Heir of Earth (Forgotten Gods) (5 page)

In his final race he was hired to ride a horse imported from the King of Spain’s private stock. The race was so famous I was able to find a picture online of Phin aboard Adriano before the race began. Phin was dressed in his usual green and gold silk shirt and hat sitting proudly in the saddle atop a massive horse as black and shiny as coal. Adriano was the last horse Phin ever rode.

They led the race by all accounts. Reports from lookouts placed strategically through the countryside all had Phin in the lead. But long after the last pony came in, there was no sign of Phin. A search party was formed, and they went back to the last location a lookout had seen Phin and Adriano.

Not too far from there they found them both. Adriano, with a broken neck, lying lifelessly on top of an unconscious Phin at the bottom of a seven-foot ravine. Adriano had miscalculated his jump and crashed to the bottom, breaking his neck as he fell down the bank and pinning Phin beneath him.

Phin’s injuries were serious. He slowly recovered, but never rode a horse again. To hear Rose tell the story, it was God’s way of playing matchmaker for them. “Made him slow down long enough so I could catch him!” She would beam to anyone who asked about the fall, but that’s just Rose.

The drive to Clonlea—mostly along winding dirt roads that would have been considered goat paths in Atlanta— was peaceful, relaxing, and my body released the remaining travel tension stiffening my muscles, unwinding my mind further. A smile stretched across my face, a tale-tell sign of the new life I hoped waited for me in Ireland. If it was anything like Rose and Phin, I was pretty sure Ireland would be an old friend by the time my summer was over.

“How much longer?” I asked Rose, not looking at Phin so he wasn’t distracted from driving.

“Not much further. I hope you don’t mind if we pop by the town pub before we head home. Some of our friends are anxious to meet you,” she said, patting her palm on the knee that was squeezed against hers in the cab of their tiny truck.

“But I’m only 18.”

“18?” Rose asked with a wrinkled brow, but then understood. “No, no. Our pubs are like a town meeting place. All ages welcome. The food’s as good as the beer!” Rose said.

“Speak for yourself, Rose. I would say their beer is better than their food!” Phin corrected with a respectful nod, leaning up in the seat to join our conversation.

“Well, I’ll just be having the food, thanks,” I said, smoothing my hair nervously, staring at the road he was ignoring.

“You’ll have to try our stout before you leave. It’s sustained many a family through rough times over here, you know.” My entire body tensed as we neared a curve. He raised a single eyebrow at my ramrod straight posture and faced forward again with an amused smirk. “A national treasure!” He added, removing a hand from the steering wheel and mockingly placing it over his heart as if to signify the passing of the queen.

“Do you mind, Faye? I guess we should have asked you. If you’re too tired, we don’t have to. But so many people want to meet you, and you can get your bearings of the town, too.” Rose asked, but I could tell it would have been a huge disappointment if I said no.

“That’s fine. I actually slept most of flight,” I answered.

“Oh great!” Rose beamed.

When we pulled around a sharp curve in the road Phin stopped, eyes fixed on the valley spread out below us. “There she is,” they both said proudly in unison.

Poised in awed silence on the crest of a rolling hill, we all marveled at the view—me for the first time, Rose and Phin for the millionth. A wide valley stretched its green arms below us, reaching out to embrace the sea. The emerald slope lay dotted, here and there, with the quaint little buildings of Clonlea, as if an artist had haphazardly set his brush down in little blooming clusters of color. It was a breath-taking view no magazine article could have possibly done justice.

The setting sun was a fiery, reddish-orange ball on the horizon, casting its final molten rays on every little wave that danced out to meet it. The ocean sparkled like one large, liquid ruby, cloistered between a rocky horseshoe bay; the shore’s stones slicked to brilliant onyx by salt water and time. Sheltered safely in the bay, brightly colored boats bobbed up and down, their sails slapping gently in the breeze.

Clonlea’s town center sat off the coast, the buildings trickling away as they approached the sea, making room for a water front park and beach where locals and tourists could savor sunsets like this. Near the boats, tiny weathered piers and docks reached out into the red water like ancient fingers, tiny fishing boats tied here and there and sleepy sea birds perched on their pilings.

Cobblestone roads meandered lazily up the hillside, bending and turning around huge ash trees with brilliant flowers springing up in the shady spots their bowed limbs offered. The little buildings looked to be hundreds of years old with bright-whitewashed walls, colorful trim and dark brown thatched roofs. Through the streets and along the shoreline silhouetted figures of men and women made their way home from a long day's work and children played games in the remaining rays of light.

Clonlea was nestled amongst three hillsides. The cobblestone roads turned to pavement or dirt as they wound away from town along the coast. It all looked too perfect to be real, like a Hollywood set director might step out from behind one of the towering trees to yell “CUT!” at any minute.

“Wow. That magazine wasn’t lying,” I said.

“What magazine?” Rose asked, rolling her window down and letting the warm, briny breeze drift through the truck. I inhaled a greedy breath.

“I read a travel magazine on the plane. It had an article about Clonlea. You’re bakery was mentioned, too.”

“Well! Did you know you were traveling with such celebrities?” Rose looked back at me and winked. The wind scattered her ginger hair in front of her face as Phin pulled back onto the road.

The pub was a little corner building with a covered porch wrapping around the two street sides. Tables were stacked one after another, running the length of the porch. Greetings were called out to Rose and Phin as we walked through. They answered each with a smile and a wave but kept walking.

Inside the white stone building a large bar stood near the entry, overflowing with beer taps and a long shelf that sagged under the weight of big glass bottles. To the left was a loud, noisy room overflowing with patrons.

“Rose! Phin! Over here!” A lady shouted out, standing from her table and waving frantically over the crowd to make herself seen.

Rose cut through the crowd expertly as I stumbled and fell all over the place, apologizing profusely as I went, feeling like every eye in the place was on me—the new girl. She stopped at the largest table in the room. There must have been 20 people gathered around the table with three seats saved just for us. The blonde haired woman who was waving frantically wrapped me up in an unexpected hug and began rocking side to side with me in her arms.

“We are so glad to have you here, Faye!” she said in perfect timing with her rocking.

“Geez, Mary. Introduce yourself before you go scaring her!” Rose scolded, slipping her purse from her shoulder and taking the seat Phin held out for her.

“You must be Mary?” I guessed when she finally released me and let me sit down in the middle chair Phin held for me.

“Your Aunt Rose has been telling the whole town about your visit. You’re certainly the talk of the town,” Mary gushed.

I automatically blushed a deep crimson and looked at my hands folded in my lap, picking at my cuticles as I waited for the burn to leave my cheeks. The center of attention was not where I wanted to be. But apparently that’s exactly where I was in the crowded, noisy room.

“That’s my Christine over there.” Mary pointed to the opposite side of the table, where a shy looking girl peeked at me through long lashes. I ventured a small wave and smile in her direction. She returned it in the exact same manner and my smile widened automatically.

“Our Faye is not used to such rowdiness, Mary. We have to remember she is
American
,” Rose made an excuse for my silence.

I was envious of the easy way Rose and Phin interacted with their group of friends. We laughed at ridiculous stories over dinner until my cheek muscles burned with weariness and twitched in exhaustion. I looked around me and saw how happy and carefree they all were. A pang of regret shot through my gut to think of all the wasted, friendless years I’d suffered through.

The pang of regret, quickly turned to an empty swell of homesickness, and my face felt heavy for the first time that night, thinking of how stupid I’d been, closing myself off from the world. Rose must have seen the look on my face. She pulled me to her in a sideways hug and smoothed my hair, smiling her sweet smile and humming softly.

Later in the evening, when a few families went home and the place cleared out a little, I noticed a fireplace against the far wall. It was a massive stone structure littered with the stuffed bodies of trophy sized fish and fowl. In front of the fireplace was a sturdy four-sided table surrounded by big burley men. They had dirt from the fields still on their shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and money gripped tightly in their fists. Circled around the table, cheering with each other and yelling at opponents across the table.

Excusing myself to find the restroom, Rose pointed to the corner of the tavern nearest the rowdy table. I picked my way through the maze of tables, strangely drawn to the mob of men and whatever excitement was going on in their midst.

Reaching the wall, I clung to it as I slid around the edge of the room, not wanting to stumble over anyone else. Still, I couldn’t look away from the action in front of the fireplace, running my hands along the stone wall to guide my way.

What could possibly be exciting enough to make a group of grown men act like schoolboys? They squeezed close to one another, their large bodies packed tightly together trying to get a better look at what was going on. I had never seen such rowdiness, and my own heartbeat began to pound, anticipation stirred by the infectious energy of the group. Some men cheered and punched fists high in the air, swaying back and forth in their excitement. Their mugs of beer sloshed along with them, spilling the frothy liquid to the dirty tavern floor as they dipped and twirled.

I finally managed to get a look when a burly farmer, unbalanced by his beer drinking, slipped in the spilled ale at his feet and tumbled to the floor. A huge mountain of a man sat at one end of the table. His face was twisted in a horrible grimace, his left hand locked in a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table. His other hand grasped the hand of a man across from him who I could not see.

They were arm wrestling! I couldn’t imagine who would be dumb enough to challenge such a huge man. He was enormous. His muscles bulged and rippled in every direction. I immediately felt sorry for his opponent.

The red-faced man grunted and then began groaning with the concentrated effort he was forcing into his arm. The clasped hands still danced in the air, and amazingly, it began to look as if this man was actually losing! I heard nothing from the other side of the table. And I couldn’t imagine the giant that must be lurking behind the crowd.

At that moment, the farmer stood back up and my vantage point was gone. I looked around, trying to find an opening, suddenly as wrapped up in the match as the farmers.

An empty chair stood a few feet away against the stone wall of the fireplace. It was totally out of character for me, but something about the energy of the crowd drew me in. This was what I had missed— the fun, carefree, rowdy way these men were embracing life. I envied them and I wanted to be a part of their fun. Shoving through the crowd, I made my way to the little chair. Without thinking, I climbed up on it, feeling somewhat protected as I cowered beside the rocky outcrop of the fireplace. I was unbalanced and knocked back by a few elbows from the crowd around me. Angry faces turned to me, but scowls were replaced with grins and delighted tips of beer mugs when they saw a girl interested in their sport. The women of Clonlea must not care too much for their rowdy tavern past time.

Peeking around the men in front of me, I leaned out as far from the safety of my little alcove along the wall as I could. I was amazed to see the back of the mountainous man’s hand inches from the table, defeat almost certain at that angle. In one last effort, he kicked his chair out from under him, and kneeled on his side of the table. His body shook with the force he threw into his arm. Still, it didn’t budge. The group grew even tighter as the cheering reached a fevered pitch.

With the ease of shooing away a fly, his opponent closed the remaining few inches between the clasped hands and the table and released his grip victoriously. The tightly packed group erupted like a volcano. Most of the men turned away from the table spewing disgusted curses under their breath. A lone man whistled and clapped in victory, earning nasty glares from his rivals.

The mountainous man fell to the floor, either in exhaustion or embarrassment. Probably a little bit of both.

I expected to see a giant ogre seated at the table across from him– a huge, bulky man, with weightlifter arms and shoulders broader than the table.

My breath caught high in my throat when a few of the farmers sulked away and I finally saw the winner.

He was no grotesque monster at all.

He was Mr. Darcy gorgeous and totally out of place in the meager surroundings of a dilapidated Irish pub. My head jerked with the shock of him and smacked into the stone at my back.