The Awakening

by Roberts, Nora

  Marco told her to have fun, and she’d already started. She could write. Maybe it was late in the day to begin, but it was her day, after all. Her time.

  So she opened what she thought of as a writing Coke and settled in at her desk.

  She wrote—maybe not a flood, but a decent stream—until hunger stirred. Grateful Marco had seen she had leftovers so she wouldn’t have to dive right into cooking, she warmed up a meal. And thought of him flying over the ocean.

  She hoped he drank champagne and watched movies on the smoothest air imaginable.

  She did her dishes, then took her delayed walk along the bay in the long summer evening.

  When she looked back at the cottage, glowing in the lights she’d left on, she felt wonder, and she felt comfort.

  “Right again, Marco. I’ll be fine. This is what I want. It’s what I need. I miss you, but I’m happy. I’m going to work on staying that way.”

  She took her time walking back while the moon rose over hill and water.

  The water of the bay held a stream of the moonlight, and the breeze murmured of promise. She heard an owl, maybe just wakened, call out.

  “Who?” she responded. “Who am I exactly? I’m going to find out.”

  She went back inside, remembered belatedly to lock up. And prepared to spend the first night of her life completely on her own.

  Or so she thought.

  Sleeping, she didn’t see the lights dancing outside her windows, keeping watch. Or the hawk perched on a branch nearby to guard Eian Kelly’s daughter.

  She woke once when the phone in her hand signaled a text from Marco.

  Smooth flight and ur boy’s back in Philly. Thanks to the best pal in the world 4 an awesome trip. Now go back 2 sleep and text me tomorrow.

  Glad you’re home, she texted back. Give everyone a kiss from me. Going back to sleep as ordered.

  Nearly there already, she set the phone on the bedside table to dream of rainbows and dancing lights.

  CHAPTER TEN

  She found a rhythm.

  Always an early riser, Breen usually woke at dawn. Her reward: a misty bay, a shimmering eastern sky. Fueled with coffee, she wrote her daily blog in her pajamas—and considered it her warm-up for the book.

  She changed into workout gear, got her body moving before she took a second cup of coffee and whatever came easiest to hand for her morning walk by the bay.

  She learned to recognize the birds, the whooper swans, the kestrels and reed buntings, and looked forward to watching them glide and soar while the mists thinned over the water.

  She wrote in the quiet, just the breeze and the birds, and was always astonished how the day slid by.

  A late afternoon or evening walk with the magpies and wildflowers in the woods. She kept her phone handy for photos, and once marveled at herself for framing a shot of a doe and her fawn who looked at her with more curiosity than alarm.

  In a matter of days she realized being alone didn’t mean being lonely. She missed Marco, but found the challenge, and the freedom, of being truly on her own satisfying.

  She could handle making a meal—especially if it happened to be frozen pizza. She had scores of books to choose from, and hours and hours to write, to walk, to consider what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  On the last, she made a list.

  I’ll keep writing, whether it’s the blog or a book or just stories for myself. I won’t give it up.

  I’ll find a job I actually like, and one I’m good at.

  I’ll buy a house. A small house, but with room enough for me and Marco, and a little office for writing. Must have a yard.

  I’ll plant a garden.

  I’ll get a dog.

  I’ll keep trying to find my father, and when I do, I’ll find a way to forgive him for leaving.

  I’ll figure out how to talk to my mother, and find a way to forgive her for . . . everything.

  One day, she imagined, she’d start crossing things off that list. When she did, she might add more—big things, small things. But for now, the list encompassed what she most wanted, and that was enough.

  At the end of her first week, she drove into the village for supplies, and reminded herself she had to get out and about at least now and again. After a week of near silence, she found it jarring to see all the cars, the people—and admitted she was working herself into becoming a hermit.

  To counteract it, she walked through the village, browsed the shops, and by taking the time came across a music store—with an Irish harp in the front window.

  It drew her inside, where a woman about her age with a short wedge of black hair sat behind a counter and played a dulcimer.

  She stopped, smiled. “Good day to you.”

  “That was lovely. Please don’t stop.”

  “Oh, just passing the time. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “The harp in the window. It’s beautiful.”

  “Ah, the Irish baby harp. It’s a lovely piece. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “And do you play then?” she asked as she came around the counter to walk to the display window.

  “No. It’s for a friend, a musician.”

  “Well now, a finer gift you couldn’t find.” She set it on a table in a room full of mandolins, banjos, accordions, flutes, drums.

  Breen wondered how both she and Marco had missed the shop on their earlier visits. It was Marco heaven.

  “It’s beautiful,” Breen said again, “the wood, the shape.”

  “Rosewood, it is.” The woman trailed a finger over the strings and produced a sound, angel pure.

  “Was it made in Ireland?”

  “Not only in Ireland, but right here. In the back. My father made it.”

  “Your father?”

  “Sure, he builds instruments, repairs them. Oh, not all of these,” she said with a smile as she gestured around. “But quite a few of what we have now. You said you don’t play, but would you care to sit and get a feel for it?”

  “I . . . Yes, actually, I think I would.”

  “Here then, have a chair, won’t you? I’m Bess, by the way.”

  “I’m Breen. I appreciate this.”

  Breen sat, and Bess brought her the harp, showed her how to hold it on her knee.

  Breen had a flash, clear as glass. Her hands on the strings of a harp, her father’s over hers, guiding.

  “My father had a harp like this,” she murmured.

  “Did he now?”

  “I remember how he started to teach me . . .”

  She put her fingers on the strings, closed her eyes to cast her mind back. And played a melody.

  “‘The Foggy Dew.’” Bess clapped. “And you remember very well indeed.”

  She didn’t know why or how she’d forgotten.

  “I—I want to buy it.”

  “For yourself?” Bess asked with a smile. “Or your friend?”

  “For my friend. And I wonder if your father has a minute.”

  “Sure he does. I’ll just go fetch him. Play more if you like. I’ll just be a moment.”

  She would play more, Breen thought, but not here. At the cottage, alone, where she could let the emotions out—all the joy and the pain—with no one to see.

  But she ran her fingers over the wood, remembering so well how her father told her it wasn’t just the playing but the caring. An instrument was a garden, needed love, needed tending.

  The man who came out had silver shot through the black of his hair. He wore a brown carpenter’s apron over a tall, robust frame.

  “Well now, it’s pleased I am to see my darling there go to someone who knows what she’s about. You hold her with love.”

  As my father taught me, Breen thought.

  “She’s beautiful, and her notes are so pure. She’ll be treasured.”

  “For that I thank you.”

  “I wondered . . . My father’s a musician. He had a harp much like this when I was a lit
tle girl. He was from Galway. Eian Kelly.”

  The man fisted his hands on his hips. “You’re Eian Kelly’s girl, are you? Wonder I didn’t see it right away. You’ve the look of him.”

  “You know him.” Cradling the harp, she stood.

  “That I did. I made him a fine box once upon a time.”

  “A box?”

  Now he grinned. “An Irish accordion—squeeze box, you see. Custom work, as he had very specific wants in it. And the man could play like a fleet of angels or demons. Does he still?”

  “I don’t know, but I imagine he does. He and my mother . . .”

  “Ah well, I’m sorry to hear it. I heard he went to America.”

  “Yes, but he came back here. I think here in Galway.”

  “I haven’t seen him for . . . Oh, I can’t count the years.”

  “He grew up on a farm in Galway. Would you know where?”

  Sympathy covered his face. “I don’t, and I’m sorry for that. I can ask around and about if that might help.”

  “It would, very much. I’ll give you my number in case. I’m staying nearby for the summer.”

  When she walked out, carrying the harp in its case, she thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find someone who knew someone who knew.

  She wanted to go back to the cottage, but pushed herself into the market for those supplies. Then made herself put everything away before she changed into hiking boots.

  No writing, she thought, not when her mind was so crowded. A long walk into the peace of the woods might quiet it.

  But when she stepped out, Seamus stood on the little patio with a big painted pot at his feet and a flood of flowers waiting to be planted.

  “And how are you today, miss?”

  “Glad to see you. What a beautiful pot. Are you going to plant flowers in it?”

  “Well now, I thought you might like to do that yourself.”

  “Oh, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  He offered her gloves and a spade. “You start with earth and good intentions.”

  He showed her how to fill the bottom of the pot with broken crockery—for drainage—and how to mix soil and peat and rich compost in the barrow.

  But he wouldn’t pick the flowers for her.

  “What if I choose the wrong ones?”

  “There’s no wrong to it. All of these are happy in this clime. And what’s left, well, we’ll find another spot for. There’s always a spot waiting to be filled.”

  He gave her the names of the ones she chose—the Dragon Wing begonias, the lantana and lobelia, bells of Ireland, heliotrope and impatiens and sweet alyssum.

  “It’s a good eye you have, for the color and the heights, the textures.”

  As once her father’s had over harp strings, Seamus’s gloved hands covered hers as she placed a plant. “That’s the way of it, there you are now. And we wish it good fortune, and a long, happy life in its new home.”

  “Can I add this? I love the color—such a pretty green.”

  “Creeping Jenny, she is, and you’ll want her at the edge so she can flow right over and show off her skirts.”

  “It’s like a rainbow. A really bold one.”

  “It is indeed, it is just that. You did fine and well. Now we’ll water her up, though you’ll have some rain tonight. You’ll want to keep the soil moist, you see, but not wet. What you do? You stick your finger into the soil to test it.”

  When they’d finished the pot, he helped her choose spots for the leftovers. She dug in the dirt with a kind of giddy glee.

  “I’m going to find a house and plant a garden one day. Like this one, where it all seems unplanned and beautiful.”

  “You’ll do well with it.” His voice, so soothing, sounded like a whisper in her heart. “It’s all connected, you see, young Breen. The earth, the air, the water that falls from the sky, the sun that brings the light and warmth. And all that grows—the plants, the animals, the people. The bees that buzz, the birds that fly, all bound together.

  “You’ll talk to them now, to the flowers, sing them a tune now and again. They’ll reward you for it.”

  She sat back on her heels, smiling at her grubby garden gloves. “I was feeling a little sad when I got home. Now I’m not.”

  “Gardens bring the joy.”

  “This one sure did.” She, so often uncomfortable around strangers, felt as if she’d known him all her life.

  Connections, she thought. All bound together.

  “Seamus, have you always lived in the area?”

  “I haven’t, no. I’m here now, of course, but Galway’s not my home.”

  Then he wouldn’t know her father, she thought, so no point in asking.

  “Now I’ll be cleaning up this bit of a mess before I’m on my way.”

  “We’ll clean it up.” She stood. “That’s part of it, isn’t it?”

  He shot her that crooked smile. “That it is.”

  With the patio swept, she offered him the gloves.

  “Oh no, miss, those are yours now, and the little spade as well. Such things are handy for gardening.”

  “Thank you. Can I make you some tea?”

  “Thank for you the asking, but my wife’ll be putting on supper before long, so I’d best be on my way. I’ll be back again in the week, or sooner if I’m needed. Enjoy the flowers, young Breen, as they enjoy you.”

  “I will.”

  And she’d start by taking a picture of her very first flowerpot.

  She took a couple, then thought she’d like one of Seamus for her blog. But when she turned, he was already gone.

  “He moves fast,” she murmured.

  She took her gloves and spade into the mudroom.

  Instead of the walk—where she could admit she would have brooded through most if not all of it—she poured a glass of wine, sat at the little patio table.

  And admired her work.

  That evening, she followed—religiously—one of Marco’s simple recipes for a one-skillet chicken, potato, and broccoli dish. It mostly worked.

  She took a photo for the blog before she bundled in a sweater, poured another glass of wine, and took it all out to the patio again.

  She’d remembered something about her father that, now that she’d settled, made her happy. She’d found the perfect Christmas gift for her best friend. She’d planted flowers in both a pot and the ground. She’d made a decent—okay, halfway decent meal.

  Not to mention she’d written nearly two hours that morning before she’d ordered herself to get out of the cottage.

  “A good day,” she told the flowers. “Really, a damn good day.” She toasted the garden, the woods, the bay. “Here’s to many more. I’ve got this,” she decided. “I think I’ve actually got this.”

  But that night she dreamed of a storm. It raged over the hills, swept over the fields. It churned the water into a dark morass. The trees whipped in its tossing wind.

  Heart pounding, she ran through it while lightning flashed—blue fire—and thunder roared in warlike fury.

  Still, it wasn’t the storm that chased her, but something darker, something much more wicked. She could feel that dark clawing at her, fighting to get a pinching hold.

  For her soul. It would take all she was, and drink it like wine.

  You were made for this, it told her. I am destiny.

  The sword on her belt banged against her thigh. She could use it. She would use it. To fight, or to end herself.

  She would end herself before she lost herself again.

  As her hand closed over it, she saw a light ahead. It glowed, and it grew. Like a door opening for her.

  Like salvation.

  In the light, another voice called her.

  Come home, Breen Siobhan, daughter of the O’Ceallaigh, child of the Fey. It’s time you came home. Time you awakened.

  As the claws of the dark scraped at her back, she leaped into the light.

  And woke, sheened with sweat, tangled in the sheets. />
  Because her first instinct was to call Marco, she reached for her phone. Then, very carefully, very deliberately, put it back on the nightstand. She wouldn’t call her friend, thousands of miles away, to soothe her over a stupid nightmare.

  She was fine. She was awake. No storm raged, and no one chased her.

  Still, she picked up her tablet, wrote out everything she could remember.

  Maybe she’d work it into her story. A nasty dream ought to be worth something in the light of day.

  Because the light of day was some hours off, she left a lamp on low rather than risk the dark.

  She hit routine, and happily. Writing about the music store—though she had to leave out seeing and buying the harp to keep it a surprise for Marco. She wrote about planting flowers, making a meal, and got her day off to a solid start.

  When she stepped outside to grin at her flowerpot, she noted it had rained, just as Seamus had predicted. Maybe it had stormed, and her subconscious twisted reality into a weird, scary dream.

  Either way, after her morning walk, she’d spend the rest of the damp, cool morning writing. Out of habit, she started toward the bay, still misty, still gray under the struggling sun.

  A series of yips had her glancing toward the woods. If not for the barks, she might have taken it for a very small, odd-looking deer or really big rabbit.

  But as it raced toward her, she saw a puppy—still odd-looking, with a purple cast to its tightly curled fur, and a hairless little whip of a tail.

  “Look at you!” She crouched down to greet him and was rewarded with adoring puppy kisses and scrabbling paws. A good-size pup, he had a smooth face beneath a kind of curly topknot and above what she thought of as a cute beard. His eyes, a deep brown, shone with excitement.

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet! Look at those curls. Where’d you come from, cutie? Are you lost?”

  He answered by racing in circles around her, leaping back to lick at her hands, her face.

  “Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too. But you belong to someone, and someone takes good care of you. They’ll wonder where you are.”

  She took out her phone to take a picture. After several blurred attempts, she managed one.

  “I’m going to text this to Finola. Maybe she knows who you belong to.”