The Awakening

by Roberts, Nora

  Turn and trot?

  And the damn road started rising again. But she held on, almost relaxed into it while they passed the black-faced sheep and spotted cows, the wide fields, the sweeps of waving grains.

  It all smoothed out, so it took her a moment to realize the horse went faster.

  “A nice, easy lope is all. Gods’ sake, woman, sit up straight. You’ve a spine in there, so use it.”

  The speed worried her, more than a bit, but her ass didn’t want to bang and slap against the leather.

  She didn’t realize until he told her to go back to a trot, then a walk, that they’d somehow circled around. She saw the farm, the bay, Aisling’s cottage.

  She’d survived.

  “Your seat needs improvement, and your hands are heavy yet, but you did well enough. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “And tomorrow you’ll learn how to saddle your own mount,” he added as they walked the horses down Marg’s path. “You dismount as you mounted, just in reverse.”

  The ground looked entirely too far away, but she didn’t want his smirk. The minute she started to bring her leg over, the twinges pinged—everywhere. She bit back a moan, stiffened her knees as they quivered. And handed him the reins.

  “Thanks for the lesson,” she said with her voice as stiff as her back.

  “You did well enough,” he said again, then just turned Merlin, one hand holding Boy’s reins, and took them both in a fast trot up the path.

  She waited until he was out of sight, then limped to the open door of the cottage.

  That night, Breen followed Marg’s instructions and soaked in a hot bath laced with healing potion. Then she slathered every inch she could reach with balm. Propped in bed, the fire snapping, the dog sleeping, she wrote her blog.

  She wrote of taking her first riding lesson—and though her instructor was more than a hard-ass and her muscles wept, she intended to go back for more.

  Somehow, she thought, she had to figure a way to get pictures. Her blog followers expected them. But that was a problem for another day.

  Over the next few days she learned how to cast a circle, how to make ritual candles, how to float a feather. She learned how to saddle a horse, how to groom one, and experienced her first gallop.

  She solved the blog photo dilemma by asking Morena to bring Boy through the portal.

  She made her wand. Under Marg’s supervision, she chose wood from a chestnut tree and a clear, polished crystal that pulled in and shot out light. She cleansed and imbued the crystal under the light of the moons. She chose a carving of a dragon, one that rode up the shaft of the wand toward the light, and marveled, though she could feel it—feel it inside—when the image in her head carved itself bold red into the chestnut.

  When her first week of learning—a word she much preferred to training—passed, she took her first solo ride.

  Following Marg’s directions, she walked Boy past the farm where Harken, Aisling’s oldest boy, Finian, and a man she didn’t recognize worked with the wolfhound and a lively border collie to herd some sheep into a pen.

  Because she had an uneasy feeling those sheep might end up in lamb stew, she kept riding. More sheep dotted the hillsides, and overhead a pair of hawks circled. As she watched, one dived—so fast it blurred into a golden brown streak.

  In the high grass, something let out a high, short scream.

  Imagining a rabbit, thinking of the hard world of predator and prey, she rode on.

  Then, the beauty astonished.

  If Marg’s cottage was a song, Finola’s was an opera. Flowers flooded their way around the cottage with winding stone paths forming bridges. Wild and wonderful, they carpeted the ground, swam around shrubs and trees all pregnant with more blooms.

  Here and there hung pretty little bird feeders, and birdbaths of copper shaped like open flowers.

  A hummingbird, bright as a jewel, drank from the bold orange trumpet of a lily. Butterflies simply swarmed.

  The scents—strong, subtle, sweet, spicy—all tangled together into a sumptuous drug.

  The stones of the cottage itself glowed a rosy pink, with boxes at every window spilling with more flowers and trailing greenery. The door, a soft, dreamy blue, formed an arch.

  Dazzled, she secured the horse as she’d been taught, then just wandered the paths. As she did, she heard voices. She followed them around the side of the cottage, through an arbor alive with white roses.

  The sea of flowers continued, flowed into a fanciful herb garden where the plants formed rings, then the vegetable garden where Finola, a wide-brimmed straw hat over her hair, pulled a carrot for the basket on her arm.

  Beyond her spread an orchard. Morena flew up, plucking what Breen clearly saw were lemons for her own basket. Then she flew down to where Seamus harvested—those had to be oranges—from the low branches of another tree.

  How did they grow lemons and oranges in this climate?

  Breen just shook her head and admitted she’d gone beyond the time for asking how.

  Finola straightened, pushed a hand at the small of her back, and spotted Breen.

  “Well, good day to you, Breen.”

  “This is the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ah, now listen to you.” But the pleasure showed as she walked to the end of the garden and along a path to Breen. “And how’s it all going with you, darling?”

  “I’m learning. I’ve wanted to come sooner, but there’s been a lot of learning. I wanted to see you especially, to thank you for taking care of me all those years ago, for getting me away and to the farm.”

  “Sure and anyone would do the same.”

  “But it wasn’t anyone. It was you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, and don’t want to interrupt your work. I—You have lemons and oranges.”

  “We do, aye, we do, and peaches and plums, apples and pears, and we’re growing bananas now from the funniest-looking trees.”

  “Bananas.”

  “It’s my Seamus who’s babied it along from a cutting Morena brought him back from a visit to the other side. Morena and my boys, myself, we’re handy in the garden, but Seamus, well, he—”

  “Has a magic touch?”

  Finola laughed. “Oh, he does that for certain.”

  Morena flew down with her basket of lemons. “I see you have Boy out front. Riding on your own, are you now?”

  “Keegan and Mahon had to go somewhere for the day, so I made a break for it.”

  “Why don’t you get your Blue, Morena, and take a ride with your friend? Stop back on your way around and there’ll be lemonade.”

  “Lemonade?” Breen repeated.

  “I’ll jar some up for you to take to Marg, as she’s fond of it.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a ride, or the company.”

  “I’ll bring Blue around front.” Instead of taking the paths, Morena took wing and flew over the flowers.

  “She’s been wanting to give you room,” Finola said, “your time with Marg, and the lessons with Keegan. There’s no better horseman I know—other than Harken—can match Keegan.”

  “He’s got a hard way as a teacher, but I can’t say it doesn’t work.”

  “You have some fun with Morena now, won’t you? And come back for that lemonade.”

  “I will.”

  She went back to the front and mounted. She let Boy crop at the grass on the verge of the road while she scanned the flowers, tried to see how many she could identify by name.

  Morena rode around the other side of the cottage. She sat a pale gray horse with three white socks. He had eyes of crystal blue.

  “I see where he gets his name.”

  “He’s a lovely one, my Blue, but fierce when needs be. He’s sired five colts.”

  “He’s a stallion?”

  “How could we geld such a one?” Her voice shined with love as she rubbed Blue’s neck. “Where are you wanting to ride?”

  “I’d like to see the lake. I
can’t pronounce the name.”

  “You’re meaning Lough na Fírinne. All right then. Blue will want a gallop, as I haven’t had him out for a day or two.”

  “I’m told I have a poor seat and heavy hands, but I can gallop. Sort of.”

  “Keegan’s words.” With some humor, Morena rolled her eyes. “A hard taskmaster he is, but he rides like a god. Still, don’t let him bully you.”

  She had Blue going from a standstill to a gallop. Used to working her way through the gaits, Breen had to hold on when Boy followed suit.

  Still a little terrifying, Breen admitted as they all but flew down the road. But exhilarating, too. Hardly more than a week before she’d never sat on a horse—or not that she remembered—and now she galloped along almost like she knew what she was doing.

  She felt Boy’s pleasure in the run, in the company, and had to agree with him.

  Morena slowed to an easy trot, tossed over a smile. “You’ve learned well, whatever Keegan has to say.”

  “I spent the first three nights after the lessons soaking in the tub and moaning. I can mostly yoga it out now.”

  “And the other lessons?”

  Thrilled her, Breen thought. Simply thrilled her.

  “I made my wand. I know Nan’s pleased with my progress, but I’m not there yet. I can tell she’s waiting for something from me, of me. I don’t know what it is.”

  “You’ll know when you know. Where’s the pup?”

  “He opted to stay with Marg. I think I saw your hawk. He was with a friend, then he dived down. I’m pretty sure he killed a rabbit.”

  “He’s a hunter, that’s his blood. His friend was likely a female he’s been flirting with, so he’d share the meal with her.”

  She gestured ahead to the lake, and Breen saw a family of swans gliding over it.

  “The swans guard the lake.”

  “From what?”

  “Any with dark intent. They say in the long ago, the lake was formed by the tears of the goddess Finnguala—my grandmother was named for her. She, the daughter of Lir of the Tuatha Dé Danann, was cursed by her stepmother, Aoife, and doomed to live for nine hundred years as a swan.”

  “Harsh.”

  “It was indeed,” Morena agreed as they walked the horses along the banks.

  They moved through reeds and cattails. Dragonflies, iridescent as faerie wings, darted to and from the water.

  “What happened to her? To the goddess?”

  “Well, so she wandered year by year, and they say in her despair wept Lough na Fírinne.”

  Morena lifted her hand, and a dragonfly, blue as her stallion’s eyes, landed in her palm.

  “When she wed Lairgren, and the curse broke at last, she came here again to swim, to remember the injustice. And so she crafted the sword, for protection of the true, and the staff, for justice and judgment so none could be condemned as she had been.”

  The dragonfly shot away.

  “She cast them into the lake so that the leader worthy would find them, would wield them—taking them up with free will to serve as well as lead, to guard the world as her swans guard the lake.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? For there ’tis, isn’t it? And from it, generations of taoisigh have taken up sword.”

  “It’s beautiful—the story and the lake. The water looks opaque. How does anyone see in it to find the sword?”

  “That’s the thing. When you’re in it, it’s clear as glass. You can see for yourself if you want to have a swim.”

  “That’s allowed?”

  “Sure and why wouldn’t it be? If you had dark purposes, the swans would run you out again. Fierce creatures, swans, for all their graceful beauty.”

  “Maybe some other time. My grandmother, then my father, both went into that lake as hardly more than children and came out leaders. I wanted to see it. Did you go in?”

  “I did, of course, with all the others. I thought, I’ll be finding that sword, and Marg will give me the staff when I stand before her. And I’ll be the strongest, wisest, bravest taoiseach Talamh has ever known.”

  Shaking back her hair, she laughed. “Lack of confidence I’ve never had.”

  “I admire that, so much. The confidence to believe you can do and be strong and smart, and—I don’t know—worthy.”

  “You’re all of that, and always have been.” Shifting in the saddle, Morena looked at her. “You mustn’t let others take that away from you.”

  “You’d like Marco. He says the same. Different words, same meaning.”

  “So you choose your friends wisely.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. How did you feel when you didn’t find the sword, and Keegan did? Were you disappointed?”

  “Ah, gods no. In the water, I saw Keegan, the sword in his hand, and through the water I could see him looking at it as though it weighed a thousand stone. Then I thought, No, no not at all. No, that was a weight I’d not want to carry.

  “But he did, and he has, and he will until the time comes for the next. And, please the gods, that won’t be until I have grandchildren leaping into the water.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Because Marg asked, Breen visited Aisling for lessons on healing. Take away the weaving loom, the crossed swords over the mantel, and she found Hannigan cottage not so different from any home with a couple of active children and an enormous dog.

  Chaotic, noisy, with scattered toys and considerable roughhousing.

  “You’ve no more manners than the pigs in the sty. Pick up your mess, then out with you. With your hands,” she warned her oldest son, “as that’s how you got them all out.”

  “You’re so busy.” Breen could smell bread baking, saw wool on the spindle of an actual spinning wheel. “It’s all right if you don’t have time for this right now.”

  “It would be a relief for me, and that’s the truth.” Aisling shoved at the dark mop of hair bundled on top of her head. “A bit of the quiet, and a body over the age of three to converse with in it.”

  She made tea—someone always made tea—as the boys dragged their feet in the cleanup. The youngest toddled over to show Breen a little wooden top.

  Obliging, she hunkered down to make it spin.

  “Mahon and Keegan came back last evening, and wouldn’t you know, Mahon had to wrestle the boys, toss them about, turning them inside and out again with excitement. So they were late to their beds, which never stops them from being up with the sun.”

  She smiled over at Breen. “So a bit of quiet time and another woman are welcome. Put the top away now, there’s my good lad. And put your caps on. Kavan, you help your brother brush the pony, and see you both wash at the well before you come back in.”

  When she opened the door, Bollocks raced out. The wolfhound stood by the door until the boys ran outside, then followed at a dignified pace.

  “There’s no better nursemaid than Mab, that’s the truth of it. Sit now, won’t you, Breen. I’ll just get this bread out and on the cooling rack, then we’ll have our tea.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  Aisling sent her a puzzled glance, then it cleared with a smile. “Oh, you’re meaning the baby. More than fine. Not to tempt the gods, but I had an easy time with both boys, and this one seems to be the same. I lose my taste for ale, but I don’t mind it. And I get uncommonly randy—and Mahon doesn’t mind that.”

  She put the bread on a cooling rack, took off the apron she wore, then sat with the tea. “And how is it all going with you?”

  “I’ve seen and I’ve done things I’d have thought impossible a month ago. And I feel things, I don’t know, stirring inside me. As if there’s more to come.”

  “Marg’s pleased with you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “It means all the worlds to her you come. Every day, you come, and not just to learn your craft, but to see and spend time with her. Not all in your place would.”

  “I haven’t figured out my place yet. Did you always kn
ow yours?”

  Lifting her tea, Aisling looked around. Bread cooling on the rack, the kettle sputtering on the hob, a wooden box of jumbled toys. The spinning wheel by the window and a basket of darning waiting by a chair.

  “I thought once I would move to the Capital. Not a farmwife would I be, oh no. I would sit on the council, I would, dispensing my wisdom, and dine with the scholars and artists and the rest. Then, well, Mahon convinced me otherwise, and I’d have it no other way. We don’t always end as we think when we start.”

  “Your home’s happy.”

  “It is, and thank you, for that’s what I want more than all there is. It’s my mother who heads the council, and Keegan who stands as taoiseach while Harken and I tend the homeplace. It feels we’re all where we’re meant. As are you. Whether you stay or go, here’s where you’re meant now. Now, as for healing. This is more innate than learned, though what’s held in can be opened with learning.”

  “Nan says you’re the strongest healer she knows.”

  “It’s good of her to say so. Any of the Fey may find this gift in them. Opening to another’s pain or illness or distress can be a hard choice. You feel some of that pain and distress as you work to heal it, and that person may be a stranger, even an enemy. But once you accept the gift, you can’t deny it.”

  “It’s an oath? Like doctors take in my world.”

  “Very like, aye. I’m told, like Harken, you connect with animals.”

  “I always thought it was . . . I don’t know what. But yes, and it’s stronger since I’ve come here.”

  “What are we all, but animals, after all? Flesh and blood and bone, hearts and muscles. How do you know what your dog feels or needs or wants?”

  Breen glanced toward the window. She heard Bollocks barking, and knew, just knew, he was barking with absolute joy.

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “You think of him, look into him. It’s harder, believe me, not to look and see than it is to look and see. And you open without thought. Ah, here’s a sweet little dog, or a fine-looking horse, or a poor bird with a broken wing. And you think, and care, and wonder. And open.”