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How will I know? Is this pull of nature and the past fighting the insurgence of a modern world her message—a world that doesn’t appreciate her stories of Faeries and magic? The urge to return to my grandmother’s greenhouse and get lost in one of her tales hits hard.
My hiking boots crunch on a gravel and dirt path as I leave the circle behind, keeping an eye out for grad students who may be in search of a fact or two I can provide. Stray leaves and twigs litter the ground before me in an artful collage. I wind my way to a sign marked Druid’s Cave. Only echoes of sunshine touch this part of the Rock Close. The cave opening is black against stingy slate gray light, and I can’t see inside. My hand goes to the charm on my necklace.
Strength.
Do I dare go in? At least it’s grounded. No steps to climb. The heart of Ireland may be inside, waiting for me to sync the beats of my own heart to its rhythm. How can I walk past without at least a peek?
Máthair would want me to.
The crooked stone entrance wears a scraggly beard of ivy. The day darkens the closer I move toward the opening, and my nerve wobbles. Maybe just a step inside is enough to appease the Sidhe, the otherworld Máthair believed in. I lay a hand on the cool bulging rock forming the entrance slit and focus on the uneven ground so I don’t trip.
It’s silent here. Peaceful, not frightening. The lingering wisps of unease disappear, and I embrace the gloom. My mind feels clean and boundless. If I find a nice rocky perch in the cave, I’ll sit for a moment to capture impressions of the Rock Close in my head to jot down later in my journal.
“You’re too weak-kneed to climb to the top of the castle, but you’ll plunge straight into the dwelling of spirits?”
My head snaps up. His voice is so close, I feel warm breath slither through the chill air. I backpedal, stumbling out of the cave’s mouth straight into a puddle and bite my lip to keep from screaming. When I spin to escape the presence in the cave, a hand closes around my upper arm.
“Wait. I didn’t mean to spook ya.” It’s the limping grunter with the great shoulders from the student group.
I pull free of his grasp. “No, just to insult me.”
He’s a few inches taller than me. This guy is the antithesis of grasshopper Charlie with a mop of nut-brown hair twisting into thin, springy curls. His solid frame suggests a strength barely hampered by the limp.
We lock gazes even though I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses he wears. He stares down his long, straight nose at me, assessing. I’d be insulted if I wasn’t distracted by the sweet look of his rounded cheekbones and full lips nearly as mauve-colored as the lollipop plants.
I’m the first to break the staring contest. When I back away to put more distance between us, he scratches his neck as if those ringlets itch. “Watch out for roots.” He points at the ground. The trunk next to the cave is a collection of thick ropy strands that rise to split into high branches as well as spilling across the ground in an unruly tangle.
I sidestep a gnarled tendril as he moves with me. It’s beyond creepy to collide with a stranger, no matter how attractive, in a dark cave, who then decides to follow you. Not to mention, the guy wears sunglasses in a stretch of forest as dim as twilight.
“Going to give the castle another go then?” His mocking tone is maddening. The farther he sticks his nose in my business, the greater the sense I need to get away. He grunts. “Shame to come all this way and?—”
“It’s none of your business if I skip the castle. Leave me alone.” I walk with purpose along the path, clueless where I’m headed. A stone with the profile of a witch makes me regret the direction I chose. I’m going deeper into moss-covered everything instead of the open grounds near the castle.
He catches up, limp and all. “American gal, your friends would be back that way.” His accent draws me to this stranger despite the warning klaxons going off in my head. The sound of it reminds me of my grandmother singing or storytelling when her lilt rang with such clarity, I glimpsed a Máthair from the past. With a start, I remember someone else with a blend of old and new language.
Máthair’s lawyer.
I whip out my map and pretend to plan a route. I don’t want to think about Timothy Yew or talk to a rude Irish schoolteacher. “I’m not finished here.” Thankfully, a few people are drifting our way, so I’m not alone in a possibly enchanted forest with the farthest thing from a prince I can imagine.
“Why bother with this castle if you skip the Blarney Stone?”
I shake the map with a crack. “Again, not your business. Please go away.”
He picks at the curls covering his ears. Irritation colors his words. “It’s biscuits to a bear stepping on Irish soil if you’re not going to climb towers.”
“Biscuits to a bear?” I want to slap a hand over my mouth at my accidental invitation to prolong this conversation.
He speaks slowly as if I’m the idiot. “A—waste—of—time.”
I force myself to ignore his lovely accent and strong, unapologetically masculine jaw. “What’s the local phrase for jerk?” I focus on the map and strut past him. Instead of leaving well enough alone, I turn back. “I didn’t see you climbing the castle stairs either.” Immediately, my mind flashes on his limp as my gaze falls to his leg. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” When I get the nerve to look at his face, I notice the deep dimple in a chin that tilts up instead of down.
He waves me off. “Whanker or amadán will do.”
“What?”
“Or call me a jerk. It translates fine.” I give a curt nod and attempt to leave again. Máthair dropped a lot of amadán bombs on people she labeled fools. I should have remembered the word. “But I prefer you be calling me Sion.”
The weird phrasing intrigues me. Is he messing with the American gal? “Fine. Hey, Sion, quit following?—”
