Page 122 of A Winding Wave of Magic
“Cassandra can be trusted,” Jonathan told him. “After all, it pertains to her too.” He turned to me. “The debate to which Cary refers is the ongoing discussion of whether or not the fae should come out of the cauldron, so to speak. To humans.”
Cary’s brows crinkled together in disapproval.
“And what do you think?” I asked him.
Finally, his gaze rose over the edge of his pint glass to meet mine. His eyes were disturbingly dark, matching the coal-black hues of his hair and the weathered white of his skin. A black Celt, like me, but all the way through.
“Did you know,” he said slowly, grinding the words over the gold-capped tooth, “that those in Ireland who look like us—with the hair like night and the skin like snow—are said to be the descendants of the Spanish Armada, pirates washed up on the shores and enslaved by Irish kings?”
I just raised a skeptical brow. His tone told me he knew the legend was as preposterous as it sounded.
“You know that it’s false, then,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied. “There are too many black-haired Irish for that particular genetic code to have disseminated within only five hundred years. And didn’t the Irish kings kill their Spanish captives?”
“She’s a scholar,” Jonathan clarified proudly, patting my hand again, almost as if he couldn’t help but touch it. “Of Celtic literature and history, as it happens.”
I blushed at his obvious regard. Or maybe it was at the warmth of his skin.
“Then you’ll perhaps also know the real story,” Cary said.
I frowned. “You mean of the Celtiberian colonization? It started around 500 BC, we think. Maybe a few centuries earlier, depending on which theory you believe.”
“Sure, and across the waters.” Cary smarted and continued. “Some of us are descendants of pirates, you see. Seal shifters, merrows caught by ancient fishermen. Gauls. Before they were killed, the merrows changed into their human form and speared their captors straight through the hearts before they mounted their skulls on the hull. They sailed to Erin, where they found the fair-haired maidens ripe for the taking as they walked the beaches alone.” He bared his gold tooth and sneered. “We come from the blood of pirates—the first of these waters. But what might have happened had themurúchanot been attacked? Had the sailors known them for what they were and respected them for it?”
I gulped. “I—I don’t know.”
Cary drew his gaze slowly up and down my face as if he were memorizing each feature. “There’s a prophecy, you know. That the last kin of the original pirates—the lastmurúch, as it were—will sail across the sea and free us all from our captors. From tyranny.”
His comment earned a loud throat-clearing beside me, startling me out of the trance.
“Come, Cary,” Jonathan said, rapping the table with his knuckles. “Let’s dispense with the theatrics, shall we?”
The sailor grunted and tossed back the remainder of his ale.
“That’s quite a bedtime story,” I told him. “Even if it is riddled with inaccuracies.”
“Oh? And what are those?” Cary wanted to know.
“Well, for one, those innocent maidens likely wouldn’t have been fair-haired. Recent DNA analysis suggested that the pre-Celtic Irish were probably dark-skinned with blue eyes.” I tipped my head. “And probably dark-haired too.”
Cary examined me for a long moment, then gave a great barking laugh that wasn’t unlike the seals I’d surfed with in Oregon. “Have it your way. But to answer your question, I’m for coming out, through and through. Once it was easy to be ourselves, whether on sea or land. Folks was more welcoming toward our kind. But then we had to go into hiding, didn’t we? And now no one can use his true abilities in the open. Not unless you’ve got the gift of Midas, like some do.” He shot a pointed look at Jonathan. “What’s the point of being what we are when we’ve got to hide it? Once being fae was a blessing. Now it’s a curse. Well, no more.”
A fiddler’s song called across the pub, forlorn and brooding. Undoubtedly a siren, the musician exhibited an uncanny knack for tapping directly into the emotions and feelings of his audience. It seemed he was playing to Cary’s right then.
Jonathan shook his head, and the music jumped into a sprightlier jig.
“Who’s been talking, Cary?” he asked. “I love a good ghost story, but I didn’t pay you for a pirate tale I’ve heard before.”
Cary blew a long stream of air between pursed lips. “Caomhán’s been to town. You know how he likes to stir thingsup. Stopped in to see some mutts in Belfast, to gain their support against the Council. The shifters are all for it. Wouldn’t have to spend so much time explaining away our tempers, would we, Jonny?”
“Mmph.” Jonathan accepted another pint from the barmaid, who looked knowingly at Cary before disappearing into the crowd. “Caomhán’s been talking to the shifters up north for years. What else is new?”
“Well, you might be interested to know that he passed through just last week.”
Jonathan’s back straightened just a bit more at that news, although he did his best to appear unaffected. “Through Dublin?”
Cary nodded. “Sat at this very table with McQuade, Moran, McGaughey, and Crane.”
