Tam Lin: A Modern, Queer Retelling (Faerie Tales)

by T. J. Deschamps

  She craned her neck looking where he pointed. The horse seemed to have gone deeper into the fog because it was no longer visible. “The villagers wouldn’t have a horse and I know all the local sheep farmers. They don’t either. Maybe a water horse wanted to snare you.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and turned from him, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay group. We got two more stops. To the bus!”

  At the next stop, he heard a giggle coming from the oubliette of a medieval castle. He stepped away from the tour guide’s recounting of a macabre tale of the ancient castle’s former owners. When he approached the screened hole and turned on his phone’s flash, he saw nothing. Another giggle led him to two French girls in a narrow stairwell, huddled over a cellphone. The screen lit their faces.

  One looked up, catching him watching them; she whispered something to her friend. They both rose, sniggering as they passed, brown pigtails swaying in unison. It didn’t require knowing French to know she’d called him an idiot. But Tom wasn’t stupid.

  He was losing his damned mind.

  4

  Laid out on a narrow bed, in a spit-and-hit-a-wall-sized room of a bed and breakfast, Tom scrolled through ticket prices for the next flight home. His cell began playing “No Morira.” A song Ariel sang in the shower, about undying love. Tom had made it his ringtone.

  On the screen, a picture of Ariel himself appeared, rearing his head back and holding his flat belly laughing openly as he often did. Incoming Video Call from Ariel appeared on the screen over the picture.

  A fluttering sort of joy bubbled up in his chest. Tom didn’t hesitate to tap the “accept call” button.

  “Hello! Ariel?”

  “Hey, papi. Lift any kilts yet?” Ariel seemed to be in a bunk with low lighting, but it was bright enough to accentuate every perfectly hewn angle of the athlete’s face. Tom’s maybe boyfriend pillowed a hand under his head, flexing a defined bicep. Casual.

  Tom smiled. Though his heart galloped in his chest at the sight of his beautiful boyfriend, he could do casual. “Not a kilt in sight to lift.”

  “Then you haven’t met the tour guides yet. I’m surprised they haven’t sought you out.”

  “Why would they do that?” Tom’s gaze flicked from his phone to the brochure on the nightstand featuring the gorgeous couple.

  “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” A grin spread across Ariel’s cupid’s bow mouth, revealing white, straight teeth with a slight gap between the first two. An ache in Tom’s chest expanded with that smile. “I met the tour guides back when I first immigrated to Washington Heights. They were doing some extra work in New York. We all had a good time while it lasted. I told them to look out for you and to make sure you have a real good time too. I’m surprised they haven’t sought you out ahead of time. They’re real eager to meet you, especially Aoife.” He pronounced the name ee-fa, but Tom was familiar with the name from Irish legends.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I told them it was the last chance for you to sow any wild oats before we tie the knot.”

  Tom sat up. The sheet fell to his waist. “Really?”

  Ariel cleared his throat. “I was thinking, maybe we could start planning when you get back, but I want to be clear. I will make a public commitment to you, but with the understanding we’re free and if either of us ever want to leave, we can do so.”

  “I want to marry you to celebrate our love, not restrain either of us. You’ll be my partner not mine.”

  “I’m glad to hear that but marrying me is a bigger deal than you can imagine.” Ariel exhaled slowly. “You must learn more about Lucimi and Orishas. I talked to Marisol. She and I will explain when you get back.”

  Ariel had a little altar dedicated to both Catholic saints and Yoruban gods, and practiced what outsiders of his religion called Santeria, but he never talked about his religion. Ever. Tom had asked about going to a ceremony with his boyfriend to learn more, but Ariel had refused. So much was closed off between them because their relationship was in the closet.

  Tom couldn’t help but grinning at this change. His boyfriend—no, fiancé—had told Marisol, someone in his life whose opinion meant a lot to him, about Tom. Maybe he’d be ready to be out to the world.

  Ariel’s thick eyebrows crashed together. “Hey, where’s the necklace I gave you?”

  Tom tucked in his chin and looked down, knowing damned well he’d left it back home. He didn’t want any reminders of Ariel on this trip.

  “I forgot it, I guess.”

  “Don’t lie. You know I hate lies.” Ariel rubbed his brow and then waved his hand as if he was waving away spider webs. “It’s my fault. I let you leave without my protection. Someone like you is fucking candy to the espíritus. Be careful, okay? Not everything is as it seems over there.”

  Tom wanted to tell his fiancé about the feeling that he was being watched, but someone came into Ariel’s room, and he abruptly ended the call with a promise to call back. Given it was one of Ariel’s teammates, it didn’t surprise Tom that the call never came.

  5

  A fine mist gave the morning a mystical quality as the sun cut across the landscape, masking all but the sound of the tour bus before it pulled up. The brochure didn’t really give an exact location to meet the Ulster Extras Tours guides, so Tom waited around the front of a hotel, one hand stuffed in his jean’s pocket, and the other held a hot Irish caife. He must have picked the right spot because others showed up, looking about with printouts in hand.

  European smokers casually smoked around nonsmokers, while the Americans smokers sequestered themselves off like pariahs. One non-smoker waved her hand in front of her face, and gave a woman from France—guessing by her shoes and stylish clothes—compared to the others, the stink eye.

  Tom took it all in as he looked at everyone’s shoes to guess where they were from, a game he’d invented to occupy his mind. Staring into the fog didn’t help. After living with someone who ascribed to mysticism, having a painful breakup, and staying in a very modern country with very ancient superstitions had him on edge, but he refused to let his imagination get away from him.

  A couple with matching haircuts and head-to-toe denim walked by holding hands, wearing sneakers, and speaking in lilting Irish. Well, that threw Tom’s little stereotype game off. He’d have figured them as American tourists if they hadn’t opened their mouths.

  As they walked into the fog, a horse, or at least the outline of one appeared, but this horse had glowing red eyes. The couple didn’t seem to notice as they disappeared into the gray. Tom turned to a woman nearby and tapped on her shoulder.

  She pulled out an earbud and scowled her displeasure. “Can I help you?” An indeterminate accent limned her words.

  “What color are that horse’s eyes?” He jabbed a thumb in the beast’s direction without looking.

  Eyebrows shooting to her hairline, she canted her head as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry?”

  Tom pointed to where the horse stood seconds ago, grimacing when he found it had gone.

  “No. I’m sorry.” He waved his hand dismissing the subject. “I thought I saw a horse.” Again. God. He was losing it.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” a lilting feminine voice replied from the direction where the horse had stood.

  Tom’s jaw dropped at the sight of a petite woman in a fitted wool sweater and a red plaid kilt that reached mid-thigh. She marched her thickly muscled legs in their direction. Red curls that seemed alive with movement framed high, broad cheekbones, narrow green eyes, and rosebud lips that curved into a smile. She was positively too pretty to be real.

  “A water horse needn’t be mounted to spirit you away and drown you. Just be on your phone, paying it no heed”—the redhead nodded to a few of the tourists wrapped up in theirs— “or wearing earbuds and not hearing its approach.” She positioned herself next to Tom close enough he could smell lemongrass and a scent that reminded him of something green and wild. The
beautiful woman stuffed two fingers in her mouth, emitting a sharp whistle. The shrill sound caught the attention of the tourists as surely just as the sight of her had caught Tom’s attention.

  “Listen up,” she commanded as if they were her army and not a group of tourists. “The women form a line behind me and the men with Fergus here.” She gestured behind her.

  As if his name conjured him, a man appeared.

  Not just any man.

  Fergus stood a good head taller than every man present. His hair was just as long as the woman’s, but dark and shiny like some of the pristine lakes Tom had seen on this trip. Shimmering like moonlight on water, true silver, not gray, streaked the man’s hair from his left temple to the tip--the only sign the man wasn't the same age as Tom. More black hair sprouted on Fergus’s chest underneath the strings of the open collar of a pirate-looking shirt. The tour guide’s faded dark green and navy-blue kilt met the tops of his long socks. A simple leather and fur sporran completed the look.

  “Come along now. We need you wrapped and ready to go in fifteen minutes if we’re going to stay on schedule,” Fergus ordered in a Scottish burr.

  “Wrapped?” the tourist next to Tom asked, putting her earbuds away and tucking a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. She was into Fergus. As were all the rest of the women present.

  “You’ll all be provided with kilts.” Aoife flashed the tourist a smile that made Tom’s knees weak and it wasn’t even directed at him. She added, “We’ll show you how to wrap”

  “I’m not wearing a kilt,” a man in the rear said with a nasally, Bostonian accent.

  “The website states sometimes period appropriate dress is required. If you don’t want to wear a kilt, you’re not coming, sir.” Aoife spoke in a sweet tone, but her words and look were firm. “Everyone coming with us is wearing traditional highland dress.”

  “But this is Ireland! The highlands are in Scotland,” the Bostonian tourist protested, jutting out his chin. He thumbed at his chest. “Even an ignorant Yank like me knows that.”

  “Ye a Braveheart fan, sir?” Fergus asked in a mild tone, unperturbed. Like his hair there was stillness about him, a refreshing calm. The proverb “still waters run deep” came to mind when Tom looked at the guide. Tom found himself curious about how much passion lay under that placid surface.

  When Ariel had mentioned the tour, Tom had expected two actor types, bursting with tales of all of their exploits in the industry, name droppers, the kind of people who looked pretty and talked loud, not this.

  The tourist shrugged. “Yeah, who isn’t?”

  “The film was about Scotland but filmed right here in Ireland. A lot of historical films and sword and sorcery shows are shot here. The woods are pure magic.” He smiled. “And easily accessible. Aoife and I have an agreement with a director filming at one of our stops. If we’re to tour, we must wear kilts.”

  “You’ll get paid if they use your image,” Aoife added, “That’s why we’ve had you sign all the forms online.”

  The notion of being in some big budget film seemed to mollify the tourist.

  “What’s the name of the film?” the blonde woman next to Tom asked as they all followed Fergus and Aoife. Her gaze bounced between the two guides, as did Tom’s.

  Tom couldn’t decide which one was better looking or sparked his interest more. Aoife’s fire and Fergus’s calm were equally appealing. A niggling voice said he was lucky to have found Ariel. There was no way he’d have a chance with the two. He told that voice to shut up.

  Aoife’s gaze landed on Tom as if he’d asked the question, her eyes assessing him head to toe, slowly. A shot of pure lust bolted through him with the sudden urge to taste her mouth, cover her with his body, feel those pale legs wrapped around his hips.

  The guide arched a fiery eyebrow. “Sorry?”

  Heat rushed to his cheeks. Not trusting his voice, Tom swallowed hard and jabbed his thumb in the direction of the blonde woman.

  “I said, what’s the name of the film?”

  Aoife’s mouth quirked, and then she redirected those vibrant, green eyes to the woman and asked her the same question. “The Legend of Tam Lin, dear,” she replied, smiling warmly. “Any of you want to detour from our tour and play extras while you’re in Ireland, we’ll arrange it for you. Otherwise, we’ll be in the gear just in case.”

  Fergus glanced over his shoulder at Tom. “You should volunteer. It’s great fun.”

  Tom found himself blushing all over again.

  They entered a small rowhouse in the village. Tom and those who identified as men followed Fergus up a steep and narrow staircase. The women went to a room off the hallway. He could hear Aoife’s lilting but now muffled voice talking to them as he mounted the stairs.

  The tour guide swung open a door. Inside, five swaths of cloth lay in a row on otherwise empty hardwood. Framed pictures amassed on the walls, Fergus or Aoife in all of them. Some of the sets he didn’t recognize, and some had to have been filmed nearly thirty years ago.

  Fergus and Aoife hadn’t aged a day in thirty years.

  “I heard that Botox smoothed you out, but you got to be at least sixty,” the Bostonian tourist remarked.

  “At least,” Fergus answered with a wry smile.

  The couple didn’t look a day over thirty, Tom mused as he returned to the narrow hall, taking his place at the end of the line. He remembered his aunt had had plastic surgery, a face lift. She still had an older woman’s hands. From what he saw the couple didn’t have a single age spot or line. The pictures must have been photo-shopped for a conversation piece. Thumping and nervous laughter from within drew his attention. When the Bostonian exited, Tom was near shaking and his mouth went dry. He’d be alone

  Fergus waited, wearing only his shirt, bent over laying the material of his kilt on the floor and his sporran next to it. Tom watched the corded muscles of the Scot’s back, his defined legs exposed. He had to be beautiful as Ariel underneath that shirt. No wonder movie producers hired Fergus to be in sword and sorcery films. He looked like a warrior from legends, a hero battling to protect his love and land, not a dude giving bus tours to movie sets.

  The tour guide smiled up at him. “You’re a writer, I hear.”

  “I sell a short story here and there. Not much of a living doing that,” he admitted. “I’m hoping to get tenure as a professor.”

  Fergus shook his head slowly. “‘Tis a shame ye can’t make a living wage writing stories in America. ‘Tis a noble craft. Kings and queens once gave patron to men like you, and the old gods themselves would grant great power for a good story.”

  Tom blushed.

  The Scot scratched his head and gestured to the cloth laid out. “I find it easier to show than tell.”

  Not knowing what to say, Tom nodded.

  Fergus laid on the floor at the end of the material, pleating the kilt as he rolled back to stomach to back, then stood belting the whole thing. “Do you want me to do it again?”

  Tom shook his head. He couldn’t take Fergus unkilted again.

  “Take off as little or as much as you like,” the tour guide said over his shoulder as he entered into a walk-in closet.

  Tom decided to go full Scotsman and strip nude. It wasn’t simply about getting into the spirit of things; he wanted to show Fergus that the writer may not be as strapping as the Scotsman, but the latter wasn’t lacking where it counted. Tom’s skin tingled all over, electrified with anticipation. He hoped it would either go over well and get the response he wanted, or Fergus would be all business, ignoring the come on. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Ariel’s friend.

  Reemerging with a cream pirate-looking shirt, Fergus gasped and murmured something in Scots-Gaelic—at least that’s what Tom assumed. It sounded different than Irish. The tour guide looked like he’d seen a ghost, not a man he was attracted to.

  This was not the reaction Tom had hoped for.

  “I…uh…”

  “Forgive me for staring. I didn
’t see it before. Yer the spit of...” His eyes glistened, and he couldn’t speak for a few moments.

  Tom breached the distance between them and put a hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “Who was he?”

  “Och, doesn’t matter who he was. Ye look just like someone I lost ‘tis all, and it threw me a wee bit,” Fergus explained, handing the shirt over and averting his gaze, piquing Tom’s curiosity about the nature of the relationship. “Where are your people from, Tommy?”

  Tom winced. The nickname Tommy always had that effect on him. It was the name of a boy that flicked his ears, called him “carrot top.” The bully had also asked if a horse backed up and wet farted in his face, referring to Tom’s freckles. If Fergus hadn’t spoken in such a plaintiff tone and got so worked up about the loss, Tom would have corrected him.

  “My apologies. The form said Thomas, and I took liberties. I forgot Ariel had said you go by Tom, or To-ma, is it?”

  “Tom is fine.” He grinned at the way Fergus imitated Ariel’s way of dropping the ‘s’ at the end of the Spanish ‘Tomas.’ It was a play on the word ‘toma’ that meant ‘drink’ or ‘take.’ Ariel liked to use ‘toma’ in a whole other context that made Tom’s cheeks feel hot.

  It occurred to Tom that Fergus might have heard Ariel use it that way. They’d both slept with Ariel. Aoife had slept with Ariel. His chest burned with envy. Simultaneously, he had to push the lovely image of the three beautiful people all over each other out of his head. He cleared his throat. “I don’t really know my family. County Ulster according to the test thingy.”

  Test thingy? He sounded like a teenager. Heat blossomed in his cheeks. Again.

  Fergus smiled warmly. “Scots-Irish, then?”

  Tom nodded as he laid down, where he guessed was approximately where Fergus had laid on the other kilt.

  “I’ll give you a hand.” The dark-haired tour guide kneeled beside him. “It’s tricky and we haven’t much time. Is that alright?”

  Tom nodded, aware of the strong and nimble hands assisting him with the pleating as he rolled. The process with the other tourist hadn’t seemed as ‘hands-on.’ He thought of oubliettes and the bloody history of Ireland so he would not get an erection from Fergus’s touch or the way the big man breathed as he hovered over him and worked the material.