After his wife dies in childbirth, Turlough decides his children will be better off with their aunt. He leaves in the middle of the night, with only his son, Ruari. Turlough and Ruari travel west to find music, the other true love in Turlough’s life. Unwittingly sleeping under an ancient Faerie stone, they wake up in Faerie. Amidst enchanting music, they almost lose their souls before they escape with their lives. When they returns, Turlough finds two years have passed, though he’s only been gone two weeks. His mother is waiting for him with the gift of a magical brooch.
TURLOUGH'S TALE
Druid’s Brooch Series, extra
Christy Nicholas
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2017 Christy Nicholas
Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)
Editor: Sharon Pickrel
Proofreader: Barbara Whary
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
To my author group, who encouraged me to write something rather shorter than
a novel.
TURLOUGH'S TALE
Druid’s Brooch Series, extra
Christy Nicholas
Glasán, Ireland, 1735
Time. He needed more time. And that was the one thing he couldn’t control.
Turlough held his wife’s hand. She was so incredibly thin. He didn’t want to squeeze for fear of breaking her bones. This would be their fifth child. He prayed that Maeve would live long enough to hold the child in her arms.
She moaned again, and he glanced at the midwife. The woman shook her head and closed her eyes. The tears pummeled at his eyes as he closed his own.
Maeve was the joy in his life. His whole reason for being. She’d never been strong, but this pregnancy had wasted her to a frail husk.
She strained against the pain and screamed. The tears in his eyes burst forth, and his throat closed. The coppery smell of hot blood infused the small, dark room.
A thin scream cut the air, and a small bundle squirmed in the midwife’s arms. Maeve’s hand went limp in his own.
“No! No, Maeve, no! You can’t die on me now, my love, you can’t! Wake up, Maeve! Maeve, please, please, no please, no…”
His throat choked off any more words, and he cried. His beloved wife’s hand was flaccid in his own, but he refused to relinquish it. It was still warm. She must still be here. She mustn’t leave him.
The child’s wail turned to a whimper as the midwife bundled it in cloth and cooed over it. Turlough didn’t even want to know if it was a boy or a girl. He had no wish to see the child who killed his wife.
The midwife left, and he was alone with his wife’s body, but he couldn’t see her any more through the tears. His sobs wracked through him, and he fell over her. He lay there for hours, begging her to return.
The voice of his eldest son broke through his grief. “Da? Da, it’s time. Get up.”
“Éamonn, go away.”
His son, only ten years old, tugged on his arm. “Da, please. Auntie Bridie is here. They need to take Ma away. It’s time to prepare her.”
“I said go away!” He flailed back, pushing Éamonn. He glanced back as the boy fell on the dirt floor, shock on his young face.
Turlough stroked Maeve’s cheek, her skin a dead, alien thing now. There was no warmth left, no trace of the life and vitality he so loved. Her musical laugh, her curly blonde hair, her sad smile.
Another tug on his arm made him glance up at his second son, Ruari. Though he was only eight, he was a taller than Éamonn. Together they pulled him away from his wife’s body.
It was dark outside. How had it become dark? He had gone into the cottage at dawn. His mind was in a fog. He let his sons lead him to their own cottage, away from his wife.
He turned to get back to the midwife’s home. “Maeve! Maeve!” His sons held him, but he dragged them closer to the door.
His sister, Niamh, stood in the way, her arms crossed.
“Turlough, you must go home. We have work to do here.”
He struggled until he got loose from his son’s grip. “No, I must stay with her. You can’t keep me from her!”
“I cannot, ‘tis true. But they can.” She nodded, and his arms were held once again. It was no longer his young sons’ hands, though. Now it was the grip of two full-grown men. His brother and his sister’s husband held him fast and pulled him away.
Liam and Enda manhandled him into his small cottage and pushed him into a chair. Liam put his hands on Turlough’s shoulders while Enda rustled in the cupboard. He tried to rise, but Liam held him still. “What are you looking for?”
Enda said nothing, but grunted as he held up a half-empty dark bottle.
Liam chuckled. “I knew you had something hidden away, Turlough. Now’s the best time for it.”
Enda opened the bottle and poured half into a mug. He placed it in front of Turlough. “Now drink.”
Turlough stared at the mug. The liquid was deep amber, but looked black as ink in the mug.
Liam shook his shoulders but didn’t let go. “Come on, Tur. You’ve never been reluctant to take a drink before. Don’t start now.”
The dark liquid rippled and swirled as the motion moved the table. He lost himself in the pattern.
“Turlough. Take the feckin’ drink already. You need this.”
He picked up the mug and gazed into the depths one more time before he flung it against the wall. The whiskey splashed against the white walls. He had no wish to numb the pain. He deserved this pain. He was the one who had gotten Maeve with child again. He had killed her.
Enda muttered, “Bloody hell. A waste of good drink.”
When they finally left, after having put him in bed, Turlough stared at the thatched ceiling. He listened to his children sleeping. Éamonn wheezed from too much crying. Ruari snored slightly. The girls, Fionnuala and Etain, whimpered as they slept in each other’s arms. The babe…he didn’t even know if the child was a boy or a girl. Niamh hadn’t returned after finding a wet-nurse.
He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t face the child who had taken his Maeve from him. He couldn’t even face his eldest. He’d be useless as a father. Worse than useless. Niamh would take far better care of his children than he. It’d be a grand favor to them if he disappeared.
The night was still ink-dark when he carefully wrapped his large harp and strapped the bag to his back. The dawn had barely lightened the sky to indigo when he stepped outside.
“Da? Where are you going?”
Ruari stood behind him, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Shh, Ruari. Go back to sleep.”
His son frowned. “But where are you going? Can I go?”
“No, I must go alone. You keep good care of your sisters, aye? And keep Éamonn out of trouble.”
“No one can keep Éamonn out of trouble, Da! Please, let me come.”
Turlough had no tears left,
but his throat still closed. He crouched and hugged his son fiercely. Ruari sobbed into his shoulder.”
“The road is no place for a boy, Ruari.”
“I know I’m not clever like Éamonn, but I’m tall for my age, you always say, Da. I can help you. I can’t stay here…with Ma gone, I need you.”
How could he say no to that?
Turlough wrote a quick note on a scrap of vellum. Niamh couldn’t read it, but she’d take it to the priest. He took Ruari’s hand, and they walked into the misty dawn.
* * *
A week later, Turlough and Ruari sat under a rock overhang, watching the torrent of rain.
It had been a rough journey so far. They’d left Glasán and traveled west. He didn’t know why the west drew him. Myths and legends cloaked the western isles in magic and music. Perhaps he might capture some of that music for his own. He must write them down tonight.
They’d made it to the western shore just as the rain started. They sheltered under a set of several rocks on the head of a creek south of Órán Mór. He wanted to see the ocean, but all he saw was mist and rain.
He’d always loved his harp and played it well, or so everyone said. His mother had been friends with the great Bard, Turlough O’Carolan. The rumors said O’Carolan was his own father, but his mother refused to say. Regardless, the love of music was true enough.
He ate the last bit of bread, earned from the last village. His harp had earned it for them, stroked to life by his own fingers. Ruari had eaten his portion and lay asleep next to him, his warm body curled up under his arm. Singing for food and shelter was all well and good in the romantic tales, but the poor folk of the countryside had little extra to share, even with a skilled entertainer.
He didn’t know if the sun had set or not. The storm clouds grew so low and dark, it might have been noon or twilight. He wanted to take his harp out and play away the surrounding dreariness. It may not touch the dreariness within him, but it might help his son. However, the wet would do horrible damage to the strings. Best leave it wrapped and dry.
Beneath the chatter of raindrops on stone, something else caught his attention. A low melody, twinkling in the darkening day.
That was impossible. There couldn’t be anyone out there playing a flute. Not in this deluge; the sound would never reach them. But as he concentrated, a definite tune caressed him.
The music was truly lovely. Each note was clear, despite the noise of the storm and occasional roll of thunder. It invaded his mind and danced through his imagination. It was delightful. He closed his eyes to savor the music, entranced in its intricacy. The ecstasy was like no other. He rode upon wings of wonder in this perfect music.
When it stopped, he gasped in pain. No! He must find it again. He must hear more. He must learn it and play it for himself. Standing, he looked out to the wall of water before him.
The movement roused his son. Ruari groused and sat up. “Da?”
“Shh, son. All is well. I just moved, sorry.”
Ruari looked outside. “Will it ever stop, Da?”
Turlough laughed. “This is Ireland, son. It never truly stops raining. That’s why the land is so green.”
Ruari made a rude sound, and Turlough laughed again.
“Da, I dreamed Ma was here. She sang to me.”
The tears returned. “What did she sing?”
“I don’t know, but I didn’t want her to stop.”
He hugged Ruari tight, but couldn’t get the tune out of his head. He hummed under his breath, trying to capture the notes and keep them in his memory.
Ruari cried out. “That’s it! That’s the song.”
The lad must have heard the music in his sleep even as Turlough heard it awake. He wanted to find it, track down the musicians, but where could they possibly be? There were no towns nearby. The music was never birdsong. It was too intricate, too nuanced to be natural. He touched the flat, sloped rock above him. The damp moss springy under his hand slipped as he pulled himself up to gaze out.
Ruari put his hand in his. “Da? You’re not going out in that, are you?”
Cut free from enchantment by the edge of concern in his son’s voice, Turlough shifted his intent. “No, lad. I think I’ll try to sleep. You do the same, aye?”
Ruari didn’t answer, but curled up with his head on his bag. Turlough smiled at the contented expression on his sleeping son’s face. Perhaps this escape was doing the lad some good, after all.
Perhaps the overwhelming loss of Maeve finally allowed a few scraps of other memories into his grieving soul. He missed his children terribly.
He thought of Éamonn, his eldest, his wild child. The tall, blond lad was always getting into scrapes, japes, and scandals.
Ruari, his second son, was a rock, steady and strong, despite his tender years. He could be relied upon not to run off, get in trouble, or cause a fuss. He was sometimes slow to learn new things, but he held onto whatever he learned, such as building a fire, as he’d done this evening. Turlough was glad he’d given into the boy’s insistence on coming.
Sweet Etain, quiet and careful. She rarely spoke, but when she did, people listened. Her love of music almost matched his own.
And Fionnuala, little Fionnuala. She held everyone’s heart in her hands.
Turlough pulled out a scrap of hide and jotted down the fleeting fragments of the music he’d remembered before it vanished from memory. His beloved music of the Western Isles was no longer enough. Whatever this new music was, he must possess it, remember it, share it.
He’d tried to teach both his boys to write. Despite his diligence in overseeing their practice, that’s all it was for them—practice. Turlough himself had learned from his grandfather, who had worked in a Chief’s castle in County Clare. His mother would take Turlough to visit frequently. After he learned his lesson for the day, they’d play together on his wee makeshift harp, and they’d sing by the fire. His grandfather was long since passed, but his mother still lived near there, as far as he knew. Perhaps if writing hadn’t meshed with his love of music, it wouldn’t have stayed with him, either.
Writing was a rare skill in such as himself, poor as he was. Most of his personal wealth was tied in the harp he carried. Though he usually only used writing to mark down music, Turlough wanted to give his sons that gift. Éamonn…Éamonn never really saw the value in the skill. Perhaps now that Ruari had experienced the sweetness of music himself, he would retain it. Together, father and son teasing out the melody from their memories—Turlough almost woke his son to do exactly that, but saw the peaceful expression Ruari had in sleep and left his child alone.
When sleep finally came for Turlough, it was on the wings of that exquisite melody.
* * *
Turlough stretched and opened his eyes to light.
The strange glow that penetrated his once-closed eyelids, now in full view made everything golden, like countryside just before the sun sets. There were no long shadows. The light was from nowhere and yet existed everywhere.
He whispered as he looked around. “Ruari? Ruari, wake up.”
“Da? I heard the music again.”
As Ruari spoke, Turlough heard the distant strains as well.
Their stone covering was gone, replaced by undulating branches. The tree swayed like a willow in the wind, but there was no breeze. The color of the terrain was wrong. It wasn’t Ireland’s moisture-rich, rain-laden green—instead deep russet, shifting back and forth to burnt orange as fronds of bracken waved and danced to the music’s rhythm.
That achingly sweet melody entwined within Turlough, pulling him to his feet. He barely remembered to grab his bag with its precious harp and his son’s hand before he walked toward the sound.
“Da! Da, wait,” Ruari cried out, pulling against the strength of his father’s hand. “I need my bag!”
Turlough gave him his freedom, though it was tortuous to wait for his son to pack his bag and catch up with him. His feet ached to run, faster and faster toward that tune.
Find the musician, learn the music. Be part of that magic.
When Ruari again clasped his hand, Turlough pulled his son along the path in the newly discovered terrain.
The stones under their feet shifted hues, like a rainbow splaying sparkling colors through the ground. Trees on either side of the meandering path were at once ordered and chaotic. The trees funneled them through to a yet unknown destination.
Strange creatures flew by, neither butterfly nor bird. Their twinkling wings teased his ears. Curiosity locked him into the direction of their flight, adding to the enticement of the mystical music beyond.
Everything grew brighter. Was it the light or their perception that changed?
A tall spire, laden with impossible slender blue arches, rose in the distance. The spire’s stone, if that’s what it was, sparkled in the non-sunlight. It glittered in waves in time to the music. If Turlough wasn’t already driven by desire and determination, he would stop to be entranced by the vision. Instead, he continued, propelled, enticed to the largest arch, to what he assumed was the entrance to this magical place.
As soon as he walked across the threshold, the music faded to inaudible. Turlough cried out in pain, the absence of tune was an incredible loss. The desperation of his soul screamed an immense need to regain it.
Ruari was pulling his arm away, away from the magic. “Da! What are you doing? We can’t go in there!”
He turned and looked at his son. “I must, Ruari! I must find the source of the melody. Can’t you understand?”
Turlough tried to let go of his son’s hand, but Ruari held him fast. “That’s a bad place, Da! Can’t you see it?”
A small pedestal stood next to the path, and it seemed to glow with an internal light. Turlough glanced and saw a small silver flute, playing the tune that haunted him. No one played the flute, but the music itself came forth from the exquisite instrument.
He knew better than to touch anything in Faerie. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play along.
Turlough's Tale: Driud's Brooch Series: short story extra (Druid's Brooch Book 0) Page 1
