Mockingbird Moon

By Valorie Creef

When Olivias daughter Lilly and older sister Kathleen take an equestrian holiday on the western coast of Ireland, they fulfill Olivias request for a tiny box of Irish earth for her garden in exchange for a lock of her hair. While the request seems harmless enough, the trade is made unwittingly at the grave site of a legendary warrior, setting off a chain of events that catapult Olivia back in time two thousand years to Eriu (ancient Ireland) where she lands in the arms of none other than the noble Air-echta (Kings champion) Lord Samus Kildare of Munster.

Mockingbird Moon is a fun, fast paced historical romance that romps its way through perils of high adventure, fierce clan loyalties, court intrigues and bitter territorial grievances. Pagan Ireland is splashed across a cultural landscape of prehistory, legend and the Brehen laws of mystical Eriu.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504349468

Valorie Creef

Valorie Creef is a native Californian, originally from the “Valley of the Moon”; she presently resides in Riverside, California, where she is a practitioner of earth magic, most notably her organic garden. She is an avid backyard musician, including howling at the moon. She is the creator of the Vampire Margarita (secret ingredient is blood orange soda), and can be found most days chasing dreams and weaving tall tales. She is the caretaker of a fifty year old navel orange tree that graces her backyard with sweet juicy fruit that comes ripe every year at Christmas time.

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MOCKINGBIRD MOON

VALORIE CREEF

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Copyright © 2016 Valorie Creef.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4945-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4946-8 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 3/7/2016

CONTENTS

1    LILLY

2    TRANSCENDENTAL BATH TUBS AND MOON SONGS

3    AN EXCHANGE IS MADE

4    MOCKINGBIRD CANYON

5    THE BURREN

6    A WARRIOR’S CAMP

7    A WOLF BY ANY OTHER NAME…

8    A RIDE THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE

9    MAGH ADHAIR

10    THE QUEENS HOUSEHOLD

11    CELLACH’S HALL

12    ELISH

13    UNDER THE TREES

14    POISON DARTS

15    GOLDEN HANDS AND PURPLE TOES

16    A BRIEULIAG IN THE GARDEN

17    LOUGH DREG

18    TRACKING DRUIDS

19    PULLING ENERGY

20    SIBEAL

21    SOME HORSING AROUND

22    THE AIRE-ECHTA OF MUNSTER

23    AN OATH FULFILLED

24    AT THE BRUIDEAN

25    CONNACHT

26    CRAGGAUNOWEN

27    GOOD THINGS COME IN THREES

28    BY THE DARK OF THE MOON

29    THINGS REMEMBERED

30    MANIM ASTHEE HU

DEDICATION

To Sterling, thank you for your lifelong friendship and encouragement,

And to my husband Art, without your kindness and generosity of spirit the world would stop spinning.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The custom of the old Irish writers was to preface their works with a statement of Place, Time, Person, and Cause. I should very much like to follow in similar fashion and to that end I make the following declaration;

The writing of this book took place in Riverside, California and on a fog-shrouded mountaintop in Eureka, California in the year of great joy and sorrow, 2013.

I, Valorie Creef, sister to the stars and the skies and the Pacific ocean, lay listening somewhere between moonrise and daybreak to the love song of a Mockingbird carried on the breathless summer air, thick with the spice of old roses, and in that sublime moment of surrender to sound and smell, I remembered something. . .

T his was an ancient place, born from an ocean mist on the outer edges of the western world. It has been known by many names: Eriu, Insula Sacra, Juverna, Ogygia Inera, Hibernia and, most recently, Ireland. The great seas washed ashore new waves of people, who in time, would embrace her as home and she would absorb them, making them her own. The Gulf Stream off the west coast brought warm water from the Caribbean, providing mild winters and abundant rains. Lakes and marshes held vast flocks of cranes, wild geese, swans and kites. The island was a generous provider with deep ocean kelp beds. Salmon, and trout filled the rivers. Limestone foundations provided for calcium rich pastures for her valleys, making the grasses extra sweet. Great herds of red tail deer roamed primal forests, along side wild boar, hares, and foxes, while packs of wolves lurked in deep dark caves.

This small isle provided the populace with robust health, beauty and a profound sense of place that defined them, and bound them to her from the very beginning. Scattered like wildflowers through the hills and dales, herders, farmers, and seafarers were moved to praise her in celebration, poetry and song throughout the ever-changing cycle of seasons.

It is not surprising that such folk would value most not hoarded wealth but things that moved and expressed the spirit. A man was deemed rich by his generosity. Of a generous man, people would say that his right arm was longer than his left. Kings were judged by this measure, as well. It was said of a good king, that the knives of his people were well-greased and their breath smelled of ale from his table.

The island had been broken up into five separate provinces. Each had a king, whom the petty kingdoms within the province paid tribute to. So profound was the people’s love for the spoken word that in its system of hierarchy, poets had the same status as kings. Poetry filled the halls of large and small kingdoms alike. There was no shortage of kings; as many as one hundred and fifty at one time claimed the title across her abounding soil. The boundaries and alliances of these kingdoms were ever shifting and changing like sand on the shore.

Sanachies were the genealogists and historians of their time. Through alliteration and rhyme, vast amounts of history were storied, to be brought forth at banquets and fairs to entertain and recount the brave deeds and glories of her heroes and champions. Poets, too, went through long and rigorous training. The File or king’s poet wielded a powerful hand, depending on whether he chose to sing one’s praises or to satirize. Both would affect generations to come. Travel outside of one’s own territory was restricted to all but those in the higher classes, but poets were extended hospitality and protection throughout the country even during times of war. Though much honor and respect was lavished upon the men and women of the poet and sanachie ranks, in return, they had a great responsibly to accuracy. Falsifying of history was sacrilegious and by law, the harshest of punishment were levied, for as much as the people esteemed him, the people honored their past more and would rather have a history of truth than lies.

In truth, the a`es da`na, the learned classes, were comprised of different disciplines that fell under the domain of the Order of the Wise, commonly referred to as Druidic teachings; they themselves were repositories of a thousand years of learning and wisdom. Among the order were poet, historian\genealogist, healer, seer, astrologer, judge and priest. First and foremost among the duties of any Druid, regardless of their specialized training and talents, was to maintain balance between humans and nature and the great mystery which was both elusive and everywhere.

As Elish, the legendary Druid Mother, would directed those under her tutelage, to observe the subtle changes of life’s patterns all around them, for it is in these details,’ she spoke, that we find the power and meaning of our lives."

1

LILLY

Ouch! Olivia exclaimed under her breath, trying to straighten out her cramped and swollen fingers to press pen to paper, and make her notes on the day’s gardening. It always amazed her how she could completely lose herself in this place. She looked out over the garden towards her cottage that was tucked away in one of the last orange groves of Riverside, California. Her trees had deep roots. They were from the original mother stock from which all subsequent groves had sprung. The once booming citrus industry in the area had been uprooted and replaced by track homes and strip malls to accommodate the hordes of commuters swarming into the area from Los Angles and Orange counties. Olivia shook her head; it was hard to believe that orange groves had once carpeted this river valley with white fragrant blossoms from the foothills of the Big Bear Mountains to the lower Mojave Desert.

After a seven-year drought, the heavens had opened up and delivered more rain than the valley had seen in a hundred years. The parched earth had soaked up every last drop, too. The blooms were heavy on everything. It would be a bountiful crop of oranges. She had convinced her Aunt Maeve to go organic years ago, and believed it was the reason her oranges were so sweet. This year’s bumper crop would be a financial blessing to her little roadside truck stand enterprise, which supplemented her undependable freelancing as a textile restorer.

At dawn, she had started the pruning of nearly fifty rose bushes she and her aunt Maeve had planted over the last thirteen years. Roses had been Maeve’s passion. Surprisingly, the commuter crowd was a romantic bunch, and the roses which bloomed almost year round in this moderate climate had become a lucrative cash crop. Olivia stared down at her notes absently blowing a long thick strand of black hair out of her eyes. She shrugged, looking at her chipped nails packed with dirt. The care of five acres was hard work. It had been easier when Maeve was alive. Looking back up, she scanned the rose garden that literally began at the back steps of the cottage. Her eyes rested on the three-tiered fountain that stood gracefully at the garden’s center. It had just arrived one day with an unsigned note addressed to Maeve. It simply read; Memory is the only paradise from which we cannot be driven.*

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Maeve had passed away without divulging its sender.

The rose garden gave way to the grove beyond. The twelve foot chain link fence that enclosed the entire five acres had been expensive but the long and cherished, if not scandalous, tradition in Riverside of orange grove marauding teenagers, consuming alarming amounts of cheap Thunderbird wine, had become senselessly destructive and disrespectful to the trees.

Olivia made a notation indicating the moon was in its full cycle. Full moons were always good for bursts of energy, she reflected as she smiled at the huge cool vernal moon lifting over the jagged toothed San Jacinto Mountains to the east. Olivia turned towards the ascending silver disk.

Hello gorgeous, she murmured affectionately, I’ve been feeling you all day. She watched the pale orb slowly clear the horizon and pondered not only the super charge of energy that always accompanied its full cycle but the enhanced assertiveness of her sapient intuition and creativity. As an artist, she looked forward to its fullness, hoping for insight and motivation. On the whole, she felt her species had abandon and neglected their visceral nature. Trusting one’s instincts had fallen into twenty first century scorn in favor of criteria’s set by modern science. She, on the other hand, had learned to trust that small voice within. Like today, she’d had a feeling Lilly would call, so strong; in fact, she remained where she could hear the phone. Although the poor sound quality of the international connection had been garbled, keeping the phone call disappointingly brief.

Had Lilly only been gone three weeks? Olivia sighed, well thankfully she would be home tomorrow. The Equestrian holiday, Olivia’s older sister, Kathleen had taken Lilly on featured backcountry trails on the western coast of Ireland. Olivia smiled to herself imagining Kathleen and Lilly charging their horses through the surf with sea spay blowing through their hair.

Finishing the entry in her journal, she wrote, The whole healing embrace of nature is such a wonderful mystery. I guess I don’t need to understand it, but just observe its power and beauty and be profoundly grateful for that unconditional constancy of grace it provides me. Closing her journal, she took one last breath of air deeply into her lungs. Ahh! Ambrosia. The air was heavy with the perfume of orange blossoms, and roses.

Everything would be perfect for tonight’s ceremony. After all, a full moon at the Spring Equinox doesn’t happen very often. Lots of juju in the air. She’d felt it growing since early morning. Hard to say what exactly she was feeling; happy, peaceful, and something else, too. The procreational energy of bees buzzing, birds nesting, and blooms bursting all around her was definitely having an effect. She’d read about the ancient Celt’s rites of spring that celebrated the fertility cycle of the earth with sensuous abandon. Actually, the idea sounded pretty good to her right now. Yeah, what would you do with a wild Celt? Even if he jumped up and bit you on the arse, she scoffed at herself. It wasn’t that she was a prude, she thought, defending her loner’s bed. It’s just that ...she didn’t want to just be with any man…she wanted…hmmm…she didn’t know what the hell she wanted, but she knew she hadn’t run into him.

You’re hopeless, she chided herself, chalking up her cerebral misfiring on the subject to her own special brand of mysticism.

Fat Molly, a rat terrier mix, and Mud Toes, a burl and white Australian shepherd came running up looking concerned, slowly wagging their tails,

I’m concerned, too, old darlings, she sighed as she reached down to scratch their scruffy heads. You two scalawags will need baths before your mistress returns or I shall be tied and quartered for dereliction of duty.

Ahh yes, wild abandon, she brooded. Hadn’t she insisted on getting married at 17, to the king of heartaches, no less? Oh, sweet mother of predicable consequences. She had given birth to her beautiful baby girl almost nine months later to the day. She certainly knew what wild abandon was. It had only taken two years for the marriage to self-destruct. She had been gun shy ever since. It had been hard raising Lilly by herself, but she’d never regretted having her. On the contrary, she’d wondered many times what in the world she would have done without her. At her birth, it had been love at first sight for Olivia. Lilly’s perfect rosebud mouth, her double row of thick eyelashes like her own, and a huge pair of feet that looked like they belonged to a Saint Bernard. When Tom saw her feet, he whistled, Liv, honey, it looks like our girl plans on doing some walkin’.

Olivia had always recognized the blessing Lilly was to her. So steady, sensitive and loving. An old soul, wise as an owl, with the exuberance, openness and trust in humanity of a puppy. Lilly’s second grade teacher had told her once that she put the high strung kids next to Lilly because she calmed them down. Lilly had the same effect on animals. She had filled the house over the years with assorted strays. She belonged to an animal rescue group, their youngest member, and was usually patching up some injured creature. Lilly had announced last year at the tender age of twelve that she was going to be a vet. Wow! Do ya think? Olivia had teased her. The child was in perfect alignment with her calling.

But Lilly had had a tough year. Puberty smashed into her like a cart full of ripe melons. First came the acne, then the glasses and then the final blow, braces. She had said with tears in her eyes, Mama what else is going to go wrong?

Girl of my heart… you listen to me. You come from a long line of beautiful women. Be patient. Your time will come. Olivia pressed her hand against her daughter’s heart. Right here, you feel that?

What? My heart? Lilly questioned, looking at her mother.

Yeah, this is what matters, and you know what else?

What? Lilly asked pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose trying not to smile.

You’ve got the biggest, sweetest, juiciest one I know.

God, Mom, you make me sound like an orange, she giggled.

Orange-cha? Olivia spoofed, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

Ok that’s it. Lilly laughed and jumped out of her seat, chasing her mother around the kitchen table. Olivia turned around and pulled Lilly into a wide embrace, kissing the top of her head.

You’ll see, you’re about to turn into a butterfly.

Promise? Lilly whispered.

It’s a done deal, baby girl, Olivia cooed.

Olivia knew that puberty was an individual plague that takes its own sweet time, no matter how much the individual was suffering, and Lilly certainly was. If Lilly’s best friend’s mother hadn’t told her that Lilly was being teased at school, Olivia would never had known. Lilly never mentioned it; she wouldn’t want her to worry. She was always concerned about other people’s feelings. Olivia had noticed that Lilly had become quiet and more withdrawn, spending most of her free time at the stables.

Lilly had always loved horses. Olivia had made sure she’d had lessons and trail time. However, she had never been able to afford to buy Lilly what she dreamed of, a horse of her own. Through the way she doted on her favorites at the stable, you’d think they were hers.

When Olivia’s sister Kathleen, another horse woman, called from back east to say she’d found a great deal on tickets for an equestrian holiday, Olivia thought it was perfect timing. Three weeks on the southwest coast of Ireland. The equestrian package included horses, tack, food and lodging, and a detailed map marking the route and indicating where they would find their lodging along the trails. It sounded perfect for Lilly. Kathleen had insisted on it being her treat. Olivia was speechless. It was only after she had hung up that she realized she had been holding on to the phone so tight, her hand was numb.

Olivia could hear her internal dialogue starting up:

What an opportunity! But she’s only 13. But she’s an experienced rider. But out of the country? You have to let her go. What if something happened? No, that was doomsday thinking and she must learn to reject that, at least that’s what her grief counselor had said. Did she say a map?

Maeve had kept a framed copy of the Ryan family tree going back to the eighteenth century hanging in the dining room. Olivia knew her father’s people had come from Ireland. The family had emigrated from Ireland to the U.S. several generations back during the potato famine. They had been ranchers for the most part. Maeve had been her father’s sister. Both had been great talkers and storytellers. Olivia had heard the wonderful old family legends recited so many times she could recite them herself. Cut from the same cloth, you might say, Dad and Maeve had always had a way of making even small things sound grand and important. Well great, this would be a wonderful opportunity for Lilly to visit the home of her ancestors.

Olivia heard the phone ring and dashed inside, grabbing the phone, practically dislodging it from the wall. Lilly, baby, is that you? She could hardly make out what Lilly was saying; the connection sounded like a tin pipe under rolling seas.

Mama? Sorry, bad connection. Got you some terra firma, and a great story to go with it. See you tomorrow.

Love you, bye, Olivia yelled as the sound of the rolling ocean swallowed up the other end of the line.

Olivia let out a huge breath. Gosh, I hope she’s been having a good time. She could hardly wait to have her home. Hanging up the phone, she realized she had been holding her breath.

My God, for three weeks!

2

TRANSCENDENTAL BATH TUBS AND MOON SONGS

D rawing a hot bath, Olivia sprinkled dried lavender into the steaming water. Every muscle was stiff and sore from the day’s labor. She slid down under the water, letting the heat penetrate into her body. She could hear her sister Mary’s voice, What are you waiting for, the man of your dreams? He doesn’t exist! Why didn’t she let her sisters set her up? They always had some poor bastard lined up that was just perfect for her.

She leaned back and let out a long sigh. It’s okay, she told herself as she surrendered to the bliss of her body’s lightness and buoyancy in water. Her mind lapped at the edges of divine mindlessness. She had often wondered what would happen if she gave herself permission for complete abandonment to it. What if while dancing at its precipice, she accidentally on purpose tripped over its edge? What nirvana waited in the twilight between the conscious mind and the total absence of thought? She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, letting go a little more with each breath. Closer, closer… Heeeeeeeeeeee! Mother of all screaming teakettles! she yelled, jumping out of the bathtub and sloshing water over its side, flooding the bathroom floor. She would purposely fill Aunt Maeve’s ancient brass teakettle with water and put it on a low flame before she took her adventures in her transcendental bathtub. It was quite literally her safety valve. She knew with her responsibilities to motherhood, which would always be the stronger of the two callings, she could never completely let go.

What was calling her so strongly from beyond the veil of every day consciousness? This moon was unusually strong, she thought as she sprinted through the house to shut off the demonically enraged kettle. Suddenly she felt the old hardwood floor slip out from underneath her wet feet. Flailing out madly she caught the side beam of the floor loom to break her fall. Catching her breath she steadied herself and pulled herself up. Thanks Dad she spoke as she leaned against the beloved loom, her father’s bequest to her. He had been a master weaver, really a Renaissance man of arts and crafts. In his career as an occupational therapist he had worked in Veteran’s rehab centers, the infamous Folsom State Prison and the state run and funded Eldridge State Hospital for psychiatric care. Olivia had learned to weave as a small child, literally on her fathers lap. He had always been delighted with her work and her abilities with color and pattern. Weaving for her was a dance of light and shape taking form from the air beneath her fingertips. Olivia looked at the half finished weaving that lay forlorn on the loom. She’d stopped when Maeve died. Certainly her father would encourage her to finish it now. Her father’s words floated back to her moving through her body like a deep reassuring breath,

You can visibly see art bring light back into peoples eyes and passion into their hearts, art brings us back to life Olivia, it’s the best medicine I know.

The over wrought wheeze of the teapot broke through Olivia’ reflections and she cautiously made her way to the kitchen to shut off the caterwauling kettle.

Carefully retracing her trail of wet footprints she retreated to her bedroom. Olivia patted herself lightly with a towel so her skin was still moist and warm and began gently rubbing sandalwood infused almond oil into her strong arms. Working the soothing mixture down to her breasts and stomach, she wondered why she didn’t take the time to pamper herself more often. Picking up the oil, she lavished it on her neglected backside, musing again at the thought of a wild Celt nibbling on it.

She brushed out her massive thick hair, her cross to bear. Enough here for three people, she groaned. It fell in thick heavy waves to her waist. She rarely wore it any other way except in a tight braid down her back, but tonight she would leave it loose. It felt good to let it out, but god knows it was not practical for daily wear. She’d had it slammed in doors numerous times. Once a city bus had closed on it while she was disembarking. She had had to pound on the bus doors to get the driver’s attention to open back up so she could save herself from being dragged around the city by it. She had cut it short once, thinking it would be manageable. It had puffed out into a crazy curly bush that earned her the name Bride of Frankenstein for a while.

She slipped a long, soft cotton sheath over her clean body. Picking up the small cloisonné jewelry box, she fished out her ceremonial jewelry, things that had been given to her by people who loved her. Her moonstone earrings set in a silver Celtic knot work design her father had given her. The silver ring with half moons and stars Lilly had given her, and the gold ring set with a perfectly cut emerald. Olivia remembered the day Maeve had given it to her. It had been shortly after her marriage had failed. Maeve had asked if Olivia would like to bring the baby and stay at the cottage while she sorted things out. Olivia had gratefully accepted.

Maeve had always encouraged Olivia to follow her dreams. With student loans and generous financial help from Maeve Olivia got her degree in Textile Art from the California College of the Arts and when Olivia had an opportunity for an internship in textile restoration at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Maeve had insisted she seize the moment. Maeve and Olivia packed up Lilly and headed for New York. Olivia smiled remembering those wonderful times. Maeve had originally made arrangements for them to stay in Brooklyn with her dearest childhood friend Fay who was recently widowed, just until they could find something, but once there Fay wouldn’t hear of them going anywhere else when she had two empty bedrooms, and that was that! Fay’s brownstone was only 35 minutes from the Met. Both Fay and Maeve took turns spoiling Lilly while Olivia was working. Olivia gently patted her heart acknowledging the blessing those two wonderful women were in her life and Lilly’s. Olivia was grateful for those two years of invaluable training and knowledge of historical textiles she’d received at the Met as well, it had opened many doors for her, including the project she would be starting soon with the Getty, restoring two old tapestries which were causing a great deal of excitement and debate over their origin.

She made a last check at what she had in her basket: candles and incense. Her song would be her offering. Yes, she was ready.

She padded barefoot through the silent house. Dear Maeve had left her the old place, saying she could rest in peace knowing the cottage would protect and keep Olivia and Lilly safe. Olivia had always adored the turn of the century, Craftsmen bungalow. It had been completely constructed of first growth, California costal Redwoods with built in bookshelves, china cabinets and a walk in pantry. Olivia had made sure the pantry was packed full with all of Lilly’s favorite treats to celebrate her homecoming tomorrow. Olivia loved the garden and grove as much as Maeve had and took loving care of them, especially the roses. Olivia smiled to herself, remembering how Maeve had lavishly praised and admired the roses, giving them each a pet name. Maeve referred to all roses as female. The pigeon blood red, rose she’d named Gracie, had been one of her favorites. Every so often, amongst this flawless, aristocratic beauty would appear a rose with a splash of white on its outer petals, throwing the purity of its lineage into question. Maeve saw this as the plants saving grace, saying that perfection was a terrible burden to carry even for a rose. But the old tea roses she’d named Dreamer had been her pride and joy. These delicate, old, white cabbage roses have a deep, spicy perfume. Maeve would gather bouquets of them and place them in the bedrooms swearing their aroma produced sweet, comforting dreams. Often times she would take a lush spray to a friend that was feeling down to cheer them up.

Olivia’s mother had been annoyed at having one of her daughters taken over by a maiden aunt but she had resigned herself to it long ago.

If Maeve hadn’t been so crazy about her…If she hadn’t spoiled her so…letting her run wild, things might have been different, Olivia’s mother had bemoaned. Even while growing up Olivia had spent more time at her aunt’s home than her mother’s. Maeve, Olivia, and Lilly were like three peas in a pod. Maeve passing like that, so suddenly, had overwhelmed Olivia. Still, she had seemed to force herself to pull out of it for Lilly’s sake.

Silently, slipping out the back door, Olivia was alone in the moonlight. Surrounded by her beloved aunt’s garden, she felt safe. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes; the southern California air was like silk. The orange blossoms were intoxicating; they permeated everything. The night was warm but an undercurrent of spring chill still lingered. A breeze whipped up, gently rearranging her hair in soft clouds around her as she ambled down the footpath towards the fountain. She lingered near the white cabbage roses, letting the transformation of the garden by moonlight wash over her.

Olivia laughed softly to herself at the unexpected grace of her surroundings. There was no need for incense or candles; nature had already seen to it. If one were looking for magic, you need look no farther than this garden, she mused. Lifting her arms to the night sky, she started to sing softly. A slow moving sound that loosened her limbs and softened her heart. Her song was wordless except for the whispers and sighs of her unspoken yearnings and loneliness. All of it came spinning and swirling up out of her into the brilliant night sky. She totally gave herself over to the spontaneous lament. At times the intensity rose to a full wail, beautiful and fierce, then dropped into a pleading and seductive moan.

She was always surprised at the uniqueness of these soul songs, the way they leapt out of the body, releasing a spectrum of feelings all at once. The song had peeled open her heart, layer by layer, leaving her vulnerable. She gently wept and gave up thanks to the unseen elemental life force that nourished and sustained her in this place.

Breathing soft and slow, she stepped closer to the fountain. Leaning over, she drew her hand through the water, creating ripples of reflecting light. She looked deeply into the watery mirror, seeing an illuminated reflection of the moon and herself. You are a great beauty, Grandmother Moon, she whispered, suddenly feeling drained from the intensity of her release. Turning toward the cottage, she stopped to pick a posy of pink geraniums and lavender. Reaching up on tiptoes for a perfect, red rose that hung from the lattice of the old wooden arbor; she carefully snapped the stem, not wanting to disturb the cluster of buds that clung to the arch. She drew her hand out quickly, wincing in pain, feeling the thorn puncture in her thumb. Fair enough, she thought, biting her lip, as she looked at the stream of blood dripping down her palm and wrist in the moonlight. A just retribution, she considered, as she gazed upon the perfect flower in the moon glow. It brought to mind her beloved aunt’s musings that rose faeries were particularly jealous creatures. With a deep sigh, she soundlessly floated into the warm house, placing her small flowery bundle of love charms in a glass fruit jar on her bed stand. Her fingers brushed the red leather binding of a miniature copy of W. B.Yeats‘s, Land of the Heart’s Desire. Lying across the cool sheets of her bed, she pressed the tiny volume to her breasts and whispered into the shadows of the room as she dropped off to sleep.

"…Where beauty has no ebb, decay no

flood,

But joy is wisdom, Time an endless

song…"

…a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue;….to ride upon the winds, run on the top of disheveled tide, and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

Somewhere in the night, she was stirred from her dreams by the wooing of a feathered Pavarotti. The theme needed no human translation. She fell under the spell of its sweet trills, allowing the serenading troubadour’s song to wrap around her heart. She rolled over onto her stomach and unconsciously caressed the empty space beside her. It figures, she sighed as she slumbered off. The man of my dreams is a mockingbird.

3

AN EXCHANGE IS MADE

O livia pressed her hand against the huge plate glass window in the airport lounge that looked out over the runway. The crush of the traffic from Riverside to the Ontario Airport had been unnerving. A distance that just five years ago had taken thirty minutes now took over an hour. She took a slow deep breath and tried to unwind. The warm exhaled vapor of her breath fogged the glass in front of her into a perfect circle. She had to fight the silly impulse not to write ‘Lilly’ through its center. The flight from Boston to Ontario had been delayed an hour because of heavy flight congestion and she imagined Lilly riding upon a giant silver bird soaring in circles above her. She took a high stool seat in the