Through the Door (22 page)

“We didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Not at all,” he said. “Is this your first time to Newgrange?”

“Yes,” Siobhan injected enthusiastically. “Do you come here often?” She moved slightly in front of Maeve and thrust
out her considerable chest. Maeve frowned, but didn’t try to put herself back in the man’s line of sight.

She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he answered, “Mmm, once in a while. I have relatives buried nearby. I come to visit their graves.”

“Oh, I see. Well, perhaps you could show us around!” Siobhan stood there beaming at him. Maeve looked past both of them to the hill looming in front, and wondered what kind of people were buried here. How interesting it would be to have relatives interred so close to such an ancient site.

She noticed he was holding out his hand to her. “Brogan mac Airgetlam,” he said. She took his hand and shook it. His grip was gentle but firm, and she could feel calluses on his palm. She felt slightly light-headed at his touch, but then mastered herself and smiled back at him, enjoying the way his eyes lit up when she did. Though nothing compared with him, she herself was not lacking in beauty. She was tall for her age, and had hearty curves that complemented the bouncing red curls that spilled down her back to her waist. In contrast, Siobhan was unremarkable save for her impressive bosom. Apparently, she also had a weaker constitution, for when Brogan reached out and shook her hand, she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

Once Maeve and Brogan had revived her and Siobhan had mumbled something about not eating all day, the three of them climbed to the top of the hill to watch the sunset. Later that night, at Brogan’s request, Maeve made her apologies to Siobhan at their youth hostel and met him for a drink, not returning to her cousin until daybreak.

That night was the first of many spent together over the next several years. He never stayed around long, usually just a night or two, maybe a week at most. At first, he refused to
tell her what he did or where he lived, instead making her guess, laughing at her theories about spies and secret missions as he trailed soft kisses down the length of her spine. When she returned to Nova Scotia to start college, he promised to visit her as often as he had in Ireland, and he was true to his word. She gave up trying to find out more about him and, truth be told, enjoyed the intrigue of having a mystery lover. She tried dating college boys, but they were so inferior to her Brogan that she soon gave up on them as well, and just waited for him to make his next appearance.

He told her the truth on the morning of her twentieth birthday. They were lying in her bed, listening to the sputter of the coffeemaker in the next room. He rolled over so that he was looking down at her, and she reached up to cup his face, marveling at the beauty of it.

“I have a gift for you,” he said.

“Do you, now?” she said coquettishly. “Am I going to have to guess what it is?”

“You’ve been guessing since we met,” he answered. She raised her eyebrows.

“My gift is the truth,” he said, “about who I am and where I come from.”

Maeve sat up, pushing her thick red curls behind her shoulder. She felt her pulse quicken with excitement and anticipation.

“Let me guess one more time,” she said, trying to suppress her nerves with lighthearted banter. “You’re the great Fionn mac Cumhaill, awake at last to help Ireland in her hour of great need.”

A shadow crossed his face, and she wondered if she had somehow offended him with her insouciance.

“And if I were?” he asked softly. “Would you believe me?”

She considered his question carefully. Would she? She had always been of the mind that her grandmother’s stories must have some grain of truth to them. There was no reason to believe fairies and gods were not real just because she herself had not seen them. However, Maeve had long since learned not to voice such opinions at the dinner table, lest her parents start crossing themselves and saying prayers for her salvation.

She took Brogan’s face in her hands again and looked him straight in his eyes. “I would believe anything you told me, my love.”

He kissed her then, and said, “I am not Fionn mac Cumhaill, but my father knew him, and saw him die. I am afraid he will not be awakening to help the Irish anytime soon.” Then he told her the most unimaginable things: that magic was real, and the stories she had grown up on were true, or at least had their basis in reality, and that he was one of the Tuatha Dé Danann of Tír na nÓg, a descendent of the great Nuadu Airgetlam who had ruled the Tuatha Dé Danann during their conquest of Ireland many thousands of years ago. He told her how he loved all humans, but her most of all. And she believed him.

It was shortly after that, the year she finished college, that he asked her to study the druidic arts. He found her a mentor, one of the world’s few remaining druids, and bought her a secluded house in the country that overlooked the ocean and bordered a small forest. Eagerly, she took her vows, left her friends and her family, and spent all her time studying, training, and waiting for his visits. It was a lonely life, with only her druid mentor for occasional company. As time went by and she progressed in her studies, even his visits became less frequent.

But it was all worth it for the ecstasy of her days and nights with Brogan. He would sometimes not appear for a month, but other times he didn’t seem to be able to stay away for more than a few days. Now that he had told her his secret, he created a sidh in the cellar of her house so he could come and go with ease. He placed an enchantment on her that prevented her from going through the sidh without him. It was for her own safety, he said. Some of his people were not as accepting of humans as he was, and he did not want her to stumble through the sidh and into danger. And so he came and went, and although she begged him to take her to Tír na nÓg with him, he told her the time had not yet come, and she needed to concentrate on becoming a fully trained druid before they could consider such things.

Things continued this way for three more years. Then Maeve started to notice a change in him. Not a physical change; he was still frozen in time, his face and body as full of youth and beauty as they had been on the day they met. But his eyes, once light and clear, were now often dark and clouded with worry. Something was weighing heavily on him, yet all he would say was that things in Tír na nÓg were changing, that a threat brewed among his people. He stopped looking at her the way he used to, with undisguised lust and adoration. She would make jokes about getting older while he remained virile and handsome, but he didn’t take the bait and assure her that she was as beautiful to him as ever. She began to look for invisible wrinkles and nonexistent gray hairs hiding among the red. His visits became less frequent, and she could not tell if it was because he desired her less or because trouble in his homeland kept him away.

She had just celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday when he told her he would not be coming back.

She cried and screamed, and threw a jar of rare herbs at him, which he caught effortlessly and placed gently back on the shelf.

“My place is with my people,” he said.

“Your place is with me!” she argued, her face ugly with tears.

He did not respond to this, but said, “There is a war brewing in Tír na nÓg. I must concentrate on keeping our people from tearing one another apart. We have never had a civil war in Tír na nÓg. It would be the death of our entire race, of that I am sure.”

“But why does that mean you can never see me again? Won’t you promise to come back when this is all over?” she wailed.

“It may be many years, decades, even centuries, before everything is settled. I do not wish for you to spend the rest of your life waiting for me.”

“You mean you don’t want to come back to an old woman,” she said bitterly.

“Maeve.” He spoke her name with intimacy but also with authority. He owned her, and they both knew it. “You have great fire in your spirit, but you and I have allowed it to be quenched by your love for me, your dependence on me. You have the makings of a great druid, and you will have power that only a handful of mortals in the last century have enjoyed. Use your gift, and make a life for yourself. My life is in Tír na nÓg, with my people…and with my wife.”

There was a horrible, empty silence as Maeve absorbed what he had just said. “Your…wife?” she repeated after a long moment, barely able to utter the words.

He nodded slowly and without apology, but did not meet her eyes. “Fidelity is not a strong point among my people, nor is it completely expected. But my wife’s family will be important in the coming war, and to aggravate them would be unwise.”

“This whole time, you had a wife. And children?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Do not blame yourself, Maeve. I’ve already made sure you will be taken care of. You will lack for nothing.”

“I don’t want your charity,” she spat. She looked him in the eye, her chin thrust out in challenge. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

He looked at her sadly. “Love is but one factor among many. It is the cause of wars and of peace. I do love you, in my own way. I regret causing you pain. I’ve enjoyed our time together, but now it is over.”

“Will you never speak to me again, then? What about the dream-speech?” she asked, referring to the way they had begun to communicate through her self-induced trances and dreams.

Again, he shook his head. “No. I cannot afford any distractions. You will do best to forget about me. You will not see me again.”

He was true to his word.

Sitting alone in the workshop Brogan had built for her four decades ago, Maeve lifted her glass, which was smoking
slightly and giving off a pungent odor. She toasted her long-lost lover, drank the potent brew, and then sat in the armchair in the corner, wrapping a blanket around her. She thought about him and tried to picture him clearly, even as she felt herself losing consciousness. She remembered how he had smelled of sunlight and mountain air, how intoxicating it had been to be around him, even after years together. She remembered the way his black curls would fall into his eyes, how the touch of his hands had brought fire to the surface of her skin. She cried out to him in her mind’s voice, “Brogan, Brogan, come back to me! I have such need of you. After all I have done for you, will you not come to me now?”

She waited, feeling herself pass through the veil of reality to a place where time had no meaning, where death was but another sidh to be opened. She walked through a gray cloud that pressed heavily against her chest, calling and calling to him for what seemed like hours. Finally, she reached the ocean and, without thought, stepped onto the water. She kept walking and calling until she crossed the vast expanse and landed on the shore of a distant country, where she fell to her knees. She could not stand again, so great was her exhaustion. Instead, she curled into a fetal position and continued to moan his name. “Brogan…Brogan…Brogan…”

She did not know how long she lay there, but after some time she felt a hand on her shoulder. Strong arms picked her up and set her on her feet. Raising her head, she looked into the eyes of the one she had been seeking. “You came,” she whispered, as her eyes devoured him.

“Maeve,” he said simply. “What madness has brought you here?”

She felt a pang in her stomach. He was not glad to see her. Then she straightened herself and answered, “The madness of a mother who loves a child. Eden is in trouble. Do you know who—”

“I know who Eden is,” Brogan said, smiling slightly.

“I need to find her,” Maeve said. “Nuala has her, and is taking her to Lorcan.”

Brogan’s face looked just as she remembered it—young, flawless, and heartbreakingly beautiful. But where a moment ago it had been soft and warm, now it was hard and tight. He took a step toward her, and she drew in a small involuntary gasp.

“She doesn’t belong there, Brogan. I know who she is, but please, she’s just a child. I love her as if she were my own flesh and blood. Don’t take her from me.”

Brogan’s pale hand touched Maeve’s wrinkled cheek. “Maeve, you are stronger than this. You loved me too much. There is nothing I can do from this side. I have neither the power to take her nor to save her.”

“No,” Maeve said. “I refuse to believe that. You have the power to appear to me now. You were the most powerful of them all. Surely there is something you can do.”

“I can give you knowledge,” he said. “It is all that is within my power to give.” He closed his eyes, as if gathering himself. Maeve just watched him, her gaze lingering on the lines of his neck as he tilted his head back, eyes still closed.

“She is still in Ériu. She is home. Her home. But she is not alone. Fionnghuala is with her, as you say.”

“She’s home,” Maeve breathed. Perhaps Nuala had reconsidered and was willing to let the girl go.

“But she is in greater danger than you realize,” Brogan continued. “Lorcan will not let her live. He will kill her the minute he discovers who she is.”

“No!” Maeve protested. “He needs her alive; all your people say so. He killed you and yet couldn’t take your gift—
Eden’s gift.
If he wants to reopen the sidhe, he has to keep her alive. Doesn’t he?” She looked at him and waited for him to agree, trying to ward off the panic she could feel rushing toward her.