“This night is the druid celebration. Although it is not the grand event as in times of old, it does maintain an element of magic. I’m much aware you haven’t attended such an occasion, however, you’ll possibly know that many who attend wear masks so that they might either blend with the restless spirits or frighten them away.
I have sent a request to your husband asking that the two of you might attend. He said he is unsure if you would care to be in attendance, and I see for myself it is unlikely you are yet able to celebrate, but I would welcome you my granddaughter... if not to partake in the festivities, then to simply observe.
When one wears a mask, their emotions may remain safely hidden away. No one need know what you think, what you feel. You needn’t interact with anyone if that should be your desire. Think on it awhile, child. I will welcome you with open arms should you choose to come and I shall understand entirely if the time is not yet possible for you to take the first step. I know what it does to one’s heart to lose a child.”
She did not respond and had yet to speak a word to him since he’d arrived. As he stood to leave, then tenderly embraced her., she gently placed a kiss upon his soft leathery cheek.
“I feel great affection for you dear, Alainn!”
“And I for you, Grandfather,” she whispered softy and a broad smile crossed his elderly face even at her few endearing words.
Alainn continued to hold the unopened letter within her hands. She could not bear to break the wax seal, yet didn’t seem able to place it back within the drawer. She saw that darkness had now filled the sky as she sat and stared out the arched window. She espied the many carved turnips along the walls of the castle and upon the gates. She noticed many more in the windows and doorways of the villager’s homes. The lighted candles within each one revealed the ghoulish faces meant to frighten the spirits and keep them away.
As she looked down upon the hordes and hordes of spirits that freely walked the earth on this day and night, during this time when the veil was the thinnest between the world of the living and the dead, she reasoned the unusual root vegetables and their unpleasant carved faces were not fulfilling their intended purpose. The many spirits’ presence no longer disturbed her, she had grown somewhat accustomed to seeing them again, although she was relieved that the spirits of Killian’s kin, and most especially of their own wee son, were nowhere to be seen, for sure that would be too much to bear.
She felt the letter now shaking and being pulled from her hands. The wax seal was now completely broken open by way of magic. The spirit of Shylie O’Rorke appeared and once more she gently shook the letter under Alainn’s nose in insistence.
“You are somewhat of a bothersome type.” Alainn finally spoke her opinion. “Your sister told me you were the kindest, gentlest, loveliest soul she had ever known. Perhaps she simply spoke with a tongue influenced by your heart’s connection, and by your blood bond.” Alainn dared to suggest feeling unusually irritated at the irksome spirit.
“You think I am a bother, wait till you meet your father! He was a great trickster and a taunting sort to the point of exasperation at times.”
“I do hope to meet him one day, for I sense he is not dead though it has been so believed for some time.”
“No, Teige is most certainly not in the spirit world.”
“You must tell me where he is, Shylie, for surely as a spirit you possess information as to his location.”
“I thought you had lost the ability to care for anything or anyone?” she replied in a mocking tone.
Alainn appeared to not have the will or the strength to bicker with the spirit, and she did not respond.
“With the many unusual magical powers you possess I believe you will one day find your father, but I tell you most assuredly, you’ll never find him if you remain locked away in your chambers for all eternity. Of that I am most certain!”
“Judge me not, for you know nothing of what I am experiencing, Shylie.”
“Aye, ’tis correct. You speak the truth, Alainn. My life was taken, violently ended before I was given the opportunity to fall in love or to experience what it is that is shared between a man and a woman. I was never allowed to know the joy of carrying a child within my body.”
“Or the inconceivable sorrow of losing a child.” Alainn managed.
“Sure, ’tis truth, but my very own sister knows just such sorrow, most assuredly, so you must now do as I have instructed and read her words of wisdom. Do not simply settle endlessly in your grief for you are not the only one to have experienced such loss!”
Alainn maintained possession of the letter, but made no move to begin to read it, feeling more and more displeased with the spirit and her demanding insistence.
“Shall I read the message to you then? Would you prefer if I read aloud the letter in its entirety since you seem unwilling to do so?”
“Will you simply leave me in peace if I agree to read the letter then?”
Shylie’s face lit up and her smile grew bright at Alainn’s words. “Aye, for in truth I’ve a druid celebration to attend, and you might think on being there in attendance as well. It’ll be grand, Alainn. Sure, it will!”
“And do you suppose after reading your sister’s profound words surely filled with deep empathy and compassion that I will be in celebratory form?”
“By God, you are like your father, so stubborn and set in your ways!”
Alainn looked up at the spirit girl’s mention of her father once more.
“I am of the opinion you could use a large dose of compassion, soon followed by a night of magical happenings.”
She smiled once more, rustled the letter even as Alainn held tight to it, grinned a mischievous smile, and was gone.
Chapter Forty-One
Alainn felt her hands shaking unsteadily as she attempted to unfold the letter. She held much love and deep respect for her Aunt Siobhan. She did yearn to read the letter, but was certain the words would touch her heart, and she had attempted so valiantly to place a protective wall of ice around her heart so thick that she could feel nothing any longer. She had even been startled to feel unusual annoyance with the young spirit, for it was the first time she’d felt any emotion in such a long time.
She considered placing the letter back within the drawer, but the candle beside her flickered wildly and the spectral voice came to her.
“Must I come to you yet again, Alainn?”
Alainn waved her hand dismissively and opened the letter, staring at the bold yet feminine handwriting so perfectly formed upon the pages. She took several deep breaths and allowed her eyes to fall upon the words.
My Dearest Alainn,
There are no words known to human kind that I could summon to convey my deep heartache in learning of the recent loss of your infant son. Only know I wish with all my heart it was not so, and that I hold deep affection for both you and Killian.
Rory has urged me to go to you, to offer you my comfort in person, and even Hugh has recently suggested such. I fear it would be no kindness to you, Alainn. I know as an empath you would take on the pain I feel for you as well. And so, therefore, I shall send my love and my sorrow through my written words.
Please expect no perfect words of wisdom or no certain advice from someone who has experienced a loss such as your own. There are no perfect words, no certain advice. In truth, perhaps you might even think my words to be cruel or unfeeling. Know this, Alainn, I love you as dearly as a daughter and I despise that you must endure this insurmountable tragedy. Know that these bleak words... they are simply truth.
Firstly, I shall not ask you how you are faring, nor shall I suggest perhaps it was for the best... that it was God’s will... that perhaps, if the child had lived, he would surely have been afflicted with an ill-fated condition, or even that you’re both young and strong and sure to have other children. I have heard each and every one of those useless sentiments; the empty meaningless, although surely well intended messages that are too often hurtful. Th
ey only cause deeper pain and further scarring.
I will not tell you time will heal your pain and that one day you’ll return to how it was before, that you will be over your loss. For I tell you, my dear niece, it is untrue. You shall never return to the person you were before you lost your child. You will never be over this loss; your heart will never ever be entirely free of this deep, insufferable agony you are now experiencing. It will lessen, ’tis true, but never shall it be gone entirely.
I will not tell you that one day your arms will no longer ache to hold your child or that even one single day of your life will pass without you wondering what your child would look like, what his voice would sound like, what it would be to hear him call you mother, what it would be to look into his sparkling eyes, to see his warm smile... what he would be like at one moon, at six moons, at a year, as a toddler, a child, a boy, a man. That curious heart wrenching wondering will not end; do not expect it to be so. Each night, as you close your eyes, you will think of your lost babe and each morning, as the sun awakens you, you will think of him again and so it goes, on and on.
I will not tell you to be brave or strong, to be thankful for all that you have, to take solace in all the many blessings you do hold in your life. For no matter what you have, what blessings you possess, what worldly gifts have been bestowed upon you, even those riches you hold in those around you who love you and whom you love so dearly, even they cannot take away the dire fact that you do not have your child, you do not have the babe in your arms, the babe at your breast, the babe in your life.
What I will tell you is simply that I know too well what you are feeling, the cold emptiness within your womb, no longer do you feel the joyous life, the precious movements. It was expected when your womb was empty your arms would be full... and it isn’t so, that is the unfair stark, cruel, bitter reality.
I remember the deep embitterment I felt at the loss of my babes, the hopelessness for the entire hopes of what was to be a lifetime with that precious child, were all taken as well, stolen away each and every hope of what their lives would hold.
I recall my eventual wretched anger, and fury. I raged at the gods for whatever I believed up till then I questioned afterward. I cursed all gods, any I could bring to mind and those I could draw from memory of having heard or read of them. I felt hatred toward the Celtic gods, the Christian God, Norse, Roman, Greek and so many others. No one was beyond reproach.
But, I suppose, I was fortunate in a sense, for I could mostly direct my fury and outrage at my loss of my babes toward the curse, toward Mara, your own mother, for placing the curse upon my husband’s line. And, yet, the obsessive fury and vile hatred did little to appease me, at the end of every day, every month, every year, my babes were still dead, my hatred and enragement did not change that. Neither did my sorrow and deep melancholia.
I took no joy in anything. I feared becoming with child after losing the first and, when it happened, and I carried the second and the third only to see them die in my arms as well, no matter that I had taken every remedy and method supposed to prevent conception, beyond complete celibacy, I became mad with grief.
You may think of me as a respectful woman of high station, a chieftain’s wife, a chieftain’s daughter, a noble for all my life, that I always conducted myself in such a befitting manner, but, I assure you, that is far distanced from the truth. I once believed I must maintain a stoic countenance expected of my class, my position as a lady, but what transpired in those dark times, what misdeeds and sins I committed are known to no one, bar me.
When I learned I carried the fourth child after the curse was uttered, after I’d already lost three babes, I became desperate and nearly deranged, I begged Morag to give me a potion to expel the child from within me for I couldn’t bear to carry to term simply to lose another babe.
She reluctantly agreed and so I took the potion, many times, but to no avail. I still carried the child. I found a woman far from beyond our castle, with the sordid reputation of being known to perform physical atrocities to women, which capably ended their time with child. I employed and paid her handsomely to rid me of the child, it was bloody and excruciating and horrific and yet, for all of that, it seemed it could not be undone.
I believed that because of the curse it was clearly fated that I must suffer indefinitely. I wondered what I had perhaps done in another life to have deserved such pain and unfair treatment, such grievous hardships. I became consumed with being rid of the unborn child.
I threw myself down the uppermost steps of the south solar, not caring that I may end my life as well. Perhaps I hoped it would come to that. All that I received for my trouble was a broken arm and a severely bruised head. I pleaded with Morag to give me a potion so that my life would be ended and I would not lose another child. She refused. And so even with all my efforts to shield my heart and lessen my pain, the end of my term came and I lost the fourth baby as well.
I birthed my wee daughter, the only daughter I ever carried, and I had wished so long for a girl child. She was beautiful and entirely perfect, with soft blonde hair, and I immediately regretted being set upon ending her life, even though it ended so assuredly at any rate. I was then completely inconsolable for I became consumed with grief and loss, but now I had added a new layer of anguish, an added depth to my incomparable grief and unwelcome emotions. It was the first time I felt guilt in regard to the loss of a child, and I soon fell into a darkness that no one should ever know.
Even my two dear young lads, my darlin’ twins, Rory and Riley, could bring me no joy, no relief from the endless agony of knowing my babes lay in the ground, never having lived, barely having breathed. It was all I could think about. It consumed my every waking moment.
I thought to take my life twice after that. Once I drank the entire contents of two bottles of wine, and I then threw myself in the raging waters of the River Shannon. I believe it may have been my sister, Shylie, who pulled me from the depths that day, although I cannot say for certain as I do not possess the ability to view spirits. But I did sense her near.
The second time I sat at my tower window with my dagger to my wrists, even as I watched my wee boys frolicking about in the meadow below. They seemed happy and carefree and I believed it would be a kindness to end my life, for I couldn’t be the loving mother I should have been to them, so consumed in grief was I.
That day it was not Shylie who prevented me from taking my life, but ’twas you Alainn. You had not yet come to live with Morag, you were still residing with the farrier, though he was no more a parent to you at the time than I was to my own boys. He was constantly filled with drink and I was filled with dark melancholia.
As I sat with the dagger upon my wrist, summoning the courage to end the bitter and desolate existence my life had become, I tried to bring to mind how selfish my deed would be, how aggrieved my parents would be when I was gone for they had lost each and every one of their other children. I attempted to imagine what shame would be brought upon Hugh, or what it would be for my children to grow up motherless, and yet none of it mattered to me then, I was beyond caring about anyone or anything it would seem.
Yet as I stared out the window, you looked up at me in all your childish innocence, your long, golden hair falling down your back, your bright blue eyes meeting mine. You reminded me so of my dear, lost sister, Shylie, but it wasn’t even that similarity in appearance that touched my heart. It was that you had no mother, had never known a mother’s love, had no father to speak of, no one who truly loved you, you lived the life of a pauper, your clothes were rags, surely you barely had enough food to eat, and yet you found such obvious joy in life, joy in everything around you.
You smiled up at me with love in your eyes and you sent a most uncommon warmth to me that I couldn’t explain if I lived to be a century. I now realize it was surely magic you sent to me that day, for you healed my heart to a degree. I’m not saying I didn’t still long to have my babies in my life, that I don’t still miss them to this
day, for indeed I do, but something changed. I let you inside my icy heart. Maybe you even took away some of my pain for I know you’re a gifted empath. From that day forward, I was changed, my attitude toward life and toward my two precious boys, even toward Hugh, was changed.
When I learned I carried the fifth child, strangely, I relished every moment, took joy in every movement, found merriment in each kick, my heart gladdened as my belly grew for I held on to every treasured moment while my wee boy child grew within me. As my time grew near, I knew the outcome would be the same, but I was somehow still thankful for having had the honor of carrying that precious child within me and, when I labored with him and he was born, I reveled in his beauty and perfection and then held him in my arms as I watched him taken to the beyond with all the others.
I knew with certainty I would never share my husband’s bed again and that I would never carry another child, but I was at peace with that. And it was so! I told Hugh in no uncertain terms we would no longer share an intimacy. He may not have approved, but he did accept it.
What Hugh and I shared was never a great love, never an undying passion, or a rare gift. Not such as what you and dear Killian share, sweet Alainn.
I suppose what I wish for you, during this time of surely incomprehensible sorrow, is that you grieve together, that you find it in your hearts to approach your time of mourning together, for if you cannot do so, then it will be so much more unbearable.
I also must warn you, do not attempt to turn from the grief, to distance yourself from the pain, for it will rear its ugly monstrous head when you least expect it. When you feel as though you are capable of withstanding the pain; that you have capably dealt with the loss, a wave of unimaginable grief will wash over you and swallow you whole, pulling you down to the deepest depths.
You must allow yourself to experience the grief, to feel the anger, the sadness, the pain, the complete and utter despair, but if you share the grief, share each emotion, each sorrowful time, it will lessen the load, it will deepen your love and strengthen your commitment.
A Chieftain's Wife Page 29