The Awakening

by Roberts, Nora

He stopped, got out. “Made it this far. No loss of life.”

  “Is it scary?”

  “Yeah, some. Good thing it’s not too far to the castle. I said ‘castle.’” He grinned as they began to load the luggage. “The guy helped me program the GPS, so we’ve got the directions.”

  “I have the map—and I printed out directions.”

  “So we’re covered.” He started to get back in, realized he was on the wrong side. “I was being a gentleman, opening the door for you.”

  “Yeah, we’ll both believe that.” She got in, strapped in. Took a deep breath. “We can go really slow.”

  “Just yell if I screw up. No, don’t yell. Calmly say: Marco, my friend, you are now on the wrong fucking side of the road. Cut that shit out.”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay, here we go.” He started the car, grinned at her. “Let’s go storm the castle!”

  He did okay—better than, Breen thought. She had to stop herself from taking big eye gulps of the scenery, and keep her eyes on the road in case she had to tell him to cut that shit out.

  But he did fine, even on the scary circles—roundabouts, she corrected.

  “I’m driving in Ireland, girl.”

  “Yeah. Eyes on the road. We’re almost there.”

  “You know, you’ve got to do it next time. That was the deal.”

  “Lots to do at the castle. Maybe we’ll just stay there for three days.”

  “No chance. We’re going to pubs, we’re going shopping. We’re going to see stuff.”

  “There’s stuff to—Oh, that’s Bunratty Castle. It’s really close to where we’re staying. I could manage that. I read about it. We can take a tour, see stuff, shop. I don’t know if there’s a pub. It’s all so beautiful, Marco.”

  “Never seen anything like it outside of movies and books.”

  When he turned at the signpost for Dromoland, trees, great, huge, gorgeous trees, smothered both sides of the road. They wound through when it opened up to green again, with a pond on one side where ducks waddled.

  As Breen let out a gasp, Marco stopped the car.

  “I gotta stop. God, Breen, that’s a damn castle. An honest-to-God castle.”

  Proud and beautiful, it ruled the rise with its majestic spread of gray stone, with its spears of towers, its turrets and battlements. Its flags waved in the wind.

  “I saw pictures,” she said. “I researched, and I still didn’t really believe it would look like this.”

  “This is a day, Breen. This is a damn day.”

  “We’re going to be too early to check in, but they’ll take the luggage and store it. It’s got acres and acres we can walk.”

  He inched the car along. “Could use some walking. Looks like it’s going to rain, but that won’t bother us.”

  “No, it won’t bother us.”

  As they pulled up in front, a man in uniform walked down to open the car door for Breen. “Welcome to Dromoland. Are you checking in?”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re checking in.”

  It couldn’t have gone smoother, Breen thought. Everyone was so friendly, so helpful. The grounds she walked with Marco were beyond magical.

  When the rain came, and decided it meant it, they walked back, wet and happy, to explore the castle.

  They found suits of armor, simmering fires in stone hearths, a couple of pretty shops, and dozens of brochures on the area that Breen snapped up.

  They had a drink in the bar, a light lunch before someone came to escort them to their rooms.

  Lovely rooms, Breen thought, with big beds and snuggly throws, with whiskey for those who’d want it and views of the hills.

  “I am the king of the castle,” Marco said, and bounced on the bed in his room.

  “Okay, Your Majesty, the plan is unpack, then an hour’s nap. We’re following the rules of battling jet lag. We’ve had the walk, the food, now one hour’s sleep. Adding in time to shower, change, blah, blah, we meet up at . . . five fifteen.”

  “Cocktail time. So the bar.”

  “That’ll work, and we’ll plan out what we want to do tomorrow.” She walked to the door. “Unpack first, and set an alarm.”

  He saluted her. “Roger that. Hey, do the Die Hard. Take off your shoes and make fists with your toes.”

  She walked to her own room, simply wandered the space, touched fabric, furniture. She unpacked the suitcase she’d earmarked for this part of her journey. She considered a shower before her nap, but remembered her hair.

  So she stretched out on the big bed under the soft throw, and with her face turned toward the window, drifted off.

  There were dreams, but when her alarm beeped, they blurred. She pushed herself up in bed, decided the jet lag advice might not always work.

  However lovely the room, it still felt like the middle of the night to her body. She tried the Die Hard thing before she dragged that body up and into the shower. She yearned for a Coke, something to jump-start her system, and remembered the minibar.

  Wrapped in the hotel robe—and what a luxury that was—her hair like wet ropes, she opened the bottle, drank half of it.

  Better, she decided. Definitely better.

  It took her until five thirty to make herself presentable and find the bar again. There Marco sat, flirting with the sandy-haired bartender.

  “Here’s my best girl. Isn’t she a looker, Sean?”

  “She is indeed. Good evening to you, miss, and welcome.”

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Worth the wait.”

  “And what can I get for you?” Sean asked her.

  She eyed Marco’s beer, knew she couldn’t drink a pint of anything. She’d float away.

  “Kir Royale,” Marco decreed. “Breen looks like a woman who should be drinking Kir Royales.”

  “Will that suit you?”

  “I’ve never had one.”

  “Well then, you must, of course. And Marco tells me it’s your first time in Ireland, though your father was born here.”

  “Yes. It’s as beautiful as he always told me. He was from Galway.”

  “Ah, a lovely place is Galway.”

  “Sean’s from right here in Clare, and he’s given me some places we need to see. Meanwhile.” Marco took out his phone. “You’ve got twenty-two comments and eighty-four views on your blog.”

  “Oh, I do not.”

  “Look for yourself.” Smug, he passed her the phone. “Breen’s started a blog, about the trip, and life in general.”

  “Is that the truth? I’d love to read it myself, if you’d send me a link.”

  “Glad to.”

  Sean set a flute in front of her, a red-gold liquid with raspberries swimming in the bubbles.

  “It’s mostly the usual suspects.”

  “But not all—not in comments or views.”

  Reading, she picked up the flute, sipped. Looked up. “I definitely like this drink. Where’s it been all my life?”

  “Today’s the first day of the rest of it.”

  Marco tapped his glass to hers.

  She had two, stuck with water over fish and chips. They took another walk, then watched a family from Baltimore play snooker.

  “I’m fading, Marco, and by some miracle I’ve made it until ten thirty.”

  “We could have a nightcap.”

  “I’ve had more to drink in the last few days than I do in a year. Besides, you can go back and flirt with Sean without the third wheel.”

  “Girl, he’s adorable, and straight as a ruler. I was softening him up for you.”

  “Not looking for a flirt or a fling.”

  “Why do you make me so sad?”

  “I’m calling it.” She stifled a yawn. “Remember, breakfast at eight, then we head out. We’re packing a lot in tomorrow.”

  “And you’re driving.”

  “To. You drive back.”

  “I got it. I guess I’ll call it, too.”

  As they walked back to their rooms, she dipped her head
toward his shoulder. “It’s been a really good first day.”

  “And don’t you forget to write about it—push hard on my exceptional driving.”

  “Naturally. And tomorrow we end with dinner and music at a pub. Who knows? Maybe somebody’ll remember my father. He used to sing in pubs.”

  “I remember. You said that’s how your mother met him.”

  “Yeah, on a trip with friends when she was in college. Here in Clare, so maybe he still sings around here. Or in Galway.”

  “I hope we find him, but either way . . .” He walked her to her door. “Remember the name of your blog.”

  “Finding Me.”

  “That’s the first thing. See you in the a.m.”

  “Night, Marco.”

  She woke at four thirty. She stumbled out of bed, grateful she’d left the bathroom light on so she wouldn’t run into anything in the dark.

  She grabbed her laptop and, taking it back to bed, tried to document the already fading dream.

  I was in a big building, a ruin, I think. Stone walls, windows without glass, some no more than slits. There were carvings on some of the walls and—are they lintels?—over doorways. No doors, just openings into what must have been other rooms.

  Some of the walls had niches where something must have stood at some point. I could see the sky overhead—blue—a lot of clouds, but white ones.

  Everything echoed so I could hear my own footsteps. But it was more than that. Sort of like there had been voices and they still echoed inside the building.

  There were stone markers on the floor, and I think carvings there, too. I can’t see them now, but I knew they were graves, like the big stone—coffins?

  There was a kind of courtyard surrounded by stone columns where the grass grew—green and tall with little white stars of wildflowers.

  And stone steps, pie-shaped, forming a curve, that led up.

  I went up, I don’t know why. I wasn’t really afraid, but I want to say I could feel the air thrum, I could feel it beat on my skin.

  I stepped out, and could see a round tower with a pointed cap, the hills and cottages in the distance. Even smoke rising up from chimneys. Below I saw sheep with their thick wool and black faces grazing on the grass.

  And a graveyard with stone markers, and beyond it, beyond the round tower, one of those stone circles. Not like the pictures I’ve seen of Stonehenge, but much smaller. Beyond it a river snaked toward a bay. The sun was strong enough to dance light over it, like the white starry wildflowers.

  It was all beautiful. The wind was in my hair, but warm and soft.

  I think I was happy.

  Then I watched a rider come. A brown hooded cloak, a white horse with its hindquarters dappled with black. She rode to the graveyard, dismounted. She held flowers. I can’t remember if I knew what kind, but I think they were white.

  She walked to one of the graves, laid the flowers there, and stood with her head bent.

  It felt like intruding, so I started to step back, but then she pushed off her hood. She looked up at me.

  She looked like me. Or how I might look when I’m older. And I could see the red stone pendant I’d seen in the forest/waterfall dream around her neck.

  She spoke to me. I wish I could remember more clearly, but I think she said something like: You have to look to find. You have to ask to have the answers. You have to awaken to become.

  Breen sat back, thought it through. She’d had vivid, unusual dreams as a child. Unicorns, dragons—she’d always had a thing for dragons—dancing in the air with butterflies. She’d dreamed of riding white chargers and faeries, and all the wonderful things her father had wound into his stories.

  But that had all faded, even—she thought—before he’d left. Then she’d replaced those fanciful dreams with anxiety dreams. Schoolwork, college courses, teaching.

  She found it interesting, even comforting, they’d come back.

  Maybe she’d buy a book on dream interpretation.

  Since it was still far too early for breakfast, she settled for a Coke, and writing her daily blog.

  It was fun to recount the day, the arrival at Shannon, the drive, the castle, all of it. When it satisfied her, she followed Marco’s instructions carefully, uploaded some of the pictures, and put it all up.

  Out of curiosity she brought up the previous blog, then goggled.

  She now had forty-six comments, and two hundred and two views.

  More than two hundred people read what she’d written, and forty-six of them had taken the time to comment.

  Because it’s new, she decided—and Sally spread the word. Still, it was just wonderful.

  Hell, in a full week of teaching, she’d been lucky to get that many students to raise their hand in class.

  Charged, she changed into workout gear, chose one of her videos to stream.

  She knew the castle had a fitness center, but she wasn’t ready for that.

  Even when she finished, dressed in what she thought of as her Irish adventure wear—boots, jeans, a navy V-neck sweater over a white tee—she had time on her hands.

  It was as if every day was a Sunday, only better, as she didn’t have a single chore on her list. She grabbed her phone, her key, her cross-body bag, and her jacket and set out on a dawn walk.

  The sky, pale, pastel blue, cupped over the hills. It had lovely clouds streaked with roses and reds where the sun topped their rounded tops. Everything smelled fresh and new and possible.

  She walked along the paved path, up green rises and stone steps where morning birds sang in the trees. She walked, prizing the quiet and solitude, pausing to take pictures of the castle as the sky brightened, or a tree that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  She found herself at the stables, where a brown horse watched her approach. Since she’d only ridden horses in childhood dreams, she kept a wary distance.

  “Hi there. You’re very handsome.”

  She stepped a little closer, and when he blew air out of his nose, she all but heard him think: Come and pet me.

  But she decided close enough.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she told him.

  She took his picture, checked the time, and started her walk back imagining what it was like to work in such a place.

  She could do that. Maybe she’d apply for a job. After Marco went back, she could think about it. Maybe here, maybe some historic hotel in Galway.

  Before she went back, she opted to detour to the walled gardens.

  And there her heart simply soared.

  A vined archway welcomed her. The beds beside the stone paths simply thrived with flowers. She recognized some, but most were a lovely mystery. She wanted to know more, made a mental note to get a book on flowers as well as dreams.

  She could learn to do this, couldn’t she? Learn to plant and grow and tend? To make something beautiful. While she watched butterflies flutter and bees buzz by, she bent down or over to sniff.

  She smelled sweet and spicy, earthy and light, marveled at the textures and colors, the spreads, the spears. And at the skill and knowledge to create something that looked as if it had grown entirely on its own.

  She could learn. She sure as hell knew how to study, as she’d spent her entire life doing just that. She’d study what she wanted to study this time around.

  She sat on a bench to soak it all in while clouds, puffy and white as sheep, grazed over the blue. And shook her head at herself.

  “Waiting tables in a castle one minute, a gardener the next.”

  Pretty clearly she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She rose, reluctantly, to go back and meet Marco, but paused one last time to take a close-up picture of a luscious spread of deep purple flowers.

  Enchanted, she brushed her hand over them.

  They vibrated.

  She snatched her hand back, imagining angry bees or snakes. Ireland, she reminded herself. No snakes.

  But something.

  But nothing moved, and everyth
ing went so very quiet.

  Carefully, she touched her palm to the clump again, felt that odd hum under her skin.

  “That’s weird, right? It’s like . . . it’s growing. Even I know it doesn’t work that way. Time for coffee,” she told herself. “It’s obviously time for coffee.”

  Rubbing her palms together, she walked away.

  And didn’t see the new flowers spread up from the bed and reach for the light.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Breen approached driving the way she’d approached oral exams. With terror and determination. Her hands might have clutched the wheel like a woman clutching a life buoy in a raging sea, but she navigated the skinny, twisty roads with steely eyes.

  She’d never really been a tourist, so she approached that new designation by diving in headfirst.

  She made her list, mapped out the routes. There were ruins to explore and wonder at, the Cliffs of Moher to marvel over. There was the edge of the world to dare at Loop Head, old abbeys and round towers, graveyards.

  Lunch in a pub with a peat fire simmering, brown bread and farm butter.

  While she didn’t find a book on dreams, she found one on flowers when they shopped in Ennis, where baskets of flowers hung and the narrow, winding sidewalks begged to be explored.

  She bought a scarf of rainbow colors for Sally, and one of greens and ambers for herself. She ate strawberry gelato in a sugar cone, lit a candle in a beautiful old church that smelled of peace.

  When it was her turn behind the wheel again, she managed to drive into the little village of Doolin and park.

  “More awesome views,” Marco declared. “But before we get out and hike—again—I gotta tell you, Breen, you handle the driving better than me.”

  “My palms are still sweaty.”

  “Maybe, but you’ve got it down.”

  “You’re the most excellent navigator. And still, walking’s a big relief.”

  “Prepare to be relieved.”

  Out of the car, she lifted her face to the sea breeze before hitching on her battered backpack for the cliff walk. One thing she’d learned on this momentous first full day—she wasn’t troubled by heights.

  The cliffs speared up, dramatic and sheer above the wild waters of the Atlantic on one side. On the other, the pretty little village spread its color and charm ahead of the green fields and farms.