49. St. John’s Eve
49
ST. JOHN’S EVE
Why, Girl, did you come to my door?
Or why could you not be stopping?
— ANONYMOUS POET, “THE STARS STAND UP”
“ I ’d take a jumper. It’ll get cold once the sun sets.”
Caitlin was waiting in the living room of Gran’s cottage when I came out of the bedroom, smoothly a summer dress patterned with irises that I’d found at a thrift shop in Kilronan. I was charmed by its pattern as well as the cheery disposition of the woman who had made it sometime in the early nineties, judging by her haircut. She’d taken it on a first date, based on the memory, and the optimism of that night was something I’d been happy to take with me for all of five euros.
Caitlin held out the sweater, one of Gran’s that I kept on a hook near the door. As soon as the wool settled over my shoulders, several memories converged, talking over each other like clucking chickens. I walked to the table in the kitchen, where the bowl of water I’d taken to keeping in the center was waiting. A quick dip of two fingers split the memories, and at my urging, they all faded back into the wool, leaving me in peace.
Caitlin watched with the expression I’d come to recognize over the last few weeks: dubious but begrudgingly respectful. Though initially, she was against the idea of me spending one afternoon a week in Kilronan (“Sure, and a house full of merrows will spirit you away!”), she couldn’t deny the success of Aoife’s advice.
It seemed there was something to a shifter’s ideas about elemental power. With access to even a little bit of water, overlapping visions could more often be distilled into a linear stream. Histories to only two or three stories instead of an infinite garble. Yesterday, I had even kept Caitlin out of my mind for a solid minute before she found a way in.
“You’ve a long way to go, but you deserve a night off for all your progress,” Caitlin had said.
And so I was wearing a dress and preparing to attend my first party...ever.
It was St. John’s Eve, a nominally Christian holiday papering over a much older pagan tradition, which people all over Ireland commemorated with bonfire parties, music, dancing, and general merriment until the wee hours of the morning. We started at the local church, where a short evening Mass was held in Irish honoring the eponymous saint. I had been raised nominally Catholic—more for the sake of history than because anyone in my family gave a hoot about religion. Gran’s relationship with the church seemed mostly a product of nostalgia, as though the occasional Mass reminded her of a person she used to be, a life she used to live.
As we entered the little kirk, I wondered, and not for the first time, why Gran or the Connollys bothered with religion at all, considering the theory that most deities were actually fae who made their powers evident to plain folk. And then there was the fact that many who had done so were persecuted, hunted, and killed by institutions like the Catholic Church for a better part of two thousand years.
“I think you just answered your own question,” Caitlin murmured next to me with a wry lift of one brow. “Better the devil you know, isn’t it?”
I looked around the pews at the crowd assembled for the night’s merriment. Although I doubted all of them could fit into the church, there were less than a few hundred people who actually lived on the island, and most were rooted in families that went back several generations. This was the twenty-first century, but the air of provincialism was thick. It wasn’t hard to imagine the difficulty a small town like this hundreds of years ago would have with a fae family who refused to abide by local customs.
And the truth was, most of us, fae or plain, just wanted to fit in no matter where we were. Even if we couldn’t.
After the priest finished the Mass, everyone followed him down the hill to the beach, where a house-sized bonfire had just been lit. Several others could be seen around the island as the sky began to darken, either in front of larger houses or perhaps in the center of a circled hamlet. A few pinpricks of light glowed on the shores of Clare, just across the water, as well as the neighboring island of Inis Meáin.
It was tradition for each household to burn a small fire of their own. The Connollys had started theirs before we left, and I had spent the better part of the mornings for the last week with Robbie picking weeds and gorse bushes from the garden to dry and throw into the fire.
“It wards them off for the harvest,” he explained, his eyes twinkling with the superstition. “Well, that’s the spell I cast with them.”
The reason behind the Connollys’ observance of Catholic traditions was even more evident when I spotted the straw-stuffed mannequin in the center of the town’s bonfire. Enda, Iona, and Bronagh had all run into the night with playmates.
“I see Michael laid the fire this year,” Caitlin said more to Robbie than to me.
“One of the older gents,” Robbie filled me in.
“Who still remembers when they burned effigies to keep the witches away.” Caitlin’s voice was dark and bitter.
“Ironic, considering Bonfire Night started with the druids,” I replied. “They’d build the fires to bridge the gap between days on the shortest night of the year.”
Caitlin nodded. “Even so. When I was a girl, you’d see all of Ireland alight with fires across the way, many of them with a witch like this.”
I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter around my body. Though the Irish were never as passionate in their hunting as they were in England or the Americas, the sight of the limp figure burning was a reminder that it didn’t take much for plain folk to turn on us, and never had.
“Do they know?” I asked quietly, turning back to Caitlin and Robbie. “About the two of you? What you are? I mean, you’ve been here for, what, hundreds of years at this point?”
I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it from the way they talked. Though it seemed rude to ask explicitly how old they were.
Caitlin’s audible snort answered the question for me, but after a short glance to make sure no one was watching or listening, Robbie elaborated in his kind way.
“Every so often, I would change our appearances. To make us look older in the eyes of people who knew us. Then we’d fake our deaths and arrive new to the island with slightly different faces, posing as relatives who had ‘inherited’ the house and property. After we had the girls, though, there was no need for the theatrics.”
The fire rose higher as the villagers threw more wood and peat into it. The sky was nearly black now, lit with a spray of stars on this uncharacteristically clear night. Several tables were set up on the beach with food, bread, and kegs from Phelan’s pub. Some people began to take turns lilting and singing sea nós —Bronagh among them—while a larger band of local musicians began setting up their instruments inside the hall nearby. Laughter and song arose as the people of the island left the somber part of the service behind to celebrate the solstice along with the life of the Baptist—a man of water if there ever was one.
He was a favorite of Gran’s, a true prophet in an age when most seers were either shackled at the feet of kings and legates or killed for their unsightly visions. A man who lives in the wave, christening people and proclaiming his visions of the world. I found myself wondering if his apparent madness was anything like the chaos of voices and visions that had been more frequently passing through my mind.
“It’s supposed to be a party, you know.”
Caomhán’s lilting voice shook me out of my brooding, and I turned to find him standing where Caitlin and Robbie used to be. Robbie was now kicking a soccer ball on the beach with his daughters and some other children from the village while Caitlin chatted with a few women I recognized from her knitting circle.
“How long have I been standing here?” I wondered.
“At least twenty minutes.” Caomhán took a swig from a plastic cup of Phelan’s finest brew. “That’s how long I stood over there talking with Jock about yesterday’s football match while we watched you staring into the fire like it showed the future.” He grinned. “Did it?”
I grimaced, grateful that the firelight would hide the flush on my cheeks. “More like the past. But nothing now.”
“Better focus on the present anyway. Do you want to dance? I won’t touch, I promise.”
The solo voice of a trained singer drifted from the hall, mingling with the song of the ocean. Others were already following the call of music. The witch’s body finally toppled off its post, causing the fire to huff and crackle around it before swallowing it whole.
I turned back to Caomhán. “All right,” I said and tipped back the rest of my beer before handing him the cup. “But you’ll have to teach me how.”
Music was a way of life on Inis Oírr. On more than one visit to Phelan’s pub, an impromptu jam session had started or a lone violinist or banjo player would play a shanty for the tourists. It never took long for residents of all ages to hop-step in time to the music, reaching for anyone who wanted to join them. It wasn’t a spectator sport, that was for sure.
Although several couples whirled about the hall in pairs in anticipation of the band’s more lively music, many were already dancing as singles too. Irish solo dancing—or sea nós , as I realized it was also called, like the songs—fit me well, as people tended to keep their hands close to their bodies and move their feet low to the ground with small taps and touches. It was a rare treat to encounter a form of dance where touch wasn’t required.
Dancing with Caomhán meant watching, as he had a reputation among the islanders for his lightness of foot. While most of the other sea nós dancers moved conservatively, Caomhán danced with the seasoned grace of a professional, hopping about with grace and abandon I had never experienced outside of the water. It had to be a shifter thing: the artistry with one’s body, the joy of movement.
As the last sea nós closed, the band started with a bright, spritely tune that was a far cry from the nostalgic lilting of the solo singer. The song was familiar to a number of people, who grabbed partners and began to line up facing one another.
Caomhán turned to me and offered a broad hand. “I said I’d teach you, didn’t I? It’s just a reel. Easy as pie, I promise.”
I looked down at his hand and back up at him. His eyes were guileless but opaque, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what sort of thoughts treaded below the surface.
“You coming? Or too scared to take a leap?”
I looked down, considering. The world had been quieter today—in fact, it had been more cooperative over the last several weeks. Visions more often came to call when I asked with the help of water (though without it, they tended to explode more frequently). It was as if the more I made proper invitations, the more they were willing to wait for the door to open instead of busting it down themselves.
“Definitely not,” I said and placed my bare palm in his.
They were easily the most incoherent bunch of feelings and thoughts I had ever Seen. All instinct, very little premeditation or memory. Caomhán’s attention ran about the room, wary of new people entering, registering their scents, focusing on the rare possibility of threats and on a few good-looking girls. Although he was acutely aware of me, I didn’t register on that particular list.
“Well, that’s good,” I said.
“What’s that?”
I smirked. “Caitlin’s convinced you want to be kissing cousins.”
Despite generally accepting the fact that I was going to spend time with the shifter side of my family tree, Caitlin hadn’t given up the suspicion that Caomhán was still planning to spirit me away in the same manner my grandfather and his great-great uncle had supposedly seduced Penny.
Caomhán’s face, however, twisted into the exact expression Iona made whenever her mother announced they were having boiled cabbage for dinner. “Jaysus, why would you say something like that? We’re feckin’ related.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” The longer I spent in the company of Caomhán or the Kilronan ilk, the more threads of kinship I recognized between us. His great-grandmother was my exact double if one particular memory floating around the streets of Kilronan was any indicator.
His scowl deepened, and I felt the disgust through his fingertips. “Tell Caitlin that kissin’ you’d be like kissin’ my sister. No matter what she says, I’m not that much of an animal, you know?”
I grinned. “ Yes , I do know. And for what it’s worth. The feelings are entirely mutual.”
He looked visibly relieved. “Good. Let’s dance, then.”
Though I squashed Caomhán’s foot half a dozen times during as many reels, it was easy enough to follow him as we promenaded with the other townspeople. Everyone was well lubricated with drink by this point, and I was having more fun than I’d had in longer than I could remember. Caomhán’s easy instincts were infectious, and I found my tendency to overthink slipping out the door along with my inhibitions.
After the sixth reel, I was out of breath and left Caomhán to be claimed by a pretty blonde girl from Cork while I went to get a drink of water and shed my sweater. Robbie greeted me as I approached the table and handed me a plastic cup before I could even ask.
“Thanks,” I gasped, gulping it down.
“You looked well out there,” Robbie said, nodding toward the dancers. “Having fun, were you?”
“The best. I don’t think I’ve ever actually enjoyed dancing, but that was amazing. Caomhán’s a terrific lead.”
We both watched as my cousin whirled his partner effortlessly around the floor.
“Sure, and he’s that,” Robbie agreed. “Good at other things too, mm?”
I pursed my lips, trying not to laugh. If only he had overheard our earlier conversation. “You too, Robbie? You have nothing to worry about.”
Robbie handed me another cup and took the other, which I had already emptied. “Oh, I know. Caitlin just worries about that so she doesn’t have to consider the real matter at hand.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
At that, Robbie looked uneasy. I wasn’t used to seeing him like that. Whereas Caitlin, like any seer, seemed to worry about nearly everything, Robbie was almost always calm. He didn’t worry because he didn’t have to.
Now, though, he was.
“Jonny’s shown you what we See, hasn’t he?”
“You mean your super sorcerer spidey sense?” Another jig was starting, and I couldn’t help but tap my foot in time.
Robbie twisted his lips to one side and nodded as if I hadn’t just compared him to a comic book character. It only then occurred to me that those characters were likely based on real fae, too.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything,” he mumbled to himself. Then he looked at me and appeared to change his mind.“Caitlin’s going to have my neck.”
“For what?” I asked.
He sighed, then looked back at Caomhán. His teeth flashed, and the twinkling lights that had been strung around the gathering blinked off the sheen of his hair, dark as the night sky. I could understand, for the hundredth time, why half the tourists and single women on the islands, and not a few of the married ones too, had already asked him for a dance.
“His energy is bright red, like blood,” Robbie said. “Common enough for a shifter. But right now, while he’s dancing with the plain girl there, his energy reaches for her and hers to him. But they never blend. Never would either, even if they won’t be sleeping alone tonight.”
We chuckled. It was clear by the look in both of their eyes and by the closer proximity of their bodies that Robbie was probably right.
“And I’ll tell you something else, Cassandra,” he continued. “Caomhán’s energy doesn’t change a bit when he stands with you. And yours remains just as blue as your eyes.” He took another long swig of his beer and tipped it in my direction, a silent salute to my eternally liquid state. “So, no. I’m not worried. At least, not about him.”
Before I could ask who he was worried about, the song ended and Caomhán came bounding back.
“Had enough of a break? Or can I persuade you for one last dance before I go?”
“What about your partner?” I asked. The blonde was obviously smitten.
“Who do you think is waiting for me to take her home? But she’ll be here when we’re done. I asked the band to play this song for my cousin.”
As if on cue, the band broke into the well-known chords of “Galway Girl.”
“This isn’t even an Irish song,” I pointed out. “Steve Earle was American.”
Robbie gave a great guffaw, and Caomhán shrugged. “Why do you have to be so difficult? It’s about an Irish girl who looks like you, isn’t it?”
I was about to protest some more when he sang the lyrics about the girl with black hair and blue eyes along with the rest of the crowd, all of whom obviously knew the words. It might be written by an American, but it was definitely a crowd-pleaser.
Caomhán tugged me out onto the floor, and I let myself bask in the carefree nature of the song, the crowd, and my cousin’s safe, friendly touch. When had I ever felt such simple ease as this among large groups of people? For maybe the first time in my life, I understood why people wanted to surround themselves with a community and how they could feed off the positive energy of others. It was thrilling and infectious; I never wanted it to stop.
I crowed with the rest of the village as the band launched into their final chorus about the girl with hair so black, eyes of blue. Caomhán twirled me around as everyone sang at the top of their lungs; then he dipped me low to the ground, causing me to shriek with laughter just as loudly as any of his other partners.
“Ah!” I cried as he yanked me back up into a fierce hug, lifting my feet from the floor.
His touch was full of innocent affection and mischief, the kind I hadn’t realized I’d missed for such a long time. Since well before Gran died. The last person to hug me like this was my father.
He released me only to clasp his hands to either side of my face, forcing me to look into his dark eyes. “Don’t be afraid to let go sometimes, cousin. Life’s no good if you can’t have a bit of fun.”
“I promise,” I told him honestly. “Thank you for the dance.”
“You’re welcome.” He glanced over my shoulder to where I gathered the blond girl from before was standing waiting for him eagerly.
“You’d better go before you burst or she does.”
Caomhán grinned, this time looking distinctly more predatory—or at least more animal. “True, and I’d better.”
“That’s very good for you, but what about me?” I looked around, and to my surprise, found more than one visitor to the island and not a few married men looking my way with some interest twinkling in their ale-soaked eyes. “That one seems like he’s game.”
I was feeling more than comfortable. I was feeling brave.
Caomhán followed my nod with a quick glance, then frowned back at me, looking confused. “Probably. But he’s not for you.”
“Maybe he could be for tonight.”
He blinked again, obviously confused. “But why would you when you’ve already got a— oh .” His head tipped with sudden understanding. “I see. You don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” I grinned, still full of mischief.
“Don’t know…you’re talking to the wrong bloke,” he said, his saucy grin back in place. “I want to hear about your sex life like I want a hole in the head, Cassie. ’Specially since I’ve got to focus on mine.”
With a brief, impersonal smack on my lips, he released me and bounded off to the girl waiting for him as the music reverted back to the more traditional style.
I raised a hand to my mouth, still smiling as I pondered the fact that I had sustained so much contact with one person without trying to block any of it. Was it the touch of water or the fire outside? The effects of family, or perhaps I really was making the progress Caitlin had pointed out.
Then the crowd parted, and I wondered no more. My smile was wiped clean when I saw the thunderous expression on the face of one Jonathan Lynch.