The Obsidian Dagger (2 page)

The thin employee strolled over to the big man. “Is there a problem here?”

“You bet there is,” huffed the Scot. “I got hit in the face by a bloody golf bag!” The large man's eyes were small in his pillowy cheeks but they were intense and fixed on the young airport worker.

“Well, sir, just maybe you should have moved your big, fat face out of the way.”

The Scot's face grew to a bright red and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Brendan looked on with the rest of the crowd and waited for the large guy to either choke the thin guy or blow his top like a volcano.

“You rude, little son of a…” the large Scot began to move toward the worker when an alarm with a rotating yellow light burst to life above the conveyor window. The worker and the Scot glanced up at the window and saw that there was a luggage backup.

“Don't worry, folks. I've got this,” boasted the young worker. He began climbing over bags that already sat upon the cone, not being cautious or overly concerned about smashing the contents until he reached the window. “Why do you always have to do this, Bessie? You're making me look bad.”

The big Scot glowered at the young man while everyone else just exchanged curious glances. The worker began tugging on different bags, trying to loosen the logjam.

“Come on! I've got you now!” he exclaimed as he pulled as hard as he could.

The bags came loose and an avalanche of luggage spewed from the window. The massive flow swept the worker up and threw him backwards down the carousal. Somewhere in the fray the young skinny guy was thrown aside as the rest of the bags crashed full force into the big Scot. People walked over and plucked their bags off of the big man one at a time. Lizzie had to get hers from the carousal. It happened to be one on the worker's face as he traveled around and around on the cone.

“Uh… thanks,” she said as she lifted her bag off. “Found it!” she yelled over to Brendan.

Brendan collected his and his father's bags and they made their way to the pick-up gate leaving a very strange scene behind them. If this was any indication of what it was going to be like in Ireland, Brendan and Lizzie were preparing themselves for a really weird vacation.

Brendan and Lizzie walked through the pick-up gate and set the bags off to the side. The pick-up gate was no more than a covered throughway where cars could pick-up passengers. There was a paved road that stretched in both directions. The storm was past, but there was still a drizzle that made it hard to see what surrounded the airport. Haze and mist were floating in the air and a ton of puddles mirrored the haze. It was an ominous view no matter where they looked.

Brendan sat down on his bag and noticed that they seemed to be the only people getting picked up at the supposed pick-up gate. “This must not be a popular spot. It's so empty.”

Lizzie nodded. “It's sort of creepy. I feel like we're in a big cemetery.”

Brendan couldn't argue with that.

“How long did Dad say?”

Brendan glanced at the time on his cell phone and said, “Twenty minutes.”

“How long has it been?”

“About an hour,” responded Brendan.

A low rumbling sounded from the distance and the O'Neal kids looked up the road. Two headlight beams were cutting through the haze. As it came a little closer, they could see a red Ferrari speeding down the road in their direction.

“Man, about time. Awesome car, though.” Brendan was imagining himself at the wheel feeling like a superstar. How sweet was that going to be!

“Maybe Dad will let me drive, too,” said Lizzie.

“Keep dreaming,” Brendan scoffed. “Dad's never going to let you drive.”

“He'll let me drive before he lets you,” she sassed back.

Brendan rolled his eyes. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

The Ferrari sped closer and showed no signs of slowing. The kids stepped back away from the road and leaned against the building. The car blasted through the pick-up gate splashing water all over them and in the process created such a vortex of wind that they were nearly knocked off their feet. Brendan wiped water from his eyes and looked over at his sister. Her curly locks were soaked and hung sadly in her face. He reached over and plucked a leaf out of her hair.

As they stood dripping, Oscar pulled under the awning in a very small, very European hatchback. It was tiny and sputtered. Black smoke choked out of the tailpipe and filled the air around them. The paint was spotty at best as the metal shone fully in several places, at least it did where the rust hadn't already taken over.

Oscar popped out of the driver seat and slapped the top of the car. “Load her up, kids.”

Brendan and Lizzie stood frozen in place, sopping wet and shocked. Oscar apparently did not notice the glazed expressions and lack of movement and strolled over and placed an arm around his kids' shoulders.

“She's a beaut, huh? Soak it in. That is a European classic.” He slapped Brendan on the back and continued, “And the best part is, you'll get to drive her around most of the time. I mean, I'll be busy with my research, so you'll get to have a little time to cruise. Hey, watch out Irish girls… eh?”

Oscar grabbed his bag and went to the trunk. Lizzie moved in closer to her brother. “Yeah, watch out girls, because the fumes may kill you.” She grabbed her bag and loaded it into the small space.

“Let's go, Brendan. We're burning daylight,” called Oscar.

Brendan loaded his bag as his mind flashed warnings of how lame this whole trip was really going to be. He only coughed seven or eight times on the fumes.

…

The dark stranger stood in the rain pondering his next move. It had become clear that this family had been what he was waiting on for centuries. All he needed to do now was to “get the ball rolling,” as the Americans would say.

 

 

Chapter 2

Galway or Bust

The O'Neal's new-to-them car bobbed wearily through the countryside outside of Dublin. Brendan watched the pretty scenery crawl by his window since the beater his dad rented could barely outrun a slow lawn mower or a fast sloth.

Brendan leaned on his arm rest and chewed on his fingernail. “Where are we going, Dad?”

“Galway,” replied Oscar. He merrily drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, an old habit that he had since before his band broke up in college.

“Why Galway?” Lizzie asked loudly from the back seat, headphones firmly in place.

Oscar smiled. “That's supposed to be where it all began.” The static-filled signal on the AM radio crackled to life and Oscar was quick to turn the volume dial up. “Alright! Sing with me. Danny boy, Danny boy, the tides, the tides are calling.” Noticing that he was alone in song, he looked at his kids.

“Are you listening? Darn iPods.”

Smoke poured out from the exhaust pipe leaving a nice trail behind the O'Neals as they putted down the country roads. Brendan absently studied an Irish road map, Lizzie slumbered in the backseat, and Oscar peered through his reading glasses, which were balanced precariously on the end of his nose, at a printed sheet of directions while he drove.

“When we get there, Brendan, we need to head straight up to the room and get settled in.”

Brendan nodded. “Is this a hotel?”

Oscar raised a brow to consider the comparison. “It's more like a bed and breakfast. We may have the whole thing to ourselves, though. I don't think this is a peak travel season.”

Oscar handed the printout of the directions over to Brendan and he saw that it was folded and stapled. He flipped it to the front page and saw several images that Oscar had printed off of the hotel. Galway looked kind of cool. It didn't seem like an isolated farm town or anything like that, so perhaps the trip could be okay. There were a few pictures of a castle and something that resembled civilization.

Galway was just like the pictures had promised, but to Brendan, the place looked a whole lot smaller. They found the bed and breakfast right away. It was a modest three-story home on the end of a narrow cobblestone street. A sign above the porch read “Gordy's Home” and beneath the sign, rocking in their chairs, sat an elderly couple.

Oscar pulled the car to a stop in front of the place. The car threw out a loud
Bang
and a puff of exhaust. Luckily no one was around or Brendan would have been really embarrassed. He looked at the old guy in his blue jeans and white-buttoned down shirt and the old lady with her flower-patterned dress and hair up in a bun and heaved out a short breath.

“Gordy, you think?”

Oscar opened his door and said, “Probably. Stay here and I'll make sure.” He got out and approached the old couple.

Brendan looked back at his sister. She was slumped against the window with a small line of slobber stringing out of the corner of her mouth.

“Wake up, Liz. We're here.”

Lizzie sort of woke up. “Huh? Here?” She rubbed her eyes and saw that her dad was coming back to the car.

“Is that Gordy?” asked Brendan.

“Sure is and he told me to park around back.” Oscar walked around to the trunk. “Pop the hatch for me, will ya?”

Brendan leaned over and complied. He opened his own door and got out to stretch his legs. Lizzie emerged from the backseat, iPod humming.

“Lizzie, help your old dad with the bags while Brendan parks the car.”

Brendan cracked his neck to relieve some tension in his shoulders and walked over to the driver seat. “How do I get to the back?”

Oscar handed a bag to Lizzie, who promptly put it on the ground and shuffled her songs. “Gordy said that there was some alley just down the street. Turn right there, get to the end of the buildings, and turn right again. You'll see Gordy's lot from there.”

Oscar cleared the trunk and then closed it. He and Lizzie began lugging the luggage to the front door. Gordy almost got up to help.

Almost.

Brendan drove very slowly down the street passing many homey buildings all housing varying businesses. There was a restaurant, a clothing shop (with the coolest styles no doubt), a souvenir shop, a bookstore, a pub, and a gas station.

“Food, clothes, junk, books. Oh a bar… whoa! Look at that guy,” Brendan said aloud to an empty car.

A fifty-something guy was stumbling around on the sidewalk with a woman under his arm. They were talking loudly, but Brendan wasn't in earshot at the time. The man stopped walking and broke into an Irish jig. As he drove a little further, Brendan caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Look at me,” slurred the man. “I'm dancing a jig!”

The woman frowned and crossed her arms. “Would you cut that out? You're not even Irish.”

The man paused in mid-jig and looked her square in the eye. “Well, I should have been.” The guy jumped back into his jig, dancing circles around the woman. Brendan drove on.

“Ah, the alley,” declared Brendan. He turned the car and half-blocked the sidewalk. He stopped well short of the alley's entrance and stared at the ultra-narrow path between the buildings. “How am I supposed to fit down there?”

The man and the woman stumbled in front of Brendan's car and paused. The guy looked at the alley and then back at Brendan's car. After taking a few looks back and forth, the man hollered out, “I wouldn't even try that and I'm three sheets to the wind.”

The woman grabbed the guy by the arm and dragged him down the sidewalk. Brendan waited for them to get out of the way before sticking his head out of the window to reexamine the problem.

“There's no way.”

“You can make it, you chicken,” taunted an Irish-accented voice from the left.

“You must be crazy,” Brendan responded and looked over to the owner of the voice. She was beautiful, like an angel. Was that harp music? He shook it off and tried to play it a little cooler. “Have you been in that pub, too? There's no way I can make it through there.”

The girl chuckled and then walked over and opened the door. “Slide over, chicken. Let a woman show you how it's done.” She shoved Brendan into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut, popped the clutch, and jammed on the accelerator.

Brendan braced himself against the dash and the door, and watched as the walls of the buildings that lined the alley went streaking by like they were going into light speed. The mirrors were no more than a half-inch from scrapping along the walls! Brendan cringed and gritted his teeth as they shot out of the alley and whipped a hard right. They peeled out and drifted until the tires gripped the surface of the road. They blazed a path down the road until they reached Gordy's lot and the girl pulled a sharp left. The car began to spin out of control until it came to rest in between a pair of rusted out trucks.

“Now that was some fun,” laughed the girl. “I'm Dorian, by the way. You got a name of your own, or should I keep calling you chicken?”

Brendan peeled his hands free of their grips and looked at the angel who drove like the devil. “My name's Brendan.”

“Oh, a Yank, eh?” She sized him up for a moment. “It's nice to meet you, Brendan.” She threw her door open and stepped out. She started to strut away.

Brendan jumped out of the passenger side and shouted, “Wait up!” He hustled over to where she was standing. “Wait. Where are you going?”

Dorian playfully swiped a lock of auburn hair out of her face, only to allow it to fall back down again. She smiled and bit her lower lip, clearly showing some sort of interest in Brendan. “I must be off for home, Brendan the Yank. It's getting late, and a lady can't be too careful.”

“Something tells me that you can handle yourself. Like that driving! That was amazing! Where did you learn to drive like that?”

Dorian smiled a little broader. “I've got a confession. That was my first time behind the wheel.” She reveled in Brendan's shocked look. “It sure was fun though.”

He continued to stare, and his mouth opened up without his control.

“With your mouth open like that you remind me of my Uncle Colym after a late night.” Dorian glanced into the darkening sky. “I've really got to be moving on now.”

As she began to walk away, Brendan called after her. “When can I see you again?”

She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder, melting Brendan where he stood. She treated him with one last dazzling smile before disappearing into the shadows.

…

“Hey, Gordy,” Brendan said, entering through the front porch. “And Mrs. Gordy,” he added, spying the elderly lady smoking an ancient pipe.

He took the stairs two at a time, the vision of her smile fresh in his mind. He went all the way to the third floor and came to a door that said “Suite.” He knocked and Lizzie snapped her gum as she let him into the living space.

He took stock of what the living conditions were going to be like for the foreseeable future and his disposition slumped. It was a very small suite, if that's what it could be called. He was standing in the living room in which an old worn-out couch was the centerpiece. A small kitchenette was near the window that overlooked the lot. The piece de résistance was the sweet twenty-seven inch boxy television sitting on a wobbly end table. Was this the Hilton?

“This is it? This is the great place you rented?” Brendan asked Oscar who was taking in Galway from the window.

“Yup.” The scientist exhaled a breathe of satisfaction. “Isn't it great? A little piece of Ireland. You know?”

Brendan and Lizzie exchanged looks. “It's a little smaller than I expected.”

“And there are only two bedrooms,” added Lizzie.

Brendan turned back to his father. “Yeah, how about the sleeping arrangements?”

Lizzie walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Brendan, it's the comfy couch for you, bub.” She followed that bit of good news with a hearty, aggravating laugh.

“What?” Brendan said incredulously. “Who decided that?”

“We did when you were out there flirting with that girl. As if you had a chance.” Lizzie grinned a demon's smile and popped her gum a couple of times.

Oscar stepped in before Brendan could respond. “Well, you are going to get to drive the car a lot, so I had to give Lizzie something.”

“Besides,” Lizzie said. “I called dibs.”

“You can't do that!”

Lizzie skipped to her bedroom door, very pleased with herself and said, “Can and did.” She shut the door behind her leaving Brendan smoldering.

“Dad, come on now. You don't think I can sleep on that couch, do you?”

Oscar nodded his understanding. “Son, you don't have to sleep on that couch.”

Relief swept over Brendan. “Thank you.”

“I mean, the floor looks pretty comfortable, too. Good night, Son.” Oscar stepped into his own room and closed the door.

Brendan couldn't believe his terrible luck. He flopped back onto the couch to test its comfort level. The thin upholstery barely hid the springs beneath and when he moved a couple of sharp ends stabbed at his back. One spring tore through and flew across the room.

“Great,” huffed Brendan. “Let's see what's on.” He found the remote in the cracks of the cushions and pressed the “On” button. The TV sputtered like the rental car and then popped. Smoke came out of somewhere in the back. All Brendan could do was sigh.