Tirnan'Oge

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Godson?” Roan, of course, was pleased though the news came unexpected. What did he know about being a godfather?

  “If you think you’re up to the task?” She grinned, tipping her head to study him. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first. I guess I assumed.”

  Roan touched the young boy’s cheek. His finger looked ten times larger than normal in comparison. “No, no, I’m honored, Meghan. I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then say yes. He’s going to need a man’s guidance to steer him through this world, and if it cannot be William, then I want it to be you.”

  He eased down on the edge of the bed and handed the child to his mother. “I’ll likely need some guidance of my own.” He smiled at her and for a moment wished that things were different. She grabbed his hand and squeezed.

  “We’ll be just fine, Roan. We’ve done pretty good up to now.”

  Chapter Five

  William Jr. grew under their combined parental teaching, though Roan most often felt inept at the task. Meg would assure him that the chores Will was learning to do and the discipline of helping with Roan’s documentation after his school studies were complete was helping to enrich a love for his country and its traditions.

  Will would sit on the floor, next to Roan’s writing desk, sorting papers that Roan cast to the floor in the fury of his writing. He asked questions, but if he doubted any of what Roan told him, he kept it to himself.

  The townspeople loved to entertain the romantic notion that Roan had finally settled down with a real woman. Their trips to town were often met with smiles and nods, with folks whispering behind their backs, thinking that they couldn’t hear as they made comments on how adorable they looked together as a family.

  Roan absorbed the praise. For the first time, he felt normal instead of a novelty in the community. Nevertheless, he kept up his nightly ritual of leaving gifts at his door, and now he had young Will at his side to teach.

  “Uncle Roan?” the young lad asked one evening as Roan was typing up another story for his latest book. “Do you believe in faeries, for real?”

  Roan removed his reading glasses and peered at the boy curled up with a book in front of the fire. His mother had gone to the market and he was left in charge.

  “Indeed, Will. I do. Our culture’s history is full of the stories of faeries and other legends.”

  The boy’s face screwed up with the question floating about his head. “But, what happens if you don’t believe in them? Does that mean they aren’t real?”

  Roan thought on the question for a moment, formulating how best to explain the concept of having faith in what you cannot see. The answer was as elusive to his heart as it was to explain. It was not to be the only difficult question Will would ask Roan. As the boy grew he had others that often Roan looked to Meg to help him with the answers. The three shared a special kind of bond, as if somehow through the reaches of the grave, William had brought them to one another to heal and to nurture each other.

  Roan knew the day would inevitably come when Meghan would leave. He couldn’t give her his heart in marriage, nor would she press him for it. However, a woman such as Meghan had needs, and Roan, even as much as he adored the odd family he’d gained by circumstance, couldn’t dispute that.

  The day she left was not unlike many along the coast. The sky, a gunpowder gray, hovered over the dank afternoon and a drizzle that had set in for the last week.

  Weeks before, he’d helped her to send resumes to London where she eventually found work with the newspaper, in part thanks to Roan’s connections with his agent. There she would see to it that Will attended an academy where he could get proper schooling. The portion of the money that William left to Roan, he placed in a trust until Will turned eighteen, with Meghan and himself as guardians.

  The boxes had been sent ahead to the flat she’d found and their bags were being loaded in the cab. Meghan insisted they go to the train station alone, telling Roan she might not be able to leave if he were there.

  She hugged him tight, clinging to him with such fierceness that it brought tears to his eyes.

  “I love you, Roan McNamara,” she whispered, her mouth against his unshaven cheek. “You promise you’ll come for Christmas in London. Think of it, Roan, the three of us together taking in the sights. William would be so thrilled.”

  He held her tight, reluctant to let go, but finally relaxing his arms. He smiled, but he couldn’t make promises. “You ring me when you get settled in, love, and tell that godson of mine to mind his mother.”

  “Tell him yourself. I want him to hear that warning issued direct from your lips. It’s your word he prizes now, isn’t it?”

  Roan shook his head, the edge of his mouth lifted in a dubious smile, but a measure of pride made his chest swell just a bit as he watched the young boy heaving the bags into the boot of the cab. He’d grown to look a lot like his father over the years.

  “See here, Will, come and let me have one last look at you. No doubt you’ll shoot up another foot before I see you again.” Roan motioned for the boy to come to him.

  His grin was purely his father’s, as was the spring in his step as he came toward Roan. But unlike his old friend, young William wasn’t shy of showing affection. He held his arms out, stretching them around Roan’s middle and buried his face in his flannel shirt.

  Will looked up at Roan. “You promise to come for the holidays, yeah? You know how pleased it would make Meg.”

  “That’s your Ma, boy. And I expect you to give her the respect she deserves.” Roan held the boy by the shoulders and studied him long and hard.

  The boy nodded.

  Roan patted his back. “You don’t worry about the holidays right now. You just take care of your Ma. And if I should hear of you giving her any grief, Will, you’ll be answerin’ to me, you hear?”

  He laughed openly, his young voice still high, but Roan knew how fast the years would fly by. His Will, his boy, would be a man all too soon. He rubbed the boy’s unruly hair. “Keep your nose in those books, but now and again, take a walk by a lake or in the woods. There’s much to be learned in nature, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t, Roan. I won’t.”

  Meghan stood at Roan’s side as the young boy tossed his bag into the car. “He won’t forget. I promise I won’t let him. Your stories are buried deep inside him, and you’ll be sending him more books, yeah?”

  Roan nodded focusing on the black cab against the gloomy sky. First, he’d lost Feeorin, then his friend Will, and now Meg and Will, Jr. They’d brought color to his gray existence.

  “I’ll make sure he takes time for those walks,” Meghan said glancing up at him. “He’ll miss going down to the pond to fish, though. His Ma’s squeamish of bait, you know.”

  Roan slid his arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight once more. “You’re a fine woman, Meghan, and William was one lucky man.”

  Her fair cheeks blushed as she glanced up beneath hooded lids. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

  “Tears can be cleansing, Meg. Be grateful that we have a friendship so very special that it includes tears. I am.” A sob choked from his lips and he shook his head with a grin. “Get on now, that cab driver is going to be rich if we stand here blubbering all day.”

  Her smile was genuine and Roan captured it in his memory, where he would hold it forever in his heart.

  “You call when you’re settled,” he reminded her, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He rocked on his heels, blinking up at the sky, until at last he heard the crunch of the tires on the gravel.

  He watched them turn in the rear window and wave, and he returned it briefly, before he had to face away again, before they saw the tears streaming down his face.

  Roan’s gaze clung to the red taillights as it bumped down the country road. He knew in his gut that he’d never get to London. He’d never be able to leave this place, there was no way. It was as if it was his lifeline. He could only hope that Meg and Will
would understand.

  ***

  Roan sat on the bank and stared out across the glassy smooth surface of the pond. Dragonflies darted hither skither, hovering near the surface, teasing the fish below and then darting away as the fish lunged from the water in search of a quick snack.

  Another autumn had come and gone, another spring too since Meghan and Will left the farm. It had been difficult at first adjusting once more to the silence of the rambling farmhouse.

  Summer evenings he’d take his walks, plowing his way through the tall grass that grew out of control near the pond. He could sense Feeorin’s presence, but it was clouded by his vivid memories of times spent here with young Will and how Meg hated to watch them clean the fish they caught. He’d enjoyed the laughter of the three of them in the kitchen. Now, to fill the void their leaving created, he found solace in his research and writing.

  He kept a framed picture of him and Will, taken on the road to the pond by Meg on one of their evening walks, beside his typewriter. Propped up against it was a postcard from Meg that he’d received not more than four months after she left.

  “Dear Roan,

  “The violence of Ireland has now been directed to businessmen in London. I’m fearful for Will’s safety and my own. There is an opportunity for a position in the States, with the newspaper affiliate. It’s a starting position, but I feel it’s an opportunity I cannot afford to pass up. I’ve already made arrangements for us and we leave next month for New York. I am sorry I won’t be able to come back before we leave, there simply isn’t the time. I will write when we get settled. I have people on that end who are helping me find an apartment. They are most kind. I pray that somehow you might be able to come to the States one day. Perhaps you will have a book tour in New York, though I can’t imagine you amid all the chaos. Still, know that you are always welcome in our home. Peace be with you. I’ll write very soon, Love, Meg & Will”

  Roan squinted against the blinding reflection of the sunset off the water. He was not oblivious to the violent acts of the sectarian factions in the North, but out on the farm, he was removed from much of what he heard on the radio newscasts. It seemed the whole world had gone mad and it made him even more determined to lose himself in his storytelling fantasies. Still, he missed the sound of other people in the house.

  “‘Tis just as easy to get swallowed by the silence, Meg,” he whispered.

  Chapter Six

  1987~

  “Happy birthday to me,” Roan mummered as he lit the single candle on the crumb cake. He sat back and stared at it a moment, and with a smile for all his blessings, leaned forward, blowing it out in a soft whoosh of his breath. He plucked the candle from the center, carefully smoothing over the crumbly topping. With one hand, he picked up the cake, in the other, the old pitcher filled halfway with cream. It was only fitting that he should share this, his fifty-third birthday, with his wee friends.

  They’d been kind to him over the years and though he’d never really seen them, there was evidence they were watching over him. Even with his move to the farm bequeathed to him by William, their generosity was not interrupted. He’d often find gifts at his back step of woven flower garlands and occasionally a fish or two from the pond, wrapped in fern leaves.

  He placed the cake on the backstep and scanned the late afternoon sky. He would never tire of the beauty of the countryside stretched beyond his backdoor.

  A crisp breeze lifted a tuft of his thinning hair and caused a chill to chase down his arms. He would need his flannel shirt for his evening walk.

  Roan glanced at the letter he’d received last week from Meghan. She’d been faithful to write just as she’d promised and in many ways, he felt as if he’d been right beside watching young Will grow these past ten years. He picked up the letter again and unfolded its worn pages were he’d read and re-read its contents.

  William, no longer a boy, was now a young man, enrolled in college, pursuing studies in Business and acquiring grades Roan would be proud of. That Roan could have told her without reading her letter. More startling to him was news of her recent marriage.

  “My dearest Roan,

  “I hope this finds you well. I’m happy to announce that I am now, or at least will be by the time this reaches you, Mrs. Brian Silverstein. We met here at the newspaper. Brian’s wife died of cancer two years ago. We chose to elope and so you are hearing this news even as his family is hearing of it. He’s a wonderful and very kind man and I would love for the two of you to meet someday if things work out. He’s good to William as well, though I have to note that their relationship is not as close as yours is with Will. However, there is one thing you have in common. He loves to fish and has promised to teach me, suggesting that there may be alternatives to bait other than worms.”

  Roan chuckled thinking of how her nose would crinkle when he and William invited her along on their trips to the pond. Harder to imagine was her with anyone but he and Will. Still, she’d gotten on with her life as had he and he couldn’t fault her for pursuing her happiness. He wanted that for her as much as he wished it for himself. Roan continued to read the letter.

  “Speaking of our boy, William… ”

  Roan’s breath caught at the intimate reference. He blinked and continued.

  “Our boy truly enjoys his university lifestyle. He’s even found an Irish pub that he frequents with friends. He talks about having his pints of the dark stuff as if he knows what the difference is. He brags on you often I’m told, telling of the great author he knows from the “mother” country! He has used the books you’ve sent him for countelss references until they are dog-earred. I offered to replace the binding, but he insists it would ruin the magic. I have you to blame for his flights of fancy, Roan McNamara. Yet I wanted you to know that he has taken to keeping a journa and speaks of the importance of his walks in the evenings.”

  Roan chuckled as he read.

  “He’s even found an older professor that enjoys a good game of chess as well as swapping old stories. Can you imagine?

  “How are things with you? Happy Birthday, by the way, a bit early I guess but better than late. I wanted to send you something special, but it will have to wait until after my honeymoon. Brian is taking me to Paris! Fancy that, will you? He promises all the fish has been previously prepared. I must run, much to do before our plane leaves in the morning. Write and let us know how you are doing? When is your next book due out?

  “Be well my dear friend and should you hear from your godson, please remind him not to skip Sunday vespers in lieu of a walk in the woods.

  “All my love,

  “Meghan”

  Roan folded the note and stared at the paper for a few moments. There was an odd twinge in his heart that he suspected had something to do with the new man in Meg’s life. He believed she deserved a companion, certainly. A man who could love her and care for her. Isn’t that what most people wished for?

  He made a note to write William and remind him of the delicate balance of studies verses evening walks, in Rona’s eyes, both of equal importance. And to appease Meg, he’d remind him of attending church, though he himself wasn’t as devout as perhaps he should be.

  He was faithful in visiting William’s grave and those of his grandparents, but his religious beliefs were far from the canons of the church. His belief was steeped in the ancient Druids he’d studied over the years. And while many of the pagan rituals of the church had their roots there, many other aspects had been lost along the way. His retelling of these ancient stories was his life’s mission and he was driven, as much on his crusade as was any saint.

  He was content with his quiet life for the most part. After the success of his first book, there’d been a furor of activity with newspaper and television reporters wanting to know more about his experience with the faery more than the book. For awhile, they camped outside his home, hoping for a glimpse of his “visiting” faery. During that time, he’d refrained from going near the pond, afraid of how they might ta
int the area.

  Eventually, they bored of waiting to see something “magical” and the cars and mobile units left, giving him back his privacy.

  His new book, featuring some of his own theories of why stories need to be passed down to new generations, had just been released and with it a resurrgence from the tabloids, wondering if he was the man who’d had a personal encounter with a “real faery.” Roan wasn’t sure sometimes if there was anyone who truly understood the importance of storytelling for a society, especially one as old as the legendary tales of Ireland. But, if he could touch one person and make them understand, then perhaps his efforts were not in vain. As long as there were a few that believed, then the faery villages would remain viable and strong, cloaked by magic, but alive and well, just the same.

  Roan saw the red light blinking on his answering machine, a device his agent insisted he get so he could leave him messages. He smiled and shook his head. Whomever it was, they could wait. Roan grabbed his fishing rod, his flannel shirt, and headed out the door.

  As always, he hoped he might see Feeorin, but more than that he needed to escape the barrage of phone calls. There’d been a rash of them of late with the launch of his new book. Mostly from tabloids interested in his original encounter and some from his agent insisting that a university seminar tour would be a good boon for his career. He found it puzzling how with each book release, the focus seemed to be on his re-telling of the encounter, rather than on the importance of his extensive history of storytelling.

  Yet, there was no question, that his encounter with Feeorin had had a profound effect on him, for the image of her burned bright still in his soul.

  There’d been times when he’d teetered on madness, consumed with the memory of her scent and the depth of knowledge in her eyes. At those times, he was driven to write, working feverlishly through the night, often collapsing from sheer exhaustion at his desk. And then there were days when he wondered at the sense of it all, as if he was a bystander looking in at another person’s chaotic life.