Spread your legs, lass. Wider!” Nedda demanded, dragging Galynne's thoughts back to reality. The aged mid-wife sat perched between Galynne's thighs. Two more women, both strangers to Galynne, firmly clasped her knees, spreading her legs wide. The other weary passengers crowding the ship's deck had long-since ceased to matter. Aye, modesty was the least of Galynne's worries.

  The cramps seizing her back and womb were still gaining momentum. Unfortunately, her progress had slowed and her stamina was failing. Breathing deeply, she tried to relax, but the lingering scent of salt-laden air made her queasy stomach churn in protest. The ship's constant rocking motion only added to her misery. The birth of her second child looked grim at best. Even worse, Galynne believed that a hostile essence was drawing nearer.

  Calling upon her innate Sidhe-magic, she freed her spirit, releasing it into the universe.

  Almost immediately, the cold, dark atmosphere seemed to penetrate her soul, chilling her to the marrow and invading her spirit. The threatening entity was too strong to be ignored, but its essence managed to remain concealed as if purposely eluding her efforts.

  Opening her eyes, she glanced up at the heavens. Could me powers be failing?

  Dense fog cloaked the evening sky like a death shroud, obscuring the waning, crescent moon and the eternal, twinkling light of ever-present stars. The thick misty air felt heavy, almost oppressive, and Galynne realized that the gloomy atmosphere suited her dismal mood. When the gripping pain seized her womb again, she moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. The unrelenting cramps twisted her gut like a falcon's mighty talons tearing her flesh from the inside out. The desire to surrender festered within her for a moment before her maternal instincts won out. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath and pushed.

  Kendahl eased her forward. “That's it, love. You can do it. Push,” he said.

  Galynne knew better. She no longer felt comforted by the familiar timber of Kendahl's deep voice, or the distinct, soothing sound of his Highland burr. His ha
nds felt suddenly tense—no, demanding. His praise proved disheartening. Galynne groaned and leaned back against Kendahl's chest. “'Tis no use.” She shook her head. “Your child simply refuses to cooperate."

  “Me own child, alone, is he now? ‘Tis a true miracle, indeed,” Kendahl said. “Och, before you know it, you'll be cradlin’ our lusty bairn in your arms. Aye, we eluded the Fin-gael, and soon we'll all be safe in Wales.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and hugged her close.

  Kendahl's optimism, warmth and tenderness touched Galynne's heart. She tried to savor the pleasant moment, but a chilling sense of trepidation invaded her soul. She gasped, and looked up, her gaze frantically scanning the horizon. Though a wall of dense fog obstructed her view, she sensed an unearthly, spectral presence lurking beyond the gray mist.

  Closing her eyes she cleared her mind of all thought.

  Her body grew tingly all over, as if needles were prickling the surface of her skin. The sensation confirmed her already nagging suspicion. Black magic! Galynne trembled. “Dear God,” she mumbled, knowing that in her weakened state, her white spell-craft would be impotent against such demonic sorcery.

  “Be brave, love,” Kendahl said. He stroked her cold, stiff arms. “Surely, ‘tis almost over now."

  “Aye.” Looking down, Galynne caressed her stomach. “One way or another, it will be over soon enough."

  “Do na’ despair, so. You can do it. I know you can."

  “Nay.” Galynne shook her head in protest.

  Kendahl gently grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “You can, I say. A hale, hearty lass you are. And a fine healthy lad we'll have, indeed. He's just a wee bit stubborn. Why, I'll wager he's got a full head of red hair just like you. And a temperament to match.” He smiled and winked.

  Galynne managed a wry smile for Kendahl's benefit. “You must surely be speaking of me sweet, gentle nature,” she said. Then she winced suddenly as her stomach grew harder. “Damn and blast!” She squeezed her eyes shut as the grinding cramps intensified. Clutching Kendahl's plaid in her hand she writhed against the pain, denying the urge to scream. When her cry of sheer agony finally rent the air, however, Kendahl uttered such a vulgar string of curses that Galynne's eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.

  She panted breathlessly and blinked up at him, her subsiding pain momentarily forgotten. After all, Kendahl had survived many fierce battles and witnessed much bloodshed. He was a mighty, Highland warrior who relied on his even temper and nerves of steel—except, apparently, when it came to the birthing of his own children. She still remembered experiencing an odd sense of pleasure from Kendahl's distraught behavior, nearly five years earlier, during the birth of their daughter, Seerah. At the time Galynne had found it most satisfying to learn that, in their own way, men suffered through the birth process as well. Now, she found the concept thoroughly heart-warming. She sighed, knowing how fortunate she was be to be loved so completely.

  Then her womb contracted again.

  Galynne glared at Kendahl and practically tore the wool plaid from his back. “Damn your virile rod and fertile seed to the Devil!"

  The color drained from Kendahl's face, an astonished look of pure disbelief momentarily freezing his expression. “I ... me ... squeeze me hand, love.” He held his hand out to her.

  Galynne sucked in a deep breath and nodded. She released his plaid and clutched his hand. Then she looked deep into his eyes, hoping to find the strength she so desperately needed.

  “I've got you.” Kendahl stared intently back at her as her crushing grip tightened about his fingers.

  Galynne pushed until her lungs burned from a lack of air and Kendahl's pained expression blurred before her eyes. When the punishing cramps finally subsided, she could barely hold up her head. “Seerah? Where's Seerah?"

  “She's safe with Izebeth, love. Remember?” Kendahl stroked her cheek. “'Twas a wise choice to send them on ahead, I'm thinking. Your mother would have her hands full trying to keep Seerah from you now. And I promise, I'll bring them both to you the moment we set foot in Wales. Aye, we'll all be safe together, soon enough,” he vowed.

  Galynne replied with a slow accepting nod, but Kendahl's optimism and compassion only added to her misery. She wanted nothing more than to gift him with a fine, healthy son. She also yearned to arrive safely in Wales, and to be reunited with her mother and young daughter.

  Unfortunately, Galynne knew better; Black magic was difficult enough to oppose even under the best conditions. Deep in her soul, Galynne knew that she would never see the coast of Wales or watch her children grow to maturity. Even so, there was a much greater issue at stake. The integrity of the Light must be protected at all costs. But how? What can I possibly do now? Here? Tears trickled down her cheeks as she released a shuddering breath. “Th-there's nothing, n-nothing else I can do."

  “'Tis all right, love. I'm here with you. All will be well,” Kendahl said.

  Despite his calm words, Galynne sensed his distress deep in her soul. Aye, his unspoken fears of losing her were obvious from his tense demeanor and pacifying tone. His fears were also more valid than she cared to admit. And time was running out. Her contractions were coming one after another now, with scarcely a moment's rest in between. Yet she no longer cried out. She was simply too tired. “Nay, Kendahl. I can na’ go on. I...” Galynne moaned with despair as the pains began building again.

  Kendahl glanced at the mid-wife, his expression a telling combination of compassion, worry, and pure helplessness. “God's blood! How long can this go on, Nedda?"

  Nedda looked up and sighed. “The poor lass. She's overly fatigued, and the bairn is quite large, I'm afraid."

  Galynne felt the muscles in Kendahl's lean body tense, as if his nerves were stretching to their breaking point. But Kendahl lent no voice to his obvious indignation. Instead, he took a deep calming breath. “You can do it, love. Just a wee bit longer, now,” he said.

  Galynne clutched his arm. “Nay! I beg of you. Let me die. I can na’ go on. Even if I could—'tis useless. ‘Tis me fate, I'm afraid."

  Tears glistened in Kendahl's eyes as he gazed down at her. “Hush, me darlin'. Do na’ speak so. The fates would never be so cruel. I could na’ bear to live without you. Please, you must try.” He stroked her matted hair.

  Galynne looked away from his pleading gaze and glanced pensively at the horizon. The damp, static air stirred ever so slightly as a cold essence encompassed her spirit. She believed that it was only a matter of time before the hands of death would come for her, and she prayed that the gods would show mercy by swiftly ending her life. Reaching up, she caressed Kendahl's cheek. “Pray, forgive me?"

  Kendahl clasped her hand tightly in his own. “Nay, you must go on. If na’ for me, for Seerah and our unborn child."

  “'Tis no use.” She withdrew her hand.

  Kendahl glanced at Nedda. “Do something!"

  “There be nothing I can do now. ‘Tis obvious she's already given up. The poor gel.” The old woman shrugged.

  Galynne closed her eyes, surrendering her soul to the mother goddess Anann. “Thy will be done,” she whispered.

  Kendahl grasped Galynne's shoulders and shook her. “Nay! You'll na’ be givin’ up, I say. God's eyes! How could I ever have loved such a pathetic creature?"

  Galynne shivered in response to his condemning glare. Aye, she understood his fury and frustration, but not his brutal wrath. Her bottom lip trembled and she lowered her head as tears filled her eyes.

  Kendahl shook her again, forcing her to look at him. “Fine! Die if you wish. Simply lie down and give up so I can wash me hands of you. But, you'll na’ take me child with you!"

  She blinked at him. “Your child? Simply give up? I've labored for nearly twelve hours. You have no idea.... Why, I...” she faltered, moaning as a cramp seized her gut.

  “I see his head!” Nedda declared. “He's got a mighty big head, he does. Push, m'lady. Push real hard now."

  “Forget it, Nedda. She's right. S
he can't do it,” Kendahl said. “Just let her die so I can go about finding me a new wife. Aye, a strong, healthy, Highland lass who knows how to bear a man sons. Indeed, I should have expected as much from such inferior stock. ‘Tis no fault of her own, but the mix of Irish and Welsh blood, added to her pagan, Druid beliefs. Aye, her inferior ancestry is to blame for producing such feebleness."

  “Inferior?” Galynne glared at Kendahl. “Pagan beliefs? Why, you ungrateful, swaggerin’ ... Scot bully. I should turn you into a ... a...” She grunted and bore down with all her might.

  Kendahl held her tightly.

  “Good, good. Here he comes, now, he does. That's a good gel,” Nedda praised.

  When the infant's head emerged, the mid-wife gently cradled it in her palms, helping to ease the child's way into the world. “It's ... a boy,” she cried softly, but her words held no joy.

  After tying the umbilical cord, she cleared the wee babe's mouth and nose. Next, she worked fervently, poking, prodding, and even pinching his blue-tinted limbs.

  Galynne collapsed against Kendahl with a muffled groan, her body drooping like a rag doll. Her gaze settled on the tiny lifeless body she had already come to love, and she felt suddenly empty.

  “Forgive me, love.” Kendahl tenderly kissed Galynne's forehead.

  Soft, howling wind echoed in the distance like a tortured spirit. Churning waves slapped lazily at the ship hull, causing the aged wood to creak in rhythmic defiance. The eerie night-sounds seemed to grow louder with each passing second, and Galynne felt certain that she would die of heartache as she watched Nedda bundled the lifeless babe in swaddling clothes.

  When the muffled noise finally broke the strained silence, everyone froze; the frail cry sounded strangely familiar, almost like the distant bleating of an angry lamb.