Page 159 of A Winding Wave of Magic
Bronagh mouthed “psycho” to herself. “He had black hair? Like yours?”
I shrugged. “I guess so. It was all wet.”
She shivered. “Probably amurúch. You should watch out for them. Mam says there’s not so many as there once was, most of them having gone to the mainland to chase girls. But they always come back in the summer.” She looked up at me,with something approaching admiration mixed with her usual brooding stare. “Mam says you’re crazy to go into the ocean, but Dad says you’re partmurúchyourself, so you can’t help it. Is it true? Can you turn into a seal?”
I shook my head. “My grandfather was a shifter, but I’ve never grown whiskers or a tail. Otherwise, I wouldn’t need this, would I?” I pulled the cord of my wetsuit zipper down my back, allowing me to tug the tight wet sleeves over my shoulders and arms so I could bare my skin to the last rays of sun.
“Mmm,” Bronagh said in an excellent imitation of her mother. “Mam sent me here with dinner for you and said you should take the night to yourself. She also said to tell you that tomorrow’s lesson will start an hour earlier since she must bake the week’s bread.”
I grimaced. Caitlin only told me to take time off when she was as frustrated as I was. And I was no idiot. What she meant was to “go back to basics” and figure my head out some more.
I smiled through my teeth and nodded.
“Do you think they’ll ever actually help? The lessons, that is?”
I thought of the water that seemed to move through my veins, but also of the fact that no one knew anything about whatto do with it beyond mythological hints. After all, how could you train an oracle when there was only one per generation?
I forced myself to maintain a placid expression. Who knew if Bronagh had the same kind of X-ray vision as Jonathan and her father, but I didn’t need to make my fears that much easier for her to See.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so.”
“Mam says you just need to find the shape of your mind, but I think she’s wrong.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
She scooted a bit away as if to avoid any accidental touch. “I See you,” she said. “Your energy. And even when you’re not trying to See things, it’s a bit…well, it sort of looks like a frayed blanket, all torn at the edges, with bits and pieces flying in and out of you. It’s hard to tell where you stop and the world begins. And when you try to See or block Mam, it’s even worse.” Fear reflected in the girl’s deep gray eyes. “It’s like…whatever it is you’re Seeing…it’s like those things could swallow you up, and you’d be gone forever.”
We stared at each other for a moment, and it wasn’t until I looked away, suddenly chilled for a reason that had nothing to do with the surf, that she stood up.
“Maybe you have no shape,” she said. “Maybe you need to look for something else to keep yourself together. I’m scared you might blow away.”
46
AMONG THE RUINS
What good to us your wisdom-store,
Your Latin verse, your Grecian lore?
— PADRAIC COLUM, “A POOR SCHOLAR OF THE ’FORTIES”
The following day, after another harrowing afternoon of bread baking and shielding practice, Caitlin sent me to the village to fetch the girls from school. I left early and decided to stop by the local pub for a pint and to practice my Irish with people who weren’t constantly looking into my thoughts or examining my subatomic energy.
I was greeted immediately by Phelan, the pub owner, leaning against the old, aged wood of the bar top while he chatted with Jock and another man whose back was turned to me.
“Dia duit!” Jock rose from his stool and folded me into a warm embrace.
I forced myself to welcome his friendly if inebriated thoughts about my appearance (or the lack of effort I’d put into it).Jock was the definition of kind, but he shared the opinion of manymen his age that a woman of mine should put more effort into her looks in order to find a husband.
Nevertheless, his smile was warm and genuine as he stepped back and signaled to Phelan for a pint.
“Thank you,” I said in my best Irish.
Jock’s grin widened. “Anytime, love.”
The other man, who still hadn’t turned, emitted a quick stream of Irish too fast for me to parse, but Jock’s lingering hand on my shoulder told me that Phelan had made a homemade brew, and the man wanted me to try it.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll try that.”
