by R J Darby
“I am saying this. We report for man missing and say it is our cause to want to stay within the walls of the Kingdom.”
“But we do not want to stay here... do we?” It was not something that he had given proper thought to. All he wanted to do was get revenge on the gorta, and whoever was behind their attacks. Even more so now that he knew his deceased children and friends were no more than dry leaves being kicked out of the path of those repellent creatures.
“What we want is to protect where we can. If the gortas are to come here, it would be better to identify their weaknesses from within the walls. Or at least that is what we will tell Erin and Caradine.”
This just had a little man confused further.
“Do you have a temperature love?”
“No, I do not, you cheeky mare! You have the brain the size of a gnat and that is the problem here. I will spell it out simply for you.” Naimh took an extraordinarily long breath, knowing that this was going to take a lot of effort. "Right. This is the situation."
Naimh went on to tell Rowan that where the inevitable attack was taking place would be within the Kingdom - just as the council had requested. This meant that they were doing what they were told, and since they were doing nothing suspicious, they would not be watched. They had already heard the directions to Caonarach's lake. Getting there seems like it would be quite simple. Leprechauns are particularly good at navigating through nature. Unlike many creatures, usually the ones that walked above ground, they had retained their natural connection to the spirits of the five elements; earth, air, water, fire, and spirit (the last one of which Naimh was even closer to, thanks to her heritage). The plan was that as the battle was going on, they would slip out and go behind the deadly gorta. This was not for an attack, but instead to get to Caoranach alone. Everyone knows that weeds can grow back unless you rip them up from the root. Caoranach was the root of it all.
Chapter Eight
A Farewell of the Fairy Kind
Naimh made her way downstairs after a much-needed rest with her hand trailing against the stonework. It was cool to the touch despite the sun pouring onto it, something which she found to be oddly refreshing. Maybe because it reminded her of the temperature of the spring water which bubbled up from the dirt in the Quiet Place.
Passing the fountain, she came to the gate.
"Would you please raise the gate so that I might take a walk outside?" She asked.
"On wha' business?" The grouchy guard from her previous encounter stood in the way of the lever.
This seemed like an odd question to Naimh. She had wanted to make an offering to the astral spirits in the name of her children, Jeremiah and all who were lost — saying that though would only lead to suspicion. Rowan had only set off to report their party member "missing" a few minutes before she had set off.
"I am a leprechaun. The land calls for me."
"Not today, it doesn't. Be off with yer."
Naimh had not known such disrespect to a fellow member of the fairy community, especially not from such a commoner. A lesser fae might have turned and fluttered away but not an Irish one. She had the great passion of the nation, and it was within her as an unquenchable fire. Sure, it would occasionally simmer down, but it was there - always.
Naimh put her hands on her hips. "Are we not allowed to walk?"
"Sure yer can. In the city. It's big enough, 'specially with little legs like yours. Go on."
That just riled her more. "How dare you!"
The guard just rolled her eyes. "Look lassy-"
"My name is Naimh, not 'lassy' you utter langer."
The insult had the guard staggered, just long enough that Naimh could bolt past her and use her leprechaun wiles to whip out of the gate before slamming it again.
"Get back here!" The guard shouted. "Nobody is allowed out without a pass by order of the council!"
Naimh didn't care.
Feeling the air chase across her skin was the first, real nature she had seen within the walls. Moving away from them and tossing off her shoes to run barefoot in the grass, her emerald stare turned back. The Kingdom was magnificent, but she could see clearer now. It was not white like a sumptuous sugar cube just begging to sweeten a hot cup of tea. Instead, it was like chalk, useful but bitter on the mouth. Lengths of red hair spun behind her as she danced, basking in her newfound freedom. Of course, she would have to return, and getting out again would not be so easy now that she had given the guard the slip once. For that moment, her heart, her whole heart embraced the land.
She dropped to her hands and knees, kissing the ground. Grass caressed her face as dirt clung to her lips. That was the land she would be protecting. That was what needed her to go on. To fight.
Springing to her feet, she ran, getting her garments and ankles covered in glorious mud. The remnants of the child within her embraced nature; the smell of the flowers, the feel of the earth, and the everlasting expanse of sky above that would house the souls of every leprechaun ever to set foot on the sacred lands of Tír na nÓg. She chased the floating seeds of dandelions and races birds to their nests, all the while drinking in the sun; letting its rays rinse away her sorrows. Naimh was a new woman. One with purpose. First, however, she needed to close a chapter for another day.
Leprechauns, being deeply respectful of the land, rarely pluck flowers from the earth. Because of this, she chose to only pluck three, one for each of her babies.
The first she chose was for Ivy. For her, she selected a daffodil, which was as bright as the girl's personality. For Hawthorn, she picked an iris which was the same purple as the berries he so often liked to scrump from the bushes. And for Basil a daisy, which he so liked to make chains if for his mother. Finally, Naimh took a blade of grass and tied it on the bunch of three - a sacred number by the rule of all Pagan lands.
She placed the three on the water and said a silent prayer as they swept away, tide hastened by her tears.
After her waiting, she sang an old song of Celtic mourning, written by a mortal poet but one that held such resistance that it spoke to the heart of all creatures of the earth.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, and I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, and I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, and I did not die...
The last word lingered on her tongue, and she sang the last line with a voice as delicate as a frozen feather as if she could not let go quite yet.
"I am not there; I did not die..."
Her eyes remained closed for a short while, allowing her to take in the breath of the wind, which caressed her like the delicate voices of her lost babies.
Much time passed, though it would be little across the veil until she was finally ready to bid her farewell.
Naimh had been on her knees for quite some time and found a twinge when she stood. It was not from her aching calves but her inside. She was bleeding. Her time of the month had come, and with it the news that she would not be a mother again. She bathed in the river like a baptism. This was a new life, one where she was going to battle Caonarach's demonic maternity with her own. She would be a mother and bring safety to Tír na nÓg, making the children of the land her own. And this time, she would not be so foolish as to ignore her instincts and lose them.
Determined, she walked back to the Kingdom, finding it much easier to get in than it had been to get out. Her husband greeted her with open arms.
Chapter Nine
Dusty b
ooks
It was some days before the goodbye ritual, and in that time, the leprechaun make themselves more comfortable in the city. Not that they had any choice in the matter as the council had trebled the guards and even paid some of the refugees to stand and watch against their own kind. The married couple from the Quiet Place started to learn the layout, as seemed only practical. Nobody seemed to notice that they were looking in the alleyways and behind buildings, because all of the survivors have been told to do the same. It was in order to know the way around to help protect the city, which was a perfect cover for Rowan and Naimh finding their potential escape route.
Like before, the idea that the gortas were coming seemed fictional. It was almost surreal. Naimh in particular struggled to wrap her head around it. She has taken to a long walk around the wall, or at least on the top of the wall as nobody was currently allowed out without a pass signed by Caradine himself. Getting one of those without signing yourself up for multiple favors seemed almost impossible. Walking around the top of the stone prison gave Naimh a small taste of nature outside, which called to her as it did so many leprechauns. Occasionally she would walk with a young water nymph from the kingdom of Osterila. She too craved to be in their natural environment, so the pair bonded a little in this respect. That was until Naimh felt comfortable enough to give her a hug. It was something she regretted immediately, as her eyes widened and her body froze.
Death incarnate walks in the form of the gorta. They fall over the Kingdom like a swarm of flies clustering over a long since deceased body, covering it so entirely that until coming close, nobody would realize what it was. And by then, it would be too late. The Kingdom, with all of its stones, will make the perfect graveyard. The homes of the people within them will be the makings of gravestones over their heads, marking the end of their days and leaving the Kingdom to be little more than a sleeping city.
The city becomes bathed in cold long before the rains start to fall. It would be a welcome storm if anyone were left to properly appreciate it. The few that remain would become insane, or perhaps their near brush with death opens their mind. Either way, they shout at specters which would be unseen by many and have conversations with those who are no longer there. Regardless of the reason, it does not matter because without their sanity, these people will find themselves starved, unable to feed themselves. What crops were outside the city walls were burnt by the fury of flaming arrows of the archers in a last-ditch attempt to hold back the gorta. What food is left within has turned stale and the meat rots with a stench that would turn the stomachs of rabid dogs. The passing presence of the gorta has food turning putrid as fast frost flying the strangling, summer flowers.
The sweet, little water nymph with skin that is almost pearlescent is one of the few survivors. Some would call this lucky, but those who experience the Kingdom after the attack of the gorta know that is the exact opposite.
She stumbles, tripping over a dead body, one that formerly inhabited the soul of the Pooka Caradine. It does not matter how many favors he was owed or how much blackmail he had when it came to an end, because no matter what manipulation would be faced, nobody feared him more than the desolation that ripped apart the Kingdom.
The water nymph picks herself up with dry blood, flaking off her hands. She's used to that now. It is as common as wet on a hot day. Survivors don't even take a second look. Why would they? The entire Kingdom is bathed in this former crimson which is now filled with dried brown as it congeals in the corners and at the bottom of any surface which slopes. The water nymph walks down the stairway, and with each step of blood runs thicker, baked on by the harsh sun, which has now evaporated all of the safe water supplies.
The girl is walking towards the fountain, which is almost dry. Her heart yearns for a little water, already starved by the loss of her own home, which had water in abundance, not like the Kingdom, as the army had enough to drink and bathe. Where was all the water where she could frolic? Where was their place to relax and swim gently with the tide? Why do they not respect the calming presence and beauty of water?
It did not matter. There was no one left to respect it.
Her hands come to the side of the fountain, and she swallows. It feels as though there is more saliva in her mouth than left within the basin. Nevertheless, she reaches in and tries to collect what is left of the algae-covered droplets.
Without warning, a man in a cloak lunge at home.
“Get off my water!” He screams with a piercing sound like a catfight in the middle of the night.
She moves back and raises her hands, offering her submission.
It does not matter, though. There is madness in his eyes that could only have been learned from utter devastation. The gorta have left their mark not only on the Kingdom but on each inhabitant's soul.
“Please, I.” The water nymph does not get out the rest of her sentence as his hands wrapped around her neck. Thumbs press hard on her throat. She can't breathe. And no matter how hard she slaps and tries to lash out, she does not have the strength to fight this pure, psychotic adrenaline. Part of her does not want to, but Instinct makes her fight back until his face starts to become blurry. The sound of her choking feels distant as though she is underwater once again. Soon it is black like the very depths of the ocean. A final smile plays across her face and she is gone, no longer inhabiting that fragile frame. She has returned to her ancestors and the element of water which welcomes her back.
Naimh had begun to walk at a different time following that vision, and the water nymph did not ask any questions. Perhaps for the petrified posture of Naimh during her vision had frightened her. Or maybe her connection to water, which was so often used within divination and merging of conduits, had allowed her to glimpse a little of her own fate. Whatever the case, Naimh was happy not to be in her presence any longer.
While hunting for a silver lining and picking through the event she had seen, the death of Caradine seemed like a positive for a brief moment.
Guilt filled her stomach, washing up the bile, which burned at her throat. Nobody should have to suffer through that. The fact that he had children (Rowan had seen them being escorted to the council member's manor house) only made her nausea worse, even if I did behave like spoilt brats. She had not seen the fate of those children, but the banshee blood within her veins knew that it was an unpleasant one. The best she could hope for was that it would be quick.
It stung to know that someone else's children for going to die just because people would not listen. They were too proud and arrogant. Her banshee heritage allowed her some respect. Being mostly leprechaun, however, Caradine had little trouble convincing those close to him that anything that she said fell from the lips of a wily trickster. That was the reputation of the Leprechaun, after all, made worse by the fact that he was a Pooka, a very proud one at that.
Naimh sighed. What was she to do? The plan to escape would allow them to at least continue with the investigation, but this was a terrible cost. She had never wanted to be a ruler. It was too much responsibility. There was too much demand to treat people as a numbers game. That wasn't her. It wasn't her husband, either.
With him, in mind, she knew where she might be able to find a crumb of comfort. He has spent much of his time in the library, mostly learning old stories and legends, and that was where she would find him. The idea of his embrace pulled her down from the wall.
“I thought you might be here.” Naimh wrapped her arms around the neck of her husband, his ever-growing beard was tickling at her forearms. In a curious way it proved that there were still some innocent pleasures in the world.
“I think I found something.”
“Something like what?”
“Something like a solution.”
She could not believe what she was hearing, but by the look on her husband's face, she knew it to be true. A solution seems like an impossibility, but then everything that had seemed impossible has proven itself to be quite possible i
ndeed. Regardless, she blinked; long lashes fluttering like feathers in the wind and reminding Rowan yet again why he had married her. In each day, you managed to find something that would give him a little light in the darkness. More often than not, this was Naimh. To him, she was more precious than gold and coming from a leprechaun that said a lot.
It was with pride puffing up his chest that he was able to give her something to be right about too. He smiled, suspending the moment like the unwrapping of a wonderful present.
“Come on!" she said, almost in a girlish way. Excitement bubbled within the both of them, as potent as anything that might brew in a witches cauldron. This was a strong kind of magic, the magic that pushed them forward to seek revenge and, more importantly, create salvation for others.
“Hmm,” he dropped a heavy red book on the table. Even though they're already marked where his fingers had cut through the dust, it let out a poof! Naimh coughed into her hand.
“I don't think that a long book full of dust is the answer.”
“I think this book is, though. You can always tell the value of a book by how battered its pages are, and this one has barely got enough stitching left to hold them into the leather. Take a look my darling.”
Rowan slid the heavy, red book towards her (which same twice as large against her dainty hands). She turned the pages over, inhaling the musk of the cream colored sheets. Long, looped stretches of an ink quill filled every page, spliced in with diagrams and the occasional drawing. The handwriting even looked ancient to the two leprechauns, which was saying something, giving their long history in Ireland. Whatever this book was, it was ancient.
“I think that you should turn to page 397.”
That was easier said than done. The book was so large that it could have been used as a doorstop.
“395, 396. Ah! Here we are. 397. Good gracious me...” The air seemed to be drawn out of her lungs. “I don't believe it! This can't be true, can it?”
