by S C McGrath
Taking Keelin’s hands, Deirdre kissed them. “It is well you and I rejoice in our gifts. They burden us with enormous responsibility. Even I, on occasion, chafe at the bonds my powers place on me. Fortunately, most souls are eager to enter their next life, starting anew. They feel buoyant and free, no longer suffering the indignities of advanced age or the pain of a lengthy and debilitating disease. These souls have little need of me.”
“It is true about the very ill and dying,” said Keelin, her mood becoming dark. “Even those who are the most determined and strong at the outset of a disease become weary of the pain and the constant struggle for life. I wish to fight for them but they no longer want my help.” Keelin thought of little Caitlin, who had been so close to death, so ready to die. At least in Caitlin’s case, thought Keelin, death had been cheated.
“At some point,” said Deirdre, “death is a release for the beleaguered soul. However, when sudden and unexpected death strikes the young or those in their prime, there is often extreme anxiety and regret. Many souls are tormented with fear for their families, by injuries or injustices they caused or endured, words left unsaid. They call out to me for help and I do what I can to aid and soothe them.”
“Our gifts will be sorely tested when the Romhanach invade.”
“They will, indeed,” said Deirdre. She put her arm around Keelin’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Then she abruptly stopped walking and turned to Keelin, her eyes bright with excitement. “Enough of this distressing talk. We deserve some relaxation and I know just where to take you.”
“We are going somewhere tonight?” Keelin asked, bemused, her mind still lingering on the dead and dying. She could not so easily dismiss her dark thoughts. Deirdre’s irrepressible optimism often confounded and sometimes annoyed her.
“Yes, tonight. Far to the west, across the ocean there is a vast expanse of land, nearly uninhabited. On its southwestern edge is the coastline where warm, dry winds blow in the late summer and fall, though sometimes I have felt them in the first months of winter. The skies are almost always clear and the ocean is pleasantly warm by late summer, and even into the fall. There we can swim and lie in the sun, and revive our spirits.”
“And how do you propose we travel there?” asked Keelin.
“Through the Otherworld, of course,” said Deirdre.
“I am not yet of The Dagda. The law prohibits such travel. Only in matters of life and death could I accompany you.” Keelin saw Deirdre’s eyes widen and could not help but laugh. “Do not look so surprised. I can recite quite accurately every Dagda restriction regarding travel within the Otherworld. Before she left for Tara, Nuala insisted I commit the tedious law to memory.”
“Well, Nuala has a rather strict interpretation of Dagda law. I, on the other hand,” said Deirdre mischievously, “choose to follow the spirit rather than the letter of the law. You have already traveled greater distances within the Otherworld than most of The Dagda’s priests and priestesses could ever dream of. The Otherworld welcomes you. Therefore, I am not truly breaking Dagda law. Rather, I am simply ignoring convention.”
“Nuala would likely say otherwise,” said Keelin with conspiratorial delight.
“Well, Nuala is not here,” said Deirdre. “There will still be hours of daylight where I am taking you. We will travel so quickly and so far that we will turn back time and experience the day all over again, with the sun high in the sky.

Keelin and Deirdre stood just out of reach of the tide, gazing at the ocean. The small waves lined up one behind the other two and three deep. As one wave crested and broke, another humped up, ready to follow, the rhythm and flow of the waves amazingly consistent. There was an offshore breeze, but it was too weak to catch the waves and send saltwater spraying upwards and back. Instead, dry air from the inland deserts lingered along the coastline, strong enough, at least for the day, to hold back the fog, ensuring warm temperatures and clear skies. The beach was wide, the sand ending only at the base of a low plain that spread gently to distant hills. Large trees, their yellow leaves signaling autumn, followed the meandering line of a dry creek through the surrounding plain of sparse grasses baked golden by the sun.
Keelin dug her toes into the wet sand and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sun. She savored the gritty feel of the sand between her toes, the salty smell of the ocean, the warmth of the sun. It was the clean, dry air, however, that filled her with happiness and a wonderful sense of freedom. Both new and familiar, this was where she belonged. It was surely the coastline in her dream.
“Did I not tell you the weather would be fine,” exclaimed Deirdre, putting her arm around Keelin’s shoulder and pulling her close.
Keelin sighed. “It is perfect, the most beautiful day. In fact,” she said, a good-natured challenge in her tone, “it is a perfect day for a swim.”
Deirdre laughed. “Yes, a perfectly wonderful day for a swim.” She turned and walked back to where they had left their cloaks, safely beyond the reaches of high tide. There she undid the ties of her dress and lifted it over her head, folding it neatly and placing it on top of her cloak. Standing there in only her fine linen shift, Deirdre braided her hair in one long plait, securing the end with a jute string. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she teased.
Quickly, and much less methodically, Keelin stripped to her shift, not bothering to braid her hair.
“Shall we?” invited Deirdre, running toward the water with surprising abandon. Keelin sprinted after her, stopping only when the chilly surf reached her knees.
“You told me the water here was not cold,” cried Keelin, just as a wave broke in front of her, sending whitewater splashing up against her body. Keelin laughed even as she shivered, far too happy to feign annoyance.
“No, I told you that in summer the water was mild and that even in winter it was not frigid. Who is the prissy lass now?” Deirdre turned back to the waves and steadily made her way out into the surf, diving through a wave as it crested in front of her.
Keelin watched Deirdre with admiration. Not wishing to endure the agony of slowly and steadily wading through the surf as Deirdre had, Keelin charged forward and flung herself head first into a wave just as it broke, getting tossed and tumbled in the whitewater. When she finally surfaced, she found Deirdre near, laughing at her.
“I see that I must teach you how to dive under the wave after it has broken, not through it. I will also teach you how to ride them to the beach. It is grand!” Deirdre looked beautiful; Keelin thought she resembled a sea goddess, looking more comfortable and at home in the sea than on land. It was the first time Keelin had ever seen her friend so uninhibited, Deirdre’s poise and refinement replaced by something more instinctively free.
The young women stayed in the ocean until their legs and arms became leaden with cold, their fingers white and numb. Deirdre was the first to make her way to the shore. Keelin soon followed, riding a small wave until she was only knee deep in whitewater. Standing up on wobbly legs, she waded through the surf as it retreated, holding her shift high above her knees, then joined Deirdre on the beach. She dropped down onto the warm, dry sand and lay flat on her stomach. Her hair, a tangled mess with a piece of seaweed adorning it, collected a coating of sand in the process. Keelin rested her head in the sand, feeling its warmth on her cheek. Looking up at Deirdre, she asked, “How does one leave here, once visited?”
“With difficulty,” Deirdre said simply.
They lay there in silence for some time, listening to the low rumble of the waves and the screech of the seagulls. Then, grabbing her dress, Keelin balled it up and rested her head upon it. Almost to herself, she said, “Uncle Eirnín’s soul spoke to me, soon after he was killed.”
“Yes, I know,” whispered Deirdre.
“His soul is the only one I have ever heard. Talking with him helped lessen the pain I felt at his passing. Also, he entrusted me with an important task. Uncle Eirnín was frightfully worried about . . . someone. I am thankful I was
able to carry out his wishes and allay his fears, bringing him solace.”

Keelin remembered her uncle Eirnín’s burial as if it were yesterday. He lay on a funeral bier, dressed in warrior garb and covered with leafy branches of birch. His family stood solemnly round him. Aunt Meghan’s face was deathly pale and her children wept as a chorus sang a mournful dirge. Above the other singers rose Brian’s beautiful voice; not a tear escaped his tormented eyes. Keelin’s heart ached as she listened, knowing he was suffering the loss even more than she.
To Keelin’s knowledge, Brian never shed a tear. Instead, in the weeks following Eirnín’s death, Brian fought—constantly. He was relentless, forever challenging the young men of the clan to fisticuffs. It mattered little whether there had been any provocation for the fight. Brian needed none. It seemed only physical pain helped ease the anguish of his soul. He always sought out superior opponents, attempting to banish all his demons with each blow given and received, enduring horrendous punishment.
Within days of his death, Uncle Eirnín spoke to Keelin. His foremost concern was for Brian. Eirnín asked Keelin to relay a message to the boy, praying it would help lessen his pain and give him renewed purpose and strength. Keelin tried several times to approach Brian during those first weeks, but he had warned her off with savage anger. Undeterred, she waited and watched for the right moment to reach him, forcing herself to be patient.
It was Aunt Meghan who gave Keelin an excuse to seek out Brian. Somehow her aunt had learned about a particularly brutal fight Brian had provoked. He had taken the worst of it and Meghan was both worried and incensed. With her hands on her sizable hips, she declared, “I understand Brian is full of sorrow. We all are. However, Brian shames my Eirnín’s memory with his fighting and blood-letting. It must stop.” Keelin heard her aunt’s voice quaver slightly and saw tears fall unchecked down her freckled cheeks.
“I will find him, Aunt Meghan.”
“You are a healer. Please treat his injuries. Perhaps you, alone, can also treat his damaged soul. He has always loved you so.”
Keelin dismissed her aunt’s words. She knew Brian found her annoying and somewhat of a nuisance. Still, the words had inexplicably pleased her.
Keelin found Brian squatting by the side of a stream, spitting out blood from his ravaged mouth. Even from a distance Keelin could see his battered and bloody face. When he looked up and saw her, he smiled slightly and then his mouth hardened. He turned back to the stream and splashed water on his face and head. In an offhand manner, he said, “So you have escaped Nuala’s servitude for the day, I see. Can you find nothing better to do with your freedom than to pester me?”
“And can you find nothing better to do with your time than to get yourself beaten to a pulp? You look ghastly.” Keelin shook her head and pursed her lips in reproof, though she felt only tenderness. She slid from Nellie’s back and walked over to Brian to kneel by his side.
Stretching out her hand, she attempted to touch Brian’s bruised and split cheek but he brushed away her hand. “Curse you, Keelin! Just leave me alone. I don’t need your help.”
“You most certainly do need my help,” said Keelin. “Aunt Meghan sent me to find and fetch you. She heard about your fight—do not ask me how. You know very well it is impossible to keep anything from her. If she were to see you as you look right now, you may wish that thug had finished you off because nothing is worse than one of Aunt Meghan’s tongue lashings.”
Brian laughed, causing him to grimace with pain. “You make an excellent point. But if I learn you were the scheming tattletale . . .”
Keelin refused to grace Brian’s words with a response. She would never betray a friend. Instead, she returned to where Nellie was grazing and retrieved her satchel. “Take off your shirt,” she said matter-of-factly, “if it is not too painful to lift your arms.”
“I will do no such thing. Next, I suppose, you will be demanding that I remove my trousers as well.”
Keelin gave a derisive harrumph. “Your shirt is soaked in blood, and I am going to wash and lay it out to dry while I patch you up. Trust me, I have no wish for you to remove your trousers, although I cannot imagine that you have anything I have not seen before. You forget that I am a healer.”
Somewhat embarrassed but appeased, Brian removed his shirt gingerly and handed it to Keelin, quietly watching her as she washed it in the stream, wringing out as much moisture as she could before hanging it on the branches of a nearby bush to dry.
“Now, let me see what I can do to make you more presentable to Aunt Meghan,” Keelin said, looking at Brian appraisingly. She knelt down next to him and stretched out her hand, running her fingers along his ribcage. “Just as I thought, three of your ribs are cracked.” Keelin gently pressed her hands against the damaged ribs, making Brian flinch. Soon, though, he relaxed and Keelin knew her touch was easing his pain.
“I am going to wrap this area,” she said, indicating Brian’s ribcage, “and please do not remove the wrap until I see you in a couple of days.” After she finished attending to Brian’s cracked ribs, Keelin turned her attention to his bruised and bloodied face, at which point Brian waved her off again. “Enough. I hate being fussed over.”
“You will just have to endure my fussing, as I must close these wounds so there will be no scarring. Also, I am sure you are aware of the fact that your nose is broken and must be put back in its proper place. That, I can assure you, will hurt.”
Keelin spoke with the authority of a practiced healer, sounding not at all like a twelve-year-old girl. With herbal remedies, salves, and her busy, skillful fingers, she cleaned and closed Brian’s cuts, soothed his swelling, and with a quick snap, popped his nose back into place. All the while Keelin chatted, sometimes explaining what remedies she was using or what she was about to do, and other times speaking of inconsequential things, managing to keep Brian amused and interested during her ministrations. Caring and gentle, Keelin tended to his battered face, her hands working their strange magic, her sweet voice acting as a welcome balm to his battered psyche. At length, Keelin stood and stepped back, viewing Brian’s face much like an artist would a completed painting. “Well, I cannot perform miracles, but you do look better than before. How do you feel?”
“Far better, thank you. I do believe you can work miracles, you little witch,” said Brian, smiling.
Keelin did not bristle; instead, she kept her head down, busily collecting and sorting jars of ointments and powders, several strange metal implements, and needles of varying sizes, returning them carefully to her satchel. She did not know how she would tell him of Eirnín.
“I have never seen so many different potions and odd instruments. Do you carry an entire surgery in that huge satchel?” Brian’s words were meant to tease but Keelin could hear the admiration in his tone.
“One must always be prepared for any contingency,” Keelin responded, delivering one of Nuala’s many maxims.
Brian laughed, grimacing only slightly. He stood and gingerly made his way to a large oak, where he sat down again, leaning against the trunk and lazily watching Keelin.
When Keelin finished packing up her satchel, she plopped down next to Brian, sitting cross-legged and watching the stream, all the while twirling and twisting a lock of her hair round and round with her forefinger. They sat there in companionable silence for some time before Keelin spoke.
“I . . . had the most wonderful, curious dream last night in which Uncle Eirnín visited me, talking to me for what seemed like hours and hours—”
“I have no wish to hear about your dreams,” interrupted Brian.
“You must and you will,” retorted Keelin. “Eirnín spoke mostly of you—”
“Hold your tongue, Keelin! I do not want to hear of your fanciful conversations with Eirnín. Did Aunt Meghan put you up to this?” Brian’s brown eyes flashed threateningly. “Let me grieve privately.”
Her anger rising, Keelin took a deep breath and struggled to compose hersel
f. “I was not completely honest with you a moment ago and I apologize for that. Eirnín did not speak to me in a dream. He spoke to me when I was very much awake. I heard him, just as if he was standing next to me. He asked that I might convey a message to you. Laugh and think me mad, hate me, but you will listen to what Uncle Eirnín told me. He deserves nothing less.”

Brian listened to Eirnín’s words and they saved him. Thereafter, Brian fought only as a warrior of Eire in defense of his people and clan.
Keelin cherished the memory of that day. She had always thought it was because she fulfilled her promise to Uncle Eirnín. Now she realized it was also because of Brian and how he had listened to her.

CHAPTER seventeen

éaglán’s horse walked along the village road, deeply rutted by the wheels of heavy carts. It had not rained in several days but the damage done to the road during the rainy, foul weather would take months of hard labor to repair in the spring. There was a chill in the air that heralded the onset of winter. Déaglán shivered in spite of himself, not wishing to spend the next months in Eire with its bleak dampness and cold. He thought of the blue waters of the Tyrrhenum and longed to be sailing upon it. But the prospect of seeing Saraid and Keelin cheered him and he pushed thoughts of the sea from his mind.
He had not gone much farther when he heard shouts and approaching horses from behind. He turned in the saddle and saw Seán and Ruaidhrí riding toward him, leading two fine-looking horses. The men urged their mounts into a trot and all four horses somehow navigated the rutted road without tripping. Déaglán reined Banner around and faced the men. He noted Seán and Ruaidhrí looked considerably less road weary than he felt.
Ruaidhrí greeted Déaglán first. “Good afternoon to you, Déaglán. We did not expect to meet you on our travels.” Seán nodded a hello, halting his horse alongside Ruaidhrí’s.