The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (3 page)

Next to the cottage were the scattered ruins of Tualetha, an ancient monastery, spread over several acres. As a child, Evleen often visited the ruins. She and her brothers and sisters liked to play hide-and-seek amidst the crumbled remains of stone buildings and huge tombstones, decorated with faded Celtic carvings, which towered over their heads.

Adrift in her memories, Evleen reached to touch the blue pebble that stil hung around her neck.

Despite her mother’s advice, she could not bear to part with it, although now she always hid it beneath her clothing and had vowed never to use it. As they had countless times before, her thoughts drifted to the day, when she was just eight years old, that she visited the ruins alone. She had brought a book along and was sitting on a flat rock next to an ancient cairn when the persistent cawing of a bird caught her attention. Looking up from her book, she was surprised to see a huge black raven sitting on the low branch of an oak tree. It seemed to be staring at her.

Suddenly the bird spread its wings and flew away. As it did so, a smal black feather fel from its wing to the ground.

Evleen shut her book, slid off the rock, and went to retrieve the feather. As she bent to pick it up, she saw it had fal en next to a curious looking pebble of bright azure blue. How odd. Never had she seen a pebble of such a colour. While she examined it, she heard the cawing of the raven again. It had flown a short distance away and was now perched on another tree limb, staring at her and flapping its wings. Did it want her to fol ow him? It would certainly seem so.

Holding the feather and the pebble, Evleen fol owed the raven to where it sat in the tree. Just as she arrived, it again flew away, heading towards the dense woods close by. When again the bird alighted on a branch and stared at her, she knew for certain it wanted her to fol ow.

Her curiosity aroused, Evleen fol owed the raven on a path that led deep into the woods. The bird continued to lead, then stop to wait for her, until she realized she had gone into the woods deeper than she ever had before. She felt no fear, though, and fol owed the path up the side of a gently sloping mountain to the entrance of a cave with a yawning mouth. Stil unafraid, she entered the cave. Finding herself in near-total darkness, she felt her way along the wal s of a short, narrow chamber until she emerged into a room with smooth stone wal s that shone like crystal. In the centre of the room, an old man with a long white beard, wearing a white robe, stood behind a steaming cauldron. The room was lit, the light seeming to come from everywhere. Final y she realized it emanated from the crystal ine wal s. At last a shiver of fear ran through her. She turned to run, but before she could, the old man spoke. “I have been waiting for you.” Astounded, she asked, “Who are you?”

He ignored her and instead waved his hands over the cauldron and intoned, “I cal today on the strength of Heaven, Light of the Sun, Radiance of the Moon, Splendour of Fire, Speed of Lightning, Depth of the Sea.”

She stood frozen during his incantation. When he finished, he addressed her again. “I am Merlin the Magician. Surely you have heard of me, Evleen.”

“But how did you know my name?”

The old man smiled. “I have fol owed your progress since the day you were born.”

“But why?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“You are a direct descendant of Queen Maeve, who reigned as Queen of Ireland back in the days of the Druids. She was a warrior whom I admired tremendously. Maeve was one of the great female figures of Ireland, a most splendid woman. Original y she was a goddess and only later became the queen of mortal men, although she always kept her magical powers.” Merlin sighed. “I would tel you more, but you’re a little girl and can only understand so much. But it’s time you knew that you, too, have been endowed with magical powers.”

Evleen gasped in astonishment. “Me? I cannot believe it!”

“Rub the blue pebble and make a wish.”

She thought for a moment, searching her mind for something simple to request. Where had the raven gone? Rubbing the blue pebble, she said, “I wish to see the raven again.” In a twinkling, Merlin vanished and the black raven appeared, sitting on a nearby perch glaring at her with its beady bright eyes. “It can’t be!” she cried in alarm.

In another instant, the bird had disappeared and Merlin stood before her again. “Over the years you wil find I take many forms and shapes. The raven is only one.”

“Over the years?” she asked

“This is only the beginning. My child, it is time you became aware of your magic powers. You must learn to use them wisely.”

“But how wil I always know what is wise?”

“I shal always be there to help.” In another instant, Merlin had disappeared again, replaced by the raven that, in a great show of cawing and flapping of its wings, left her standing there and flew from the cave.

Evleen found her way from the cave and ran home. When she reached her cottage, she burst through the door, crying, “Mama, Mama, wait ’til you hear!” When she finished relating her story about the raven, the cave and Merlin, her mother seemed not the least surprised.

“I have always known there was something special about you, Evleen. Now I know what it is.

Bear in mind, you must always use your powers wisely.”

“Just what Merlin said.”

“Then you have been warned. You must never take your powers lightly.” And Evleen never did. While she grew up, Merlin paid her many visits. Sometimes he taught her such things as the Druidic Symbols of Mastery, or a lesson from the Druid’s Book of the Pherylit.

Other times, he let her try out her magic powers. She used them judiciously, casting a spel to heal an animal that was sick, or for a lost item that was soon found.

Only once did Merlin refuse her request. When her mother lay dying, Evleen pleaded, “Please, can’t we heal her?”

In reply, Merlin drew a perfect circle on the ground before her. “Within the perfect symmetry of a circle is held the essential nature of the universe. Strive to learn from it . . . to reflect that order.” She understood immediately. She could not interrupt life’s cycle. Even Merlin’s magic had its limits.

Now, in her new bedchamber, Evleen put thoughts of home behind her, turning them instead to her pitiful wardrobe. How she wished she could use her magic powers to replace every shabby piece of clothing she owned. Lady Beaumont had told her dinner was at eight. She must appear suitably dressed, but what could she wear? Nothing she had brought could begin to match the gorgeous gowns she knew the ladies would be wearing.

Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Evleen opened it to find a middle-aged, prim-faced woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, with a white satin gown draped over one arm. In a French accent, she announced, “I am Yvette, Lady Beaumont’s lady’s maid. Lord Beaumont sent me. He thought I could be of assistance in dressing you for dinner tonight.” She held up the gown. “This was his wife’s, poor thing. She hardly wore it before the typhoid struck her down. You seem about the same size.”

Yvette proved to be a godsend and, when eight o’clock arrived, Evleen took one final, incredulous look at herself in the mirror. The high-waisted gown fitted perfectly over her slender figure. But it was so low cut! Never in Ireland had so much of her bosom been exposed. “Think nothing of it, miss,” Yvette assured her. “You wil find it is quite modest by today’s standards.” Evleen regarded her thick, dark auburn hair, which Yvette had piled atop her head in a becoming style with soft curls and fastened with a set of pearl combs. Pearl earrings dangled from her ears, matched by a luminous pearl necklace. The result? Never in her life had Evleen looked so . . . so . . . the word was
beautiful
, but modesty prevented her from saying so, or even thinking it to herself. Instead, she exclaimed, “Yvette, you have a wonderful way with both clothes and hair.”

“And here is your fan, miss.” Yvette produced a delicate ivory and white lace fan, which Evleen took reluctantly. Never had she owned such an accessory. A fan was not necessary in Ireland, she thought amusedly, especial y when she was scrubbing clothes or cutting peat from the bogs and dragging it home.

“So what do I do with the fan, Yvette?”

“You flutter it, miss, and you flirt with it. The fan has a language al its own. You’l soon learn it if you’re here long enough.”

When Evleen hurried down the stairs to dinner, she was grateful she looked her best, yet dreaded another confrontation with the hostile ladies who no doubt would have preferred she eat with the servants. She found Lord Beaumont already seated at the head of the table, unsmiling as usual. His eyes opened wide when she sailed, head held high, into the dining room in her lovely gown, daintily holding her fan. “Good evening, Miss O’Fal on,” he said, surprise in his voice. “You look quite lovely this evening.”

“Isn’t that one of Mil icent’s old gowns?” Lady Beaumont asked, none too kindly.

Beaumont replied, “There’s no reason why Miss O’Fal on can’t make use of it.” In a voice edged with sarcasm, his sister, Lydia, said, “How charitable of you, Richard, always lending the poor a helping hand.”

Beaumont replied, “As a matter of fact, I’m sending for a seamstress to refresh Miss O’Fal on’s wardrobe.” Then he nodded towards a balding, thick-lipped man sitting to his right before addressing Evleen. “I don’t believe you have met our cousin, Mr Algernon Kent, who’s just come up from London to stay with us a while.”

A feeling of dislike overtook Evleen but she nodded politely at Beaumont’s cousin. Something about him was repulsive. Maybe it was the lecherous look in his near-lashless eyes when he gazed pointedly at her exposed bosom. She resisted the impulse to tug up the bodice of her gown.

Lord Beaumont spent much of the dinner discussing his son. “You wil find he’s extremely bright and never stops asking questions. By the way, Miss O’Fal on, the nursery and classroom are a bit cramped. While the weather is warm, you might find the gazebo at the bottom of the garden more accommodating for the teaching of lessons.”

Evleen gladly thanked him, always happy for the opportunity to be outdoors. Later, after dinner, she became acquainted with a quaint English custom she’d never heard of in Ireland: the women adjourned to the drawing room while the men stayed at the dining table drinking brandy and smoking their cigars.

“Do you play cards, Miss O’Fal on?” Lady Beaumont asked as the ladies settled in the drawing room. Evleen shook her head. Beaumont’s mother feigned a disappointed sigh. “What a pity.

Wel , I suppose you could stay here and read while we play, but of course if you’re tired you might wish to retire for the night.”

Lady Beaumont so obviously wanted rid of her, Evleen instantly said she was tired and left for her bedchamber. On her way out, she overheard Bettina and Lydia discussing Cousin Algernon.

“I cannot stand that loathsome man,” said Bettina. “He’s such a toad.” Lydia laughed. “Perhaps we could match him up with our little peasant from Ireland.”

“If we could get rid of her, I’m al for it,” Bettina replied with a giggle.

Evleen quickened her step. She did not want to hear the rest. She’d had quite enough of hurtful remarks for one day. Not that tomorrow would be any better, she sadly realized.

“Tel me about Ireland,” said Peter. “I want to hear.”

Evleen and Peter, both early risers, had eaten an early breakfast before the rest of the house was awake, then found their way to the gazebo at the bottom of the rear gardens. They were accompanied by Peter’s beloved dog, Cromwel , a lively brown and white Border col ie who fol owed Peter wherever he went.

What a lovely spot, Evleen reflected as she gazed at lush green lawns, clipped hedges and bright flowers. She was grateful the friendly little boy had taken to her instantly. She would start his lessons tomorrow, but today they would talk and get acquainted. Cromwel lay down next to his master and went to sleep while she began. “Let’s start at the beginning. Ireland’s earliest dwel ers were the Celts, who lived many thousands of years ago. They had many gods and the Druids were their priests . . .”

Peter listened intently while she went on to tel more of Ireland’s history. Final y the child pointed to the blue pebble that hung from her neck. “What is that?” he asked.

Somehow the pebble had slipped from beneath her jacket. She hastened to conceal it. “It’s a magic pebble,” she replied, knowing one could be perfectly honest with a child of seven who would take such information in his stride. “But you mustn’t tel anyone.” Peter nodded vigorously. “Oh, I won’t, I promise. But you must show me how it works.”

“It only works when I’m in Ireland, but I’l show you how it’s done.” Evleen pul ed out the pebble and rubbed it with her finger. “It’s as simple as this. Now if I were in Ireland, a raven would appear and then—”

“But there is a raven,” Peter interrupted.

She started to tel him there could not be any such thing when she heard a loud caw from behind her. Surely not! Her heart leaped.

Peter pointed. “It’s behind you on that limb.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. The raven gazed down at her – she could swear – with triumphant eyes.

“Dear God in heaven!” She leaped to her feet and cal ed frantical y to the bird, “Go away! You are not supposed to be here!”

The raven sat silently, its sharp eyes watching her every move.

“Here comes my father,” Peter said.

Oh, no!
In dismay, Evleen spied Lord Beaumont striding through the garden. In seconds he would be here. She turned to the raven. “Please. The English don’t believe in magic. You must go.” To her relief, the bird cawed softly one time then flew away. By the time Lord Beaumont arrived, Evleen had somewhat composed herself, although her heart stil hammered in her chest. “Lord Beaumont.” She dipped a curtsy, fighting to control the tremor in her voice.