Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy (7 page)

Brenawyn pulled back to look him in the eye. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Brenawyn, ah am no’ hurt. How’s the lassie?”

“Oh, thank the Lord for small mercies. Maggie probably needs to go to the hospital. Nana’s called 911. What of Buchanan?”

“Ah, the couart ran as soon as he could. It didna last long after ye left. I gave chase ta see if he’d circle back ‘round. He’s gone for the noo.”

On the porch, after the police and the EMTs left, Brenawyn locked the door and turned to face Alex. “Do you know that your accent gets much stronger when you’re upset?”

Smiling, “Aye, I ha’ been told tha’ it dae.”

Brenawyn stood on her toes to plant a soft kiss on Alex’s cheek. “Thank you, for what you’ve done for Maggie tonight.”

Surprised by the sudden contact, he inhaled her scent of jasmine and roses, and before she could move away he wrapped his arm about her waist, pulled her nearer, and kissed her back. Her lips were soft and pliant and she melted into him. Taking this as a sign of acceptance, he moved to deepen the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers. She reached up to bury her hands in his hair, and he tightened his grip around her waist. Breaking off, he kissed her mouth, her cheek, her earlobe, and down her neck. Glancing up, he caught their reflection in the glass of the window. Her shirt had ridden up an inch or so and his hand partly covered the silky skin of her exposed back. On his hand and half way up his arm glowed iridescent runes. He stiffened and began to pull away. Brenawyn made a soft protest, but relinquished her hold on him.

Misreading the look on his face, she mumbled apologies, abashed by her wanton behavior. She didn’t know what had come over her. Alex pulled her chin up so she was looking at him, “Doonae apologize. Let’s go collect yer family.”

Chapter 9

The morning of the ceremony dawned, and Brenawyn busied herself with her morning ablutions, deciding to dress in a white smocked eyelet sundress. She had returned to the room to put the finishing touches to her make-up when she went utterly still as she looked down on the dressing table. Guilt washed over her as she glimpsed a familiar gold ring settled in the velvet of her open jewelry box.

She slid on the ring, feeling its familiar weight at the base of her finger, and she was back there. Candlelight glowed in the cozy community church.
To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish
… Liam brought her hand up to his lips as he slipped the ring on her finger and sealed it with a kiss.
From this day forward until death do you part.

Death.

She ripped the ring off and shoved it in the bottom of the dresser drawer.

Her therapist’s words echoed in her head. It was acceptable to begin to have feelings for another man. In fact, how many times had he urged her to start dating? Before, she felt that it would be disloyal, or worse yet, unfaithful to the man she claimed to have loved, if she were to date again. The fact that she hadn’t had one thought of Liam this morning, or during the last week when she was with Alex, scared her more than the thought of dating faceless bland men whom she would quickly decide she had nothing in common.

Just a span of hours later, the memory of the vows she had made long ago again fell by the wayside when she walked into the office to retrieve the robe and took in Alex swathing his naked hips in a striking kilt of red and green plaid. Perhaps he didn’t hear the click of the door over the din of the busy storefront?
What’s the harm in looking,
she tried to justify in her head as she leaned against the door jamb, but a squeak from the damned hinges had Alex look up.

“Hello, Brenawyn.” He finished belting the kilt and turned to meet her gaze. “Sorry, Leo told me ta use th’ office ta change since I didna want ta walk from my apartment haur like this.”

Her face must have given her away—it was on fire—because he sauntered over, lowering his voice to a flirtatious whisper, enjoying her apparent discomfort, “It causes too much trouble for my taste, with th’ lasses swooning, and their men looking for a fight. Are ye in danger of swooning, lass?” he asked playfully.

Brenawyn rolled her eyes and gave a half-hearted attempt at an insouciant shrug, but she was too distracted by fantasies involving her tongue and the swirling tattoos in crimson and indigo that decorated the right side of his tightly-sculpted chest and abdomen. “Of course not. I don’t swoon.”

She tried to tear her eyes away, but they were drawn back to the red and blue, so vibrant, so very vibrant, on his golden skin.

“Did you just get these?” She put out a tentative hand, but stopped mid-reach as embarrassment hit. She was shocked that she had been about to touch his naked chest without an invitation to do so.

He closed the meager distance and trapped her hand against his chest. “I have had these for more years than I care to remember.”

The pressure of his hand over hers relaxed and she traced part of a curve with a fingertip, “Do they have any meaning, or are they just designs?”

Alex stepped away, putting a hand to his rib cage. She could swear a look of sadness crossed his face, but he twisted to pace away into the small office. Reaching the opposite wall, he turned and leaned back on the credenza.

“Thaur’s a myth about a man who was enslaved by Cernunnos.” With a sweep of his hand indicating the tattoos, “These are the embodiment of the incantation to make him immortal, temporarily, to serve the god’s will.”

“What did the god want of him?”

“His continuing task is ta find th’ god’s daughter who was lost ta th’ ages.”

“Another child?”

“Ah, th’ ways and will o’ th’ gods is no’ for mortals ta judge.”

“But why didn’t the god go after her himself if he was so concerned?”

“Perhaps it was ta save her from fright. She didna ken tha’ she was th’ daughter o’ a god, and perhaps he was concerned tha’ his countenance would frighten her.”

“The daughter never knowing her father, the father forever mourning his daughter, and the man searching ceaselessly to find her, and he but a slave himself—very sad.” Brenawyn considered the story. “The story is Celtic?”

“Yes, why?”

“Being an expert in the field of Celtic mythology, I thought you’d have a deeper insight into what it reveals about its people or their customs.”

Carefully considering her question, Alex answered, “Perhaps it’s a metaphor. Th’ man ceaselessly devoted ta finding th’ daughter o’ th’ god compared ta th’ people’s unerring devotion ta th’ preservation o’ their religion,” shrugging his shoulder. “But in my experience, people tend ta complicate matters. Wha’ would ye say if I told ye ‘tis true?”

“Then it’s even more tragic because it speaks to the futility of life. If it were true, I’m idealistic, and the romantic streak in me cries for the successful end to the man’s search.”

Alex bent to stuff his clothes in a rucksack and chuckled, “And I suppose ye want th’ man ta fall in love with her, too.”

“Happy endings are always good.”

“Aye, they are, but rarely seen in th’ tomes o’ any mythology.”

She scoffed, “Rarely seen in real life too.”

“I am sorry about yer man.” He rose to his feet, “Leo told me.”

Oh God. I’m carrying on like a fool. I am married— was married
, she corrected,
if only…
Tears threatened to flow.

Brenawyn glanced down at the desk when she heard metal strike the wood. Two gold armbands and a primitive scrimshaw neckpiece were on the desk. She reached out to touch it mainly to disrupt his attempt to pull her into his arms.
Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me. If you do, I’ll start to cry, and shit, I might not ever stop,
she screamed in her head.

Alex stopped mid-reach, “I’m sorry ta ha’ brought him up.” He sighed, and reached to fasten the neckpiece on, but looked at it, considering, and handed it to her instead.

Accepting this distraction, she stroked the yellowed ivory and the cool gold caps, running her fingers along the engravings of a bear, a hawk, a leopard, and a wolf.

“Tis old. ‘Tis supposed ta be th’ ornaments,” indicating the armbands as well with the swish of his hand, “o’ th’ last Druid Shaman.”

Interested, she looked up, “Oh, Nana was telling me something about him,” and blushed deeply when she remembered the context in which she’d heard of him.

Alex raised an eyebrow and a smile curved his lips, “I think I need to listen to yer grandmother’s stories. They seem as if they would be more, hm, interesting than mine.”

“So why would the shaman have it carved in this way?”

“According ta th’ story, all shamans’ torcs were made o’ ivory ta allow for engravings ta be added as needed.”

Brows knit together, Brenawyn started to ask another question, but he continued. “It was said th’ shamans could shape shift ta any animal they chose, but in order ta dae so they had ta focus on th’ form o’ th’ animal, hence th’ carvings. Th’ shaman himself would carve th’ likeness. To ha’ another dae it would mean th’ loss o’ th’ magic.”

She was still admiring the piece in her hands when he reached for it, pulling lightly in the back. A clasp, cleverly hidden by the design, appeared.

“May I?” she asked, still determined to keep her thoughts occupied and keep Liam’s ghost at bay.

He nodded and stood very still as she circled around him. Brenawyn brushed the ends of his hair away and placed the piece on his neck. She touched the clasp, hesitant to try to close it, lest she break the thing, but the slight touch snapped the torc into place.

He set the armbands—gold, silver, and copper bands woven together to form intricate knot work, snugly between his defined deltoid and bicep muscles.

She faced him again to look at the finished product. “Intricate tattoos and ornate primitive jewelry, an avenging god of an ancient religion—you’re breathtaking.”

“No’ a god, but a warrior.” He caressing her cheek. “But will ye offer me a boon?”

“A boon?”

“Hm, yes.” He lifted a tendril of her hair. “A favor.” And bent his head down toward hers.             

Brenawyn’s heart hammered in her chest.
Oh God, he’s going to kiss me again. Please.
She put her hand on his chest, not sure if it was in invitation or warding.

He straightened and covered her hand with his. “Aaricht, lass. Ye ha’ some things ta sort. When ye’re ready we will continue this conversation.” Alex looked around the room, finding the robe hung on the back of the closet door, “Do ye need help?”

“No, give me a few minutes alone and then I’ll be set,” she said. She needed time to steady her heartbeat and slow her breathing.

“Watch th’ time, though. Th’ ritual needs ta be done at sunset or yer grandmother will have both our heads.” Alex said while exiting the room.

Brenawyn heard a gasp and collective sigh following his exit. Silence reigned for a long moment and then titters and giggles were heard. Unkind thoughts ran through her head at the nasal voice that had the audacity to ask the clichéd question to a kilted Scotsman. Affecting a heavier highland brogue, Alex’s requisite reply, “Och, lass, come haur and I’ll show ye,” had her closing the door harder than she intended.

She headed to the park in full ceremonial dress, obligated to accompany Nana to the circle while listening to her prattle on about the authenticity of the ritual being marred by the modern convenience of the wheelchair rented for the occasion. “Dr. Miller told you to stay off the foot. The two blocks to the park on cobblestone streets probably wouldn’t do as much damage as the trek across the grass to the site. You could always stay here if you want.”

Nana huffed and crossed her arms. “Lead on.”

People thronged the street outside the shop, making the short pilgrimage to the park the next block over tedious. Inside, the robe was beautifully pagan, but on exiting the house and maneuvering the wheelchair down the porch steps, Brenawyn felt like a comic book conventioneer. But she hadn’t looked up. When she did, her embarrassment was immediately allayed by the sheer variety of dress. A good number of people who were in route to the park were similarly dressed on a simpler scale. The rest greatly varied from over-the-top, stereotypical Goth attire which today included black candles and pentagrams, to the for-the-fun-of-it, exaggerated Halloween costumes, some of which looked to be expensive. The last group seemed to be comprised of regular folk on vacation armed with cameras to document their trip.

Alex was waiting as they walked up, and took Nana across the knoll, leaving her to casually scan the scene, checking to see if all was in readiness—stones, candles, and matches. She was happy to see that either Alex or Maggie had prepared the site. Colorful summer flowers sat in low vases and planters at the base of every other stone of the eight. The remaining stones had plinths decorated with the beeswax candles she had pulled from the stores’ shelves. Fruits and grains adorned the ground surrounding the center dais as a sacrifice worthy of a ritual of thanksgiving.

By the time Brenawyn was finished assuring herself that they hadn’t forgotten anything, people pressed in cheek to jowl trying to vie for the best vantage point. Looking at the enormity of the crowd, she was struck with the usual nerves that accompanied any public speaking engagement. Knowing from experience that she needed to start the show in order to find any peace from the nausea, she left her grandmother’s side. With a pat from her grandmother for confidence, she began to walk the perimeter with a basket laden with the remaining needs for the ritual.

As Brenawyn passed first Maggie, then Alex, she took a deep breath, giving both a nervous smile. On the completion of one revolution she closed her eyes and began to weave through the standing stones counting her steps. Two more times around and she stopped, facing the East standing stone.

The moment she stepped within the circle, goose bumps raced up her arms and she shivered despite the warmth of the day. She approached the center offertory pedestal, turned, and knelt in front of it, giving a quick nod to Alex to begin his introduction.

Alex’s baritone projected into the crowd, “Welcome. Join us in thanksgiving for th’ Spirits’ blessings. Lughnasadh is a summer harvest festival acknowledging and celebrating th’ fullness o’ life through th’ bounty tha’ th’ Divine provides. Th’ god Lugh created th’ day ta honor his mother, Eithne. Over th’ many centuries, celebrants ha’ used it ta honor their mother, Mother Earth, for she is th’ source o’ all sustenance. ‘Tis a time for purification and th’ release o’ pain, fear, sadness, ta allow a true renewal o’ self ta bloom. Our priestess,” turning to indicate Brenawyn, “is symbolic o’ each o’ us in adoration. She is committed ta her own purification and self-renewal, and by extension, ta ours.

“She will first call each spirit in turn ta acknowledge their power and favor in procuring th’ harvest, placing a candle for each as a sign o’ respect. Th’ flame will remember our prayer, and th’ crystal placed at th’ base o’ each will hold it bound. After, she will offer sacrifice—an offering o’ th’ Earth’s bounty, and finally, she will pray for th’ continued good will o’ th’ Spirits throughout th’ next phase o’ our year.”