Lost in translation

A: I’ve thought of another one! Flibbertigibbet!

D: Pardon?

A: Words, D – inspiring words.

D: Oh, I thought you were describing yourself again. . .

A: Nice–

D: Speaking of words, what does “Éadaí Baintrí” mean?

A: You don’t know?

D: I’ve been in your head for over 13 years; I’m rusty. Humor me.

A: “Widow’s clothing.” You know, Widow’s Weeds?

D: . . . Seriously? . . .

A: What? Grace O’Malley buried one husband and divorced the other – and she outlived that one, too! I like to think she had a sense of humor about the whole thing. She was a pirate after all – I don’t think you succeed at that without having a little sass.

D: . . .

A: It’s funny.

D: (Shakes head) Poor taste.

A: It’s freakin’ hilarious, if you’re me.

D: Precisely.

“. . . Aye, well, the Venture has her orders to remain just a bit out of reach in open water. At midday, provided she has not been engaged, she will begin the trip to Galway.”

“And if she’s engaged?” Sean asked.

“She’ll still make her way to Galway, lad. She’s a ship worthy to be Grania’s flagship, were Herself not so fond of the Éadaí Baintrí, of course.”

“And speaking of the Éadaí Baintrí…?”

“She is in Bray, in a safe harbor,” Grania answered. “I don’t have many allegiances this side of the Pale, but there are a few, so long as I am discrete.”

“And speaking of discretion, my lady Grania.”

“No, Liam. Whatever it is, no.”

“But how—”

“Whenever you start something with such deference, I know I’m not going to like it. I’ve known you since you were in skirts, Liam O’Neil, and have had the honor of your allegiance for these last ten years. Deference does not suit you. Speak plainly. . .”

Inspire me

D: A, what exactly are you doing?
A: Thinking of words I enjoy . . . like pfeffernusse and penguin.
D: You are a woman of odd affections, A. Penguin?
A: I like how it sounds.
D: . . .
A: I’m editing this week; I need to do something inspiring – something that doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon.
D: I think that’s cut your heart, A.
A: I’m not quoting movies, D, I’m stating fact. Although Alan Rickman is probably the best part of that movie, I’m not bastardizing his quote.
D: So you need motivation, is that it? Am I not enough for you anymore, A?
A: D, it took me 13 years just to get this far – do you really need to ask that? I think I should give myself a writing challenge – write riffs on words that inspire.
D: That’s a little bit like a tongue twister, A.
A: Even better! It’s weird. I like it. . . Come on, Druid, inspire me!
D: . . .
A: I’ve got it! I could do a riff on one who is perturbed, or disgruntled, given that look. Maybe even supercilious or domineering.
D: . . . I think you should do one on addlepated.
A: Oooh! I like it!
D: I give up.

. . . Grania barked a laugh, “That is quite the plan. Were the man not so hell-bent on destroying our way of life, Bingham might have been someone I’d want to know. As it is, he can rot in Dublin before I’ll allow myself to be drawn into his schemes.”

“But–”

“I spent nearly two years in a Limerick cell, lad – I’d not be so stupid as to put myself in that position again, nor risk those that follow me. Without guaranteed protections from Her Majesty herself, I will not follow that madman into a trap. It’s unthinkable. I’m a pirate, not a champion. Maureen knew that, and so do you.”

Sean knew this is what she would say, even without knowing Grania had been a prisoner once before. She was right, it would be a reckless and thoughtless gamble to risk the lives of these men in something so foolhardy, and yet. . .

“I do understand that, my lady, and I mean no disrespect,” he began, fighting the numb weightlessness that grabbed at his belly and threatened to snake down his legs. He grabbed the edge of the table and sighed deeply.

“You are a pirate you say, and yet you fight for your native way of life. You are a pirate who commands the respect not only of her followers, but also of her clan and many of her neighbors. You are a pirate who strikes such fear into the hearts of men like Bingham that, in their fear they hatch a plot – worthy of a monster, aye – to snare you.”

Sean shook his head and pushed away from the table. He commanded the room’s attention.

 “You are not a pirate, my lady Grania, you are an inspiration; you are that which embodies the spirit of this land, of a people proud, oppressed and rebellious, now and in the centuries to come. Not only that, you are that young woman’s kinswoman, whether by blood or the tenacity and spirit that marks you both – and you know it, I know you do,” Sean gave Grania a piercing look; she did not deny his accusation and he nodded. “I know, because I am her only companion and now it falls to me to be her protector too – she, who always shielded me, needs me.

“It would be unthinkable for me to not ask your help, and furthermore, unthinkable for me not to follow her captors, regardless of your answer. You owe me nothing, and your refusal will not be looked upon as poor hospitality, but I will ask you none-the-less. Help me get Maureen back. . .”

Is that all you care about?

“. . . I don’t know what you will face on that ship, but you must be prepared to either fight your way out of there or sacrifice your lives.” Grania said this directly to Sean and he looked down at his feet.

He knew she was right. . .  In the end, if Maureen wasn’t free, if she were used as a cudgel to beat Grania, then the fighting and dying weren’t worth it. Sean took a deep breath and met Grania’s eyes without flinching. He would make sure it was worth it.

“Aye, my lady Grania, we understand.”

Sean felt Dubhal put a hand on his shoulder.

“Although, we’ll do our best to avoid it, if it’s all the same to you,” Dubhal said, humor coloring his voice. He motioned to the sack slung across his back. “I have a few extra… surprises if things start to unravel on the Excelsior.”

“I like the way you think, Master Dubhal. I shall leave that to you, then.” Grania turned to the rest of the crew. “You all have your orders, then. Let’s break camp. Phalen is expecting us in the harbor before the sun sets – make haste. . . ”

D: Oh man, I am awesome.

A: You have your moments.

D: No, seriously, I have smoke bombs. I rock!

A: 1300 years of life experiences, culture and wisdom, and that’s all you can say: “I have smoke bombs. I rock!”??

D: What’s your point?

A: Nothing. You’re the one who likes to remind me that you impersonate a god, but it’s the smoke bombs that really get you going?

D: Okay, okay, I’m 1300 years old, I impersonate gods and I get to save the day with smoke bombs. What part of that doesn’t spell awesome?

A: . . .

D: You wrote me.

. . . No one had remained to guard the hold, and Sean helped Maureen up the last rungs of the ladder. His arm around her shoulders, he was about to guide her to the side where their dinghy was tied when a terrific sound and wave of noise rocked the boat. The force of it pushed them to their knees.

When they looked up, smoke was billowing from what was once the stateroom. The wind was rising and in the clearing smoke, Sean spied a single cloaked figure standing at the ragged hole, highlighted by the weak fires left in the wake of his destruction. Sean stared at Dubhal, entranced. Even Maureen was gaping – the entire ship seemed to stop, hold its breath and wait. . .

The lurker

“. . . What do you think, Dubhal, will he live?”

“His head will hurt for a good while” a man replied from the shadows behind Sean, his voice a gruff rumble. “Here, chew on this.” He reached around and shoved something into Sean’s open palm.

Hearing the voice, Sean realized the man – Dubhal – was the warrior with the claymore. Sean moved to turn around, to question him, but Dubhal evaded him, bowed over a large chest, its contents clinking as he rummaged through it. . . .

D: You’ve been watching too many vampire shows.
A: What? I don’t watch—
D: He can’t see my face, ever.
A: He’s not—
D: All I do is lurk.
A: But—
D: I’m a lurker.
A: . . .
D: Seriously.
A: Okay, but if Sean saw your face, he’d know who you are . . . were . . . what. . . you know what I mean. And I don’t watch vampire—
D: Oh yes, you do. You know what I’m talking about.
A: . . . Well, you can get a little pensive.
D: There’s nothing wrong—
A: And you are both Irish.
D: Excuse me; I’m Pictish and Frankish by birth—
A: And Irish.
D: Only on my mother’s side, and that’s half Scots anyway.
A: . . .
D: . . .
A: Lurker.

. . . Sean watched as Grania injected purpose back into her ship and crew. Activity followed the sound of her voice, her cohorts eager to restore the fleet’s routine. Sean turned to address Dubhal, to thank him directly. The man had slipped back into his cloak and his face was once again in shadow.

“You’re welcome,” Dubhal said quietly, not waiting for Sean to speak. “I have my own reasons, but I will do what I can to see Maureen returned to us.”

Then he was gone, melting into the activity trailing Grania. Sean shook himself and looked at Owen, puzzled and unable to pinpoint why. Owen shrugged and jerked his shoulder towards the hatch. There was work to do. . .

Every day is a holiday

D: I see you’d rather look at Brownielocks’ Official Holidays than write today, hm?

A: Uh huh . . .

D: A . . . ? Come back, A . . .

A: At least I’m not lost on Go Fug Yourself. There’s a chance I might come back from all the interesting daily holidays . . .

D: A . . .

A: Did you know that today is Blah! Blah! Blah! Day?

D: No, I wasn’t aware.

A: D! It’s a day devoted to you when you get on your high horse! You should feel honored.

D: . . .

A: Just kidding, D! Oh, look – it’s also National Bookmobile Day and Nothing Like a Dame Day.

D: What does that even mean? My god, has civilization has become so complacent as to make up daily holidays? Your lives are obviously far too easy. I think I need to go back to the Renaissance. (Sigh) Those were good times.

A: Welcome to progress, D. . . oh, hey, tomorrow is National wear your PJs to Work Day – yes!

D: I give up.

“. . . Did you know that the church had been built on a fairy hill?” Sean asked absently as they walked in a rut of the narrow path.

Maureen glanced at her friend, his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched. “I didn’t know that, no. Are you telling me you think fairies grabbed us and sent us hurtling through time, Sean?”

“No… although it’s as good a theory as any, at the moment.” Sean looked up and winked at Maureen, who was rolling her eyes at him. “I was reading that book – you know, the one you smuggled in with the rest of your packages last weekend?”

Sean grinned. Maureen acquired information – usually the forbidden kind – with an almost avaricious glee. “That book on the old religions? It had something about the Tuatha dé Danann, and how the Celts, having defeated them, led them into the earth through the sidhe mounds – fairy hills.”

“So, the Celts, being the invaders in this scenario, took over and assigned their own meaning to already-sacred sites?” Maureen had read the book, too. Suddenly Sean’s meaning became clear.

“And the Anglo-Irish priests completed the circle by sealing the deamons inside forever with their church,” she finished, triumphant. “Just like Patrick trying to drive the snakes out of Ireland!”

Sean rubbed the bridge of his nose, not sure whether he felt shocked or amused. “I wasn’t going to go that far, but it is the general idea. Why do you think the oaks were being cut? Lucky for us they were, though; it gives me an idea of when we might be. . .”

Alone in the wilderness

…Their fingers touched. The mist flashed and crackled around them. All was noise and light. And then, there was nothing…

…The church had vanished, and there were no sounds but those belonging to the night. Sean lay on the grass and stared up at an intensely starry sky. Provided they had not left the hilltop, where the church once stood was a grove of oaks. Stands of broad leafy trees surrounded them on all sides, and beyond, aside from the barest shimmer of water, all was shadow. The convent, the school, the distant town and the ships – the ships in the harbor with their lights and sounds, even in the night – were gone…

A: I like how you just left them there.

D: You say that like it’s a bad thing.

A: Well, I’m not sure how I would feel being stranded in god-knows-when, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be anything approaching happy.

D: I will admit that I have never seen it from this particular vantage point.

A: Is this the stirrings of remorse I hear? Are you growing a remorse-bone?

D: A, can you not make up words? Please? You’re not taking this seriously.

A: I am so… ish. What is your point, anyway?

D: This isn’t remorse, A, this is admiration. I knew they were worthy… and it’s not like I didn’t help—

A: Hush, D – spoilers. As an aside, I just want to say that you are diabolical. You were testing them, weren’t you?!

D: You don’t get to be a time-travelling god-impersonator by being cuddly, A.

A: Good. Too much introspection doesn’t suit you – that’s my least favorite part to write.

D: Wait, you have a favorite? What are—never mind, you won’t tell me anyway. I know what you mean; I’ve been up here long enough and someone is as deep as a puddle!

A: Cheers, D.

 Sean remained sitting in the long grass. The questions, the impossible answers, the enormity of everything immobilized him. He looked to Maureen, standing alone at the edge of the hill and shook his head. Taking a deep breath, he stood and moved to her side. They stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the deepening night…

We meet again

. . . Sean spied Maureen across the deck, crumpled against the wall of the ship. Her captor had dropped her there to defend himself from a cloaked warrior Sean had yet to see in Grania’s fleet.

The sun glinted off the warrior’s claymore, dazzling Sean. He stood transfixed, watching Maureen’s thwarted captor, scrabbling for his life. . .

D: That’s me?

A: Yup.

D: I’m pretty spectacular.

A: (Nodding) Yes, yes you are. I actually kind of like you here.

D: I mean – hey, what? Kind of?

A: A little.

D: . . .

A: Well, it’s been thirteen years, D. And you aren’t exactly Mr. Charming.

D: Wait, I’ve been rattling around in the vast emptiness of your mind for over thirteen years and that’s the best entrance you can give me? I’m insulted.

A: Five seconds ago you liked it. And watch it – that’s exactly what I’m talking about.

D: Five seconds ago I didn’t realize how sheltered I was. I mean, shouldn’t there be trumpets, an angel’s choir, maybe some ticker-tape?

A: . . .

D: Ticker-tape, A. I want ticker-tape.

A: No. No ticker-tape. You are too spectacular for that; you don’t need all that other stuff.

D: Hmm… I am rather, aren’t I? And, if you think about it, a choir of angels might drown out that awesome sound the swords make when they clash.

A: Sigh.

And so it begins

Maureen clasped the two identical boxes beneath her arms as she slipped into the boarding school common room.  Her green eyes flashed mischievously at Sean as she set the boxes down on the room’s main table and lifted their lids. . .
“You want to help me find the man. . .”
“The man with the blue eyes? But Maureen, he’s not. . .” Sean trailed off. He settled on his knees in front of the table where Maureen had deposited their family mementos.

D: I am in their boxes, aren’t I?
A: What are you doing here? You’re not even in this part!
D: I am so; they’re talking about me.
A: But they don’t know that, yet. You haven’t been properly introduced.
D: So, introduce me.

A: And so it begins…

I sat in the grove of my own creation and stared out at a world and a people descended of mine own.  As I watched, trees gave way to stone and the many lost their claim to the priests of the One. 

 Then the wheel turned. The sacred trees grew around this effigy of stone and the many came out of hiding.  I sat in my grove and watched a world outside my imagination, willing it to see.

She saw.  She, my kin only by remote design, saw me.  She saw me with uncanny green eyes, the green eyes of my mother and her mother before her: witch’s eyes.

A joy rose in me.  It was time; time to join the world after years of solitude, time to act after centuries of stillness.

I closed my eyes and reached across the barrier, to touch my future and my past.