Authors: Kathy Morgan
Chapter Twenty-five
O
n Tuesday evening, the third week in November, Seamus O’Donnell called to order a special meeting of the Council of Brehons. The ten-member organization had met here at the manor house on the Isle of Skye just three weeks earlier, on the 31
st
of October. The annual gathering on the Eve of Samhain was a sacred trust, a sworn pledge passed from father to son for nigh onto three thousand years. A second meeting within a month…
within the space of a year
…was unprecedented, however.
Built in the 14
th
century, the gothic stone fortress in which they met was bordered on one side by a sheer drop to the sea, on the other by a purple sweep of wild heather moorland. The setting had been chosen by their forefathers, not for its staggering beauty, but for its location. A plot of land near enough their Irish homeland for ease of travel, yet far enough away to discourage the spying of otherworldly eyes and ears bound forever to that land.
In the drawing room of the old manse, the musty scents of leather-bound tomes and antique furnishings vied with that of woodsmoke, lemon polish and melting candle wax. The ten men of the Council sat grim-faced around an antique oak table in the center of the room.
At the head of the table, the Chief Brehon acknowledged each member with a solemn nod. Fingers steepled, elbows resting on the curved wooden arms of a cresting rectangular chair, Caleb’s pose was deceptively indolent.
And fooled not a single man there.
“As you’re all aware, this past Samhain marked the beginning of the end.” Caleb spoke in the old language, an ancient tongue not of this earth and known to none except those present in the room. “The countdown to the third millenium anniversary of the
Geis
…to the Awakening…has begun.”
His eyes were cold, dead. No expression accompanied the cryptic reference. Wishing to rinse his mouth of the bitter taste the words had left on his tongue, he let his gaze fix on a frosty pewter pitcher in the center of the table.
He raised an imperious finger…. And the summoned object slid obediently into his outstretched hand.
He swallowed several long, cool sips of water, then set the glass down with a thud—the only evidence of the seething black temper holding him in its grips. Leaning forward, he let his flat stare touch briefly upon everyone at the table. Then his head swiveled on his shoulders, his gaze skewering the man seated to his immediate left.
“So, Liam. I understand ‘twas thought
congratulations
might soon to have been in order.” Caleb’s eyes, two hard chips of glittering green ice, belied the quiescent tone. “Man, have you no willpower to keep your trousers fastened? No understanding of the havoc your indiscretions would have wrought had we been forced to spirit the girl away, to secretly dispose of her body?”
Clad head to toe in chains and black leather, his ash-blonde hair framing his face on both sides, the recipient of Caleb’s scathing remarks, Liam O’Neill, possessed the humble good grace at least to lower his eyes.
One or two others, guilty of tempting fate in like manner, shifted uncomfortably.
Caleb returned his attention to the members at large. “As only a year remains before all will be fulfilled, we agreed to come together once monthly, as a minimum. I’ve called this meeting a week early, so we might attend to the urgent matter at hand. Seamus?”
“As you know,” Seamus began, “the question before us tonight is the unexpected arrival in Ireland of an American mere mortal named Arianna Sullivan.”
“Irish,” Caleb interjected.
“Sorry?”
“She’s Irish,” Caleb repeated. “Raised in the States, but born here in Ireland.”
Seamus nodded and began again. “What we’ve to settle here tonight is whether she may be the Chosen One prophesied to fulfill the requirements for dissolution of the
Geis
?”
“I take it, we’ve all met the woman?” inquired eighty-two-year-old Brian Rafferty.
“I’ve not bothered me arse.” Liam spoke up, ice-blue eyes glowing with disdain. One side of his mouth lifted in a cynical twist. “Ye should all cop the frig on, and live what time ye’ve left to the fullest. Yer all fooling yourselves, if ye believe some mere mortal woman’s liked to show up at the last minute to save the world.”
“Very fatalistic attitude, my friend,” Seamus murmured.
“Realistic,” Liam countered. “And, for argument’s sake, let’s say she does appear. The Evil will still win out in the end. ‘Twill kill this one, sure as it did the others before her.”
Though the words stabbed Caleb’s heart, he concealed his feelings behind a stone mask. “Has anyone who
did
meet Arianna any impressions to share?”
“Paddy and meself were after meeting her at the pub,” offered one of the musicians, young Sean O’Casey. Sean was newly admitted to the Council, assuming his father’s seat after the man’s recent passing. “Can’t say as how I sensed anything extraordinary about the woman. Not as regards to the Enchantment, at any rate.” A smirk formed on his face. “I will say, though, that should the mating prohibitions be dissolved, I’ll be first in the queue for a taste of that one. Right behind Caleb, o’course.”
Sean’s bandmate, Paddy, snickered in agreement.
Caleb fixed a murderous scowl on the new inductee.
“Now, Caleb…” Seamus murmured as a hush descended on the others at the table.
Sean began to tug nervously at his neck, as if he were being strangled.
And, in point of fact, he was.
“There is more at issue here, my superfluous friend, than our carnal appetites.” Long on sexual frustration, short on temper, Caleb’s words were taut. Clipped.
The others heaved a collective sigh of relief. Because, while the turf fire in the grate had flashed with his fit of rage, the floor hadn’t begun to ripple beneath their feet. Neither had a wind tunnel torn through the room—a turn of events they’d all been privy to in the past.
Even more to the young fool’s benefit was that he wasn’t presently crouched on all fours, braying like the jackass he’d just proven himself to be.
“My apologies,” Sean croaked, rubbing his throat as the buzz of magic snapped and crackled in the air. Static electricity lifted strands of his brown hair until he looked ridiculously like Pinhead in
Hellraiser.
“I didn’t realize…em…I was out of line.”
Holding his gaze several beats longer, Caleb rubbed his chin, as if pondering his fate. The beads of sweat breaking out across the younger man’s brow communicated most clearly that he had come to realize the full extent of his folly.
Apparently satisfied with the belated show of respect, Caleb folded his hands on the tabletop and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
Seamus cleared his throat. “I’ve met Herself, and I’ve to agree with Caleb. There’s something there… Something you can sense lying right beneath the surface. Sure, she’s unlike any mortal woman I’ve ever known.”
Father James Conneely gave a slow and thoughtful nod. “I was seated beside the young woman at dinner at the castle, and I’d have to throw my lot in with Caleb and Seamus. There’s definitely something sets her apart from the rest.”
Caleb went around the table, each man indicating, in one fashion or another, that they shared the same impressions as the scribe and the priest.
Brian turned to Caleb. “You’re the one after calling this special meeting, the one who’s spent the most time with herself. Why do you suspect she’s the Woman of Promise
?
”
All eyes fixed on Caleb. “A bit of history first. Yer wan was born in Clare, but her father and herself were after moving to the States when she was small. Aside from the fact that her father appeared to her posthumously, telling her to return to Ireland to meet her fate, I’ve nothing concrete to report. Other than a certainty that she’s being stalked by a Minion of the Beast.”
“There’s evil lurking there, to be sure,” Seamus said. “When Caleb attempted to identify yer man using our gift of Innate Knowledge, he couldn’t see past the black veil.”
Caleb gave a somber nod in assent. “Her home in Ennistymon was broken into the night I brought her to Galway. I’m convinced ‘twas the same bastard I sensed spying on her below the castle. As far as being able to report something more specific, however, all I have is a sense—a
very strong
sense, mind—that with Arianna Sullivan, all is not as it seems.”
“What d’ya reckon the next step should be?” Thomas O’Dea spoke for the first time.
Caleb paused to collect his thoughts, before answering. “I suggest we go over the old writings. Review the terms for dissolution of the
Geis
as preserved in the sacred scrolls. Perhaps, ‘twill help us make sense of whether she meets all the requirements.”
He turned to MacDara Darmody, seated on his right. A clinical psychologist, MacDara was adjunct professor of Early Pre-historic Anthropological Studies at NUIG, the National University of Ireland, Galway. “Would you be willing to do the honors, Mac?”
Eyes black as coal, long, brown hair tied back with a leather thong, the man inclined his head. He launched into a brief, but sagacious, monologue that would set the tone for the remainder of the evening. “We’re all aware, of course, of the apocalyptic devastation facing humanity should Anathema be released from his hermetical bondage,” he began. “Since the beginning of time, the entity has been fettered in a chamber in the depths of the abyss by a divinely inspired sleep.”
“Would you start by explaining how this whole thing began?” Paddy asked.
“Of course,” MacDara replied. “Close to three millennia ago, the Archdruid of the Formorians, a descendent of the fallen angels spoken of in Genesis, called upon his sire, Anathema, the Prince of Demons, to act as Guardian over a
Geis
he’d cast upon our people. The curse, fueled by a vow of recompense, would ultimately gain the Beast its release. But not before three thousand years had lapsed. And not without the establishment of specific terms for the dissolution of the enchantment,” he paused, then spoke solemnly. “The deadline for all to come to fruition is Samhain Eve next.”
“Which leaves less than a year before this demonic creature is set free,” Seamus said.
“Yes. If the aforementioned terms are not met, the entity will be released from the pit, and begin to possess the minds of man. Just as he did in the time before the Great Flood, prior to his being locked away by the Creator so that mankind might start again, knowing free will. As ‘twas in the days of Noah, man’s every thought will be evil continually, their frail mortal minds easily subject to the Beast’s control. Losing every restraint of conscience, there will remain to them no sense of right or wrong. No self control. Many will be overcome with greed and avarice, hatred, jealousy and murder. Others, who successfully overcome the demonic influence to do harm to others, will be plagued by suicidal ideation.”
“If I may say something?” Father Conneely interrupted. At MacDara’s nod, he began. “When we think of these things, we imagine violent crime. Rioting in the streets. Murder, mayhem, looting. Man against man. Which is all true enough. But the servant of the Evil One will go even further and begin to whisper enticements of world dominion into the ears of global leaders. Religious intolerance will increase, until Hitler will seem as insignificant as a primary school bully by comparison. As third world countries harboring weapons of mass destruction are persuaded to initiate a conflict, the resulting holocaust will end all life as we know it.”
“Armageddon.” Seamus spoke in a whisper of sound.
“Very likely ‘tis one and the same,” Father Conneely agreed, his face solemn. “But dissolution of the
Geis
will avert the ensuing calamity. Settle the unfolding of history back into its pre-ordained pattern.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “At least for a season, until mere mortal humankind sees fit to destroy itself on its own.”
“Apart from saving the earth, there will be a lesser and yet most tremendous benefit to our own people,” MacDara continued. “For the men of our
túath
will be released from the enchantment’s prohibition against mating with mere mortal women.”
MacDara picked up his crystal goblet and took a sip of water. “In my studies of pre-historic cultures, I’ve paid particular attention to our own primordial existence prior to the laying of the
Geis
. For several hundred years after arriving in what was to become our homeland, men of our race intermarried freely with mere mortal women. This intermingling of DNA resulted in our experiencing a far greater range of emotion than was before, or is today, relative to our kind. During those centuries, our feelings for our wives, our children and our families differed greatly from that which we experience today. Our personal relationships being defined now more by a sense of honor and responsibility than what mortals know as
love
. Because of the Enchantment’s magical prohibition against sexual contact between ourselves and mortal womankind, it was that aspect of our humanity, which has been slowly bred out of us.”
He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose. “Long before the Formorians cast the
Geis
, we men of the
Túatha de Danann
often chose a mortal female as our
anam cara.
Unlike our own women, these were not only more likely to keep faithful to their marriage vows, they were more nurturing of children born of the union. This
maternal
love, which greatly benefited our children, was unconditional. Another aspect of interpersonal relationship for which we as a people have little understanding today. ‘Twas a love passed from mother to child—through the blood, naturally. But sure even more so, ‘twas a thing learned by the infant at its mother’s breast. That basic motherly instinct has been lost to our women after thousands of years of interbreeding amongst our own kind.”
MacDara, who knew Caleb’s own story about his mortal mother’s death, met his eyes briefly. “That, I believe, is what has led many of our race over the millennia to choose immortality over humanity. To transform fully into the
daoine sidhe,
the faerie folk.”