by Erin O'Quinn
And so Michael dutifully translated for us. “A mo ghrá, I want to be with you.”
“Those are my plans, too, Liam,” I said simply. “Will you come to Derry with me?”
“Are we to marry then, a chuisle?”
“We—we can talk about it. I want to be close to you.”
“Where am I to live?”
“Wherever you want to live.”
“With you,” he said decisively.
“Then let us leave, Liam. We need horses, and I hope we can take Ryan with us.”
“Is he to live with us also?”
Now that I knew him a bit better, I recognized the ironic glint in his eye and played along with him. “Yes. We will need one very, very large bed.”
He leaned to me and nuzzled my ear.
“Ryan,” asked Michael, “where may we find two extra horses?”
“Liam and Caylith can take two of ours. We can find two more quickly enough.”
I asked him myself. “Will you come with us, Ryan?”
“Do ye love me just for me language skills, ye scamp?”
“Yes, partly.” I laughed. “For it would be a long trip indeed with no way for Liam and me to communicate with each other.”
“Sure an’ ye do well together,” he said. “Often the less said, the longer wed.”
I was blushing now, and I changed the subject. “I would be happy to employ you in Derry.”
“Do ye own cattle?”
“I have given all Sweeney’s cattle to your own clans, the Murphys, and to the clans MacCool and O’Neill.”
“There you have it, Caylith. I would go to the pastures around Derry just to be a cattle drover, for that is me passion.”
“Then you will come with us?”
“Yes. When do ye wish to leave?”
“As soon as you and your kin are ready to ride out.”
“An’ that would be now.”
* * * *
Our trip preparations did not take long. Brigid gave me a soft coverlet to roll my new clothes in, and I tucked the roll behind the saddle of my new horse Clíona, a strawberry roan. She was young and still frisky, and her coat was chestnut all intermixed with soft gray. Liam rode a fine bay gelding named Angus, lustrous brown, his mane and tail black as night. The athletic clansman sat in the saddle as if weaned there, and perhaps he had been, for his family had been cattle owners and drovers for generations.
Our farewell to Michael and Brigid held some sadness but also promise of a reunion in the near future. “You will come to Derry soon,” I said. It was not a question but a statement.
“We will, Caylith,” said Michael. He stood behind Brigid, his arms encircling her waist. They had a radiance about them that I felt strongly, and their tangible love made me feel all the closer to Liam.
“You will not marry before we meet again,” I said, again a statement.
Brigid laughed at my intensity. “We will wait, Cay. For I think it may well be a double wedding.”
I did not protest, but stepped close to them and embraced them both as they stood close together. Liam did the same, silent and serious. We mounted our horses, and the rest of the clansmen followed us from the round-house, through the circling trees, and into the open countryside.
Soon the Murphy, O’Neill, and MacCool brothers melted into the distance, leaving the three of us to continue on to the land of canyons and pastures, my new holdings in Ulster.
Liam wore a knotted kerchief like a band around his forehead. I thought about his ill-fated shillelagh match in Tara, when the kerchief had served double purpose as a bandage on his split head. It kept his wavy, auburn hair back from his face as he rode, heedless of the hot sun and the stiff wind gusting off the lake.
His chest was bare except for a leather thong that crossed one shoulder and then circled his waist. Without seeming to look, I watched how the sun and shadows played across his skin, how his bold muscles flowed with every movement.
He wore leather riding breeches, bríste leathair, no doubt an old pair of Michael’s. I had always liked the way his breeches hugged the muscles of his calves and thighs and the fact that he was larger than Michael made his contours stand out even more.
His leggings were close fitting, too, made of half-tanned leather and encircled with laces all the way to the knee. Altogether, Liam struck a handsome figure as he rose easily across the low-mounding, green hills.
Ryan rode next to us, dressed in a tanned leather tunic with no sleeves. Under the tunic he wore pleated trousers, a different kind of breeches called triús, to protect his legs from the friction of horseback riding. They seemed to be made of wool. The upper part, from about midthigh, was loose and gathered. He, too, wore leggings.
My own legs had begun to chafe from the constant rubbing against Clíona’s moving flanks. I wondered aloud to Ryan whether women ever wore leggings, and how I might get some.
“I’ve not seen women as cattle drovers, Caylith, but sure an’ the women warriors of old must have worn leggings. I will ask me boys, and we will look for the right kind of bróga.”
I was dressed in a soft leather tunic—oversized, of course, for it had belonged to Michael. But I had found a fine leather thong to cinch it tightly around my waist, and I gathered all the extra material into the belt in the style of the people of Éire. And in my belt was my gleaming blackthorn shillelagh. I had already decided that Liam would give me lessons each day before sunset until I had learned a few very good moves.
Our trip would take roughly four days of steady riding without tiring the horses. On this first leg of our journey we followed the gently flowing River Antrim, all banked with birch and beech trees, and edged, too, with stands of blackthorn.
When we stopped to replenish one of our wineskins with water, I motioned to Liam that he should cut another shillelagh from one of the vigorous blackthorn trees nearby.
He spoke, as usual, through Ryan. “But ye have a fine weapon, Caitlín.”
“Um, yes, a mo ghrá, but I want you to give me lessons starting tonight.”
“I will give ye lessons,” he said, moving close, starting to put his hands under the skirt of my tunic.
I moved away in some embarrassment. “You know what I mean, Liam. You need a stick, too, if you are to show me how to use it in combat.”
“Why must ye be a warrior, Caitlín? Can I not defend your honor?”
“Not without a weapon,” I said tartly.
He grinned and held his hand out to Ryan, who handed him his long knife. He walked into the stand of blackthorns and emerged some quarter-hour later brandishing a new cudgel. It was a beauty. The knob was rounded to the size of his large hand, and the cutting away of the thorns caused the bumps to look like small, deadly brads studding the sides. It had a slightly gnarled appearance that added to its character, for the curves picked up light and shadows as sunlight played off the gleaming surface.
Handing Ryan back his long knife, Liam pushed his new shillelagh into the thong that encircled his waist, and we mounted again, for we had four more hours in the saddle until sunset and meal time.
When at last we stopped for the evening, we unsaddled our horses, and fed and watered them. All three of us built a good fire, and Ryan left to unpack food supplies. Liam pointed to a rather hilly looking spot some fifty feet from the fire. I wondered why he had not chosen a piece of flat ground. I walked there and stood waiting for him, my shillelagh still in my belt-thong.
He approached in a half crouch, his hand poised as if to draw the shillelagh, and then he stopped about six feet from me, just out of range of my own weapon. It would take little more than a sudden extension of his arm, or a quick step toward me, to close the distance to a range I called “deadly.” Of course, I could close the distance, too. But I waited, breathing deeply and evenly, my knees slightly bent and my weight evenly balanced.
I remembered Liam’s inglorious shillelagh match at the Tara Fair. His opponent, impatient to score, had waded into the fray right away while Liam had coolly
taken his measure. Now, as then, Liam stood almost insolently looking me up and down.
He eyed me as though I were a ready mare in a small pasture, and yet I held my temper. I clearly remembered Gristle’s words to me that day. The better fighter knows how to fight with the mind as well as the stick.
Then Liam drew his shillelagh, slowly, almost mocking me, yet not moving a hair’s breadth closer. I did the same. We stood facing each other for long minutes, each taking the other’s measure. I saw his chest rise and fall with the long, easy breaths he was taking. I willed my own breath to be even slower.
As I stood, part of my mind memorized the uneven surface where we were standing. And part of my mind probed my opponent’s eyes, reading his intent. I was grateful to Gristle’s long hours with me, drilling me on crawling inside the very skin of my adversary, for when he leapt, I saw it first in his eyes.
I turned easily, stepping aside at an angle about forty-five degrees to his flashing weapon. Liam had expected a solid hit, but the shillelagh caught air, and that caused him to lose his balance very slightly. In that split second between his small misstep and his extended stick, I struck. It was only a light tap, but it caught him on the back of his calf.
He stood erect, gracefully accepting defeat with a slow smile. I saw a hungriness in his eyes that made my stomach flutter a bit, and I looked away. By now Ryan was standing nearby watching us. Liam spoke a few words to him, and his cousin translated.
“Tomorrow I will not be so easy on ye. Be prepared.”
I stood down, and we both laughed before moving to the fire to enjoy our evening meal. Starting tomorrow, we would have to trap our food, for our extra supplies were quickly eaten.
As we ate, Liam spoke again through Ryan.
“By Finn’ s thighs, warrior woman, ye need no lessons. Why did ye ask me—just to bring me down a few thorn notches on me bata?”
“No. I think we both can learn from each other. You know the moves better, Liam, especially the blinding speed. I know the breathing better. Everything else may be equal. If we can teach each other, there will be no better fighting couple in all of Éire.”
“I want us to be a couple, a mo ghrá. I know not about being a fighting couple.” He had that gleam in his eye, a certain twist to his mouth, and I knew he wanted me.
We sat in a close circle around the fire. Then Ryan stood and drew a small charred blanket from his belongings. He threw handfuls of damp grass onto the flames of the fire, building up clouds of smoke, and he kept moving the blanket, then pausing, then starting again. I saw that smoke billowed up, then stopped, then formed a high column.
Knowing I was curious, he spoke as he flapped the blanket. “The Murphys, O’Neills, and MacCools have their own language, lass. Like all the clans, we speak through our fires and our smoke, depending on the time of day or night. It is a way of staying close, no matter how far apart we may be.”
“I would learn that language, Ryan.”
“Very well, lass. As soon as ye learn a bit of Gaelige outside of ‘mo ghrá,’ I will teach ye.”
“Well spoken, you rogue. Each night after my shillelagh lesson, you will give me one word in the language of Éire, and one word in the language of smoke and fire.”
“Starting now?”
“Yes.”
“The smoke has already spoken, Caylith. But I can send one last word, an’ that would be your name.” I watched intently as Ryan sent up a tall, thin column of smoke. Then he suddenly cut it not once but twice with the blanket.
“That is my name?” He nodded. I saw that Liam was leaning back with a smile playing around his mouth, enjoying the lesson.
“And my Gaelige word of the day?”
“Very well. I shall teach you the word storm. Say stoirme.”
I practiced it a few times. I thought they were fascinated by the way my mouth tried to pronounce the difficult beginning sound, the way my lips pushed out so awkwardly. “And why are you teaching me such a word, Ryan?”
“Because me cousin Liam says you are his storm maker.”
I looked at Liam, puzzled, and he lightly traced my mouth with his index finger. Ryan almost drawled the words, slow and full of wry meaning.
“A woman’s mouth can be a man’s downfall—or a way to stand him up again.”
My face blazing, I jumped to my feet to take a small walk around our encampment. I thought I needed to get used to this young man’s plain speaking, but it always seemed to take me off my guard. In that technique—the sudden verbal thrust before my shield was ready—Liam was so far the better warrior.
Then I heard the sound of a bone whistle and Liam’s soft tenor voice, and I walked back to the camp fire as if drawn by an invisible rope. Ryan was playing the whistle, somewhat apart from Liam, and my lover lay sprawled as I had seen him so often back at Emain Macha, his head thrown back, his eyes closed as he sang.
Slowly I sat with my back against the trunk of a tree and closed my own eyes, loving the timbre of his voice. It was tender and slow, and it held a world of love. How could he be so taunting one moment, and so gentle the next? I understood his bawdy joke about storm maker, and I was irritated that he had said such a bold thing in front of Ryan.
I knew he was playing me like a lute, singing to me to make up for his teasing. I listened and enjoyed, but when his song ended and he sat close to me, I leaned away.
“Póg dom,” he said.
I turned my face away and spoke to Ryan. “Tell him, please, that the storm is over. If he does not understand, perhaps you can explain it to him.”
Ryan laughed softly. “If I am to be your translator, lass, the both of ye will say a few things ye may not want me to hear. But I cannot translate love. I bid ye good night.” And with that, he moved away to find a spot to sleep.
Liam put his mouth in my ear and talked softly, words I could not understand, but so husky and full of feeling that they sounded as much like a song as his music. I found his hand in the darkness and brought it to my lips, softly kissing and suckling on his fingers, listening to his words.
Then he began to lick my ear, and it felt so hot and sensuous that I turned my mouth to him after all. “Póg dom, póg dom,” I said into his moving mouth and he kissed me as though he would devour me.
He stood up and gathered me into his arms, and he walked to a spot behind a stand of trees and laid me down, never once taking his mouth from mine. He pulled down my oversized tunic inch by inch as he continued to kiss me.
He proceeded to bite me in small portions from my mouth to my breasts, then he kept biting and searching as though he could find no end to his hunger. I moved against his body, demanding more, until finally I was spent. He slept with his mouth on my bare breasts, and I did not move his head away. I lay awake a while, wondering at tonight’s lovemaking—how his mouth had become my own storm maker, and what he was trying to tell me. I caressed his soft curls and then slept long and deeply.
Chapter 7:
The Other Half
Liam’s head stirring on my chest woke me instantly, and I lay enjoying his warmth. The sun was only an imagining, the sky still luminous with the light of a waning moon. I heard the cry of a night predator.
I thought if I could ease Liam’s head off to the side, I would wash myself in the river, then start the fire for our morning meal. But as soon as I moved the slightest bit, he spoke into my skin. I could not hear the words, but of course I felt his moving lips. I began to caress his fine, soft hair, but only lightly and playfully, and his lips continued to move, now finding a nipple.
I shifted to the side and pulled his head between my breasts. “Dia duit.” I laughed softly. “Time to get up.” I jumped to my feet, forgetting that my tunic was somewhere around my calves, and it slid down to the ground. He reached for me, his hands finding my calves, then my thighs. Then, leaning down, I seized his head more firmly and brought it up to face my own.
“Liam. Water. Bath.” I pulled the tunic up over myself and ran toward the river
. Once I reached the river I threw off the tunic. I stood calf deep in the very cold water, splashing water over my skin, and he came up behind me. His body was so close I could feel every inch of him, and his hot tongue was in my ear. “Anois, a Chaitlín. Now.”
This was my reward for leaving him unsatisfied last night. Desiring him, I turned so that our naked bodies were close as twining trees, and my hands naturally found his smooth butt. I began to caress his backside, feeling the velvet skin, running my index finger between his buttocks, all the while kissing and sucking his lips and tongue. Almost without my willing it, I had begun to show Liam a boldness that I did not know I had.
“Devil woman,” he said into my mouth. Where had he learned such words? From Ryan, no doubt. I used my hands to turn his body around, until he was facing away from me. His naked behind was so desirable that I knelt in the water and seized a mouthful, while bringing my hands around his waist to the front, stroking his groin. Now I began to bite and lick more and more, a dozen different morsels, responding to Liam’s soft moans.
He stood, legs apart and head raised, while I ran my tongue between his buttocks. His groin had started to swell so much that I needed both hands to enclose it. And still I licked and sucked, until he cried out, and he overflowed in my hands.
Then I rose and faced him again, and he held his body against me, trembling, for a long moment. I, too, was satisfied, for his pleasure had become my own.
Finally, he took my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. His voice was husky. “Tá tú mo stoirme.”
I brought one of his hands to my mouth and gently suckled one finger, loving him, promising more. Then, without warning, I knelt and used both hands to splash a great swirl of water onto him, making him cry out with the shock of the cold.
“Then seek cover, Liam.” I waded to the bank in search of my discarded tunic.
* * * *
That day, our second day in the saddle, we took turns riding and dismounting, shielding ourselves from sudden rain squalls.
I was only days from rejoining my friends, and I began to look forward to being in one place for a while. At the same time, I wanted to keep this closeness with Liam as long as possible. Once I arrived home, everyday routine and the outside world might get in the way of our discovering each other.
