The Awakening

by Roberts, Nora

  “Oh, but—”

  “Eian Kelly’s daughter doesn’t pay for food nor drink under my roof. And I’ll have my bride light a candle for your safe journey, as she’s got a strong connection with such matters.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Pleasure.” He rose. “The music will start soon. They’re not Sorcery, but they’re good craic. Marco, is it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Look out for my old friend’s daughter now.”

  “I will.”

  Marco waited until they sat alone at the table with Breen staring down at her food.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Better than okay. It’s just . . .” She looked up, and though she had tears in her eyes, he knew they weren’t grieving ones. “It’s so much. We came into this town, into this pub, and we find someone who knew these wonderful things about my father. Things I’ve never heard. And I can picture him. It feels as if maybe I can actually find him. But for right now, listening to someone who knew him back then, before I was born, who thought of him as a friend, it’s just so much.”

  “You know he made a big difference in somebody’s life. That’s seriously cool.”

  She looked around the pub, imagined her father and his bandmates filling the air with music.

  “He gave up his life here for her, and for me. Maybe that’s making him into too much of a hero, but hearing he wanted to raise his family on his farm, I believe that just from the way I remember him talking of home. Before he stopped talking much about it. The stories he’d tell me when I was little. But they went back to Philadelphia, tried to make a life there. It didn’t work, but I know they tried.”

  She picked up her fork. “Yeah, I’m more than okay.”

  They ate, listened to music—and it was good craic. She didn’t think her spirits could rise higher. Then Tom came back to the table with a framed photo.

  “I forgot we had this on the wall—all these years. It’s your father and his mates, right at that table.”

  It struck her heart.

  He sat, a fiddle cocked on his shoulder and a dreamy look in his eyes. So young! she thought, with his mop of red hair, his worn boots. Younger than she was now, she realized. Slim and handsome in a black sweater and jeans frayed at the cuffs.

  There were pint glasses on the table, three others playing instruments, but she saw nothing but Eian Kelly with his dreamy eyes and quiet smile, with a fiddle in his hands.

  “You take that now. You should have it.”

  She pressed it to her heart before she rose and did what usually felt awkward. She hugged, hard, someone she barely knew.

  “This means so much.”

  “I’ll be hoping you see him in person before much longer. If you make your way back this way, come see us.”

  “I will.”

  That night she set the photo on the table beside her bed.

  And she dreamed a pretty dream of the man in the photo with a red-haired baby on his hip standing in a green field as butterflies, a rainbow of colors, danced around them.

  In the dream, he said, “This is home, my own darling. It’s for us to keep it, and all in it, safe. It’s for me to teach you how. That’s joy and duty.”

  She squealed when he lifted her high, when he spun her around and around and the fluttering rainbows spun with them.

  When he held her close again, she felt his heart beat against her and knew love absolute.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Up before sunrise, Breen wrote her blog. She spent some happy time selecting the pictures to go with the text, and made a note to do one of those personalized photo books for Marco for Christmas.

  Energized, she dressed for the day and set out on another early walk. It still amazed her that her life could include such simple luxuries as a morning walk.

  More confident, she decided to take one of the paths into the woods where the soft light dappled through the trees, and the air smelled quietly of earth and pine.

  She felt alone in a wonderland, and marveling, walked deeper than she’d intended. When she caught sight of a river, mists rising, fingers of smoke through the trees, she wandered closer.

  A little wooden boat with a pointed bow rested on shore, its oars crossed inside. She imagined what it might be like to float over the water, through those mists where a few lazy ducks glided along. Around the curve of the river, she calculated, the castle would come into view, as it had for hundreds of years.

  She pulled out her phone, took a picture of the misty river, the little boat. From the left, she heard a rustling.

  As she turned, she saw the bird perched on a branch looking down at her with gold eyes. A hawk—at least she thought so, as she’d never seen one up close. She knew the castle grounds held a falconry school, so a hawk made sense.

  “Well, hello,” she began, then froze in place when it swooped down to land at her feet.

  Head cocked, he continued to study her.

  “Pretty big bird,” she murmured. “And really beautiful. Handsome? Whichever.”

  Fascination overcame nerves so she crouched down.

  “Do they just let you out? I don’t know how it works, but you look too smart to be lost.”

  “Oh, he knows what he’s about.”

  The voice startled Breen, had her springing up. The hawk just watched.

  With a quick laugh, the woman stepped out of the trees onto the path. She wore rough brown trousers, a forest-green jacket, a brown cap over sunflower-blond hair in a long, thick braid. And a falconer’s glove on her left hand.

  “Sorry. Amish wanted a flight, and I a walk, so here we are. Good morning to you.”

  “Good morning. Am I not supposed to be here?”

  “Sure and you can come and go as you please. It seems Amish has taken a fancy to you. I’m Morena, and I’m with him.”

  “I’m Breen. He’s gorgeous.”

  “And knows it as well.” Morena gave a hand signal that had the hawk rising back up to take the branch. “Are you enjoying your visit to the castle then?”

  “Very much. It’s magical.”

  Morena’s smile flashed again, her blue eyes bright with it. “Magic’s where you find it, isn’t it now?” She produced another glove, held it out. “Would you like a bit of a hawk walk?”

  “Really? I can just . . .” She trailed off to look back up at the hawk.

  “Well, as I said, he’s taken a fancy to you, so let’s both of you have a treat.” She slid the thick glove on Breen’s hand herself.

  Over it, their eyes met again. Breen felt some sort of click, but couldn’t understand or describe it.

  Then Morena stepped back, and the moment slid by like the river.

  “We’ll walk a bit along the river so you can see how our boy does things. It should be good weather for you today, just some spots of rain in the afternoon, but plenty of bright.”

  “I don’t mind the rain.”

  “That’s a happy thing, considering. Here now, you take this bit of chicken in your hand, and turn it. You’ll hold your arm up like this, elbow cocked. Well done,” she said as she positioned Breen’s arm. “Now watch him come.”

  Come he did.

  It stole her breath, that spread of wings, the rich color catching just a quick strike of sunlight. He glided, all silent grace and power, to land on her gloved arm.

  And now those eyes stared into hers, close, gleaming.

  “Well done indeed,” Morena said. “Now then, just turn your hand up, open your fist. He wants his reward.”

  He gobbled it, waited.

  “That’s just amazing.”

  “Magical,” Morena said. “Give your arm a little push in the air, and watch him go.”

  They did it twice more, with the hawk soaring and diving through the trees, gliding from branch to glove, and into the air again.

  “You did very well. That’s enough breakfast for our boy, and I imagine you’re wanting your own by now.”

  “This was the most incre
dible experience.” With regret Breen watched the hawk hop from her arm to Morena’s. “Thank you so much. Do I go to the school to pay?”

  “Oh, there’s no payment for this, not at all. A treat for you and my boy here.”

  “More treasure than treat for me.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. There’s your way back,” she added, and pointed with her free hand. “I wish you a fine day, and a happy journey.”

  “Thank you, Morena, for a morning I’ll never forget.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” She turned in the opposite direction, moved into the trees before she stopped, looking over her shoulder.

  The click came again, quick, distinct, then gone.

  “We’ll see you again, Amish and I, when you reach the home-place.”

  “The homeplace?”

  But Morena and the hawk slipped into the trees, into dappled light and shadows.

  Since the unexpected encounter added time to her walk, she had to hurry back to meet Marco for breakfast.

  She rushed into the dining room, where he already sat, coffee on the table as he read something on his phone.

  “I’m late, but—”

  He held up a hand to stop her, kept reading. With a shrug she poured herself some coffee. When the waiter came to the table, she ordered bacon, scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast.

  “I’ll take the full Irish, eggs over easy,” Marco announced, still reading. “I could eat the full Irish every day for the rest of my life.”

  Then he put his phone down, looked at Breen. “I was reading your blog.”

  “Oh. What do you think? Too personal? I was worried I got a little too personal, thought about taking it down and—”

  “Not a chance. Sure, it’s personal, but it’s . . . Damn, girl, it choked me up. I mean, I was there in the pub, and reading it still choked me up. You did a great job with the day, right? The driving, the scenery, the cliffs, and everything. Took me right back to it all. But when you got to the part about meeting Tom, and how he knew your dad, and all of that? The picture he gave you? It freaking killed me.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Cut it out. You know when something’s good. Only thing missing is the picture. I’m going to see if the hotel can scan it so we can get it on the blog. It’s a long shot your dad would see it, but hey, who knows? Somebody who knows him might see it, and tell him.”

  “I never thought of that.” She sat back as hope bubbled up. “Marco, I never thought of that. It’s brilliant.”

  He tapped his temple. “I got the cells. You posted it over an hour ago. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Oh my God, the best!”

  He listened, then held up both hands. “You had a big-ass bird on your arm?”

  “I did, and it was fantastic. Marco, he looked right at me. I mean right into my eyes.”

  “You didn’t freak? I’m freaking just hearing about it. Big-ass birds got big-ass claws—”

  “Talons.”

  “Sharp whatever you call them, and big-ass beaks that can poke your eye out. Big-ass birds give me the willies. Flamingos? Sure, pink, and people think goofy, but I bet they could tear you a new one. Remember that parrot they brought in when we were in third grade?”

  He held his hands apart to a height easily twice as big as the African gray had been. “Hearing that bird talk while he gave you the side-eye? Saying things like ‘Time for dinner’ and ‘Let’s party’? That ain’t natural, girl. Gave me nightmares.”

  “I remember. This bird didn’t talk, and he was gorgeous and graceful, and the falconer, Morena, showed me how to call him to the glove, give him raw chicken parts.”

  “You fed him raw chicken?”

  “I didn’t have time to sauté it.”

  “Okay, glad you had fun, glad I missed it. I might have nightmares anyway.”

  “You’re up for the most disgusting horror movie they can make, but a bird over the size of a sparrow gives you nightmares.”

  “They’re fine up in the sky where they belong. I don’t want a sparrow landing on me either.” He shuddered.

  They dug into breakfast, went over plans for the day.

  “Before we go from this castle to the next castle, let me take the photo, ask them to scan it for me. If they can’t, I can try to take a picture of it.”

  Back in her room, Breen took it out of the frame. “Look, it’s got their names on the back. Sorcery. Eian Kelly, Kavan Byrne, Flynn McGill, and Brian Doherty.”

  “Better yet. When I add it to your blog, I’ll put their names under it. Adds chances somebody’ll know one of them, right?”

  “It feels like it.” She touched a fingertip to her father’s face. “It was a long time ago, though.”

  “We’re standing in a castle that’s hundreds of years old. That says time’s relative, right? Think positive, girl.”

  “Done. I’ll go with you. We’ll do this, then head to Bunratty for a good taste of the way back.”

  They toured the castle first, the dominant stone structure that lorded over the river. With Marco she walked its enormous dining hall, imagining the banquets with lords and ladies in their finery, the fire roaring while servants poured ale and mead, carried in big platters of meat.

  Musicians would have played on the balcony above, and candles would have thrown gold light over the heavy tables and chairs, on the walls with their tapestries.

  Stone stairs curved up to bedchambers, garderobes, salons where women would have sat to sew and spin, more where men planned battles.

  “Freeze your ass off in the winter,” Marco decided.

  “But look at the views.”

  “Views are chill, yeah. But gimme central heating and a working john.”

  She poked him with her elbow. “It’s romantic.”

  “Can’t say it’s not, but I’ll take my romance knowing the toilet’s going to flush. Still, it’s seriously sick, because it was really real. People lived here, and worked here, and had all kinds of sex here. Then they shot arrows or dumped rocks on other people who tried to take over.”

  “A clan’s a family. You protect your family.”

  Marco slid an arm around her waist when they walked back out. “Sister, I’d dump rocks on anybody who tried to hurt you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She loved the castle, but fell in love with the folk park. The thatched-roofed cottages and shops, the costumes, the music, little farms and village streets—that equaled the really real to her. It showed her how people—regular people like her—lived. Where they slept, how they cooked, how they raised their children.

  She liked the little donkeys and the geese, the fiddler outside the pub—all of it representing to her the ins and outs of daily life in another world, another time.

  “I know it couldn’t have been as simple or as charming as it looks, but it feels like it. And it feels sort of familiar. I guess with movies and books you have a sense, but this is laid out with actual places and people.”

  And strolling along, she felt as though she could slide right in—into a cottage for a seat by the fire, into a pub for a pint.

  “It gives me this weird kind of déjà vu.”

  “Keep your déjà with you,” Marco decided. “It’s cool to see, but I’ll stick with the internet and loaded nachos, pillow-top mattresses and an ice-cold beer on a hot summer night. Not to mention LGBTQ rights and, you know, penicillin.”

  “On the other hand, no nuclear warheads.”

  “You’d have to learn to milk a cow. Maybe a goat.”

  “No air pollution or climate change.”

  “No AC in the hot, no heated-tile floors in the cold.”

  “We don’t have AC or heated-tile floors,” she pointed out.

  “But they exist, am I right? And my rich bestie could afford both if she wanted them.”

  She laughed as he gave her a quick squeeze. “I guess I could.”

  They wandered into a gift shop, nearly wandered out again. But she s
topped, pointed. “Look, a hawk pin. I’m going to buy it as a thank-you for Morena.”

  “The bird lady?”

  “Yeah, the bird lady. It’s perfect, the way the hawk’s wings are spread inside the circle.”

  “You do that, then let’s find some food. It’s been a long time since breakfast.”

  She bought the pin and a card to write a thank-you note.

  “Two more points of interest on the list, with a village for food and poking around. I’ll navigate,” she told him.

  Then she froze. It struck her as impossible—and because it was impossible, as terrifying. But she saw him, she saw the man with the silver hair.

  And as he had for that moment the first time on the bus, he looked right at her.

  “There he is!” She clawed at Marco’s arm as the man sauntered—that was the word for it, sauntered—away.

  “Who? What?”

  She just shoved her gift bag at Marco and ran. Not away, not this time, but after. That struck her not as impossible, but as liberating.

  She sprinted—or tried to—in and around people who admired the village, those taking videos and snapshots, or kids racing to see the donkey.

  She kept him in sight, was no more than seconds behind him when he turned a corner.

  She turned it.

  And he was gone. Simply gone.

  Not possible, she thought, fighting to catch her breath. Just not possible.

  “Breen.” Marco raced up to her, grabbed her arm. “WTF!”

  “I saw him, Marco, I swear I saw him.”

  “Who? Plus, you just reminded me why I used to push at you to join the track team. You’ve got some fast feet, girl.”

  “The man—the man on the bus, and outside the apartment, and at Sally’s. At the airport, too. I just saw him again.”

  “Breen—”

  “I know how it sounds, Marco.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I know, but I also know what I saw. He’s about six feet—maybe six-one or -two, and lanky. He’s always in black, and he has silver hair—not white, not gray, it’s shiny and luxurious.”

  Marco put an arm around her, a protective gesture that wasn’t lost on her. “But you don’t see him now?”

  “I’m not crazy or delusional. I chased him to this corner, and he went around the side, and . . .”