Resurrection, page 17
Water poured down my face, and icy winds stung my skin. The vortex switched direction, drawing life’s breath from the abyss. Whispers rose in pitch, guttural moans screamed in response. Colm’s face turned sheet-white.
“Calla.” His muffled voice told me we had overstayed our welcome.
“Look.” I pointed to the shadows emerging from what was once a shimmering pool. One after another, spectral forms took shape: ghouls, demons, and spirits, each leaving a faint scent—one I could not place. They followed the ocean’s song, leaving the underworld and joining the mortal realm for one night only.
Bealtaine Eve—the night when the veil thinned and spirits roamed.
A hard lump formed in my throat. Would I ever get used to these worlds within worlds? Not knowing was so much easier.
Colm’s grip tightened as dark matter emerged from the portal—ash particles mixed with silver pearls. The fragments clustered, binding, changing shape, taking human form.
Shrouded in dim light, the figure of a woman emerged. Tendons and bones hung loosely—silky threads draped her cheeks. Flowing strands of ebony framed a pockmarked skull, giving the macabre a new meaning. She turned her head from side to side as if awakening from a long nap.
She emerged from the water with faltering steps but didn’t fly away like the other wraiths. No, this horror stood at the water’s edge. The tattered remnants of what had once been an elegant black gown, riddled with wormholes, dusted the cavern floor. She turned her head from side to side, then snapped her long ivory teeth together. This was not a shadowy specter. No, this was a woman brought back from the dead.
“Calla. That’s her—Ruairi’s mother, the Dark Lady.” Colm stayed close, keeping me in his shadow, protecting me from the apparition.
The remains of her face were turned toward Colm. She seemed to focus only on him. I wished I could say her eye sockets lacked life, but dark orbs flickered with both darkness and light.
This magic was powerful.
Colm’s bargain with an ancient clan centered on allegiance, loyalty, and love. The same strings tugged at my heart in new ways. Call me selfish, but Colm was now my family—the one man I could touch. The bigger picture became clear: the Dark Daughter and the Red King—two ancients from another age. It’s true what they say—time repeats itself.
She reached out her hand to Colm and then exhaled, filling the cavern with the putrid stench of death. I tasted her wicked past.
“Thanks to you, cousin Colm, my son lives. His essence glows within the ancestral lands of the Tuatha.” Her dead voice rattled her hollow bones. She turned her skeletal face toward me, her fingers twitching, those eyes glimmering.
“Ruairi has found a place there. He’s a good man, a good friend.” Colm turned his head, his gaze sharp.
“Come with me, cousin, where they will welcome you as the hero you are.” She directed her words toward Colm—her grating voice beautiful in its misery.
Colm’s brow furrowed as he relaxed his grip on my arm, appearing captivated.
“What do you want?” I clenched my jaw. Maybe I would be prepared if I had taken the time to read the book Macha gave me. Ghouls. Spirits. Spectral wraiths. That was a topic of conversation we had failed to have. And there I was, negotiating with the phantom dead.
“What I want is none of your concern.” Her voice screeched like nails on a chalkboard.
“You have no business in this realm.” I shifted sideways, stepping in front of Colm. I would protect him to the death.
I reached out, anticipating the moment her essence touched mine. This time, I embraced the knowledge.
From the royal court of the Stuarts, the Princess of a Scottish chief crossed the waters to marry and become Queen Consort of Tyrconnell, reigniting the alliance between the O’Donnell’s and the MacDonnell’s. As the years passed, her husband’s health declined. The wraith before me had ruled in his place, defending her family against internal threats from kin and the growing tyranny of the English invasion. With the heart of a hero and the mind of a soldier, she commanded her husband’s army and a guard of Scottish mercenaries, riding into battle with those medieval warriors determined to destroy one man—her son’s rival—for the clan chief’s title.
She held my admiration until that point.
Hills clothed in trees watched the flight of red deer and Irish elk, the mist rising over the banks, the screaming war cries, and when Redshank arrows took steady aim, ending her stepson’s life.
I saw the woman she was.
“I have every right to be here, just like them.” She jutted her caved-in chin toward the wraiths still exiting the chamber. They paid us no mind and offered no help. “Come with me, cousin. Your ancestors welcome you. Your da longs for your arrival.” She eased her bony fingers toward Colm.
“Da? What do you know of him?” He leaned toward her, captivated by her spell.
“Don’t listen to her, Colm.” I grasped Colm’s wrist. Escape felt so distant. How did I go from here to there? What was holding me back? The ghostly figure of a dead Scottish Princess.
“I am Rioghain, Princess of Tuatha Dé. I demand that you return to the land of the dead.” I twisted the black sea pearls between my fingers, a burning heat emanating from each one. Where was the magic when I needed it most?
“Your royal blood means nothing to me. You are a child.” Shadows shot from her fingertips, enveloping the cavern in layers of blue ice, freezing our soaked clothing to our skin.
In that instant, I learned respect for the undead.
“Da? Is he happy?” Colm’s eyes closed, a sigh escaping his lips. His heartbeat slowed—too slow.
“Colm, stay with me.” I shouted, but he couldn’t hear. His face was cold and clammy beneath my fingertips. “Don’t do this to him.” My pleas went unanswered.
“It is as I said.” The Dark Lady lifted her palms, summoning winter’s force—stalagmites forming on the cavern ceiling.
How long would it be before the pointed spires split our skulls, leaving our bodies open for the taking?
“You can’t have him. He’s not yours to take,” I shouted into the silent abyss, unable to locate her. The mist had wrapped around her, hiding her from sight. Where did this dark magic originate?
“But he is, little princess. One cannot break a blood oath.” Her voice sent a shiver down my spine.
I spun around, scanning the mist for any sign of her.
I reached for Colm, tapped into his mind, and found only one thread left. Damn it. All this time spent debating semantics had given the Dark Lady the chance she needed to take what was mine. Yes, this giant Celt was mine, for better or worse. From the moment our paths crossed, our destinies became forever linked.
She was smart, this Scottish princess—I have to admit that.
If we stayed a moment longer, I would lose him, and she would win. There was no time for panic—only clear thought and logic.
I swallowed the scream rising in my throat.
Finvarra’s lantern cast a yellow glow in the murky light. It sat where Colm had left it, on the rock shelf above my head. I contemplated the impossible. Finvarra had handed that lantern to me. Was he aware of the dangers we might face? Did that golden flame hold magic within? I sprang toward the shelf, pulling Colm along. I gripped the handle and swung the lantern in a wide arc, searching for her.
She showed herself, only inches away. Her arm shot out, drawing a razor-sharp, blackened fingernail down his face, leaving a long slice down his right cheek.
I wavered, unable to move, paralyzed. Drops of Colm’s blood pooled and then seeped into her porous bones.
She extended her neck and cracked her jaw, guttering a single laugh from her rotted lips—more alive than a moment before.
I told myself she was only an apparition, but that wasn’t true.
My thoughts connected to Colm’s familiar. The man he called Ruairi looked almost alive within the Tuatha realm. Only a sideways glance showed a hint of transparency. How many times had Ruairi shared Colm’s face? How much life force had he drained from Colm with each encounter?
“Our accord is not complete, cousin.” Her voice moved like tendrils of mist filling the cavern. “My son will cross into the mortal realm before the moon turns. He will live again.” She appeared a heartbeat away, the glimmer in her eyes piercing.
“Accord? What accord?” And there it was—a life for a life. If Colm left the mortal realm, her son would take his place. These were the words of a crazed mind.
“My accord is with Ruairi.” Colm’s voice carried conviction, his trust in his friend Ruairi unwavering.
“My pretty boy... You are born of my loins. You are an O’Donnell.” She held the strings to his mind, and I was running out of time.
Whatever inherent magic I had seemed useless against her. I remembered the three horsemen who visited my dreams—they were not this. This woman was evil incarnate. The surrounding air grew thinner, making it harder to breathe.
The abyss roared, unleashing a storm of tiny, winged creatures, whizzing past and filling the chamber one by one.
“Calla, look.” Colm wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me against his chest.
The Dark Lady lifted her skeletal arms. I wondered what force she summoned. But no, the light in her dark orbs faded as she tried to shield herself. She feared what was coming more than I did.
Bees.
The swarm grew larger, a million buzzing wings filling the chamber with sound. They descended on her ethereal form, each tiny creature clinging to sinew and bone. They crawled over her torn dress and into each other, forming a dense mat of fuzzy little bodies.
I threw my hand over my mouth, bile closing my throat.
The droning intensified, the sonorous hum rising in pitch, as the tiny bees paralyzed the Dark Lady with the natural anesthetic all honey bees possess. Their hunger transformed into contented sighs as they crawled and chewed the rotted husk until no distinguishable features remained. And then, inch by inch, the tiny creatures dragged what remained into the dark abyss.
The translucent pool returned to its original calm, leaving me speechless, unsure of what had happened. This was the ultimate bad dream. I lifted the lantern higher, intending to leave this place and never look back. But the swirling mist had something else in mind. I backed into Colm’s tall frame.
The mist rose and swirled in the middle of the pool, forming another apparition. I stared in awe as the golden-haired wraith took form—a woman I had seen before—Ériu.
“Who are you?” Colm whispered.
“I am Ériu, Rioghain’s mother. It was I who sent the bees to recover their dead sister.” Her voice held my attention; it was soft and meant no harm.
“How?” I moved closer to my mother, looking into her blue eyes for the answers I needed.
“When you touched the black pearls, I felt compelled to act.” She nodded, her golden hair flowing over the high collar of a simple lavender gown.
“Is she gone? The Dark Lady. Is she dead?” Colm’s eyes shone, his voice filled with life.
“She is still dead. She is less powerful than before, but the Dark Lady will rise again. You would heed my warning, Colm O’Donnell, and let the dead lie in peace.” Her arms hung at her sides, her gaze knowing.
“I will.” Colm’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.
“Daughter. Beautiful Rioghain. I tried to protect you from Finvarra’s madness, but failed. It is now impossible for you to stay distant. Your sisters need you more than ever.” She reached out, her delicate fingers brushing against the ruby crown tangled in my hair.
I gazed into her deep, soulful eyes, swallowed the lump forming in my throat, and asked the question. “Why did you send me away? Nemain, Macha. They’re my family.”
“I wanted to protect you from the horrors of Finvarra’s world—centuries of suffering and conflict—but I was too late. I couldn’t prevent him from interfering in your life.”
“It is too late. I’ve become what he said I am.” I stood still, the blood in my veins humming.
“Trust me when I tell you this, dear Rioghain. Take this man and live your life free of Finvarra’s realm. You will see your sisters again. They are part of you, just as you are part of them.” Her voice wavered, softer and softer, leaving silence between us.
“Ériu, wait. Please. Will I see you again?” I feared I would lose her forever. This one moment would never be enough.
Mist swirled around me, caressing and enveloping me in warmth. Then, just like that, it vanished. She was gone.
“Ériu,” I whispered her name.
“Calla, are you all right?” Colm twined his fingers with mine.
“I think so.” I turned toward him, leaning into his strength. “We should go, don’t you think?”
“Let’s go home.” He drew me into his arms and held me. Just held me.
My thoughts spun. Where was home? Where did I belong?
He stepped back, and I wondered why. “Look at the walls. Something is happening.”
What was once hard basalt and jagged rock glowed with an iridescent blue, shimmering with ivory. I turned toward the glassy pool. The night was not over yet.
A deafening roar filled my ears, followed by a thunderous clap. The waters surged upward, and a wave of white foam rose from the depths—something magical in its own right.
Resurrection, the Faerie horse who chose me in the Otherworld, rose from the still waters. He tossed his enormous head, his silver eyes shifting to velvet black. He pawed the stone floor, water streaming from his muscular back.
“What is this?” Colm’s grip on my hand tightened, his face stark.
“This is Resurrection. A wedding gift, perhaps? From Finvarra?” I rushed forward, wrapping my arms around the horse’s neck and burying my face in Resurrection’s flowing mane, inhaling his strength.
“He is the most magnificent creature I have ever seen.” Colm trailed behind me, admiration coloring his voice. He stroked the horse’s broad back and muscular flanks.
Resurrection twitched his ears, his nostrils flaring. Beneath a thick forelock, intelligent eyes observed his surroundings.
My heart trembled with a mix of emotions: happiness, hope, and resolve. I thanked Finvarra. He had given me the greatest gift of all.
Resurrection led us through a scar in the rock face, bringing us back to the mortal world. I tasted the salty brine of the sea as the velvet night watched over us. Seagulls screeched, dive-bombing the moonlit waves. I turned my head, identifying the strand stretching into the nearby dunes, with rock outcroppings rising from the sand. I breathed a sigh of relief, content in the knowledge of our safety within the mortal realm. Yet, the world between worlds was always present. Resurrection tossed his head, embracing the warm night with a wild whinny.
“Jesus, is the whole town here?” I recalled Saoirse’s invitation on my first day in Ardara town. “Good craic,” she said. “Come,” she had said. What began as an adventure of discovery steamrolled into another dimension.
Prevailing winds carried the pungent aroma of wood smoke and burnt pitch from the many bonfires burning on the strand.
I watched in awe as the cloaked figures, antlered men, and revelers celebrated an ancient pagan festival, moving in strange dances and circling each other. Were they spirits from another world? Fire torches flickered in the darkness, heightening the eerie mood.
Joe, the barber, juggled flaming bolas high in the air. The girl from the apothecary, her face painted with ancient runes, swayed beneath the bright star. Orlaith struck a shaman drum.
I tightened my hold on the reins, unwilling to lose my grip on Resurrection in the melee of celebrants.
Saoirse stood in the center of it all, wearing blood-red robes with whitethorn flowers woven into her auburn hair. Nine witches, all dressed in pure white, encircled her. She lifted her hands to the night sky, summoning the sacred to join her. The moon, a bright orb in the darkness, fueled her desire. The ocean shimmered beneath her gaze. Amid the whistling wind and crashing waves, her silvery voice stirred the crowd to madness. She raised a silver blade while circling a roaring bonfire, her eyes scanning each cardinal point, calling the spirits to rise.
I inhaled a sharp breath, her intentions taking shape in my mind.
The pounding of the drum grew louder, and the moon’s beams lifted the spirits of men. Her voice carried far, calming the revelers, her eyes shimmering with a lively glow.
Resurrection stamped his feet as she invoked the Tuatha Dé, inviting them to the party.
Colm seemed oblivious to the implications.
Shadows covered the moon, and memories of the day the Tuatha Dé invaded Ireland flooded my mind. They came from four great cities shaped by the wind, separated by ocean and sea, hundreds of miles from any mainland.
In Falias, snow whipped down, sleet freezing the ship’s deck. The captain shouted orders, preparing the tall ship for the journey. Men and women cloaked in bearskins protected the Stone of Destiny, Lia Fáil.
In Gorias, the sweet breath of spring melted the icy remnants of winter. The golden hawk, talons extended, landed on the prow of the second tall ship. Four men stood guard over Slaughterer, the lightning-tipped magical spear.
The sun shone high in Finias. Leaving the safety of the thicket, the majestic stag jumped into the open, while in the harbor, a large ship rested at anchor, waiting for the small rowboat to approach. Uscias, the poet, offered an enchanted prize to the ship’s captain—Fragarach, the Answerer—the same sword Finvarra held to Colm’s throat.
Saoirse’s voice undulated with the wild rivers—salmon leaped, leaves descended, and cornstalks withered.
In Murias, wild ponies ran free, while predator birds circled overhead, orcas breached the surface of the sea. The locals honored the harvest with a legendary cauldron that never emptied.
Hidden among the clouds, four ships reached the shores of this land. A fierce people skilled in sorcery and magic, an immortal race of beings. And thus it began.
Saoirse called upon the Lord King to release his seed, and the Spring Maiden to receive him. She lifted a chalice with one hand and lowered the golden athame into the waiting cauldron, drawing energy from the male and female connection—the Fertility Rite, the Great Rite.
