Inish Clare

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  Rory repeated the words as they flowed from her.

  “Chieftains of the clans O’Maille and MacMathuna. You must fight to restore Gaelic Ireland to her, her original glory.” He stumbled on some words but continued in monotone. “The Druids will guide you. Return this land to the ancient rhythms of the Celtic age.”

  I looked at him and he gazed back at me, pressing his lips together. He nodded and looked back at Grace. He nodded at her, too.

  She was pleased and gave a half-smile, confirming in my gut she knew I would do the right thing with the scrolls.

  I stood taller and stronger, accepting my responsibility to Grace without hesitation. I gazed into her eyes and was pulled into the magic of the universe swirling in her pupils. But then my line of vision was drawn away by the motion at the side of the tomb.

  Hugh.

  Gráinne’s eyes followed mine, only so slightly. She was aware of his presence but remained focused on what needed to get done first.

  She waved her arm from the chest to the tomb, guiding me to return it to its place of eternal rest.

  After placing the handkerchief on the ancient treasures, I sealed the crate and scrambled to my feet. Paul reached for a handle with his good arm and helped me lift it to the opening of the vault.

  I pushed it in and shimmied it to the back of the crypt to its original location. Panic sent quakes through me as I prayed the stone door wouldn’t slam shut and seal me in there for all of time.

  It was just a feeling I couldn’t get used to.

  I backed out clumsily, scraping my knees in my haste—happy to never have to go in there again but knowing too well that its haunting darkness would revisit me in my nightmares or future panic attacks.

  “Let’s slide her in!” I commanded.

  We backed the cart up to the tomb and heaved the sarcophagus into the opening. Struggling with the minute adjustments of lining it up, we set it straight and pushed. The stone coffin slid into place, a perfect fit.

  Before closing the door, I took the two family crests and placed them, overlapping each other, at the inner entrance to the tomb.

  Rory and Paul pushed on the stone slab door until it crunched its way back into its tight seal. I jumped up the side of the mound where the key stuck out and pulled it from the hole. I wiggled it into the hole above and pushed the key in, prongs down. With a steady movement of my wrist, I lifted the key shaft, pressing the prongs downward, re-locking the internal pins.

  Together again. Forever.

  With key in hand, I ran back to Paul’s side as we watched the swirling dark storm settle into a calm stream of white and gray gusts, moving around us like a whirlpool of light.

  Gráinne’s form glided to Hugh as he burst from his crumbling shackles. The chains and cuffs fell to his feet in a clanging heap, freeing him from centuries of separation from his true love, as his powerful arms embraced her.

  He lifted her onto his chest and she held him around his neck. Her head fell back and tears streamed from her eyes as she rejoiced in their reunion. He spun her in the glowing white mist as his heavy black boots sent quakes through the ground.

  He stopped then and lowered her in front of him and kissed her with a passion that had grown for over five hundred years.

  Their contact blew my mind with a blast of light that blinded me. When the flash cleared from my eyes, they were gone.

  The wind and mist seeped into the earth and air and out into the world around us.

  A final clang rang out and I jumped to the mound where they had stood together.

  The scabbard lay at the top of the stony tomb and I reached for it. Closing my fingers around it, I knew it to be a gift.

  The four of us stood silent, staring at the sacred ground where Grace O’Malley and Hugh DeLacy reunited after centuries of grief and searching.

  Together now.

  For eternity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Defector

  “Don’t move!”

  Fergal’s command cut through the blissful calm like a fire-breathing dragon.

  His hands grasped the hilt of her sword and he pointed it at my face, addressing me with it. The weight of the blade made it wobble in his hands as he tried to focus it on me.

  My eyes darted to the cart where the sword had been.

  He’d crept around us and swiped it off the unguarded cart as we stared into the realm of the other side. His lack of respect and humility fueled him to continue his vile thieving and plotting.

  Paul jumped in reaction to the threat and placed himself between the sword and me in one swift motion.

  Fergal aimed the sword square at his chest with a jerk. His eyes bounced from each of us, as if trying to predict our next moves.

  “All this was meant to be mine!” He turned to Rory. “Ours!” He spat at him. “Defector!”

  “No, Fergal. You’re wrong.” Rory shot down his rant. “You’ve been wrong all along.”

  He took a step closer to Fergal.

  “We will honor whatever is written in those documents, Fergal. It’s our rightful duty.” Rory’s tone left no room for negotiating.

  His chest pushed out as his shoulders squared up against Fergal.

  Stepping back from Rory’s advances with a lost look of what to do next, Fergal turned the sword on him.

  “You! You’re the weak link. Turnin’ yer back on five hundred years of clan history.” Fergal spat at him again. “Yer a buncha fools, leavin’ the treasure in there to rot!”

  “Drop the sword, Fergal. We’re done here.” Rory’s voice remained calm and steady as he held his hands up to settle Fergal’s rising angst.

  Paul dropped his hands to his knees, losing strength, and looked up at him.

  “What? Are ya gonna kill us all, Fergal? Is that your plan?” Paul shook his head, looking up through his brow.

  Fergal snarled with a laugh.

  “No. Not my chieftain.” He huffed, glancing at Rory. “But if I have to do his dirty work for ’im, then so be it. I know my role in my tribe.”

  He pointed the sword at Paul’s chest and took a step closer to him.

  Paul held his ground, remaining between Fergal and me.

  Panic widened my eyes as Fergal’s pupils shrank to pinpricks as he zoomed in on his target.

  “Fergal stop!” My voice shattered the tension in the air. “It’s me you want. You’ve caused enough harm to him.”

  Paul’s broken condition spoke for itself as he slumped and propped himself up on his knees.

  “That’s right. Tis you I want. To stop,” he spat.

  He stared Rory down, as if annoyed that he had to take care of everything himself. Then he set his attention back to me, with a piercing glare of disdain. He took a quick step to the side and turned the sword on me.

  “Careful now, Fergal.” Rory grew tense in response to Fergal’s move on me. “The consequences to a traitor are steep. Make another move on her and I’ll have to stop you m’self. For good.” His hand went up, to redirect Fergal. “Understand?”

  “You already think I’m nothin’. Go ahead and try to stop me.” He turned the sword back on Paul. “This is my rightful duty and I will not yield!”

  He strained, spitting the words out through clenched teeth.

  Rory took a step closer to Fergal.

  “Stay back, Taoiseach. Don’t try to change what’s meant to be.” Fergal blasted at Rory, referring to him as chieftain with loathing judgment oozing from his tone.

  He held the sword against Rory and then back to Paul.

  “She’ll watch her lover die by my hand,” Fergal threatened. “It’s what history intended. To finish what I started, long ago.” He growled at me like an angry animal. “I. Will. Stop. Her.”

  My heart plummeted as I considered his words. “Finish what he started?”

  Was he Hugh’s killer?

  It was impossible. But the deeper the notion sank into me, the more possible it became.

  Terror rose in me and poun
ded in my head as I understood Fergal’s motivation and I gazed into Paul’s eyes, seeing death and carnage deep within him. He held my gaze, unblinking, as if I were the last thing he wanted to ever see.

  In a burst of force, Fergal lunged at Paul with the sword aimed at his heart.

  “For my warrior captain! The true MacMahon chieftain!” he proclaimed as he sailed at him.

  My exploding mind slowed every movement to a slow-motion pace.

  Rory glided across the ivy to block Fergal’s attack on Paul and launched himself at him.

  Fergal side-stepped to avoid Rory as Paul put his arm up in defense while reaching back for me with his wounded arm.

  Without hesitation, I pushed around Paul and with my head down, bulldozed at Fergal and knocked him off his path with a blow that hollowed out my ears, making them ring.

  My strength was that of a bull. Or that of a pirate queen.

  The sword flew from Fergal’s hands as he stumbled off course from my hit and Paul dove out of range.

  Rory ran through the air where Fergal had stood and regained his balance while spinning back around.

  The sword spun through the air then landed with a twanging whap on its hilt, wedged at the base of an O’Maille gravestone, pointing straight into the air like a beacon.

  Fergal stumbled from my blow, off his murderous course, and caught my eye just before falling onto the gravestone.

  The surprised look in his eye, just before he fell, haunted me. Like he knew in that moment, I’d beat him. Or worse.

  The three of us squared up together in solidarity against him. He held the top of the monument, bracing himself, and snarled back at us in seething defiance.

  “Ya foo….” Fergal hesitated and hacked, glaring at us with murderous intent. “Ya’ll nev….” He stopped again, struggling to pull in a full breath.

  He pushed with his arms to prop himself up on the stone but winced in pain, unable to move. He dropped his gaze down and met the sword’s hilt, jammed into the base of the gravestone, and followed the length of the blade as it went out of sight up into his chest.

  He coughed out blood. It gurgled down his chin as his lips curled in revolt.

  I turned my face into Paul’s chest to hide from the gruesome image.

  Rory ran to Fergal and held him by the shoulders. “Hang on, man. We’ll get help.”

  With no regard for his own predicament, Fergal reached up and grabbed Rory’s neck and squeezed, revealing the insidious tribal tattoo on his forearm.

  “Scum. Defec….” and his voice trailed off into oblivion as his hand fell from Rory’s neck.

  Paul collapsed as the final ounce of energy left his body in the same moment Fergal’s soul left his.

  ‘”Paul!” I cushioned his head in my lap, looking anywhere but at Fergal’s propped up body.

  My body shivered beneath him, releasing the terror of Fergal from my being.

  He was gone.

  And we would be safe now.

  Tears fell from my eyes in relief of it being over.

  “Come on.” Rory encouraged me up. “We need to get out of here. Before anyone else, or anything else, shows up.” He looked back at Fergal. “Sure, and we’ll need be callin’ the gards, I s’pose.”

  Rory pushed Paul upright, to help him to stand. His limp body fell back into the ivy. He’d half-passed out, either from blood loss or dehydration. Rory crouched down and pulled Paul up over his shoulder and hoisted him up as a firefighter would.

  “Get the scrolls and the scabbard,” Rory directed me. “We’ll get the sword later.” He pursed his lips and winced at the thought. “You know, after the Garda have a look.”

  I grabbed my pack and stuffed it with all my things and added the new scrolls into it.

  The nagging desire to get my hands on the sword pestered me to the point where I could think of nothing else. It had been held just out of my reach for so long. I ground my teeth in frustration and craved it.

  Rory was right, though. It was part of a crime scene. A gruesome one. And I had to be patient.

  I scratched my head and looked back over my shoulder. I hated being patient.

  Rory leapt over the low wall of the cemetery, carving a shortcut to the car. The extra weight on his shoulders didn’t slow him or cause him to falter in any way.

  He lay Paul in the backseat and I positioned myself under Paul’s head to keep him comfortable while we waited for the police.

  My head tilted as I stared into Paul’s peaceful face. It was like being home. His face was all I wanted to see, ever.

  Rory’s voice filled the car but didn’t break my gaze.

  “We’ll bring the scrolls to the Elder Council. We’ll tell our story and see what their ruling is. I can’t… I just can’t believe all of this.” His head shook at the night sky.

  Rory seemed to have the same plan as me.

  Even now. Even after everything.

  I smiled to myself, hoping for a peaceful resolution. One that worked for both clans.

  I pulled my pack closer, keeping the scrolls connected to me. This gift from Gráinne was the final piece needed to put her soul completely to rest and end the centuries-old curse on my clan.

  She was finally reunited with Hugh. After centuries of sorrow and searching.

  My haunting visions would end. And the next generation of O’Malley women would be spared. I inhaled deeper than I ever had and blew it out through pursed lips as contentment settled into my bones.

  And now, her territory could be reinstated to its rightful holders—the O’Malleys. Peace and prosperity would return to the clan and it would become strong again.

  A giddy smile pressed on my lips as I imagined the possibilities.

  I would have to figure out my role as chieftain and what to do next from here. The myths and legends of generations tugged on me as impatience gnawed on my nails.

  The vast responsibility and the mystical unknown didn’t bother me though.

  I was home.

  I was finally home.

  ***

  Oncoming headlights filled the car with streams of blue and white light.

  My head bobbed to avoid the assault of flashing lights on my weary eyes. Buzz from walkie-talkies filled the road along with pacing uniformed-men asking questions.

  “You stay here, Maeve. I’ll take them into the boneyard.” Rory leaned into the backseat to check if I was okay. “There’s a gard in the car, keepin’ watch. So, you’ll be fine.”

  I listened to the gravel-grinding footsteps and fading voices as Rory brought three officers with him into the cemetery.

  Paul twisted and then jolted to wakefulness after the searing pain from his shoulder woke him.

  “Ach. Jeez.” He sucked air through clenched teeth and looked around. “Where’s Rory?”

  “The police are here. Rory took them to Fergal’s body.”

  He reached for me. “Are you okay? Holy Jesus. I don’t know what I’d do if that fooker hurt you.”

  His lost eyes searched me.

  “It’s over now.” I rubbed the back of my fingers along his cheekbone. “He’s gone.”

  “He’s gone!” Rory’s voice filled the car with new alarm.

  “What! Who?” I stared at him as my face awakened with horror.

  “Fergal. He’s gone,” Rory repeated.

  My eyes shot open in terror.

  There was no way. He was dead.

  Fergal’s revolting stink awakened in my nostrils, causing me to retch, reminding me of his decaying condition. Nothing had a stench like that, except… a rotting corpse.

  A shudder of pure disgust ran through me.

  The police came to the car and looked in at Paul and me.

  “Sorry, miss. No body. No crime.” He took a better look at Paul through squinted eyes. “However, you might want to press some charges, sir. You look at bit under the weather.”

  “It was Fergal.” He hid his injured shoulder and put on a strong face to avoid interrogation. “T
hey’ll take me to the ER now. No worries.”

  “Ach, sure. Your call.” He nodded at Paul, then turned his gaze to me. “Well, I understand this belongs to you, miss.”

  The officer held the sword out in full view. Without any traces of blood or malpractice, it glinted bright light into my eyes.

  “No law against wieldin’ swords, sure, odd enough.” He smirked at the loophole in the law.

  Rory brought him around back and they placed the sword in the trunk like a fragile relic, though we knew better of its practical use.

  Rory pulled away slowly from the scene, leaving the flashing squad cars and buzzing radios to headquarters, behind us.

  “No bleedin’ on me mum’s backseat now, McGratt,” Rory poked.

  I pulled my gaze from Paul’s face to verbally smack Rory for the sarcasm but my eyes were drawn out the window behind us instead, back toward the cemetery.

  Over the flashing blue and white lights of the gards, my eyes widened as a haze of red and black gusts swirled above the cemetery, gaining strength and fury within itself. The whirling streaks grew stronger in intensity and pulled into a tight funnel of red rage.

  My jaw fell open as I stared at the violent force that could be only one thing.

  The warrior.

  He’d come for Fergal. He’d taken him back.

  I dropped my face into my hands and rubbed my forehead with enough pressure to redden the skin.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  I dragged my fingers down my face as I looked up at the crimson night sky again.

  As words of caution prepared to leave my lips, they stuck on my tongue as the red cyclone dispelled and spread across the night sky.

  And into oblivion.

  Epilogue

  “It’s yours now,” Paul said as we left the assembly. “Officially granted to you by the Elder Council of the Chieftain Tribes. Kinda makes it official.” He squeezed my hand. “No pressure. Particularly since it’s been deemed priceless.”

  I looked around with exaggerated surveillance, pretending to search for lurking brown cloaks, then gripped the hilt through its protective wrap. I swung the sword with precision and leaped in the air like a panther attacking its prey. A final swirl and slash then finished with a graceful curtsy.