by Trisha Telep
“I’m not speaking of hopes and dreams, Mr Fitzgerald. They do very little on a cool fall Aran evening to warm the body.”
Maeve bit at her lip, shocked a bit at herself for her open offer. For the first time in aeons, she waited anxiously for a man’s acceptance as her young beautiful self. The crone in her was quite used to rejection.
Brian stood, took off his spectacles, and ran his hand through his hair. Maeve could practically hear the wheels grinding inside his head, could cut the silence with a knife. He held her gaze and sent her blood racing.
He didn’t make a move, or sound, or even, it seemed, did he breathe. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was a lover of men, perhaps . . . he could actually refuse her. Shame and hurt clutched at Maeve’s heart and she turned to flee. With a strong grip on her elbow and a firm arm around her waist, Brian turned her around and held her still. He smelled of fresh air and sweet pipe tobacco. His burning lustful gaze at her bosom belied the gentle smile pulling at his full lips.
“So, Fiona, you have caught me in a terrible lie.”
“Have I now?”
“I do not care about the cost of your allure, my muse.” He leaned in and brushed his lips gently against hers, setting her skin tingling.
“I am not a muse, Brian.”
“Still, you are enchanting. I care only what Maeve will think of me.”
“She would think you quite the horse’s ass to refuse her granddaughter.” Maeve could stand it no longer, and reached her hands around Brian’s neck, pulling him down for a real kiss. It may as well have been her first kiss, for how it turned her bones to jam and her heart racing in her chest.
Brian’s moans of pleasure drummed through her body as he slashed his tongue against hers and pulled at her lips. He brought his hands down her back and cupped her flesh, none too lightly. The shy would-be novelist was on fire, white-hot and growing more scorching by the second. He fisted her hair and pulled to expose her neck to kisses and nibbles that sent Maeve’s knees wobbling. He whispered her name, his breath hot in her ear.
“Fiona, I would have you, but only with Maeve’s permission to court you. I love the woman and will not dishonour her. No matter the cost to my sanity.” He squirmed and adjusted his trousers, then pulled back.
Maeve could barely breathe. He must be teasing. Maeve’s permission. She wanted to scream. You have Maeve’s permission, you idiot!
“Well, isn’t this a bloody fine twist on enchantment!” She ran from the room, scurried to her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. He did not even follow.
Brian stared at the blank page, wondering if he should get up, go to the cliff, and throw himself into Galway Bay. For he certainly didn’t deserve to go on in this state. Fiona hadn’t thrown herself at him, she’d instead shrunk herself down to the size of a pin and poked at every fibre of his body. Relentlessly. Was this the torture Maeve warned him about? The burning he’d never felt in his life. So complete was her hold on him, his blood ran hot each time he heard movement in the house.
She’d avoided him completely, for two days. Breakfast – undercooked – would be waiting upon his awakening. Tea manifested as if by magic when he returned to his study. He’d wandered the halls, only to see her shadow disappear around a corner.
Now his lust turned to obsession. Now he simply wanted to see her, to speak with her, to learn about her. Why could she not sit in his study and knit as her grandmother had? Could they not go for a stroll on the beach? Did she now find him odious?
The Irish were all insane, but those on Inishmore took first prize. Or, perhaps, as the old salt in the pub had warned him, Maeve, Fiona and Kildooney House were enchanted, and he would not leave the island with his own sanity.
Fiona took his breath away when she suddenly swept into his study with a note in hand, which she slapped on his desk with fervour.
“There, Brian Fitzgerald. There is your permission. You may court me should you find me worthy.”
He stared at the envelope and then back at Fiona. She crossed her arms over her lovely breasts and tapped her foot in annoyance. Brian tentatively opened the envelope and read the note: “Mr Fitzgerald, once again I am sorry that I left suddenly. My sister is doing better. I will return shortly. You may court (or do as you like with) young Fiona. Signed, Maeve MacGearailt.”
What a thing! “Do as you like with.” That didn’t sound like Maeve, but here was her note, in the same hand as the one she’d previously left him. His hand practically shook as he placed the note on the desk and stared at Fiona.
“I know what I want, Brian, so do not look at me so. There is no shame in it. You have your permission. I can be your love or your maid. The decision is yours.”
“As I like your kisses more than your cooking . . .” He held up his hand as she narrowed her eyes to fiery ice-blue daggers. “That was a joke, Fiona. How did Maeve get a note to me in two days from Galway? You have been here the whole time.”
“Have not.” Fiona flushed and pushed her toes at the carpet, eyes downcast.
“Have too.”
“Maeve is now on Inishmore, visiting another sister in town before returning.”
“How many sisters does Maeve have? Oh, never mind I asked.” Brian thought of the large families in Boston and realized he must sound silly to Fiona. She must already think him the oddity – only child, parentless, aspiring novelist. What did such a woman want with such an uninteresting man?
“How rich do you think I am, Fiona?”
She slapped him. She slapped the smile off his face, and then did it again.
He grabbed her hand to stop a third slap.
“You are the devil himself. You insult my cooking . . . my grandmother’s cooking and my cooking, you insult my kisses by turning away, and now I’m a drùth? As if I care a whit about your money. I can conjure money from the air and call gold from the sea to wash on to the shore. I can make the skies rain silver and milk emeralds from a cow.”
Her cheeks blazed scarlet and her chest rose and fell quickly with her fury. Brian looked into her eyes and saw she spoke the truth. She could do those things, and more. Icy fingers crawled up and down his spine, and electricity coursed into the hand that clutched her wrist.
“Is that why I fell in love with you the moment I saw you? Because you cast a spell on me?”
“Stupid guraiceach. I could have cast any spell . . .” She dropped her hand to her side and Brian let go of her wrist. Her eyes softened and she wiped her lips. “Did you say something about love?”
Brian nodded, wondering if she’d slap him again. “It makes no sense, but despite how much I seem to anger you, I feel as if I’ve known you for quite a while.”
“For quite a while?”
“And that underneath that beauty and temper is a wise, strong woman.”
“A wise woman?”
“And strong.”
Fiona’s mouth pulled to the side and a frown creased her brow as she considered his words. Brian’s heart raced as he waited for her to say something, anything, to indicate what she thought of him. He’d offered love to an enchantress, to the most beautiful enchantress ever born, if indeed they were born and didn’t spring from the earth full grown. She would think him an idiot. In fact, she was now looking at him as if he were quite the oaf.
“Would it be best if I return to Boston, Fiona? I would understand. I know not how it became so complicated once Maeve left . . .” Maeve. How could he leave her as well, and without a word of thanks or care? He would find her in Kilronan.
“Because of my very nature, Brian, I am forbidden to tell you why it is so, but I love you too, not as a stranger.”
The world spun beneath Brian’s feet. No, life did not bring such things to him so easily. Was this part of her enchantment? Again, he gazed into her eyes, searching for the truth, and found it. She loved him.
Enchantment be damned, he thought as he rose from the desk and swept Fiona off her feet. She moaned in pleasure as he kissed her and fumbled up the
winding stairs to his bedroom. He plopped her on the bed and her surprise turned to mischief as she wiggled a long finger for him to join her.
What then, Maeve? she asked herself. What happens when you must give the crone equal time, when Brian finds you missing, begins to ask questions, becomes obsessive, grows suspicious and angry? No, put it away, she thought. Take this for yourself.
For a few hours, Brian kissed and caressed away all thought. He stripped her bare with torturous slowness, showering every inch of her skin with his hot kisses and tongue. She returned the favour, again and again, adoring the feel of his strong embrace, the wonderful feel of his skin against hers, the cries of pleasure as she took him into her mouth, into her body. They fell into one another’s secret lives, limbs and burning bodies enmeshed as if they would always be one. Brian was not timid, not awkward, not silly or vain. He was the man of Maeve’s dreams.
They lay in a close embrace, hours later, listening to the wind howl in suggestion of a terrible storm to come. Rain pelted the glass, and the candle flickered with the draught that tore through the old rafters.
Brian caressed Maeve’s hair and kissed her forehead. “Tell me this isn’t the only day I’ll have you like this. Tell me this is the first of many.”
“The first of some, for certain.”
He tilted her chin so their gazes met. “How can I make it go on forever?”
Ah, so there it was. The question she craved and feared, that stabbed at her heart. She turned away, lest he see the answer.
A terrible pounding at the front door startled them from their embrace. They both sat up and Maeve scrambled into her dress.
“Oh, let them knock,” Brian said, pulling her back down.
“It will take only a moment.”
He sighed and pulled on his trousers, followed her down the staircase and stood behind her as she unbolted the front door. A young man, soaked from the rain, stepped in and fretted with his cap.
“Why, Padraig, what brings you from town?”
“I do not know you, miss. I was hoping Maeve was about?” He looked past her at Brian, and his eyes widened.
Brian stepped forward. “Come in, lad. Maeve is in Kilronan.”
Maeve stepped in front of Brian. “Oh, I think she went back to Galway. She will be a while.”
“Then it’s true!” Padraig troubled more with his cap and looked to Brian. “Sir, I am sorry to be the one to say so, but the ferry has floundered in the storm.”
Maeve’s heart raced. She would surely know someone on that ferry.
“The fishermen have recovered most aboard, and they are well, or will be. But one old lady . . . who looked like Maeve MacGearailt . . .”
“What!” Brian pulled his sweater from the coat rack and slipped on his boots while Maeve and Padraig stared.
“I must go. Fiona, you stay here, out of harm’s way.”
“It’s not her, Brian.” Maeve pulled at Brian’s sleeve and snapped at Padraig to leave.
“It could be her. They named her, Fiona. And you said she was crossing to Galway or back from Galway, which was it?”
“Do not go, Brian, I beg you. The fishermen are putting themselves at great risk to search, and I cannot lose you.”
“Ah, sweet girl. I will be fine. But we must find your grandmother. Please, God, let it not be her. Let no one be hurt.” He made the sign of the cross and pushed Fiona firmly aside.
“If you love me, you will not go.”
Brian hesitated, then took her hand and kissed it. “I do love you, and I will still go. What kind of man would I be if I stayed to please one woman when another I love is in danger? I love Maeve too, Fiona. I trust that you understand that.”
“No, please. She is an old lady, it is her time.”
“How could you say such a thing? You cannot mean it. You are trying to trick me. Fiona, I could not live with myself. Please, sit and wait. I will return, I promise.”
“You love her as much as you love me?” Maeve cried openly, so frustrated at the ridiculous, needless risk her beloved was taking.
“Yes, I do. Differently, of course.”
Maeve nodded and gave up, turned her back on Brian and wept as he rushed out the door. So, she might lose him to the sea, and needlessly. “Goddess, protect him.”
A sudden thought brought her to her feet. If she showed Brian and the rest that Maeve was alive and well, they would call off the search! She closed her eyes and chanted to bring on the change.
And waited.
It must be her anxiety, she thought. Come on with it! This time, she added a prayer to the chant and ran to the mirror.
“Oh!” Maeve fell to her knees and wept like a babe. The crone and maiden were joined, forever. The power lifted, the curse broken, all by the love of one man.
Brian returned, soaked, happy to have helped to rescue ancient Mrs O’Connell from the sea. Well, truth be told, he’d been fairly useless, only helping to clear onlookers as the fishermen carried the old lady to safety. Maeve was indeed safe with her sister or sisters, as all aboard the ferry were now accounted for.
“Fiona!” He called out, running from room to room when she didn’t answer.
He found her sitting in his study, knitting the sweater that Maeve had begun for him, needles clacking. She smiled up at him.
“It was not Maeve! All are safe. Your grandmother is not harmed.”
“I know, Brian.”
“Who told you?” He sat in his chair, dripping on to the floor.
“Why don’t you put a page in that machine of yours? I have a story to tell you.”
The Morrígan’s Daughter
Susan Krinard
Ancient Ireland
According to the Leabhar Gabhála Éireann – The Book of Conquests – Éire has had many rulers. The first were the Fomóiri, cruel brutes and savages who knew nothing of plough and oxen and metal. Then came the Partholónians, descendants of Noah, who fought the Fomóiri and won, only to be wiped out by a terrible plague and buried on the Plain of Elta. The third race who sought to rule Éire were the people of Nemed, kin to the Partholónians. Nemed, like his forerunners, defeated the Fomóiri, but in the end the Nemedians were destroyed in a mighty flood. The fourth race were the Fir Bolg, who held Ireland for thirty-seven years before the coming of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
But when the People of the Goddess Danu came from the north with their arts of magic and won the right to rule Éire in the First Battle of Maige Tuired, they would have no peace. When their king, Nuada, was forced to give up his crown, the half-Fomórian Bres held the people under his tyrannical rule for seven long years. Only when Nuada was restored to his throne was Bres compelled to flee, and urged the evil chief Balor to raise an army against the Tuatha Dé Danann. So came the Second Battle of Maige Tuired, won by the People only when Lugh Lámhfhada put out Balor’s evil eye and turned the tide.
Many are the tales of bravery and loyalty and betrayal during that great battle and what came after. Many are the heroes who fought and died for freedom. But there is one story that has never been told . . .
Séanat pushed aside the low-hanging branches and entered the clearing. The Fomóir she had been pursuing was nowhere in sight. He, like the other survivors of his evil race, had fled the battle in terror and humiliation, defeated at last and for all time.
At first the Fomóiri had fought bravely, in their way, until they had brought their chief Balor with his evil eye to strike down the King Nuada. Then the Morrígan had lent her powers to that of Lugh, Nuada’s champion, who put out Balor’s eye. The battle had broken.
But the stragglers remained, and it was the duty and pleasure of every warrior of the Tuatha Dé Danann to pursue and destroy them. Every warrior including the Daughters of the Morrígan, whose ferocity matched that of any man among the followers of Lugh of the Long Arm.
Lifting her bloodied sword, Séanat took a cautious step. A great oak spread its arms over the clearing like a Druid giving his blessing to those who would f
ight and die. There was a peace here, and Séanat felt the killing lust drain from her body.
Surely no Fomóir could have remained in such a place for long. This place belonged to the People of Danu, to the magic that had made the land strong.
The weight of Séanat’s armour began to sit heavily upon her, and she looked again at the oak with its broad tangle of roots and the thick cushion of last year’s fallen leaves that made a bed for anyone who should wish for rest.
You must not, she told herself. It was not her privilege to rest when any Fomóir roamed free upon this island. Let them be driven into the sea from whence they had come long ages past. Let Lir swallow them and never give them up again.
But it was difficult now to feel the rage that had carried her through the battle and made her forget the wounds on her legs and the dirt on her face. The oak stirred in a gentle wind, brown and yellow leaves sighing as they floated gently to the earth.
Only a little while. Just long enough to regain her strength and her resolve. The enemy she pursued might get away, but it would only be for a little while. She would find him, or another like him, and go on until nightfall called an end to the hunt.
Wearily she made her way to the oak, touched its rough bark with a chant of thanks, and laid herself down. The cushion of leaves accepted her like the arms of the lover she had never had. The root that served as her pillow seemed to soften under her head. Even her armour lost its hardness. She laid down her sword with a sigh, and the sound let loose a fresh fall of leaves that settled over her in a blanket of warmth and contentment.
She didn’t know how long she slept. It might have been the faint crack of a twig, or no more than the rustle of a single leaf that woke her. But Séanat opened her eyes, and there was a man in the clearing, no more than a dozen steps away.
Her sword was already in her hand as she leaped up, prepared to slash and stab. The man didn’t move. He stood completely still, his own sword pointed towards the earth, dressed in the armour of the Fomóiri.