The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “So when she saw that the other sisters’ sorrow had turned them to stone, she vowed to use her greatest powers to grant them a reunion with their lost sister.”

  Maggie rested her head on his shoulder, listening. Each word sent shivers rippling through her and her heart was beating so fast she had to strain to hear above the rush of blood in her ears.

  Booley was watching them both, his eyes sharp.

  “Maggie Gleason of America, it’s said that every seven generations, the seventh sister returns.” He paused to smooth her hair, the touch gentle. “And when she does, she and her sisters dance and sing and are able to embrace each other once more. Such is the gift of the old wise woman who loved them like the daughters she never bore.”

  “But that’s so sad!” Maggie could hardly speak for the thickness in her throat. “They were only able to be together for one fleeting instant. Their dance, the embrace, was over in a flash.”

  “Aye.” Conall nodded, looking suspiciously untroubled.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Not really.” He glanced at the stones, so silent and still now. “I’m Irish, remember.”

  Maggie dashed at her cheek, not liking his story at all.

  “I thought you were Irish, too?” He lifted her chin with a finger, peering deep into her eyes. “Can you not guess why I’m not worried about the Sisters?”

  Maggie puffed her hair off her forehead. “I suppose I’m more American than I thought.”

  “Or you’re not thinking hard enough.” Conall kissed her softly. “Maybe I should tell you there are some hereabouts who believe only those closely involved with the wise woman’s magic can see the seventh sister’s return.”

  “What are you saying?” Maggie’s heart skittered.

  “Only that once the returning is seen, it can be said that the seventh sister’s mortal counterpart has also returned to her beloved homeland. And when she does, she always looks after the others. She tends the stones as if they were living flesh still.”

  “Oh, God!” Maggie stared at him. “You can’t mean . . .”

  “Who knows?” His eyes said he did. “But I’ll share something else with you. A few nights ago, a very strange old woman came into Flanagan’s. She had a touch of the fae about her and she was dressed oddly, even wearing—”

  “Small black boots with red plaid laces!”

  This time Conall looked surprised. But he caught himself and grinned as quickly. “So you’ve seen her?”

  Maggie nodded. “Yes, several times. On my first trip here, then more recently outside a friend’s tea room in Pennsylvania. And today when she kept me from leaving after I saw you with that woman. She pushed me forwards into the sheep field. That’s why I stumbled.”

  “Then I say a thousand blessings on her and may she rest well for another seven generations. Or—” he rocked back on his heels “—will you be keeping the poor woman busy by running home to your America?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere, Conall Flanagan.” Maggie hoped it was true. “At least not until I have to fly back to Philly in fourteen days,” she added, needing to hear him say the words.

  “Fourteen days?” The glint in his eye told her he was playing along. “That’s the same amount of time we had years ago.” He stepped close, sweeping her into his arms. “I’m thinking that’s not nearly long enough for you to enjoy being in Ireland. Everyone knows—” he began walking towards the low, thick-walled farmhouse that had belonged to his family for centuries “—it takes longer than that to fully appreciate such a pleasure. A lifetime at my side, as my wife and the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  “Conall!” Maggie squirmed against his chest. “Put me down so I can kiss you!”

  “But will you be saying yes?” He set her on her feet and stood back, his arms opened wide. “That’s what I’m waiting to hear.”

  “Then yes!” Maggie threw herself at him, her heart almost bursting.

  He crushed her to him, kissing her hard and fast. “Then let’s go home, Maggie Gleason. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Maggie smiled. “Yes, we do.”

  She was eager to get started. They’d waited longer than she’d known.

  By the Light of My Heart

  Pat McDermott

  Sligo, Ireland – 1911

  The black mare started up the hill too fast. Tom O’Byrne shifted on the wagon seat and tugged the reins to curb her quickened gait. He couldn’t blame her for hurrying. Grass and water awaited her. Her weary bones required rest, just as his troubled soul craved the peace of Tobernalt, as sacred a place in the year of Our Lord 1911 as it had been in Ireland’s pagan times.

  Tom often stopped at the holy well when he returned to Sligo from the north. Each time he did, he met other visitors, but no carts or wagons occupied the clearing on this sunny afternoon. His favourite spot, the one near the entrance, was free. He guided the mare to the dappled shade of the old oak tree and set the brake.

  His driving skills had impressed Davy Bookman, the Ballymote merchant who owned the wagon. Small but sturdy, the unadorned vehicle had a flat roof and panelled sides painted slate blue. An overhang above the driver’s seat protected Tom from the weather, and he’d given thanks more than once for the shelter. He travelled the roads for miles at a time delivering Bookman’s tea to shops all over Ireland.

  “A good job for a trusty young buck of twenty-five,” the jovial merchant had said. “See a little of the world before the farm ties you down.”

  Tom’s neat leap from the footboard set the bag of coins in his pocket jingling. He’d sold most of the tea this trip. He’d make a fine commission. His sister Kate would grumble and say it wasn’t enough to fatten her meagre dowry, but the gold would please his father, for all the good it would do him. The old man would always be tipping his hat to the Anglo-Irish landlord who owned his farm.

  So would Tom. For now, he dismissed the gloomy prospect. His thoughts were on the holy well and the chunk of currant bread the innkeeper’s wife had given him that morning.

  He patted the mare’s sleek nose. “Here we are, Mally m’love. Long past time for lunch, but live, horse, and you’ll get grass, eh?”

  As if she’d understood the old proverb, the horse snorted and shook her head. Tom’s soft laughter rippled back at her. “You love this place as much as I do, don’t you, girl?”

  And why wouldn’t she? The sparkling stream flowing down from the well splashed over the rocks on its way to Lough Gill. Fair-weather clouds cast fleeting shadows over the rustling greenery. Such a peaceful, sweet-smelling place, so different from the sorry farm Tom would inherit one day.

  Leaving the contented mare to graze near the water, he followed the stream to its lofty source. By sunset he’d be back in Ballymote, sloshing in the muck of his father’s farm, tending the stinking cows and pigs until he stank himself.

  Today was the first of August. The turf would need cutting, and his arms would ache for a week after cutting it. Then he’d be thatching the neighbours’ roofs. He’d learned the craft to bring in more gold for Kate’s dowry, and good riddance to her. His sister had a tongue that would cut a hedge. He pitied the man who’d become her husband.

  Once Kate married – if anyone would have her – Tom’s father would be after him or Dan to bring in a wife to keep house. The O’Byrnes couldn’t afford to hire help. But who’d marry the heir of a no-account farm or his fanciful younger brother?

  Tom didn’t care to ponder the relentless quandary now. He preferred to savour the fragrance of the verdant glade and the warbling of colourful birds flitting from tree to tree. Their constant song declared the woodland safe.

  Sligo was a haunted place, and Tobernalt had more than its share of spirits. Tom sensed them all around him. He’d never seen one, despite his grandmother saying he could because he’d been born in the afternoon. On each of his previous stops to the well, he’d only met elderly visitors, mostly women, seeking to cure their ills.

&n
bsp; “Maybe today, Gram,” he said, missing the kind-hearted woman who’d raised him.

  Whomever he met today, he meant to look his best. He’d brushed his coat and trousers before leaving Bundoran that morning, but his hulking six-foot frame seemed to draw the mud from the road to his clothes like an angler’s lure drew salmon. A few good pats swept the worst of the splotches away.

  After rinsing his hands in the stream, he adjusted his tie and straightened his cap. The mist from Lough Gill had dampened the tweed, but at least his head was dry. When his hair got wet, it curled to a wild black tangle.

  He paused near the entrance to the well to touch a square pile of stones that predated Christian times. The locals had named it the Mass rock because it had served as an altar for the saying of secret Masses during penal times, when the English put a price on the heads of the priests. One legend said St Patrick himself had left the imprint of his hand upon the stones.

  Tom moved on and gazed about the woods, hoping to catch his first glimpse of a fairy. A lady’s bicycle caught his eye instead. Its owner had leaned it against a hazel tree. The old girl would be up at the well, saying her prayers or drinking the water to relieve her aches and pains.

  When the crumbling stone wall encircling the well came into view, he saw no one. He approached the sacred spot, circling clockwise as he should, offering a silent prayer of thanks that Tobernalt was his for a little while.

  The water gushing from the well’s solid sheet of rock dallied briefly in a frothy pool before spilling into the stream. Above the site, a rainbow of torn rags dotted the leafy branches, each strip of cloth representing the supplication of a devout pilgrim.

  Doffing his cap, Tom knelt and wet his fingers. The water’s icy cold refreshed him. He blessed himself – and then he froze.

  Was that a face in the pool beneath him? Fatigue after the long drive from Donegal surely had him seeing things. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked again.

  The face still bobbed in the water: a woman’s face, heart-shaped and pale in a frame of long wavy hair as dark as his own. Eyes blue and pleading transfixed him, compelled him to stroke her rippling cheek. When he touched the water, she faded away.

  “Wait!” he tried to say, but a sudden languor had stiffened his tongue. The birdsong above him changed to the loveliest music he’d ever heard. Wave after wave of a haunting harp melody set his soul awhirl. Faster and faster went the tune. He dropped to the grass and fell asleep.

  Lured from his rest by the pungent smell of burning turf, Tom sat up on a strange featherbed, blinking at his surroundings. He found himself in a rustic kitchen awash in the glow of a wide, sooty hearth.

  A cauldron hung over squares of steaming sod whose sizzling red edges flared into flames now and then. A crook-backed woman emerged from the shadows and stirred the pot. Her black shawl covered her misshapen shoulders and white-haired head. She turned towards Tom, peering at him through falcon eyes that smouldered like coals in her skeletal face.

  He sensed no threat from her. In fact, she reminded him of his grandmother. One quick swing of his legs brought him to his feet. He crossed the room to present himself, reaching to remove his cap on his way, but it wasn’t on his head. “God save all here,” he said.

  “One hundred thousand welcomes to you, Tomás O’Byrne.” The woman stirred as she spoke. Her aged voice lilted with mischief and mirth. “You’ve travelled far this day. You’ll travel farther still before you find your rest.”

  “How do you know me, ma’am? Who are you?”

  “I am Sorcha, the Guardian of Tobernalt. All who visit Lough Gill’s holy well are known to me.”

  Tom slanted his head to one side and squinted at her. “In all the times I’ve stopped at the well, I’ve never seen the likes of you.”

  “The door to the Otherworld only opens at certain times. Today is one of them. August first. Lughnasa.” She pointed to a rough-hewn table set against the wall. “Go and sit, Tomás O’Byrne. I’ve prepared a meal for you.”

  More curious than concerned, Tom complied with her request. A bowl of potatoes and scallions boiled in milk appeared before him, though the hag never moved from the hearth. While she hummed and stirred, he sampled the food. Its earthy flavours compelled him to eat until he’d emptied the bowl. At last he set his spoon down. “Why have you brought me here, ma’am?”

  Again, her head turned towards him. “Finvarra, the King of the Fairies, has taken the healer Doreen. You must bring her back.”

  “I know no woman by that name.”

  “She chose you to save her.”

  The young woman’s face appeared before Tom as clearly as it had in the water at Tobernalt. Her sad blue eyes beguiled him. He must rescue her, this healer named Doreen. “What would you have me do, ma’am?”

  Sorcha smiled and nodded her approval. “Finvarra claims he took the girl to heal an injured knee that keeps him from dancing.” Disgust twisted the old woman’s face. “The bumptious ass is never short of excuses to steal mortal women. You must go to his summer palace and free Doreen before it’s too late. Once she eats his fairy food, she’ll forever be his prisoner.”

  Tom glanced suspiciously at his empty bowl. Had the old crone tricked him?

  Her cackle resounded through the murky room. “’Tis true that the King of the Fairies isn’t the only one who serves enchanted food to mortals. But Finvarra’s food entraps. Mine empowers. Rise up now, Tomás O’Byrne. Find Finvarra’s palace. Free the healer and bring her to her true destiny.”

  Despite the hag’s assurance that her supper would magically strengthen him, an inkling of doubt beset Tom. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I thank you for the meal, ma’am, but I don’t see how I can challenge the King of the Fairies. His magic is great, and I have no weapons.”

  Sorcha shuffled towards him holding out her withered fingers. Instinctively, Tom extended his hand towards her.

  She dropped a small round lump into his open palm. “This golden bean grew in my garden. If you place it in your mouth in times of danger, you’ll become invisible. So will the healer, as long as you touch her. Go forth now, Tomás O’Byrne. Follow the path to the crossroads where the crystal lark sings in the silver oak tree. Take the left road and you’ll find the entrance to Finvarra’s palace.”

  Still unconvinced, Tom placed the golden bean in his pocket. He strode to the door, opened it and gazed at the pitch-black night. “I’ve never seen such darkness. How will I find my way?”

  “The moon and stars cannot shine beneath the hills of Ireland. You must find your way by the light of your heart.”

  Sorcha vanished. So did her house. Sniffing a last trace of turf smoke, Tom scratched his head and wondered what she’d meant.

  The anguished face of the healer Doreen appeared in the black fairy night. She fixed a beseeching gaze on him.

  “Don’t worry, mavourneen,” he whispered. “I’ll find you. I mean to see you smile.”

  The pebbled path before him glistened.

  He heard the lark before he saw it. The glorious trilling led him to wisps of whirling light that grew fatter and brighter, spinning at last into a silver tree. When he reached the glossy trunk, the birdsong ceased. He thought he’d frightened the lark away, but the true reason for its sudden silence quickly became clear.

  The sound of horses’ hooves boomed in the distance, rumbling towards Tom with the speed of a storm-driven wave. Wary rather than frightened, he slipped behind the tree just as seven white steeds sprang from the darkness, chargers geared for battle by the looks of them. Jewels glittered on their foreheads. Flames shot from their nostrils. The knights atop them might have been human but for the armour and helmets of radiant gold they wore. Broad green mantles snapped behind them, and each held a golden spear.

  They cut to a halt at the silver oak, and Tom’s lips mouthed a silent curse. Did they know he was there? Had they come to kill him? If so, he’d give them a good fight.

  The golden bean, Tomás O’Byrne . . .
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br />   Sorcha’s voice rustled in his ears like windblown eddies of autumn leaves. He fumbled in his pocket and snatched the golden bean to his mouth.

  Nothing happened.

  The lead rider walked his steed to the tree and circled the trunk. Tom stood as still as a wound-down clock. Would the horse smell him? Would the horseman hear his pounding heart? Sure he was about to die, he glared defiantly at the knight, but the fairy only raised his arm and galloped off.

  His fairy troop raced after him. Tom didn’t move until the clatter of thundering hooves faded away. The crystal bird resumed its song, and Tom knew the danger had passed. Still, he ran down the road to the left of the tree as if the devil himself were chasing him.

  At last he stopped at a stand of rocks. Gold glittered around a gap in the stones. This must be the Fairy King’s palace. Where did the fairies find so much gold? The coins in Tom’s pocket, a sum he’d thought a small fortune that morning, seemed a beggar’s portion in contrast to the wealth he’d seen so far.

  Suspecting he’d soon see more, he entered the cave. A raucous blend of music, laughter and merry female squeals wafted from its depths. Tom crept deeper into the cave and found a marble staircase. Down he went with the golden bean in his mouth.

  Soon he came to a torch-lit room. He stepped inside, and the sounds of revelry faded. Three grey-haired women sat at golden spinning wheels spinning golden thread. From their plain attire and listless air, he judged them to be mortals.

  He took the bean from his mouth. “God save all here.”

  The women’s hands flew to their faces. The oldest of the three blessed herself. “Mother of God, who are you?”

  “I’m Tom O’Byrne of Ballymote. I’ve come to save a mortal woman called Doreen.”

  An exchange of desolate looks preceded the women’s responses. “Ah, poor thing,” said the youngest.