Stranger Magics

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  “Threw me out,” she said softly, and coughed again. “Said I . . . I was no longer—”

  I grabbed my cast-off blanket and wrapped it around her while she hacked and wheezed. “Who said?” I demanded, though I feared I already knew the answer.

  Her fingertips grazed the rough wool, and her body shook again with her deep and rattling cough. “The queen said I was no longer needed. Time to go home. She . . . opened the gate on the road, where you had gone. I tried to . . . to find you . . .”

  By then, Eoin had joined us, and his knees creaked as he dropped into a crouch beside Étaín’s chair. “Where did you come from, my daughter?” he asked.

  She turned toward his voice, then reached out and touched his cheek. “Faerie,” she whispered. “I was fifty years away . . . Coileán?” she called, sensing my movement as I ran across the room for more blankets.

  “He’s here,” he soothed, wiping what was left of her hair from her face. “You’re safe, my dear, you’re safe.”

  I hurried back to her side to replace the dampened blanket with dry ones. “Here,” I said, wrapping her up, “don’t worry, I’ll fix it . . .”

  In an instant, Étaín’s wrinkles smoothed into the cheeks I knew so well, her hair thickened and regained its pale luster, and her beautiful eyes unclouded. But something was still wrong—her now youthful hand continued to grope for me, and her grip when she caught my wrist was weak. “Sweet boy,” she murmured, smiling sadly, “you can’t undo what time has done. The years . . .” She paused to cough, then spat a red stain onto the corner of the blanket. “The years caught up with me.” Étaín reached up until she found me, then patted my cheek. “I thank you for the gift, but I want my own face now.”

  I nodded, willing myself not to weep, and removed the glamour.

  She patted my face again, then turned to Eoin, who watched with obvious concern. “You . . . you’re a priest?” she asked.

  He took her free hand. “I am. Daughter, will you make your confession?”

  “I will,” she said, then coughed again. I held her up, trying to keep her from tumbling from the chair, and she panted when the fit subsided. “Father, please,” she rasped, “my Rónán . . . the blacksmith, my Rónán . . . and my boys, my sons . . .”

  He gently stroked her arm through the blanket. “Of course, my dear, I’ll send someone right away. Wait here, and I’ll return to hear your confession.”

  Eoin caught up with me when I was halfway to the door. “Through the church, son. My men are this way,” he said, catching my sleeve, and pulled me into the cold room. When the thick door closed behind us, he lowered his voice and shook his head. “We’ll wait here for a few minutes, then return to her.”

  “What about your men?” I cried, looking around the dark church for the door.

  He grabbed my shoulders and shook his head again. “There are no men,” he said softly. “And you’re not going on a fool’s errand.”

  “But . . . but Rónán—”

  “Is long dead.” The priest released me and sighed. “I knew the blacksmith Rónán when I was a boy. I played with his sons, and my aunt helped keep his house when his wife disappeared.” He pointed to the closed door and raised his eyebrow. “She was in Faerie all the while?”

  I nodded miserably.

  “Fifty years,” he murmured, folding his arms. “And perhaps it was a blessing. Raiders burned our village when I was fifteen. I was away, then—I was being trained for the priesthood,” he explained absently, “but they killed every man and boy, and they took the women they wanted. Rónán and his sons are long dead. She might be, too, had she been there. They even put a torch to the church.” His mouth tightened as he glanced at the door again. “I’ll tell her I’ve sent word. There’s no need to grieve her now. She’ll be with them again soon enough.”

  My stomach clenched. “With them . . .”

  Eoin must have sensed my distress, as he gripped my shoulders again and squeezed. “She has to be eighty, at least,” he said, “feeble, soaked, exhausted, and from the sound of it, sick. She’s coughing up blood.” His grip tightened as he stared me in the eyes. “I doubt she sees the dawn. Be strong for her.”

  He had me carry Étaín to his bed, and then he bundled her up, produced a small box and vessel, and sent me out of the room. They were alone together for nearly an hour, and when Eoin came for me again, I had moved close to the front of the church, where there was shelter from the wet wind and a bit of candlelight. “She’s resting,” he told me, and ran one hand through his thin hair. “And she’s made her peace with the Lord. I gave her something for the pain, but it’s not going to delay the inevitable.” I said nothing, and he nodded toward his apartment. “She told me about you. You should be there with her now, in case she wakes.”

  And so I kept vigil that long night, wrapped in a blanket beside Étaín’s deathbed. She woke for a few minutes every hour or so, muttered a word or two, and fell back into her fitful sleep. Her thin skin burned, even in the chill of the priest’s quarters.

  As dawn began to break through the window over the bed, Étaín’s unseeing eyes opened, and she looked past me to an empty place in the room. “Rónán,” she whispered, and beamed. “Oh, Rónán, I knew you would come . . .”

  I never knew, and I suppose I’ll never know, whether Étaín’s last words were the ravings of a fevered mind or something more. All I know is that she died with a look of happiness on her face, and that I held her hand long after it had gone cold.

  “The sun will rise tomorrow, God willing.” Eoin handed me another bowl of stew and put the lid back on the pot. “And she’s in a far better place, my son. Remember that.”

  I stared into the bowl, wondering what the point of eating was. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. But I have faith.” He took his seat again and sighed. “Coileán, she lived her span, maybe more. That’s all anyone can ask.”

  “I should have sent her home—”

  “To what? To this?” He put his bowl on the floor and pointed to the road beyond the apartment. “Her family was killed when you were a child. She had nothing here.”

  “It should have been her choice.”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged weakly. “She did love you, you know. That much she made abundantly clear to me. Asked me to help you. I promised I would.”

  I stared at the fire. “I promised her I’d be home soon.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “If I hadn’t left . . .”

  “It was her time. She knew it, and she made her peace.” He picked up his bowl again, but paused before tucking in. “I know what it’s like to lose a mother. Mine died trying to birth my sister when I was twelve. My father died the next summer, and then my family was lost to the raiders.” He reached across the space between us and planted his hand on my arm. “I know, Coileán. The pain fades. The sun rises. Life goes on.”

  “Étaín wasn’t my mother,” I mumbled.

  Eoin patted my shoulder. “Not all family is bound by blood, and not all mothers bear children.” His voice softened as he added, “There’s no shame in mourning her. Carry her with you, let her guide you. Remember what you learned at her knee.” He paused. “You’ve never known a death, have you?” I shook my head, and he patted my shoulder again. “Unfortunately, it’s the cost of living.”

  I spent a largely sleepless night on Eoin’s floor, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the scuffling sounds within the walls. Around dawn, as the fire was dying, I rose and tried to prod it back to life. After a moment’s experimentation, I managed to wrap my hand well enough to keep the iron poker from burning it, and with that success, I was emboldened to put the iron pot back on to reheat the last of the fish stew.

  Eoin rose soon thereafter, grunted with approval, and sat to break his fast. “I have a plan to get you to your father,” he explained as he ate. “I’ll write a letter to the abbot—he and I have been corresponding on matters of theology for years,” he said of
fhandedly, “so this will be nothing unusual. You can ride out, deliver the letter, and ask about the rosary. Agreed?”

  The plan sounded solid to me, and I stood by and watched as Eoin scratched out his note. Seeing me observing him, he asked, “Do you read?” I nodded, and he grunted again.

  After a final inspection of my clothes, he led me to his tiny barn, which housed an old skinny mare. “She’s gentle as a lamb,” he promised as I eyed the beast with caution. “I’ll saddle her, and you can be on your way.”

  This was far easier said than done. As I quickly discovered that morning, animals—which are far more sensitive to unseen forces than most humans will ever be—don’t like me. The horse shied away and reared when I came within striking distance, and Eoin frantically tried to calm her before she broke a wall down. When that failed, however, I screwed up my courage, grabbed the horse’s reins, and stared at her nose. She fought the enchantment I threw at her, but with sufficient effort, I managed to drag her under my control. “She’ll be fine,” I insisted as I awkwardly climbed on top of her.

  “Just bring her back in one piece,” Eoin replied, unconvinced, and watched until we disappeared around the bend.

  The monastery was located on the far side of the little mountain, a relatively brief trip made intolerable by the bouncing of the bony horse, who wanted nothing more than to trample my corpse into the dirt. I managed to hold her steady until I reached my destination, another stone-walled compound, then turned her over to a confused novice who couldn’t understand why the mare was in such a hurry to escape me.

  The abbot received me in his cell and accepted the letter from Eoin with a smile. “My old friend is going to think himself into trouble one of these days,” he laughed when he finished reading, “but would you mind waiting until I write a response?”

  “It’s no trouble,” I replied, then pulled out my beads before the abbot could begin drafting. “Please—Father Eoin said you might know who owns these.”

  The old monk took the beads from me, peered at them, and then nodded slowly. “Yes,” he murmured, giving me a more studied look, “I think I might.” He beckoned to the novice at the door, then quietly said, “Please bring Brother Finnén.”

  The abbot, at least, had the decency not to ask about the beads’ provenance, instead limiting our conversation to the weather and his hopes for a pleasant summer. Soon enough, I heard returning footsteps, and as I rose from my chair and turned, I saw the novice shepherd an old man into the room. He had been tall at one point, I surmised, but the years had bent him, and his dark robe hung loosely off his shoulders. He was bald but for a gray ring around his temples, but his eyes were still bright and green.

  “Brother Finnén,” the abbot said, gesturing to me, “this young man has brought me something that I believe might be yours.”

  He frowned, but then the abbot pressed the beads into his hands, and he began to tremble. He stared at me in shock, and the abbot cleared his throat. “Finnén, perhaps you could show our guest around while I write this letter.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, and the abbot smiled.

  I said nothing as we slowly walked down the stone hallway, letting him set the pace. He turned the beads over and over in his shaking fingers, then held them to his lips, kissed them, and slipped them into his pocket. Before I could inquire, he stopped at the door to another cell, then stepped aside and beckoned me in.

  The room was bare but for a straw pallet, a stool, and a few unknown items I assumed to be of religious significance. Something about the room perplexed me—I thought I could sense more magic than I had elsewhere in that realm—but I tried not to let on.

  “Water?” he asked, his voice creaking with disuse, and pointed to a pitcher across the cell. I shook my head, and he helped himself to three glasses in rapid succession before returning to me.

  I could only stare back at him, into a face that could well have been mine if I suffered time’s ravages.

  He took my hands and bent close to me. “Did Amadeus send you?” he whispered.

  “Amadeus?” I echoed, confused.

  He nodded. “Does he live yet?”

  I peered into his mind for a clue, and suddenly, I realized the extent of what Mother had done to the poor man.

  An inn some miles away, one wild night and decades before. A beautiful young man with honey-colored hair and flashing dark eyes, Amadeus, beloved of God. Finnén, a handsome youth of twenty-three, waylaid on his return to the monastery, smitten with the sort of lust he had tried for years to tame. Amadeus flirted and cajoled, and his smile, though enticing, had a frozen core.

  They rutted in secret in a dark corner of the barn, the young monk and the beautiful stranger, watched only by a pair of sleepy horses and the innkeeper’s mutt, an old cur he unimaginatively called Coileán—pup. Amadeus took Finnén’s rosary as a prize when he slipped away the next morning, never to be seen again. Finnén was left with broken vows, years of guilt, and a nagging suspicion that there was something otherworldly about his lover.

  Seeing my father’s hopeful face and knowing what Mother had done, I wanted to throw up. Instead, I squeezed his hands and took a deep breath. “Amadeus lives.”

  His smile lit up his craggy face. “Is he still beautiful?”

  “He is.”

  My father’s smile faltered. “He was too beautiful—I’ve never seen his like, not in all these years. I always supposed that he was of the aes sídhe,” he added, laughing hesitantly as if worried that I wouldn’t believe him.

  I nodded.

  “He is?”

  I nodded again, struggling for words.

  He sighed. “And you, sir . . . you are come from him?”

  His eyes—my eyes—showed a spark of fear, but I had to press on. “Finnén,” I said softly, keeping my grip on his hands, “the man you knew as Amadeus . . . he is no man.”

  “Yes, I understand,” he replied. “He comes from the aes sídhe—”

  “Besides that,” I interrupted. “He is, uh . . . a woman.” My father’s face clouded, and I hurriedly explained, “Whatever you saw, whatever you . . . did, she masked her true nature. She can do that. I . . . I’m terribly sorry for the deception, I didn’t know until . . .”

  His eyes widened, and he freed himself from my grip. Raising my chin with two fingers, he whispered, “Amadeus . . . is she—”

  I saw the thought before he could finish it. “My mother.”

  He stared at me anew, finally seeing the years peeled away from his own reflection, and with a wordless cry, he pulled me to his breast.

  We spoke in his cell until nightfall, when the novice finally sought him out for prayers. My father sent him away with a promise to hurry, then embraced me one last time. “I have one request,” he whispered. “Something I found in the field, it . . . makes me feel odd. Would you look at it?”

  “Of course,” I replied, and waited while he dug a wrapped bundle out of his mattress. When he removed the cloths, I saw a golden ball in his palms and realized where the smell of magic was coming from. I took it from him, turned it over, and frowned. “It’s magical, but I don’t know its provenance,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Do you want it?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve no need of it. But . . .” I hesitated, considering the ball again. “This shouldn’t be left in the wrong hands.”

  “Agreed. Perhaps you could . . . hide it for me? I don’t want the abbot to know about it,” he confessed in a rush. “He knows about Amadeus, and if this were to come to his attention . . .”

  “It won’t.” I thought for a moment, then produced a crystal cube slightly larger than the ball. The ball went inside, and I filled the cube with water before I sealed it shut. “The water will dampen the magic, and the crystal should block the rest,” I explained; the scent had faded already. With a flick of two fingers, a large stone flew out of the cell wall, and I slipped the cube inside and repaired the hole. Within seconds, the
wall was unmarred, and I grinned. “Problem solved.”

  My father’s face showed his relief. “I wish I could offer you something,” he said. “What you see around you, this is all I have.”

  “I want for nothing,” I replied, smiling again for him. “And I’ll trouble you no more . . .”

  He squeezed my shoulder in silent thanks, then reached up and pressed his palm against my head. “All I can give you is a father’s blessing,” he said. “Be strong. Grow in wisdom. Walk with God.” He released me and smiled sadly, and I offered him my arm for the walk back to the abbot’s cell.

  We parted company outside the abbot’s door, and the novice led him off toward the voices in the distant chapel. The abbot’s letter had been left for me, long dried and sealed, and I took my leave by starlight.

  Eoin seemed surprised to see me that night with both the letter and the horse. “A success?” he inquired as I jumped away from the irate mare, which would have run for the hills had he not grabbed it.

  “A success,” I replied, and waited outside the barn as he tended to the beast.

  When he emerged again, Eoin dusted off his hands and stared up at the cloudless heavens. “So, young man . . . where do you go from here?”

  I followed his eyes to the unfamiliar constellations. “I can’t go back.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Something’s keeping you here?”

  “No. But if I go home, I’ll probably try to kill my mother.”

  Eoin nodded. “Matricide is seldom a wise idea, Coileán.” He cleared his throat and looked away from the stars. “Any experience in the field?”

  “None,” I replied.

  “Can you cook?”

  “No.”

  “Willing to learn?”

  I looked at him inquisitively, and the priest shrugged. “I’m not as spry as I once was. You want to think things over, find your path—I could use a bit of help around the place, I suppose.”

  I nodded, considering this. “No magic, I assume.”