Legacy of Luck

by Christy Nicholas

  “Wait, I’m not finished with the story yet. Each person gets some sort of power. Nothing dramatic, like lightning out of the sky, or the ability to fly like an eagle, but subtle. It is usually … suitable to your personality.

  “Not everyone is able to bear the brooch, either. Ruari, though I love him dearly, could never hold the power. Neither could Ciaran, bless his feckless soul. My mother passed it on to me.”

  “Your mother? Not O’Carolan?”

  “No, no. If O’Carolan did get his music from the Fair Folk, then it wasn’t through this brooch. That must have been a separate magic. No, this brooch came to my mother’s mother, through her kin.”

  “What was her… her gift?”

  “She had a dangerous gift, indeed, a touch of prophecy. It almost got her killed a couple times, and may have driven her mad in the end. That, along with my own experiences, taught me well. It must be kept secret, you see. The church would not be happy to see such a pagan artifact.”

  Éamonn remembered hearing of a witch burnt at the stake fifty years before in Ulster. He shuddered at such a horrible death. And Ruari mightn’t be clever enough to keep such a thing secret. Ciaran would simply brag about such a gift.

  “How do you decide to whom it should go?”

  “There are several requirements, I’ve been told. The person must be clever enough to keep the secret, as I said. He or she must be on a quest. That’s an important part—the seeking. The brooch might help you find it. But until you are attuned to it, you don’t know what it might bring you. Then you must perform a ceremony, and ask to be accepted by the Fair Folk.”

  “And you’re thinking I might… get… a useful power?”

  “You might. And you might not. It might bring you the ability to heal, or find things, or hear voices of the dead. Or it might be something else we can’t think of.”

  “How do I… attune to it?”

  “Do you want to try? It’s not a gentle process.”

  What did his father mean? He thought about his options for several long moments. He swallowed. “I must try. It’s the only chance Katie and I have left.”

  Nodding, Turlough stood, his knees creaking with age. Éamonn stood, ill at ease.

  His father led him outside the circle. “Wait here. I’ll walk around the circle with the brooch, and then we will both do so. Then we enter the circle and drink wine, and offer some to the Fae.”

  It sounded so… wickedly pagan. Like a witches’ sabbat. He crossed himself. His father slapped at his hand.

  “None of that, Éamonn. This is Fae magic. You will not doubt that in a moment. They don’t take kindly to such gestures.”

  Guiltily, he dropped his hands. How much time did they have left before the wedding?

  Turlough marched around the outside of the circle while brandishing a silver cup. He went widdershins, opposite of sunwise, chanting under his breath. Not quite Irish, not English. Not even the Traveler’s Cant. Éamonn couldn’t make out all the words.

  He blinked. No, he hadn’t imagined it. A glow came from his father’s hands. It glowed sort of greenish-blue, like his own eyes. He rubbed them, certain he dreamt. It’s all a load of superstitious tripe, isn’t it? As much as he loved his father, he couldn’t believe—

  No, he saw a definite a glow there. It pulsed and moved, like the northern lights in the palm of his father’s hand.

  He heard an unearthly hum in the ground.

  Was the ground shaking? Did the earth or his own knees shake? Regardless, this was no dream. It truly was an inexplicable, magical event. Something to do with the Fair Folk, the Sídhe. Those creatures that lived below the ground, full of magic and mischief.

  Stories of the Fair Folk were told to every child in Ireland. These weren’t those little play faeries seen in etchings. These were crafty, cruel, and sometimes downright nasty creatures who lived in the world below the earth. Even buff, strong men who feared nothing in the mortal realm would leave a saucer of cream out for the Fair Folk. To insult them meant you’d be plagued by disaster and disease for generations. To please them sometimes meant a precious gift.

  Like the brooch.

  Turlough made his way all the way around the large circle of stones and reached for Éamonn’s arm. Éamonn’s last chance to escape this frightening ritual came, but he couldn’t flee. He had to try, for Katie. He closed his eyes and walked next to his father.

  He walked on a cloud. The ground disappeared under his feet as they walked around. He rose higher and higher, walking on nothing but good intentions and laughter. He imagined he was flying, a heady sensation. The mists swirled and danced. Dancers gyrated in the fog.

  Dancers?

  There were figures in the mist. They were blue, green, and purple. They were catching the bits of light emanating from his father’s hand, from the brooch. They danced and flew, weaving through the stones. Sparkling bits of light danced with them, swirling around like ribbons.

  Turlough sang strange words, now. His voice sounded smooth and true, and his tone strong. Years fell from his face whenever he sang, but now he appeared young again, younger even than Éamonn. He sang as the lights danced, and they completed their circuit. Éamonn had never heard a sound so beautiful and heartbreaking in his life.

  Éamonn had no sense of time. The stones were glowing in different colors, too. Pinks and yellows had joined the blues and greens. The occasional piercing points of white sparkled around him, like fireflies on a lazy summer evening, making his eyes ache from the shimmering spectacle.

  The dancers were singing, as well. Their voices were sublime. The sound passed through the marrow of his bones, ripping through his blood like a winter storm.

  Turlough held out the brooch. Éamonn took several deep breaths and accepted it.

  A force slammed into his chest, and he fell onto the marshy grass. He couldn’t see or breathe, as if ten burly men the size of Ruari stomped on his chest. Éamonn choked, trying to get one good breath into his lungs. His fingers and toes were burning, and his blood boiled. The sounds from some sort of battle came—a mighty war between a huge host of men. There were death cries and shouts of triumph ripping through his brain. Ravens cawed and pecked at his eyes. Hoof beats pounded through his skull, and the cold kiss of a deadly bronze blade was on his neck.

  Finally, he could breathe again, but it seared his throat. Someone screamed, but he recognized his own voice. That’s why his throat hurt. Belatedly, he stopped.

  He couldn’t see because his eyes remained closed. He tried to open them. They refused to obey him. He tried again and closed them again. The air appeared too bright.

  Slowly, he cracked one eye, and his father stood over him, surrounded by swirling white mists and a few last sparkles of color. A couple of long, blond locks were tickling his nose. He sneezed.

  “Ah, well, that’s better then. It takes it out of you, as I recall, but you’ll recover well enough. It’s better to do this when you’re young and strong.”

  “Gaahhkkk!”

  “Yes, I expect so. Come on, I’ll help you up.”

  Even with Turlough’s help, it took a great deal of creaking and groaning to get Éamonn back onto the now ice-cold altar stone. He shivered, despite his good wool cloak.

  The stones were now colored purple. A thread of ice went down his spine.

  “It’s always powerful the first time. It’s much easier later on.”

  “Later on? I have to do this again?”

  “No, no, like I said, the first time is the worst. Later, you can come back to the stones—any standing stones will do, mind you—to get more power or a good soul rest. It’s why I come here to meditate. It helps me relax and heal.”

  Éamonn nodded, though he didn’t really understand.

  “How do I… how do I know what my gift is?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no one way to tell. It depends on what it is.”

  “So, I just try things and see if I can do them better? Or is there a test?”

&n
bsp; “No, it’s trial and error.”

  “But that might take weeks. Months! And we don’t even have an hour left!”

  “I did say it was a long shot. I thought perhaps it might be an obvious power, which might manifest quickly.” Turlough looked him up and down, searching for changes. “But I don’t see anything different at first glance, I’m afraid.”

  Éamonn considered what might have changed about him. His mind blanked, and he panicked.

  “I’ve got to get back, Da. I can’t waste any more time on this Fae shite.”

  Turlough appeared frightened as he glanced around. “Éamonn! You can’t insult the Fae in their own place! Surely I’ve taught you better than that! They were just here! Surely you saw them? Heard them? You must be more cautious! Just because our ancestor helped out a Druid doesn’t mean we are immune to Fae revenge!”

  Éamonn stormed off as well as he could on marshy land. His father had wasted so much precious time on this. Such a trifling chance. Even if he did get some mystical gift, it would take days or weeks to find it. He wanted to hit everything as he rushed through the bog grasses. He slapped every stone he went by and tried to push them with his mind. He tried to jump a few times. Maybe he could fly?

  Several more ideas came to him as he pushed through the reeds. He tried lifting things and making lightning, he tried hearing voices. Eventually, his anger faded as his curiosity increased. How could he tell if he had any real impact, though? He stopped for a moment.

  Éamonn’s frustration increased as he walked. So useless. How could he figure out such a thing so quickly? He pushed forward through the grasses once again.

  His father caught up with him. “Éamonn! Have you lost your senses? You need to apologize for your disrespect to the Old Ones. You’ll call down their mischief.”

  Mischief was a much too mild word for the revenge folks had suffered when angering the Fair Folk. Chastened, Éamonn relented. “Fair enough, Da.”

  Lifting his voice to the still-thick fog, he said, “I apologize for any offense I may have offered in my ignorance.” He bowed awkwardly to the marshes around them.

  Calmer, he asked, “Da, have you any idea how to help me find this talent?”

  Turlough shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “Time and patience, perhaps some experimenting, it’s the only advice I have.”

  “We’ll go back and ask them!” He had already half turned around when his father grabbed his arm.

  “Well, I suppose, but… no! Wait, Éamonn! No, you cannot go and ask them. They aren’t a friendly neighbor or a landlord… but…” Turlough stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “Éamonn, try to convince me of something.”

  “What?”

  “Make a case for some horrible idea. Try really hard to make me believe in it.”

  Éamonn thought perhaps his father had finally lost it, but he shrugged and said, “I think we should go sailing to America tonight.”

  Turlough rolled his eyes. “Is this the best you can do? Feel it, man. Pour energy into the sale. Pretend you’re convincing Katie’s father to let her marry you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Éamonn gripped his father’s arms and said, “America’s streets are paved with gold, Da! Everyone knows it. Come with me tonight, and we’ll be there come morning.”

  Turlough laughed loud and strong. “That’s it, lad! You’ve got it!”

  “Got what? Have I caught insanity from you?” He had to smile at his father’s hilarity, but in the back of his mind, the minutes were ticking away.

  “Persuasion, son. When you first suggested we go and ask the Fae about your gift, I actually thought it was a good plan, even though I know full well it’s a horrible idea. When you put your heart into it just now, I really felt as if we should run off to America and become wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.”

  “Persuasion? You mean, I can convince people to do what they don’t want?” He pressed his hand to his temple as his head ached.

  Turlough lifted his eyebrows. “It appears so, at least for a short time. Certainly, I’ve no wish to go to America, yet, I felt ready to hop on the boat for you a moment ago.”

  “Hmmm. That definitely has possibilities. But how can it help Katie now?”

  Both men stood silently as they thought. Éamonn thought of convincing Katie’s father he was a better match than Lochlann, but if it faded so quickly, that would do no good. Could he persuade the priest it wasn’t a legal match? Again, the temporary nature of his gift made it a silly notion.

  “Da, if I could count on any length of time… but as it is, anything we try will fade too quickly. I’ll just have to try something else—I must get back. Will you come with me? Maybe we can still stop this wedding after all.” He smiled wanly. His earlier dismissal of his father’s help shamed him now.

  With a resigned sigh, Turlough put his hand on his son’s lean back. “All right, son, let’s go see what we may do.”

  When they got back to the fairgrounds, they made straight for the chapel area. No building stood there, but a clearing worked, and the local priest, Father Byrne, was willing to conduct Mass every Sunday during the festivities. The Mass wedding was scheduled for today, the last Sunday of the event. There would still be people hanging about for a few days. However, for most, this would be the culmination of three weeks of racing, trading, dealing, wooing, and finally, marrying.

  Someone went to a great deal of trouble to decorate the area, now the rain had stopped. Trees grew around the edge, and these were draped with colorful bunting and early spring flowers. Dusk hadn’t yet fallen, but lanterns were already lit around the place the priest used as an altar, draped with white vestments and other accoutrements. A procession of young children had already passed halfway through the center aisle. About ten couples were being wed today, which drew several hundred spectators.

  Éamonn scanned the crowd desperately for his Katie but didn’t spy her red, curly hair among the wedding group. He switched his search for Lochlann. The kernel of a plan had begun in his head. Certainly a desperation move, but all he had.

  He caught a glimpse of flyaway blond hair and steadied his gaze. There stood Lochlann, tapping at his fingers. His brother Donald glowered next to him. The glower deepened as he saw Éamonn approaching.

  “I have a proposal to you, Lochlann.”

  “It can wait, Doherty. We have a ceremony to do first,” Donald growled.

  Éamonn put his hand on Lochlann’s arm. “No, it can’t. It’s about the ceremony. Lochlann, can I talk to you in private?”

  “No. Now bugger off.” Donald shoved his way in front of his meeker brother.

  Lochlann said, “Donald, let’s hear him out.”

  “We’ve nothing to say to the dirty beggar. Now clear off, or I’ll make sure you do.”

  Éamonn said, “Lochlann! I’ll play you for her.”

  None of them spoke for a long moment.

  Lochlann turned around slowly, head cocked. “What? What do you mean?”

  “We’ll play dice for the privilege of marrying Caitriona O’Malley. If I win, I can marry her, but you still get the saddle Ciaran made. If you win, you get the girl anyhow. Her father can keep the horse either way, so the deal is still made and your reputation is intact. Either way, you win. What do you say?”

  Éamonn had spoken the words in a long rush, trying to put his heart into it as his Da said, pushing the power through. Now held his breath, waiting for the answer. This was the only chance he had left. He hoped his luck wouldn’t fail him now.

  Lochlann blinked several times, his brow furrowed. He shook his head.

  “C’mon, Lochlann. You can’t lose! You know it makes sense.”

  Donald stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  Éamonn tried to push his power into Donald as well but it slipped aside, like water off rocks.

  “I don’t trust him, Lochlann. Don’t even try it.”

  “It might not be a bad idea—”

  “No! We have the girl.
No sense in gambling her away.” He turned back to Éamonn, “Now, feck off, Doherty!”

  Éamonn saw a flash of violence and rage from Donald, more than just his words or actions could account for. A red maelstrom of vicious hostility swirled before him, and a wave of nausea swept over him.

  A glance at Lochlann indicated the younger man would go along with his brother’s dismissal. In Lochlann he saw calm, blue water, a shallow pond. So much for the much-vaunted gift from the Fae.

  Defeated, Éamonn slumped off. He had tried his last gambit and failed. What else could he do? He stumbled off to the bushes and vomited.

  Retreating to Turlough’s side, he had no need to explain. His expression surely showed his despair.

  Clapping a hand on Éamonn’s back, Turlough glared at him.

  “Did you try to use the power at all?”

  “Of course I did, Da! It just makes me sick.”

  “Aye, that’s the price. The harder you use it, the sicker you get. But that’s all you did?”

  “I… I think I saw something else. It was a vision, a glimpse of… something. Donald was covered with anger and hate, red and swirling, while Lochlann was like a still blue pond.”

  “Hmmm. Sort of a painting of their feelings, perhaps? Or their intentions?”

  Éamonn shrugged. He had no idea what he had seen, or if it was anything but insane apparitions, brought on by his headache.

  Ruari and Ciaran had joined them, and he brought them up to date on the marriage prospects. Ruari clapped a hand on Éamonn’s shoulder, while Ciaran just shook his head.

  They all watched as the last of the procession came through the aisle. Now the brides would come, dressed in varying shades of blue for their wedding. Most of them were young ladies, but there were two older women. Widows remarrying, perhaps, or the lucky spinster who finally found someone who suited her.

  Each girl found her groom and stood beside him. Some gazed up to their prospective mates with love-sick eyes, others with calm affection or nervous smiles. Katie didn’t look at Lochlann at all. She stared straight forward as if she withstood a form of torture. And perhaps she did, at that. It must have been akin to his own anguish. Katie hadn’t even looked around for him as she walked through. She must have imagined he had abandoned her to her fate. The idea stung him in the heart more surely than the notion of her marrying Lochlann.