The Great Fury (7 page)

“You'll sleep on the couch. You can take those gloves off, as the apartment will warm up soon. And no TV after eleven o'clock, I have to be up early for classes tomorrow,” she remarked through the open kitchen door.

Oengus looked down at his gloves. He took them off and put them into a wastepaper bin he saw in the corner near Maedbh's study desk. He felt satisfaction at taking control, and considered he was freakish enough without going about wearing gloves.

Oengus took the cup proffered and braced himself to master the art of coffee drinking. Maedbh had rustled up a tray of salmon bagels. Venus was a fastidious eater and ate only the salmon. But she offered the bread to an appreciative Beag. Oengus was hungry and ate with relish, grateful for the tasty snack.

Venus found a movie on the TV and they settled together on the couch.

Chapter Eight

Morag felt a shiver of excitement mixed with tension. It was over a hundred years since she had first left Ireland. Then it was just before the start of the First World War. Her passage had been in the hold of a steamer, cramped and reeking with the smell of poverty and desperation.

Now she was arriving on a business class flight and feeling rested but anxious to get off the airplane.

She rescanned her papers running her eye over them as she fidgeted, reassuring herself that they were all in order. Of course there was no mention of her profession as ‘witch'. It read as ‘Business Manager,' and her visa backed this up.

As she came through clearance the immigration officer found it hard to keep his eyes off Morag and her tall full figured frame set off with copper-red hair and green eyes. She bore herself proudly knowing she was descended from a long line of good-looking witches and this added to her striking appearance.

The officer checked out her papers and noted her age as thirty-six. Looks twenty-six, he thought and gave her a smile and then stamped her papers.

“Have a good vacation,” he said, deliberately using the American word for Holiday.

Morag gave him her best smile as she took her papers and sailed through, feeling relieved that it had all been so simple.

Cutting away from the main roads she drove her hire car out into the countryside heading in the direction of the Burren in County Clare.

She had used Google maps to research her trip and now used the GPS on her cell phone to guide her in the right direction.

Her old friend Deirdre used to have a cave in the limestone rocks of the Burren and she wondered if she still survived.

Regardless, her plan was to gather the rare flowers and herbs that grew in abundance on the Burren.

The unique Burren landscape of limestone rocks and a climate warmed from the Atlantic by the North Atlantic Current produces many rare and untouched flowers and fauna in the multitude of holes called Grikes that were caused by weathering.

Some plants were great for herbal tea but some were magic in spells. Morag had decided to use the opportunity of her trip to acquire a stock of her favorites, as these were hard to come by in America.

Her principle objective was to seek out Deirdre or at least visit the place she knew her to have been in residence and hope to find her.

Although the roads and access had been modernized the vast landscape of the Burren was relatively untouched and she was confident that with the help of Google maps she'd find her destination.

About two hours later, Morag pulled her small hire car into a gravel yard just off the road. As she stepped out of the car the door of the thatched cottage opened and an old smiling woman emerged. She was dressed in black shawl with traditional long dress. Her hair was grey and her eyes were blue.

“Welcome,” she said in gentle tones, her eyes taking in every detail, from the hire car to the American style of clothes.

“Your sign says rare flowers and spells,” Morag replied with a smile and sounded curious.

“This spot marks the start of the ancient Celtic route into the Burren,” the old woman explained. “Pilgrims would stop and rest, for in those days they travelled by foot or horse and cart and it is still a long way to the Poulnabrane monument in the center of the Burren.”

“Poulnabrane?”

“You'll find it on the tourist map. In druidic times the great Druid Lochlain conducted his business there.”

“You sell fresh flowers from the Burren?” Morag asked.

“And a nice cup of tea and a scone. Do come into my little shop and inspect my wares.”

While Morag inspected the selection of fresh flowers and dried flowers and potted plants, the old woman went behind the counter and put some dishes on a tray.

“Come to the window seat and have some tea,” she said. “You can select your flowers later.”

Morag smiled at the hospitality. “I can see you have what I want,” she said, “but of course I'll take tea first.”

“Or coffee if you prefer?” the woman offered.

“Tea please.”

While the woman set the table Morag pottered about and then finding there were straw baskets in a pile at the door she took one and began to select her flowers.

“Don't let the tea get cold,” the woman said pleasantly.

Morag came and sat at the window, putting the basket on the floor. She looked out at the Burren with its stretch of limestone broken by the green of grikes, where plants grew in the cracks in the ancient stone. She felt a sense of peace, a sense of having come home.

She turned her attention to the tea and scones, wondering which was drugged.

“Try my cakes,” the woman urged with a smile, gently hovering, hands joined and eyes smiling.

“It must be the tea,” Morag replied and poured the contents of the teapot on to one of the potted plants in her basket. She smiled in satisfaction when the plant wilted and turned black.

“You shouldn't be eating stray tourists,” Morag offered with a touch of tolerant reprimand in her tone.

For a moment the woman stared in shock and then with a snarl she pulled a long curved dagger from under her shawl.

Morag said a spell in Gaelic and snapped her fingers.

Immediately a small dark cloud formed over the head of the woman and it began to rain heavily, soaking her on the spot.

“A witch,” the woman said in wonder, and dropped her knife.

In response Morag snapped her fingers and the cloud disappeared but the woman remained drenched to the skin.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Do you not remember me Deirdre?” Morag asked in Gaelic.

Deirdre stared and then slumped into the chair opposite Morag. “No,” she said. “How is it you know my name?”

“This is where your hovel used to be,” Morag replied.

Deirdre scrutinized carefully but still did not recognize Morag.

“A thatched cottage is more acceptable these days,” Deirdre admitted.

“Do you get trouble from the neighbors?”

“No, the neighbors worry that I am a witch, but they don't come within sight or sound of me.”

“Deirdre, you were going to drug me. Were you going to eat me?”

“Not immediately,” Deirdre offered. “I thought you a lone tourist. I only eat lone tourists and then not very often.”

Morag took a long look at Deirdre. Deirdre shifted uneasily under Morag's gaze but was too nervous to make a move.

Deirdre came from a long line of ugly witches and nature had not disappointed. However it was the fact that Deirdre never washed that assaulted Morag's sensitive nose. But she liked the smell. Some people could smell out witches and Morag was proud of her ability in that respect.

“Do you intend me harm?” Deirdre asked carefully. She sensed this was not the case as otherwise the witch opposite would not have revealed herself with such a simple spell. Nonetheless Deirdre was wary. One never knew the power of an unknown witch.

“I have a few spells of my own should you attempt anything,” Deirdre added, but without great conviction.

“What do you eat when you are not devouring lost tourists?” Maedbh asked.

“Burren flowers and fauna and the occasional stolen sheep,” Deirdre replied, puzzled by the line of questioning, but very much on her guard and recovering from her initial shock.

“And the hire car?” Morag asked.

“The local farmer has a quarry and a tractor. He'll oblige if he is asked, but he leaves me be except if he needs a spell or two. His family has been in this place from long times past.”

“I'm glad you are well Deirdre,” Morag said with a warm smile.

“That smile, I've seen it before... Morag, it's not you Morag. Morag is it you!” she cried.

Morag grinned.

“You look so young, so beautiful. It's a perfect disguise!” Deirdre gushed.

“Thanks,” Morag said modestly not wanting to point out that she came from a long line of beautiful witches.

“I knew you'd come back, but not so soon. I'll put on a cauldron and light a fire. We can go to my cave. The Cottage backs on. It will be like old times.”

As she spoke Deirdre took the tea and dishes. “Don't worry, she added, “I'll eat everything you eat and drink everything you drink like we used to. It's so good to see you. You are so beautiful, whatever happened to you. Did you cast a spell for a disguise?”

Morag wrinkled her nose. As far as she was concerned she'd been beautiful back then.

“I mean,” Deirdre stammered, catching the look, “you were beautiful back then, but now you are young and clean.”

Morag laughed at the compliment.

“You haven't changed,” she said.

“The hovel of a cave I shared with my mother is upgraded, sort of, and the cottage is just a front room for flowers and teas.”

Morag stood and followed Deirdre out to the back of the cottage and into the cave. It was well lit with a neon light and had a large cauldron in the center, suspended above logs of firewood.

“I got new bedcovers and the cave has central heating,” Deirdre explained proudly.

“Deirdre, if you are going to eat people why don't you move into a city. There the supply is everywhere.”

“They don't have fresh sheep in a city and I like to vary my diet and the way of life. I'd be afraid in a city.”

“You'll be caught. There are cell phones and cars can be traced and they can take DNA samples. You'll be caught,” Morag warned.

“So far so good,” Deirdre said defiantly.

“You'll end up in the newspapers and on the television.”

“They don't believe in witches anymore. They won't burn me. Just prison. It's no bother really.”

Morag sighed.

“I came because I need information,” Morag began.

“And I'll cut special flowers for you. I'll put them in your hire car as you go. You're welcome to spend the night,” Deirdre said warmly.

“Let's do the business then we can relax,” Morag suggested.

“Let's light the cauldron. It takes a while to warm up. Then we can have dinner and a few drinks. I hope lamb stew is alright?”

“Wonderful,” Morag said.

Morag helped Deirdre prepare some twigs and use a tinderbox to light the fire in the old fashioned way.

Then Morag selected the flowers she wanted and put them in the boot of the hire car. She was pleased that Deirdre did indeed let her have some of the rarest flowers, useful for spells, in order to mark her visit, but she wanted everything shipshape and ready so that she could leave easily.

She did not want to be rude to her former colleague but she felt she was past discomforts and she had a booking in the five star Dromoland Castle Hotel and intended that that was where she would spend the night. Although she felt safe with Deirdre, she was not entirely sure that she wouldn't be on the menu for breakfast if she stayed after dark.

“Let's cast a spell for old time's sake,” Deirdre said enthusiastically as the cauldron began to bubble.

“A spell?' Morag asked to humor her. But she felt in the mood for some fun.

“There's a Social Worker who has discovered me,” Deirdre explained.

“So?”

“She wants to put me into a Social Housing unit in Limerick. She says the cottage is damp and I should not be sleeping in the cave out back.”

“And?” Morag prompted.

“Let's give her warts!”

“On her bum?” Morag improvised, getting into the mood.

“Let's! Itchy warts!”

“I brought some whiskey in the duty free,” Morag offered.

Deirdre's eyes danced with delight.

They had a pleasant evening talking old times but eventually Morag decided to steer the conversation.

“Is there talk of strange happenings out the road to Ventry and beyond?” she asked.

“You are right. It's the gossip of the magic community. I must bring you to a séance to meet some locals,” Deirdre said.

“Is there talk of the child lost off the ferry out in Dunquin?” Morag asked, ignoring the invite and staying on topic.

Deirdre looked about, more as a habit of caution rather than expecting to be overheard.

“They say it's a stolen child,” Deirdre hissed. “A child of the Sidhe.”

“A fairy child?” Morag asked.

“But also mortal for he is returned.”

“What do you mean returned?”

“It's said he's returned from Great Blasket and has taken the plane to New York. Talk is he has gone to visit his uncle, the New York Fireman.”

“Anything else?”

“Well there's a long history. The Kelly's were originally from Great Blasket and married into the mainland. Patrick Kelly married Bridget O'Shea. The O'Shea also owned land on the Great Blasket. And it seems there was a feud with the Sidhe.”

“A feud with Fairy folk?”

‘Yes, it's said the Sidhe stole a healthy child born to Bridget. A sickly child was buried at that time. Put here in exchange, it is said, by the Sidhe. Then Bridget had another child about the same time. He's called Oengus. No one knows when exactly he was born. But their land was cursed about forty years ago. Also the new child is said to have remained a baby for a long time.”

“Did he go to school locally?” Maedbh asked.

“Story is that when Oengus eventually got to go to the local school some of the children got boils and the scarlet fever.” Deirdre continued in an excited hiss of a voice, adding, “The locals said the Sidhe had cursed the child and those who came near him would have the bad luck. The mother took him out of school because of the fear of the locals and nothing was heard again until he went missing.”

“Missing on Dunquin? News reports said a teenager was missing?” Morag asked.

Deirdre shrugged, and added, “Then next thing was the talk that the curse that was on their farm seems to be lifted. Then the boy came back on the ferry.”