Awakening the Gods Page 10

  “Thank you. Thanks,” said Saoirse. She smiled widely, her eyes alight as she looked at Smithy. Smithy’s feet decided to plant themselves but his eyes hadn’t left her face. This was a war his brain wouldn’t win.

  He nodded at her.

  Liam chatted to Gearóid and before another word could be spoken by Smithy or his brain, the two were off on a jig and Smithy found himself lifting his fiddle to his chin. Saoirse followed suit with her flute and their eyes were still locked while the music bounced back and forth between them. It was just the two of them, the resumption of the circling, dancing, weaving thing they had going before. He loved it and felt its joy wash through him and knew whatever he did, he couldn’t stop what was drawing him on.

  The music finished, their dance continued. The fiddle was down on his lap, but the tune continued and soared on its own, he could hear it as clear as any bell that you cared to ring.

  Saoirse held her flute tightly and then came to herself, looked down and placed it on her lap. She glanced over at him, the notion first in her eyes and then it slid down through her face to her mouth. Smithy could see it, could hear it before it ever made it out of her lips, shaped words that echoed and lingered.

  “Smithy, have you thought any more about the whistle? Do you think you’ll make it?”

  The words, sure, weren’t they already lodged in his heart, wedded and matched to the others that were there, waiting for them, the missing ones, the ones that would take them onward?

  “Yeah, I have. It’s there waiting for you back at the house.”

  “Can I come and pick it up?”

  “You can of course. Will you come tonight?”

  The smile was slow, tentative. “I will.”

  13

  Saoirse

  I was a mess, and I knew it. He could have asked me to do anything at that moment and I’d have done it. The music, if that was what it was, kept dancing around me, inside me, in a manner I’d never before experienced. I knew he felt it too, the way his eyes held mine, like he could see deep into my soul, or some such flight of fancy. This was no poem, though, for me to parse and tweak to get its best effect. This was bare and bold and true and I didn’t know what to do with it.

  He guided me through the thinning crowd to the back door and outside, his hand resting lightly on my back. We’d barely given the session time to finish before we were up and out of our seats like jackrabbits. Smithy made no excuse, just nodded to the others, gestured me to move in front of him, and he was off, no backward glance.

  Myself, I caught a dark look from Aoife, the jealous cow, and allowed a moment for the satisfaction of it to join the other emotions that were holding court inside of me. But it didn’t come, because there was no room, to be honest, there was no room at all, except for the sheer and utter strength of his pull on me, the desire and lust that swam in my body that took shape as music and spirals of dust. Smithy. I said his name in my head and the flash—or was it flush of desire—swept through me as I followed his muscled large frame out into the night.

  “I’ll take you there on my motorbike,” he said. “Are you all right with that?”

  “I am,” I said. “No worries.”

  We drew alongside the bike and he unstrapped the helmet that was hanging from the seat and handed it to me.

  “You’d best be the one to wear this,” he said. “It’s not far, though, so we should be fine.”

  He swung his leg over the bike and rocked it off its centre stand while I strapped the helmet to my head. With a quick kick he started the bike, the move made with practised ease and I loved it. I loved his quiet confidence, the arms stretched out to the handle bars, the spread of his legs along the bike. I loved it all and climbed up behind him. I had my flute tucked between us and his fiddle slung on my back. My short skirt parted and I moved forward to grip my thighs around his and put my arms on his waist. My own intake of breath met his and I wondered how much of this whistle I might actually see and play tonight.

  The ride to his house was short. Too short in some ways because I loved the sensation of nestling up against him, feeling the flex of his thigh muscles when he changed gear, or leaning into him and with him when he turned a corner. The bliss of it.

  But we arrived and Smithy drew the bike into the small yard and parked it in a little shed next to the forge. I dismounted, shook out my hair and handed him the helmet. He nodded his thanks and once he’d dismounted, rested it on the bike. We’d been silent all this time, but our bodies were still speaking, as was every other bit of us. Our instruments were still playing those tunes and twining themselves around us in so many ways.

  He grabbed my hand, weaving his fingers in mine and led me into the house. We went through the kitchen to the sitting room. He took my flute from me and placed it on the floor. His own fiddle he put in its usual corner and returned to me. He caught up both of my hands and kissed them, one after the other.

  “Will I show you the whistle later?” he asked softly, his eyes capturing mine.

  I nodded and moved towards him. Gently, I pressed up against him, raised my lips to his and kissed him. And he kissed me. Kissed me into next week, kissed me to the moon and back, with his subtle brushing and then deeper, full lipped and sensuous. My body rang out just at the first touch. His hands cupped my face, brushed down along my breastbone softly. I broke away for the barest moment necessary to take off my jacket and his too. It didn’t seem enough and soon I was lifting his T-shirt and he was pulling at the buttons of my blouse.

  Somehow they were removed, both the shirt and the sheer blouse. We stood there, me in my thin strapped shirt, bra, skirt and Doc Martens and he in his jeans and boots, and our hands paused, our eyes locked. He leaned down and kissed my neck, brushed kisses along my jaw, and down. I sighed with pure pleasure. It was so much, too much, a cup, no, a chalice, that overflowed. Just from the kiss of him and I was sinking into his touch.

  He led me away then, into his bedroom and turned on a dim lamp on the table nearby.

  “I want to see you, your beauty,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to see yours as well.”

  We undressed each other, the process a song, an air, a waltz that kept us dancing and entwining each other. He pulled my shirt and skirt over my head, pausing to caress my shoulder and my hip. And then a kiss here, a kiss there. He kicked off his boots and I unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them over his thighs, his calves. His jeans removed, he pulled me to him, the thin material of his boxers and my underwear the only thing between us. I ran my hands over his arms, his back. I kissed his chest and placed my hand over his erection. A groan and a sigh greeted the touch.

  He pulled away and led me to the bed. With a few swift movements that left me Cinderella like, his hands were on my shoes and then my bare feet and legs as he removed my high stocking socks. He ran his hands along my legs, upward and my underwear was gone, slipped away to find the shoes and socks.

  We lay there, together and soon to be one, our bodies finding their pace, their heat and the perfect place to meet. He moved along my body, kissing, tasting inside and out and we disappeared in a twist of stars, a brace of moons circling, twinkling until we were the dust of those stars scattered in the heavens. We’d entered those heavens together and like all the ancient stars, exploded and died over and over as we shot across the universe.

  I felt his kiss at the back of my neck. He’d brushed aside my hair just enough to give him space, his fingers whisper light across my back. I smiled and sighed at the bliss of it. I leaned into the kiss and he drew me closer still against him, raining kisses now along my shoulder while he tangled his hand in my hair. He’d wound my hair around his hand and dragged the hand through the strands many times in the night, kissing it and marvelling at it, as much as he kissed and marvelled at the rest of me.

  He hadn’t been the only one worshipping last night. It was a night made perfect by each and every time we worshipped and consumed each other. It was a night
like no other, that much I knew, and I could only hope he felt the same. We worshipped again now, each finding the other’s altar and laying us bare to the desires of our souls and hearts. At least that’s how I saw it, how I felt it.

  This time, when we’d finished, when we pulled away with our sighs and lingering lips, Smithy ran a finger along my face.

  “I’ll make us a tea, then shall I? A bit of breakfast?”

  “You mean it’s morning? It’s not a trick of the light?” I said lightly.

  “Sadly, it’s well into the morning. And I should get you back. Your grandmother will worry, will she not?”

  I shrugged. “I feel like Cinderella, about to turn into a pumpkin. She’ll be grand. I’ll text her and say I’m with a friend.”

  He grinned. “A friend, is it?”

  “A very special friend.”

  “Well at least I’m special,” he said.

  “You are special,” I said, suddenly serious. I kissed him, put my hand to his face. “So very special.”

  His eyes were lit, an emerald green that sparkled like a true gem. He was true, all right. He was my true.

  He gave me a peck on the cheek and got out of bed. I watched him, delighting in his body, one that any artist would be unable to resist. He shoved on his jeans and left the room, while his image, his presence lingered around me and in me. I leaned over and pulled out the small notebook that always resided in the pocket of whatever I was wearing. The skirt, as it happened to be last night. I looked around the room and saw a biro on the small chest next to the bed and took it up. Deftly I noted the words, the images that came in my head, inspired by the perfection that was him and the night and music that was.

  Maybe it was because of the music still playing its notes inside me that it poured forth, spilling out of my heart and the body that had danced the dance since the moment I’d walked in and saw Smithy sitting in the session, fiddle in hand. The sheer talent of him, the body that was him and the soul that played the music. I wanted it all, I needed it all and for some reason, I felt that if I could capture half of the need and desire on paper, it might not escape me.

  “What are you up to?” said Smithy, returning, bearing a tray of mugs and a plate heaped with toast.

  “Ah, look at you,” I said. “You’re too good.”

  He smiled. “Anything for my lady.”

  “I’m your lady now, am I?”

  “You are of course. And I’m your special friend.”

  “No, you’re my man.”

  “My lord?” he said, his voice teasing.

  “My lord, my man.”

  “My lady, my woman.”

  He placed the tray on the bed, leaned over and gave me a long lingering kiss. My desire, only somewhat abated, rose again and I reached up to touch his chest, the notebook still in my hand. He pulled away and took the notebook from me.

  “What’s this, then? Keeping notes? Writing your dark desires in your diary?”

  I laughed. “I am of course. You’ve awakened them all.”

  He looked up from the notebook. “Them all? Dark desires?”

  “What else?”

  He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed them, his eyes darkening. “I’m sure I could awaken a few more, soon enough.”

  “Oh, do please.”

  He placed my hand on my abdomen, let his hand linger and trace a line over my nipple.

  “Soon,” he said. “Soon. Breakfast first.”

  I laughed, the joy of the promise so unexpected and completely wanted.

  He handed me a mug and offered a bit of toast. I took one slice and he took another, settling back on the bed beside me.

  “I find it difficult to concentrate on my toast, my lady, with your lovely breasts on display,” he said.”

  “Shall I cover my modesty?” I tugged up the sheet. Just as swiftly he tugged it back down.

  “No modesty required. I shall look at your notebook and discover what dark desires I could visit upon you.”

  I laughed, if only to cover my nervousness. Part of me trusted him to treat me well, but honestly, for what he read in there. No one had seen my scribblings and except for the few poems that had either made it into songs, or were published in one of the university rags out of the notebook, no one even knew of my efforts.

  The silence, while he read, stretched on for a while, the time longer than I was comfortable with, because I reached over and started to take it away, gather it back inside me and my own thoughts of the ways life had imprinted itself and quizzed its way through the years.

  He looked up and kept a firm grip on it. “You wrote these?”

  I nodded, my look tentative.

  “Saoirse, these are really good. Are you published? You are, I’m sure. Of course you are.”

  He handed the notebook back to me. “What a woman you are. The music, the poetry.” He shook his head. “You honour me, my lady.”

  There, the hint of a smile. I could hang on to that, ride it out and get back to the desire and play that was our dance.

  “Of course, I do. Doesn’t any lady honour her lord?” I took a bit of my toast and chewed it in an obvious manner.

  He laughed and ran a hand over my hair, trailing it down. “Such beauty, too.”

  “You’re a lucky lad, aren’t you then?”

  “I am, so.”

  He took the mug and toast from me and set it on the plate which he put on the tray. He placed his own things there and shoved the tray aside and pulled me to him.

  “Now, those dark desires. They must be tended to.”

  He unwrapped the cloth, slowly, as if it were a moment of reverence. In a way it was, at least for me. My anticipation and urge to play this whistle, crafted by such a man as Smithy, fed into the reverence and the music that still danced and weaved its way around inside me, heightened everything around this moment.

  He pulled out the whistle and I saw it gleam in his hands. Even then, in his hand, it seemed alive, something more than a perfect low whistle. It was something I had no words for.

  Without knowing, I reached over for the whistle and took it from him. It felt cool and hot at the same time, alive and not. I ran my fingers along its length, getting acquainted with its shape and learning who and what it was.

  Smithy watched me closely, saying nothing, but his eyes were speaking all sorts and they hummed in the air along with the music already in our bodies. This was all part of it, I suddenly knew, this was the completion of the dance, our dance, our hearts, this music. I looked up at him and lifted the whistle to my lips and began to play. I started with a simple tune, unwilling to test any of us so quickly, trying to prepare all parts of myself and Smithy for what we both knew was to come.

  Without any discussion or word, Smithy moved over to his fiddle and removed it from its case. I played on, the simple tune, an air that everyone knew and would play given half the chance, while the whistle and I waited for him. We waited and knew the moment he moved the bow across the strings, no tuning required, for this was a moment that was already perfectly tuned. Our bodies were tuned, our hearts and souls. The whistle bound us firmly, moving on to the real tune, the tune that was us. Smithy’s fiddle found its place with the whistle and they entered the union that was always meant to be and he entered me.

  We played on and on, not needing to stop because there was no end to this piece, this air, this tune, because it was ours and ours alone.

  It was only when the light was dimming that I realised so much time had passed and in that time we had moved around each other, changing places back and forth, until we’d found our seats on the chairs next to each other.

  I lowered the flute and he took the fiddle from his chin, each a motion so choreographed we knew the thought had been shared.

  He looked at me. “Well, my lady, you’d better text your grandmother and tell her you’re having dinner and staying the night with your special friend.”

  “Of course, my lord. I will do as you say. ”

 
I picked up my phone and noticed a text message. It was the solicitor’s office.

  Matter cleared up. Collect house keys at earliest convenience.

  I shrugged the message away. It had little meaning for me now. I was starting to find my home here and this time it was a real home.

  14

  Smithy

  Smithy shut the door quietly to the house and made his way across the yard to the forge. His arms were singing, his body was singing. He was singing. He could barely remember the feeling and how there was nothing like it. But then there hadn’t ever been anything like the last day and two nights. How could he match what was matchless? Was it the magic that sang through him mixed with her, Saoirse, into a blend that was matchless and priceless and filled him with all that could be and ever was? It was everything he thought it was with Bríd and ever could be with her, and here, in this little out of the way place, he had found an echo of all of it with a mortal. Any question or thought that didn’t rejoice with him at this moment he set aside, pushed to the outer realms of his thoughts and body to take up residence in the “Take Yourself Off” land.

  For now, he resisted the pull back to his bed where she lay, with her glorious soft skin, beautiful hair and musical dance. He would work the forge instead and bring forth the buzzing, the singing into a form that was calling him now.

  He entered the forge and let the light pour forth. Over the bench, light emptied in from the Velux window he’d put in the roof and revealed the tools on the bench. Swiftly, he lit the forge, using a touch of magic. He could do that now. Everything else he did as he would have in any age or world. He turned to the bench where the steel bar rested. It was the one from the Watchers, the men he’d bargained with back in the fairy hills outside of Inchigeela. They’d brought it for him from the Otherworld, never averse to a little deal here or there, as they moved between worlds and kept watch on those that were marked. Why they were watching in this area, he didn’t care to know. He’d paid them enough of his own precious hoard of silver to ensure it wasn’t him. He was going nowhere. This work, this sword in the making, was all for him, and no one else. This magic was too fragile and unknown to be anything else. And he was done with it all. Every last bit of any rising, any further attempt to bring down Balor, to wipe out him and his evil eye. Before, it had brought him nothing but pain and destruction, as well as death. Bríd was gone, and with it, her love. The only thing that was left of their love was his guilt.