Awakening the Gods Page 11

  Those thoughts he threw into the “Take Yourself Off” Land, to join the rest of that unruly gang that threatened the joy and music of right now. He put on his gloves, and with his tongs, took up the piece of steel with its thread of silver magic in it, shoving it into the forge. The hiss of the fire on metal sounded loud and found its own music. Smithy smiled. He could hear the magic playing and finding the dance. The sizzle and spin, the roar of the flame in answer.

  He withdrew the metal when it was ready and took up his hammer to begin the fashioning. Hammer, shape, hammer, shape, ringing the changes. The metal glowed and moved and then it began, the humming and fizzing through his body, weaving around him, in him and through him. The blade began to sing, running the melody of fire and metal. He nearly roared with the pleasure of it, the feel of its response, its jubilant shape.

  He felt an extra boost of the energy, the power shaping and singing its music and dancing its dance. It was a few moments before he realised that Saoirse stood next to him, clad only in his T-shirt, her hand resting on his shoulder, her eyes filled with admiration and wonder.

  That touch filled him more and more as it linked with his music and the dance grew more potent. The magic roared and grew, encasing them with its heady power. Smithy let it happen, watched the sword blade shape and grow and become.

  And when it was ready, when all its shape was found, he plunged it into the water, quenching the fire and imprinting the form. He chose water, not oil, so sure was he of the firing and the blade’s response to the power within it. A sword blade added to the world. Magic.

  Smithy carefully lowered his tongs, removed his gloves and stared at the blade. Saoirse put her arm around him.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “It was like magic.”

  He turned and kissed her head, slipping his arm around her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of her, the skin of her through the T-shirt.

  He sighed. “It was.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “You are so talented, my handsome man.”

  “In what way, my lady?”

  She gave him a little shove. “In that way too. But I meant your smith work. I can see why they call you Smithy. It’s clearly more than a job to you.”

  He laughed. “It’s definitely more than a job.”

  “Will you show me how?” she asked. “Maybe something small? I’d like to try it.”

  He looked at her sceptically. “It can be tiring. I do the hammering manually and that takes strength in the arms.”

  “But you’ll help me, won’t you? I just want to get a sense of it myself. Please?”

  He couldn’t say no, of course he couldn’t. It was a given, even aside from the fact or the feeling that he really wanted to try and create something with her. To see if the pure magic of their coming together in music and making love would spill over into the forging of metal.

  He drew her close to him and gave her a kiss on the lips. “Go dress yourself properly, then.”

  She hugged him briefly and then was away. He watched her leave, taking in the long legs and the way his T-shirt found all the right curves of her body and rested there.

  “Oho, hey, hey,” said a voice from outside. One of the Watchers popped its head at the door.

  “What are you doing here?” said Smithy irately. “Did I not tell you to never come here, directly to my house?”

  “Ah, now, don’t be like that,” said the Watcher and he stepped inside.

  Behind him came the other three, all short, dark haired and dressed the same. Brothers? Probably, he couldn’t remember. So much of that world was foreign to him now. Almost as if he’d never lived there. As if that life was someone else’s. Almost.

  “Have you need of more fairy blade steel?”

  Smithy frowned. “Fairy blade steel? The filming for Darby O’Gill and The Little People finished decades ago, lads. Just so you know.”

  “Oh the humour of him,” said Your One, the first one in.

  “Humours of Smithy,” said Your One, the second one in.

  They all laughed. Not Smithy.

  “Just go, lads. I’ve nothing needed.”

  “But we wanted to see,” said Your One, the third one in.

  The three others nodded.

  “There’s nothing to see,” said Smithy. “Nothing at all.” He kept his eyes away from the blade on the bench where the sun, curse it, was shining down in its glory, rimming the new blade in light.

  “Oh, but there is,” said Your One, the first one in. “We can smell the magic.”

  “We can smell it in the blade,” said Your One, the second one in.

  “We can smell it on you,” said Your One, the third one in.

  Smithy looked at Your One, the fourth one in. “Nothing to say?” he said.

  Your One, the fourth one, shrugged.

  Smithy rolled his eyes. “Nothing to see here lads, really there isn’t. Yes, I used the metal and tried my hand. But that’s all it was. And all it has been, you know that.”

  They all looked at one another and began to laugh.

  “Ah, Smithy, aren’t you the devil,” said Your One, the first one.

  And just like that, they left. Your Ones. The Watchers. Just like that and every other time.

  But it wasn’t just like every other time, Smithy knew it and he felt uneasy.

  Saoirse returned soon after the Watchers departed. She had on her boots, sock stockings and skirt, but she still wore his T-shirt and he found that he was glad of it. At the sight of her smile and the light in her eyes when she entered, the uneasy feelings were successfully pushed aside. She came to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.

  “Well, are you going to help me set the world afire and forge a whole new experience?”

  “And what else would I do?”

  She squeezed his waist. “Then set to, my lord.”

  He felt the little thrill that she’d carried the playful banter from the day before through to now. Sure, that meant something? Something added to all the other things that were piled up now, piled so high he couldn’t see in front of himself or behind.

  He scooped up a clump of her hair, still hanging loose. “We should tie this back, first. Though your hair might be the colour of flames, I would hate for it to become a head of flames.”

  Laughing, she started to gather it together, but he put a hand to stop her. “Let me. Please.”

  She gave no reply, just nodded. Smithy brushed the hair off her shoulders and collected up all of it in his hands, smoothing it carefully as he went. It was so soft, thick and silken to the touch. He wanted to bury his face in it, smell its sweet scent, but he made himself section it off and begin to plait it, weaving slowly, loving how the locks twined and slipped through his fingers. When he was done, he tucked the plait inside her T-shirt and patted her back.

  “There now, hazard removed.”

  “Thank you. I feel safer now.”

  “I should hope so, my lady.”

  “My brave and handsome knight.”

  “Handsome?” he asked, his tone teasing.

  “Of course. I would have no other kind of knight.”

  He laughed at those words from this strange girl. What girl in this age, these times, spoke like this? Not the kind of banter he was used to hearing. Not that he was complaining, not at all.

  He moved over to the small press near the bench and retrieved a pair of safety glasses.

  “More hazard avoidance,” he said, handing them to her. “We can’t have any harm come to your lovely eyes.”

  “Lovely?”

  “Of course. I would have no other kind for my lady.”

  She laughed this time and he drew her over to the bench and began to tell her about smith work. She listened attentively, nodding and asking intelligent questions. Soon, it became more than just a cursory demonstration in which he would include her in only the most basic parts, but a real lesson with a prospective craftsperson. She was quick, she was a natural,
even as she gripped the tongs and heated a small piece of ordinary steel, readying it for shaping. He hadn’t thought to make a blade with her, not in the beginning. He had decided to try something simple, just a shape beaten from a thin piece of metal, but he found himself explaining the process of making a blade. Maybe it was from her questions, or her quick understanding, but that’s where it led and he could only follow.

  When the shaping began and she lifted the hammer, Smithy could see the absolute focus in her eyes and the true aim of her hammer. He saw the muscles tighten, even as he issued the instructions in a soft voice, repeating his earlier explanations. His voice coaxed and supported. As he stood close behind her, watching and supervising, he began to feel the hum rise inside of him. He closed his hand around hers that held the tongs when he thought there was a slight shake and the hum rose to a roar. The roar exploded as he grasped her other hand, giving it his strength and support as they hammered the blade into shape. The roaring sparked and lit into stars that coursed and danced inside him, outside him and around them both. He’d never felt this, not ever in this world. She pressed against him and the feel of her back against his chest, her buttocks against his groin set him afire and the sparks flew off him and circled her.

  “My god, Smithy,” Saoirse whispered softly.

  But Smithy couldn’t speak. The magic was in him. The magic was around him, it was filling the room and creating something out of the blade in front of him. No need for the magic-filled metal. They had created it on their own. The blade itself was pure magic.

  With few words, he helped her plunge it in the water to temper it and worked with her through the next steps. There was nothing he could say, for no words came to his mind that she would understand, accept or need. That she felt something of what had happened couldn’t be denied. But he could offer nothing to her should she ask, because, above all, he had no understanding of it himself. This strange mortal girl had found ways to unlock so much of him and who he was, without even knowing it. If indeed it had been her, but before that thought was given full voice he knew there was no doubt. There was something special about her and though he knew it should make him cautious, he could only surrender to her and how completely undone he felt.

  When the blade was finished and laid gleaming on the bench, Saoirse turned from admiring their handiwork and looked at him. She reached her hand up and stroked his face, her hazel eyes holding his. They’d gone greener now in the sun that poured from the roof light, and he caught his breath with the sight of them. His skin was hot, racing still with the sparks that lingered and circled his body. Saoirse closed the distance and kissed him slowly, deeply. He responded at the instant of her touch, all of the magic and fire pouring into the kiss and spreading out. And the magic and fire raged between them, binding them, fusing them into one. And all Smithy could think was how glorious it felt as, clothes removed and they lay naked on the shed floor, the two became one.

  He had one more night with her. The two of them couldn’t break away, couldn’t part. Not just yet. So another text was sent and her grandmother’s reply was more humorous than annoyed so they could relax and Smithy could woo his lady the rest of the evening. They made time for a little music, some conversation and food, but the rest was spent together body as well as soul, as if any time apart was time lost.

  So, when the morning came and Smithy reluctantly admitted to himself that his work was looming and she said she had to get fresh clothes on, the two agreed that they would part, but only for now. Only for now and the now would become then, the then that would have them back together again.

  Oh, this mortal girl, Smithy thought as he cleared away the breakfast things, how she weaved me in her lovely web. And I’m a willing captive. He gave a mental snort at his soppy self. A fool for love, yes indeed. Wasn’t that the song?

  “I’m ready,” said Saoirse, coming into the kitchen. She had her flute case in her hand and the whistle tucked safely in her soft leather jacket.

  Smithy sighed at the sight of her. She was beautiful, so innocent and untouched. Well almost, he thought wickedly. He’d touched her most thoroughly over the past few days.

  He leaned over and kissed her. “Right, so. I’ll take you back on the bike.”

  “Ah, you don’t have to,” she said. “I can walk. It’s only a fine mist out there.”

  “Don’t be silly. It will be quicker and save your clothes.”

  She grinned. “You just want me gripping you tightly for a little while longer.”

  He gave her a mock pout. “You found me out, so you have.”

  She nudged him gently and they both laughed. Smithy pulled on his own jacket, took her hand and led her out of the house to the small shed where the bike was parked. He handed her a spare helmet and put on his own. When it was secured he rocked the bike off its stand and rolled it out of the shed. Saoirse followed and waited while he started it and then climbed on behind him. He felt her push up close behind him, her legs gripping close to his, her hands tight around his waist. It felt good, almost too good and he tried not to think of her breasts up against him.

  They rode the bike up the back road towards her grandmother’s house. Saoirse pointed when to turn and he followed her directions without any thought but the feel of her and how soon he could make the few days pass until she would come again for another few days. Maybe he could persuade her to stay longer. Forever. The thought didn’t send the panic through him that in any other instant it would and he let it settle on him. Forever. Well, her forever, let’s face it, thought Smithy. Not his forever. But that would do.

  Saoirse tapped his arm and pointed. “In there,” she shouted.

  He pulled the bike up suddenly, too shocked to do anything else. The bike stalled.

  Saoirse pulled off her helmet. “No, it’s grand, you can pull into the yard there.”

  “You live here?” asked Smithy, his voice choked. He could barely get the words out.

  “Well, yes. At least this is my grandmother’s house.” She dismounted from the bike and went to face him.

  “No,” said Smithy. “No, it can’t be.”

  “What?”

  A figure emerged from the side of the house. Smithy nodded to the figure.

  “You don’t mean…is she your grandmother?”

  “Goibhniu,” said Saoirse’s grandmother.

  Smithy turned to look at her. He removed his helmet, if only to give his rage, his horror, his feeling of betrayal, room.

  “What have you done?” he roared. “What the fuck is going on? Whatever it is, I’m having no part of it.

  “She’s here to help you,” said Saoirse’s grandmother. “Admit it, it’s true. Have you not felt it, seen it?”

  “She’s gone,” he yelled.

  “You know that’s not true,” she said. “Deep down you know that. And haven’t these past few days confirmed it?”

  “I told you no,” said Smithy. “I can’t do it. End of story. The magic is gone. Bríd is gone. And I’m partly to blame. Nothing can change that. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

  “You know that’s not true either. Any of it. You can and will do it. She’s not gone, she’s here. And you are not to blame.”

  Saoirse grabbed Smithy’s arm. “What’s going on? What are you talking about? Who’s Goibhniu? Who’s Bríd?”

  Smithy stared at her, assessing her, but his mind screamed, his soul agonised. No, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t revisit that pain or risk more.

  “Get your grandmother to tell you.” He said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He gave Saoirse a dark look, started the motorbike and drove off.

  15

  Saoirse

  I stared after Smithy as he retreated up the road on his motorbike, still shocked by the exchange I’d just witnessed. What had happened? I just didn’t understand it. All the joy, the emotion, and yes, the love I’d felt developing over the last few days wilted under the onslaught of his recent actions. Assault. That’s what it had felt like, in truth. Sla
ughter, a cutting down. A slashing, burning of everything inside me that had blossomed. I was numb.

  I turned slowly to my grandmother. “What did he mean? Why did he say all those things?” I fought the tears that threatened suddenly to overwhelm me. “He acted as if he hated you.” I swallowed. “And hated me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you,” my grandmother said. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite. He loves you. Too much, maybe, but that’s how it’s meant to be.”

  My head snapped up at her words. “What do you mean by that? Stop being so cryptic. What is going on? Who’s Goibhniu? Who’s Bríd?”

  My grandmother gestured to me. “Come inside. It’s wet enough standing here. We’ll have a cup of tea and you can ask your questions then.”

  I knew she was right and reluctantly I followed her inside. I wouldn’t let my questioning rest for long. I was determined to get some answers from her. I swallowed the pain that rose, the music inside me now drifted into a mournful air, the dance solemn, yearning for a partner that had gone quiet. Had left. A flare of anger took me by surprise. I’d done nothing. Nothing to bring on the onslaught of vitriol and rage that Smithy had directed towards my grandmother. And me.