The officer checked out her papers and noted her age as thirty-six. Looks twenty-six, he thought and gave her a smile and then stamped her papers.
“Have a good vacation,” he said, deliberately using the American word for Holiday.
Morag gave him her best smile as she took her papers and sailed through, feeling relieved that it had all been so simple.
Cutting away from the main roads she drove her hire car out into the countryside heading in the direction of the Burren in County Clare.
She had used Google maps to research her trip and now used the GPS on her cell phone to guide her in the right direction.
Her old friend Deirdre used to have a cave in the limestone rocks of the Burren and she wondered if she still survived.
Regardless, her plan was to gather the rare flowers and herbs that grew in abundance on the Burren.
The unique Burren landscape of limestone rocks and a climate warmed from the Atlantic by the North Atlantic Current produces many rare and untouched flowers and fauna in the multitude of holes called Grikes that were caused by weathering.
Some plants were great for herbal tea but some were magic in spells. Morag had decided to use the opportunity of her trip to acquire a stock of her favorites, as these were hard to come by in America.
Her principle objective was to seek out Deirdre or at least visit the place she knew her to have been in residence and hope to find her.
Although the roads and access had been modernized the vast landscape of the Burren was relatively untouched and she was confident that with the help of Google maps she’d find her destination.
About two hours later, Morag pulled her small hire car into a gravel yard just off the road. As she stepped out of the car the door of the thatched cottage opened and an old smiling woman emerged. She was dressed in black shawl with traditional long dress. Her hair was grey and her eyes were blue.
“Welcome,” she said in gentle tones, her eyes taking in every detail, from the hire car to the American style of clothes.
“Your sign says rare flowers and spells,” Morag replied with a smile and sounded curious.
“This spot marks the start of the ancient Celtic route into the Burren,” the old woman explained. “Pilgrims would stop and rest, for in those days they travelled by foot or horse and cart and it is still a long way to the Poulnabrane monument in the center of the Burren.”
“Poulnabrane?”
“You’ll find it on the tourist map. In druidic times the great Druid Lochlain conducted his business there.”
“You sell fresh flowers from the Burren?” Morag asked.
“And a nice cup of tea and a scone. Do come into my little shop and inspect my wares.”
While Morag inspected the selection of fresh flowers and dried flowers and potted plants, the old woman went behind the counter and put some dishes on a tray.
“Come to the window seat and have some tea,” she said. “You can select your flowers later.”
Morag smiled at the hospitality. “I can see you have what I want,” she said, “but of course I’ll take tea first.”
“Or coffee if you prefer?” the woman offered.
“Tea please.”
While the woman set the table Morag pottered about and then finding there were straw baskets in a pile at the door she took one and began to select her flowers.
“Don’t let the tea get cold,” the woman said pleasantly.
Morag came and sat at the window, putting the basket on the floor. She looked out at the Burren with its stretch of limestone broken by the green of grikes, where plants grew in the cracks in the ancient stone. She felt a sense of peace, a sense of having come home.
She turned her attention to the tea and scones, wondering which was drugged.
“Try my cakes,” the woman urged with a smile, gently hovering, hands joined and eyes smiling.
“It must be the tea,” Morag replied and poured the contents of the teapot on to one of the potted plants in her basket. She smiled in satisfaction when the plant wilted and turned black.
“You shouldn’t be eating stray tourists,” Morag offered with a touch of tolerant reprimand in her tone.
For a moment the woman stared in shock and then with a snarl she pulled a long curved dagger from under her shawl.
Morag said a spell in Gaelic and snapped her fingers.
Immediately a small dark cloud formed over the head of the woman and it began to rain heavily, soaking her on the spot.
“A witch,” the woman said in wonder, and dropped her knife.
In response Morag snapped her fingers and the cloud disappeared but the woman remained drenched to the skin.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Do you not remember me Deirdre?” Morag asked in Gaelic.
Deirdre stared and then slumped into the chair opposite Morag. “No,” she said. “How is it you know my name?”
“This is where your hovel used to be,” Morag replied.
Deirdre scrutinized carefully but still did not recognize Morag.
“A thatched cottage is more acceptable these days,” Deirdre admitted.
“Do you get trouble from the neighbors?”
“No, the neighbors worry that I am a witch, but they don’t come within sight or sound of me.”
“Deirdre, you were going to drug me. Were you going to eat me?”
“Not immediately,” Deirdre offered. “I thought you a lone tourist. I only eat lone tourists and then not very often.”
Morag took a long look at Deirdre. Deirdre shifted uneasily under Morag’s gaze but was too nervous to make a move.
Deirdre came from a long line of ugly witches and nature had not disappointed. However it was the fact that Deirdre never washed that assaulted Morag’s sensitive nose. But she liked the smell. Some people could smell out witches and Morag was proud of her ability in that respect.
“Do you intend me harm?” Deirdre asked carefully. She sensed this was not the case as otherwise the witch opposite would not have revealed herself with such a simple spell. Nonetheless Deirdre was wary. One never knew the power of an unknown witch.
“I have a few spells of my own should you attempt anything,” Deirdre added, but without great conviction.
“What do you eat when you are not devouring lost tourists?” Maedbh asked.
“Burren flowers and fauna and the occasional stolen sheep,” Deirdre replied, puzzled by the line of questioning, but very much on her guard and recovering from her initial shock.
“And the hire car?” Morag asked.
“The local farmer has a quarry and a tractor. He’ll oblige if he is asked, but he leaves me be except if he needs a spell or two. His family has been in this place from long times past.”
“I’m glad you are well Deirdre,” Morag said with a warm smile.
“That smile, I’ve seen it before... Morag, it’s not you Morag. Morag is it you!” she cried.
Morag grinned.
“You look so young, so beautiful. It’s a perfect disguise!” Deirdre gushed.
“Thanks,” Morag said modestly not wanting to point out that she came from a long line of beautiful witches.
“I knew you’d come back, but not so soon. I’ll put on a cauldron and light a fire. We can go to my cave. The Cottage backs on. It will be like old times.”
As she spoke Deirdre took the tea and dishes. “Don’t worry, she added, “I’ll eat everything you eat and drink everything you drink like we used to. It’s so good to see you. You are so beautiful, whatever happened to you. Did you cast a spell for a disguise?”
Morag wrinkled her nose. As far as she was concerned she’d been beautiful back then.
“I mean,” Deirdre stammered, catching the look, “you were beautiful back then
, but now you are young and clean.”
Morag laughed at the compliment.
“You haven’t changed,” she said.
“The hovel of a cave I shared with my mother is upgraded, sort of, and the cottage is just a front room for flowers and teas.”
Morag stood and followed Deirdre out to the back of the cottage and into the cave. It was well lit with a neon light and had a large cauldron in the center, suspended above logs of firewood.
“I got new bedcovers and the cave has central heating,” Deirdre explained proudly.
“Deirdre, if you are going to eat people why don’t you move into a city. There the supply is everywhere.”
“They don’t have fresh sheep in a city and I like to vary my diet and the way of life. I’d be afraid in a city.”
“You’ll be caught. There are cell phones and cars can be traced and they can take DNA samples. You’ll be caught,” Morag warned.
“So far so good,” Deirdre said defiantly.
“You’ll end up in the newspapers and on the television.”
“They don’t believe in witches anymore. They won’t burn me. Just prison. It’s no bother really.”
Morag sighed.
“I came because I need information,” Morag began.
“And I’ll cut special flowers for you. I’ll put them in your hire car as you go. You’re welcome to spend the night,” Deirdre said warmly.
“Let’s do the business then we can relax,” Morag suggested.
“Let’s light the cauldron. It takes a while to warm up. Then we can have dinner and a few drinks. I hope lamb stew is alright?”
“Wonderful,” Morag said.
Morag helped Deirdre prepare some twigs and use a tinderbox to light the fire in the old fashioned way.
Then Morag selected the flowers she wanted and put them in the boot of the hire car. She was pleased that Deirdre did indeed let her have some of the rarest flowers, useful for spells, in order to mark her visit, but she wanted everything shipshape and ready so that she could leave easily.
She did not want to be rude to her former colleague but she felt she was past discomforts and she had a booking in the five star Dromoland Castle Hotel and intended that that was where she would spend the night. Although she felt safe with Deirdre, she was not entirely sure that she wouldn’t be on the menu for breakfast if she stayed after dark.
“Let’s cast a spell for old time’s sake,” Deirdre said enthusiastically as the cauldron began to bubble.
“A spell?’ Morag asked to humor her. But she felt in the mood for some fun.
“There’s a Social Worker who has discovered me,” Deirdre explained.
“So?”
“She wants to put me into a Social Housing unit in Limerick. She says the cottage is damp and I should not be sleeping in the cave out back.”
“And?” Morag prompted.
“Let’s give her warts!”
“On her bum?” Morag improvised, getting into the mood.
“Let’s! Itchy warts!”
“I brought some whiskey in the duty free,” Morag offered.
Deirdre’s eyes danced with delight.
They had a pleasant evening talking old times but eventually Morag decided to steer the conversation.
“Is there talk of strange happenings out the road to Ventry and beyond?” she asked.
“You are right. It’s the gossip of the magic community. I must bring you to a séance to meet some locals,” Deirdre said.
“Is there talk of the child lost off the ferry out in Dunquin?” Morag asked, ignoring the invite and staying on topic.
Deirdre looked about, more as a habit of caution rather than expecting to be overheard.
“They say it’s a stolen child,” Deirdre hissed. “A child of the Sidhe.”
“A fairy child?” Morag asked.
“But also mortal for he is returned.”
“What do you mean returned?”
“It’s said he’s returned from Great Blasket and has taken the plane to New York. Talk is he has gone to visit his uncle, the New York Fireman.”
“Anything else?”
“Well there’s a long history. The Kelly’s were originally from Great Blasket and married into the mainland. Patrick Kelly married Bridget O’Shea. The O’Shea also owned land on the Great Blasket. And it seems there was a feud with the Sidhe.”
“A feud with Fairy folk?”
‘Yes, it’s said the Sidhe stole a healthy child born to Bridget. A sickly child was buried at that time. Put here in exchange, it is said, by the Sidhe. Then Bridget had another child about the same time. He’s called Oengus. No one knows when exactly he was born. But their land was cursed about forty years ago. Also the new child is said to have remained a baby for a long time.”
“Did he go to school locally?” Maedbh asked.
“Story is that when Oengus eventually got to go to the local school some of the children got boils and the scarlet fever.” Deirdre continued in an excited hiss of a voice, adding, “The locals said the Sidhe had cursed the child and those who came near him would have the bad luck. The mother took him out of school because of the fear of the locals and nothing was heard again until he went missing.”
“Missing on Dunquin? News reports said a teenager was missing?” Morag asked.
Deirdre shrugged, and added, “Then next thing was the talk that the curse that was on their farm seems to be lifted. Then the boy came back on the ferry.”
They discussed further detail what was known locally of the case and the related newspaper reports. Then they drank the whiskey in silence while Morag thought about it.
As the light began to fail Morag stood to go.
“You’ll not be staying?” Deirdre guessed.
“If this Oengus has come of age maybe we can capture him,” Morag said.
“And eat him?” Deirdre added.
“Certainly the manly parts of him,” Morag suggest with a malicious grin.
“For eternal life?”
“I doubt it, but he may be a way to find a connection to the Sidhe and their portal to Otherworld,” Morag corrected. “Capture first, decide what to do second.”
“I have enough water of life for a few more generations, and so must you,” Deirdre offered.
“When it is gone it will be gone. This is our opportunity. The Sidhe might pay a ransom. Perhaps more of the ‘water of life’?”
“What can I do?” Deirdre offered.
“Would you like to come to America?”
“Do you want me to come to America?” Deirdre asked.
“I think so. But you’ll have to clean yourself up and maybe look about fifty. You’ll need the right papers but I can organize that. I have a job for you.”
“A specific job. Is this really why you called?”
“A job for a competent witch.”
“Wow,” Deirdre squealed with delight, using an American accent and excited at the prospect of an adventure with the infamous witch Morag.
Chapter Nine
Back from her trip, Morag the witch waited patiently for her team to assemble.
They gathered in the night, creatures out of place and out of their time.
First came the red haired woman, Dearg Due, a vampire known in ancient Irish Mythology and now an emigrant working in a blood bank in Queens.
Dearg Due’s former lover, the Greyman arrived next. Known in ancient Celtic times for his embrace of death and so called for the cloak of grey mist that surrounded him and his lost soul. Reputed to fear the light, his job as cook in MacDonald’s enabled him to work night shifts and avoid the daylight.
Last and least likely, came the sweet and gentle faced Leanan Sidhe, temptress and controller of men, althou
gh her surname Sidhe was the Gaelic for Fairy.
She worked in a bookshop in the poetry section, seducing young men and when possible, driving them to suicide.
All were magic beings of Irish Provenance, and although in ancient times their fame had spread through the Celtic world they were now largely unknown and their magic forgotten.
Morag took great pride in the fact that she had managed to gather them all together in New York where they could serve her purpose and that of her lover Lived Dutronc, President of Live Corp, a hedge fund specializing in the profitability of evil.
There was no one on duty in the reception area of the Brownstone Building in the Financial District that served as the Headquarters of Live Corp. However the infra-red eye detector worked the door and admitted them as they arrived and took the eye scan.
The lobby led through to a conference room. There Morag waited with a smile, effusive yet reserved, as did freshly brewed coffee and Danish pastries on a side table with the appropriate crockery of delicate china and golden spoons. And a silver jug of fresh blood for Dearg Due.
They took their places at the table, taking the refreshment provided as they went but careful not to scratch the ancient mahogany tabletop and to use the pad provided to rest their cups and cake.
“Live Corp is pleased to welcome the magic task group,” Morag began.
They would speak in the ancient language of the Thuatha de Danann as it was their native tongue and it made conversations more secure.
“I have called you together as we need to advance our program of activities,” Morag explained.
They looked at her, waiting for more detail.
“The main purpose of this meeting is to agree a launch date for our water project. However, I mentioned at our last meeting that I was about to visit Ireland. This I have done and can report back tonight.”
They all smiled in remembrance although none of them had been to Ireland for more than a century.
“Also in advance of the meeting I asked Dearg Due to perform a task and we will get her report later. But first the background.”
The Great Fury Page 7
