Saoirse

by Rossalyn Callum

  SAOIRSE

  Saoirse woke up with a strong migraine hitting her temples. The mission of last night was, by far, the most difficult she had faced until now. Brutal was the right word, but she knew this would come. Specifically, since she began to return home with increasing wounds.

  At first, the skill of her teachers kept her safe, enveloping her in a protective halo, subtle as an invisible bubble, but iron and jealous as a chastity belt. Later, she learned the art of fighting without letting her guard down and defending his teammates at the same time. And when it was necessary, to the innocent. She managed to blow up a target in just a week, and she enjoyed watching the purifying flames while the enemy's screams still resounded in her ears, asking for mercy in some cases, and in others, challenging her in a superb and useless way.

  She dominated the handling of all weapons that were within her reach, from the most basic to the most sophisticated. Planning, stalking and executing had become a game that she expected with a mixture of excitement and fear when the full moon arrived.

  Darkness and evil grew as the light in the night sky did, as did their powers to fight them. She could move in the shadows with a freedom she would never have during the day. The pain was focused out of his body, engulfed by the same violence she tried to destroy when summoned. She had lost too many loved ones to elude it. The first was her father, followed by her brothers, beautiful and untamed like the ten lakes that are born on the slopes of Cnoc Bréanainn. She no longer remembered when the war broke out, maybe it was centuries ago and would continue for many more. The island of Éire, her home, was a battlefield. From the great North Sea to the rugged mountains of the south, death trembled in the soft inner valleys with dull and livid stumps, like the cliffs of the perfidious Albion.

  Only her mother was left. Saoirse swore she would protect her, even if she ignored her promise and had to sneak away in secret from her constant vigilance and the four walls of her bedroom. She opened her eyes, and the dawn blinded her with the same reddish glow of every morning. She discovered tears on the wet pillow. Sometimes it happened that way. She brought with her the anguish of that stormy world that was covering her layer upon layer. She felt its weight on her legs, belly and chest. Anyway, it was a ridiculous paradox. No one would be able to tell the difference, and if she told it, they would not believe her capable of such a feat either. She looked for more tangible vestiges. Saoirse had to hide them to remain invisible, a simple girl from Dún Chaoin, in the county of Kerry, also called “The Kingdom” of the emerald island.

  She found four parallel cuts in the right arm and several defense marks on the palms of her hands. They were not deep, the blood was already dry and had formed a hard crust of greyish and irregular edges. At least, they use to heal quickly. She turned on her side to reach for a glass of water from the rickety table by her bed. A dull and lacerating sting went through her from top to bottom. That damn one had attacked her by surprise just when she had just landed in the clearing. It was her fault. She was left behind in breach of the main rule that Angus taught her during six months of training. But the excitement of flying over the intense greenness of the hills, the dark and compact mass of the forests and the black of the earth diluted on the banks of the streams was well worth a reprimand. However, the big man with blond hair merely grimaced and then struck the adversary with a single movement.

  Now she had to move, and fast, before her mother discovered the mess. She pulled back the fustian and the sheets and took off her linen nightgown stained with purple flecks. She would have to wash it later. She hid it under the mattress and pushed her feet out of the bed. Her clothes were on a nearby stool, folded neatly. She pulled the wide skirt over her head and put on a clean shirt. The sleeves up to the elbow left the injuries exposed. Luckily, her mother had not kept the shawl that she wore last winter and threw it over her shoulders to cover them, hoping that the cold and the rain would finally make their appearance. She looked at the small mirror hanging on the wall and, for a moment, was tempted to tear off the cloth that covered it to see her image in the quicksilver surface. Reddish hair and freckled cheeks. Nothing worth seeing, she thought to herself, and went in search of breakfast.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Good morning, mother,” Saoirse said. Then she took her usual place at the table and stirred the plate overflowing with porridge. The best option would be not to answer or she could not get rid of her.

  “Not that way! Do not use your left hand or turn the spoon in that direction. You will attract misfortune, you should know”.

  Saoirse let go of the cutlery and gave her a weary gesture. Her mother, a Welshwoman from Aberdare, had such a horrified expression that would be funny in other circumstances. At that moment, she seemed as blind as Santa Creirwy, whose name she shared. But in her case, no miracle would restore her sight.

  “Devil, you mean. Do not you think he already knows this house too well?”

  “Eat,” Creirwy replied after a pause. “You're very pale, and it would not hurt you to go out and breathe some fresh air. We'll go to the beach when you finish.”

  Saoirse nodded and removed the lumpy paste imitating the sun's course across the sky, while evoking the wind in his face and the metallic scent of ozone.

  In summer, Creirwy had turned into a rite daily down to the coast and enjoy the fair weather. Saoirse endured it stoically. She did not have the olive complexion of her mother and hated to feel the heat of the sand and saltpetre. But today, the rays of the sun king shone by his absence. She remained seated while watching her collect shells with a childish and compulsive zeal. Creirwy liked to make necklaces and bracelets, to which she attributed magical and healing properties. Saoirse wondered how many more would fit on her wrist.

  Towards midday, the breeze blowing from the Atlantic rose shyly to become a real blizzard, raising majestic waves that curled over the high tide. Saoirse wrapped herself in her shawl and gave Creirwy an eloquent look, then she opened her fist and dropped the shells of calcite and nacre. On that twenty-first of September, autumn had finally arrived.

  They were climbing with difficulty through the winding path between the rocks and the wet grass, when they heard a rumble behind them.

  “It sounded like a canyon,” Saoirse said.

  “It's Scylla's roar,” Creirwy revealed, watching the raging sea. “Let's hurry, a big storm is coming.”

  Saoirse shook her head. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe. What could her mother know about monsters?

  But she was right. As soon as they crossed the stone wall that surrounded the small farm, the clouds opened in a waterfall. Creirwy let her daughter in first and then slammed the door shut, as if on the other side, instead of rain, a ghost threatened her.

  “I will light the fire”.

  “It is not necessary, mother.” Saoirse saw that her clothes were soaked, but she did not feel cold. The truth is that she was never cold. “Besides, I'm not a girl anymore, do not treat me like I am.”

  “You are the only thing I have left.” Creirwy crouched in front of the fireplace, avoiding her gaze. “Change your shirt or you will get sick.”

  “Do you really think I can get sicker? You are who must change, if you do not want me to leave forever.”

  “Maybe it would be for the best,” Creirwy said in an altered voice. “I just want you to be safe.”

  “I am safe. Do not worry about me.”

  Saoirse locked herself in her room and lay on the bed. Through the thin walls, she could hear her mother's sobs. She jerked the shawl and threw it on the floor. In the growing darkness, the wounds on her arm were gone, there were not the slightest trace of them. When she turned on her side again did not notice any pain either. She was ready. Saoirse closed her eyes while the lightning s
treaked the veil of the night and she prayed that it would arrive as soon as possible.

  The pounding of the branches of a willow against her window woke her up. The room was still in shadow, and Angus had not come looking for her. If he did not appear soon, she would go alone to meet him. Better yet, she would leave right now. In the blink of an eye, she set out through the window as usual, trying not to make noise, although she never managed to silence the shrill screech that occurred at that moment. She was grateful that her mother had such a heavy sleep and jumped into the void.

  She looked around and tracked the line of the nearby forest with the help of her night vision. The white phosphorus illuminated the tops of the tall larches and the narrow spaces between the trunks, upholstered with dead leaves. There were no signs of life. She pressed her earphone, but she only heard the sound of the ocean. Suddenly, an interference slipped into the channel where she used to communicate with Angus. It was a scream, followed by a lament and again the murmur of water. It was not a monstrous sea creature or a mermaid. It was an innocent. She did not wait any longer and flew to the coast.

  The silver sphere of the full moon shone in the sky full of stars. There was a spring tide, and she walked along the shore, bathing her bare feet in the foam. She skimmed the horizon to the southwest. The silhouette of the Great Blasket Island, visible from the peninsula, floated like a huge ship adrift. For the first time, Saoirse felt a chill.

  “Quis es tu? Ubi sum[1] ?”

  She gripped the handle of the dagger that hung from her waist and turned on her heel. A tall man was watching her with a confused expression on his tanned face. His eyes were jet black, like his hair, which fell in waves over his shoulders.

  Saoirse saw that he was young and strong. Under the wet shirt, the powerful muscles of his chest throbbed to the rhythm of his agitated breathing. She released the dagger. He would not attack her.

  “Ego sum Saoirse[2],” she answered in the same language. “Sorry, Latin is not my strong point.”

  “Speak English?” the stranger asked cautiously. “I thought that in this part of Ireland you only speak Gaelic.”

  “I speak it if there is no other way around,” Saoirse snapped with a smile.

  The dark haired man returned the gesture and approached a little more.

  “My name is Jon, where I am?”

  “On the coast of Dún Chaoin, or Dunquin, if you prefer,” she explained. “You know my language, but you are not English.”

  “Thank God,” he huffed. “I am Spanish, from Guipúzcoa.”

  “Are you a Spanish sailor?” She could smell the salt scent of his body. “Where is your ship?”

  “I ignore it.” Jon raised his arms and spun around burying his fingers in his hair. “I only remember that we struck a reef in Blasket Sound, and that a blow of the sea threw me overboard.

  “A reef? You struck the Stromboli Rock,” she said, feeling a bad omen. “Was it during the last storm?”

  He turned toward her and tensed his jaw.

  “It was more than a storm, it seemed that all the infernos had been unleashed. I do not know how I managed to get safe. I suppose that swimming like a condemned man and swallowing a lot of water did help,” he concluded, winking at her.

  Saoirse could not help but laugh.

  “You have a beautiful smile,” he said with a serious gesture. “And the face of an angel. Will you help me?”

  She was about to grab the dagger. She was not used to flattery. Saoirse studied him, trying not to be dazed. It was him who looked like a true angel, with his sweet and deep voice and the dazzling aura that he emanated. But he was also a victim, and she had to help him even if he was Lucifer himself.

  “I cannot leave the beach,” Jon urged, raising his eyebrows. “All I need are some supplies.

  “Do you plan to stay here until your ship comes back? And what if she doesn’t?”

  “I know they will come for me,” he assured. “I have found refuge in a small cave from where I can watch the entire coast,” he said, indicating some cliffs to the east. The sun would soon rise.

  “Now I have to go,” she announced. “I’ll be back after sunset”.

  “I will be waiting for you.” Jon made a slight bow and his dark gaze touched hers. Saoirse felt as if her breath left her body. She nodded and started back up the path, determined to strangle Angus with her own hands when he deigned to appear.

  The day passed tediously and with no more shocks than having to take shelter in a hurry when it started to rain again.

  “The river is low,” said Creirwy, clucking her tongue. “If it continues to rain this way, it will flood the fields.”

  “I'm sorry for our relatives,” Saoirse declared. “They are no longer our lands, they went as vultures when we were alone, remember?”

  “We were done a favour, we needed the money.”

  “Yes, and you could also thank uncle Ryan for his offer of marriage to keep everything. Now we would be rich.”

  “Do not talk about the dead like that, daughter. They can hear us.”

  “No, they cannot, nor can we them.”

  Creirwy looked at her with infinite sadness. Saoirse stopped threshing the beans for dinner and spoke to her in a conciliatory tone.

  “I'll miss our walk on the beach. Maybe we can go tomorrow.”

  “Mrs. O'Malley's grandson says that the path is impossible, and that there have been several landslides,” said laconic Creirwy.

  “Landslides? Where?”

  “About the caves of the cliffs. He went down to play with other rascals and they saw most were blinded. He was lucky that one of those stones did not open his head like a melon. Although judging by the hardness of his father’s, I do not think that might affect him.”

  Saoirse did not hear the last sentence. Another voice echoed in her ears, musical and delicious. I will be waiting for you.

  “I've finished, mother. I think I'll go to bed soon, I feel exhausted.”

  Around midnight, Saoirse packed up the food she had hidden in her room, put it in a backpack that she slung over her shoulder and opened the window. It was not raining anymore. Too much calm and silence could only mean one thing. She felt her dagger and ran toward the beach as if she had wings on her feet.

  The wind greeted her with a sinister howl that chilled her blood, pushing the sand in all directions. She shielded her eyes with the back of his hand and tried to focus on the rocky escarpment that Jon had indicated. She could barely see her own fingers. Saoirse perceived the static attached to her hair and skin. In a few seconds, the atmosphere became a micro universe that rotated in continuous orbits, and she was the centre of gravity. Saoirse cursed her intuition. Why did they have to come to this place, at this precise moment?

  She drew her dagger and outlined a circle. The quartz particles remained suspended in the indigo-coloured air. She did not have much time. She crossed the reticular space that contracted on her way to the other end of the beach. Outside, the blizzard was raging against the slope full of rocks and mud. Before making the climb, she turned back with her arm extended. The twinkling spheres collided with each other and exploded in a golden flash that entered through the tips of her fingers. Now they would know she had arrived.

  Saoirse advanced on the dark slope without lowering the weapon. The force field reverberated in the blade with a bluish light. Then she saw him, standing next to the mouth of an intact cave. The cruellest and powerful of them all. Seldom did he renounce his prey, but he wouldn’t touch this one.

  "You should not have come alone," he said with a sarcastic grimace. “Or do you want to share his luck?” He concluded, nodding into the interior of the cavern.

  “You have not brought your sluaghs with you either. I do not fear you, O'Balor. We are equal.”

  “So you think?” He asked, emitting a loud laugh. “Good, I hate fighting cowards.”

  She lifted her chin and stepped forward. “Back off.”

  “As you say.” The giant held
his gaze and then obeyed.

  Jon lay face down on the ground flooded with water. Saoirse ran towards him, knelt down and twisted him by the shoulders. He did not breathe.

  "It was you, O'Balor," she said in fury.

  “I have not had anything to do with it. This time…,” he added mockingly.

  “I'm going to kill you.” Saoirse whispered.

  “And waste your energies like that? You do not have many left. You can keep him, I'll come back when you're ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Ask Angus.”

  He disappeared before her eyes, melted into a thick mist. Saoirse felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. There was something she could not remember, and that renegade shook it with more violence than if he had sunk her own blade into her guts. But he was gone, and Jon needed her. She could not be afraid now, except for him.

  Saoirse took his hand and rubbed it between hers. It was cold like the ocean. It was her fault, she must have waited awake and come looking for him with the first moonbeam. Suddenly, she thought about what O'Balor said. She could use her energy. She did not care if she did not have much left, just enough.

  She brushed a strand of hair from his face delicately and stroked his cheek down to his lips, soft as a dream. What if it was about that? He seemed to be asleep, with his eyelids motionless and serene under the perfect arch of his eyebrows. And she was shaking. Saoirse bent down and kissed him gently, blowing her breath into his mouth. Yes, it must have been a dream. The shadows of the cave were devoured by a fire that did not burn, dancing around them like a butterfly’s wings. Saoirse withdrew slowly and heard a dull click. The blade of the dagger had broken in two.

  Jon opened his eyes and looked at her tenderly.

  “It's you…”

  “How do you feel?” She asked anxious.

  "In heaven." He smiled at her. “Did you kiss me?”

  “I think you're fine,” Saoirse said with relieve. “Can you get up?” She tried to let go of his hand, but he stopped her.

  “Wait, do not go yet.”