The metal bar heated. He took up his hammer and began to pound the metal against the anvil. The sound of the pounding rang out with a ding and ding. But the ding and ding didn’t become the ding, ding, ding of the dance, of the weaving, of the whirling. There was no spin, no hum or anything near it as the metal became flatter and flatter and flatter. It wasn’t like before. The before of Saoirse, his arms wrapped around her, feeling her back against his chest, his mind filled with the stars and all the lightness they brought. The hum that whirled so hard it lifted him up, fused him to her and created such energy, an energy that he knew could be only one thing and one thing alone.
He threw down his tongs and hammer on the counter in disgust. Where was the magic he’d had before he’d been with her, made love to her, entered her body physically just as she entered his metaphysically? It had been faint. But it had been there. It had come on its own, without her. No, it was nothing to do with her. It was his and he would coax it back. He started to pick up the tongs and the hammer and stopped, the realisation that was rising slowly like a balloon on a breath of wind, gradually emerging. The magic that had come the first time had been after he’d met her. After he’d talked with her, shared a cup of tea, brought her into his house. Touched her.
He looked at the blade they’d fashioned together. The beauty of it, in its design, its creation and the way he knew it would function. They made that. Together. If he worked with her, would she be able to bring his magic back in full? To enable him to craft any weapon, any tool the way he wanted, with or without magic? He allowed the possibility to enter his mind which now had softened its hard line of before, but only some. The Saoirse he’d met, the Saoirse he’d talked with seemed hardly possible. The Saoirse he’d played music with, the Saoirse he’d touched, kissed and made love to, seemed all too possible.
His body responded to the memory, recalling it all again, another magic spell of a different kind, but one he couldn’t resist.
“Bríd,” he whispered, as if saying it would conjure her up right at that moment, as if all the other times he’d done that, whispered her name and nothing had happened. But this time there was a kernel of belief. A little seed that was sprouting, and with just a little bit of tending, nurturing, would blossom forth into the full bloom of notion that Saoirse might actually be Bríd.
What had that crow of a woman said? That her glamour was slipping? Fading away so that she resembled Bríd more? He shook off that knowledge. Such knowledge would lead to other thoughts and maybe other dreams. Dreams he couldn’t afford.
21
Saoirse
We’ve pulled up to a tiny old stone house on a hill with the long beach stretching out below us. The salt air breeze blew cool against my cheek and I inhaled deeply. It was hours since we’d left Dublin and we were in Connemara, on the tip of the land. At the edge. There was nothing but sea in front of me and little behind, and that was perfect in every way. Especially in my “whynotnow” life with my “whynotnow” man.
This “whynotnow” man drew up beside me and draped an arm around my shoulders.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he said.
I nodded. “It’s lovely.”
He kissed the top of my head and then took my hand.
“Come on. We’ll get the jeep unloaded first and then we can relax and have a swim. We need it after the long drive.”
I gazed a little longer at the sea, then pulled myself away from it and helped him unload.
It was a quick enough task, light hearted and full of promise in the backpacks, bags and other bits we brought inside. I laughed and made much of it, this impulsive act, this glorious day in the hope for many glorious other days. The glorious days stretched longer and wider in the lightness and brightness of the open plan stone house with its stripped light wood floors, the light-filled Velux windows along the roof that met the sun beaming in from the large patio doors facing the sea.
I gasped and smiled widely, dropping my bags and lifting my arms out in celebration of the space and the moment just behind me and just going forward.
“Oh, Luke, this is grand,” I said. “Did you do this?”
Luke shrugged. “It was a project I enjoyed.”
“My god, aren’t you the talented one,” I said, my eyes still taking in all the details of sofa, chairs, tables and the spiral staircase that led to a mezzanine bedroom.
“Oh, you like my many talents?” he said.
I looked at him, at the gleam, the light that was in this “whynotnow” man who was mine in these glorious days of light. I tilted my head, all coquette and “go on with you”, and raised my brows.
“I love them all so far, but will you be showing me more?”
With a laugh and an arm-around-me squeeze he had me spinning again. I looked up at him and he kissed me, fully, on the lips. The light filled me, shining right through and I knew then that I wanted this “whynotnow” to last longer, to detach the “now” send it off away home and just keep it the two, the “whynot” because they paired so well.
There was hardly anyone on the beach when we arrived. The tide was on its way out and the day was starting to fade, but the light that shone from Luke let him take me by the hand and run towards the water, hand in hand, with just the swimsuits between us and the water.
“The sea,” he’d told me. “You have to feel it on your skin, all of it. And then you get the connection, the why of it, the spirit of it. To become part of it. At least the first time you get in.”
“But what about our swimsuits? There’s no direct contact there.”
He grinned at me. “Once we get in the water, I’ll make adjustments. You’ll see.”
“Adjustments?” I stared at him a moment, a little uncertain in the whole tidal strength of his light, his pull. And then I realised. “Ah, no.” The words came out of my mouth, but his fingers caressed the back of my hand as he held it.
“Trust me,” he said, softly. He leaned over and kissed me again.
And so I did. Trust him, as he led me running towards the water, into the water up to our necks, so cold, so cold. And I trusted him as he folded his arms around me, gently, and removed my bikini. First the top, and then the bottoms. And then his own swim trunks, balling it all up in his hand. He wrapped my legs around his waist and gently pulled me under the water. The moment was brief, it was electric while the cold, the fear just washed away and we rose again still entangled.
“See?” he said. “The sea has enveloped you. Made you part of it.”
He lowered his lips on mine, teasing, brushing and then kissing deeply. I was drawn into the kiss, another tidal pull, and he pressed me tighter against him, so we would be fused to each other as we fused with the sea.
It was an experience like no other and one that came less as a “whynot” moment and more of being caught in the strongest, deepest undertow of yearning and wanting. A moment made larger and larger by many moments strung together, but no time was passing, yet all of it was.
And when we emerged out of that time as we emerged out of the sea, our swimsuits intact, the light of the glorious day was nearly gone and we became nearly shadows as we walked back to the stone house in a silence that had no need to be filled.
I stared at the painting above the small fireplace. It was large in every way. Stunning. Full of impact in its drama as it mirrored the scene through the patio doors. But this seemed more real. Perhaps because there was nothing but beach and sea. The sea in all its colours, textures and movement. The large rolling waves swept in to the edges of the foreground, the world, the power nearly forcing its way off the canvas into the room. And at the edge of the water, with the sea breaking all around him, stood a naked man, strong and muscular, a silver band around his arm and a torc around his neck. His hair blew wild and loose around his head and shoulders. He was startling and striking. Compelling.
I kept studying the painting, wine glass in one hand, the cheese and bread of our simple fare in the other, poised, waiting and waiting. Th
e eyes of the man held mine, assessing me just as I was assessing him. There was something about him I thought I should know, felt I should recognise. I sighed.
“The painting,” I said. “It’s very…striking. Powerful. Where did you get it?”
Luke looked up from the cheese he was cutting to place on the small plate he had balanced on his lap and regarded the painting.
“I didn’t. It’s mine.”
“Yours? You mean you painted it?”
“Yes. A while ago now, though.”
I stared at him. The talents of the man. It was too much, nearly. Too much to comprehend, to see how this surfer, this “whynot” dude with his “whynot” surfboard could have made the glorious house, mastered the number of instruments as well as created an incredible painting. Because the credible of “incredible” was severely tested when looking at such a wonder, a painting like no other. “Whynot” and “wonder” seemed so at odds. Could you blend them into to the “whynotwonder”? I didn’t know and didn’t know how to know.
“You leave me speechless and senseless,” I said finally.
He laughed, leaned over and picked up a strand of my hair that had fallen from the loose plait I’d fashioned after we’d swum.
“I could say the same,” he said.
His eyes darkened, but the light was still there, pulling me in. In the now watchful eyes of the man by the sea, I felt a stirring. A tidal pull of a different sort.
“Who’s the man in the painting?” I said, looking back up again at the canvas.
He paused a moment, glanced at me and then towards the painting. “Manannan.”
“The sea god?”
He shrugged and nodded. There was a strange intonation when he’d pronounced it, one hard to describe, but nearly foreign.
I studied the man in the painting carefully and I could see of course that it could be no one else but the sea god. Manannan Mac Lir.
“I like your depiction of him. He seems so powerful, so real. As if all the myth has been stripped away and you just have him, Manannan.”
He smiled and the light shone in his eyes. “That’s exactly what I was trying to achieve.”
“Well you achieved it.”
“I know,” he said.
I laughed and nudged him, all thoughts of the man forgotten. I picked up my wine and drank deeply and set the glass down. “If you’re done, will we go explore some of your other talents?”
“Yes, we will,” he said.
He took my hand and pulled me up the spiral staircase, away from the painting and to the bed.
A glorious morning joined the glorious day before it. We woke up early, well Luke awoke and roused me with an urgent kiss and a “let’s be off” to catch the surf, or the wave, or whatever that was out there in the sea, the wide ocean waiting for us. My limbs moved sluggishly while I tried to arrange them in my swimsuit and later, on the beach, into the spare wetsuit he managed to find for me. Lots of “what was I thinking” streamed through my mind but his encouraging voice, magnetic smile and coaxing hands saw me through a perfunctory surfing lesson.
Giggles took hold of me, though, halfway through. Giggles saw me collapse in a heap as I tried to slip my legs through quickly to the squatting pose that was the beginning of “rising to your feet while catching that wave”. I was on land.
“Oh, Luke, the only thing I’ll catch is a mouthful of water,” I said, still giggling.
“Ah, no. You’re doing grand, you’ll be grand, so.”
“You’re such a liar.” I giggled again but rose amiably to try once more.
“You just need to focus. Feel your body move. You’ll get it.”
“In my eye, I will,” I said and giggled again.
He gave me a pleading look and I knew then it was important to him. I’d seen the way he looked out to sea, watching the other surfers, paddling, gliding, surfing. And he was patiently trying to give me a chance to enjoy something of what he experienced.
Sobering a moment later, I straightened and tried to concentrate. To make this more than a “whynot” moment, live this glorious day for all that it was meant to be. After a quick peck on his lips, I lay on top of the spare surfboard, feeling the flat hard surface beneath me. I gave myself a mental check along my body to the outermost part of my limbs and imagined the sea beneath me. I imagined the rocking, the gradual swell and rise of the sea as the wave was about to come under me and I rose to a squat in one smooth motion and then stood, arms stretched out.
“Yes!” said Luke. “That’s it.”
I looked at him and beamed. It had been enjoyable to imagine and feel that idea of the surf, the whole build-up to when the moment arrived and I would be on top of the sea, riding it hard, the surfer girl sea goddess.
This surfer girl sea goddess, after several more practices and encouraging praise, followed the surfer dude god out to the sea to try and put those moves and feelings in the sea and on the sea. There were an ocean of waves given to me and I paddled my board towards them, following Luke until he pointed and we both turned to begin our ride.
My ride was short, but filled with promise and joy. My mouthful of sea became plural but I tried again and again until I found one that I rode through the distance. It was tiring, it was joyful, but my limbs and lungs were not yet up to the goddess standard and I eventually pulled up the board and headed up the beach towards our things. There, I sat, my wetsuit peeled away and my clothes restored and watched, my “whynot” sea god out on the waves.
And he was as glorious to watch as the day that was in it. So graceful, so powerful, the mage of all surfers, except for perhaps one. This other mage joined Luke in the riding, in the conquering of the waves that roiled and rolled in, crashing and thundering, growing larger as the time wore on. They were like two riders of the Apocalypse minus two, their synchronous actions like some water ballet that had me mesmerised and everyone else who was on the shore. I sat there, enchanted, wanting it to never end.
But they came in, and there was some applause and a few cheers, a gesture that I could appreciate and did join. Why wouldn’t you for such a performance? It made me smile and laugh to see that beautiful man who shone so brightly create such a display. The other surfer, his mate, his companion in riding, was nearly as large and broad as Luke, his long blond hair nearly snow white. He looked familiar as he stood there in his wetsuit at the edge of the sea, talking at the edge with Luke. The foam lapped at their feet and he put his hand on Luke’s shoulder, the serious nature of his words evident even from this distance.
I was startled when he nodded towards me and Luke turned, stared at me. I raised my hand and waved, but he didn’t wave back. He just looked. Even from here I could see the “whynot” leaving his body, the gloriousness of the day retreating out to the wide ocean. The few clouds that had rolled in seemed to grow larger and darker.
Luke turned back to his friend, placed his hand on his neck and leaned his head against him. A moment later he pulled away, nodded and then with a “bro” clasp of the hands they parted and Luke started to head towards me.
Unease seeped in, then poured in, fast and furious like a flood tide. It spilled into every part of my body and by the time Luke arrived at my side and the steely expression in his face became evident, the unease filled me completely.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice hard.
“But why? I thought we were enjoying it. I was. I loved surfing.”
“We’re leaving. Get up, let’s go.”
I rose and followed him silently up the beach and then to the house. Once inside, the silence continued. Luke went upstairs and I could hear him packing his things, and when I joined him he took my backpack from the floor and tossed it to me.
“Pack up. We’re going back.”
“I don’t understand, Luke. Why?”
“No questions. Just pack.”
I began to utter a fresh plea but closed my mouth. His expressio
n was shut down, as was the rest of him. Time to go. The door was shut, my “whynot” man and everything else that went with him had left. I sighed and started gathering my things, stuffing them into my backpack with force as anger began to build.
It didn’t take us long to reverse the course of yesterday’s unpacking and resume our seats in the SUV, surfboard strapped to the top and on our way eastwards. No music, no loose and lovely feeling. Just silence. The “whynot” time now replaced with the “whatthefeck” and “pissoff”.
22
Smithy
Smithy stared out through the shed door. Behind him the forge lay untouched, as it had for the past week. It was a bleak day, the sun never quite cutting through the mist that had gathered that morning. It reflected his mood perfectly.
He’d managed to get himself to the forge, a feat after days of either sitting inside at the kitchen table scrolling aimlessly through his phone, only to pause and snort at YouTube videos of various smiths posting their demonstrations on sword making, or riding around on his motorbike along back roads. His behaviour frustrated him, disgusted him and his mind tossed constant mental reprimands his way. That he’d made it as far as the forge today made him quite proud, until he ended up standing in the doorway, staring across at the hills.
Was it fear, or pure procrastination against the inevitable? The knowledge that he was going to eventually have to either make the feckin’ sword and fashion a handle for that dagger blade and just hand over whatever resulted, or come out and tell Anu that the magic was gone and what little chance it had of returning had disappeared back to Dublin, or who knew where.
Awakening the Gods Page 16
