Celtic Shores (5 page)

O’Malley High Castle — Master’s Banqueting Hall

Samhain Eve

Darina wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and straightened the hairpin that held the small, front section of her flowing red mane intact atop her head; as if it were a crown. Thankful for the few words she shared with her mother, she nodded to her Uncle Ruarc to make ready for the service.

Galen and Lucian stood looking forward into the banquet room from the raised dais at the south end of the chamber; while Patrick and his brother Payton waited just inside, mere feet from the door. A harpist strung a solemn and sacred sounding tune, and the servants exited the room only moments prior. Atilde and Minea stood beside Darina’s sisters and waited for her to make her entrance.

“Are ye ready, lass?” asked her Uncle Ruarc. “Ye certainly are a picture. Ye are as lovely as yer mam, dear,” he added.

With shaking hands, she reached for her Uncle’s arm. “I think I am,” she replied.

“There’s no need to be scared, Darina,” interjected her Aunt Atilde from behind her, having left her perch beside the sisters. “All will be well, Darina. Patrick is a fine mon,” she added, fluffing her dress and straightening her plaid.

“Where is Kyra?” shot Darina. “I don’t see Kyra, where is she?” she asked looking around the hall frantically. “Why isn’t Kyra here?” she insisted, her face becoming white with anxiety. She feared Kyra might be upset; seeing how that she was getting married on the day Kyra was to have wed Aiden.

“Kyra became ill, Darina. She is with Vynae at the sick-house. But she is fine, nothing to worry about. Vynae will have her back and ready to attend the reception soon. Ye’ll see,” added Ruarc.

“We’ve only just a few more minutes and the service will start,” added her Aunt. “Are ye sure ye are alright child? Ye look ill as well. Have ye eaten anything today?”

Darina let out a breath and deliberately relaxed her shoulders and straightened her backbone. She began counting seconds off in her head to dissuade her anxiety, and pinched her cheeks out of habit to add some color. “I’m fine. I will be fine…that is…I’m okay. We can begin whenever ye are ready, Ruarc.”

Darina — I am here. Yer family is here and all yer friends are here as well. Ye have the support of yer sisters and Uncle; there is no need to worry. All is well. I will be here — right here. Always.

It wasn’t the first time that Patrick trespassed her mind to speak with her; but it was the first time that it made her feel protected instead of confused.

I know yer nervous lass, but we are in this together. I won’t let any harm come to ye. From this day forward, ye are mine to protect and cherish. I take care of what is mine, Darina. Trust that.

“Darina, are you alright?” asked her Uncle, staring at her strangely. “Ye act as if ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“That I have,” she replied. “But that story is for another day,” she replied. “Atilde, I am ready to go,” she announced, and clasped her hand about her Uncle’s arm, steadying her stance in the process.

Just breathe. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I can do this,
she said to herself.
I can do this.

Just two steps into the banqueting hall and she felt a blanket of calm overtake her. As if she were being hugged by her da; her nerves were no longer on fire and she was completely stable on her feet. Warmth rose in her face, lighting it with color once more, and she could feel her pulse slowing and her body relaxing.

As if she was just shocked, a jolt of electricity shot from the tip of her right hand and up her arm towards her heart.

Patrick
.

“Aye. I am h-here, Darina,” he whispered in her ear as he took her hand from Ruarc and guided them both towards the dais. “Ye look l-l-lovely,” he added.

Look at me, lass.

Unaware that she hadn’t raised her face once since stepping into the room, Darina perked her head up and surveyed her surroundings. It was beautifully decorated; flowers and candles and fine food and drink as far as she could see. It was the distinct smell of spikenard oil that caught her attention.

Patrick
.

His left hand drew circles in her palm as she searched the room. Catching the eye of everyone in the hall, she turned to look up at her betrothed. Her heart skipped a beat and she blushed.

He really is a fine-looking mon.

Patrick blushed this time.

He hadn’t been sure he would ever marry, let alone win the heart of a woman. When he realized he could read her thoughts and she could hear him when he spoke to her with his mind, it brought feelings to the surface he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Airard told him that he was not destined to be alone, but that one day, he would find a woman who would respond to him as no one else could.
Could Darina be that woman?

The fact that she heard him when he spoke both frightened and excited him. Never one to be forward with a lass, he pushed himself to see just how far their communication would take them. When she replied to his utterings, he was shocked.

Her acknowledgment of his telepathy sent him over the edge. Even her anger at his “trespass”, as she called it, overjoyed him. Perhaps his life wasn’t destined to be dull and uneventful after all. Perhaps this feisty young woman was just what he needed: a friend, a confidante, a partner in life. He was never able to read thoughts or speak telepathically before with anyone he wasn’t physically touching at the time.

Perhaps their ability to communicate in such a way without even touching, was a blessing from the gods and maybe, just maybe, he would find joy with another—like himself. He knew Darina’s realization that she could hear him and respond frightened her. But he would earn her trust, he just would.

Darina drank it all in. Every inch of him; warm hands, tall muscular frame, deep green eyes, and long wavy chestnut hair that fell below his shoulders. Beautiful was not the right word. Or was it? Just looking into his eyes sent a fire racing through her blood to the point she thought she would combust.

Her pulse quickened and a familiar ache burned in her stomach. Her legs shook and she thought she might collapse. He smelled absolutely
good enough to eat
. The thought made her giggle out loud and Patrick tightened his grip on her right hand as she covered her mouth with the other.

He smiled at her and placed his arm around her back to steady her gait. He chuckled and whispered to her, “A fine m-mess w-we have h-here is it no’?”

“Aye, fine indeed,” she responded, smiling brightly. “A fine mess indeed.”

***

Mavis awoke with a start. Unable to catch her breath, she sat straight up from her reclined position on a straw mat in the corner of an unfamiliar cottage. She looked around for something she recognized, but found nothing. The smell of burning peat overtook her nose and she began to cough.

“Ye feeling any better there, lassie?” said a female voice.

Mavis searched the room but saw no one.

“I say, are ye feeling any better?” it repeated.

Mavis quickly grasped the linens about her and rubbed her eyes. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“’Tis only me,” came the reply.

“Where are ye? Who are ye?” pleaded Mavis. Having noticed she was completely bare, she grabbed the linens about her even tighter and tucked her feet beneath her legs in protection of her modesty.

“No reason to do that now. We brung ye up here. I ken we have seen it all,” chuckled the voice, now speaking in unison with the voices of others.

Frightened, Mavis rose from her place on the straw mat and stood upright in the round cottage. The ceiling was barely tall enough for her as the thatched roof grabbed at the top of her hair. Looking around, she took in her shelter. There was a peat moss fire burning in the center of the room. A small table towards the other side of the cottage and a pile of what looked to be pelts stacked beside it. Herbs and flowers of all kinds were hanging from the ceiling and there were four stools interspersed about the abode.

The pile of pelts moved and Mavis froze in her tracks. She stooped down to get a better look. If the peat moss fire hadn’t been burning she may have been able to see more clearly. She heard a muffled groan and dropped down to all fours this time, intent on finding the source.

“We’re over here love,” it said. She crawled on all fours towards the sound. As she got closer to the pile of pelts, she became frightened and stopped in her tracks.

“Are ye under that pile?” she asked hesitantly and moved forward to inspect the pelts.

“We will no’ harm ye, lass. We brought ye here,” they said in unison.

“Who are ye?” Mavis begged.

“Just ye sit down right there and we will show ye,” they said, their voices a melody of angels. “We will show ye,” they repeated.

Mavis sat back on her feet and waited. Praying that she wasn’t losing her mind, she pinched her leg to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, and after confirming the fact that she was indeed awake, she bade them to show themselves.

The peat fire rose abruptly and the cottage lit up from the flames. The pile of pelts jostled and moved and from beneath it, a small woman crawled out. The woman moved forward, slowly, on all fours towards Mavis. Horror gripped her heart, and Mavis moved back and away from the crawling woman as fast as she could until she was butt up against the cottage wall, shaking violently.

“Do no’ be afraid,” the crawling woman said. She rose from the ground and stood before Mavis, completely naked and covered in some type of gooey substance that stank like day-old fish. She walked towards a pot near the table and began to wash herself.

“Who are ye?” demanded Mavis nervously.

“Britta,” she said matter-of-factly, still washing herself.

“And I am Incha.”

In her peripheral vision, Mavis saw the pile of pelts move across the floor, towards her. Dizzy from what was transpiring, Mavis steadied herself on the ground around her and placed both hands in front of her on the floor, to break an impending fall.

She ventured a look to her right and was astonished to see a seal waddling towards her.

“I said, I am Incha,” it repeated.

Mavis rubbed her eyes again, unable to believe what she was seeing.
A talking seal? I have had too much of the spirits.

“
We’ve given ye no spirits,” another voice said. Joining the seal in front of her was another seal.

“I am Liath,” it said.

Britta cleaned herself and donned a shift and over-dress and walked towards Mavis, who was still crouching on the floor in front of Liath and Incha.

“Here ye go,” she said. “Put this on, ye will feel much better clothed I am sure.”

Mavis reached for the shift and scooted as far back against the cottage wall as she could get. A commotion at the door diverted her attention and another woman stepped into the cottage. When Mavis turned back towards the seals, they were gone. In their place, stood two women covered head to toe in the same goo that Britta washed from her body. Seal pelts lay at their feet.

“By the stars!” exclaimed Mavis, covering her mouth and shaking.

“Hello,” said the fourth woman who just entered the cottage. “I am Naeyd,” she said. “What is yer name?” she asked as she handed a goblet of elderberry wine to Mavis.

“I am Mavis. Are ye the
seals
that were swimming with me on the shore?” she asked.

“Aye, we are,” they said in unison.

“Are ye
selkies
?” asked Mavis in disbelief at what she just said.

“Aye, we are sometimes called selkies,” responded Incha, nodding. “Are ye hungry, lass?”

Mavis nodded but didn’t make a sound. She knew the tales of the selkies, or the seal women, she had heard them all her life. Never once did she ever imagine the stories to be true. “Silly folklore,” her brother Cynbel said. “Just a legend…” But here she was, in a cottage shared by four seal women — and they had saved her life most probably.

That was the only explanation. That had to be it. The only reason she survived her plunge into the sea. They were with her all along, the whole way. They watched out for her and prodded her on when she grew tired. They guided her to shore and brought her to their home on the Island of Women.

The island of women! Are they all selkies?

“Mavis, won’t ye come sit down a bit and eat?” asked Britta. “Ye must be hungry and exhausted. Tell us what happened. Why were you in the sea without a boat on such a day as this? Ye ken it is Samhain, don’t ye?”

“Samhain!” shouted Mavis. “The wedding, Braeden, Patrick! I must get back to the castle. Now!” she screamed.

“Hold on,” said Naeyd. “Ye won’t be getting anywhere tonight. The ferry is docked and the soldier’s won’t allow passage until morn.”

“Until well after midnight,” interjected Britta.

“But I must!” replied Mavis. “A boy’s life depends on it,” she cried.

“Well, then,” added Incha. “I should call for Gemma. She’ll know what to do.”

MacCahan Castle — Northern Ireland

Parkin MacCahan, younger brother to Patrick and middle son of Breacan MacCahan, hovered over the lifeless body of Isadore McDougal and wept. Wild tears that left him hollow and spent, poured down his sun-kissed cheeks in crashing waves of passion. In all his twenty-three summers, his father never once witnessed such a display of passion from his impertinent middle son.

“Mayhap he is truly saddened?” whispered Airard into Breacan’s ear, disbelievingly.

“I doubt that very seriously,” retorted Breacan and walked towards the door to the chamber. “Parkin, meet me in me chambers before the noon meal. There is much to discuss.”

Parkin looked up from his position at Isadore’s bedside and nodded his acknowledgment, wiping away tears with the back of his hand and turning even more theatrical, evidently for his father’s sake.

“I wonder when that boy will ever grow up,” snorted Breacan angrily.

“What do you mean, me Lord?” asked Airard. “He appears to be mightily affected by Isadore’s demise. Does that no’ show promise?”

“Dinna let him fool ye, old mon,” snorted Breacan. “He is just worried now that he has a motherless babe to deal with. Isadore had no family and someone must care for Winnie since her mam has passed.”

“Aye—Winnie. I hadn’t thought of that. When Isadore came down with the fever, I didn’t think what would become of the toddler should she no’ make it through,” replied Airard. “’Tis a most unfortunate situation, most unfortunate indeed. Where is Winnie now?” he asked.

“She’s with her elder brathair, Macklin. They are waiting in me chambers. How can I tell a boy of only fourteen summers that his mam has passed and he and his young seesta have no one to care for them?”

Airard shook his head and continued forward down the path from the sick-house to the castle, walking beside his oldest friend and Laird of the MacCahan clan.

The smell of roast venison met them from behind the kitchens, and a school of laundry ladies passed them to the right, bustling about with buckets of splashing water and baskets of soiled linens. It was midday at the keep and everyone was going about their business.

Life was almost back to normal; considering that the floods subsided a few weeks before and the ground was nearly completely dry since the storms let up. Nearly eight new cottages were erected and the pier was complete. It hadn’t taken as long as they imagined it would, and with the help of some of the O’Malley men, they finished construction on the second small ship just the day before.

Parkin was leaving for O’Malley port in a few days, and would return with goods and wares to sell in the shops and market area being built near the shore. Business with the O’Malley’s would be good, and their shipping enterprise would introduce them to new and exciting merchandises and people from around the world.

Breacan was pleased. He was proud of his son Patrick, who was by now the Lord of O’Malley territory and husband to Dallin’s eldest daughter, Darina. Payton, his youngest, was sent with fifty fighting men to establish a strong militia in the region and to protect his brother’s new position.

It was Parkin that gave him the most grief. He would never make a reasonable marriage match with Parkin. He knew it, Parkin knew it and everyone else knew it as well. The time for Parkin to grow up had come and gone. The thought of sending Parkin to his mother’s family in Scotland crossed Breacan’s mind once too often, and today…it was back…and it was stuck there.

Breacan entered his chambers with his head held low and the look of defeat clearly written on his face. Airard followed him with a trencher of venison and two mugs of ale which he set upon the side table in Breacan’s solar.

“My Lord, Laird MacCahan, have ye any news of me mathair?” asked Macklin sheepishly, holding his sleeping baby sister in his arms and rocking her back and forth in front of the hearth.

“Come here son,” replied Breacan. “Lay yer seesta down there on the mat, we have much to discuss.”

***

Odetta gasped, and struggled against the weight which held her head down, and the hands which clenched tightly around her neck cutting off her airway. Terror stopped her heart and sucked the air from her lungs. She knew better than to look up into the cold gray eyes of her captor, but she couldn’t help herself.

Nearly three weeks since she last encountered the Visitor and she still couldn’t get the stench of sulfur and rotten wood out of her head. She wanted to sit up, to grab something—anything to distract the Visitor, but found nothing. Only when she came fully to the realization that she was at his mercy and she was able to let go with her mind, to submit, did he relent.

Sleep eluded her constantly. Perhaps it was eluding her, perhaps she was unwilling to succumb. That was more like it. Since that first time, as a small child, when the Visitor found her by the lake; she remained in fear for her life and in solitude—unwilling to draw anyone else into her horror.

She even spared her own brother, by taking his very life. Not willing to let the Visitor have him, she did the only thing she could think of. Cynbel would not be his host, not while she still drew breath. Even when she sent her sister away, she was being merciful. The Visitor had plans for her as well and Odetta wouldn’t let that happen, not if she had anything to do with it.

The bleak, echoing, melancholic brogue of the Visitor split her head in two. Had she the power, she would have taken her own life, years ago.
Subservient. Controlled. Beneath.
These were the words her unholy Visitor used.

Immortal
. That’s the one that gave her the greatest sorrow.
Immortal and helpless.
Forever controlled by the Visitor and his dark forces. Cursed to do his bidding, whatever his evil mind could conceive. It was better they all thought her insane than know the truth.

“Rise,” he commanded, after letting go of his grasp of her neck and rising from the bed.

She gasped for air when his heavy arms left their place on her head. She only dozed off for a mere moment; and there he was as usual. Tears of rage filled her eyes, and she struggled to see.

Rising from the bed, she caught the stench and knew he was near. Fear overtook her and she began to shake. It was soon replaced with rage and an unholy anger took its place.

“Why are ye here?” she shouted into the blackness. “What do ye want?”

“Ye know what I want. Ye’ve yet to give it to me. Must I do everything?” he echoed back.

The Visitor blew out a short breath, and the room filled with light as two candle stands in the far corners of the cavernous room lit of their own accord. Odetta stood panic-stricken in the middle of the small chamber, face to face with her evil Lord.

The top of her head barely reached his chest. His long stone-like arms hung nearly to the ground and he waived his razor-sharp, black fingernails in front of her face; before scratching a line down the cavern wall…creating some sort of visual depiction of an ancient battle or ceremonial rite …she wasn’t sure.

“Me Lord,” she ventured hesitantly.

“Silence,” returned the Visitor. “I am here to collect what is mine. Have you located the nexus?” he asked, spewing rancid steam from his nostrils.

“Not yet, but I am close,” she replied.

“Have ye at least acquired or traversed the territory which surrounds the ruins?” he shouted angrily.

“Eaton. Me Lord,” she replied.

With one flick of his giant wrist, the Visitor slashed a line from Odetta’s right shoulder, across her chest, down over her ribcage and rested his razor-sharp nails in her left side—fully impaling his hand within her flesh. Her eyes met his and locked on in defiance. Blood trickled from her wounded side and pooled about her ankles. She grew faint and steadied herself so as not to pass out.

“Ye grow pale, me puppet,” he bellowed. “It’s a good thing I’ve made ye immortal. Otherwise all this time I’ve wasted on ye would be in vain.” Slowly and painfully, he removed his claws from her body, one at a time.

When the last of his razor-sharp nails were removed, Odetta doubled over in agony and fell to her knees. “Me Lord, tell me what ye desire of me—I am yer most willing servant,” she begged through clenched teeth.

“Ye know I need the nexus. Ye’ve had years to locate the nexus among the ruins. I am growing impatient with ye. Perhaps it is time I take a new tribute,” he said, as he drew circular shapes down the length of her arm with one of his nails, drawing blood all along the way.

“No!” she screamed. “Please, I can do this, just give me more time. Please don’t take anyone. I am so very close to having access to the ruins; I’m sure I can find yer nexus.”

“Ye’ve had plenty of time, witch,” said the Visitor. “Why can ye not simply go to the ruins now and return with the nexus?” he asked, as he grabbed her around the neck and lifted her off the floor in front of him; leaving her legs dangling just feet from the stony ground.

Cold, gray, evil eyes burned behind copper-colored lids. He muttered something under his breath; something otherworldly, something so sinister she didn’t need to understand the words to catch his meaning.

“I will have the nexus, and I
will
leave this place!” he roared, as the stones shook and the earth quaked at the force of his command. He dropped her to the ground, leaving her a quivering mess of blood and pure exhaustion.

“Ye need more blood,” he said matter-of-factly. “Tend to yerself, and find my nexus. I will be back.”

A shearing pain gripped her heart and electric-like currents surged through her body. She began to vomit, and a seizure overtook her to the point she was forced to lay flat out on the cold, stone floor writhing in agony. She felt her flesh heating up like it was on fire, and the droplets of blood on her skin began to boil. Her flesh seared back together where it was torn, leaving tattoo-like scars in its wake.

A reminder of his power over me,
she thought to herself.
But -not for long.