Page 142 of A Winding Wave of Magic
We were, however, quite alone. The spirits of the place had begun to cast their influence over him also. In a moment he was corroborated by the girl, who said that bursts of laughter had begun to mingle with the music, the confused talking, and the noise of feet. She next saw a bright light streaming out of the cave, which seemed to have grown much deeper, and a quantity of little people, in various coloured dresses, red predominating, dancing to a tune which she did not recognize.
It was from a well-known story about Queen Medb, but it was the seeress that Caitlin was most concerned about, the part of the tale where Yeats is standing in the field with an older man and a young seeress as they called upon the spirits of a fairy mound.
I turned to Caitlin, who seemed to be caught in her own strange trance. “This doesn’t prove anything. Yeats was just a typical bard, if that’s what you’d call it. Like Enda here. And apparently, this seeress he was watching was the same.”
Enda grinned, pleased to be recognized.
But Caitlin shook her head. “Just listen.” She nodded at her daughter.
Enda continued, and the narrator did indeed begin to see Medb emerge from the dancing folk and approach the trio. The narrator had all sorts of questions for the queen, but was forced to ask them through his guide, the seeress.
“‘I bade the seeress lay her hand upon the breast of the queen,’” Caitlin spoke with Enda, “‘and after that she heard every word quite distinctly.’” She stopped there and blinked her eyes open, staring at me meaningfully.
I blinked back. “What, the touch? The girl didn’t need it to communicate her visions to Yeats or the old man. What did it matter if she touched the queen?”
“The girl was just an ordinary bard, Cassandra, as was William Butler Yeats. But it was Medb who needed to be touched, mm?”
“She wasn’t a seer, Caitlin,” I protested. “She was just a queen. And one who was supposedly married a half a dozen times, I might add.”
“You of all people should know that you’ve got to read between the lines. It was the blasted monks, not the poets, who likely focused more on her marital activities than the fact that she was the goddess of sovereignty. In the old tales, she appears as an apparition, speaking to animals as familiars, guiding the warriors through battle, and attracting men of all types with her beauty, yes.”
Caitlin leaned in close to me, her gray eyes gleaming. The girls leaned closer. So did everyone else.
“She could do everything with a simple touch of the hand. She was one of the greatest women in Irish history. And she was the oracle of her generation, a channel for power and truth. Just like you.”
Satisfied with her dramatic conclusion,Caitlin cooked the pollock on the ancient wood-burning stove in the kitchen while her daughters peppered me with questions. What did it feel like to be an oracle? Could I show them how to do it? Did I really not know what I was?
Eventually, their questions bled into the memories released from my chair, and all of them seemed to grow louder as the embers in the fire turned to ash. The sea begged me to visit, and I escaped outside on the pretense of a walk.
A path cut into the limestone cliff zigzagged down to the shore below the house, where the Atlantic Ocean beat the limestone to pebbles. The sun was just starting to set when I found a large, flat rock above a low tide, turning the previously silver waves golden as the rays met the water.
Tucked into my favorite of Gran’s old sweaters—identical to the one Caitlin had been knitting inside—I focused on breathing the salt-sprayed air as I dipped my fingers into the tide pools on either side of the rock.
Feel the earth. Touch the water.
Less than a mile down the shore was a break where, according to Jock, surfers came from all over the island to try their luck. It was a solid left, and under a relatively calm breeze, the waves broke in even green barrels patched with kelp. Occasionally, a seal popped up from the crest, playing in the rise and fall as it caught its evening meal. One turned to me andbarked. I wanted nothing more than to pull on my wet suit and escape into the cool oblivion.
“Are you all right?”
Jonathan’s voice was low enough to blend with the dull roar of the surf, but I heard him anyway. I folded my arms over my knees and buried my face in my hands while my hair tumbled about my arms and shoulders, enshrouding me further. I knew he could watch every emotion running through my body if he wanted to, but somehow I felt more hidden this way.
It was a blessing to have found the Connollys—a kind, pragmatic family like I’d wished for my entire life. Who had welcomed me into their home in the space of a few hours without blinking an eye. But I had never felt so naked, so invaded in my life.
And it had only been maybe an hour.
“That bad, is it?”
“Mmph,” I mumbled into the wool.
I lifted my head and stretched my legs on the rock, digging the heels of my boots into the rock. Jonathan sat beside me and opened his palm on his thigh. An invitation without being presumptive. One that said,I’m here. If you need..
“Not just now,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I need some privacy.”
“Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“You can stay. Just don’t touch me.”
We allowed the ocean’s meditative laps and the gulls’ songs to slip pleasantly in between us. Behind us, the Connolly girls picked greens in the garden for dinner, and Robbie had gone to the next lot over to feed their family’s livestock. A hint of grilled fish floated pleasantly from the house.
