Tirnan'Oge

by Amanda McIntyre

  “For the priests and nuns, I suppose.” William shrugged.

  “Everyone believes in something, Bi—William.” Roan shifted on his knees, tossing a silent errant plea to the man on the crucifix to speed up the time. There seemed to be no look of compassion in the marble face. Roan glanced away and brought his attention back to William who was again searching beneath the cloth.

  “I heard rumors that the priests had underground rooms, where they kept treasures of the church. They claimed there was a trap door hidden underneath the altar. If it’s true and we find the treasure, we’d be both rich and famous.”

  Roan cast a gaze heavenward, for more than one reason. “That’s not true.”

  “How do you know?” William argued.

  “I just know, is all.”

  “Maybe we should find out?” William’s smile grew wide in challenge.

  “William Neill and Roan McNamara,” the priest’s thick brogue echoed from the back of the church. William dropped the cloth and struck a submissive pose, his head bowed, hands clasped at his chest.

  “You boys best be getting along home now, and you best tell your parents what you’ve done. I’ll be checking on Sunday to see that you’ve done so.”

  The two stood and faced the priest. His steel blue eyes gazed at them with harsh kindness. Roan and William wasted no time scurrying down the aisle to the escape of the front door.

  “And you boys promise me that you won’t be desecrating the Mother church again in such a way.”

  William turned and spoke first, “Be assured Father, we’ll never put ants in the fonts again.” He smiled at Roan and a twinkle of orneriness glittered in his eyes. Roan had a feeling that this wasn’t the last time he’d find himself on his knees beside William.

  ***

  The priest spoke a few words, and in private, he’d asked if Roan would like to say something by way of memorial. But Roan couldn’t, he was too numb yet with his loss. In fact, he preferred not to attend the burial in the small cemetery. It would be too much to bear. He hoped that by sneaking out the side door of the church, he could avoid those lining up to pay their last respects. He’d decided that later he would come back, after everyone was gone and give William a piece of his mind. How dare he be so careless with his life!

  “Mr. McNamara?”

  Startled by the sound of his name, Roan paused on the stone steps leading out to the Church’s side gardens. The sun overhead was a welcome relief from the closeness of the church inside. The air was cool and crisp, signaling the onset of an early autumn.

  “That’s me,” Roan answered turing to look up at the man following him.

  “Ah good, I was afraid it might not be you. You are Mr. McNamara. The pretty woman over there,” the stout man pointed toward Meghan who quickly looked away as she came down the front steps, “she pointed you out to me.” The stranger pulled off his round spectacles and rubbed the lenses between a cloth handkerchief before perching them back on his nose. He blinked and gave a perfunctory smile as he held out his hand.

  Roan nearly forgot his manners. “Sorry, yes, I’m Roan McNamara. And you are?”

  “Sylis Wingate, Mr. McNamara. Mr. Neill’s lawyer.”

  Roan nodded, dropping his hand to his side. “I’d say it was a pleasure Mr. Wingate, but under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be the truth.”

  The lawyer nodded and Roan realized the man had likely seen this scene more than once in his career. “What can I do for you?” Roan was anxious to move on before the church emptied completely and he’d be forced to follow the crowd to the gravesite. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He caught the site of William’s casket being rolled out of the back door, the pallbearers waiting to carry him to his final resting place. Roan closed his eyes and turned his attention back to the stranger that had detained him.

  “I have another appointment as well, Mr. McNamara, and frankly funerals make me a tad uncomfortable.” He cleared his throat as he pulled open his jacket. “However, it is my duty to give you this.”

  He held a white envelope out to Roan. “This letter reflects the changes he made to his will just before he left on his trip? Perhaps he spoke to you about them?”

  “He told me he was meeting his lawyer to talk about selling his parent’s farm.” Roan frowned, unsure how his friend’s legal matters would pertain to him. “What does this have to do with me, Mr. Wingate?”

  “As you perhaps know then, Mr. Neill had no surviving relatives.”

  “I’m aware of that, aye,” Roan glanced around, wishing the man would bloody well make his point. He eyed the envelope, wondering whether to take it.

  “He asked me to be sure that you received this, if the occasion arose.” He once more pushed the envelope toward Roan, waiting this time for him to take it. “Special occasion?” Roan spoke quietly as he stared at the white packet in his hand.

  “His death, Mr. McNamara.”

  “Ah, right,” Roan nodded as he accepted the letter and stepped away, purposely ducking his head to hide his tears.

  “It’s too bad about the accident, but a man like Mr. Neill, well it was bound to happen. At least he doesn’t leave behind a family.”

  Roan closed his eyes to the sting of the man’s shallow words. “That’s true, Mr. Wingate. He only left behind the poor saps he called his friends.” He tapped the air with the envelope. “Thank you for your concern.” Roan headed to his car, leaving the thoughtless lawyer to deal with his shortsightedness.

  ***

  Later that day, after dinner, Roan took a walk back to the small church cemetery and stood looking down at the fresh mound of dirt marking his friend’s new grave. A floral spray placed at one end served as a temporary marker. Roan had had a stone marker hewn and it was slated to arrive in a week or so. A few errant petals strewn over the dirt served as reminder of those who had paid their respects.

  An autumn sun hovered on the horizon, backdrop to the dark silhouette of trees in the distance that lined the farm pond where William and Roan once played. The place where Roan had met Feeorin. He wondered what would happen to the land and the pond now that William was gone.

  Roan searched the horizon, taking in the beauty of the purpling sky, with its slashes of red and orange streaks. He sighed quietly, tore open the sealed envelope, and began to read.

  “My dear friend,”

  Roan took a deep breath to lessen the pain that rushed his soul. He blinked away the tears and read on.

  “Well old man, if you’re reading this, I dare say it’s while standing next to my grave. Since it’s my guess that your preference as a recluse would be to come pay your respects afterwards, when no one is around, I’m also guessing that it’s just you and me, once again. Partners in crime. That was a joke.

  “Either that or you’ve come to lecture me one last time about my reckless lifestyle. I hope there are a few who will choose to remember me. Perhaps some of those old girlfriends? Hey, if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll run in to one while visiting me. You will visit me from time to time, right?

  “But on to the real crux of this epistle—call it my dying wish if you so choose to use the morbid phrase. After our discussion, I decided that since I couldn’t talk you out of this hermit-like existence of yours for the sake of…well, let’s just say, for what you believe to be true, then how can I in good conscience sell off the farm to complete strangers who would no doubt divide the land into neat little bundles and turn it into apartment housing?

  “No, my friend, in life I may have been self-absorbed, but not in this. So I leave to you the farm and all its wooded property, including the pond. I know that over the years you have probably thought me to be shallow, perhaps even cruel in my lack of belief in things other than myself. For that, I can only but ask your forgiveness. And certainly if you’re sitting next to my grave and cannot find it in your heart to forgive, what a horrid friend you are.”

  Roan brushed away a tear sliding down his cheek and swiped at his runny nose as he read on.r />
  “All kidding aside, I know that to leave you the acreage is to leave it in the hands of one who will truly appreciate its beauty and its history. (Even if that happens to include a mythical place with a gorgeous faery somewhere on its premises.)

  “My memories of home are not as cherished as yours, but my memories of times spent with you at the pond are memories I have carried all of my life and I thank you for those bright moments.

  “Of course, you have the option of refusing my offer, but then you have to deal with Wingate again. I’m guessing, though, that you won’t. Think of me now and again and may your future be all that you wish for it to be.

  “Your friend, Billy.

  P.S. Take care of Meg for me.”

  Roan stared at the paper in his hand for a long time, tears streaming unashamedly down his face. He dropped to his knees beside the grave.

  At some point—he wasn’t sure just when—but at some point, to some degree, William had believed.

  ***

  Roan adjusted his desk lamp, pulling it closer to the book. His eyes were tired from reading the faded, yellow writings of the crude diaries he’d found in the archives of the library basement. He plucked off his reading glasses and rubbed his fingers across his brows.

  A storm earlier in the evening had passed through leaving a cool breeze that now blew gently through the open window of the study. The scent of the rain soaked fields reminded him of lying in bed at home as a child, listening to the cautious return of the night sounds outside.

  It hadn’t taken him long to sell his grandparent’s farm. It wound up going to the Benevolent Order of Saints Orphanage and halfway house for runaway teens. Though there were definite differences in their beliefs, Roan and the new proprietors agreed on one thing, the farm was a healthy place that could heal a broken spirit. To that end, the new tenants agreed to Roan’s one stipulation that they include the tales of the old stories in their studies, if only from an historical viewpoint. Roan wasn’t insistent as to what reason was chosen to explain the teaching, only that these children who had no relatives to pass along the tales wouldn’t miss the opportunity to hear them.

  He began then in earnest the pain-staking research and documentation process. He would handwrite the notes first, later typing them on his old Royal typewriter.

  He began collecting the stories he remembered as a child, when his grandparents and uncles were alive. He recalled how they would sit at family gatherings, pipe smoke lingering in the air as a crackling fire provided ambience to the tales of old. After the meal, the women would gather in groups, knitting and catching up on the gossip. Sometimes they would spin their own yarns about the legends and folklore. And while they had no television, they did have a radio, but it was used sparingly. For the most part, their mode of entertainment was the storytelling.

  When Roan had recorded all the stories that he could remember growing up and listening to, he branched out, traveling through the countryside, visiting small pubs in the villages. He found old men there, whiling away the rainy afternoons playing checkers over a pint. Most were all too willing to sswap stories with him for a pint or a game or two. There was part of him that kept silent hope that Feeorin’s name might be mentioned in one of the tales, but she never was. There were days as he typed away at the keys that he would look up and see the woods from his window and he’d consider if William was right in saying she was only in his imagination.

  He handled each story like a precious gem, storing them in a box, until at last it was full. Afraid and yet empowered by his mission, he took the first of several bold steps to acquire an agent to get his tales published. What other way was there to get them into the hands of the masses, especially the children?

  Several turned him away, but he was persistent. On the occasions that his spirit would become despondent of his objective, he would find a bouquet of flowers or a pot of fresh honey at his back door the next morning. He knew they were gifts from his unseen friends of the wood and it was this motivation that kept him searching until at last he met the one agent who saw value in Roan’s mission.

  “I remember some of those stories. Sure a hell of a lot better than some of the crap being written these days. Tell you what, send me the first batch and let me take a look at them.”

  So enamored was the agent by Roan’s storytelling abilities and the reality he brought to them that he immediately set to finding a publisher.

  ***

  There were times, like tonight, when his self-inflicted solitude yawned like a gapping monster that threatened to swallow him whole.

  Roan stared at the full moon peeking through the gnarled branches of the ancient oak outside the window. His mind wandered to when he and William sat in the branches of the old oak outside his bedroom window on his grandparent’s farm. That old tree was a symbol of strength and hope that they would achieve their dreams one day.

  The antique mantle clock chimed the eleventh hour. He stretched his arms over his head. It had been a full day of typing and his fingers ached.

  A knock on the back door startled him and in his haste he tipped over his desk chair as he stood. Puzzled, he again glanced at the clock, seeing the late hour, and immediately a flash of Feeorin’s beautiful face popped into his mind. Roan’s heart pounded in his chest. If she’d come now to offer herself to him, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her.

  The knock sounded again, louder and more urgent. He moved with cautious anticipation and felt his way through the darkness of the kitchen.

  Roan flipped on the small wall lamp in the mudroom, filling the tiny space with a dull, yellowish hue. He placed his hand on the doorknob, hesitating at the powerful sense that somehow the past had finally caught up with him. A woman spoke from beyond the door, fear laced her voice.

  “Mr. McNamara, I know you’re home. I saw your light. Please, it’s urgent. I need to talk to you.”

  The woman’s voice sounded familiar, yet he wasn’t able to place a face with it. He opened the door and in the dim illumination of the back porch, her face came into view.

  “Meghan? Is that you?” Roan blinked, wondering if he was imagining her standing at his door. “What are you doing? Are you alright?” He searched the drive and saw no car.

  “I don’t know where else to go.”

  Chapter Four

  1967-Night Visitor~

  “Meghan, what are you talking about? Are you in trouble, is someone following you?” He ushered her inside the house as he checked again over his shoulder. There was nothing, no car, not a soul.

  She walked past him into the kitchen, wrapping her cloak around her.

  “I took a cab. I-I don’t have a car. I’m sorry to just show up, Roan, but you’re the only one I thought of.”

  He stepped forward hesitantly placing his hand on her shoulder. Roan wasn’t used to entertaining people in his home, particularly women.

  “William told me that he’d given you the farm. He told me a lot about you.”

  Her voice broke with emotion and she turned from him swiping her cheeks quickly with her hands.

  “Uh, come on in, Meg, let me get you some tea. I saw you at the funeral. I’m sorry I wasn’t up to talking to anyone just then.”

  Roan led her into the bright light of the kitchen and remembering his manners, turned to take her cloak. “Sorry, here, let me take that for you.” He held it as she clumsily tugged her arms from the wide sleeves. He wasn’t at all certain what they would talk about. William was the only thing they really had in common and he was obviously gone.

  “I always wanted to see this place. He never brought me here…you know, before. William always spoke with such fondness about you.”

  “Uh, Meghan, I have to confess, I’m surprised by your visit. I don’t generally have guests at this hour. I don’t generally have guests, period, for that matter,” he muttered. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  She turned then and faced him.

  His eyes grew wide, locked unceremoniously, on the en
ormous girth of her stomach.

  “It’s William’s. I found out just after the funeral. I wasn’t sure if I could raise a child alone, but every time I started to do something about it, well, I just couldn’t go through with it. It’s all I have left of William. You understand don’t you, Roan?”

  He stared openly at her rounded belly, trying to imagine William’s reaction to this news. Would he have been happy?

  “I’m sorry, forgive me, please, come sit down. Tell me what you want me to do.” Roan ushered her to the study, making sure she was comfortable before he bent in front of the fireplace to stir the embers into flames.

  The horrifying thought that she might be in labor occurred like a flash in his mind and Roan nearly fell as he pivoted on his heels to face her. “You aren’t…you know, having any contractions or thinking of having this baby now, are you?”

  “No.” She smiled, sliding her delicate hand over her sweater. “I’m not due for another three months. The women in my family carry babies right out front. It only looks as if I might explode any minute.”

  “Truthfully, that it does.” He chuckled letting the relief loosen his shoulders.

  Meg responded with a short laugh and patted her belly as she settled further into the old wingback chair. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes and Roan saw the tension ease from her face. It was a beautiful face. More so than he remembered from the last time they’d met. She’d grown older, and her age served her well. Her skin was fair, her hair dark, rich brown like a good cup of coffee.

  Roan’s own sigh, mostly from relief, escaped his lips. He smiled. “Why don’t you put your feet up.” He pushed the overstuffed ottoman near her, gently guiding her calves as she lifted her feet to their resting place.

  “That’s nice. Thank you.”

  “You rest here; I’ll get us that tea.”

  As Roan stood over the stove waiting for the tea kettle to whistle, it occurred to him how fast life could jump from one aspect to another. Changes were funny, sometimes unexpected, sometimes unwelcome, but in some cases, they were a lifesaver.