Wild Irish Rebel

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Wild Irish Rebel Page 6

by O'Malley, Tricia


  "Rough day?"

  Morgan was surprised to find that she could smile at that. Perhaps her cry on Ronan had done some good for her after all.

  "Rough life, more like it," Morgan muttered.

  "Not as much anymore though; it seems like things are on the up and up for you," Fiona observed.

  Morgan shrugged her shoulder and nodded, unsure of how much she wanted to say or what she wanted to reveal.

  "Morgan, I owe you an apology," Fiona said.

  The piece of bread that Morgan was holding dropped from her fingers into her soup and she stared at Fiona in confusion.

  "Whatever for?"

  "I…well, I do my best to find others like us across Ireland. Somehow you slipped past me. If I had known, I would have come for you. I would have taken you in, taught you about your powers. It's my fault that you went through what you did," Fiona said, her lips pressed into a tight line, her heart in her eyes.

  "Oh...oh God," Morgan breathed, pressing the backs of her hands to her eyes as tears filled them again. "It's not your fault, Fiona. It's not anyone's fault really. Sometimes things just happen."

  But if felt good. Knowing that someone would have taken her in. Maybe that would be enough for her, Morgan thought as warmth spread through her.

  "It's not my fault that you were abused by those awful nuns, or that you bounced from home to home, but it most certainly is my fault for not finding you. I pride myself at being more knowledgeable than that. It must be because I heard nothing of your mother. Not a word. I still know nothing. Do you know anything?" Fiona asked carefully, her eyes trained on Morgan's.

  Morgan sat back and wiped her eyes again, forcing her breath to calm.

  "I don't. Not really. Mary McKenzie was her name, so I've kept that last name. They don't even know if she died or not to be honest. I was…I was found wrapped in blankets in a cardboard box on the steps of the Friary. She…she didn't even put me in a basket or anything." Morgan's voice stuttered a bit and she took a deep breath and continued. "A note was pinned to me that had my name on it and that she was giving up all rights to me. She signed it and everything. They never found her or any of my family. I don’t even know if McKenzie is my real name."

  "That may be it," Fiona said, pointing a finger at Morgan. "In fact…I wonder…" Her voice trailed off as she studied Morgan.

  Feeling raw, and not caring, Morgan dipped into Fiona's mind to see what she was wondering. She jerked when she realized she was blocked. Heat crept up her cheeks in embarrassment.

  "Yes, I learned to shield myself a long time ago, dear," Fiona said, dismissing Morgan's attempt to read her mind. She looked lost in thought for a moment and then seeming to come to a decision, she smiled at her.

  "Knowing what I do now, I suspect that I may know or be able to find your mother…or at least what happened to her," Fiona said gently.

  Time slowed for a second and Morgan could feel her heart beating in her chest as Fiona's words washed through her.

  "I could find your mother."

  Chapter Eleven

  The thought of finding her mother was so incomprehensible to Morgan that she didn't even know what to say. It simply had never occurred to her to try and do so. She'd operated on the assumption that her mother was dead or long gone. It wasn't like she'd ever tried to check on her or see if she needed anything.

  "I think that ship has sailed," Morgan said softly.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because if she was alive and had wanted to find me, well, she could have. It's obvious that she wanted nothing to do with me, so why bother hunting her down?" Anger and accusation laced her words and Morgan struggled to tamp down the deeply buried anger that she held.

  "Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps something prevented her from finding you. Or maybe she knew that you were better off without her."

  "Better off? Being shuttled from home to home? Being abused by the nuns? Running away at sixteen because it was so awful? How in the hell is that better?" Morgan shoved back from the table, standing to pace as she raged at Fiona. "Don't speak of what you don't understand, old woman."

  Fiona rose herself and the kindness in her eyes almost broke Morgan.

  "I know what it is to be a mother. Something of which you have no idea. And I know that sometimes you have to make choices in the best interests of your child. She might have thought that she was doing the best by you."

  "She knew! She knew that I would have a power. She knew that they would consider me a freak. She knew it and she left me. She just left me…" Morgan's voice trailed off as tears overtook her and the walls of the cabin closed in around her. Turning, she pushed towards the door and stumbled outside, blinded by her rage. Rounding the corner of the cottage, she stumbled to her knees before curling in a ball, her back against the warm stones of the cottage, as she buried her face in her knees.

  Finding her mother? How could Aislinn have sent her here to open this wound? Her anger reached out and encompassed Aislinn, Baird…the whole town. It had been stupid of her to come here. Stupid of her to dig all of this up. She'd learned long ago that to be a survivor meant putting her walls up and never showing her emotions.

  She jumped as a tongue lapped her arm. Peeking out of her arms, she saw Ronan, his tail wagging, his nose inches from her face. He nuzzled into her, forcing her to raise her arm so he could push his nose into her face and lick her tears. Beside herself, and feeling emotionally raw, Morgan sighed and wrapped her arms around Ronan.

  A movement to her left caught her eye and Fiona eased herself down onto the grass next to her, leaning against the wall.

  "I'm sorry, Morgan. I can't speak for your mother or make assumptions on her behalf," Fiona said quietly.

  "I…I’m sorry for yelling at you."

  "It's okay. I suspect that you have a few years' worth of anger in there to get out. I'll just say it straight out…you were treated unfairly. But, just because you were dealt a raw deal doesn't mean you need to move forward in anger. Forever untrusting of others, never forming bonds. I want to help you. In fact, I promise to help you. No matter how many times you yell at me, no matter how mean you are to me, you won't be able to push me away. That's a promise that I make to you, here and now. Someone needs to stand for you. I wasn't able to before, but I'll be that person for you now."

  Fiona's words flowed over her, soothing her soul, tamping down the fiery rage that filled her gut. Morgan brought her hands to her face as she all out sobbed, the tears falling down her cheeks and coursing beneath her palms to drip onto her pants.

  She'd never had anyone to stand for her before.

  "I need help," Morgan said, pulling her hands away and turning to look into Fiona's kind eyes. "I need all sorts of help. With my emotions, with learning to manage my powers. I can't even kiss a guy without my powers going haywire!"

  Fiona laughed a little and then reached out, tentatively at first, to wrap her arm around Morgan's shoulders. Hesitant, but enjoying the comfort she provided, Morgan allowed herself to lean into Fiona.

  "Patrick?"

  "Aye, Patrick," Morgan whispered, staring out at the sea.

  "Tell me what happens when you kiss."

  "I…I just lose myself. It feels so amazing. But, that loss of control means everything goes to hell with my power."

  Morgan detailed how the pint when flying and why she was scared to move forward with Patrick.

  "And this has only happened while you were kissing him?"

  "Well, it also happens when I sleep. Um, during my nightmares specifically."

  "You have nightmares?" Fiona drew away so she could meet Morgan's eyes, concern etched on her face.

  Morgan nodded and continued to rub Ronan's ears, happy for the comfort that the dog provided. Maybe she really did need to get a dog, she thought.

  "The same one. It's all very gothic and dark, much more vivid and scary than the experience was in real life. There is chanting in Latin, candlelight flickering, my wrists are bound, and crosses are held
over me. All very 18th century exorcism style, I guess."

  "Yet this happened to you in real life."

  Morgan nodded. "It did, but not nearly as gothic and dark as that. Pretty much every few months or every time I got sent home from a foster home, the nuns would tie me to a bed and pray for me while Father dumped holy water on my head. At first I would yell, but eventually I would just lie there and close my eyes, determined to wait them out. They would eventually give up and go on their way."

  "So, this darker experience…do you think it is your fears from that situation? Or, perhaps you are reliving an experience from one of our ancestors," Fiona mused.

  Morgan whipped her head around to look at Fiona. The old woman had a considering look in her eye. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Morgan studied her.

  "You think that I am channeling someone else's experience?"

  "You might be. You know that some of our ancestors were persecuted as witches. An exorcism would have been right in line with what would be considered a first act of trying to cure them."

  "I just, wow, I'd never even considered that."

  "Yes, you may have been living through a modern-day witch hunt of sorts at the hand of the nuns," Fiona mused.

  All of a sudden, it was as though the memory had no power over her anymore. Fiona had reframed it in a manner that allowed her to distance herself from it and instead of being ashamed of what had happened to her, Morgan could now group herself in with her ancestors.

  "I never, ever considered that," Morgan breathed.

  "Yes, well, it can be hard to see something objectively when you are so close to the situation," Fiona said.

  "If I told you the dream do you think you could figure out who it was?" Morgan asked eagerly. The thought of chasing down an ancestor, an actual blood relative of hers, excited her.

  "So you're okay with me finding your ancestors and yet you don't want to know about your mother?" Fiona observed.

  "It seems absurd when you say it like that, doesn't it?" Morgan asked.

  "Feelings aren't rational, my dear," Fiona said.

  Morgan laughed when Ronan nosed her again, this time with a stick in his mouth.

  "Fetch, is it?" She tugged the bedraggled stick from his mouth and tossed it into the air. The dog let out a joyous bark like all his Christmases had come at once and raced after the stick, a furry bullet slicing through the tall grass.

  "No, it's not rational. But, I don't think that I am ready to know more about my mother. I guess that I'm learning to be okay with where I am at and building from there. Is that okay?" Morgan asked.

  "Perfectly fine, dear. Now, let's go inside so I can pull out my book. I might be able to find your ancestors as well as figure out a few tricks we can work on with controlling your powers."

  Chapter Twelve

  It might be from your ancestors. Morgan shook her head again as she sipped on a small glass of whiskey in the reading cove of Fiona's cottage. A cheerful fire burned in the stove, warding off the hint of chill that still clung in the early spring evenings. Ronan curled at her feet, every once in a while letting out a sleepy snort, his feet moving with his puppy dreams.

  It was perhaps the most comfortable and most welcoming place that Morgan had ever been in. If Fiona truly meant her words, then Morgan could start to consider this cottage like a second home.

  She'd always been jealous of her schoolmates and how they'd so casually mentioned going home to their family, or talked about what posters they were putting up in their rooms. The best Morgan could ever do was briefly mention a place that she was staying at. And, most of those homes had strict rules. Posters of cute movie stars had never been taped to her walls. She'd grown so used to being on her own that being welcomed into a home by Fiona as part of her brood that she watched over was a surreal experience.

  And a welcome one.

  "Ah, okay, I think that I may have found something. Though, I need to dig a little deeper. Can you tell me more about your dream again…no so much what they were saying, but are there any identifying articles of clothing or jewelry?"

  "Hmm, let me think about this for a moment. Usually I try not to remember these dreams at all," Morgan said.

  "I don't blame you. But, if I could date this a bit, I might have a better idea whose experience you are reliving."

  Morgan shuddered a bit, thinking about how someone else had gone through even worse treatment than she had.

  "I remember dark robes, crosses of course, and a silver and gold cup of sorts."

  Fiona peered at her over her worn leather book.

  "Like a chalice?"

  "Yes, I suppose that would be a good word for it. Yes, a chalice of sorts. It held the holy water with which they continue to draw crosses on my naked body."

  "Were there any identifying marks on the chalice?'"

  "Hmm, I guess it is hard to say. I know that it was silver with a gold band around it. There were probably marks but you'd have to be really close to it to see all of the design work."

  "Does it look something like this?"

  Fiona turned the book around and Morgan gasped at the hand drawing of an intricately designed chalice. The ink color was aged to a light brown and the paper that it was on looked like coffee had spilled across it.

  "Yes, that's it."

  "That's the Chalice of Ardagh, my dear. There is no known written history of its use. Only speculation. Didn't you learn about it in school?"

  Shock wove its way through Morgan as she tried to connect one of Ireland's most famous treasures with the chalice that she had seen in her dream. She'd never bothered to connect the two images, but now that she had, certainty rang through her.

  "It's the same chalice. Oh my God, do you think that I may have historical information on it use?"

  "You may. You know there is speculation that there are two chalices, right? That the real Chalice of Ardagh is hidden in the cove."

  Morgan's mouth dropped open and she turned in the smooth wood rocking chair, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs until she was tucked in a little ball, waiting on Fiona's every word.

  "I had not heard that. In fact, I know little of the cove other than it is for sure cursed, blessed, however you want to look at it."

  Fiona cocked her head and studied Morgan. She took a small sip of her whiskey.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Aside from Aislinn and Flynn telling me?"

  "Yes." Fiona gestured with her whiskey glass for Morgan to continue.

  Morgan shrugged her shoulders.

  "I just feel it when we go in there on the boat. It's like passing through a thin veil or something. The curse, or magic, or whatever, seems to hold a weight. It presses against me a bit and part of me feels like if I held my hand to the air I could trail my fingers through it. I don’t know how else to explain it," she said.

  "You're the first of my girls to feel it," Fiona observed.

  A warmth slipped through Morgan at Fiona's words. Her girls. She belonged somewhere. The thought almost made her giddy. Yet, a part of her wanted to reserve these emotions. She'd learned long ago that sometimes if it looked like it was too good to be true, it probably was. She would proceed with caution.

  "I think that I have more than one particular ability," Morgan admitted.

  "Yes, you're definitely the strongest of any of my girls too," Fiona hummed. "We'll get to that in a moment. Now, the chalice. Grace's Cove got its name from the Great Grace O'Malley, our strong and powerful ancestor. She was credited with keeping much of Celtic heritage alive and was a phenomenal woman in her own right. When it was time for her to die, she made her way to the cove, along with her pregnant daughter. The night that she walked into the water, she and her daughter worked a very powerful magick. Adding to the spell was the birth of her granddaughter on the beach that very night."

  Morgan gasped as she tried to imagine saying goodbye to a mother and welcoming a baby within the same moment. It was no wonder there was powerful
magick at the cove.

  "Those who know whispers of the story began to assume that much of Grace O'Malley's treasure followed her there. But, that isn't true. Only one thing did. The chalice. Now, what's interesting to me is that the same chalice was used on you in a dream. So, the question is, did it leave the cove at some point and was returned or was it used on Grace O'Malley during her lifetime? Because as far as I know, Grace was the one who did the pillaging; she was not the subject of any torture."

  Morgan imagined that her eyes had grown to the size of saucers as she stared at Fiona so casually recounting the legend. It was hard to believe that these people existed in real life.

  "Gosh, I really don't know. I am just learning about all of this," Morgan said and Fiona waved her words away.

  "Of course, I don't expect you to know the answer to that. I wonder though…" Fiona tapped the arm of her rocking chair and studied the flames for a bit. She opened her mouth and then closed it, shaking her head a definitive no.

  "What?"

  "Ah, nothing. I was thinking we could try something to find out more information, but there is really no need to lead you through the trauma. All it would do is add to the story, it doesn't necessarily solve any of your current problems with nightmares. Though…hm," Fiona said again and pressed her lips into a tight line.

  "Well, I can't really give you any feedback if you don't tell me what you are thinking about," Morgan said cautiously and Fiona laughed softly.

  "You're right at that."

  "So? Go on and tell me then. I'll let you know if I think it is worth it," Morgan said, gesturing to Fiona with her whiskey glass. The fire caught the warm honey tone of the liquid and Morgan admired it briefly before turning her eyes back onto Fiona.

  "Well, two things occurred to me as an option. One is called regression therapy. Essentially, I would hypnotize you and lead you back through past lives. But, I'm not sure that would matter unless you were a soul reincarnated that was also a direct line of Grace O'Malley. The chances of that are slim."

  Morgan felt her mouth hanging open again as Fiona bowled her over with her words.

 

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