Awakening the Gods Page 3

  My grandmother shrugged. “A lot of things. He has his fingers in many pots, so,” she said with a cryptic smile. “I haven’t a clue where he is at the moment, as I said.”

  I could hear the hint of a Cork accent that hadn’t been so present before. “Many pots? An entrepreneur?” I asked.

  She laughed. “You could say that.”

  I paused a moment to take in what she’d just told me. “Where are you living?” I asked.

  “Near Ballyvourney, in Cork. I have a small dairy farm there.”

  I frowned. “You farm?” I paused and decided to ask the next question that had been in the back of my mind. “Is my grandfather there with you?”

  “No husband, no. Just me. I have some labourers who help when I need it.”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “There was never a man in the picture,” she said.

  I nodded, not wanting to pry any more than that, but I could imagine a single woman, pregnant back then. A difficult thing. I wondered how she’d managed in an Ireland of that time.

  “You have no other family besides your son?”

  She hesitated. “My family are everywhere, you could say. I’ve lived so long in on that farm now that I feel like I’m everyone’s grandmother.”

  “But you are my grandmother, right? I mean truthfully.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I am.”

  I still had my doubts. It just seemed all a bit too… something. “And what should I call you, then?” I asked lightly. I didn’t really think I needed to know because I wasn’t certain that we’d ever be meeting again.

  “Well, most everyone calls me Anna or Áine. But why don’t you call me Nan. That covers it all, I suppose.”

  “Oh, right. Nan.”

  She smiled brightly. “Now that we have that out of the way, I want to ask you a question.”

  “Can I ask you a few more questions myself, first?”

  “Of course.”

  “My mother. What was she like?”

  Nan gazed out the window for a moment before she turned back to me. “She was beautiful, like you. But I’m sorry, I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  I nodded slowly. “And my father? What’s he like? Besides having a finger in many pots?”

  Nan laughed. “Well, he’s bigger than life, has all the daring and cunning of the most dangerous warrior and he can charm any woman within seconds.”

  I gave her a puzzled look. The description was so strange in itself, being at once so impossible yet vague that it gave little that was tangible. But the words she’d used left me even more confused. Who describes a person as a warrior? This wasn’t some medieval saga or Fenian cycle. Had she spent too much time watching Game of Thrones?

  “I mean, what does he look like? Is he dark or fair? Does he look anything like me?”

  “There is no doubt that he’s your father. He’s fair, but not with your hair colour. And such wonderful hair colour it is.” She raised her hand and touched the braid that was wound around my head as usual. “You have his height and grace,” she added. “But there’s plenty of time for that. At least I hope so.”

  Still vague enough, but I realised that I would have to be satisfied with that for now. I nodded.

  “The purpose of this meeting, well besides explaining our relationship, was to ask you if you would consider coming to visit.”

  “Visit?”

  “Yes. It would be a chance to get to know each other. To try and build a relationship. I would love to have my granddaughter in my life.”

  I felt a pang at her last words. It was all so overwhelming, though. I felt I needed time. But the continued lack of job, the looming eviction from my flat and the mounting bills, meant that time wasn’t really on my side. I regarded the woman, my grandmother who sat before me. What harm could it do to visit her for a month or so? If I didn’t like it I could return to Dublin, maybe kip on friends’ sofas until I got myself sorted. I pushed away the fact that those sofas were few and far between.

  “Oh, right.” I shrugged. “Grand.”

  4

  Smithy

  Smithy threw his hammer across the yard, cursing loudly. He sighed, dropped the tongs on the bench, flipped up his safety glasses and walked over to retrieve the hammer from the ground, just outside the stone shed, where it had landed. It was a stupid thing to have done in so many ways. The damp hung in the April air like a wet blanket, but he was still hot from the heat of the forge. He lifted a muscular arm and wiped his brow on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Sweat blotted, he went back to his anvil, picked up the tongs that held the red hot blade and tried again. He banged for a short while and tried to get lost in the work. Maybe if he didn’t think about trying to get the magic going it would flow from him. But there was nothing. He took a deep breath and cast words to create the spell that would drag it from him. The words came but that was all. He held up the blade. It was well shaped, folded perfectly and would please any craftsman or collector, but nothing more. He could feel no buzz, no hum or spin, none of the elements he would be hard pressed to describe that marked it as a magic blade, regardless of its small size. With resignation he plunged it in the water, knowing he would get no further with it today and if he was to be truthful, any other day. He had to face it once again. He no longer had the magic. No matter what Anu said or anyone else, he didn’t have it and never would. He’d lost the magic long ago. He could fight battles and even acknowledged to himself that he wouldn’t refuse to fight when the time came, as it was surely coming, but he would be no more than a warrior who would rely on the ordinary capability of weapons, whether he’d fashioned them or not.

  Sighing, he put down his tools on the nearby bench, removed his safety glasses and scattered the coals of the furnace so the heat would dissipate. It was no use, really. He looked around the limewashed shed that served as his forge and surveyed the clutter of his tools and failed efforts. He had the makings of enough swords and knives to outfit a small band of warriors. Battalion? Troop? Isn’t that what they called it nowadays? He tried to comfort himself with the fact that each sword and knife would serve credibly to anyone who chose to wield one. But of course no one used such weapons now, except actors. He smiled grimly. And re-enactors. He was half tempted to gather up all these failures and bury them in the field. But he knew he wouldn’t.

  With one last glance around to ensure that everything was safe, Smithy exited the shed, shut the door and clicked the padlock shut. It was late enough. He would fix a bite to eat. When he got inside his small kitchen, a rundown appendage to the original one that now served as a sitting room come most everything else room, he found he wasn’t that hungry. He eyed the nearly full bottle of Powers whiskey that beckoned him from the shelf above the cramped table and opted for a bit of the uisce beatha. He pulled it down from the shelf, grabbed a glass and sat at the table. He poured a generous amount and drank deeply, the fiery liquid sliding down his throat. An appreciative sigh escaped him. A good choice, so, he thought.

  He sat there, slowly enjoying his drink, his mind bent on nothing but savouring its taste. It was an enjoyment that lasted perhaps five or ten minutes before the niggling worry and doubts crept back inside. Feck it, he told himself, angrily. He hadn’t come back here all those years ago for this. He got up, shoved the whiskey bottle back on the shelf and went to the fridge to look for something to eat.

  Smithy opened the door to the pub and knew at once he’d made the right decision. It was as hot as his forge at the moment, but he didn’t mind. The music was loud and someone was off key, but they were all playing with enthusiasm. It wasn’t a serious, top drawer session, but a bawdy, brash group who liked their pints and the craic. He headed over to the bar first and ordered a Murphy’s. He could nurse that for the better part of the night, a choice made not in part because he’d rode his motorbike down to the village, but also he didn’t want to make a fist flying donkey of himself. The mood he’d been in earlier had been warning enough.

&nbs
p; Pint in hand, he moved over to the tables where the musicians sat along with the hangers on who maybe enjoyed the banter a little more than the music, but were wholehearted nonetheless in their foot tapping and bouncing. He spied Seanie banging away on his banjo and Eamon on his accordion, the sweat pouring down the both of them as if they were doing the marathon. Others were ranged around playing guitar, flutes, whistles, and fiddles. There were even a few god awful bodhran players, hammering away with gusto on the stretched skins, as if they were preparing for some Indian war. Still, he wasn’t here for finesse, he was here to drown out his thoughts.

  He took a proffered stool, sat down and pulled out his fiddle. It was old and battered and had an indifferent tone, but he was accustomed to it and now liked it. It was different, it was comforting in its modern pitch and it wasn’t metal. Though he did make whistles on the rare occasion he found himself persuaded by a very talented player who understood the quality of his craft and begged him to make him a low whistle or even a flute, he would never willingly play anything wind or metal. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, let alone himself, except for the plain and simple fact that he wouldn’t do it.

  He rosined his bow, tested the strings, and turned a few pegs, struggling to hear over the din of the music to tune the fiddle. Finally, he tucked the instrument under his chin and ran the bow along the strings. After a few little tweaks he was satisfied. Tuning his ear in again to the music, he recognised the piece and began to play, tapping his foot automatically to keep the time. It was one of the Kerry jig sets played in the style of a Ceilí band. He could hardly hear himself play for the din of the pub and the music, but that was grand. He played along, relaxed, stopping between tunes to chat with Jerh Connell next to him between the sets, each of them shouting towards respective ears.

  About an hour later and they were all ready for a break, Smithy included. He laid his fiddle down in its case which rested at his feet and rose. Would he head outside for a smoke? He looked around and decided that was his best bet, for the din was still loud and he would have no decent bit of banter in here. He made his way through the crowd towards the front door and opened it, welcoming the cool air that hit him as he stepped outside. There were already several standing outside, smoking and chatting with glass in hand. He nodded at a few he recognised and moved over towards them. Someone caught his arm and he turned to see old Tom Pat Paddy.

  “Smithy,” said Tom Pat Paddy.

  “How are you keeping, Tom?”

  “Grand, grand. Anything strange?”

  Smithy shook his head. He had no news that this old farmer would understand. “You? How’s Mary? She still going to those yoga classes at the hall?”

  Tom scratched his grey stubble and grinned. “That finished. She’s moved onto ceramics, so.”

  “They’re doing that now?”

  Tom shook his head. “Over to Kenmare, some woman does it. All I know is suddenly we’ve got more vases than space and never a cut flower in the house.”

  “Ah, but at least it isn’t garden gnomes.”

  Tom raised his brows. “They might be good for scaring crows, though.”

  Smithy laughed and pulled out a cigarette, offering the pack first to Tom, though he knew he didn’t smoke. The expected refusal given, Smithy pulled out one and lit it. He didn’t do it often, but he felt he deserved it tonight after the day he’d had. After the week he’d had. And if he were to be honest, the months, years and decades he’d had, but he was here to forget all that. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and blew out the smoke a moment later.

  “I wanted a word with you about something,” said Tom, his craggy face a little sheepish. He put his hands in his battered jacket pockets and shuffled nervously. Smithy was instantly curious. This crafty old man was great for an old banter and a good joke, but anything more required a bit of care.

  “No bother. What is it?”

  “Well, you see now, you know Peadar Sullivan over my way?” He paused, waiting for Smithy’s nod and he gave it. “Well he has this cockerel. Have ye heard about his cockerel?”

  Smithy narrowed his eyes. “I might have.”

  “Well if you haven’t then you must be the only one. I can hear the feckin’ thing crowing morning, noon and night.”

  Smithy laughed. “Fair point. What about it?”

  Tom cleared his voice. “Myself and Seanie,” he paused looking around, “we thought we might have a bit of fun, like. You know. Stir it up a bit with him.”

  “I see,” said Smithy in a tone he hoped wasn’t too encouraging.

  Tom nodded and continued. “It’s only a bit of fun, and if you can’t do it, well it’s no bother.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Make a cockerel. You know, one of those weather vane things. And instead of the arrow below the cockerel, pointing the directions, can you put the arrow through the cockerel?”

  “You want me to make a cockerel weathervane.”

  “Yes. You know, in metal.”

  “Fashion it in my forge.”

  Tom nodded. “It’s what you do, isn’t it? Make things in metal? Like gates and things? Well instead of a gate, this would be a small biteen of a thing, just a little weather vane.”

  Smithy gave him a look. “I don’t ordinarily do these kinds of pieces.”

  “But it won’t be much. I can get you a picture of a weather vane if you like.”

  Smithy knew that Tom had no idea what went into creating anything at a forge, let alone a weather vane. The question for Smithy was if he would find the job interesting. He wouldn’t even dignify this request with the word commission because he knew that Tom had no idea the cost involved with a project like this that he was suggesting for a biteen of “fun”. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke, thoughtfully.

  “And where would you be using this…weather vane?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know. “It wouldn’t be for on top of your shed, or your house, would it?”

  “Ah, well it may end up there, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Smithy dryly. He sighed. “Right, fine. I’ll do it. But I can’t promise when it will be finished. I have a few other things on at the moment.”

  Tom frowned. “Oh, right. No bother. But if you could get to it at your earliest convenience…” he pronounced the last phrase carefully.

  Smithy snorted. “Of course. My earliest convenience.”

  Tom grinned and squeezed Smithy’s arm. “Good man yourself.”

  He nodded to Smithy and rejoined his group over at the edge of the building. Smithy was just turning to go back into the pub when he heard a voice.

  “Dhia’s Muire dhuit.”

  Smithy turned and frowned when he spied the dark haired woman. “And exactly which god and Mary do you mean, Maura the Rookery?” he asked in a low mocking tone. Mocking because he knew what a mockery this whole exchange was.

  “What do you mean?” asked Maura. The mischievous grin on her face belied the innocence of her question.

  “God and Mary be with you, too,” he replied, his brows raised.

  She laughed. “Ah, don’t be like that, Smithy,” she said, emphasising his name the way he’d done hers. “It was only a bit of fun. I meant no harm.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Smithy. “What exactly do you want?”

  “Ooooh. Straight to the point. I’m hurt you don’t want a bit of a catch up first. It has been a while.”

  “Not long enough for me.”

  Maura rolled her eyes and laughed. “You don’t mean that, really. I know. Why, you used to thrive on the very meaning of my existence.”

  Smithy narrowed his eyes. “Stop the banter, Maura, and get on with it. I’ve no patience for you.”

  Maura pulled her face into an offended expression. “Well, and I’m only having an innocent conversation. No need for rudeness.” She pulled a cigarette out and lit it. The cigarette was one she’d obviously rolled previously and now, smelling it as the smok
e wafted from her lips, contained a scent that seemed laden with tar and death. “It’s Anu,” she said finally after a few drags. “She wants to see you.”

  Smithy shrugged. “So?”

  Maura snorted. “So, she wants to see you.”

  “Good for her. I don’t want to see her.”

  Maura studied him and then gave a toss of her head. “Well, I’ve delivered my message. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Things are afoot. Wouldn’t it be better to find out what they are? They do say forewarned is forearmed.”

  “And what things are they, Maura? Or are you just trying to stir things up as usual?”

  Maura cocked her head. “Well that’s for you to decide.” She turned around and walked into the night, a trail of smoke in her wake.

  5

  Saoirse

  I stepped down from the bus and looked around me. The traffic passed by busily on its way to Kerry, I supposed, since there was little else besides a row of houses, a few shops, a carpark and a post office that gave evidence to a village. Very “Ballyrural”, but still there was something about it I found…something.

  I pulled my suitcase off to the side and prepared to wait. To my horror whispering greeted my ears but when I turned to look behind me there wasn’t anything there. I breathed a sigh of relief. This time obviously, it was just my imagination. I was tense and excited about this journey and what would be at the end of it. Sure, that was it. I hadn’t seen or heard from those…men, people, for a week at least and I hoped I would leave them in Dublin.

  When I’d travelled down here the train journey had passed by at an alarming rate, my music unable to calm the nervousness I’d felt about this woman who claimed to be my nan, a thought that still felt strange. The “who was she, why now really, who the feck could believe all that’d happened” thoughts streamed through my mind.

  Once in Cork, I’d made my way to the bus station, half convinced that I should just turn around and head back to Dublin and the world I knew. But the bus was right there when I arrived and so it seemed fated, destined and all the other “meant to be” sayings, so I climbed on. Soon the bus was lumbering out of the city and onto the main artery, with the cityscape giving away all too quickly to the rural countryside. The thought stream resumed and my implied sophistication of a boarding school life followed by university seemed all too remote in the face of visiting a strange woman at a strange house in a community I’d never been to. Any feelings that it was a happy opportunity that I’d thought in Dublin now felt like a stupid feckin’ notion of a right eejit.