Page 173 of A Winding Wave of Magic
It was tradition for each household to burn a small fire of their own. The Connollys had started theirs before we left, and I had spent the better part of the mornings for the last week with Robbie picking weeds and gorse bushes from the garden to dry and throw into the fire.
“It wards them off for the harvest,” he explained, his eyes twinkling with the superstition. “Well, that’s the spell I cast with them.”
The reason behind the Connollys’ observance of Catholic traditions was even more evident when I spotted the straw-stuffed mannequin in the center of the town’s bonfire. Enda, Iona, and Bronagh had all run into the night with playmates.
“I see Michael laid the fire this year,” Caitlin said more to Robbie than to me.
“One of the older gents,” Robbie filled me in.
“Who still remembers when they burned effigies to keep the witches away.” Caitlin’s voice was dark and bitter.
“Ironic, considering Bonfire Night started with the druids,” I replied. “They’d build the fires to bridge the gap between days on the shortest night of the year.”
Caitlin nodded. “Even so. When I was a girl, you’d see all of Ireland alight with fires across the way, many of them with a witch like this.”
I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter around my body. Though the Irish were never as passionate in their hunting as they were in England or the Americas, the sight of the limp figure burning was a reminder that it didn’t take much for plain folk to turn on us, and never had.
“Do they know?” I asked quietly, turning back to Caitlin and Robbie. “About the two of you? What you are? I mean, you’ve been here for, what, hundreds of years at this point?”
I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it from the way they talked. Though it seemed rude to ask explicitly how old they were.
Caitlin’s audible snort answered the question for me, but after a short glance to make sure no one was watching or listening, Robbie elaborated in his kind way.
“Every so often, I would change our appearances. To make us look older in the eyes of people who knew us. Then we’d fake our deaths and arrive new to the island with slightly different faces, posing as relatives who had ‘inherited’ the house andproperty. After we had the girls, though, there was no need for the theatrics.”
The fire rose higher as the villagers threw more wood and peat into it. The sky was nearly black now, lit with a spray of stars on this uncharacteristically clear night. Several tables were set up on the beach with food, bread, and kegs from Phelan’s pub. Some people began to take turns lilting and singingsea nós—Bronagh among them—while a larger band of local musicians began setting up their instruments inside the hall nearby. Laughter and song arose as the people of the island left the somber part of the service behind to celebrate the solstice along with the life of the Baptist—a man of water if there ever was one.
He was a favorite of Gran’s, a true prophet in an age when most seers were either shackled at the feet of kings and legates or killed for their unsightly visions. A man who lives in the wave, christening people and proclaiming his visions of the world. I found myself wondering if his apparent madness was anything like the chaos of voices and visions that had been more frequently passing through my mind.
“It’s supposed to be a party, you know.”
Caomhán’s lilting voice shook me out of my brooding, and I turned to find him standing where Caitlin and Robbie used to be. Robbie was now kicking a soccer ball on the beach with his daughters and some other children from the village while Caitlin chatted with a few women I recognized from her knitting circle.
“How long have I been standing here?” I wondered.
“At least twenty minutes.” Caomhán took a swig from a plastic cup of Phelan’s finest brew. “That’s how long I stood over there talking with Jock about yesterday’s football match while we watched you staring into the fire like it showed the future.” He grinned. “Did it?”
I grimaced, grateful that the firelight would hide the flush on my cheeks. “More like the past. But nothing now.”
“Better focus on the present anyway. Do you want to dance? I won’t touch, I promise.”
The solo voice of a trained singer drifted from the hall, mingling with the song of the ocean. Others were already following the call of music. The witch’s body finally toppled off its post, causing the fire to huff and crackle around it before swallowing it whole.
I turned back to Caomhán. “All right,” I said and tipped back the rest of my beer before handing him the cup. “But you’ll have to teach me how.”
Music wasa way of life on Inis Oírr. On more than one visit to Phelan’s pub, an impromptu jam session had started or a lone violinist or banjo player would play a shanty for the tourists. It never took long for residents of all ages to hop-step in time to the music, reaching for anyone who wanted to join them. It wasn’t a spectator sport, that was for sure.
Although several couples whirled about the hall in pairs in anticipation of the band’s more lively music, many were already dancing as singles too. Irish solo dancing—orsea nós, as I realized it was also called, like the songs—fit me well, as people tended to keep their hands close to their bodies and move their feet low to the ground with small taps and touches. It was a rare treat to encounter a form of dance where touch wasn’t required.
Dancing with Caomhán meant watching, as he had a reputation among the islanders for his lightness of foot. While most of the othersea nósdancers moved conservatively, Caomhán danced with the seasoned grace of a professional, hopping about with grace and abandon I had never experiencedoutside of the water. It had to be a shifter thing: the artistry with one’s body, the joy of movement.
As the lastsea nósclosed, the band started with a bright, spritely tune that was a far cry from the nostalgic lilting of the solo singer. The song was familiar to a number of people, who grabbed partners and began to line up facing one another.
Caomhán turned to me and offered a broad hand. “I said I’d teach you, didn’t I? It’s just a reel. Easy as pie, I promise.”
I looked down at his hand and back up at him. His eyes were guileless but opaque, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what sort of thoughts treaded below the surface.
“You coming? Or too scared to take a leap?”
