Elemental Origins: The Complete Series

by A. L. Knorr

  I opened it gingerly, and the pages were soft with age. The date on the inside cover was 1928. The artwork here was again different, and done by a monster talent. I flipped to the front page, looking for a name. It was there: Mailís Stiobhard. I’d never heard the name before. Her work was done in pencil only, no color had been added. The shading was so masterful and soft that it seemed early morning sunlight dusted the features of each fae. I took the sketchbook to the sofa near the fireplace and sat down with it open on my lap. I turned through each page, swept away by the beauty of the drawings. Gooseflesh crawled over my scalp. Unlike any of the other sketchbooks, each portrait had a name. Interesting. Why was this Mailís the only one who knew their names?

  There were still more sketchbooks that looked older than this one. I opened them all. My wonder and amazement grew with each one. Each artist had their own particular style: pencil, pen and ink, watercolor, chalk. I pulled out the sketchbook farthest to the left, presumably the oldest as they'd been shelved chronologically, and opened it. The inside cover had the year 1867 scrawled in the top right corner.

  When I turned to the first drawing in the oldest sketchbook, my dreams came rushing back to me with sudden and crystal clarity. They hit me with all the weight and velocity of a locomotive. My head snapped up and my eyes went wide. My vision blurred out of focus as I remembered, and I gasped.

  I'm not sure how long I sat there, recalling the details of the dreams. It was as though that corner of my memory finally had a flashlight shone into it, I had to look around, casting the beam of light on every detail. When the initial shock of remembrance passed, and my vision finally came back to me, I looked more closely at the art.

  My heart thudded when I saw the first painting. I flipped through a few more pages, just to be sure. It was these exact sketches I had seen in my dream. Outlined in black and filled in with colored ink, the images leapt from the page like light illuminated a stained glass window. The entire portrait had an elaborate border that reminded me of what I'd seen in very old bibles. These were the oldest sketches, but there were still no names written on these pages - and yet I knew the names anyway.

  "Eda", I whispered as I looked at the familiar portrait. Her face seemed so alive. I turned the page but already knew what I would see. 'Po. I continued on. They were all there, and I knew all of them.

  Tera. J'al. Mehda.

  They were in the same order and exactly the way they'd appeared in my dreams.

  "Oka. Iri. Bohe. Wenn." I said the last four names out loud, half expecting to feel a breeze, but there was no accompanying wind.

  I looked up and scanned the mess of portraits and articles on the wall near the fireplace. My eye found what it was seeking: the family tree - rendered on parchment paper and framed. It was surrounded by a cluster of photographs. I recognized none of the faces on the wall save for my grandparents, who smiled out of a black and white wedding photograph - their cheeks round and soft with youth. Padraig and Roisin. Married in 1946. Aunt Faith hadn't come along until eighteen years later in 1964. Then Liz, in 1967. My grandmother had been forty. I looked for the name of the artist responsible for the drawings I held: Biddy. I found it. Her lifespan was marked as 1822-1892.

  I wandered back to the sofa without looking at where I was going, sat, and consumed every drawing again. When I'd finally closed the last book, I didn't move for a very long time. The evidence was clear - my ancestors had been recording the fae for at least 150 years. Unless there were more sketchbooks that had been destroyed or were kept somewhere else, I had dreamed of the oldest fae.

  Based on the variety of artistic styles, five different artists had each taken their turn building this...what could I call it?My eyes wandered back to the bookshelf, crammed with years of drawings. The word that came to mind was archive. That's what it was - an archive. Had the fae depicted in these books all hatched on this property? Probably. This house was two hundred years old. So, many of my ancestors had been able to see fae. It was Biddy's artwork I had dreamed about, but only one artist, Mailís, had written their names down. I had to deduce that was because she was the only one who could hear them. Just like I could.

  I went back to the family tree and looked for her name. There - on the same line as Padraig and Niamh, my grandfather and his twin sister. But the line with her name extended off to the side, almost like she was an afterthought. Mailís Stiobhard-Sheehan. 1903 - 1935. Why such a short life? She was a much older half-sister to my grandfather - same mother, different father.

  In a bottom corner of the collection cramming the wall, my eyes were arrested by a pencil drawing of a dark-haired woman in a chevron patterned dress. She was sitting in a chair by a fireplace. I looked over at the fire corner in the far wall, noting the flourish in the center of the wooden mantle. It was the same mantle in the drawing.

  The woman's eyes were soft and dark and her expression neither a frown nor a smile. Her eyes seemed to cling to mine no matter where I stood. I peered closer and blew the film of dust from the glass. Her hair had a severe part down the middle and was tied low at the nape of her neck. She had the same bump on the bridge of her nose as my grandfather, Padraig. I put a finger to my nose. I had the same rise on the bridge of my nose too, albeit smaller, I hoped. I pulled the small frame off the wall and turned it over. Someone had written on the back: Mailís Stiobhard-Sheehan. Self-Portrait. 1929. She'd died only a mere six years after she'd done this self-portrait.

  Each artist, except for Jasher, had been a blood relative. But Jasher could see ghosts. Now, for some reason I didn't understand, I could see the fae, too. A chill swept through me and I pulled my cardigan closed. It couldn't have been a dream. No dream could be that accurate. It was impossible.

  My phone chirped and I jumped with a loud gasp. My heart bolted like a sprinter. I grabbed my phone from the coffee table.

  Saxony: What are you doing?

  Me: Getting lost in family history. Apparently, there is a lot of artistic talent in my family.

  Saxony: Huh, too bad it skipped your generation.

  I snorted a laugh. She was right, I couldn’t draw stick people. Brat, I texted back. What are you doing?

  Saxony: I… have a date with a very cute Italian man. Don’t wait up.

  Me: Which one is this?

  Saxony had already told me that she’d met two guys, both cute, both charming.

  Saxony: Dante.

  Me: The glass-blower?

  I waited, but she didn’t reply. I put my phone back. She’d probably text me in the middle of the night.

  By this time, the library was a mess of open sketchbooks scattered on the couch and coffee table, and I was genuinely spooked. I needed answers, and I felt instinctively that they lay with Mailís.

  I became a sleuth, and raided the library shelves in search of anything that might contain answers. My grandparents had both journaled, it was something their mother passed down to them. Maybe Mailís had journaled too. Half a dozen paper cuts later, and with filthy black fingers, I struck gold. A small black book hidden amongst a stack of others just like it. Diaries and memoirs.

  The title page was handwritten in a delicate cursive. Ink splatters misted over the fine wispy letters: Mailís Stiobhard. I was so excited to find it, and so relieved that it was in English and not Gaelic, that I kissed it.

  Chapter 22

  The wind outside had picked up, and rain blurred the glass. I hurriedly put the library back together, arranging the journals and sketchbooks as best I could before heading downstairs and making myself some tea. I scooched into the kitchen nook with my find as the rain pattered down outside, and began to read.

  It wasn't really a diary, more of an artists' study. The pages were filled with drawings of people and animals. Her skill with a pencil was good. Even though the sketches were mostly doodles, they were a pleasure to look at. The face of a middle-aged woman wearing a bonnet bent over beside a wood stove with kindling in her hands. The door of the stove was open and the firelight was so
well rendered on her face and clothing that I could almost hear the crackling flames. 'Mama' was scribbled under the drawing.

  She also had drawings of a puppy, the eyes and eyelashes of a cow, the mouth of a cow with the tongue licking up into its nose. Mailís missed no detail - the hair, the glistening saliva, the taste buds on the tongue.

  I passed more drawings of people, some named, some not. Many were just studies of hands, eyes, lips. I stopped at a completed portrait of a man from the chest up. His dark hair curled from under his cap, and a scarf was knotted at his throat. He wasn't smiling, but somehow she'd captured that he was happy just the same. There were hardly any fine lines indicating age, just a few along the forehead and lining the mouth. She'd scrawled 'Da' below the drawing. Whatever had happened to Mailís, one thing was for certain, she was talented, and her skill transitioned from good to extraordinary. Flipping through these pages was like watching years of artistic growth in fast-motion.

  She experimented with different techniques: using circular scribbles to render an image of a landscape, crosshatching a portrait of a fresh young woman named Irene, even a watercolor of a robin in the grass - the first colored image. After this painting was the first written entry of substance. The hair on my arms stood at attention as I read the first line. It felt as though it had been written just for me.

  Last night I had the strangest dream, and it wasn’t the first of its kind.

  The hair at the nape of my neck stood on end. Then I couldn't read fast enough.

  It’s taken me a long time to remember, but now that I have, they’re as clear as a cloudless day. I dreamed of drifting through a wet fog. I could feel nothing beneath my feet, I floated - like a ghost. I came to a bookshelf full of sketchbooks, and pulled one from the shelf. It was full of drawings of faeries. In my dream, I knew the names and said them out loud, one after the other. I feel ridiculous when I think of how much I believed in faeries in my dream. They seemed quite real to me.

  My heart pounded under my ribs, rattling against my sternum like it was trying to escape.

  Every time I called a name, I felt a warm wind. There was the sound of an exhale while I inhaled, as I took the faerie breath in. It smelled of moss and living things. With each inhale, I sank lower and lower, until my feet were flat on the earth.

  My hand flew to my mouth. According to Mailís, we had breathed in the exhales of the fae. And, what? We’d taken in their power? I lay the book face down on the table. I needed a moment to process. No, I needed a lifetime to process. My palms were cold and clammy and the skin between my breasts felt damp. I couldn't handle this. This was... crazy. I stared at the ceiling and put my cold palm over my heart, willing it to slow.

  With trembling fingers, I picked up the diary again and turned the page. There it was - the drawing of a faerie. The first one Mailís ever rendered. At the top of the page were the words: I understand.

  “What do you understand, Mailís? I said out loud. “You understand why there were sketchbooks full of faeries in your library? Or something bigger?” I turned the page.

  From that point on, the sketches of people and animals disappeared. What took their place were drawings of fae, all of them looking freshly hatched. Then the sketches of plants began to appear - detailed to the point of botanical studies. The sketches of plants often included scribbled notes and old-world Gaelic names.

  Whatever was happening to me, it had happened to Mailís first. My fear began to dissolve, and gratitude for Mailís filled its place. I turned the page over to a handwritten entry. It was the longest by far of any of her written passages, and it hit home like an arrow in the bullseye of my heart.

  Something is happening to me. I can feel things that I never felt before. I know things that I never knew before. I don't know where this knowledge is coming from. I can only connect it to the fae, and my dreams. I discovered a plant that I had never known growing near the spring, a scented herb named Lus na Cnámh Briste. It introduced itself to me when I touched it. Through the pads of my fingers I knew that this plant had healing properties.

  I was also introduced to Fraochán, a berry which told me that it could be consumed to strengthen the thin membrane surrounding the human brain and bring resilience to the skin. The moment I came into contact with it, I understood it. I am having some difficulty in making a decision about this knowledge which I have acquired. It is no secret that I am already regarded as a wistful and reclusive spinster, preferring the company of nature to that of people. For now I shall keep it to myself and these pages.

  Her mental musings stopped there and the drawings commenced again. It was several pages later before there were words again, and they made me stop.

  Today, I healed myself of a painful headache. I knew that cohosh was good for such a thing. I went to gather some to make a tincture, but when I touched it, the world of the herb was given to me. I was able to draw the healing energy into myself, I could feel my headache ease, more rapidly than it would have if I had taken the tincture. I am becoming a Wise. I have been chosen by the fae. I am ashamed that I did not believe.

  A Wise. The term echoed and vibrated. Wise was what the fae had said to me the night they hatched, but it hadn't made any sense to me. Now it did. Wise wasn't an adjective, it was a who.

  "What's a Wise, Mailís?" I whispered. I turned the page to find more botanical drawings, more studies of fae - their tiny hands, their transparency and ethereal light. I skipped past the drawings, used to them by now. I needed more information.

  I stopped at the next block of writing but was frustrated when her entry changed subjects entirely.

  Cousin Irene has forced me to attend the Ana Christmas dance, and never was I more grateful for being dragged somewhere against my will. I have met the most genteel soul. Irene's friend Eoin introduced his brother to our party, a singular Cormac O'Brien.

  I paused. O'Brien? Why was that name familiar?

  I read on. Over the next several entries, Mailís wrote about the fear of her own feelings as she met with Cormac on public outings. It was easy to gather that Mailís was not used to socializing but that she pushed herself out of her comfort zone, solely for the young man's company. Several cryptic phrases had been scrawled amidst drawings of plants and fae. Until finally... the clincher:

  I am in love.

  My heart melted for her. This woman, whose existence was completely unknown to me before the summer, had suddenly come to mean so much to me. And her happiness was my happiness. Those four simple words made my heart feel as light as a balloon, and eased the gnawing curiosity, if only for a moment.

  I turned over another page and gasped when I saw a black and white pencil portrait of a young man, unlabeled. This was almost undoubtedly Cormac O'Brien. I wondered if she'd drawn it from memory, or from life. His hair was combed forward in the fashion of the day, and curled in front of his ears. He wore a high collar, standing up nearly to his strong square jawline. His hair was dark, and may have been black. He had high cheekbones, a high aristocratic forehead, and full sensual lips with a tiny scar on the upper lip.

  "Oh Mailís," I breathed as I took in the dark eyes, the ever so slightly arrogant tilt of the chin, the aquiline nose. She'd captured the masculine beauty of his face, but also his spirit. He was aloof, proud, and I couldn't say for sure because it could have just been the effect of the scar, but I thought his lip curled with a touch of cruelty. My mind flashed back to the self-portrait in the library of Mailís in her chevron dress, with her soft, vulnerable eyes. "He's so wrong for you."

  Chapter 23

  The next morning found me moving about in a daze. I had taken the diary to bed with me after supper so I could continue reading and looking through the sketches, but I had quickly fallen asleep. Exhausted from all the revelation, I suspect.

  I slept in past eight and woke to more rain on the windows. I turned on the gas stove and set the kettle over it to boil. I pulled down the jar of Irish breakfast tea and set two bags in the teapot. The back door ope
ned and Jasher came in, scraping his boots on the mat.

  "Georjie? That you?"

  "I'm here. Morning. Forget something?"

  "Aye, a parka," he laughed. "If you go out today, take your rain jacket. It's cold and wet. You'd think it was March."

  I looked out the window at the gray skies and drizzle, then poked my head into the mudroom. Jasher was zipping up an oilskin coat.

  "How are you working in this awful weather?" I asked.

  "Most of it is indoors. All I have to do that's outside is measure." He grabbed his baseball cap and jammed it on his head. “Still reading that diary?”

  “Yes. Sorry I’m neglecting you. It’s fascinating.”

  He smiled. “We’re like an old married couple by now.”

  The kettle began to whistle behind me. "Speaking of which,” I took on the croaky, dry tone of an old withered woman. “Want to take some hot tea with you, my dear?"

  He laughed. "You should have been an actress. I would love some. But only if it’s ready now, I'm running late. We're meeting at the yard to make an order."

  "You got it. Stay there, I'll bring it to you. Two seconds." I found a tall slender aluminum thermos in the cupboard, rinsed it with hot water and pushed two teabags in through the narrow mouth. I turned off the burner and filled the thermos and the teapot with boiling water. "Milk?"

  "Just a splash!" Jasher yelled from the mudroom. "Thanks, Georjie. You're a goddess!"

  I smiled, snatched the milk from the fridge and poured a dash into the thermos. I spun away from the thermos with the milk in my hand and hit it, knocking it over. Boiled water splashed down the front of my right thigh and the back of my right wrist. A cry of pain ripped from my throat and I dropped the milk. Tears sprang to my eyes as the hot water scorched my skin. I doubled over and clenched my teeth. It was the kind of burn that makes your whole body stiffen up and the nerves scream for mercy.