THE SEVENTH SISTER
Copyright © 2013 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder.
www.Welfonder.com
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*The Seventh Sister - This short story originally appeared in the Mammoth Book of Irish Romance / 2010 / Running Press
A story of love, legend, and magic…
In The Seventh Sister, down-on-her-luck American artist Maggie Gleason returns to Ireland, hoping to put old hurts behind her. Instead, revisiting the fishing village that enchanted her twelve years before only reopens wounds - until the unexpected appearance of roguish pub owner Conall Flanagan proves the Ancient Isle is a magical place where anything can happen and true love always stands the test of time.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE BEGINNING
Howth Village
Ireland, Twelve Years Ago
Maggie Gleason, American tourist, self-declared adventurist, and soon-to-be college student, stepped off the bus from Dublin and straight into her dreams. At last, she was following the path of her ancestors. She glanced about, her pulse quickening. Shivers of excitement raced through her. She wanted to lift her arms and twirl in a circle. Instead she stood still and simply absorbed. Without doubt, she’d never experienced a moment more thrilling.
Dublin was wonderful, but busy. This was the Ireland she’d come to see.
The little quay was everything she’d imagined. Colorful fishing boats bobbed in the harbor. The curving stone pier looked just like the photos she’d seen. And the neat line of cottages and pubs stretching along the waterfront couldn’t be more perfect.
Howth was magic.
It was a living postcard, full of charm and quaintness.
Even the weather gods greeted her kindly. Low gray clouds made a picturesque backdrop and the light wind off the sea let the waves dance cheerily. Maggie pressed a hand to her breast and walked over to the sea wall, enchanted. She took a deep breath, savoring the cool, damp air. It was so different from the stifling heat and mugginess of summer back home in Philadelphia.
Everything around her felt so welcoming and special.
So Irish.
Maggie smiled, the Gael in her filling her soul and making her pulse race with a giddy sense of recognition. Tingling happiness rippled through her, even warming her toes. Suddenly she wasn’t a tourist standing on the quay, here because she’d seen a few yellowed pictures of Howth in her grandmother’s old photo albums.
She was someone who belonged.
Above her, a seagull wheeled and cried before settling onto the swaying mast of a yacht. The bird angled his head and peered down at her, looking on as a wave smacked the jetty, dousing her with a mist of spray.
Laughing delightedly, Maggie swiped the moisture from her cheek, secretly deciding that Ireland had kissed her. Sweet, too, would be a few kisses from the tall, dark-haired young man working on one of the boats in the harbor. The boat – a sturdy, blue hulled craft called Morna – was moored only a stone’s throw from where she stood, but the cute Irishman didn’t appear to notice her.
Which was fine as it gave her a better chance to admire his deeply-cut dimples and how his black shoulder-length hair whipped in the wind. The way he wore his faded jeans, Aran sweater, and thick work boots wasn’t too shabby either. When he glanced up at the rolling clouds and she caught a glimpse of his sky blue eyes, she really wished he’d kiss her.
He did make her breath catch.
From nowhere, or perhaps from her heart, her grandmother’s words flashed across her mind. ‘Someday you’ll see, Maggie-girl. The glory of Ireland isn’t just the green of our hills and the blue of the sea. Nor is it all those soft, misty days. Or the way the light shimmers, polishing the sky until you’d swear you’re looking at the world through a swirl of finest gossamer silk.
‘That’s part of it, true. But the real magic is inside us.’ Here, Granny Gleason would lean forward, clutching the arms of her rocker. ‘It’s the music in our voices and the fullness of our hearts. The way we can move forward when we must, yet still keep our traditions alive.’
Maggie blinked and swallowed, half sure her long-dead grandmother had just stood beside her, whispering the words in her ear.
Now she knew the truth of them.
She also knew the dishy Irishman on the boat was looking at her.
Maggie’s heart slammed against her ribs. The Irishman grinned. His blue gaze locked on hers and the pleasure in his eyes made the ground tilt beneath her feet. Heat swept her, tingly and delicious. She touched a hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth of her blush.
It was then that a large black and white dog bolted past her, almost knocking her down as he made a sailing leap into the Morna. The Irishman bent to scratch the dog’s ears as the collie leaned into him, his plumed tail wagging in enthusiastic greeting.
Maggie stared, embarrassment scalding her. She wished she could disappear.
The Irishman hadn’t been flirting with her.
He’d been watching his dog’s running approach.
And she’d had no business making moony eyes at a local cutie who was surely tired of being gawked at by love-struck American tourists.
Certain she must be glowing a thousand shades of red, she wheeled about, nearly colliding with a tiny, stoop-backed old woman.
“Oh, I’m sorry!" Maggie reached to steady her. But there was no need. The woman beamed, her lined face wreathing in a smile.
“An American, are you?" The woman’s eyes twinkled even more. “But it’s home you are now, eh?”
“Home? I…." Maggie blinked. Something about the woman seemed otherworldly. Yet she looked solid enough and her smile was full of warmth. And if her clothes were a bit old-fashioned, her small black boots were tied with sassy red plaid laces that were definitely modern. She also sported a glittery shamrock on her jacket.
“I just got here yesterday." Maggie tried again. “Well, to Dublin. I flew in from Frankfurt. And I’m tired." She paused as the wind kicked up, tossing her hair. “This is the last stop on my grand tour of Europe before I head back to Philadelphia and start college.
“And, yes, Ireland does feel like home." She didn’t feel silly saying so. It was true. “I’ve never been here before, but my grandmother came from Cork.”
“Ah! Sure and I had the right of it!" The woman nodded, seeming pleased. “There’s the look of I
reland about you, there is." Her gaze flickered to Maggie’s coppery-bright hair. “I once had tresses so fine myself. Back in the day….
“But it was the wonder on your face that gave you away. It doesn’t matter how many oceans a body crosses. Or how many generations lie between, the Celtic heart is always drawn back home.”
She stepped closer, her tone almost conspiratorial. “That’s the magic of Ireland.”
“You sound like my grandmother." Maggie’s heart squeezed, remembering. “She used to say such things.”
The woman bobbed her head again, this time sagely. “You’ll not be finding a soul in the land who’ll tell you different. It’s a truth we all share. But enough of an old woman’s prattle." She tapped Maggie’s arm with a knotty finger. “What do you think of Howth?”
“It’s wonderful." Maggie glanced around, dismayed to see the Morna empty. The Irishman and his dog were gone. “I haven’t seen much yet." She took a breath, not wanting the woman to see her regret. “The quay, the whitewashed houses and neat little shops, everything, is so perfect.”
That was true.
Every corner of Howth beckoned, tempting her.
Although the delicious aroma of fish and chips wafting from a waterfront pub called Flanagan’s could tip the scales in the public house’s favor.
She was hungry.
A fine half pint of ale didn’t sound bad either.
Just then the sun burst through the clouds to sparkle on the choppy water. The wind filled with the tang of salt air and tar, making a good sip of ale in the cheery warmth of Flanagan’s seem even more inviting.
Maggie cast another look at the pub, liking the idea more by the minute.
Flanagan’s had atmosphere. Half-barrels of bright red geraniums, daisies, and sweet pea flanked the blue-painted door and a curl of pleasant-smelling woodsmoke rose from the pub’s squat chimney. Diamond-paned windows leant just the right air of Old World charm and the gold lettering of the pub name added dash.
She found herself smiling, her decision made, when the old woman gripped her arm. “Have you heard tell of the Seven Sisters?" She cocked her head again, her eyes almost eager. “The stone circle up on the hill behind the ruin of Howth Castle?”
“A stone circle?" Maggie tried to remember. “My grandmother came here sometimes when she was a girl, but I don’t think she ever mentioned such a place.”
“Oh, in her day, folk hereabouts kept such places to themselves." The woman released Maggie’s arm and lowered her voice. “If she wasn’t local, like as not no one spoke of the Seven Sisters. They’ll have feared she might take away some of its magic when she left.”
“Magic?" Maggie forgot about fish and chips and a half pint of ale.
“All ancient places have a touch o’ enchantment." The woman spoke as if such things were real. “The Seven Sisters aren’t well known because they’re hard to find if you don’t know where to look for them.”
Maggie considered. “I saw a signpost for the castle from the bus window. Can I get to the stone circle from there?" She glanced over her shoulder, along the coast road. “Is there a path?”
“You could take the road to the castle and follow the path up the hill. But” – the woman’s face brightened - “if you’re good by foot, there’s a better way. You’d have to climb a wee track that starts behind yon pub.”
She indicated Flanagan’s. “The path isn’t marked, but you’ll spot it easy enough.”
“You’re sure?"
“Look for where the roses tumble over a break in the stone wall behind the pub." The old woman winked. “Once you slip through there, you’ll find your way just fine.”
“Well…." Maggie turned up her jacket collar. The sun had dipped back behind the clouds and the wind suddenly felt much colder. “I would love to-”
“Then away with you and enjoy yourself." The old woman gave her a gentle nudge and then turned away, hurrying across the road and disappearing down a narrow walkway between two thickwalled houses.
For a moment, Maggie wondered why she hadn’t heard the tap-tap of the woman’s sturdy black boots on the pavement as she’d hobbled away so quickly. But just then a fat raindrop landed on her cheek and – she knew – if she didn’t hurry herself, she’d never make it up to the stone circle and back without getting drenched.
A glance at the sea confirmed what she’d guessed: a storm was definitely brewing.
She only had two weeks in Ireland.
And all her Gleason ancestors would turn in their graves if they saw her let a tiny bit of Irish wind and rain keep her from climbing a hill.
So she crossed the road and nipped behind Flanagan’s. She saw the gap in the wall right away. Dusky pink roses spilled over the stones, marking the spot. The path stretched beyond, leaf-strewn and muddy.
And so exciting in its possibilities that Maggie’s skin tingled.
But she’d only gone a short way, climbing hard and steadily, before her sense of adventure dimmed. This couldn’t be the right path. Although she could catch glimpses of the sea, she didn’t see anything of the harbor. Yet she had to be right above the village.
Even more disquieting, each step was taking her deeper into a tangle of gigantic rhododendrons. Huge, dark, and with oddly twisted trunks and branches, they towered over the path, forming a canopy. She felt as if she’d entered some weird primordial forest. Drifts of damp, gauzy mist even floated about, turning the wood into a place she could easily imagine inhabited by faeries, trolls, and other such creatures she didn’t want to consider.
Of a stone circle – or even the end of the path – was no sign.
Maggie shoved a hand through her hair.
She had to be lost.
The wind picked up, whistling ominously and tossing the rhodendron’s strange, shining branches. Maggie took a deep breath of the damp, woodsy air. She tried not to worry. She didn’t really think a wart-nosed troll was going to jump out of the bushes at her.
And her chances of being waylaid by an axe-murderer were slim.
This was Ireland, after all.
But the day had darkened and icy raindrops were beginning to splatter the path. Somewhere thunder rumbled. Or maybe it was just the crashing of the sea. Or – and she really hated this possibility – the sound of footsteps charging up the path behind her.
Maggie froze.
Someone was coming up the path.
She whipped around, wondering if she could use her rucksack as a weapon, when she recognized the man striding so purposely up the path.
It was him.
The black-haired, blue-eyed cutie from the fishing boat, Morna.
Maggie’s breath caught. Her heart flipped and a thrill shot through her. Thoughts of axe-murderers fled, replaced by the image of a sword-wielding Celtic warrior, fierce and proud, as he stood on a cliff’s edge, a wild sky behind him, the wind tossing his hair.
“You!" She could feel her eyes rounding. She noticed other things, too. Like the way the air around her seemed to crackle. And how a wildly exhilarating mix of eagerness, joy, and longing spun inside her.
She hoped he couldn’t hear the hammering of her heart. She also strove to speak in a halfway normal tone. “I saw you at the harbor.”
“Aye." He stopped, panting a bit as he leaned forward to brace his hands on his jean-clad thighs. As if he knew how he affected her, he looked up and flashed her the most blinding smile she’d ever seen.
“That would’ve been myself. Conall Flanagan. You saw me on my uncle’s boat, the Morna. My dog, Booley, almost knocked you down. I’m sorry for that. He can be a bit rowdy at times." He straightened, his eyes twinkling. “But there was no harm done, was there?
“Though just now” – he stepped aside as Booley cannoned into view, skidding to a halt beside him – “I’m for thinking you’re lost.”
Booley barked as if he agreed.
But they were wrong. She was right where she was meant to be. She could feel it in her soul. This was her place and the righ
tness of being here was as strong as her attraction to Conall.
Nor was she going to sound looney by telling him so.
“I’m Maggie Gleason, from Philadelphia, and I’m not lost. I wanted to take this path." It was all she could think to say. On the boat, he’d caught her eye. Here, standing so near, he dazzled her.
“So-o-o, Maggie Gleason of America” – he smiled again, dimples winking – “is the old country everything you thought it would be?”
“It’s a dream. Like a living fairytale, but” – she bit her lip, not wanting to gush. “How did you know-”
“That you’re Irish?" He rubbed his chin, pretending to consider. “Could be the name Gleason. Or maybe that wild tumble of fiery-red hair spilling down your back?”
Maggie’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t think straight.
But she had heard his name.
“Do you have anything to do with the harborside pub? Flanagan’s?”
Booley barked again, this time swishing his tail.
Conall put a hand on the dog’s head, stroking his ears. “My father owns Flanagan’s. It’s been in the family for generations. I was in the back when I saw you nip through the wall. That’s why I came after you. This isn’t a tourist path. The way is steep and-”
“I know where I’m going. An old woman gave me directions to the Seven Sisters." Maggie adjusted the strap of her rucksack. “She was local.”
Conall lifted a brow. “Any local wanting to do their part for tourism would have sent you to the marked route, down by the castle ruin. This path leads to our family farm and nowhere else.”
“I don’t understand." Maggie frowned. “The woman seemed so nice. And she did say that the path cut through the stone wall behind the pub.”
Conall shrugged. “Aye, well. There is a another way to the Sisters. I can take you there. If” – he glanced at her shoes – “you don’t mind pushing through some thorn bushes and getting your feet muddy?”
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