Chapter 27 An Experiment in Becoming the Butt of Your Own Joke
Tadhg’s promise of a quiet day had materialized.
While spark mages were getting gruesomely murdered by shadow wielders left and right, my libido finally calmed the fuck down.
The Irish scenery held every bit as much magic as the Nightbound Realm.
We weren’t expected until dinnertime, and we drove around, the three of us, taking in the views, stopping whenever we felt like it.
The Cé Dhún Chaoin, or Dunquin Pier, had a steep, winding path that twisted back and forth very prettily down to a green rocky point where two sharp wedges of mountain stuck out of a dangerous, churning sea.
We stopped at Gallarus Oratory, a perfect little pointed stone elf hut built in the eleventh century.
We saw the ruins of Minard Castle, its tower still holding strong against time and centuries of storms. And we were positively spoiled for beaches.
We stopped at three, took our shoes off, listening to the strange crunch of the coral sand at Coumeenoole Beach, and walked in the waves, the cold water banishing from our minds any cozy thoughts of naps, while Finn ran absolutely wild, crashing into the water, chasing a tennis ball, and getting completely covered in wet sand from head to tail.
Between stops, we loaded back into the Jeep and listened to a little bit more of our audiobook, which had turned out to be a dark and engrossing tale of vengeance.
But in the golden haze of those perfect memories, my very favorite thing that day was—much to my chagrin—the sheep. Or, rather, one lamb in particular.
There were many a handmade sign along this tourist trail, offering tours, eggs for sale, coffees, and home baked goods, and one we zoomed past that said it was a donkey museum.
“What’s a donkey museum?” I gasped.
“No.”
“But we just passed it. What’s inside? It could be anything!”
“It’s for your own good. If I take you there, you’ll end up somehow buying a donkey and scheming to take it on the plane as your emotional support animal. Would you like to see the beehive huts instead?”
“The what huts?”
“The old beehive huts. There’s a sign there.”
SEE HISTORIC BEEHIVE HUTS AND PET A LAMB—4 EURO
“Ooh. That sounds like a bargain. Sure. Let’s go see these huts.”
Tadhg pulled in, and we were met by a farmer who had some land right on the road with a view of the sea.
“Here to see the huts?” He had a cloth napkin tucked into his collar, as he was eating a cookie.
“We are, thanks,” Tadhg answered and handed over the eight euro.
“Follow that path around the house and let yourself in through the gate. You’ll see ’em.” He turned around and went back inside. Four euro didn’t get us a VIP tour, then.
We passed right by his cottage, went through the gate, and walked up a hill to find several little stone huts in the shape of beehives. They were tiny and looked out over the sea. There was no mortar, and the sun shone through the cracks between the stones, and moss grew everywhere it could.
“Wow. These are. Just so tiny. Did people live in these?”
We circled around the outside, and I wondered that it hadn’t blown over in a gale or been broken by some naughty goat or itchy horse after all these years.
“Yep. I believe it was devout people who wanted to be closer to God, like the monks on Skellig Michael.”
“What’s that?”
“Skellig Michael? It’s an old monastery on a tiny rocky island in the sea off this coast. The monks lived in little houses like this year-round, when they weren’t busy hiding from Vikings. They filmed some of the recent Star Wars films there.”
“Really? Which ones?”
“You know where Luke is living on that island alone with all the weird little creatures? Well, those huts are real, and the creatures were puffins that they had to Photoshop.”
“No way! That’s so neat. I need to watch it again.”
“You can take a boat out to see it, if you’d like. It’s a really steep, dangerous climb, though, and unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to go with you because I get such terrible seasickness that I’d be no use to anyone but the fishes.”
“A lovely image, thank you, Tadhg.”
“Anytime.”
“Can we go in?”
“Sure.”
The doorway was probably about four feet tall. I ducked to get in, and my head was touching the stones at the top.
“It’s cool to think that someone a thousand years ago built this with their hands and lived in here,” I said as I walked in and my eyes adjusted. “Cold as a witch’s tit, no doubt.”
Then I was plunged into darkness. Had a portal opened up beneath me, and I was being swallowed down into a fae underworld? No. Sadly, no. It was only that there was a huge hunk of man trying to get through the door.
It took Tadhg an eternity to squeeze through without knocking the whole thing to a pile of rubble with us inside.
He basically had to crabwalk in slow motion while I giggled at his expense.
Once he cleared the doorway, I offered my hand and helped to pull him up.
But he couldn’t stand, of course. He was at least a foot too tall.
He had to plant himself in the middle and hunch himself over me.
This was awkward. For everyone involved.
“Tight fit,” he said.
I looked up, pressed against him. It was hard to breathe. “I might be wrong, but I don’t think these were made for people like you.”
“You might be right.”
“You’ll be more at home in Giant’s Causeway, where people threw boulders and rode giant oxen, etcetera. Those are your ancestors.”
“Oh, so now you suddenly know all about Irish traditions.”
“Only when I can weaponize them.”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’m going to get myself out of here before you blow this down like the Big Bad Wolf and I die from a head injury.”
“Smart choice.”
We saw two other beehive huts, and then we found an old ring fort just a few yards away that was even older and now consisted mostly of curling low stone walls that we wandered through like a maze.
Just as we were walking past the house back to the Jeep, the farmer came out again, this time with a sandwich.
“What’s his deal? Dessert first? I like his style,” I whispered to Tadhg.
“I’ll catch the lambs for ye,” the farmer said, removing his napkin bib.
We followed, but I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.
I said, “It would just be nice to look at them. I don’t think you need to catch any.
” Maybe I was a silly city girl, but it seemed like if they wanted to be caught, you wouldn’t have to chase them.
I certainly knew what happened if you caught a cat that didn’t want to be handled.
You lost an eye, and it was your own damn fault!
He led us into a small, fenced area with a little herd of sheep, both mamas and babies. They baaed at us. I squeed internally.
The farmer did some quick moves, trying to be stealthy enough to grab one.
“Oh, no. Don’t upset them. It’s okay—”
But before I could finish protesting, he had one. And then he put it in my arms.
And suddenly, every little thing was right with the world.
This lamb was the warmest and fluffiest lamb in all the land, I was sure of it, perfectly weighted for maximum enjoyment.
The gorgeous little thing didn’t squirm or call its mama.
It cuddled in and put its head on my shoulder.
I swooned. I cradled that thing like it was the baby I’d never wanted.
Then I stuck my face right on into the thick cloud of fluff at its neck and inhaled a big whiff.
Had I been asked before what this experience might be like, I would have been confident that it would be scratchy and a little dirty and smell strongly like barnyard. But all these things would have been wrong. That baby smelled goddamn delicious!
“I want this baby. Can I buy it, or do I have to steal it?” I smiled at the farmer.
“Oh, no. I’ll not be selling her for anything.” He laughed.
I looked over, and Tadhg had a lamb of his own, and he looked almost as happy as I did.
“I will need to hold one of these every day for my well-being. There is no other world I will accept.”
“Look who’s a mad sheep fancier now, ay?”
“Dammit! I hate it when you’re right.”