Danu

by T L Harty

  “The Celtic people were not perfect,” Grammy observed.

  “I know,” I said. “They still didn’t deserve to have parts of their culture torn from them. We are related to druidesses. That is our culture, too, Grammy.”

  “I’m glad you’re starting to accept things,” she commented, rising from her seat. “Dinner doesn’t sound good tonight, so I’m off to bed.” She retrieved her pajamas, walking to the bathroom.

  The conversation ended abruptly, leaving me utterly confused. I knocked on the bathroom door and told her that I was going to go downstairs to get a bite to eat. She asked me to grab a roll for her in case she got hungry later. After grabbing the keys, I departed.

  It was around 6 p.m. and there was no one in the dining room, but a couple tables boasted proof that people had eaten here. The girl, who checked us into the B & B yesterday, appeared in the entranceway to the dining room.

  “Help yourself to whatever you like,” she offered. “I’m going to be cleaning up soon. There is no one left to dine except your grandmother.”

  “She isn’t coming down, but I have instructions to bring her a roll up for later,” I told her. “Does everyone in this country eat early?”

  “No,” she answered. “We only serve dinner here between five and six. According to the inspectors, you can’t have food out longer than an hour. Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked. “I go home at 8, but dinner is included in my pay.”

  “Not at all,” I smiled. “My name is Muriel, what’s yours?”

  “Brianna,” she shared.

  “What a pretty name,” I admired. “Does it have a special meaning?”

  Brianna laughed. “It only sounds good, I assure you,” she remarked. “It’s merely a female version of Brian and the name means high hill. I’ve never liked it.”

  The buffet table had plenty of offerings, but it was the shepherd pie I chose. It looked good when Ardan was eating it this afternoon. After we got our food, we sat down at a clean table.

  “How old are you?” I asked Brianna. It was funny how meeting new people always started with the same couple of questions. Tonight would be no exception. If I was sitting across from a princess or an actress, I fear my conversation would be just as mundane.

  “I’m almost seventeen,” Brianna shared. “And you?”

  “Just turned sixteen,” I answered.

  “I thought you were at least nineteen!” she exclaimed. “You are very beautiful.” My face went flush with the compliment. Brianna noticed my awkward demeanor, and attempted to change the subject.

  “So,” she wondered, “what were you and your grandmother up to today?”

  “We traveled to Kildare so we could see the cathedral there,” I answered.

  “Ah, Saint Brigid,” Brianna sighed. “The saddest story in that area is when a woman was named as abbess in the 1100’s, and then raped to disqualify her from the position. They didn’t want a woman in charge. How is that fair?”

  “It wasn’t,” I agreed. “Funny you would comment on that portion of history because I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

  “Because it was awful?” Brianna wondered.

  “That’s partly the reason,” I told her. “That particular bit of history caused a huge rift between my ancestors. They had to decide to flee or conform. Continue in nunneries or travel west. Some stayed to continue a regular life, but in secret, never divulging their true nature.”

  When I looked at Brianna, she wore a confused expression.

  “Too deep?” I said, smiling. Brianna nodded her head, taking another bite of food.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I jokingly asked. We both laughed.

  Brianna looked around and suggested, “I think it would be a good idea for us to go to the drawing room, and have a gill of whiskey. A trip to Ireland wouldn’t be complete without one.”

  Having never drank a drop of alcohol before, and with no idea of what a gill meant- I immediately agreed. Brianna and I cleaned up the dining room together so she wouldn’t have to do it later. It was around 7:30 p.m. when we entered the owner’s office.

  Brianna poured a large amount of whiskey for both of us, and then plopped down in a chair.

  “I always wondered why they called this room a drawing room,” I said. “Did people draw here?” I took a small sip of the whiskey, trying to avoid coughing or looking too inexperienced.

  “The room is actually a withdrawing room: A room where one would go to be alone or withdraw from guests or family.” Brianna shared. “It was an awfully long word.” She touched the glass to her lips, flipped her head back and consumed every drop. She impressed me because even grown men typically let out a gasp or other sound to mark their feat.

  “You have done this before,” I smiled.

  “Once or twice,” she admitted, pouring another glass.

  I took a bigger sip, but had to stifle a cough as it burned while going down. Brianna identified me as a novice right away.

  “American kids don’t really drink that much, do they?” she wondered.

  I shook my head no, but didn’t dare speak because I feared the whisky had destroyed my vocal chords for a moment. Then, mindlessly…I took another sip.

  “Ireland gets a bad reputation for the drink,” she explained. “There have been studies done and deep philosophical discussion as to why we drink, but I think we just always have.” She held up her glass, before downing the contents just as before. “The word for whiskey means water of life,” she informed. “There are some who say that our ancestors drank it to sleep, trying to avoid the spirits believed to be active at night.”

  I decided to drink the rest of the whiskey in my glass in one fail swoop. Before I was able to protest, Brianna gave me another small splash.

  “Bottoms up,” I said, before drinking the whisky. “Ah!”

  “Two glasses is my limit,” she told me. We giggled for no reason.

  My face and limbs were getting warm. The alcohol had started to affect me.

  “Something you said earlier about our true nature, really made an impression on me,” Brianna mentioned. “My parents own this B & B and I don’t want to stay here. I’m curious about things outside of these walls and this town.”

  “It’s easy to understand your point,” I agreed. “We are far too young to have a life planned out for us or decisions made without our consent. So many women had zero choices about anything hundreds of years ago.”

  “We all have choices,” she summarized. She then looked over at me to ask, “Too deep?”

  I nodded and wondered, “If you could do anything in the whole world, what would it be?”

  “That’s such a bullshit question!” Brianna exclaimed. My eyebrows raised in surprise when she responded that way. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But we are sixteen years old. Have we lived long enough to answer that? Have we experienced even a small portion of all life has to offer? I want to answer your question when I’m fifty or sixty…when I’ve tasted and tested this thing called life.”

  “Yes!” I shouted, feeling tipsy. “Brilliant point, brilliant!”

  There was a common restlessness shared with Brianna. We both sat there in silence, contemplating all we had yet to experience. I still understood no more about being an Oris than I had when Grammy first told me about it. The purpose for the secrecy, the urgency for me to accept being an Oris: Why? The gardener with a clipboard or traveling under a different name: Why? Only one woman in this country had the answers- lucky for me, she was my roomie. I rose from the chair, with a slight wobble.

  “Thank you for everything, Brianna,” I said. “It’s time for answers.”

  Brianna had no clue what I was talking about, but she flashed a thumbs-up of encouragement none the less. We hugged like a couple of drunken fools. Finding my way to the room was not the easiest of tasks. The key wasn’t even necessary because the door opened like magic. My reflexes and observation skills were slightly impaired, but it didn’t take long to
see that Grammy had opened the door, meaning the only magical thing at work was the alcohol.

  “I have a new friend,” I said, still standing in the hallway. “My new friend has Irish whiskey. Have you ever had whiskey?”

  Grammy rolled her eyes, grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room.

  “Hey, my blalance, I mean baleence,” I tried to inform her, unable to get the word right. “I’m a little dizzy,” I concluded, unable to pronounce balance. I sat on the end of the bed, and smiled at Grammy. “You are a tricky lady,” I said, squinting at her, and pointing an accusatory finger.

  Grammy retrieved a glass of water, handing it to me. “I’m tricky,” she repeated. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion? And who is giving a sixteen year old whiskey?!”

  I waved off her concerns, and told her, “Another sixteen year old girl gave me the drinks, so it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Oh yes,” she feigned relief, “it’s a great comfort to know that you were with another delinquent.”

  “Ha!” I exclaimed. “There you go again…being tricky. Changing the subject, and confusing me with cake.” It was obvious Grammy wasn’t following my line of thinking. “I mean,” attempting to explain, “not cake now, but before cake.”

  “I am famous for my before cake,” she laughed.

  All the frustration over the last couple of years and the onslaught of visions on this trip came bubbling forth in tears. In my sixteen years, I had not cried as long or as much as that night. Grammy just held me until the tears dried up and the sobbing was quieted. She removed the mountain of tissues.

  Grammy came back to the bed, taking a seat beside me. She tapped my leg three times and told me to ask her anything…anything at all. She promised to be honest, while telling me whatever she knew. The effects of the alcohol had long disappeared, but the crying fit left me physically and mentally drained.

  “Why do you really travel by a different name?” I asked.

  “I was honest with you,” she shared. “I don’t want to be found because my aunt made me promise to shroud my existence in secrecy. She assured me it was for my own good because, someday, people would come looking for me.”

  “So, you don’t really know if anyone is out there searching for you,” I recapped. “Your aunt could have just been over-protective or paranoid.”

  “That is exactly what I thought,” Grammy admitted, as she got a glass of water for herself. “But, a few years after the war ended, and flying seemed safe- I scheduled a flight. Your grandfather and I had been married for a while. If memory serves, it was around 1950 and your mother was three. Ingrid Bergman had just been denounced on the senate floor for her affair with a director. Can you imagine?”

  “Focus, Grammy,” I interjected.

  “Oh, yes,” she regrouped. “Flying in those days was a formal affair. All the passengers were dressed in their best. Only wealthy people could afford a ticket. We were not well off, which is why my aunt bought my ticket.”

  “After sitting down at the airport to wait for my plane, I met a woman a couple of years younger than me, traveling with her sister. The sister was in tears because she was frightened, but we all had a very nice conversation, which calmed her down,” Grammy told me. “The two sisters were going back east for a family reunion. I was going to visit my aunt about Oris business, but I told them that a relative was sick.”

  “We heard the announcement for our flight, which was nothing more than the stewardess standing near the gate. The plane barely held 20 people. It was a DC-3…just beautiful, all-metal construction…two propellers…it was a very dependable aircraft in its day. I think some of them are still flying...”

  “Grammy,” I interrupted, trying to get her back on track.

  “Once we boarded, my nerves were wreaking havoc on my stomach,” she confessed. “This was my first flight and it felt like I may get sick, so I went to the bathroom. Only a few moments passed before the engines started up, which convinced me to get back to my seat. There was no sign of the two women that boarded with me, and I wondered where they could have gone.”

  “I didn’t think much of it,” she said. “Just figured the sister chickened out, so I asked the stewardess why they got off the plane. The stewardess told me that they didn’t want to, but the officers were looking for someone named Muriel. Apparently one of the sisters fit the description. I looked around the plane only to realize that there were no other female passengers on the plane except me. The officers, if they were in fact officers, would have automatically assumed Muriel was one of them.”

  “We started taxiing when the captain received a communication from the tower. They asked to hold takeoff so an officer could board again,” Grammy shared. “The cockpit door was open, and I heard the whole thing. The two sisters must have told the officers there was another woman on the flight. I held my breath, as my heartrate rose. The captain told the tower that he had already been cleared for takeoff and this meant he would have to take off and re-land. He denied the request.”

  “I was frazzled by the events, and had a terrible feeling,” Grammy said. “When the stewardess asked me my name for her seating chart, I told her it was Verna. It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

  “Verna,” I scoffed. “Where did you come up with that name?!”

  “I had a friend named Laverne, and we called her Verna for short,” Grammy explained. “I blurted out the first name that came to my mind. Over the first three hours of the flight, I examined every scenario in my life that would warrant me being pulled off a plane, but nothing was coming to mind. The only thing anyone kept a lookout for were pregnant women. They didn’t want them flying if they were showing because they believed it to be unsafe,” she giggled. “The next time we stopped to refuel, I decided to have a chat with the stewardess.”

  “What do you mean by refuel?” I asked.

  “Well,” she answered, “the flight was from San Francisco to Boston. It would take fourteen hours, and we had to stop three times to have the plane refueled. Things were a little different back then.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said.

  Grammy ignored my remark and went on, “I decided not to go all the way to Boston, in the event there were people waiting for me there. Our last refuel was in Cleveland, Ohio. I had worked it out with the stewardess to give my aunt my return ticket with a note. In the note, I explained what happened, telling her to use my return ticket early to get to Ohio. We would stay in Ohio, then part ways after a couple of days. I used the rest of the ticket to fly to San Francisco, while my aunt took a bus home.”

  “You can’t just let someone else use your ticket,” I stated.

  “Back then, the airlines didn’t check ID’s or print names on tickets,” Grammy explained. “It was much like going to the movies is today, just to give you an idea. I could buy a movie ticket and give it to someone else to use.”

  “Was there anyone in the Boston airport looking for you?” I wondered.

  “If there was, my aunt didn’t see anyone suspicious,” Grammy answered. “But, she admitted that, while at the airport, she hadn’t been looking for anything out of the ordinary. She was so excited to see me that her eyes barely left the runway. Thankfully, the stewardess wasted no time getting the note to her so she wouldn’t worry.”

  “To this day, I don’t know what to make of it,” Grammy said. “But if your gut is telling you something, listen to it. It will not steer you wrong. For example, right now, my stomach is whispering to me something about a bun you promised to get me.”

  “I’m sorry, Grammy,” I apologized, a little angry at my own forgetfulness. “It totally slipped my mind, but they have some extras. Let me run down and see what I can find.”

  I hopped out of bed before she could argue against it, and made my way downstairs. Luckily, all that crying had sobered me up. Coming to the bottom of the stairs, I witnessed a man beyond the double-door entrance of the B & B. The outside light was very bright, m
eaning that even if he turned around, he wouldn’t be able to spot me inside the dimly lit interior of the building.

  It was the man with the clipboard. If I was to believe Grammy, it was the gardener. He was copying information from one piece of paper to the next. After a few minutes, he threw something away in the trashcan before he departed.

  Without wasting any time, I retrieved a couple of buns and some crackers for Grammy. I wrapped them up tightly in a napkin and went to the entrance of the B & B. The doors were locked. I hadn’t noticed before, but the place must get locked up every night because no one was on staff at the desk.

  Slowly, I rotated the latch to unlock the doors. Every clicking sound pierced the silence, which made me fear my actions would bring everyone to the area. Before moving on to my next task, I peered over my shoulder to confirm that no one was watching me. Once the doors were unlocked, I placed the napkin with Grammy’s food on a side table. The doors were well-oiled, making this part less painful than unlocking them.

  It was dark past the light posts that lined the small path to the front door. If clipboard-man was still out there, I saw no sign of him. The focus of my mission was only down two steps, and maybe a total of eight feet away. As though my life depended on it, I ran to the can, lifted a small cover and retrieved a crumpled up piece of paper. As luck would have it, the paper rested on top of a pile of rubbish, which made it easily retrievable.

  When rushing back to the door, it soon became evident to me that I hadn’t returned the lid on top of the garbage can. Both my hands were full, making it impossible to open the door. My pulse was pounding in my ears, and reflexes took over. I threw the lid toward the garbage can, not willing for this mission to take a backwards step.

  After rushing through the door and locking it, I could see that I would need to get to the room as quickly as possible. Instead of the lid landing on the grass or the bushes, it bounced off the can. I remembered to grab Grammy’s food and hustled upstairs. The lid could be heard dancing around the path. It wouldn’t be long before the owners of the B & B would be out of their living quarters to investigate.