Aine's Story

By Mali Berger

At the conclusion of STEENIE OSHEA, her niece, Aine OShea Connolly demands her own story. The copper-haired, green-eyed seventeen year-old strolls down Galway Bay, rows the empty curagh out to the mysterious white traveling ship, climbs the rope ladder and peers into depictions of tableaus, each illustrating unforgettable, future scenes.

Aine, now 22 in this sequel, follows these four tableau journeys to Belfast, Taos, Crete and Gelati, all lay lines on the planet.

In this tale of magical realism, she discovers that five authors have written identical childrens books in Belfast; that a white dome, mountain city awaits victims of the archaics in Taos; that the archeological site of Knossos holds secrets in Crete; and that a strange design-pattern flows through the ancient, Gelati monastery/academy located near Tskhaltubo, Georgia, a former Soviet Republic.

On the path, Aine meets a variety of people who gift her with indispensable experiences that lead to her own transformations. On this historic, travel journey, she climbs mountains, explores underground sites and sails the Aegean Sea before returning to her home in Galway, five years hence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465322708

Mali Berger

The author of seven books, including three novels in the Irish Trilogy, Steenie OShea, Aines Story and Niamh River, that takes place in Galway, Ireland, Mali Berger has also published short stories, a memoir and a book for children. In addition, she writes bi-monthly articles for the Arizona Authors Association. Mali taught American Literature in Michigan and Chinese Universities as well as The Dalton School in Manhattan and presently balances life between New York City and Galway, Ireland with visits to Dublin. Her love for drama and the theater as well as bundles of books from Kennys Book Shop in Galway are mirrored in her stories.

Book preview

Aine’s Story

Mali Berger

Copyright © 2003 by Mali Berger.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Prologue

Tableau One

June, 2007, Belfast, Ireland

Tableau Two

July, 2007, Taos, New Mexico

Tableau Three

August, 2007, Crete, Greece

Tableau Four

September, 2007, Gelati, Georgia

Afterword

Four years later. June, 2011

Epilogue

The Islands. Summer Solstice, 2012

FOR THE MUSE THIS TIME.

Also by Mali Berger

Steenie O’Shea

Twisted Hair

Risk! Risk Anything!

Prologue

She strolled down the Galway Bay beach, a goddess of white light and blue mist, until she saw the old, empty curagh. Yes, that’s the one; I do believe it’s my mode of travel. Shoving the low boat away from shore, she jumped in and rowed towards the white ship, barely visible in the thick, heavy fog of midnight. As she approached the vessel, a ladder mysteriously descended.

She rose out of the sea, her long copper strands dripping seaweed, her green eyes shining radiance. Reclaiming her birthright from twenty-two earth years, Aine O’Shea Connolly held her arms open to the full moon, demanding her star genes. As the golden circles filtered down through her body, she stretched and yawned, spread her legs to encompass the whole planet and felt her head streak through the heavens.

She slowly climbed the steps to peer over the top of the ladder into depictions of tableaus, each illustrating unforgettable scenes.

Tableau One

June, 2007, Belfast, Ireland

Matt Mulholland heard the slight knock at the door first. Lucy, are you expecting guests so late? He arched his eyebrows and laid aside his reading, the book his firm had recently published.

Who would be knocking at our door at midnight? In this rain? The next group isn’t scheduled to arrive until Friday night, two days from now. His wife shrugged her shoulders, dropped the week’s menu on her lap and held her hands out, palm side up in surprise.

I’ll check it, stay here, sweet.

He opened the door to catch in his arms the wet, shivering young woman who collapsed into the lighted entry.

Lucy, come quick.

Oh, Matt, who is she? Carry her into the bedroom.

The two quickly removed the wet clothes, wrapped her in a flannel robe, tucked warm blankets close and toweled her long copper hair. Matt ran to the kitchen for hot soup while Lucy patted and spoke to the visitor.

Please, dear, open your eyes; there, there, now, you’re safe. Who are you, where did you come from?

Aine’s green eyes fluttered as she moaned and slowly awakened into her strange, yet oddly familiar, surroundings.

Everything’s okay, dear, safe you are in our home. I’m Lucy Mulholland. What is your name?

Aine. I’m Aine . . . from . . . Galway. Where am I?

You suddenly appeared at our door, here in Belfast. Ah, here’s my husband, Matt, with hot soup for you. Let me help you sit up. Eat a little of this nourishing chowder and you’ll feel better. There now, a bit of color returns to your face. Good, good, just a few more spoon fulls. Are you warmer now?

Aine nodded and slipped back down under the blankets. I’m Steenie O’Shea’s niece.

My God, whispered Matt, John William’s niece? Memories flitted over his face as brown eyes registered shock.

Yes, Uncle Maurie and Aunt Steenie told me all about you and the Basalt Writing School and the white horses and just everything.

But how did you get here?

I don’t know. Her green eyes reflected panic. I remember discovering the curagh on Galway Bay, rowing out in the fog to the huge, white traveling ship, climbing the ladder and looking at the tableaus.

Tableaus of what, Aine? asked Lucy, who still warmed her visitor’s hands in her own palms.

The first was this room with those framed book posters and author memorabilia. It’s all so strange. Her eyelids struggled to remain awake.

Sleep now, Aine. In the morning we’ll thrash this all out. Our bedroom’s just down the hall. Call if you need anything, said Matt, as they silently left the room, leaving the door ajar.

John William’s niece? What a shock, said Lucy, touching her round cheeks with fingers.

Has it started again? The next generation? He puckered his lips thoughtfully.

Oh, Matt, wouldn’t it be wonderful? Maurice Meehan, alias John William. It’s been 30 years since Maurice arrived under similar mysterious circumstances and signed that three year-contract to write for the IRA.

Ah, Lucy, what writing that was! Still is! I wonder . . . What?

If Aine’s an author, too? Did she inherit his talents?

We’ll know more in the morning. Goodnight, Matt, sweet dreams.

Aine opened her green eyes to sun streaming through the lace covered windows in the room that she had first seen on the ship’s tableau. Antique bedroom furniture, vase filled with roses, shelves of books and framed book posters.

"Yes, this is the place. How did I find it last night in the dark and rain? Matt Mulholland, the publisher of Uncle Maurie’s books and Lucy Mulholland, the innkeeper, who nourishes guests once a month, the Third Way visitors who seek to aid children, worldwide. Yes, I’m in the right spot at the right time." Snuggling down in the blankets, she slipped back into a light sleep.

As the aromas of bacon and cinnamon rolls drifted into her room, Aine whispered to herself. I’m hungry. Did I eat yesterday? I don’t think so. Her clothes had been washed and pressed. Feeling a bit unsteady, she slowly moved across the room to the shower. Hot water revived her as she washed away remnants of her unknown journey. She dressed and shyly entered the breakfast room.

Both Lucy and Matt jumped up from the table, putting their arms around their guest.

How are you feeling, Aine? they asked in unison.

Hungry, she laughed. Starved.

That’s a good sign. You were so wet and cold last night, we feared for you when you collapsed at the door, said Matt.

I’m a little shaky but seem to be okay. Thank you for taking care of me.

No thanks needed, dear. Any niece of John William is welcome at any time. You must stay with us. Your bedroom’s empty, just waiting for your arrival, comforted Lucy. Her blue eyes and warm smile welcomed Áine. She ran her fingers through unkempt, black hair, cut in a short, pixy style.

That’s good of you. Yes, I do want to stay a few days. Do you have any other guests coming?

Not until Friday and they’ll only use the second floor rooms. Stay as long as you like, Áine. We’ve always wanted a daughter.

Lucy set a plate of bacon and eggs, basket of breads and bowl of fresh fruit in front of her. Coffee?

Yes, please. This looks delicious. As she dove into the breakfast, she asked Lucy about the Friday guests.

"A man from Taos, New Mexico; a woman from Crete, Greece; and a couple from Tbilisi, Georgia in the Caucasus. All write children’s stories. They need to study the Third Way publications to author a book together for their respective countries."

Uncle Maurice helped me publish my children’s book from the Galway University Press. Maybe that’s why I’m here, Matt.

Ah. Ha. That’s what I intuited. What’s the title?

"Magalee’s Diamonds. It’s about a five year-old child who discovers a small diamond shaped-stone in the meadow. From then on, she draws colorful diamonds on construction paper. At night she places the stone on her forehead and one of her pictures on her belly. This allows her to night travel to various places such as China. One day she releases all her diamond drawings from the construction paper and tapes the colorful cut-outs to her white bedroom walls and ceiling. Sun streaks through windows. She enters into the brilliance and flows through clear light."

I wish we had published your book, Áine, and, yes, it does appear that your mysterious arrival to our home must have something to do with our weekend guests. You seem to have inherited John William’s talents.

Aunt Steenie’s, too. She’s the mysterious one in our family. This breakfast tastes so good, Lucy. I love these cinnamon rolls.

Thank you. Your energy’s returning fast. Sleep and food’s all you need. So your mother is Steenie’s sister?

Nodding, Aine said, Deirdre O’Shea Connolly, the dancer and economist of the O’Shea family. Did you ever meet her or my father, Cian?

Matt answered. We came to Maurice Meehan’s and Steenie O’Shea’s wedding. Your mother, Deirdre, danced and your aunt, Brigid, played the violin. Ah, what talent in that family.

Kenny’s, the bookstore, is it still in business? asked Lucy.

"After my grandparents died, Aunt Steenie inherited the bookstore and renamed it Steenie, International, and her friend Maeve in Fountain Hills, Arizona, renamed her bookstore, Maeve, International. Called sister bookshops, the two interchanged books, authors and workshops."

Glancing at his watch, Matt said, It’s getting late. I’m off to the Publishing Company, so I’ll see you two this evening, we’ll talk more then. Take it easy, Aine, rest and sleep and eat and you’ll soon be as good as new.

You haven’t any clothes at all, new daughter, do you feel well enough to go to the shopping court down the street? At least get a few basics? Lucy asked.

Smiling her ascent, Aine hugged her benefactor and settled into her first tableau journey: Belfast, Ireland.

When the Friday evening guests arrived, Lucy graciously welcomed them to her home.

Matt and Aine, meet Stephen Bakhor and Caroline Lunev from the University of Georgia in Tbilisi. Turning to her guests, she added, My husband Matt is a publisher and Aine, a family friend and author, visits us from Galway.

Matt grabbed their luggage, relieving them from the heavy weight and said, Greetings. We look forward to your visit, Stephen and Caroline. You both write children tales?

"Yes, and we are anxious to learn the four steps of the Third Way, especially about international themes, said Caroline, her green eyes riveted on Matt. I’m the illustrator for Stephen’s stories."

We’ve been writing national stories for our own children and wish to expand, responded Stephen, his brown-eyed gaze as focused as his partner’s. So kind of you to host us.

’Tis wonderful to meet you both, said Aine. I just published my first children’s story, so we’ll have lots to talk about.

We’ve made arrangements for you to visit the Basalt Writing School in the morning, said Lucy. Aine will accompany you along with two additional guests. Interrupted by the doorbell, she said, Ah, here they are now. She rushed to the front door.

You must be Kristine Macrakis from Crete and Christopher River from Taos, New Mexico. Come in, come in. I’m Lucy, your hostess. How were your trips?

I got held up in Athens and London, said Kristine, her dark eyes snapping with energy, but the Dublin to Belfast trip seemed faultless, an ideal flight. It’s exciting to finally be here, a dream come true. We’ve heard so much about the Basalt Writing School in Crete. She slipped the camera strap from her shoulder, dropped her heavy backpack on the floor and smoothed her long black hair back into it’s clip.

Same here, said Chris. There’s a direct link between Taos and Belfast, so I’m just one of many to make the journey. My flight from Albuquerque to London arrived on time with a bit of delay departing for Dublin, but all in all, quite good. Thanks so much for allowing me to bunk here with you. His brown eyes sparkled with adventure as he parked his suitcase next to Kristine’s. He yanked a cap off his red hair.

You’re both most welcome. Come meet the others. Lucy guided her visitors into the living room. "Kristine from Crete and Christopher from Taos, here are your companions, Stephen Bakhor and Caroline Lunev from Tbilisi, Georgia and our friend, Aine, from Galway.

This big guy over here with bushy brown hair is my husband, Matt Mulholland."

You’ve all authored children books, all interested in our international work and all have brought copies of your most recent work. Right? questioned Matt.

Right, they chorused.

First, let’s get you all settled in your rooms, dinner will be at seven, and let me warn you, bring a big appetite, because Lucy’s a gourmet cook. You’re in for a treat. Matt led the way to the second floor rooms, library and study.

Chris and Stephen met in the library after unpacking.

I could spend hours just leafing through these books, said Stephen Bakhor from Tbilisi. All of John William’s texts are here, the ones he wrote in Belfast, as well as the books he wrote in Galway under his actual name, Maurice Meehan.

"He and Steenie O’Shea came to Taos a couple times, so I had a chance to meet them both. Riveting couple. William’s Troubled Children, with Sean Harvey’s photographs, is already a classic," said Chris River from Taos.

"I came because of their Third Way, the second book, that explains the Blues philosophy through the eyes of the children, said Stephen. Chris, do you know the truth about Maurice Meehan’s journey from Galway to Belfast? I know he lost his brother and Da in the curagh drowning off the Aran Islands, floated ashore and friends secretly spirited him away to Belfast. What do you know about it?"

Quite a story, isn’t it? As I understand, Maurice became John William in Belfast with a whole new identity/appearance and agreed to help the IRA because of a belief in a united Ireland. Then he met his photographer, Sean Harvey, became the children’s poet at Basalt, Dun and Tara, the three schools originated by the children, and compiled the famous books based on the philosophy of the Blues. Eventually he returned to Steenie in Galway and continued writing under his own name, Maurice Meehan.

Did you ever meet Josie when she was in Taos?

Sure did, along with her grandmother, Narcoeta. In fact observing their abilities encouraged me to enter the path of the Blues, answered Chris.

You’re lucky to live in Taos, said Stephen. Only a few texts have found their way to our university in Tbilisi, but enough to grab attention. The university paid all traveling expenses for Caroline and me. I write the children books and Caroline illustrates them. Like John and Sean, it takes two of us to create the stories.

Here’s our latest book, said Caroline as she walked into the book splashed library room.

"Lisa’s Diamonds, read Christopher River. That’s strange I have a book with a similar title. He strode back to his room and returned with a colorful children’s book. See?"

"Analee’s Diamonds. How odd, agreed Caroline. When was yours published?"

Last year in Albuquerque. Yours?

Last year in Tbilisi. Text? Illustrations? Are they similar also?

The three crouched around the center table to examine the two books.

One in Spanish and one in Georgian, we’ll have to translate in English, read to each other, said Chris.

Illustrations are different, yet strangely alike. What’s going on here? asked Caroline.

She ran out to call the others. Aine and Kristine, come quick.

What’s up? You have your books. Let me see, said Kristine. Puzzled, she studied the two diamond story books.

"Lisa’s Diamonds and Analee’s Diamonds," translated Christopher River. The first created in the Republic of Georgia, the second in Taos, New Mexico, the same year."

"Oh, my God, I have a similar book, Sulu’s Diamonds, written on Crete and published also last year," admitted Kristine.

Aine turned white in shock, her face reflecting a staggering blow.

That’s the meaning of the first tableau, she whispered.

Tableau, what do you mean? asked Stephen.

"Something odd has happened to me. Two days ago I rowed the curagh in Galway Bay through the fog out to the white, traveling ship. A ladder descended, I climbed to the top, peered over and saw a series of Tableaus: visions of paintings, panoramas, moving scenes. The next I knew, I collapsed at Matt and Lucy’s front door. I’m John William’s niece and don’t know how I got here. I’ve got a diamond book, too. Magalee’s Diamonds written in Celtic."

Kristine said, What’s going on? Why are we all here in this house at this moment?

Each with a story about a girl child and diamonds? continued Stephen, his hands nervously shoving a wave of dark blond hair back from his face.

Yeh, in Spanish, Celtic, Georgian and Greek, all created and published last year,added Caroline. Her green eyes shining out of an oval face startled the others. They instinctively knew that this tall, too slim woman with a focused, intuitive gaze could penetrate deep into the enigma.

Aunt Steenie and Uncle Maurie were nearly mad before their initiation into the Blues, whispered Áine. I know the whole story, but experiencing the weird happenings is different than just hearing the tale.

My God, what a bizarre puzzle. Here the four of us are from Tbilisi, Crete, Taos, and Galway, all in the famous publisher’s Belfast house, said Caroline.

Yeh, and sitting in a library packed full of John William’s classic texts. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m trembling, shook Chris. I’ve met John, alias Maurice, and Steenie, his psychic wife, plus Josie, Peter, her partner, and Narcoeta. I mean, we’re in for some high clairvoyant stuff.

White horses.