Wishing everyone the joys of a safe and bountiful holiday.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
THE LEGEND OF M'RITH
Here is a free read for you--Chapter One of my work-in-progress, "The Legend of M'Rith." This is the story of a faerie who falls in love with a mortal man in 19th century Ireland. Comments are always welcomed, of course, but above all I hope you might enjoy this short read. If you would like to see my published works, they are all available on my website, www.miriamnewman.com.
Brighid was gone, a fact so indisputable no amount of desire or memory could ever change it.
There were touches of her everywhere, like ghostly fingerprints: jellies and jams neatly put by in the larder, sheets and clothes smelling of her scented soap, pine floors scrubbed nearly white by her hands, simple furniture made rich with a polish of bees’ wax and fragrant oils. In his house, Kieran had every comfort but her presence. Eventually, he had to leave.
His feet took him by rote to the pub. The only other choice was his forge, where there was not another cobweb to sweep or a thing to put away. Like his house, it was in perfect order. But without his wife to broaden the focus of his life, rapidly narrowing to a thin tunnel of possibilities, Kieran saw no other choices. House, pub or forge. Forge. Pub. House. It all came down to the same thing in the end. She wasn’t there.
Silas, the owner, was behind his sturdy oak bar and looked up at his now-frequent patron. “Ale?”
“If you please.” It was all Kieran drank, even in his grief. Silas came round the bar to one of the simple trestle tables where Kieran had taken a bench. It was quiet that day. Most people were at tea.
“I cannot believe the weather has held fair an entire fortnight,” the older man remarked, putting down a mug of rich, creamy ale. It was a thing to remark in Ireland, where it always rained.
“Aye.” No one had gotten much more than that out of Kieran in two weeks, but Silas had enough steam for the both of them.
“’Tis the work of the Fair Folk, I am sure.”
Kieran smiled sourly. “Don’t let Father hear that from you.”
Silas only lay one finger alongside his nose, his grin conspiratorial. “He won’t from me if he doesn’t from you.”
“No chance of that.” No, no chance at all. His wife had believed in the faeries, even if he did not. Kieran stared moodily into his drink, remembering.
Raised in their village, never more than ten miles from it, Brighid had not been a grand woman. She had believed in the Fair Folk, even going so far as to allege they were responsible for her conceiving their long awaited child--the child that had killed her. Kieran knew that was nonsense. It was only that such things had been important to her, so in her honor he put out food from her funeral feast. Everyone did. Surely it was no business of the priest’s if an extra bit of milk was set down for the cat that day or a couple of cakes were behind the privy. And although Kieran was sure it only resulted in a few fat dogs, it was true that the days had stretched cloudless and balmy since that morning. He was beginning to feel lonely for a spot of rain.
“Surely I think we have their protection,” Silas went on. “D’you know how many trees came down on houses in Loughderry during that last storm? And here nothing more than branches. They’ll be weeks cleaning muddy mess from their flood. We’re no farther from the river than they are, but we weren’t touched. I tell you, it’s uncanny. They lost most of their sheep to the bloat and we weren’t out a single one. Good Lord, even our vegetables are twice the size of theirs! They say you could club a man with our carrots.”
“Or take his head off with a cabbage.” Kieran nodded. “I’ve heard it, too. The truth is we work harder.”
“Speak for yourself.” Silas had a relaxed attitude that suited his customers, but no one could deny Kieran was a demon of industry. Then again, he had little else to do but tend his forge. His mother and sister, nesting together in the family cottage since his father’s death, had ceased running to him with their usual complaints and requests to fix things. No one took up his time. They were, he knew, only observing a period of mourning and would be after him again as soon as decency permitted, but he thought now that he wouldn’t mind. Brighid, always the soul of charity, hadn’t minded. He sighed heavily.
“You might work a little less,” Silas counseled gently.
Kieran gave him a startled look. “And do what?”
“Go and fish, man! The days are getting longer. The boys and I are about to set up some bowls on the green of an evening, then take it out on the road with those Loughderry lads—see if they can keep up with their blarney, free ale to the winners. Which will be us.” His thoughts turning to ale as they were never far from it, Silas took Kieran’s mug to refill. “You can be our score keeper if you’re not of a mind to bowl.” Rounding the bar, he put it back on the table. “Don’t stay in your cottage with her ghost.”
“Their ghosts.”
Silas blanched. “Aye. ‘Tis what I meant to say, Kieran. Sorry.”
Kieran waved a dismissive hand. The villagers had not known the babe nine months in his wife’s womb. She had been a stranger to them, but not to him though she had never drawn a breath. Fair as a rose she would have been, if she had breathed. But how could she, when her mother could not? And so his baby daughter rested now in her mother’s arms. In the ground. Silently, he put down two coins and stood.
“Don’t you want the rest of your ale?”
Kieran just shook his head. “Put it out for the faeries. We could use some rain.”
Brighid was gone, a fact so indisputable no amount of desire or memory could ever change it.
There were touches of her everywhere, like ghostly fingerprints: jellies and jams neatly put by in the larder, sheets and clothes smelling of her scented soap, pine floors scrubbed nearly white by her hands, simple furniture made rich with a polish of bees’ wax and fragrant oils. In his house, Kieran had every comfort but her presence. Eventually, he had to leave.
His feet took him by rote to the pub. The only other choice was his forge, where there was not another cobweb to sweep or a thing to put away. Like his house, it was in perfect order. But without his wife to broaden the focus of his life, rapidly narrowing to a thin tunnel of possibilities, Kieran saw no other choices. House, pub or forge. Forge. Pub. House. It all came down to the same thing in the end. She wasn’t there.
Silas, the owner, was behind his sturdy oak bar and looked up at his now-frequent patron. “Ale?”
“If you please.” It was all Kieran drank, even in his grief. Silas came round the bar to one of the simple trestle tables where Kieran had taken a bench. It was quiet that day. Most people were at tea.
“I cannot believe the weather has held fair an entire fortnight,” the older man remarked, putting down a mug of rich, creamy ale. It was a thing to remark in Ireland, where it always rained.
“Aye.” No one had gotten much more than that out of Kieran in two weeks, but Silas had enough steam for the both of them.
“’Tis the work of the Fair Folk, I am sure.”
Kieran smiled sourly. “Don’t let Father hear that from you.”
Silas only lay one finger alongside his nose, his grin conspiratorial. “He won’t from me if he doesn’t from you.”
“No chance of that.” No, no chance at all. His wife had believed in the faeries, even if he did not. Kieran stared moodily into his drink, remembering.
Raised in their village, never more than ten miles from it, Brighid had not been a grand woman. She had believed in the Fair Folk, even going so far as to allege they were responsible for her conceiving their long awaited child--the child that had killed her. Kieran knew that was nonsense. It was only that such things had been important to her, so in her honor he put out food from her funeral feast. Everyone did. Surely it was no business of the priest’s if an extra bit of milk was set down for the cat that day or a couple of cakes were behind the privy. And although Kieran was sure it only resulted in a few fat dogs, it was true that the days had stretched cloudless and balmy since that morning. He was beginning to feel lonely for a spot of rain.
“Surely I think we have their protection,” Silas went on. “D’you know how many trees came down on houses in Loughderry during that last storm? And here nothing more than branches. They’ll be weeks cleaning muddy mess from their flood. We’re no farther from the river than they are, but we weren’t touched. I tell you, it’s uncanny. They lost most of their sheep to the bloat and we weren’t out a single one. Good Lord, even our vegetables are twice the size of theirs! They say you could club a man with our carrots.”
“Or take his head off with a cabbage.” Kieran nodded. “I’ve heard it, too. The truth is we work harder.”
“Speak for yourself.” Silas had a relaxed attitude that suited his customers, but no one could deny Kieran was a demon of industry. Then again, he had little else to do but tend his forge. His mother and sister, nesting together in the family cottage since his father’s death, had ceased running to him with their usual complaints and requests to fix things. No one took up his time. They were, he knew, only observing a period of mourning and would be after him again as soon as decency permitted, but he thought now that he wouldn’t mind. Brighid, always the soul of charity, hadn’t minded. He sighed heavily.
“You might work a little less,” Silas counseled gently.
Kieran gave him a startled look. “And do what?”
“Go and fish, man! The days are getting longer. The boys and I are about to set up some bowls on the green of an evening, then take it out on the road with those Loughderry lads—see if they can keep up with their blarney, free ale to the winners. Which will be us.” His thoughts turning to ale as they were never far from it, Silas took Kieran’s mug to refill. “You can be our score keeper if you’re not of a mind to bowl.” Rounding the bar, he put it back on the table. “Don’t stay in your cottage with her ghost.”
“Their ghosts.”
Silas blanched. “Aye. ‘Tis what I meant to say, Kieran. Sorry.”
Kieran waved a dismissive hand. The villagers had not known the babe nine months in his wife’s womb. She had been a stranger to them, but not to him though she had never drawn a breath. Fair as a rose she would have been, if she had breathed. But how could she, when her mother could not? And so his baby daughter rested now in her mother’s arms. In the ground. Silently, he put down two coins and stood.
“Don’t you want the rest of your ale?”
Kieran just shook his head. “Put it out for the faeries. We could use some rain.”
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