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My friend flits her hands at hummingbird speed. “Charlie Moser is THE sweetest. He’s gone to the bus to get my puffer vest.”
The riot of mulberry and fuchsia flowers that greets us on the castle side of the main entrance chases away the fatigue from our overnight flight and subsequent bus ride to get to our first Irish destination. “So, they don’t only do green,” I say, taking a dozen pictures with my phone before I stop. What’s the point? Who am I going to show these to?
“So…Professor Olk—discuss. Easy to talk to, adorable, and totally rocks a history chat. Not boring at all. He’s going to get snapped up fast.”
Jeremy Olk’s narration from Shannon Airport to Blarney Castle did come off as enchanting as a grand King Arthur and the Knights of Camelot tale. His talk of chieftains and passion against the Anglo-Norman invasion beats a crusty recitation of dates and historical VIPs. He’s a bit of an ollam himself. “Poor guy probably doesn’t get many chances to gush over Celtic studies in the wild.”
She smiles slyly. “His eyes have plenty of gush for you.”
“Slow down there, C. Let’s not turn this trip into a social mixer.”
I’m sure my cheeks add a new shade of pink to the clusters of flowers shivering in the breeze. “After his first impression of me, he’s probably worried about the university’s liability if one of their adjunct faculty dies from a panic attack in the air while co-leading an international study trip.”
I do appreciate the added benefit of Doctor/Professor Olk being a mesmerizing storyteller so I’m able to fade into background noise most of the time. I’ll intervene here and there to make a positive impression that will hopefully get back to the hiring committee. Playing second fiddle will leave me space to work on Máthair’s enigmatic find me directive.
As we walk along the path near River Martin, the reality of Blarney Castle exceeds my mystical expectations. It does indeed rise from the trees as if planted rather than built. The brownish-gray walls of the tower house slant inward, giving the illusion of a castle tall enough to joust with clouds. Bold sunlight splashes against walls where ancient stains meander down stone. Clumps of living green scruff have taken hold across the castle. The soles of my feet tingle with ancient energy that percolates from deep within the ground, echoes of paradise shattered by battles and conquests. I search for a private bench or path to ride out the possibility of an oncoming dream flash.
My mental traipse into the past is interrupted by a rowdy bunch of teen guys, all wearing orange t-shirts with the same school logo. They swarm us like a cloud of midges, killing the onset of my shift in reality.
Charlie breaks through the haze of Irish, ear-flicking boyos and their back-and-forth jibes to catch up to Colleen. “Here ya go, lassie,” he says, holding the hoodie for her to shimmy into. His arms wrap around her from behind. “Warm?”
A few orange shirts mutter insults in Charlie’s direction.
I nod at the retreating hoard. “I don’t think they appreciate your go at the local accent.”
Lagging behind the rest of the group, one of the orange shirts grunts at my statement. I’m tempted to blurt What’s your problem? until I picture a look of disdain on the face of the hiring committee for representing Kennard Park University by snarking at the locals. The grunter is older than the teens, probably the teacher who drew the short straw to chaperone the school trip. When I glare at the guy’s back, guilt stings as if I’d been the recipient of one of the ear-flicks I just witnessed. He has a pronounced limp and looks miserable. I can’t help but notice a very nice set of broad shoulders as he zips his peacock blue jacket then flips the collar up. I’m glad I didn’t go smart ass American on him.
Colleen pats the hands that cradle her against a skinny chest. She and Charlie are a grasshopper canoodling a honeybee. “You sounded Scottish, Charlie. Put more oi into it.”
“Oi, Coilleen.”
She takes his proffered elbow, and they head toward the castle. Colleen may be going home with a bigger souvenir than she budgeted for. Since she’s staff, not Kennard Park faculty, and Charlie’s a fully formed adult postgrad, there’s no impropriety to their budding attraction for me to waggle a finger at.
Charlie and Colleen linger at the bottom of a grass covered slope below the castle’s entrance, waiting for me. There’s no force on the planet that will get me to climb one hundred feet of twirling stairs to hang upside down off a roof and kiss the Blarney Stone. I focus on my map, and then point. “I’m heading over to the Rock Close then the Poison Garden. I’ll meet you at the bus.”
Colleen tugs Charlie up the incline to join the line waiting to enter the castle and calls over her shoulder. “Have fun. Catch me a fairy.”
I continue on, forfeiting the gift of eloquence offered from smooching a rock. Bordering the path is a line of stalks, each topped with a mauve ball of petals that gives them the appearance of floral lollipops. Máthair would plunge into the foliage and grab cuttings. If she were walking next to me, she’d say, “Flowers are the song of seasons.”
My heart thumps in my chest like the clapper of a church bell at the thought of my grandmother. Sorrow fades when I pass through the narrow stone passage leading to the area of the castle grounds called the Rock Close. Clumps of giant rhubarb leaves encroach on a wooden boardwalk. I need a basket of paint swatches to begin to name the myriad greens surrounding me. A waterfall breaks into five distinct streams and cascades through ivy and ferns to spill onto a puzzle of stones.
Along the path, shadow overpowers light for dominance in this primordial realm. Trees overhang the path in a protective canopy while exposed roots writhe and twist over rocks like ghostly remains of the snakes St. Patrick shooed off the island. The place has more of a dream flash vibe than real time. I check the farthest reaches of my sight, searching for the iridescent sheen that identifies my waking visions but find nothing.
To my right, a cluster of flesh-colored tree trunks bends and stretches toward the sky. What are they reaching for? The sun? Or maybe a fragment of time past. Beyond them is a plaque that reads:
“It is indeed a fairy scene, and I know of no place where I could sooner imagine those little elves holding their moon-light revelry.”
Crofter Croker 1824
Am I in the presence of unexplained spirits? In the scant space between a gnarled trunk and the massive stone of a dolmen megalith intended to be the portal tomb to a different world, an industrious spider builds a web the size of a warrior’s shield. Droplets of dew like diamond chips cling to threads.
I want to absorb the otherness of this place. Pushing my sleeve to the elbow, I move my arm into light and then shadow, testing the rise and dip of air temperature. Freckles on my arm shift from golden brown to dark amber when the sun can’t reach them. Máthair tested for rain this way. When the difference was marked between sun and shadow, she knew clouds were coming. We’d open the slats in the greenhouse roof for plants to catch the rain.
Farther along the path, a collection of moss-covered stones called the Druid’s Circle teases the air with subdued energy. I assume the countenance of a druid gliding through a place of power and mystery.
Go and ye will be found.
“Have I found what you wanted, Máthair?”
