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  AWAKENING THE GODS

  Book One

  of

  The Rise Of The Celtic Gods

  * * *

  KRISTIN GLEESON

  * * *

  An Tig Beag Press

  Published by An Tig Beag Press

  Text Copyright 2021 © Kristin Gleeson

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by JD Smith Designs

  * * *

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9956281-6-8

  OTHER WORKS BY KRISTIN GLEESON

  In Praise of the Bees

  CELTIC KNOT SERIES

  Selkie Dreams

  Along the Far Shores

  Raven Brought the Light

  A Treasure Beyond Worth (novella)

  RENAISSANCE SOJOURNER SERIES

  A Trick of Fate (novella)

  The Imp of Eye

  The Sea of Travail

  HIGHLAND BALLAD SERIES

  The Hostage of Glenorchy

  The Mists of Glen Strae

  The Braes of Huntly

  Highland Lioness

  NON FICTION

  Anahareo, A Wilderness Spirit

  LISTEN TO THE MUSIC CONNECTED TO THE BOOKS

  Go to www.kristingleeson.com/music

  Receive a FREE novelette prequel, A Treasure Beyond Worth, and Along the Far Shores

  When you sign up for my mailing list: www.kristingleeson.com

  To Bruce, who always heard the music and told the tales

  Contents

  I. The West Asleep

  1. Saoirse

  2. Saoirse

  3. Saoirse

  4. Smithy

  5. Saoirse

  6. Saoirse

  7. Smithy

  8. Saoirse

  9. Smithy

  10. Saoirse

  11. Smithy

  12. Smithy

  13. Saoirse

  14. Smithy

  15. Saoirse

  16. Saoirse

  II. The West Awakes

  17. Saoirse

  18. Saoirse

  19. Saoirse

  20. Smithy

  21. Saoirse

  22. Smithy

  23. Saoirse

  24. Smithy

  25. Saoirse

  26. Saoirse

  27. Saoirse

  III. Sí Bheag Sí Mhor

  28. Smithy

  29. Saoirse

  30. Smithy

  31. Saoirse

  32. Saoirse

  33. Saoirse

  34. Saoirse

  Epilogue

  A Note on the Myths and Pronunciation

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Part I

  The West Asleep

  1

  Saoirse

  I bounced down the road, my feet cooperating for a change, earbuds in, music up, trying to absorb the upbeat vibe. It was an old Planxty track and the mad pace of it was nearly working to help me forget that I was now an unemployed barista with a first class degree in English Lit from Trinity. Who knew that being late five times would end with dismissal? At a glorified cafe. A hot and hip cafe, to be fair, but a cafe nonetheless. You couldn’t change that. I made myself concentrate on the neat change up of the music. Very tidy. I smiled. But then out of the corner of my eye, there they were.

  Feck.

  I blinked and turned my head away. But they were still there, those shadowy little figures whispering, eyes staring. On impulse, I turned to them and glared, made a face but they’d vanished. I peeked down the little laneway at the side of the pub to see if they’d gone there, but it was dark and seemingly empty. I sighed and decided to leave it. Those feckin’ creatures were popping up more and more, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure what their purpose was. Imagination it was not, no matter how many times I’d tried to kid myself when it happened as a lonely girl in boarding school, but I knew I couldn’t fool myself this time. It wasn’t that they were threatening or scary, just feckin’ annoying. Like a bunch of gossips talking about me.

  I sighed and pushed the door to the pub. I could already hear the music within. The Mangle Pit was my haven, my own little island of joy and escape, where I could forget my rudderless existence and just live in the music.

  I walked towards the back, weaving through the crowd of Thursday drinkers, my Doc Martens feeling the familiar stick of spilled beer. Gentrification hadn’t caught up with the Mangle Pit. Behind the bar I saw Finbarr and Gregor busy pulling pints, though Gregor glanced up and gave me a flirty wink. I cocked my head and moved along towards the music source. I grinned when I saw all the usual suspects were there playing, plus a few others. I felt a little spark inside when I saw one of them was Luke. He came on occasion but he wasn’t a regular. This evening he had chosen to play and I couldn’t help the little thrill going through me. It meant an even better time than I’d anticipated. His playing was top shelf, but so were his looks. His blond hair caught the light as he leaned over his uilleann pipes just then and I sighed. Normally I would despise a surfer like him, but you couldn’t argue with his musicianship, though if I were to be honest, I knew it wasn’t just that. And it wasn’t every day a surfer would find a particle of interest in playing trad music.

  I closed in on the group, holding my flute case in front of my chest to negotiate the last little huddle. Declan spied me first.

  “Saoirse.”

  He grinned and nodded, still playing his concertina. With his leg he drew up a stool beside him and I took the seat at his side. Around the small tables crowded with glasses, the various musicians winked or nodded to acknowledge my presence. They were winding up the set of jigs they’d been playing as I entered and I quickly shucked my jacket, shoving it underneath my stool, phantom little men forgotten. With a speed driven from much experience I assembled my flute and had it ready for the next set. Cormac led the session with his dancing bow very Slíabh Luachra, and the rest of us followed once he’d set the tune going. For this set he’d chosen a few newish ones and I glanced over to Luke who sat two away, to see if he was okay with them. I knew he would pick it up quick enough, but I just wanted to be sure.

  He caught my glance and smiled, his startling blue eyes full of humour as always. I grinned back and nodded because I could already hear his pipes, following Cormac who sat at the other end. Luke was always discreet with his pipes, never doing the overpowering “look at me” playing that some did. Next to him, Eileen sawed away on her own fiddle, her springy curly hair flying all around her. She was nice enough, late twenties, an artist of some sort. Glass? I couldn’t remember. Every finger covered in rings, bracelets banging away as she played. God would you ever give those bangles a rest, I thought. But I knew those sentiments were more of a reflection of the way she bantered with Luke every time he came. I turned away and looked at Declan, his pudgy fingers flying along the buttons of his concertina, and I was soon as lost in the music as he was. Cormac was enjoying himself as well, leaning back, eyes closed. He looked a bit like Santa with his full white beard and bushy hair.

  Cormac barely paused when the set ended before he launched into the Postman set that he knew I loved and he looked across at me and raised his brows. Aw, the dotey creature. I smiled back and lifted my flute to my lips and sailed away on the driving beat that Patrick gave his guitar and we were all going grand.

  Behind us, a few whoops cheered us on and feet were tapping as they picked up our energy and spirit. Before I knew myself I’d done it, I looked in the other
direction to Luke and saw that he’d switched out the pipes for Mícheal’s bouzouki and was picking out a counter tune. Jesus will you look at him, I thought, it kills me. He caught my look and I widened my eyes and he laughed, knowing what I was thinking. Eileen looked almost proud, as though he were her prodigy. I glanced away.

  The night sailed on and the music pulled me in, until just before the break, when someone shouted. “Give us a song, Saoirse.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Maybe later, lads.”

  “Go on!”

  “You will!”

  Cormac gave me a questioning look and I sighed, shrugging. “All right then.”

  There were a few shouts of appreciation and then shushings all around as I prepared myself to sing. What would it be? Something in English or Irish? I had feck all Irish, much to the disgust of my teachers, but I could sing the words of a song and had a decent idea about what they meant. I decided for English and began My Lagan Love on a whim. It was a song I enjoyed, not so much because it was short, though that was a plus for me if my nerves suddenly took hold, but the range also suited my voice.

  The pub was silent as I sang, but soon I was lost to my surroundings, getting caught up on the words and the music in my head. My eyes were closed and I could see them there, the pair of lovers meeting up. I finished the song, opened my eyes amid the hush until a shout and whoop broke the silence and clapping ensued. A moment later the talk resumed and the pub was as loud as before. The musicians stood up without a word. Break time. Finbarr nodded over to us and disappeared out the back to fetch the sandwiches for when the musicians returned from the toilet, or smoke, or whatever amusement they decided to pursue.

  I moved towards the bathrooms and Cormac caught my arm. “You’re in good voice tonight, Saoirse. Lovely song.”

  I smiled and thanked him and let the warm feeling from his praise spread through me. He was great for encouragement, but his words were always genuine and I appreciated that. When I arrived at the bathrooms the queue was thankfully short. It was only Jilly ahead of me, the English girl who played the concertina, clad in her usual combat trousers and T-shirt. She was about my age and had been in Dublin over a year, waiting tables at a restaurant in Swords.

  “Hey,” she said.

  I nodded. “How’s things?”

  She shrugs. “Oh, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “You?” she asked.

  “I got sacked today, but otherwise, grand.” I don’t know why the words left my mouth and the regret of them rushed through me an instant later. I barely knew the girl.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, but tonight’s about the music. I’ll think about the rest tomorrow.”

  She laughed and moved on, the stall free. I sat there and thought about the tomorrow when I would have no job to go to, the “think about the rest tomorrow” girl fizzled out already. Would I ask my father for yet another loan I would never pay back? I could barely afford the hovel I lived in, the rent was due, the lease nearly at an end, and until I got another job I needed something to tide me over. But I hesitated to approach him. He made me feel uncomfortable, always lacking. Though to be fair, it might be all in my head and my own disappointment with myself. The little I knew of my father would probably be seen in his Wikipedia page. A high powered property development mogul who travelled the world. The part that, while he did this, I’d been in a remote boarding school in Ireland would be omitted from Wikipedia, of course. I could count the Christmases we’d spent together on two fingers.

  “Good luck,” said Jilly as she passed by, her bathroom visit finished. I nodded and moved into a stall.

  A few minutes later, I found myself heading towards the back door, deciding a breath of air amid the fuggish heat of the pub would see me right. Once outside, in the little laneway that acted as the delivery area, I leaned back against the wall and sighed. At the laneway end, near the street, I recognised Cormac laughing loudly among a group of others sucking on fags, their smoke curling up above their heads. Mícheal’s skinny frame looked incongruous next to Cormac though he towered over his companion. They were fast friends of the music sort after playing together for years at this pub and others. Their musical chemistry drew many session musicians to share the tunes and the craic. The others in the group I recognised as regulars who came on Thursdays to hear the music. I toyed with the idea of going down to bum a cigarette. It seemed a day for that.

  “There you are, Ginger.” said a voice behind me.

  I turned and saw Luke coming out the service door, the edges of his dark blond hair damp with sweat, a pint of lager in his hand. I struggled not to sigh at the sight of him and what might lie beneath his clothes. His T-shirt, flannel shirt and low-slung jeans gave me only a hint, but every girl and her mother would want to see more.

  “Some would call my hair titian,” I said.

  “Would they now?” He came over to me and touched the long braid that was wrapped around my head. “‘The twilight gleam is in her hair’,” he quoted. “It’s like a crown of flames.”

  “It’s ‘in her face’, if you’re quoting the song I sang.”

  I studied his expression for signs of mockery. He leaned against the wall, facing me. Even in leaning, his large frame was shouting the lithesome grace I found so attractive. He wasn’t my usual type, which was the dark haired, skinny, intense musician, but for him it seemed exceptions were made by all. I looked down at my Doc Martens, purple tights, red corduroy skirt and floral shirt. I wasn’t his usual type either, I was certain.

  “Good session tonight,” he said.

  I gave him a wry look. What was he after? “It is that.”

  “Are you playing gigs anywhere?” he asked.

  I gave him a dumbfounded look. “Ah, no, no. Are you, yourself? Sure, you must be.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been tempted a time or two, but resisted in the end.” He looked over at me and his mouth lifted on one side. “But I’d be more inclined to if I was playing gigs with you. You’ve got a great touch on the flute. Good voice, too.”

  A flush of pleasure bloomed inside me. “Sure, you must be joking. I’m only okay.”

  “No, there’s no joke, I promise you. You’ve a grand voice and your rolls on the flute are first class. Where did you learn? Were you playing sessions growing up?”

  I looked away. “I segued from classical,” I said evasively. How to explain my childhood? Learning classical flute in boarding school and then sneaking off to try out the latest tunes I’d loaded on my iPod. It was a chance interview Martin Hayes had given on the telly years ago that had first attracted me. His thoughtful and compelling explanations of his love for traditional music, followed by his haunting and mesmerizing performances had driven me to make these tunes my own. It wasn’t until I was at university that I even had the opportunity, or the courage, to play at a session.

  “Well, you’ve a grand style.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Are you getting up a group, now? Is that it?”

  “Maybe. I’m exploring possibilities at the moment.”

  “And the late nights won’t get in the way of the surfing?” I asked in a teasing tone. “Or your day job?”

  He raised his brows. “That is a consideration.”

  Shit. I’d been caught out. He would know he hadn’t told me himself that he was a surfer. He took a deep drink of his lager. I eyed it disdainfully. I was a beer, stout or whiskey person myself, or at a pinch maybe tequila. But for his praise of my playing, I could forgive him.

  “What do you do, anyway?” I asked.

  “Something in design,” he said.

  “Something in design? Is that like code for it’s too embarrassing to say, or too complicated to explain?”

  He smiled. “Neither. Too boring. I design logos.”

  “Oh,” I said. What do you say to that? He was right. It was boring.

  “What do you do?”

  I hardly heard his question because behind him, they appeared in al
l their bold glory. I’d never seen them before when I was talking with someone. Their whispers were audible and I could even make out their eyes this time, they were that close. I glanced nervously at Luke, who stared at me questioningly.

  “Are you okay? You’ve gone pale.”

  I closed my eyes and straightened. When I opened them they were gone and so was the whispering. There was only a crow perched on the roof above, cawing away like it was cackling with laughter at my reaction.

  I sighed and shook my head. “I’m grand.”

  “Come on you two,” said Cormac from the group at the end of the laneway. “It’s time.”

  2

  Saoirse

  I threw the keys on the table and placed the flute case on the floor by the wall. Gentrification hadn’t caught up with this flat either. It was on the top floor of a definitely not Georgian old house that had seen better days, and swinging even a mouse would be a challenge. A small table leaned up against the sofa to mark the end of the sitting room and the beginning of the area of a wall of cupboards, sink, fridge and cooker that was the kitchen. A box room off the area stood in for the bedroom and the small toilet and stall shower was crammed in beside it.