He bent his head low, and Seerah closed her eyes.
She waited for his kiss, anticipating the thrilling sensation she'd only imagined—until now.
Screeech! The Banshee's cry sounded again, only much closer this time. Seerah flinched and the vivid images vanished. Yearning only to linger in the fantasy world a wee bit longer she shifted position, resisting her brain's insistent urge to wake. After all, her reoccurring nightmare had taken such an unexpected turn. She found the warrior's sudden appearance pleasantly surprising, but quite curious, indeed. Considering her general aversion toward fairy tale heroes, and men in general, she could only wonder about the warrior's odd presence.
As Seerah tried to recapture his image, the familiar aroma of damp earth and fragrant heather tickled her nose. She snuggled into a tight ball trying to get warm, only to realize that her pallet felt unusually hard and uncomfortable, as though she was lying on ... sticks and pebbles? “What?” she grumbled, her curiosity bringing her more fully awake.
She sat up and blinked for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Where?
A Peregrine falcon screeched overhead.
Recognizing the familiar cry, which had pulled her from her slumber, she looked up. “Banshee, indeed,” she said, shaking her head.
She took note of the way the full, harvest moon was situated high in the sky, a vast display of stars twinkling around it. She knew, almost instantly, that she'd fallen asleep in the glen, again. And judging from the moon's position, she'd been asleep for hours.
She remembered sitting by the oak stump earlier, and closing her eyes, thinking to rest for only a brief moment. Now, the clearing was basked in moonlight.
With a groan, she stood and brushed the dirt from her skirts. It was well past the time for her to be getting back. Not that anyone would have cause to worry. After all, she was a full-grown woman, nearly twenty-three summers old. And despite her inept ability to wield Druid spell-craft, her healing abilities were exceptional. Her clan regarded her highly for her healing abilities—almost as highly as the Druid priests and elders.
Aye, in spite of her shortcomings as a Druid sorceress, everyone knew what a capable, independent lass she was—everyone except for Gran. And Gran would have a care to worry, indeed. Why, she treats me as though I'm still a wee bairn in leading strings.
Turning away from the glen, Seerah entered the thicket. Although no light penetrated the thick canopy of leaves sheltering the deep woods, her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Like a nocturnal forest creature foraging for food, she moved deftly through the shadowy mist, becoming one with the night.
Seerah was almost upon the Druid camp when a twig snapped in the distance. She froze. Her dark, hooded cloak billowed about her in the brisk, gentle breeze. Then, dry leaves rustled as a harsh, gusting wind rose. The trees seemed to come to life, their branches bending and lashing out like twisted, sinister arms blindly groping for some unknown prey.
Seerah stood as motionless as a frightened doe, listening intently for any sound that might suggest approaching predators. The wind grew stronger; howling and swirling like a tempest, it whipped her long, black hair and cape about her face and body. Then, just as suddenly, the air grew completely still.
Like a whisper on the breeze, Gran's voice echoed softly in Seerah's mind. “Seeee-rah."
Peering through the forest, she spotted the lone tent in the distance. Glowing candlelight flickered from inside, casting distorted shadows on the thin tarp. “'Tis, indeed I, Seerah,” she called, her voice loud and clear.
“I know that, lass. And I am na’ deaf!” Gran's voice filtered through the trees, loudly this time. “'Twas a summons, you heard. ‘Twas na’ an inquiry. And I know you heard me. Poor gel, will you never learn to use the power of your mind? Why, you've got me yelling through the forest like a cranky goblin. Hurry along. I've a need to speak with you."
Pulling her hood up over her hair, Seerah sighed and headed for the Druid camp.
One of the men sitting huddled by the dwindling fire stood to greet her. “Good eventide, Seerah MacFarlane,” he said, merrily lifting his tankard in salute. His legs wobbled and he fell to the ground, still smiling as ale sloshed from his mug to his lap.
Seerah chuckled. “And the same to you, Iain O'Shaunessy. At least, until your young wife Maura learns that you're in your cups again. Och, ya’ silly sod.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she walked past.
Ian called after her, “Tis a young father-to-be's duty, to be well in ‘is cups when the blessed event is upon ‘im."
“Rrright you arrre, Iain, me boy!” another man said. The rest of the men clanked their mugs together and boisterously agreed.
Standing near her grandmother's tent Seerah shook her head and smiled to herself.
“Are you planning on standing out there, grinning like a silly goose, all night?” Gran said.
“Nay. I'm coming now.” Bending low, Seerah pulled back the tent flap and entered.
Her eighty-year-old grandmother, Izebeth O'Leary, sat on a pallet, braiding her long, silvery white hair. “'Tis about time. Why, you'll freeze to death out in the cold. And, if dying with a smile on your face be all that you wish to accomplish, there be many a better way to go about it, I say."
Seerah gazed fondly at the petite, old woman's wrinkled face. “And, which would be the most pleasurable do you suppose, now?” She advanced.
Izebeth's sightless eyes remained closed, but their corners crinkled mischievously. “Why, with a strapping young Irishman warming your bed, o’ course."
Seerah removed her hood, allowing her black hair to cascade downward, in shiny waves, past her hips. “'Tis, indeed, an interesting notion."
“Aye, more interesting than an innocent gel like you could ever imagine.” Izebeth smoothed her long plait over her shoulder and lifted her chin like a haughty queen.
“Innocent?” Seerah said. “Do tell. ‘Tis likely I'm no longer considered a maiden due to your wicked fables. Besides, I'm a healer. Why, I know all about—well, you know."
An impish-looking grin settled on Izebeth's face. “Indeed I do. But, unlike you, me knowledge comes from personal experience."
“Faith and beggorah, na’ this again.” Seerah groaned. “I thought I made meself clear the last time, that I've no interest in your matchmaking."
“Did you, now?"
“Aye!"
Izebeth shrugged. “Tell me then, how does young Maura fare?"
“Well enough.” Seerah eyed her grandmother suspiciously. She knew Izebeth never gave up that easily. In the past, the spirited woman had tried everything from pleading to coercion, hoping to inspire Seerah's interest in the various, eligible men among their clan—especially the Irish laddies. Acting compliant and changing the subject was a new tactic Seerah found amusing, but she wasn't fooled.
“When last I checked, Maura was faring better than Iain, most certainly.” Seerah chuckled. “Her pains were coming quite far apart, though. And they were na’ as strong as they could be. I fear ‘twill be a while yet. Kieran is with her, now. They'll send for me if there be any change."
Nodding her approval, Izebeth settled back against the mound of pillows behind her. “Come, sit and keep a feeble, old woman company."
“Old you are now? And feeble, you say? What exactly be you about, now, Gran, me dear?"
“Faith! Such a suspicious young lass you are indeed. About nothing, I am. ‘Tis weary I feel—nothing more, I tell you.” Izebeth coughed and patted her chest. “Please, do as I say, lass. I've barely enough strength left to draw breath."
Seerah knelt on the ground next to Izebeth's pallet. “Aye. Weary you must be, indeed, for your gift o’ guile has failed quite sadly this night, I'm afraid. You're up to something, indeed."
“Me? Why I..."
“Do spare me your affronted display, Gran. I know you well."
“Och! You know me too well, you do."
“Aha! So, who is it this time? The brawny, dimwit
ted Gregor, or the clumsy, spindly-legged Patrache?"
“Neither one o’ them have a strong enough character to handle the likes o’ you, me strong-willed granddaughter. And, though ‘twould please me beyond measure to see you wed, with a dozen bairns clinging to your skirts, I know well how you feel about the matter. A unique lass, you are, indeed."
Seerah sighed, and inclined her head slightly. “I am na’ unique, Gran, just different. I always have been. Do you na’ see this? I do na’ fit in here. I do na’ belong. I never have."
“O’ course you do. You are held in the highest regard by all the clan,” Izebeth said.
Seerah nodded. “Oh, aye, but only because of me mother's legacy. And, because I'm kin to you. I'm respected for me healing abilities as well, but me failures as a sorceress have always set me apart from the rest. Then there's me contrary looks. Some think me blessed, but others believe I was cursed by the Devil at birth. I've never seen another living being with hair the color of me own. ‘Tis as black as the night sky during winter solstice. And none of the other lasses stand as tall. Why, I practically tower over the men as well. Then, there's me eyes. Even the priests speak in whispers about the way they change color at will. From blue to green to gray, they say. ‘Tis quite obvious to everyone but you, that most think me peculiar."
Izebeth shook her index finger at Seerah. “Nay, Seerah, you be wrong about this. ‘Tis the truth that you be well liked by all. And na’ just for your healing. Though I am blind, I hear better than most and I see—I know. All the lasses admire you. The men too."
“The women have always treated me well enough,” Seerah said. “From a distance. As for the laddies? Apparently they'll fancy any lass as long as she's breathing. Na’ that any have dared to steal as much as a tender kiss from me lately. Why, ever since Geoff O'Toole tried to roll me in the heather against me will, all the lads have come to mind their manners around me.” Seerah giggled.
Izebeth's crooked smirk suggested her mirth over the memory. “Who wouldn't keep their distance after watching poor Geoff suffer such a severe a case of loose bowels? He deserved to be taught a lesson, aye. But, the poor laddie suffered unduly. And now ... all the lads fear you'll poison them if they simply look your way."
“'Tis well they should. I've no use for any of them. And, with me knowledge of herbs, me failings in the art of Druid spell-craft seem less disappointing at times."
“Well...” Izebeth cleared her throat. “I ... I've been meaning to speak with you about that."
Seerah groaned with despair. She couldn't help herself. Gran's constant efforts at matchmaking were bad enough—her need to prove that Seerah could wield magic was simply depressing. Gran often said things like, “You've the ability to wield supreme mystical power, I'm certain. Why, the blood of the Shee runs through your veins. You simply must try harder."
Unfortunately, such talk only served to try Seerah's patience beyond reason. It wasn't as if she had never tried to cast spells—she had, many times in the past, only to fail miserably.
“I do na’ believe I wish to hear what you have to say."
“Come now, lass. ‘Tis a matter of great importance."
“More important than finding me a husband? Indeed!"
“Aye.” Izebeth paused, a somber expression creasing her face. “'Tis quite serious."
Seerah frowned, her emotions a mix of curious concern and apprehension. “I suppose you best have out with it then."
Izebeth's forehead creased as if in thoughtful contemplation. “You must leave here—this very night."
“Leave? The camp? What—"
“Nay. You must leave this land. You must flee Wales. And you must do so quickly!"
“Leave Wales?” Seerah shook her head as if trying to wake from a lingering nightmare. “What ... Why? Have I done something wrong?"
“Nay. If only it were that simple.” Gran sighed heavily, and clutched the bedding as if she were fighting her own emotions.
Seerah leaned in closer and placed her hand on Izebeth's forearm. “What then?"
Izebeth's eyelids sprang open, her gaze focusing as if she could see. Her fragile body trembled violently, then her eyes suddenly rolled back in their sockets so only the whites could be seen. “Galynne lives!"
Seerah gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “M-mother?
“Aye.” Izebeth's body relaxed and her eyelids fluttered closed. “Her spirit came to me this night."
Seerah's fingers trembled, her mind racing with hope and uncertainty. “Sh-she lives, you say? How can you be certain?"
“I have no doubts."
“But...” Seerah blinked back the tears rimming her eyes. “What of me da?"
“He lives as well. Though I have sensed his energy, his essence has changed. ‘Tis almost as if ... he owns two spirits now."
“Two spirits? How can that be?"
“Apparently his head was badly injured during the attack, Seerah. Perhaps..."
Seerah wasn't listening. “Is he with her?"
“Nay, but he searches for her."
“He ... you ... how?” Seerah took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart and thoughts. She stared at Izebeth, trying desperately to make sense of the overwhelming news. “How can you possibly know this?"
“I know.” Izebeth sighed wearily. “You see, Galynne's cloaking skills were always superior. This is why I came to believe her soul had truly found peace. I had me doubts in the beginning, but she obviously wanted—no she needed—us to believe that she had passed on to the otherworld. Until the time was right. Until now. Her spirit came to me this night because the time of reckoning nears. She needs you, Seerah."
Seerah sat for a moment trying to sort through all that Izebeth had said. As questions raced through her mind, Seerah stood and began pacing the small area. “If she truly lives, where has she been all these years? Where is she now? And why has she na’ returned for me?” She stopped. Her blood pumped with such force she could hear the sound of her heart beating within her ears. Her thoughts torn between elation and uncertainty, she stood silently before Izebeth and waited for a reasonable explanation.
“Evil forces took your mother, Seerah. She was a supreme sorceress with the potential to wield great power. Whoever took her knew this."
“Nay!” Seerah cried. “You have protected me all me life, but now ‘tis time to stop. There be no such evil forces. She left me because ... she did na’ love me.” Tears of despair began coursing down Seerah's cheeks and she crumbled to the ground in a heap. “I was as much as a disappointment to her, as me failing magic is to you now. Why ... why else would she stay away?” Laying her head in Izebeth's lap, Seerah sobbed.
“Please calm yourself, child.” Izebeth lifted Seerah's head and eased the long, wet strands of hair away from her face. “Galynne loves you dearly. She always has. And, deep in your soul you have always known that she is with you. This is why you have suffered so. Despite everything you were told about her passing, you knew the truth. Remember how you refused to believe? You often spoke of how you felt her presence within you. It was her love that you felt in the beginning, and that love has kept you safe from harm. If only you would open your heart, you would know this. The evil I spoke of is quite real, indeed. ‘Tis also what prevents her from coming to you, even now. You must have faith, Seerah."
Seerah twisted away from Izebeth's gentle ministration. “Faith, you say? Och! For years, I did nothing but pray that me parents would come back to me. And how have the gods answered me? By allowing me to suffer. Nay, I do na’ believe. ‘Tis merely false hope you bring, just like all your grand talk of divine, mystical powers."
“'Tis the truth I speak, Seerah. May me soul wander in the realm of darkness for ever more if me words ring false."
Knowing how strongly Izebeth took such vows, Seerah tried her best to sound respectful when she replied, “Simply believing does na’ make things true, Gran,"
“Why, faith is everything, Seerah. If you truly believe, anythi
ng is possible."
“Nay.” Seerah sniffled and shook her head. “I used to believe. Long ago. However, I was sorely disappointed. All faith has ever done for me, is to leave me feeling frustrated and inferior. And even if I did believe now, what could I possibly do?"
“'Tis where me dream comes in."
“Your dream?"
“Aye, the ability to dream-weave is a great gift from Dagdha. It affords us the power to alter future events."
Seerah backhanded her tearstained face. “If that be true, then why did you na’ foresee the attack? And why did you na’ know before now, that me parents survived? If they truly live, that is. Nay. ‘Tis foolish to believe that dreams can foretell the future. None can change what lies ahead."
“Always the skeptic,” Izebeth grumbled. “Controlling destiny is quite complicated, don't you know? Why, in the beginning, Cernunnos, the son of the God of darkness and chaos, was sent to vanquish our people. However, Lug, the Irish god of light, conquered King Balor of the Fomorians. Cernunnos was then sentenced to become the guardian to the gateway of the underworld. It has been a war of light against darkness, good versus evil ever since. We have bid our time well though, and now we have the upper hand."
Seerah's shoulders drooped with despair. “I ask for proof and you speak of fables passed on by foolish old wives,” she said.
“'Tis na’ fables, but lore I'm speaking of. ‘Tis the history of your own people you forsake, Seerah!"
“Dear, sweet, Gran. Even if all that you say about Cernunnos and Lugh be true, that would have happened long before our time. What could any of it possibly have to do with me, or me parents?"
Izebeth cocked her head to one side as though pondering the question. A long moment passed before she replied. “Once, a long time ago, it was believed that Galynne would rein as supreme sorceress of the Shee. That is why she was abducted, I'm certain. However, ‘twas a false prophecy. I've known for a long time now that she was merely a decoy. But I could na’ interfere. ‘Tis plain to see that your parents became pawns in the ancient struggle for power.” Izebeth nodded. A silent moment passed before she frowned. “Do you na’ have any fond memories of your time with your parents? Think back. Try to remember what it was like before."
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