by Trisha Telep
“A hand, lass.” He reached out to her, and Tara stepped closer without hesitation. She helped him up, and he half climbed, half fell into the bath. For long moments, he simply lay in the water, soaking up the heat, eyes closed.
When he lifted his head, she noticed a difference in the movement. It didn’t look like a terrible effort any more. “I need to bring word to the King. He is in great danger.”
Tara’s heart ached. “I hate to break this to you, but whatever message you had to deliver is a little late. Very late, actually.”
He rested his head against the bath again, a determined set to his firm lips. “Nay. It is not too late.”
“What year do you think it is?” she asked.
“I do not know what year I find myself in now. The year I was last conscious . . . I know not what year that was, either. I had stepped . . .” He closed his eyes and sighed. “How did ye find me?”
“I work on an archaeological dig. You were buried, two feet under the surface.”
“And ye knew the resurrection ritual?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m an archaeologist, not a magician. I have no idea how I managed to wake you up.”
Ulick opened his eyes, a flash of sharp interest in them. “Ye did not know the ritual, but ye resurrected me?”
Tara nodded. “Aye. I mean, yes. I have no idea how that happened.” She braced herself. “Are you human?”
Ulick smiled. “Nay, lass. I am of the old race, the Tuatha Dé Danaan.”
She suppressed the urge to snort a laugh. “You’re a fairy?”
“Aye. I am of the Fae.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it as if deciding not to. “I must get to the King. He is in grave danger. Will ye take me to him?”
“Ulick.” How would she put this? “You’ve been buried a long time. Whatever king you needed to give a message to is long dead.”
“Nay. He lives. He lives and rules. By the grace of Rónán Tiarna an Ama I will not be too late.”
She’d break it to him gently, when he was stronger. The last thing she wanted to do was crush the spirit that shone in his eyes. “Do you want some soap? Shampoo?”
He frowned, uncertain. “Pray tell, what is sham-pooh?”
It took three baths for Ulick to finally be clean. Tara had a spare toothbrush and Ulick seemed to know what to do with it, though toothpaste was strange to him. Tara threw some clothes on, dirty as she was, and used the time he was in the bath to drive to Newry and buy two pairs of tracksuit pants and three T-shirts she hoped would fit him.
He emerged from the bathroom minutes after she got back, only a towel wrapped around his waist. Tara forgot to breathe. An unfamiliar tightness gripped her lower belly.
“My clothes?” he asked, sheepish.
“You were buried long enough for your clothes to decay. There was nothing left but a belt buckle.”
Tara watched him take in that bit of information. Ulick shrugged, unperturbed. “What do men wear in this time?”
“I put some clothes on the bed in the spare room for you, down the passage there. Right now, I’m quite desperate for a bath myself.”
Half an hour later, clean and fresh, Tara padded back into her sitting room on bare feet. Ulick was fully dressed and fast asleep on the couch, but he woke up when she came near. For a moment, Tara was at a loss for words.
Ulick met her stare. “I am very hungry,” he said, his voice a near physical touch to her cheek.
“I’ll . . . I’ll do us both a fry-up.”
He smiled as if he knew something she didn’t and came to his feet. “Ye do that, lass. I shall aid ye, and ye can tell me of the world that is now.”
“First I need to know what year you came from, so I can fill you in on the rest.”
“I do not know the year I was in when I died.”
How was that possible? She stored the question for later. “Tell me some things you remember, stuff people won’t forget in a while.”
Ulick followed her to the kitchen. “I was in sister England one month before I journeyed back to Ireland. My quest was to meet one like us, who knew of a plot to overthrow the King. I found this man in Warrington. The enemy could not find us, and shook the ground to kill us both.”
Bingo. “There was an earthquake in Warrington in 1750.”
“Aye. Men would think of it as that. I escaped with my life, but the enemy and some who serve him were in pursuit. One caught up with me in the fair county of Armagh. By grace of Eireann she was not as strong as her master. I defeated her, but could not heal.”
Tara glanced at him. It seemed unreal to hear this now, with him clad in a dark grey T-shirt and black tracksuit pants. They fitted snugly about his hips, over a pair of firm buttocks. “I didn’t see any marks on you.” And, boy, had she seen a lot of him earlier, when he was still covered in mud, and ice cold.
“Aye. Fae heal in death, but do not regain life unless resurrected by another. My enemy had constricted air around me and broke one of my ribs. It pierced my heart. The bleeding was too much for me to stop.”
“Good God.” Tara lay rashers of bacon in the pan, added three sausages. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ulick watch her every move. Tara smiled. “All this technology must seem strange to you.”
Ulick shook his head. “Not really. In Tir na nóg, people from many different times settle to live. I have seen much like this, and have been told of electricity. There, magic is instilled to work the machines we use to ease life.”
“Tell me about it.”
He did. As they cooked a huge breakfast together, Ulick described a land where the absence of death by natural means led to a slower pace of life, where command of magic gave rise to different technology which was in many ways similar to modern machines. When they’d finished eating, he gathered the dishes and took them to the sink. “Yer turn. Tell me of what passed in the time I slept in death.”
Tara’s heart glowed. Beloved history. She filled him in on the broad details. He nodded when she got around to the world wars. “I have heard of these great wars. There is a man in the land beyond time who fought then.”
Tara brewed tea, and Ulick listened grimly to the modern history of Ireland. “Aye,” he commented when they settled in the sitting room, each with a steaming cup of tea. “Fair Eireann’s children bear much sorrow.”
“And a lot of time has passed since you died.”
Ulick smiled. “Never fear, Tara. I am not too late to pass on my message. The king I speak of is Nuada Airgethlam, Lord of Tir na Nóg, ruler over Tuatha Dé Danaan in all worlds. As long as the Lord of Time gives me grace to enter Tir na nóg when I need to, I will not be too late.”
Her heart sank. “So you’re going to leave?”
His smile faded. “I must. But not yet. My strength has not fully returned. If I may prevail upon your hospitality . . .”
“Of course.” He could prevail upon her hospitality as long as he liked. Tara looked away from him, and gulped her tea. Her phone trilled, and she dashed to the sitting room to answer it. Dullaghan again.
“Tara, sorry to bother you again. There’s been some interference with the dig, we suspect it was with your squares. Did you see anything when you were there earlier?”
“No, nothing.” She thought fast. “I did pass a van parked at the side of the road when I left.”
“And what time was that?”
“Around seven, I think.”
A pause. “OK, we’ll let you know if we find out anything. See you tomorrow.”
She ended the call and put the phone down. Dullaghan had sounded deeply suspicious. Tara chewed her bottom lip as she went back to the kitchen.
They sat at the kitchen table through the rest of the morning and into late afternoon. Ulick drank endless cups of sweet tea, ate everything she offered him. He was quick-witted and an excellent storyteller, fascinating her with tales of Irish gods who often seemed so different to the way they were portrayed in mythology.
He also l
istened well, getting Tara to tell him every detail she knew of her own family history. “I never knew my grandmother on my father’s side. She died in a car accident when my dad was a baby.”
“Ah.”
Why did that “ah” sound as if he suddenly understood something he’d been wondering about? But Ulick changed the subject to her job and Tara stored her questions at the back of her mind.
That night, for the first time since the dig began, she felt at peace when she lay down in her bed. The events of her extraordinary day swirled like a kaleidoscope in her mind. Was it the excitement? The fatigue? Or perhaps the warmth of knowing Ulick slept on the other side of her bedroom wall? Whatever the reason, she soon fell into a deep sleep that was lined with dreams of the ancient Irish gods from Ulick’s tales.
When Tara arrived for work next morning, the blue and white of a police car at the gate dampened the normally jovial atmosphere. With her heart in her throat, she crunched across the gravel at the entrance before stepping on to the pathway of wooden boards that kept the dig from turning into a quagmire. The familiar invisible spider crawled up her spine as she approached the mess tent. This time she wondered if fear was coaxing the prickly feeling over her skin.
“Tara.” Dullaghan popped his head out of the admin tent. “Could you come in here, please.”
An hour later, Tara emerged from the tent, suppressing a satisfied grin. They’d asked a million questions, but she stuck to the truth: no, she hadn’t removed any valuable artifact from the dig. Ulick was no artifact.
“Let me put it this way,” the policeman had said. “Did you remove anything valuable from the dig?”
Tara smiled. He was no fool. She shook her head. Ulick was a person, no value could be placed on his life.
The policeman nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, Ms McGinty. You can go.”
And go she did, a kind of giddy joy stuck in her throat, making her head feel too full. She’d done it. She’d rescued Ulick and got away with it. He’d be there when she got home, and they’d talk the night away. Tara began scraping soil from a new square, no more than the turf removed so far. Ulick’s grave was closed off with red-and-white-striped tape that flapped in the snappy breeze.
The policeman soon stepped from the admin tent wearing a stoic look as Dullaghan argued with him. Silence fell on the dig as everyone tried to hear what their boss was saying. It soon became impossible not to.
“I’m telling you,” Dullaghan shouted, “a very important artifact was removed from this site!”
The policeman kept his face impassive. “As soon as you bring us proof, doctor, we shall do everything in our power to recover what might have been stolen. Until then, my hands are tied.” From his tone of voice Tara guessed he had no burning desire to untie them, either.
When the patrol car disappeared around the bend, Dullaghan stormed back to the admin tent. Tara glanced up just in time to catch a venomous look he cast her way. She shrugged and kept scraping.
“You mean to tell me,” Tara said that night at her kitchen table, “that there are hundreds – perhaps even thousands – of faeries living among normal people?”
“Aye.” Ulick had spent the day sleeping and eating, and looked somehow more real, more there, than he had that morning. She didn’t mind that she’d have to go shopping for food again tomorrow. “When our race realized the age of Men was dawning, we withdrew from this land. We call it the Leaving. Some chose to live in Tir na nóg, the land beyond time. Others chose the hidden world, where twilight reigns all hours. Yet others chose to hide among men. Each choice carries its burden both of sorrows and of joys.”
“But Fae are immortal. How do they hide that, if they live with ordinary humans?”
“We can allow our bodies to age as those of humans would. At the time it would be considered normal for them to die, these faeries slip into the hidden world and allow their bodies to renew. They then re-enter the world of men and start a new life.”
“Can they have children?”
“Aye, and many take human mates. The sons and daughters sometimes inherit the Fae nature, sometimes not. Sometimes their nature skips a generation, and grandchildren inherit. That is common. But unless someone tells this child or grandchild what they are, they will age and die as they believe they should.”
“That seems sad. A waste.”
“Aye.” Ulick looked straight at her, his green eyes clear and kind. “It is.”
And whether it was the steady stare or the husky rasp in his voice as he spoke, Tara found herself leaning forwards over the small table, and Ulick did the same. He rested his hands on hers, stroked her thumbs with his own. She wanted his firm lips on her mouth, so very much.
But as if he reminded himself of something, Ulick pulled back. She felt the moment shatter and drift away. They carried on speaking as if nothing had happened. Between them, invisible yet impossible to ignore, something grew stronger as the night waned.
Tara turned her car’s engine off and slumped in the seat. She sighed. On one hand, her life had turned into something wonderful since Ulick had entered it two weeks ago. Nightly talks trailed into the small hours. He could do magic – real magic! – and amused her with what she suspected he considered to be simple tricks. He kept the house clean, cooked delicious meals and, when she had time off, they went for long walks. She’d taken him to town, to the cinema, and he was fascinated with modern life.
Things couldn’t be better. She was madly in love, it was useless to deny it. She was also certain Ulick felt the same.
But every time they got physically close, every time things went quiet between them and she could almost hear his heart beat in her ears, Ulick shied away. She even caught a groan of frustration now and then. Tara understood why he didn’t want to take their relationship further. Though neither of them brought up his determination to still convey his message to Nuada Airgethlam, it sat between them like some warty chaperone.
He knew he would have to leave soon. And Tara ached at the thought of the inevitable. His quest had killed him once already. Who was to say it wouldn’t kill him again? And what if no one ever found his grave this time?
What if she never saw him again?
She grabbed the four bottles of wine she’d bought on the way home and went inside. The fragrance of roasting lamb met her at the door, with Ulick right behind it. He’d learned how to use modern razors, and his chin was smooth. He’d also insisted she try her hand at hairdressing. She refused to cut too much off, instead leaving his hair in a short bob. It was enough: his hair was naturally curly, and framed his strong face so he looked like a surfer. Except for the lack of a tan, of course, but on Ulick the milky skin looked right.
Would wine have the same effect on Fae as it had on humans? She was about to find out.
She and Ulick talked as always, but this time over wine. “I have not had wine for a good long while,” he said when he refilled his glass the first time. “I had better take care, or I might make a fool of myself.”
Tara waved a careless hand. “You’re among friends.” They clinked glasses, drank, and talked some more. Ulick drank slowly, he didn’t get drunk, but she sensed a definite relaxation about him that she hadn’t seen before.
And as the night wore on, the silences between them grew. They weren’t empty spaces, bereft of words. Instead they were overflows of unspoken understanding.
He laid his hand on hers. Tara smiled, savoured its warmth. Ulick stared at the table, as if scared to face her. When he lifted his gaze, it held an edge of recklessness, as if he’d made up his mind: about what, she could only guess. Her heart answered the plea she saw in his eyes. They rose from their seats simultaneously, leaned over the small table.
There were no preliminaries, no tentative explorations. Ulick played his tongue over her lips and she opened for him willingly. He plunged it deep into her mouth with a shocking suddenness. A warm weakness spread from her belly through the muscles of her pelvis, into her upper thighs. Her nipples
peaked into a pair of sensitive crowns under her bra.
Ulick steered her away from the table, drew her close to him. She gave her hands and fingers free rein to explore every plane and curve of his body as she had so longed to do, welcomed the sensation of his touch to her skin. As if he couldn’t get her close enough, he put his hands under her buttocks and lifted her from the floor to straddle his hips.
Oh, boy, did he want her badly. Her own desire flamed to fever pitch at the realization.
“Bedroom,” she whispered as he spread his kisses down her neck. He walked her down the passage without answering.
Later, when they lay entangled in the aftermath of the explosion between them, she placed her hand on his abdomen and asked the question that had been in the back of her mind since that first night.
“Ulick. Why, when I told you about my grandmother’s death, did you say ‘ah’?”
He chuckled. “What would ye have had me say?”
“There was meaning in that ‘ah’, Ulick. I heard it.”
For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then he pulled her closer, laid her head on his chest. His voice was a comforting rumble against her ear. “Why did ye choose to dig where ye found me? Was it chance, or did some matter guide yer decision?”
Tara hesitated. “Well . . . All my life, I’ve often felt this curious prickly feeling along my spine when I meet certain people. It usually goes away after a minute or so.” She felt silly for confessing this eccentricity, but the feeling was like chaff in the wind. This was a faerie she spoke to, after all. “When I arrived at the dig, I felt this prickle all the time. Non-stop. It got really irritating after a while. The dig supervisor told me to choose my own square to excavate. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
Ulick stroked her hair. “Continue, please.”
“I wandered around the edge of the dig and, because I felt miserable already, I chose the spot where the prickly feeling was worst.”
