by Lee, Tawnya
Moira lifted them up, Derek first and then Tristan, changed their diapers and brought them into the kitchen. She sat them in their highchairs and gave them bananas, oatmeal, and dry Cheerios. As they ate, she sat preoccupied with her thoughts. Tristan slung his oatmeal at her and grinned. She half-smiled back and wiped the mess from her cheek. Her fingers stroked his round, red cheeks. A fierce protectiveness enveloped her like a shawl of anger. The intensity of it scared her.
After breakfast, she let them play while she packed. She tried to think of everything she’d need. She knew she couldn’t take most of her things. There was no way she’d be able to fit two highchairs, a baby crib, or half their toys in her beat up 93 Subaru hatchback.
She rifled through the baby dresser. The dresser had been hers as a child. Paint was peeling, and several knobs missing. She pulled one knob to open a drawer, and yanked it clear out of the rails, just missing her foot.
“Goddammit.”
She grabbed the drawer and tried to slide it back on the track. It stuck halfway, lopsided in the dresser. She wiggled it, gave up, grabbed a handful of clothes, and stuffed them into a duffle bag. After clearing out the rest of the dresser, she grabbed a Walmart sack and randomly grabbed toys and books from the nearby shelf for the car ride.
Moira stepped into her own closet and picked up a pair of jeans and several t-shirts that were wadded up on the floor. She pulled a bra hanging from the closet door and threw it in the bag with her other clothes. Kali, her lithe black cat, rubbed herself against Moira’s leg. Moira bent over, dropped the duffle bag, and scooped up her cat.
She held the cat up, eye to eye, and kissed the top of her head.
“No way I’m gonna leave you here,” she said as she stroked the cat’s fur. She set Kali down and the cat darted away, offended by the affection. Moira reached up to the top shelf in her closet, pulled out the pet carrier, and set it beside the duffle bag.
As she moved room to room, which in a two bedroom single-wide trailer didn’t take long, she built a pile of bags and suitcases, and a cooler filled with enough food for the boys for several days.
Once dusk hit, she threw on a hoodie and stuffed the back of the hatchback with her belongings. She realized even though the sun hadn’t technically set, the low light was easier to handle. Plus, the hoodie also kept most of her skin covered. She was able to maneuver without getting burned. It took several trips to get the back of her Subaru filled. She placed Kali, safely tucked in the pet carrier, on the front passenger seat. On her last trip into the house, she picked up a small 4X6 photo album lying on the bookshelf. “You might want to see this later, boys.”
Beside the album was a picture frame. She slid her finger down the side of it and sighed. Smiling back at her was a dark-haired man, grinning and holding two small infants wrapped in pink and blue striped blankets. She picked up the frame and hugged it to her chest. Tears rolled down her face. She put the frame and album in her purse, and carried the boys to the car.
Moira gripped the wheel. “You ready, boys? Time to go to Gilham.” She glanced in the rear-view mirror at the sleepy faces behind her. She turned the ignition and headed out her drive to the hills of Arkansas.
The one Moira thought of as The Stranger rose from his slumber, still drunk with excitement from the night before. He knew having Moira drink his own blood would imbue her with powers that would make most of their kind jealous. He was old, and strong. His maker was an ancient one, predating the existence of the Tribunal, those chosen to form their laws, and pass judgments. He himself came from the ancient Celt island Hy-Brasil. After becoming a blood-drinker himself, he took on the name Breasal in honor of the god of the island. All those he’d known in his human existence had long since died. The gods existed but were distant, and at times, his kind were mistaken for gods themselves.
Today, most humans never knew about the gods of long ago. He ached for the days before Christianity had taken hold of the land. The days when they gathered, feasted and danced at their rituals for the moon and sun. When corn husk dolls were made at Imbolc4 for Brigid,5 not Saint Brigid,6 and when fires burned bright on Beltane.7 He missed how connected the people were to the earth and its cycles. The church, while making the old gods and goddesses blasphemous, had not quite stomped out the heart of the pagan. Easter, Christmas, and many other holidays held echoes of the old ways. Gods and goddesses became saints. But, he thought with a sigh, it wasn’t the same.
A revival of those ways sprung up here and there. Of course, many of the new rituals looked different, much different. Still, he sensed the gods and goddesses awakening to the calls of the pagan. Those humans called themselves witches, and strained to follow old ways never written down. He liked to stand in the shadows and watch as they burned their sage and lit their candles. He felt mortal, if just for a moment, and drew comfort from it, remembering his youth.
But Moira was a different kind of witch. Not one of religion or spellcraft. If she chose, she could be powerful with spells and enchantments, but she was a witch of birth. Within her lay the power to control the elements and manipulate the laws of physics with mere intention. Had Breasal not interfered, and had Moira not been prophesied over, she may have lived her life never realizing it. Her gifts may have lain dormant, only rising when she was most emotional. It had already been this way for years, the carnage of her outbursts drilling holes of guilt into her.
Drinking Moira’s blood had enhanced his powers, as well. He likened the extra jolt it gave him to increasing the dark contrast of paint on canvas. It heightened the intensity of the thing but didn’t change the thing itself. He could still read mortal minds, travel through space with little resistance, and kill with fire. His senses were still extraordinary. But since drinking her blood, he felt as if he’d been hit with 1000 doses of epinephrine. When he left her house, he flew, soaring and dipping through the sky. After some time, he became disoriented. To hear the hoot of the owl, the hop of the cricket, and the mingled thoughts of city-dwellers below all at once could drive even an immortal mad. It took most of the night to calm himself and harness his energy only on that which he wished to focus.
He’d always felt fatherly toward those he turned, but Moira was different. He had planned her. Searched for her. Over the centuries he knew one of his--a witch become blood-drinker - would be incredibly special. And once he’d found her and watched her all her life, he fell in love with her.
He wanted to mold her. It was vanity, he knew this. Yes, it was generally the maker’s role to play part of mentor and guide. But she--she was different. He wanted her touch in a way he had never wanted the others. Even without her witchiness, she had a strength that belied all odds. He’d seen her face grief and tragedy time and again. She never wavered, never stopped, never broke. It wasn’t her nature. He’d bore witness to the story of man for thousands of years. The seeds of destruction and beauty lay entwined within the heart of every man. And though some say it rains on the just and unjust alike, he knew this was only partially true. For some, the rain came as a deluge, and others a misting spray. Man’s response to the rain of life was never predictable. It couldn’t be said, “Oh this tribulation is too severe”, or “This trial isn’t severe enough.” For the same piercing blow of life that lifted one man to acts of bravery and strength decimated others till they were mere sniveling shells of the soul they once were. He knew Moira couldn’t see the beauty of her response to life. With each death, each sorrow, each bitter disappointment, he had seen her react with grit and composure. Breasal knew she didn’t see her own acts of bravery for what they were. She merely did what had to be done because it had to be done. For this, he couldn’t help but admire her. She excited him. He wanted to share eternity with her and watch her destiny unfold.
The next evening, Breasal returned to Moira’s home. He saw her pulling out in her hatchback. Reading her thoughts, he knew where she was going. He flew ahead and waited. He planned to reveal himself to her soon. He knew the changes that would be oc
curring, the growth spurts she faced. He hid himself in the shadows of her family’s land to wait until she was ready.
Almost nine hours later, Moira pulled into the long dirt drive of her family’s cabin. For a moment, she sat immobile in the car. The roof was covered in pine needles. The house had modern siding but was covered in grime and the yellow dust of pollen. A curtain rod in the front window had fallen down on one side. The window itself was covered in filth, making it difficult to see inside.
She sighed, turned off the car, and opened the door. She sensed Him. She knew The Stranger was nearby, though how she knew she had no idea. After four trips to unload, she woke both boys and unbuckled their car seats.
“Hey, babies. We’re here! Let’s go inside.”
Moira stepped inside the cabin. The first thing she noticed was how easily she could see, even in the dark. She saw details of the orange and green floral wallpaper. She could count each petal, and noticed the tears in the paper and nicotine stains on the walls. She flipped on the lights, however, and quickly closed all the mini-blinds. She released Kali from her pet carrier. The cat crouched and glanced around, then darted off down the hall. Remembering her pain from yesterday morning, she scavenged blankets from the hall closet and tacked them up over all windows with missing blinds.
Stepping back, she examined the small cabin’s interior. There was a faint smell of mothballs and camphor oil. Since her mother’s death, no one had stepped foot inside. Moira had no brothers or sisters, and her mother’s family had all died early deaths within the last 10 years. The cabin was Moira’s by default. Arkansas state law declared children to be heirs of their parents’ possessions if no will existed. There was no will. There was no one to care about a will. Moira knew her mom had lived in the cabin the last year of her life, but Moira hadn’t been here since she was a teenager. The cabin often visited her in her nightmares. And now she was back. No one who knew her knew about the cabin. If anyone looked for her, it would be a long time before they would connect the dots and come here. For now, she was safe.
The cabin had been decorated in the 1970s, a theme of orange and brown. Owls and wheat seemed to be the overwhelming motif. The living room sofa was brown and tan plaid with heavy wooden knobs on each armrest. A yellow arm chair sat in the corner, its original sheen gone. The high back and angled sides gave it the feel of an old-fashioned captains chair. It was regal once; now it seemed sad and neglected. In the corner of the living room stood an old Grandfather clock. The pendulum was still. An old television set encased in wood and covered with family photos stood against the opposite wall.
Moira walked to the kitchen and made breakfast for the twins. In a few days, she would need to go to the nearest 24-hour Walmart for groceries. Anything local would be closed after dark and she needed darkness to shop. She made a mental note to check the shed out back for furniture. After generations of inhabitants, at least one person must have had something for a baby. It was worth checking to see if there was anything of use for the children. As she considered what she needed for the boys, it occurred to her she could hear their thoughts.
She sat with this realization. Even at their young age, it felt like an intrusion. Derek was busy examining his oatmeal, marveling at the texture and enjoying the way it slipped between his fingers. Tristan’s thoughts were on the stack of bags he had seen his mom carry into the house, his curiosity growing by the minute. She knew if she didn’t intervene, he would be working his way to it and throwing its contents everywhere. She hadn’t noticed being able to read their thoughts before. Moira wondered if it was because she was focusing intently or if the changes in her were gradual. Maybe she would continue to change. An ache, a loneliness, struck her chest. She wished she had someone to talk to, someone to confide in and ask questions. She, so far, had only been concerned with survival. Thinking beyond the next few days? That was too overwhelming.
Again, she felt The Stranger. She thought if she tried hard enough, she may be able to figure out where he was hiding. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk to him. But she needed answers. And he was the one responsible for everything. She knew she needed to find him.
Soon.
The word caressed her. She sensed he had said it, or rather thought it. This made her nervous. How much of her own thoughts could he sense? Had he been peering into her mind? Was there a way she could block this? Again, so many questions.
She felt as if she should be tired. It would make sense. Moira had driven all night, roughly nine hours, without sleep. But she didn’t feel tired. She felt restless. She was anxious to speak to The Stranger. Anxious to have a plan. Anxious for answers.
She spent the day playing half-heartedly with the boys. Their innocence tore at her heart. The idea they may never have a normal childhood angered her. Toward dusk, she threw on a hoodie, slipped on some gloves, and took them outside to see the back of the property. A stream ran through the back of the woods. Tall pine trees stood everywhere, slim and towering. She was hot, but at least her boys were happy. She smiled as she watched them run and play. Tristan walked to a rotted pine log and poked around it with a stick.
“Mommy, snake!” Tristan called.
“Baby, be careful!”
Moira ran to Tristan, just as a red, black, and yellow snake slithered to the top of the log. The sing-song chant she’d learned as a child popped in her head, Black touch yellow, kill a fellow. The snake, yellow and black rings touching, reared back to strike toward Tristan. Moira threw her hand out and screamed, “No! Stop!”
A white light flashed and bits of snake flew through the air. Moira’s heart pounded. Tristan giggled. Derek turned to see why his mother had yelled.
“Mommy blew up snake!” Tristan said, clapping his hands together. “Again, Mommy! Again!”
“No baby, I won’t do that again. In fact, I think it’s time to go inside.”
Moira grabbed both boys’ hands, and raced toward the house. Once inside, she led the boys to their room.
“Do you want to read some books?”
“Yes, Mommy!” the boys cried with delight.
“Ok, great. Sit down and I’ll get two books.”
The boys sat on the floor rug. Moira, books in hand, sat cross legged on the floor across from them. She started with Are You My Mother? and then ended with Tristan’s favorite, The Monster at the end of this Book.
Her hand began to tremble as she turned the pages of the last book. “There’s a monster at the end of this book!” At times, the words stuck in her throat. She gulped and forced the words out.
Why am I alone? Why can’t they have a dad? They deserve better than me. The monster’s not at the end of the book; it’s holding the book. I’m the monster, she thought. She choked back the tears and finished reading.
“Sweeties, time for dinner,” Moira said. She stood up and walked to the kitchen. Derek lunged for Kali, who had been napping nearby.
“Derek, gentle. Be nice to the kitty. Remember, soft pets.”
“Soft pets,” Derek repeated as he followed behind her down the hallway.
She lifted each boy into car seats she had tied to the kitchen chairs with rope and bungee cords. I suck as a mom, but works for now. She gave each boy sliced bananas to eat while she heated SpaghettiO’s for them. After serving them, she sat across the table, propped her elbows up, covered her face, and sighed. How am I going to do this? This is too much to deal with. It fucking sucks.
She jumped to the clatter of Derek’s spoon to the floor.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Moira exclaimed.
Derek laughed as he shoved handfuls of pasta and sauce into his mouth. Tristan clapped his hands in glee and followed suit with his brother. Moira groaned and grabbed a towel to clean the mess.
After dinner, Moira bathed the sticky pair and put them to bed.
She trudged to the living room and sat down in the yellow chair. She closed her eyes. Bits of snake flying through the air, the ferocity of her feelings in that moment, the horror she
felt as she realized what she had done. She was the monster. It all careened inside her. She breathed out forcefully, and one single tear slid down her cheek.
“I need you,” she directed her thoughts to The Stranger.
“I’m here, darling.”
The voice was audible. She opened her eyes and saw him sitting on the plaid sofa across from her.
CHAPTER THREE
Na Fuilteacha
Moira stared at The Stranger. He looked out of place, sitting on a threadbare, 30-year-old sofa in a dusty backwoods cabin. He wore a tailored silver blazer, black silk ribbon tie, silver shirt and vest, black pants, and shiny black patent leather shoes. The silver intensified the blue of his eyes. He was beautiful. Kali rubbed the side of her face against his black pants, purring as he stroked her fur.
“Who are you?” Moira asked.
“Call me Breasal. Who I was in human form is unimportant. That was long ago at the dawn of the common era. I came from an ancient island near your modern day Ireland. The God-King of my day was Breasal. I have named myself in his honor.”
“So you really are a vampire?”
“My dear, we both are.”
Breasal stared into Moira’s eyes. She returned his stare, grit her teeth, and breathed out heavily.
“Or rather, that’s the closest word in your vocabulary for what we are. What we are is more like... blood fairies, Baobhan Síthe as the Scottish call us. Other names we’ve been called over time, blood fae, bean sidhe,8 vampire. We haunt the myths in tales of Dearg-due,9 the legend of Droch-fhuil and Abhartach.10 Our myths are complicated, contradict themselves, and are sometimes wrong. 11We aren’t natural fairies, spirit entities. But we aren’t human. We were created out of violence and love. We are Na Fuilteacha--The Bloodthirsty. However, hidden behind the mist of time and legend, we exist. Sometimes, out of convenience, we’ll refer to one of our kind as a ‘sidhe,’ or simply ‘fuilteach.’ Try not to get too caught up into what you know from your fairy tales, or in what you call yourself. Some is true. Some is not. Won’t ya be learning soon enough what you can and cannot do? And what you are? In the first 72 hours, you’ll experience bursts of pain, and sudden acquisition of powers, such as hearing your children’s thoughts or blowing that snake to bits. You’ll need to feed. You can exist on the blood of animals, but it’s inferior. It may even make you sick if you drink too much of it. But it will keep you until you can safely feed on humans. I’ll help you. I’ll teach you our ways best I can. We are immortal, but we can still die. We are susceptible to sunlight, as you already know.” He motioned his head toward the blankets nailed over the windows. “Beyond sunlight, the only things that actually kills our kind is to be beheaded, or iron stakes through the heart. Wooden stakes in the heart, silver bullets, garlic, being buried upside down... These are only legend, not truth.”