Awakening the Gods Read online

  Who was he fooling? It was neither, said his mind, which tossed that fact his way just as it had the reprimands. It was pride and hurt and hurt and pride. And hurt pride. Untangle that, said his mind. Untangle that and get hold of yourself. Cop on.

  “Goibhniu.”

  Smithy blinked and looked across at the gate. Anu. The sight of her was startling on so many counts. She had never sought him out here at the forge. Never. His forge was his demesne, his place that was him and she’d let him be there. Always met him or contacted him through others and out and about. So the sight of her there, standing at his threshold, gave him pause.

  “What is it?” he asked. He studied her carefully. There was nothing in her expression or her manner that suggested anything but one neighbour calling to another.

  “Am I welcome in?” she asked, her voice pleasant.

  “Of course,” he said. “Come away inside.”

  He led her into the kitchen and offered her a chair at the table. Hastily, he cleared away the clutter and piled it on the counter and in the sink.

  “Cup of tea?” he asked. What else would he do? What other hospitality could he possibly offer in this strange world of inbetween and not? There was no protocol for this, no rules of welcome cups and platters of food. Servants waiting, a harper at the ready. Nothing royal or high table about this tidy little house with its tidy little kitchen.

  She laughed, sensing his thoughts, he had no doubt. He shrugged the shrug of helplessness, frustration and bewilderment that this scene had created and waited for her cue.

  “Tea, of course,”

  He made the tea, not in the cup as he would usually do, but in a teapot he dug out from the back of the press. He didn’t realise he was doing it and still wondered that he’d done it until he poured the hot water in there and waited for it to steep. Did that mean the milk went in the jug? He sighed, retrieved the small jug and put it on the counter, then poured the milk into it. All the time he was conscious of Anu, sitting, watching, assessing.

  Eventually, the teapot, jug, mugs (not cups!) were on the table along with a plate of biscuits. It was the best he could offer. He never had fresh cake or anything else that might usually be on offer. As it was, he’d had to endure her smile and eyes as each item was placed on the table. Was the smile because she recognised his indecision about the kind of hospitality he should offer? A “what was right” series of moments that left him feeling foolish? Or the even deeper reason in that it put off the moment when they would have to talk. When he would have to listen and then reply. To make the refusal, to make the explanation.

  It was probably and undoubtedly both. Anu knew. Knew him, knew the parts that made him up.

  She lifted the teapot and poured the tea first into his mug and then hers. Delicately, but not. It was a manner that was wholly hers. She pushed the mug towards Smithy and he grasped it like a lifeline. Like something to hold on to that was more than a mere mug of tea.

  “This is important, Goibhniu,” she said, her voice calm and even.

  “I know,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and indicated to the table. To the fact that she was here, enjoying his meagre hospitality and only something vital would draw her here.

  “It’s Balor.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s here.”

  “In Ireland? On this land?”

  She nodded. “He’s getting bolder, more aggressive in his reach and his exploits.”

  Smithy shook his head in disbelief. “The bastard. He knows he’s not to set foot in this world on Eire. He knows it.”

  “We’ve allowed him to establish himself across the ocean, in America. I hoped he would be content with that and it would give us time.”

  Smithy frowned. He knew about time and how it tricked you, made you feel you had it and then you didn’t. He’d learned that bitter lesson to long ago. The long ago that no longer figured in numbers.

  “He outwits us again, it seems,” said Smithy. “He has darkness and vitriol as his power.”

  “All the more reason that we must defeat him. Soon. Now.”

  “So the time is now?” Smithy said sceptically. “And does time agree with that statement?”

  She frowned at him. “Goibhniu, I know you suffered terribly. First from losing Bríd, your heart’s mate, to Bres, and then losing her again in death.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “You don’t think I suffered with her loss? With all the losses? With the pain and misery that I feel every day as this land is assaulted and tortured in so many ways?”

  Smithy stared at her and tapped into something deep. It was there waiting to come up, spill forth. “You have experienced loss. Of course. It’s who you are, it’s what you are.” He took a deep breath. “What I am experiencing…. What I am living is loss, but not loss. It’s living and not living, it’s guilt and not guilt. It’s an emotion for things I did and things I didn’t do and things that were not of my making. Events that weren’t of my making. The force of magic and power that run through my body are destroyed, poisoned, shrivelled and dried up. I am a husk of nothing.”

  Anu leaned forward and placed a hand on Smithy’s. “I say again. It wasn’t your fault. You did all you could and more. The only poison is within you.”

  Smithy snatched his hand away. “You. Know. Nothing.”

  Anu sighed. “But still, you can help. Balor is here, now. In this land where he should never step foot.”

  “What can I do? Did you not hear? I have nothing. No magic.”

  “He’s in Cork,” she said, ignoring his words. “Visiting one of his subsidiaries. Apparently he wants to form a company and join one of the other petrochemical companies and begin fracking.”

  “Fracking?” Smithy said, sidetracked. “That’s a new area for him, isn’t it?”

  “He’s started doing it in America. He has a company set up for it there under his energy company.”

  Smithy shook his head. “That’s crazy. He wouldn’t get approval, surely?”

  “Oh, Goibhniu, you know better than that. The way business and government work, it will only be a matter of time.”

  Oh, that tricky bastard “time” again. He sighed. He did know better. But it still made him angry. Furious, in fact. That bastard and his poison was still trying to create chaos and ruin. His vengeance for long-ago ills and grievances over events that happened and were from his own making, truth be told. Balor’s daughter was long dead and any shame attached to an unwanted birth lived on in her glorious son, Lugh.

  The irony of the situation suddenly struck him and he snorted. Bríd’s story was not dissimilar.

  “What is it?” said Anu.

  He shook his head. He wouldn’t say it. Until his thoughts drifted sideways. “Saoirse. You’re certain she’s in Dublin?”

  Anu looked at him curiously. “Yes. Well, she was last week. Why?”

  He shook his head again. “No reason in particular, except that if Balor’s wandering around it’s best if she’s far away from him.”

  Anu cocked her head, a small smile on her face. “And why is that, Goibhniu?” she said softly.

  “The glamour. Morrigan said the glamour is slipping. And if she’s looking more like Bríd now…” he stopped and frowned. “Well, if it’s true and she is Bríd, then she’s in danger.”

  “It is true.”

  It was true. The words echoed in his mind. That same mind that had tossed reprimands and all sorts at him now agreed with Anu. She was Bríd. And his heart, the one that had been through quite a bit in the last while, ached.

  Anu leaned forward again and this time took up his hand. “Goibhniu. We need to make sure she’s safe.”

  Smithy raised his eyes to hers. “Yes. We do.”

  They both knew that Balor, once he’d seen Bríd, would stop at nothing to kill her and ensure that there was no bringing her back this time. Bríd was key. Bríd was his key. His life’s blood. His magic’s life. And together their magic was so ver
y powerful in what they could create together. One magic, whole.

  “I’ll send Morrigan this time. We’ll check that she’s still in Dublin and keep track of her.”

  Smithy nodded. “I should go to her, though. Try to make it right. Try….”

  Anu squeezed his hand. “Yes, Goibhniu. But first, we’ll send Morrigan.”

  Smithy nodded again. His mind said “practical” but his heart screamed “no, go now.” It was a war he didn’t know who would win.

  Anu won. At least that’s what it felt to Smithy as he rode his motorbike east towards Cork. She talked him in circles and sideways and every way that led to the bike heading east. Morrigan had headed towards Dublin on Anu’s instructions, her wings taking her there in no time, but still, that feckin’ beggar time hadn’t provided enough for him to wait to hear what Morrigan had to say. It was “now” that took over and here he was, the mobile phone in his T-shirt pocket, pressed against his chest so that he would know if Morrigan had news. As the crow flies, even in its literal sense, hadn’t been quick enough.

  The road was busy going through Macroom. He snorted impatiently, crawling up the hill and then through the bottleneck narrowed street curves to the other side. Once free of the bottleneck, it seemed to slow down again, only to eventually free up. He longed for the open stretches and then to the bypass where he could really make good time. But this was a day for stop-go systems, happy shoppers and “must make the appointment” people all heading to the city, and any progress was thwarted among the myriad cars that lined the roads.

  The slow progress only contrasted to the busy thoughts that warred in his mind. No reprimands issued this time, only contradictory thoughts and feelings who tried to box clever with each other. The feelings didn’t explain or rationalise, they declaimed, they emoted and displayed all their intuition to show him that he could never doubt who Saoirse was. The thoughts were cool and calm with just a hint of disdain that arguments would ever be proven on such flimsy platforms as feelings. It was all about what was possible, what could happen. But Smithy knew. Smithy knew that the platform was built on something stronger. It was magic and it was Bríd.

  Smithy pulled his bike up and slipped into a parking space just along the quay. It was just about big enough for his bike. He removed his helmet and stared out across the river to the high rise building. If he’d been in any doubt about the location of Balor’s offices, the placard-holding protesters outside confirmed it. He could hear their shouts and chants from here. It wasn’t quite a mob, but they certainly weren’t the happiest bunch. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or bad. He certainly wouldn’t be upset if one of them chose to maim Balor.

  He swung his leg over the bike and locked his helmet to the frame. His curiosity grew and he began to walk along the quay to the bridge and then across it. As he drew closer to the protesters he could see that it was more than just your usual enthusiastic environmentalists, but a mixture of ages, genders and types. Their signs decried not just the fracking but the destructive evil of Balor Energy Group. Smithy allowed himself a satisfied grunt of appreciation that finally people saw through this charlatan who spouted jobs and prosperity. Who boasted of the number of school computers he’d purchased, of the schools he supported in so many ways they were beholden and, in his mind, enslaved to his view of the world.

  He approached the crowd and tried to peer over their heads to the door of the building. There was no sign of Balor as far as he could tell, or anyone else that might be representing him and his company. But the protesters were obviously here for a reason.

  He moved towards a woman who seemed fierce enough and old enough to have some idea of things.

  “Anything happening?” he said. “Is there going to be an announcement?”

  She turned to look at him and nodded. “That bastard should be out any minute. To address our concerns.” She said sarcastically. She snorted. “It’s all talk. Talk, talk, talk. Serious about concerns, in his hole.”

  Smithy fought back the urge to laugh and managed a nod. “He’s a bastard all right. There’s nothing to argue there.”

  She looked at him and grinned. “You sound as if you know that personally.”

  He shrugged. “No need to know him personally to realise that.”

  “Did you want a placard?” she asked.

  “I’m just here to shout. I think that’s enough for me,” said Smithy.

  She laughed. “I’ve come down from Dublin, so I feel the need to carry a placard and shout.”

  “Dublin, eh? Your commitment is admirable.”

  “Ah, no. They are protesting up there, but they sent most of us down here because he’s here. He’s due to fly out tomorrow. That’s if the deal goes through.” She emphasised “deal” with a sneer.

  “Ah. Of course. I’d heard something like that. Well, I’m all for lending my voice,” he said.

  He scanned the crowd and saw that it had grown even in the time he’d had the conversation with the woman. He even saw a few cameras and members of the media. It stirred something inside him. Was that hope? He tamped it down, because, unlike anyone else here in this crowd, or among all the activists in this country, the government and the businesspeople who made deals with Balor, Smithy knew how completely evil Balor was. And even worse, how powerful he was. And no one else, except for the Tuatha De Danann that were left in this world, could come even close to hope to defeat him.

  A roar went up in the crowd. Smithy looked over their heads to the door of the building. A group of people emerged, among them a powerfully built man with dark, greying hair, a beard and an eye patch. Smithy stared, paralysed by the intensity of seeing this man after such a long time. The time that stretched and bent and kept you waiting so it seemed like forever. But it wasn’t forever, and Smithy now knew it hadn’t been long enough. The hatred, the vitriol and the utter rage rose up inside him and it was all he could do not to rush forward and take the man down with whatever he could bring to hand.

  23

  Saoirse

  We neared Galway and the silence still reigned. No word, not a sound came from Luke’s tightly pursed mouth, so it was left to me to imagine and create the narrative in my head. The “why” taken from the “whynot” to do a solo flight and zoom around in my head to parse out actions and words.

  It had all gone wrong when we surfed. That much was clear. Up until then, there had been nothing but joy and more joy in our actions and interactions. The lesson, though awkward at first, was nothing but fun and eventually successful. I’d ridden the waves, then watched him glide and ride like a conqueror. The joy was evident in every lean and sway of his body. When he’d emerged from the shore, sleek as any seal, his friend had reinforced and celebrated his success and prowess. But then the friend had pointed, gestured and talked. It was at that point it had all collapsed.

  I didn’t know this friend, not from Adam or any other man that had crossed my path. He couldn’t know me, could he? I allowed it was possible here in Ireland, where the degrees of separation were no degrees at all. But what person could he know who would paint me in such a light that Luke would react, no recoil, to such a degree? There was no one I could recall.

  The “why” hung out and crossed lazily back and forth, wearing a path but going nowhere. I sighed and tried to toss it aside, look at the view out my window and plan what I was going to do.

  “I’ll let you off at the railway station at Galway,” Luke said, breaking the silence. “I-I’m not going back to Dublin. I have to head away north.”

  I stared at him, too astonished for any response.

  “I’ll pay for your fare, not to worry about that,” he said. He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on the road, gripped the steering wheel for dear life and fell silent again.

  I turned to my window again and nodded my head. The “why” grew bigger and was almost mocking me as it danced about and swung back and forth against the lie he just uttered. “Head away north” in my eye, I thought. The silence cont
inued its barrier and the wall of it turned from brick to granite as I spied the railway station building up ahead. A few minutes later he pulled up outside, drew out some twenties from his pocket and tossed them towards me.

  “Oh, feck off with yourself,” I said.

  I got out of the jeep, retrieved my backpack from the seat behind and slammed the door, leaving the twenties on the floor of the SUV. It was a gesture I could ill afford at the moment, with a dubious credit card and a debit card on hazard red, but I wasn’t going to do anything to ease his conscience.

  Inside the station, my prayers I learned at boarding school all lined up and ready to go in my head, I waited in the queue at the ticket counter and hoped those prayers would join those wings and make me a woman with a ticket. It wasn’t until I got to the counter and the man asked me the “where” that realised I had assembled the wings and prayers for the payment but the not the destination. Would I go to Dublin? Or would I go elsewhere? And suddenly I knew. Or maybe the wings and prayers told me.

  “Cork,” I said.

  The name came as if it had been pulled from the bottle that had contained my anger and frustration, not only from Luke and his outrageous behaviour, but everything else. The Lukes be damned, along with the Smithys and grandmothers who weren’t grandmothers. To fathers who behaved like business supervisors, and the years of boarding school holidays, and a useless degree that saw no blossoming talent but a barista as its crowning achievement.

  And there I was—suffused, infused and exploding with anger, seated on the next train to Cork.

  I emerged from the station in Cork, backpack on, flute case in hand, and was caught up in a stream of people. I was surprised at their number. It was a Saturday, but still, it seemed more than would be expected and so many more than the number of people who’d been here the two other times I’d been in the station.