Chapter 17 #2
“Most of us know of the púca and the puiseógs—things we keep an eye out for every day. We know of the Daoine Uaisle, the bean sidhe, the Dullahan, the changeling … but not enough is said of the Old Gods of yore. And sure, ’tis maybe blasphemy these days, a-talking about Old Gods.
But ye see, them Old Gods relied on our prayers, and our offerings, to keep them calm.
To keep them benevolent. We soothed their wrath with fealty, but those times are long since gone, and the Gods gone with them.
They gave up on us when we embraced Jesus, and some say ’twas to our detriment.
But one hasn’t given up on us yet; one stayed behind.
And that, my friends, is the Cailleach.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as a cool chill wrapped around my ankles.
“Ye might know her by many names, for each village in Ireland swears they have a Cailleach—an auld woman with neither husband nor children. A crotchety type that sees naught but the worst in everything.”
The seanchaí waved a hand to dismiss these claims and glanced around at his audience before standing, leaning heavily on his cane.
“They call her a hag. A witch. But in truth, she is a goddess, tasked with turning the tide. In lore, this was associated with the melting of winter to spring—waving goodbye to the barren season to welcome the planting. But turning the tide is turning the tide, and the Cailleach can transform misfortune to fortune or fortune to misfortune.”
Michael snorted next to me and leaned in close. “I think he’s talking about his lordship.”
I elbowed him, but couldn’t help the smile that curved my lips. Jesting meant he was no longer angry. Though why he had directed his anger toward me in the first place, I knew not. We would talk after and clear the air.
“On my travels, I’ve encountered several stories associated with the Cailleach,” continued the seanchaí.
“In Kerry, there’s the Hag of Beara—where a local tale ends with her face carved into a jagged boulder that all can visit.
And even here, in County Clare, far to the north, where wildflowers bloom between rocky crags, there’s Hag’s Head, so named for the story of a doomed sea witch, whose face is eternally etched into the cliff-side.
And sure, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
But surely a goddess was never truly a person.
And yet, she’s been here, turning the tide for many a century. From good to bad, and bad to good.”
“How does she do that?” A child’s voice broke the silence of the audience, and we all glanced in its direction. A little boy. I recognized him as one of the weaver’s children.
The seanchaí chuckled and singled out the lad.
“If I tell ye, ye must promise to never seek her out, for the Cailleach—though she adores the Irish people—rarely offers respite for free.”
“I promise!” The lad called, as his father offered a red-faced, so-sorry nod to the seanchaí.
“Well, if ye swear,” the seanchaí mused, before turning slowly, glancing at all of us. “Do ye all so swear?”
“Aye!” we called.
The seanchaí nodded solemnly, and circled the room.
“’Tis said that those with the Sight—ye know the ones, the folk with a healing touch, who can see things beyond our eyes—them, with the Sight, they can draw power from the souls of the wretched to call upon her and offer their bodies as vessels.
Once taken, the Cailleach uses that person’s corporeal form in order to turn the tide—that is, to grant whatever it is they need—in exchange for her swift release from duty. ”
Next to me, Michael chuckled.
“Shh,” I warned.
“The price for such a thing is steep,” boomed the seanchaí.
“But then, ’tisn’t like a deal with the Devil, where an instant exchange is made.
No. The Cailleach works to turn the tide, for hers is a different kind of sorcery.
Where the Devil manipulates the human world to garner material success for those who exchanged their souls, the Cailleach manipulates the Other Realm, calling upon the Daoine Uaisle to get the job done. And in times like these, I wonder.”
He paused, taking a moment to glance at the sea of faces, watching, eyes wide, wondering what he wondered.
“Maybe ’tis a reach, but I do wonder if this blight is the work of a Cailleach, and she calling upon the féar gortach to rid the Irish on behalf of the British Crown. Bringing forth the hungry grass, their ghoulish lanterns flying over the countryside, to inflict the blight and bring the famine.”
No one breathed, myself included. We’d gone so still that one might hear the rustle of a rabbit in the field beyond the hall.
It was treason, what he’d insinuated—that the famine was the fault of the British.
Treason against the colonizers. Against those who treated us worse than the livestock we raised for their tables.
Against those who took and took and bled us dry, stripping us of land and homes and surety.
Those who had turned us into chattel. Those who had promised that the Act of Union—bringing Ireland into the fold of a United Kingdom—would bring prosperity and autonomy to the Irish people, but lied.
Treason against the landlords who gave homes to tenants, under the condition that they work their farms for free yet still come up with monetary rent so the Crown could say it was all fair and legal if the civilized world decided to scrutinize the barbarity of the practice.
“Though, of course, the féar gortach doesn’t always take from the people. Sometimes, when the Cailleach is fed the right kind of energy, it gives abundantly. And that energy? ’Tis vengeance—”
A throat cleared, cutting off the seanchaí.
“Thank ye, Mr. Ryan.” A man stood, and I recognized him as Mr. Daly, head of the town organization committee.
He would’ve been responsible for the seanchaí’s presence.
And if word of the treason made it back to his lordship, Mr. Daly would be the one to receive wrath and punishment.
“That was a mighty tale. Can we get a round of applause?”
Reluctantly, we began to clap, and Mr. Ryan—the seanchaí—pressed his lips together.
“I haven’t finished,” he said, loud enough for us all to hear.
“But ye have.” Mr. Daly said the words through a forced smile. “It’s time for music. This is a celebration, after all!”
“What celebration?” I whispered to Michael, but Michael didn’t have to reply.
“To young Master Theodore!” Mr. Daly called, gesturing to the musicians waiting in the wings. “May he live a long and prosperous life with his new bride at his side! Hip, hip!”
“Hooray!” The audience called, but I stilled.
“Hip, hip!” Teddy’s … new bride?
“Hooray!” Had this celebration been called to honor me? A flush bloomed across my chest as my eyes widened. He must have gathered all his strength and circumvented whatever went wrong without me.
“Hip, hip!” Bows scratched against fiddle strings as the musicians prepared for merriment, but I quickly smoothed my skirts and schooled my face in anticipation of the attention that would soon be turned my way.
“Hooray!”
“To our new Mistress, Lila Moore-Vandeleur, formerly Miss Fitzgerald, from Dublin!”
And my heart stopped beating, to the sound of a congratulatory jig.
I ran, and ran, and ran. Michael had tried to stop me, but the Devil himself would’ve had trouble.
For a single moment—a fleeting breath—I thought they meant me.
That I was the new bride, that Teddy was home from a stint abroad and ready to wrap me up in his arms, and there-there me before reassuring us both that he’d taken care of his father and we’d try again after the ceremony. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I don’t know when it had turned from calculation to love for me, but it had been years.
Years of trying to be the perfect woman in his eyes, years since he was more than a means to an end.
Somewhere along the line, he became all I could imagine, all I could see, all I ever wanted.
But now? He’d left me so coldly, and I doubted he even cared for the loss of our babe.
Tears streamed from eyes that had finally opened, frosting reddened cheeks as they cooled in the icy night air. It was a brisk evening, but at least the rain held off. From the looks of the smattering of stars above, it would hold off for a while—thank Heaven for small mercies.
I wasn’t sure of the time. Michael and I had headed for the parish hall around six, so it must have been around seven, but there was no longer a stretch in the evening.
In summer, I reveled in the late sunshine, basking in its warm caress until well past nine at night.
But with Samhain fast approaching, it was full dark already, and when winter gripped us fully, the sun would set at four in the afternoon, denying us light.
Denying us hope, or prospects, or anything but the chance to sit with our thoughts as night stretched never-ending until midmorning dawn. Dark when we rose, dark as we waned.
Dark when I mourned.
A cramp gripped my womb, and I slowed to a stop, clasping my hands tight against my lower stomach.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed. Not from physical pain, but the undulating cruelty of this life. Christ above, if Teddy had wanted naught but a tumble, I, in my stupidity, would’ve granted it out of love. But to promise marriage? A life together? The things I had originally planned?
And then to make me grieve alone while marrying another?
I could see it clear as day now: send the mistress away to give birth so the townfolk would not know of it, marry a woman of better station, then return with his wife, and no rumors of an illegitimate child would ever reach her ears.
That was why he hadn’t written—abroad or not, his letters would have found me even if mine hadn’t reached him.
That was why Lady Grace informed me she’d found a position for me at a different house.
I’d waved it away out of hand because I had wanted to return home …
but what if I was never meant to return?
Teddy had cast me off. My brows drew together.
His lordship had blessed our marriage, had agreed to it!
He had treated me so very kindly when I stood before him. This had to be Teddy’s doing … but why?
He couldn’t have discovered that we began as a simple plan. I had never written it down or breathed it to anyone. I wouldn’t have dared. Surely he knew how very much I loved him.
Breath steamed from my mouth as I straightened and exhaled.
The moon might not be full or bright, but I knew exactly where I was—the gate of Kilrush House.
To the left of the gate, the gatekeeper’s lodge was dark, and though I hadn’t seen the gatekeeper’s family at the hall, they must have been present.
Good. Now I didn’t have to circle the estate and gain entry through the gap in the wall near the east corner.
“Maggie! Where are ye?” Michael’s call echoed from afar, and I whipped around, wild-eyed. He knew I’d been cast off. They all knew, and I the only fool among them, blinded by love and the hope of a better future. Not just for me, but for my own family.
No longer.
With a determined step, I marched toward the gate, flipped the latch, pushed, and slipped betwixt the ten-foot-tall iron-wrought entrance gates.
Before this disaster of an evening, I’d been looking forward to stealing away to the summerhouse to meet Teddy.
But now?
I dared him to show his face.