Wet, cold, and inconsolable, she mused how easy it would be to push off with her hands into that murky swell and allow the river to carry her downstream to the sea like Ophelia. What else was there? Her father was surely dead and her mother incommunicado. The grandfather she’d tried so hard to find had slammed the future in her face, and a psychotic priest was dogging her trail.
Where would she live? If she lived?
Fishing around in her pocket for the tiny blue bottle of peace-inducing frankincense, her fingers touched the pendulum Daphne had given her. She held the end of the silver chain between her right thumb and index finger, and allowed the crystal to dangle in the air just above her left palm. After asking if it would speak to her and divulge its secrets, she waited. The crystal began to move instantly, caught up in her turbulence. Careening clockwise in huge round circles, it shouted yes.
Fearful, but needing to know the truth, she asked silently: is my father— Then realizing that she now had two fathers, she clarified: is John Taylor dead? Crystal whizzing, the circles continued, sweeping so violently, she had to raise her elbow to avoid a collision. Yes. John Taylor was dead. This bittersweet validation, confirmed both the sad fact of his death and her ability to converse with spirits.
Excited by the emphatic voice of the crystal, she asked: will Father Grace find me and kill me? The pendulum pivoted sharply as if to swing straight back and forth, then changed course and swung erratically in circles; finally, it ended up zigzagging in a crazy figure eight.
Startled by the sound of footsteps on the stone bridge, she caught the chaotic crystal in her left hand and closed her fist around it. Two figures in long hooded garments had just crossed over and were rapidly approaching. In the wake of what she had been experiencing lately, Maggie wondered if they were dead or alive, enemy or friend, or simply strangers passing on route to some Druidic ceremony. Galway had more than its share of pagan eccentrics. She swung her legs around just as a tall man pushed back the hood of his long black raincoat.
“Oh my god. Estrada!” Maggie ran to him, threw her arms around him, and clung.
“Hey, it’s good to see you too.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she sang, surprised at how the presence of someone from home brought instant comfort.
“Neither can I.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you’re of a mind to amble downtown later, I’ll be working down on Shop Street near Abbeygate.”
“What?” gasped Maggie. Releasing Estrada, she glanced at his companion.
Draped and hooded in a forest green cloak that dragged upon the stones in folds, Primrose stood serenely, her hands hidden beneath gaping sleeves. Clustered branches of appliquéd emerald and silver oak leaves meandered over the cloak like a shimmering forest. The tiny elfish face beneath the hood was painted bright green, except for the area around her eyes, which was etched in dark spirals to resemble the knots of a tree. Her ever-changing irises glowed with golden iridescence as she smiled.
“You look like a nature goddess.”
“She’s Danu, Matriarch of the Irish gods,” said Estrada.
Maggie turned and cocked her head, surprised by his knowledge.
“I asked,” Estrada explained. “But, you look like you’ve been crying.”
“Ah, she’s done now,” said Primrose. “Aren’t you, girleen? Just like this rain.”
Maggie nodded. It was true. The sight of Estrada had yanked her from the depths of sorrow into another mood completely.
“They’ve just turned on the Christmas lights and the shops will be open late,” said Primrose.
“But, what are you going to do on Shop Street?”
“Sing and dance, so the folks fill my pockets with gold. Did you think I was independently wealthy or perhaps in league with a leprechaun?”
“Oh, show us,” begged Maggie.
“Please,” said Estrada. There was something different about him. He had a rugged edge and a growth of beard the same length as his cropped hair, but his voice was as smooth as velvet.
“Ah sure. Why not?” Primrose winked, then took a deep breath and sang, her clear high voice meandering triplets and trills like water over stones. It was a slow and sultry song, and she swayed in the evening breeze, as her hands told the story.
I am the wind that blows across the sea
I am the wave of the deep
I am the roar of the ocean
I am the stag of seven battles
I am the hawk on the cliff
I am a ray of sunlight
I am the greenest of plants
I am a wild boar
I am a salmon in the river
I am a lake on the plain
I am the word of knowledge
I am the point of a spear
I am the lure beyond the ends of the earth
I can shift my shape like a god.
“I bet you can,” said Maggie. Estrada nodded in agreement. Then they both clapped, as Primrose folded her hands in Namaste and bowed to each of them. “Oh, can’t we come with you?”
“I thought you’d want to catch up, like.”
“Can’t we do both?”
“Aye, sure. Why not? You can keep an eye on my cash box.”
Maggie forgot her despair on Shop Street. The storm had indeed blown over, and by the light of the waxing moon, Primrose captivated everyone with what she called her performance art. Posing like a statue on a small raised stage, she sang and danced in English and Irish, while people tossed euros into her willow basket. She was not the only performer. The Galway street swarmed with buskers, jugglers, step dancers, and other costumed characters in a bustling pagan carnival.
“You could do magic here,” Maggie said to Estrada. “They’d love you. It’s just like Oz.”
He nodded. “They certainly have their share of wizards.”
Afterwards, they went for a pint at Tig Coili. Perching against the bar in the traditional pub, they watched the musicians play beneath the wrought iron windows. A few people recognized Primrose and begged her to dance. So, she raised her skirts and tapped out a jig in her sleek red boots, while the room rocked to the beat of the large frame drum they called the bodhrán. Estrada stood as still as a manikin; mesmerized, his dark eyes absorbing her every move.
“I knew it,” shouted Maggie, nodding towards Primrose. “I knew you’d love her.”
Embarrassed, he laughed. “She is extraordinary. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.”
“Well, I’ve never met anyone quite like you. So you two are perfect together.” She thought suddenly of Sensara and decided not to ask. Why threaten destiny? And she was right. By the time they left Tig Coili, Primrose and Estrada were strolling arm in arm, and Maggie felt suddenly lonely.
“I wonder how Dylan is.”
“He told me that he’s written to you a few times,” said Estrada. “Don’t you ever check your email?”
“He has?” Startled by the question, Maggie stopped in the street. “I haven’t even thought about email for days. Do you think any Internet cafés are still open?”
Primrose glanced up at the stars and shook her head. “It’s near midnight. But, we’re almost home. I’m sure you can conjure up your email on Kieran’s laptop, if he hasn’t taken it with him to Dublin.”
“Kieran,” said Estrada, with an edge of apprehension.
“My flatmate. Carries on a lively cyber life from what I can tell.”
Back at the flat, Primrose showed Maggie to the laptop in Kieran’s bedroom, and turned to leave. “Can I sleep here tonight?” Maggie asked, gesturing to the cozy little bed.
The two girls exchanged wicked glances, and then Primrose replied in her usual clipped way, “Ah sure. Why not? Your man can always bed down on the floor.”
Maggie laughed. “Yeah, sure.”
“I think he wants a wee chat before you turn in though. I’ll send him in, shall I?”
Estrada appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, knocked quie
tly, and stood looking awkwardly for a place to sit while Maggie did her best not to stare. Even jet-lagged, in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, he was delicious. Kieran’s tiny room had no furniture save a thin chest of drawers and the small bed on which she was sitting with her legs crossed, the computer on her lap.
Finally, he took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “Special delivery from your mom.”
“Oh god,” she said. “Sit.” His hovering was making her nervous.
“Are you sure you want me to stay? Maybe you’d like to—”
“I don’t want to read this alone.”
He nodded and sat cross-legged at the farthest end of the bed, hands resting on his knees.
She ripped open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and began to read silently. “It’s too sad. Can I read it out loud? Sometimes it’s easier if—”
“Go for it.”
“My Dearest Maggie,” she began. “She’s never called me that before.” She swallowed, and then read on: “I hope this letter finds you well and you’ve had no problem finding my parents— No problem there, mom. We’ve only been to hell and back,” she interjected sarcastically. His smile urged her on. “I wish I could tell you this in person, but I can’t leave right now. Maggie, your dear father has passed on. He died in his sleep on Saturday after a series of strokes. The doctor says it had nothing to do with his fall. He’s been having strokes this past year, increasing in severity. Do not blame yourself. I tried to reach you Sunday but there was no answer. His body will be cremated on Tuesday. We’ll have a service when everything is settled and we are together.
Maggie, I want to come home. Estrada has another letter I’d like you to give to my parents. I realize that moving to Ireland would mean leaving your school and friends, and if you say no, I’ll understand. But, it could mean a new life for us, a better life. I love you. I know I’ve never said that enough. Mom”
Maggie folded the letter and put it in her pocket, then sniffed and sighed. “Wow.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“I already knew. I saw his ghost.” She assumed that meeting disembodied spirits was an everyday occurrence for someone like Estrada.
“That must have been scary.”
“At the time, yeah.” She took a deep breath. “He came to warn me about Grace. He said he’s coming here, coming after me.”
Estrada nodded. “Yeah, Sensara’s been dreaming. We think that he’s either here already, or on his way. That’s why I came. They think I can protect you.”
“My very own champion. But, you don’t think you can?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes. It’s just that…” He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
Maggie waited for him to elaborate until the silence grew too awkward. “I don’t understand my mother. If she wants to come home, why doesn’t she just get on a plane?”
“She’s stressed, and seeing her family again after so long could be difficult.”
“You’re telling me. My grandfather’s an ogre.”
“Sounds like your ma needs her folks but can’t face them until she knows she has their blessing.” Primrose was suddenly in the room, dressed in a long green T-shirt, her pale face scrubbed clean. She sat on the bed beside Maggie and rubbed her back. “Your father’s at peace now, and your mother deserves the same, as do you.”
Maggie nodded, then she remembered the look on Paddy Vallely’s face. “But her father wants nothing to do with us.”
Primrose squeezed her shoulder. “Ah sure, the old fiddler was just in shock. When daughters of daughters drop from the sky, it takes a while for some men to come around. Go back and talk to him, girleen. Make it right for your ma to come home. It’s where she belongs.”
“But—”
“I’ll go make some tea and put a wee something in it, so you can sleep. Tomorrow we three will go to Cong together and you can make peace with your folks.” She ruffled Maggie’s hair, then hopped up and slipped from the room.
“She’s right,” said Estrada. “If you have the chance to fix things with your family, you should take it.” She eyed him curiously. “I lost a father too. He disappeared when I was a kid.”
“I’m sorry. But, you never know. You might see him again.”
Estrada shrugged. She felt somehow closer to him after this surprising confession.
“It was creepy,” she said. “We were in the cemetery when I saw my dad’s ghost—” She gasped. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Primrose took me to Drumcliffe where Yeats is buried. I saw his grave, and I saw Ben Bulben, the mountain where Yeats said the faeries fly from, and we went to Carrowmore. That’s an ancient megalithic tomb. And I saw—” She stopped talking suddenly, unable to put her experience into words.
“Yeah? You saw…?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe I saw—”
“Herself saw the Tribes,” said Primrose. “The Gentry. But, that’s a story for another day.” She handed them each a cup of sweet milky tea. “Drink up now, pet. We don’t want to scare off Estrada his first night in Galway with all this talk of spirits. Besides, your man and I have things to do.” She winked and Maggie took the cue.
“Maybe we can go there and you can see them for yourself,” she said, remembering his request. Then she feigned a yawn. “I’m really tired, and I still have to check my email.”
“We’ll leave you to it then,” Primrose said, leading Estrada from the room.
“Tell Dylan to let the others know I arrived safely. Okay?” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Sure,” said Maggie, and turned her attention to the laptop. There were several messages from Dylan, one from Damien, two from girls who wanted to know why she wasn’t in school, and a recent one from Bastian. She opened his first. She wasn’t quite ready to deal with her feelings for Dylan.
Hey Maggie. I hope you don’t mind me emailing you. You said we could keep in touch. I heard about your father. So sorry. I will miss him too but not like you will. So, where are you? Is Ireland as green as they say? What’s going on? Did you find your grandparents? Are you coming home soon? Write back. B.
Maggie hit reply and wrote.
Hey Bastian. I’m glad you wrote to me. I know you’ll miss my dad. You were always so good to him. Ireland is beautiful. Estrada arrived today and has fallen instantly in love with Primrose—she’s the woman I’m staying with here in Galway. Tomorrow we are all going to Cong. It’s a village not far from here where my grandparents live in a real faerie tale cottage covered in ivy. My grandfather’s awful but my mother wants to move here, so who knows? Maybe I will end up living there and you can visit sometime and see it for yourself. Take care. Maggie
She hit send, and then opened Dylan’s last letter. He apologized for calling her a slut—it’s my own stuff, he confessed. He thought that she hadn’t answered his emails because she was still angry. He confessed that he was furious with himself because he had not stayed around the night Father Grace abducted her. Maybe if I’d stayed none of this would have happened. It was strange how time changed, but people remained stuck in their memories.
That night on the porch had been awful, but the night before she left had been worse because Dylan had been right. She had conjured a spell and used him to get involved with the coven, and although she had feelings for him, she wasn’t sure what they were. Still, she hoped that maybe they could have the slow kind of love Primrose talked about and she wanted to explore it.
As soft susurrations emanated from the other room, she stroked the pink stone heart Dylan had given her, and imagined kissing him again as she had that night on the porch. He was sweet and strong, a nice guy who’d always be there and do anything for her. Not ready to give up that dream, she hit reply and wrote:
Dylan. Sorry. I am just reading your emails now. I’ve been travelling with Primrose. I hope you can meet her someday. She took me to see the dolmens at Carrowmore. You would love it there. Estrada arrived today and says hello. Tomorrow we are all going back to Cong
to talk to my grandparents. Dylan, you need to know that nothing is your fault. I kissed you that night because I wanted to. I am wearing your rose heart. Love Maggie
15: Full of Scorpions is My Mind
“RAN A HOT BATH FOR YOU, SORCERER. Always feels good to wash off the travel dust before bedding down in a new land, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Estrada. There was something about Primrose he couldn’t resist. Her eyes were slightly upturned like Sensara’s but wide and deep and full of mischief he couldn’t wait to explore. “But, I’m no sorcerer, just a lowly illusionist.”
“Ah, go on with you,” she said, tossing him a towel and an elfish smile that sent his blood racing. He stood for a moment entranced as the force of her shot through his muscles and sinews. He felt young and potent and very much alive. “Or, perhaps, it’s a cold shower you’re needing.”
“No, a hot bath is perfect.” She was even more perceptive than Sensara.
It was an old claw tub, and she’d lit candles around it, so a pale scented cloud rose just above the surface of the water. After stripping quickly, he slipped into the tepid pool, leaned back against the slanted iron, and waited. Surely, she was coming.
After a while, he slid down under the water and stayed submerged as long as he could hold his breath. Then pushing upward, he broke the surface and ran his hands over his stubbly face and head. Leaning over the tub, he grabbed his travelling case and retrieved a razor. Perhaps, she was not coming. Perhaps, she was just congenial and he’d read her wrong. Or perhaps, she was waiting for him to finish his bath, in which case, he should get moving. He propped up the tiny mirror, lathered his face, and shaved off his beard. Then, after soaping and rinsing, he climbed out of the tub, towelled off, and pulled the stopper.
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 25
