Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) (9 page)

A darkness blocked the sun and she opened her eyes. Ebony wings hovered over her. A raven lighted gently on her breast. She watched as feathers stroked her skin, causing cool tingles to warm as the sensation moved across her body. Wingtips evolved into fingertips. Deep rivulets of heat spread in concentric circles, radiated from her core to extremities and down her midline to the cradle of her belly where pleasant fire kindled.

As she closed her eyes she could feel the beating of his heart in counter-rhythm to the pulse in her own chest. His breath was warm on her cheek. “Open your eyes,” he beckoned in a deep musical tone. “I came here to find you.”

Her eyes were heavy. Through slitted lids she could see his face, his pale skin and eyes that rivaled the blue of the sky in evening. Paralyzed with sleep, she tried to lift her hand to stroke the angle of his jaw, but her body would not respond to her brain’s demand. She ached to weave her fingers into his hair and pull him to her.

Muireann rolled to her side, her hand grasped but her eyes opened to a brown brooding gaze. “Cú?”

The big hound, black nose only inches from her own, gazed solemnly as though reading her dream.

Muireann could still feel the tingling sensation in her girl-parts left by the imaginings of her subconscious. She forced herself to sit upright and tried to remember the dream. “It must have been a good one,” she pondered aloud.

A raven turned into a man? What kind of crazy imagery was that? And, damn, the man was none other than our Mr. Sloane himself.

Muireann wished there were dream police. She would have Tynan arrested for inspiring such a reverie.

She wasn’t sure whether to smack him for showing up now and making her stomach spin out of control, or for waiting this long. Why now? Was her life not complicated enough?

Men baffled her, this man more than most. She had no time to delve into his psyche or motivations. On the other hand, delving into his—

“Oh Muireann, you eegit,” she moaned and forced herself to her feet. She stepped on Cú’s tale, he yelped, she tripped, and nearly fell but caught herself on the bedpost. “Come on, Cú, I need a cuppa.”

The kitchen was cold. The fire had long since died from lack of attention. It was a treat to have a man stir up her heat. The wanton choice of words flushed her cheeks. She mentally restated the fact in other terms.
It was lovely to have him perk up her fire.
This was hopeless. The images he prompted had nothing at all to do with the turf stove.

Muireann filled the kettle and set it to heat. She plugged in the electric radiator and it rattled to life. This intolerance of the cold seemed odd. It only plagued her when she was indoors. If she jumped into the sea right now, the chill would quickly subside.

Though she was certain the whole selkie myth was promulgated by locals as far back as the ancients to attract tourists, sometimes she wondered why the sea felt like a cradle to her.

Go way outta that garden.

All nonsense—selkies, fairies, mermaids, for God’s sake. Foolishness.

And there lay the other problem with handsome Tynan Sloane. He was immediately identifiable as a dreamer. He called himself a
seanchaí,
which meant he told stories, promoted lore, and was most likely off with the fairies himself. Just like her mother and old Bertie O’Malley.

Muireann’s crusade had little to do with legend and everything to do with reality.

She stared into her empty teacup until her eyes blurred and all she could see was Tynan’s quiet smile as he said good night. Why hadn’t he tried to kiss her? Had he not longed for her as she had for him?

Idiotic. She shouldn’t even dream of it. Could she have a taste of him, a little tickle, a bit of him…would that be so terrible? For old time’s sake?

“Gonna let that kettle whistle until all the pigs in Clare are at yer door?”

“Simon?” She shook herself from the solitude of her imaginings, grabbed the kettle off the heat, burned her hand, dropped the vessel. Boiling water splashed, snuffing out the flame of the stove. “Jaysus, Simon. Ya near took ten years off me life.”

Muireann grabbed a tea towel and wrapped her hand to stop the stinging.

“Didn’t ya hear the door slam?” He finished the tea preparations for her and handed her a mug. “I heard the kettle clear across the garden. Where’s Cú?”

“Asleep. He was up late last night.” As was she.

“Oh, and was he having a grand time with Niabh Conneely’s poodle? Or was he guarding your virtue?”

“Shut your hole. My virtue or lack thereof, is none of your concern.”

“You skipped out of O’Malley’s last night. How did you get home?”

She didn’t owe him any explanation. So, why was it at the tip of her tongue? “I walked part of the way. Had to cool off.”

“Part?”

“Got a lift from a tourist.” She hoped that would suffice as an answer.

“Just any tourist?” He swung a kitchen chair around and straddled it, sat and sipped his tea.

He knew. How?
Muireann took a chair across the table from him. Her head was starting to throb. She smelled rank and needed a shower. Her hair was in tangles. “Why do you do this to me?” she asked, hoping he had no answer.

“Do you want the quick and dirty or the long and intellectual?”

She remained silent. Any random excuse wouldn’t wash with Simon. He knew her too well. He was probably the only person in the world capable of eliciting a laugh when tears clogged her throat. Simon knew her buttons. Together they had colored outside the lines since each could hold a crayon.

He leaned back and took a long look at her until she squirmed under his scrutiny. “Because you are in terminal self-denial. It’s my goal in life to see you fulfilled.”

“And for some irrational reason, you think my getting laid is the answer?” She would have laughed but it would turn into hysteria, and it was too late in the morning for going back to bed.

“Hey, selkie, I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t call me that,” she protested. “And no, you didn’t say that, but it’s what you mean. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t need a man to
complete
myself.”

“We’re not all bad y’know. Take meself here. I’m a brilliant specimen of a man.” He leaned back and tried to show a biceps muscle, but only succeeded in looking like a cartoon with white and scrawny appendages.

Muireann felt her face crack into an involuntary grin. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Ya got any biscuits?” He got up and started to rummage through her cupboard. “Ah, my favorite.” He pulled a package of chocolate wafers from behind the box of oats.

“Leave those,” she commanded. “They’re for emergencies.”

“Muireann O’Malley…this
is
an emergency.” He ripped the wrapper off, set the biscuits on the table in front of her and sat back down. Simon reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Ronan is gone. We all miss him. But it’s a complete downer to see you go on like there should be black crape hangin’ from the door post.”

A pain shot through her and she gave a moment to hating Simon for shoving reality in her face when she would rather live in the world of her imagination. Muireann’s older brother, Ronan, had the soul of a bard and the touch of an artist. He could see a flute in a scrap of blackwood and a harp in a pile of lumber. Whatever shadows darkened her days, Ronan had been able to lighten her mood. He’d had the ability to embrace fantasy and imbue his craft with magic.

Ronan was not at peace in or on the sea. The irony of his losing his life to the cold grip of the thoughtless depths brought heart-ache beyond the limits of her being. If she had been at his side that day, he would still be with her. She couldn’t ignore the pressure and sting behind her eyes but tried in desperation not to allow tears. This might be just the time to have one of her emergency biscuits.

Simon touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers and gently forced her to look at him. “I miss him too. He was my best mate. Ronan’s heart would ache seeing you like this.”

She perceived the same choking of tears in Simon’s voice that she was feeling in her own throat. Muireann was afraid to speak. She needed a distraction to derail her train of thought.

“Simon, do you remember me mentioning a boy I had a silly crush on when I was fifteen?” She stirred her tea and tried not to look at Simon.

“Yeah, I do. You were completely mental for him.” Si set his cup down and stared at her. “What was his name…Tom, Tyler…no. Tynan?” He stood and his chair tipped over with a crash. “Tynan? He’s not a tourist…he’s
your
Tynan.”

Heat rose up her neck into her cheeks. “Yes, Tynan of the mad adolescent crush.”

Simon snatched another biscuit. “Why is he here?”

She knew better, but decided to be honest. “He came to look me up. Probably wanted to see if I got old and fat.”

Si righted the chair and sat. He stuffed the cookie into his mouth. “You believe that?”

“You’re spitting crumbs,” Muireann said. “Why shouldn’t I? “ She knew when Simon got cynical like this, he was just trying to protect her, but it annoyed her none the less. “I’ve work to do.” She dipped a biscuit into her tea and studied the chocolate coating as it melted into creamy swirls. “Am I getting your help or not?”

He shrugged his shoulders and rose to leave. “Don’t come crying to me then…when he breaks your heart like he did fifteen years ago.” The door slammed and he was gone.

I need a shower.

Muireann needed to salve the sting of Simon’s words off her skin and out of her belly.

Simon, for all his faults, was her closest friend in all the world. They had grown up together, shared everything from stolen sweets in her mother’s cupboard to secret confessions, loss, and pain. They’d almost had sex, out of curiosity, when the stirrings of adolescence overcame them. They’d been clumsy and ended up laughing too hard to complete the misadventure.

When she went away to university, Simon followed. He lived in a cheap Dublin flat, played his uilleann pipes and sold his handcrafted, ceramic trinkets to the tourists strolling Grafton Street. He made it his mission to approve or, more often, disapprove of every man in whom Muireann showed the slightest interest.

She tolerated this ludicrous arrangement long enough to discover she had no need for a degree in fine arts. That took a full three years. Granted, she was frequently distracted by nonacademic adventures during that time. When it finally hit her that she needn’t be able to give a discourse on the subtleties differentiating the Pre-Raphaelites to throw a pot, she quit and caught a bus back to Ballinacurragh.

Muireann turned the shower on and said a silent prayer to the gods of hot water that it wouldn’t run out until she’d washed away the memory of last night’s dream. It must have been the result of not eating a proper supper or the caffeine in that last cup of tea she’d shared with Tynan.

Tynan.
There he was again. This time in her shower. Why did thoughts of him keep sneaking into her thinking?

Think about something else.

Today she had a plan and would not deviate from it. She had made little headway in her search at the old fortress and she needed to get back to it. How long could she really hold off the sale of Bertie’s land? Someone had a claim on it, and if she didn’t find the clues she needed soon, Ian and his vultures would have it under tar macadam before
Lúnasa.

She ran soapy fingers over her body, and her mind flashed the image of the raven in her dream stroking her breasts.

Stop it.
The temptation to scream was compelling.

Perhaps Simon was right.

She vowed she wouldn’t lose focus on her responsibilities. Tynan was here. She could enjoy his company. She simply wouldn’t allow him to distract her for more than a few minutes at a time.

Granted a few hours would be more her style.

Chapter Eight

The crystalline air, cool and clear, awakened Muireann’s senses with every breath.

The bump of her bicycle wheels accompanied her pounding heart as she pedaled the rutted path toward the cliffs.

Locals claimed this had once been part of a road built by the Viking invaders as they raped their way inland from their landing spot below the cliffs. True or tale, Muireann knew farmer and bard, soldier and seaman had trod this track from centuries past right up until today. This land had seen its share of troubles and they weren’t over yet.

The few remaining blossoms on the lone whitethorn were brilliant in the mid-morning light. Even from a distance, Muireann could see the objects hanging from its branches hadn’t been disturbed. Most folks, even if they denied the belief in fairies, wouldn’t test the principle or tempt a fate they did not understand. This was one of the few truths Muireann had on her side.

As summer approached, the white flowers faded and fell…a brief blanket of fragrant memory before traveling on the wind and dispersing like dreams in the sea.

She pushed the bicycle through the muddy lane leading past the whitethorn tree and stepped off. Ignoring the Private Property, Keep Out sign, she parked her bicycle up against the ruins. Muireann laid her hand against the crumbling surface and closed her eyes. Wishing, willing some voice to speak to her, tell her where her search should begin. She waited. Nothing came but the moan of the wind making its way down to the sea.

The bracken was knee high and she knew it would top out at her shoulders by the summer solstice. Stepping carefully to avoid the nettles and sheep droppings, she crossed the threshold at the south-facing entrance.

If the stones could talk, Muireann would like to have known what tales they would tell. Until the famine—the
Gorta Mόr
—this had been the home of the Ó Máille.

Rebuilt after Cromwell’s cannons took down the original façade, it had been a rather grand house for the time: two floors, a huge fireplace that warmed a hall vast enough for the entire clan as well as an ox or two.

In medieval times, the east approach had been protected by a
chevaux-de-frise.
Now the stones, once sharp and impenetrable, poked benignly from under centuries of turf. The west edge of the land came right up to one of the highest cliffs this region boasted, making an attack from the sea almost impossible.