by Chevon Gael
"Yes, and dry towels. I expect I'll be in beddy-bye land when you come out, so keep it down, huh. No yelling and thrashing in the shower or you'll get us kicked out of here."
Rhian slipped into the bathroom without answering. She pulled her nightgown over her head and shook out her hair. She looked in the mirror and gasped. She looked down at her naked body and back at the mirror. She wasn't seeing things. There were bruises on her breasts and neck. She stood there, her fingers gently touching the marks on her skin and trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She tried to justify the source of the bruising. Was it the airplane seat belt? Had they flown through turbulence? She couldn't remember. Was it the shoulder strap from their tiny car and the less than perfect country roads they endured? She was alone last night. She had to be—
"Ick!"
Kat!
"Yuck! Rhri-aaannn..."
Rhian quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. She opened the bathroom door and stuck her head out just in time to see Kat climbing out of bed. The woman threw back the comforter and top sheet before tearing the bottom sheet off the mattress.
"What is it?"
"This!” She held up the bottom sheet.
In the daylight, Rhian could see the circular stain on the sheet.
"Wet spot alert. Listen, I don't know what you were up to last night, but the only wet spot I sleep in is my own.” With that, Kat crumpled up the sheet and tossed it on the floor. Then, she looked at Kat, an expression of concern clearly written on her face. “Don't tell me it's another yeast infection. What have I told you about changing your tights ‘n’ ‘tards as soon as they get wet. Two words, okay—cotton undies—those polyester thong things will do it every time."
Rhian licked her lips and cleared her throat. There was nothing like a plausible explanation in the nick of time. She murmured a quiet, “Yup” and quickly closed the door. Shock, exhaustion and confusion were taking its toll. She waited until she heard Kat get back into bed before running the shower. Once inside the tiny stall, she scrubbed herself nearly raw. After drying off she followed with handfuls of moisturizer. She slipped out of the bathroom and quietly dressed. After leaving the room and locking up behind her, she thought to exit Mrs. Mac's without having to encounter the woman or her disapproving glances again. Rhian's luck was running true to form—all bad.
"And where would you be off to without breakfast?"
The hair net had been replaced by a head scarf, the bathrobe with an equally unflattering house dress and massive apron. Rhian's appetite fled at the site of the stumpy, unshaved legs covered in sagging support stockings.
"Uh, I have to get up to the castle."
"It'll not be open until eleven. Set yourself down and eat."
Rhian was about to mutiny on her host, but the woman's next words stopped her.
"Set down and I'll tell you all about the Cluricaun's Curse."
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CHAPTER 4
Rhian sat at the large oak dining table and listened intently to Mrs. McCarthy's version of the so-called Cluricaun's Curse.
"To be sure, miss. And to this very day, he waits for the kiss that will set him free."
Rhian picked at her cold salmon which looked only less enticing than the bowl of quickly cooling, pasty oatmeal. Despite her previous night's bitching, the trencher of dark bread looked pretty good. Of course there was a massive pot of tea. There was always tea. Mrs. McCarthy must have noticed her guest's lack of appetite.
"The bar's also open at eleven,” she said flatly, her beady eyes critically assessing through her worn, apple-doll face. She reminded Rhian of Granny in that way. Come to think of it, everyone she'd seen in Blarney so far seemed to have the same look about them—wizened eyes, old and ageless. The young, the old. It didn't matter.
Rhian cleared her throat and cut off a piece of salmon. It tasted about as good as it looked. She smiled wanly and swallowed, then pushed the salmon away. “Must be jet lag.” What this town needed was a really good barista. Rhian settled for pouring a large mug of tea, which seemed to please Mrs. Mac, who pushed a creamer and sugar bowl in her direction. Rhian disregarded the sugar in favor of honey, which satisfied her sweet tooth and gave her a natural boost of energy.
"Legend has it that this sidhe was so fair and lovely that the other fairy folk, that be the leprechauns, pookas, cluricauns and the like, were struck dumb when they looked upon her."
"My granny, Mairdrid MacNamara, was from Cork. She used to tell me stories about fairies—"
"Sidhe,” Mrs. Mac corrected.
"Yes, the sidhe. She said they used to be angels."
Mrs. Mac nodded, sending silver strands loose across her wrinkled brow. “The sidhe race were once angels in heaven, but were cast out as a punishment for their pride. But they've a right to be proud. Their fairy dance is magic."
Rhian found it mildly amusing that Mrs. Mac chose to speak of mythical creatures in the present tense, as if they hung out in some crib in the local hood. Rhian knew better than to contradict Mrs. Mac. She might be Boston born and raised, but the lore of all things Irish were instilled by Granny at an early age. She glanced at her watch and sighed inwardly. She had another half hour at this before she could respectfully depart.
"And they love milk and honey. It fuels their dance. And fairy women are beautiful when they dance. Lithe forms, graceful and enchanting. They wear disgraceful silver gossamer robes and can lure any man, even the most chaste and pure of heart, into a powerful spell. Why, with just one kiss, the madness of love will fall upon the man and he is lost to his kindred race forever."
"Fascinating.” It was, sort of. Like most Irish Rhian knew, Mrs. Mac had a way with a tale. “Mrs. Mac, are you sure you haven't kissed the blarney stone?"
Mrs. Mac have a raspy hoot, followed by a fit of coughing. Rhian pushed her chair back, ready to aid the woman but she shook her head and pounded her chest with her fist.
"Blarney and bullocks, so ‘tis, miss. Rhiannan and Seamus. To be sure, I takes me cut from Fergus at the castle if I send him business."
But Rhian's brain stopped at the name Seamus. “What was, er, are, the names in this fairy tale?” Rhian laced her fingers around her tea mug and tried not to let them tremble.
"Pulled ‘em out of a Gaelic name book, did Fergus. That's the guide who takes people on the castle tour and minds the stone. Just ask for Fergus O'Roarke and tell him I sent you. You can't miss him, an ugly pug, just like his son, Paddy.” The light in her eyes suddenly dwindled. Her mouth turned into a grim frown. “Yes,” she said softly. “Everyone knows Fergus."
But Rhian couldn't dismiss their conversation without one last question. “And the dancing fairy's name is..."
Mrs. Mac seemed to recover herself. “Oh, well, it's whomever is sitting at this table. If it were your friend, for instance, then her name would be Kathleen, or Mairdrid or Enya or Van Morrison.” She paused and laughed again, “But Seamus is always Seamus. It's Gaelic for—"
"John. Yes, I know. Granny told me. That was my grandfather's name. Interesting.” So much for Irish Genealogy 101. For all Mrs. Mac's local embellishment of the tale, Rhian did feel much better about what happened last night. Perhaps is was just sleeping in a different bed and thinking of Granny—not to mention the stout—which caused the dream. She decided the wet spot thing was a simple case of sweating under the comforter. There really was no other explanation.
"Thanks, Mrs. Mac. I'm off to the castle to kiss a rock.” With that, she rose and grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair.
"Rhian."
Rhian turned to find Mrs. Mac staring at her, this time with concern etched in her worn face.
"It is a Friday, after all."
"Yeah. I forgot. I swear I've lost two days on this trip with the time change and the flight. By the way, what's so special about Friday?"
"The fae have special powers on Fridays."
Rhian blinked in ignorance. So it was Special Power F
riday at the mall? Had she missed something during the lesson? She decided to be polite. “And these powers would be..."
"It's the day when the male fae, be they fairies, or leprechauns and their kin, steal mortal girls to be their brides. Take care."
Rhian slipped into her jacket. “Right. Fairy wedding day at city hall. I'll take my camera.” Then she saw Mrs. Mac wink. The lines around the woman's mouth deepened as she afforded Rhian a playful grin.
"Okay, then. Another cut for visiting the city hall. On Friday. Gotcha!"
Rhian left the B & B and set off for Blarney Castle.
* * * *
Fergus O'Roarke screwed up his prunish face as he stared down from his pulpit in the castle. If Paddy had done his job, that American whore wouldn't be showing her face around here today. But what about tomorrow, or the next day? Or next week? If what he'd been told was true, then today was the only day the woman was free to nose around. And she didn't need to be nosing around Blarney Castle. He grinned and grunted before shoving the short stump of a pipe between his teeth. He lit the pipe and within seconds, a thick circle of smoke ringed around his head. He thought of the irony of the tourists and his own people. The endless legends of leprechauns, of little people and wee folk written up in glossy brochures, gay and green and kicking up their heels; the lore of Ireland stamped on a cocktail napkin when all the time it was right under their own noses.
Not for nothing did his race possess charm and magic. They'd kept their presence a secret while hiding in plain site for hundreds of years. Tricksters they were; practical they had to be. Walk into any shoe shop, leather tannery or tailor's concession and you'd find them doing what they did best, hammering over a brogue! A wink and a nod or the twitch of a squat nose singled them out amongst their own kind. Except for Fergus. Trapped and cursed as his forefathers had been to guard over this wretched stone. And for what? Every incarnation of life he'd had held the same dismal fate. Poor, ugly, stagnant. Sentenced to a monotonous task with no respite from the never-changing landscape viewed from the castle heights. Nothing but that rock as company. Even his evening ritual ceased to give him pleasure. Locking up after the tourists at the end of the day, then climbing back up the stairs to stand at the precipice overlooking the stone. After spitting out a bitter, “Fock ye, Seamus O'Failan,” Fergus would drop his trousers, haul out his withered meat and piss on the stone.
But since his only offspring in this lifetime had a bad temper and a loud, foul mouth after a few too many brew, the Irish National Trust had seen fit to post a night guard after closing. Damn that fool Paddy! Too fond of the drink was this half-breed—the result of Fergus's own failing with the craeture and the barmaid who was only too happy slip the stingy leprechaun a free drink, or two. Or three. And Paddy. Now there was a plonker! Listless and easily bored, he possessed all the human frailties of the woman who bore him and none of the furtive spirit of his ancestors. The magic had been bred out of him. The only magic he possessed was the Blarney gift of eloquence which he wasted on sluts.
Fergus spat on the stone floor. Immediately a faint tremble rippled under his feet. He curled his mouth into a sneer. That damned cluricaun's soul was restless tonight, as it had been for several days now.
Fergus at first congratulated himself for dispatching Paddy to watch over the two Americans staying in the village. But his cleverness soon turned to disgust when he'd returned late last night to find Paddy plugging the red-haired whore. He figured things would soon settle back to normal once the women had been dissuaded from visiting the castle, as Paddy said they were due to the distasteful rumors and being too busy with the dance.
And that was another stick in his craw! This benefit performance brought too many strangers to the castle. A unique irony since the village depended on the economy of tourism brought by the castle and its legendary stone. Normally Fergus didn't give a rat's ass who came and went. The tourists could plunk their money down and kiss a donkey's arse for all he cared. Seamus's bastard soul had been entombed for what seemed to Fergus like an eternity. If Darianna's soul hadn't shown up by now, it wouldn't. Fergus had long since given up the idea that she'd survived to be reborn as fae, or any other creature, and return to free her lover. Still, something had awakened the cluricaun.
Fergus thought on the problem as he puffed and spat. It might not be a simple coincidence that the flame haired slut and the tow-headed bitch Paddy had met in Flannigan's arrived at almost the very moment the stone had trembled with an angry presence.
And for the first time since he'd been banished from the realm of the fae and sentenced to penance as keeper of the stone, Fergus O'Roarke had the uneasy feeling that the stone was now watching him.
* * * *
Rhian joined a modest group of people at the tail end of the tour. She dutifully listened as their guide, Davy Butler of last night's session in Flannigan's, spelled out basically the same yarn as Mrs. Mac had over breakfast this morning. She leaned against a stone wall behind a camera clad family from Germany and glanced at her watch.
Yadda-yadda! Fairies and little green men boinking the shit out of each other.
She grinned wryly at the absence of that particular part of the story and had to bite her tongue at the mention that everyone should end the day with a hearty meal at Flannigan's. Talk about networking. Get on with the kissing already.
She watched as, one by one, each tourist lay down flat on their back on the edge of the precipice. Aided by Davy's instructions, they grasped the iron railings for support and leaned back. A second later they were helped up to their feet and the rock sprayed with disinfectant and wiped clean for the next tourist. Which was her.
"You're next, miss.” Davy smiled and held out his hand. But even as she knelt to the floor, an uneasy feeling gathered in her chest. It was eerily similar to her early bouts of stage fright. She fought to take a deep breath, but found she couldn't. Something made her look past Davy's shoulder. A movement in the shadows behind him. A solitary figure with deep, almost shrunken eyes and ringed with wrinkles, a broad, pushed in nose and droopy lips merging into a disapproving frown. It was an ugly face. An angry face. And it suddenly moved into the light behind Davy.
"Davy! Don't let her ... she mustn't kiss the stone!"
Startled, Davy whipped around.
"Fergus! What are you doing up here? You're to be after gate duty.” He swore then and bit out, “Who's minding the gate? Dammit, man.” Davy got up and pushed past the little man, who continued to stare openly at Rhian. Finally, he held out a withered hand to her.
"Help you up, then."
Rhian shrank away. She couldn't think about touching him. There was something about him. Menacing, unfriendly. Some latent instinct warned her to get as far away from him as she could. But lying on the stone floor near the precipice, the man Davy called Fergus stood above her, blocking her way to the stairs. Rhian found herself caught between a rock and a hard case.
"Isn't she going to kiss the stone, Daddy?"
One of the German children broke the tension.
Rhian saw Fergus's eyes narrow to become two black dots. It was clear he didn't take well to that suggestion at all. He leaned closer to Rhian, and she could smell his fetid breath.
"If you value this life, me fae, don't be doin’ it."
Rhian lay there, speechless, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she could almost feel the floor beneath her vibrate. Then, a third party made its opinion known.
Kiss me, my love. My sweet fae. Kiss me now and set me free.
"Shut up!” barked Fergus, a little too loud. An unsettling murmur ran through the tiny crowd. Some began to back away from the scene and exit down the opposite stairwell.
Wait no more, my Rhian. I cannot protect you from him if you don't free my soul.
"Stop it!” Fergus yelled, then grabbed her arm. He shook her roughly. “Don't listen to him. He's trying to trick you."
"Hold up, Fergus O'Roarke! It's off to jail you'll go."
A large h
and grabbed the little man by the shoulder and yanked him away from Rhian. A uniformed constable all but picked up the shriveled gnome of a man. She watched Fergus struggle in his grasp and swear lightning. “Let me go, Jeffry O'Banyon."
"You're right, Davy. I think he's been sipping at the poteen today. And on a Friday! Shame on you, Fergus. Frightening the tourists. I'll be sending Father Ryan to have a word with you."
Rhian breathed a sigh of relief as Fergus was dragged off. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “You really know how to put on a show here, Mr. Butler."
"It's Davy, Miss Rhian. We met in the pub last night.” He extended his hand. “I'll escort you down now and see you're fee is refunded. I am sorry about all this."
"In a moment, Davy. I have a little unfinished business."
Determined now, Rhian reclined once again. She braced herself and placed both hands firmly on the iron bars. She tipped her head back while Davy kept a firm grip on her legs.
"All this drama better be worth it. Here goes nothing.” She closed her eyes and pressed her mouth against the stone.
And her world began to spin. The stone warmed against her lips. The hard surface melted away, only to be replaced by a soft fullness. Startled by the transformation, Rhian opened her eyes to find the face of her dream lover, his eyes heavy-lidded and softly caressing her. And a voice ringing in her ears.
"Now we are together, as we were meant to be. Together at last. Forever."
Disoriented and dizzy, Rhian felt herself slipping out of Davy's grasp. The iron bars felt slippery and loose against her fingers. She barely had time to squeak out a cry for help before she found herself being pulled back over the edge of the precipice and onto the steel platform grate. Several seconds passed before she could focus her gaze on the worried face of Davy and the anxious tourists peering over his shoulder.
"Take a couple of deep breaths,” Davy advised. Rhian didn't think a couple of breaths would help, but she took them anyway.
"Sometimes it's the blood rushing to the head,” Rhian heard someone say.
