Story of Stories

By Maggie O'Brien

A young Western adventurer, returning to England from the Middle East, befriends her unlikely travelling companion. Shared tales of myth and magic, intrigue and alchemy, drive the narrative on through Time and across cultures. On their way are obscure mosaics, a curious relic, spirits of the past, and an array of colourful characters with mysterious stories of their own to tell. Set in stunning landscapes, among archaeological gems, a fabulous story unfolds on a journey well worth taking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie O'Brien
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020

Maggie O'Brien

Maggie O'Brien was born in Bristol, UK of an English mother and Irish father. She lives and writes in Ireland. With an Honours degree in Philosophy, English Literature and German, she has performed her poetry and was broadcast by the B.B.C in the early 1990's. Maggie also paints

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Past is the Prologue

Two stout, hairy young legs were sticking out at odd angles from a cluster of ancient stones. A lone raven eyed them suspiciously from his perch on a donkey, one of two loosely tethered and ambling from one clump of dune grass to the next.

The bird twitched his head, cocking it sharply left, right, and left again in those rapid, jerky movements he could not control when curiosity got the better of him. His attempts at pinpointing the source of a peculiar noise drew him to this spot. Initially convinced that some unknown animal was in pain, he now understood. The owner of the two legs was the cause of the racket. There was no need for concern. If anything, the ruckus implied the fellow was simply lost in a disturbing dream. Relieved but more than a little miffed, the raven turned his attention to tantalizing leftovers in a pot by the fellow’s long-dead campfire. He figured them a fitting reward for his misplaced compassion. Eyeing the tempting titbits was one thing, but getting them was another matter. Each time he went to swoop to help himself, the sandaled feet jolted and stopped him in his tracks. Eventually, the game of cat and mouse grew so tiresome that the bird hopped down and pecked the lazy beggar on the bigger of his big toes.

His assumptions were correct. Although the Brother’s body was among the stones, the man was most definitely elsewhere, far away in the land of Nod.

The cleric had fallen asleep with thoughts of the celestial phenomenon he came here to witness. It was late summer and on two specific days of each year, the sun would allegedly slide down the side of the nearby mountain and come to rest in a small notch, a natural feature of the hill. This particular row of standing-stones aligned perfectly to lead the eye directly towards that very notch. The mountain was Croagh Patrick and tomorrow was that day in summer when this marvellous event was due to occur.

At first, his dream was harmless enough, but changed dramatically when a storm whipped up, darkening his surroundings. Through rain and hail, the sun was still visible, but the more he stared at it, the closer it came. Dreams being what dreams are, the heavenly body turned into an orange, a fruit he first encountered on his travels to Rome. As he focused, the fruit’s pores grew into entranceways to tunnels or corridors. Ominously, one of these was sucking his body in, leaving him no say in the matter. The floor beneath his feet now moved to draw him ever closer to the centre. Loud protestations did nothing as mind and body fought to retrace his path and find an exit. At a pivotal point of the extremely strange visions, a sharp, stinging pain in his big toe tore him awake. Snapped back into the land of the living, the monk sat bolt upright only to hit his head on the solid slab above him. He cursed like a mad man.

The dream struck him as prophetic and one worth remembering. On his travels, he had learnt a technique for just that. The trick was to close his eyes and envisage a large cabinet of drawers, clearly labelled, and see himself opening the one marked ‘dreams’. Inside that, were four smaller compartments for mentally storing specific motifs representing entire dreams. In a sub-section marked ‘prophesy’, he visualised an orange, re- ran the whole affair in his mind, and after a few moments’ contemplation, closed the imaginary drawers tight shut.

At a loss as to what the dream might signify, the young man stood, stretched, and strolled down to the water’s edge. It was a soft enough morning. A dip in the sea would wake him up for sure and do him a power of good.

The raven did not hold out much hope for this character. Clearly, this man was not the most observant of the species. Left to his own devices, the chap would most likely overlook the reason fate brought him here in the first place. Then again, humans were like that. They had a tendency to convince themselves that the reason for this or that happening was blissfully simple.

Sadly, they had lost the ability to step back and see the overall scheme of things.

The bird stopped to laugh at himself. Never mind this hapless fellow! What was he doing here? What was his purpose before this man’s god-awful snoring distracted him? Obviously, there was a wily plan. Life was a timeless story but, annoyingly, he could not recall his crucial role in it. Food first!

With his stomach silenced, neck stretched and feathers ruffled, the raven relaxed, then for a split second remembered why he had come. A critical storyline was in the air. Short-term memory was not his strong suit. In one key way, all ravens were the same. They shared immortal memory. That was not a bad thing, but by definition, his brain was constantly updating. That, in turn, meant he was perpetually engaged in re-minding himself. Ask him about the Flood, Noah’s Ark, or the origins of man, he had no problem. Ask him what he had just eaten, not a clue. Cunning plan? Absolutely.

One sure way to catch up was to go back across the causeway to where this part of the story first hatched, and was already history. To add to all this, was an overwhelming feeling that a notion of some significance had recently been deposited in the pool of communal understanding. The gist was a call to each of his brothers and sisters to be on the lookout for an epic tale unfolding in the Isles of Britain. Unfortunately, he had lost track of detail. No matter, he was sure to recognise it when he came across it. His head did that twitchy thing again. Oh, yes! His name! What was it? Where did he leave that? Flight was good. Flight always cleared the head. He flew off to catch up with the elusive plot.

The bus came to an abrupt halt. Umir panicked. As if he were a schoolboy caught cheating, he frantically scrabbled to put the notebook back beside her. The charming story carried him away and took all track of time and place too. They were at the Iranian border already. The girl slumped over him, stirred. This was mortifying.

When she nodded off with book in hand, his instinct was to catch it before it fell, but curiosity got the better of him, and drove him to find out more about her. From the moment he first set eyes on her in Tehran, she had been busily scribbling. That was one reason he asked the depot clerk to offer her Anka’s unused ticket. This morning the bus station had been crowded with hundreds of travellers desperate to get away for the long

weekend holiday. All the coaches were packed. Without his spare ticket, this young woman had no hope of getting a seat.

He justified his bad manners by reasoning that if anyone was in desperate need of distraction, he was. For a while, this story of hers took away the aching in his heart. Now here he was, caught red-handed.

I am so sorry. They both said it at the same time, Umir because of his transgression and Maddie because she had unwittingly used him as a pillow.

This was awkward. Her head was nestled up close and personal to a complete stranger, a stranger apologizing for some inexplicable reason.

Consciousness brought back the hurt that only sleep can ease. It came like a kick in the gut. Her heart sank to her stomach, and tears were welling up. She had really done it then and was on a bus. Crying here among all these strangers was not an option. Her lip started to quiver, so she bit down on it, grabbed her small backpack, and stood to get out of these cramped confines. The man beside her stood and manoeuvred himself into the gangway to let her pass.

We stop here for thirty minutes or so. This is Tabriz. This is the first border. I will call out if you forget the time.

Heaven knows how, but Maddie managed a stifled ‘thank you’, biting down still harder on her trembling lip. Emotionally and physically drained, she had to get outside for some air. Her escape from Tehran started far too early. Where the courage to leave Michael came from, God only knew. Their relationship was passionate and tortuous, the clichéd agony and the ecstasy. It tugged at every heartstring and mental strand imaginable, intense. Even apart, they communicated telepathically. It had to end. Would Michael be shocked that she upped and left without as much as a hint? What was done was done. Her lover overstepped the mark, and that incredibly powerful bond had to be broken. It was killing her.

Outside at last, the sky was massive. Life in the modern city stole that. Straight ahead on the horizon, a huge mountain cut a sizeable chunk out of that clear blue canopy. It was a jigsaw piece, a missing piece of a picture she could not quite bring to mind. Away from the bus and alone, her emotional pain was awful.

Perhaps it was the air, the sensation of space, or the sudden acceptance that Michael was out of her life but Maddie simply caved in, broke down, and wept. Tears were to be expected. The intense anguish came as a shock.

It felt like no amount of crying could reach deep enough to wash away this emptiness.

The distant mountain was blurry, made watery through her tears. This grief knew no end, but she managed to choke back the sobbing. A lump in her throat hurt like hell. This had to be the bottom of the emotional barrel, surely.

Sounds of another bus arriving at this god-forsaken border brought a welcome distraction. It pulled up in a cloud of hot, dry dust thrown up and swirling like the jinn from the proverbial lamp. A short, sharp whoosh of hydraulics and the door opened. No. No. No! This was cruel. This was impossible. Maddie grabbed her stomach and let out a gasp. There, first in line and stepping off, was Michael.

God, he was handsome. His jaw dropped to show he was as stunned as she was. On the other hand, neither of them should have been surprised. They should have known. Their strange bond made this inevitable. He obviously ran away from her at exactly the same moment she had run from him. Here and now, as their eyes met, his face was a picture, most probably a mirror image of hers. There was nothing left to say. Turning her back on him, Maddie walked as far away as possible to stare off into the distance and at that mountain. For ten minutes or so, she sneaked an occasional glance back at him, but his back was turned. Was he fighting against the same enormous pull to come over to her; the pull she was battling? Of course he was. She knew that. In those ten minutes, he chain-smoked. She could kill for a cigarette herself right now.

There had to be tissues somewhere in this stupid rucksack. Her trembling hands rummaged desperately and found a few at the very bottom. Next to the cellophane packet, her fingers fumbled for a strange piece of crumpled cardboard lodged in one corner. Whatever that was, it had to be rubbish.

In fact, it was a good luck card from Chris, her snot-brother. His card and ridiculous nickname were the only things that could have made her smile. How did this little card survive four years of travelling? On the bright yellow cheerful cover was a print of an artist’s impression of Noah’s Ark with its obligatory giraffe and other animals. Inside, his message read, ‘Go forth with a smile on your face and if need be, a cucumber up your bum. Remember! A journey ends where a journey began. When you’ve come full

circle, drop by. All my love.’ In a raging sea of emotion, his sentiment and humour were soothing drops of calm.

On the back of the card, her lovely friend had written an address and lines from a song they both loved. Chris’s place was at least a destination. The picture of Noah’s ark showed a raven in the sky. Until now, that bird had never struck her as important. Her recent mental ramblings had changed that. Here was another raven, like the one who cropped up in her writing. She wished she had paid more attention to that Flood story. Did Noah’s raven ever return, or was that a dove? If not, where did the raven go?

Abruptly, the engine of Michael’s bus choked back into life. The love of her life was actually leaving. Just like that, he was gone. That was it. Her floodgates opened. She whispered into thin air, ‘Give me a ciggie! Give me a break!’

A hand on her shoulder scared the living daylights out of her. A swarthy, wrinkled old man held a cigarette up to her. He lit it, pinched the end off, and offered it to her again. The apparition grinned. He was toothless with an angelic smile. He was a cigarette hawker.

She took it and thanked him. With his free left hand, the old, old man pointed to the mountain ahead and grew animated.

Noah. Noah. Ararat. Noah. Boat stop.

This was what Maddie called a silver hammer moment. Here she was, staring at a long lost printed card of Noah’s Ark, begging under her breath for a cigarette, and here was Ararat, here was Noah, and here was her cigarette. When synchronicity struck so clearly as to be unmissable, her mind sang the lyric of that Beatles’ song. ‘Bang Bang Maxwell’s Silver Hammer came down upon her head’. The clang of this particular mental hammer was as deafening and unmistakable as Big Ben.

Her inner voice came back for the first time in ages. Intuition spoke. ‘This journey will go like a dream. Fly, watch, and learn.’ The silent advice came with a clear, fleeting image of a magic carpet. Her spirits lifted.

The wizened, mischievous jinn of a man put his hands together, up against his cheek. He cocked his head slightly, shut his eyes, and made a fake snoring noise. Something or someone was sleeping. Exactly who was unclear. Extremely agitated, he repeated the little routine and pointed frantically, gesturing to the land surrounding the fabled mountain. Maddie shrugged her shoulders at him, laughed, and gave him a big hug.

Feeling conspicuous, she gathered up her chador to wrap around her. Travelling alone through Turkey, and as the only white woman, was a risky business. She was going to be fine. Inner messages could be trusted, but Chris once told her an Arab expression that seemed apt. ‘Trust in God, but remember to tie your camel.’ It was a timely reminder. She tugged the veil up over her head, secured it for a moment between her teeth, and then wrapped the rest around her body. Covered almost completely, she got back on the bus.

From his seat, Umir watched the poignant scenes unfolding outside. The girl, clinging to her veil, was alone against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. Even from a distance, he could tell she was sobbing. What shocked him was his reaction. He envied her.

So much about her brought his daughter to mind. She was like her in so many ways, the same height and about the same age, only much thinner. Grief washed over him and took him completely unawares. The emotional walls he had built around his heart, and believed impenetrable, were crumbling.

Realization dawned. For months now, he had been like a dead man walking. For weeks, he contemplated abandoning this trip. He and Anka had planned the whole adventure together, but it was not to be. She would have wanted him to make the journey, with or without her, and that conviction led him to go ahead, regardless. Anka always had the final say. In these parts, men like the tobacco seller were unclean, social outcasts.

Here was this young woman hugging the man, her heart open and loving. Her innocence warmed his heart. It made him almost happy to see the scrawny vendor point out Mount Ararat. The fellow’s quirky attempt at charades tickled him. The tension between this girl and a young man from the second bus was palpable. He could only imagine what that little drama was about, but preferred not to dwell on it. Right now, she was back on the coach and heading towards him. He stood for her to squeeze by and into her window seat. At least the young traveller was smiling now.

Some might dismiss it as superstition, but Umir had an uncanny feeling that Anka was here with him in spirit. Whatever the case, this young woman had a father somewhere, anxiously awaiting his daughter’s return, and he had been in that man’s position. Anka never made it home. This was his mission then, to see this girl safely home. Yes, he could sense his

daughter’s hand in all this and felt compelled to help this stranger in any way he could.

Maddie was pleasantly surprised. She must have been in some kind of trance when they boarded the bus. She was seeing the man beside her for the first time. Handsome, middle-aged, and immaculately dressed in western style clothing, his smile was incredibly kind and his large, dark eyes piercing and friendly. There was also a hint of sorrow behind them though. After a few moments, the man lifted down a small bag and produced a thermos flask of sweet, black tea with two small clay cups. When she accepted one, he offered her some fresh, warm flatbread and cheese. That snack broke the ice.

Her look was one of astonishment, a look generally reserved for those who perform magic tricks. He explained. You missed the chai seller. The bus pulled away.

Maddie checked for her passport. When she arrived in Iran, their dates were the same as in the rest of the world. During her stay, the Shah changed their calendar to reflect the age of his kingdom. It meant this new border stamp confirmed she had been there for nearly eight hundred years. She chuckled. In many ways, it felt that long. Perhaps when this revolution had run its course, she should write to the new regime and ask for back pay. At least her sense of humour was back. That had to be a good thing.

For his part, Umir did not want to break their silence. His mother had a saying. ‘The two things you cannot hide are pregnancy and sore eyes.’ He would wait for the girl to speak. Before too long, she did just that.

Um. Why did you say sorry before I dashed off the bus?

Oh. I wanted to apologies for my bad manners. When you were asleep, I read some of your writing. It is most unlike me. I am so sorry. May you please forgive me?

Don’t give it a second thought. Maddie composed herself. Jotting nonsense down is a bad habit of mine. It’s a load of old rubbish. Forget it. Bus journeys do strange things to people like making them fall asleep across the chest of unsuspecting strangers.

The man flashed that lovely smile of his. There was scarcely a hint of an accent to his impeccable English, but he was most definitely middle-eastern.

Please do not say your writing is rubbish. I was seriously .. He paused to find the right words, hooked, yes, I was hooked. He sounded genuine enough. You are a wonderful writer. I was lost in it all. But may I say something?

Go ahead. She was expecting more of a critique on the gibberish he had been reading.

You seem happier after your spell out there.

Maddie burst out laughing. The English language was a wonder. He could not possibly know that spell was the perfect word for what had just happened. Did I say something amusing? Did I make a mistake with my English?

No. No, not at all, quite the opposite. I love your use of English. It is brilliant. Perfect.

He could tell his words had conveyed something other than he intended, but let it rest. After a while, he asked,

You have been away for some time? He could kick himself. Small talk was something he abhorred, yet here he was, engaging in it.

You could say that, a few years.

And what did you learn in all that time? That was another stupid question. If a stranger asked him that, he could not possibly answer. Obligingly, this girl did. Her answer both delighted and impressed him.

That’s tricky. A ton of things, but most of those will take time to process. At this minute, I would say the power of stories and their magical ability to travel. I’d even go so far as to say people’s lives can be governed by them, from the cradle to the grave.

Her companion stared at her. She could not work out if he was pleased or confused. His next words both delighted and impressed her.

We have an expression, ‘inside each man is a book.’ I have concluded that this is false. More accurately, inside each man is a story. Few people have the powers of imagination and concentration to make a book of their story.

Maddie liked this guy. She liked him even more when he turned away and left her alone for quite some time. The man was not a compulsive talker. Noah’s raven was still puzzling her. Unbelievably, the man beside her asked, So where did the raven go? Emphasis fell on the word ‘did’ as if he was reading her thoughts. This was weird. I’m sorry?

The raven! Where did he go?

I have no idea. I was just asking myself the same question.

You do not know? But you are the writer. He nodded at her notebook. Oh, that raven! She patted her notebook.

Why? Is there another one? Umir was wondering if he had missed something.

Yes and no. Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s just that a minute ago, I was asking myself where Noah’s raven went, that’s all. However, in answer to your question? I’m afraid the answer is still the same. I have no idea. They both laughed.

I am longing to know what happens next. I meant it when I said I am hooked. You are the writer. You must know.

Sorry to disillusion you, but my writing doesn’t work like that. In fact, I wouldn’t even say I’m a writer. Sometimes, my imagination takes a stroll and I see cameos in my mind’s eye. If one of them takes my fancy, I daydream, let it run into a film. I just describe what I see, that’s all. I’ve got dozens of odd scenarios written down. She fumbled around in her cloth shoulder bag to pull out more scraps of paper. Look. I have more bits here. What bit were you reading? After a quick flick through the pages on his lap, she understood. I’m glad you’re enjoying it, but you’ve started in a crazy place. That was never meant to be a beginning. All of the pages are messed up, all over the place. I don’t even think they make a coherent whole.

But I like that beginning. I was there under those old stones with that young monk. I could hear him snoring. I was there. May I ask when you first wrote about Croagh Patrick?

Sure. I was sitting in an extremely long queue in Tehran Bus Depot. Why?

Nothing. No reason. I was curious and still am. I want to read more. Are you sure? She held up the new bundle of pages and grimaced.

I think these bits could follow on from where you left off. Are you sure, you’re sure? Seriously?

Umir took the papers, nodded, and settled back to read more. Something stopped him. Excuse me. I do apologies. I failed to answer your question.

That confused her even more. What question? You’ve lost me.

Noah’s raven! Shall I tell you my thoughts on the matter?

Her new acquaintance was turning out to be a man who not only listened but cared. He began.

"In old times and cultures, the raven and the pig were very special.

They were powerful psychopomps."

Whoa! Stop right there. Psycho what?

Now was not the time to elucidate, not yet anyway. What little of her work he had read struck him as real, intuitive and uncontrived. Her use of a raven as a character was nothing new. Books, both ancient and modern, featured ravens, but her raven was different. Her raven was tender. It was better to leave her imagination free to contrive what it may.

We have a long journey. We can talk about that later.

Here, in the next seat, was a fascinating mind.

Okay. I do know that seafarers see gulls as the souls of dead sailors. Is that connected in some way?

You are on the right track.

Sorry, you were saying, about the raven and the pig?

A wry smile crossed his face. For some unknown reason, he giggled.

"Yes. For Pagans, they were special. Christianity successfully demonised them for that very reason. Ravens were condemned to be

omens of death and pigs, unclean and unholy. Pre-Christian, they were sacred. It seems to me, the raven has the last laugh. Despite their attempts, he remains in their most sacred text, the Bible. We can see his powers immortalised in the story of Noah. If there are miracles in the Bible, one of them is that Noah’s raven survives Christian censorship. I could talk for hours about this, but… He stopped. I do want to know what your raven does next. May I?" As he asked, this incredible person picked up her pages and read on,

The most powerful clan in Connacht was holding a shindig. Banished from the great hall for her insolence, the girl child was incensed. She was not to be on their next sortie, and there was no reason whatsoever for that. Her da’ had promised. They both made all the plans together. It was unfair.

A shudder shot through Umir’s entire body. He stopped, put the pages aside, and stared straight ahead into space. Up to this point, he could dismiss his eerie feelings as nothing but yearnings. Now the story had taken an uncanny turn of its own. This was becoming personal. Ever since that fateful day, he had not shed a single tear. Here and now, these few lines written by a complete stranger buckled him. His eyes were watering. A single teardrop rolled down over his cheek. He took a deep breath and knew, just knew that Anka was trying to communicate.

The young woman beside him was cuddled up by the window, drifting off to sleep. He thanked his lucky stars he had given her that ticket. With

strengthened resolve, he went back to her wonderful story, and picked up where he had left off,

Now she would miss her chance to see Turlough the Scryer, Diarmuid the Judge, Eamonn the Dream-Teller and the silver-tongued Emmett, Keeper of the Story, all together at once, in one room, and in fine fettle. They would be letting their madness out for sure, and she sent off to her bed.

When the grown-ups had forgotten about her, the tearaway grabbed her bedcover and wrapped herself in it. Her plan was to wriggle into the tight little nook between the rafters of the hall, a space just big enough to hide in, and give her a splendid view of their goings-on. With head in hands, she leaned precariously on the heavy beam overlooking the proceedings, as snug as a bug in a rug and twice as quiet. In minutes, her Uncle Emmett’s voice was conjuring up the old, old times and transporting her back there. All and sundry were reliving the gruesome demise of great, great, great, great grandfather Cosgrach, being hacked in half by a Viking axe. The Silver-Tongued stopped for a dramatic pause and took a scoop or two while he was at it.

All of a sudden, the swarthy, one-eyed ancient took up his stories again. His yarns could bind a listener to the palm of his hand. His was the only voice that cut through the silence of the vast echoing space. He started to recite the family story beginning with Adam and Eve O’Malley in their Garden of Eden, Connacht, where else?

The small eavesdropper fidgeted to get comfortable. Old Emmett told his tales verbatim, each word repeated and recited as it had always been, drama and suspense sewn skillfully in with the telling. They were so familiar that she could recite them too. Best of all was the saga of Old Noah O’Malley and his boat that saved the world. Surely, Emmett would tell it tonight. It had been an age since she heard it. Comfortable and settled, she waited with bated breath. There was one special bit of that story at the nail- biting end, when the clan ship came to rest beyond the watery judgement. ‘Hooray’ here it was.

And after many a wave and many a swell, Noah O’Malley sent his emissaries, his birds, the souls of dead warrior allies, out to seek for them them, dry land.

Like every man- jack there, the girl waited. Any one of them could carry on the story in his stead, but his age gave him proper command of the history. He started up again. Long they waited. The wait was long.

Again, Emmett stopped and said nothing. He held that tongue of his as tightly as his silence, making much more of their waiting. Many was the day and night as went by with not one sign. Not head nor tail was seen of his trusted raven.

Around the hall, the clansmen peered, straining to see its return. Like the others present, the small eavesdropper felt the excruciating frustration of those long days of wondering. Would he ever go on? Would the bird return this time as he had of old? Emmett was relishing the suspense. He gratefully accepted another drink, and then licked his old lips, painfully slowly. At long, long last, he spoke. He leaned forward to rest one elbow on the huge table. Still further forward, he rolled his eyes to set the mood,

Then, after forty days and forty nights, he spotted it, coming in fast, arrow straight. There was the bird, carrying it, all jagged in his beak, the branch!

The whole company relaxed in the sheer relief at hopes of dry land. To a man, they knew the perils of the sea, of being nigh on swallowed by it or worse still, windless with no chance of movement forward or back. They felt reassured by the raven’s return. They were there at Noah’s side, caught up in the perils.

No matter how many times she heard the story, there was always the possibility that this time, this time, the ending would be less favourable. She relaxed, lost in dreams the storyteller could weave when, splitting the quiet, Grace let out the screech of a calving sea lion. Piercing pain made her mouth do it. Her heart was pounding.

Umir gasped. His heart was pounding too. Grace was the English equivalent of the name Anka. This yarn had his full attention now, the words aimed directly at him. Taken aback, he kept reading.

The Vikings, the Vikings were here! They were upon her. No. Oh, no! This was worse. Intent upon ripping the ears off her, her cousin had hold.

We have ourselves a spy! He thundered, loud enough to deafen the Banshee and raise the dead. His unrelenting grip steered her to her feet by her ears, and upward, holding her, kicking against the air. Down into the assembled men he carried her. Here, forty eyes, or more, were on her, burning holes into her soul. Terror did not stop there. He plonked her down, eyeball to eyeball the scariest man among them.

Diarmuid the Judge glared. Ah, now! Here was a fellow who invented dramatic tension. Not even the hairpins in her ma’s dresser dare drop. He fixed Grace with that all-knowing stare of his. His foul, beery breath was enough to kill her. After an eternity of exhaling, and far too deeply for her liking, the man pronounced,

You need judging? This was a gruff, intimidating growl. That last awful word was stretched to terrify the condemned. The words alone were horrifying, but aimed directly at her? Blood rushed to her cheeks. Her chest and belly burned with the heat of guilt. She was mortified. With the speed of a lightning flash her thoughts jostled and tripped over each other in an effort to spill out into a confession, any confession, it did not matter. She listened to every one, as they raced.

On Monday last, she smashed a precious bowl, only to blame it on her brother. Only an hour ago, she’d spat in her da’s beer when he’d already had a few too many drams. She’d lied far too many times to count. Oh, no! This very morning, she’d cursed God himself for making her a girl! No. No. No! That bit of information would surely send her to hell. Her mind reached for the Hail Mary.

The miracle she prayed for happened. Her mouth, cued to the fact that it was expected to say something, took it upon itself to speak of its own accord.

Well. Uh, well, I do often think about beating the beejayzus out of a few Englishmen!

To her relief, a raucous guffawing rattled around the solid old hall. When he managed to pull himself together, her inquisitor asked them all,

Well, where’s the harm in that, eh?

More belly laughter ensued. The hilarity swelled when some bright spark shouted,

No harm at all. With that, they lifted their cups and toasted in unison with an even louder cry of No crime at all. Grace had won her place at table.

Outside overhead, the raven landed to perch on his turret. He stared out to sea with a sharp eye to the land surrounding. Imposing banks and deep ditches encircled the stark tower. On moonlit, misty nights like these, silver sheen and heavy moisture painted the banks’ tops into the Ollpheist himself, Crom Cruach, monstrous worm of judgement and of destiny. At this precise moment, he was winding his way around the tall building and low-lying crofts. Sturdy palisades protected the thatched stone cottages nestling within them. Indoors, the cottagers did what cottagers do on such nights. The lone bird squawked an unearthly squawk. He was like a thing possessed. Perhaps he was.

By now, our young heroine was fighting off a deadly drowsiness with all her might. The warmth of the fire, the flickering of the torches and gentle tones of her brother’s piping, brought dreamland ever closer. Eamonn the Dream Reader broke the thrall.

And one amongst us here is after having a dream as needs telling. One among youse, I feel it in my water. I know it. The stern voice snapped the youngster clean out of her slumber.

The man was edging unnervingly slowly around the table, sidling up to every one of them present, staying for a moment before gliding to the next, stalking his prey. When he came to Grace, he stopped for a longer while. She felt him close at her back. He would pass. He would pass. No! Bony hands settled on her shoulders. Her heart sank into terror.

Spit it out, child. Spit it out.

She was delighted to be here, but not in the least ready to be conspicuous a second time. Anyhow, what dream? She had a heap of them.

With a gulp, the small, strong-minded little character felt her body rise without her permission. A powerful, strange feeling overtook her and gave her voice. It spoke through her, and started to recount her most recent dream.

The sky of the night realm was heavy with clouds. From my bed, this body was thrust. I did fly. I was flying, I tell yuz, flying. Of a sudden, our hills, valleys, lakes and even the coastline itself did, dip, dip, and flow way beneath me, like the God’s own masterpiece that it is. I was flying. But my joy was short- lived. I floundered, unsure if me arms were best placed out front, or down along by the sides of me. Unsure I was. Should I crouch myself into the shape of a bird to f ly, as do they? Then there were my feet? Was I to use them like paddles or flap them, swimming like? All the while, I was sinking.

This was too strange. Here was she, addressing her elders. Better still, they were listening. Not only was her mouth good at this, she was enjoying it. A resounding silence hung a while before she went to it again.

So there was I, flying but falling with no notion as to how to steer. Didn’t a voice come from nowhere to say ‘Sit? Sit.’? ‘On what?’ I ask, when the answer leaps into my head. ‘Twas put there by a silent voice that says to concentrate on the first thing as pops into mind. Well, I was staring down at the shoreline at the time, when I spotted a rock. Looking at it brought it to me. Now, here was that chunk in the heavens besides me, and bang under my scrawny arse. A big heap of a rock was my seat. Cross-legged with my arms folded, there was I, sitting back, flying, just taking in the scenery.

Her eyes wandered around all the faces gawping back at her. They were hooked like drowsy salmon. Best to leave them like that for a minute or two. A bit of drama was a good thing in the telling of a story.

In the heel of the hunt, a horrible busy city was below me. Youse’d be pushed to imagine the people there, of all shapes and sizes they were, and up to all kinds of things too. Didn’t I catch sight of a market place? The more I watched it, the closer it came, flying back up at me. Then I knew. I was coming in to land. In the wink of an eye, I was among them, in a crowd. I thought for sure they’d ask me a heap of questions, but they had only one. It was time to get her audience joining in, participating. They were supposed to offer suggestions as to what that single question might be. Silence. To a man, they were open- mouthed, agog.

Can youse guess what they asked? I mean to say, had a foreigner not just flown in, unannounced, and all? Can youse guess the question?

Still, not one said a word. Come on. She was determined to get them at it. With no joy, Grace gave up. Well. The pressing question was. ‘How much for that stone?’ Can you imagine? ‘How much for the stone?’ That was their chant. Every one of them was falling over his self, thrusting fists of money at me in exchange for the rock. I told them it was worthless. I told them, ‘No! No! The flying’s inside ye all, not in the rock. ‘Tis ye who put the knack in the stone.’ But by now, the eejits were crushing forward to get a good look at it. I left them to it, poking, and prodding. I refused their money.

She needed to get across the frustration felt in the dream. Here we are, me just flown down, telling them they can fly too. What do they do? They believe the rock has the magic.

Finally, Emmett the Singer asked, What was the upshot?

To them, I did not exist. I was ignored. My message met deaf ears. They could not hear me.

Or would not. The man added, wisely.

"Didn’t I leave them to it? Left them to their prodding and hopes of finding how it flew. I was disgusted, I can tell you, disgusted. But I thought about them all there with a rock they could find by the