Blackthorns of the Forgotten

  Blackthorns of the Forgotten

  Bree T. Donovan

  IFWG Publishing, Inc

  Rockaway Beach, Missouri

  The following is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the authors and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.

  Blackthorns Of The Forgotten

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2012 IFWG Publishing / Bree T. Donovan

  V1.0

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher and authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  IFWG Publishing, Inc.

  www.ifwgpublishing.com

  IFWG Publishing and the IFWGP logo are trademarks belonging to

  IFWG Publishing, Inc.

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  Many who write will tell you that it is a solitary process. This is true for me as well. But, in my case, as I’m sure most of those other writers, my work would never have made the transition from a file in, ‘My Documents’ to a finished product in someone else’s hands.

  To these wonderful, patient, generous and humorous individuals, I would like to offer a note of sincere gratitude. So, in no certain order, here goes.

  I thank my international sister across the pond, Angela Owen, who many years ago took up a little creative writing exercise with me from which the seed of this story was conceived. I miss you and our silliness!

  To my BFF and sister, Nancy Celebre and her family; quite simply, you transcend the definition of friend and bring it to a whole new, hysterical (in a good way!) level. I did my best! Much Love.

  While I’m mentioning the women in my life, Nicole Kreigers, my German sister who has encouraged my writing and helped me in ways that far exceeded kindness. I’m very fortunate to have you. Hope 2012 will bring our great Irish-German summit.

  And speaking of Germany, thanks to Astrid Nolde Gallasch who has put up with quite a lot of pestering from me over the years. You do such wonderful work as a web designer and provide a caring bridge between us and the star(s).

  JJ Beazley, a writer with great talent and an eye for truth in its most purest form. I know for certain this book, as well as my former work, wouldn’t be worth a halfpence without your gifts.

  Sharon Partington who helped this story along some early bumpy roads.

  Bruce Jeffs, a treasured friend of the spirit who talks to fey and dwells in Ireland and beyond.

  To Mercy and Mary, the women I love and admire the most.

  To Daniel, who was always there and who I’m just getting to really know and love.

  To Robert Russo for never really shutting the door. Thanks for the friendship, love and crazy Misha! Ben & Jerry’s is no fun without you!

  To IFWG Publishing, especially Gerry Huntman. Your professionalism, caring and dedication to express your writers’ voices precisely is a refreshing change.

  And last, but most certainly not least, for the people at CONTACT Community Helplines in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, (my family) for all the people you have saved, (including moi!). All royalties of this book are for you guys and gals.

  For Tra` who walks with the angels, teaching them all how to be a wee bit devilish. Until the next spin of the wheel, my love.

  For Jack A. Cohen, "and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

  Rest in Peace

  BTD

  Part 1

  “Come not, when I am dead,

  To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,

  To trample round my fallen head,

  And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.

  There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;

  But thou, go by.

  Child, if it were thine error or thy crime

  I care no longer, being all unblest:

  Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,

  And I desire to rest.

  Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:

  Go by, go by.”

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Prologue

  Tullamore, Ireland

  1972

  A Time to Dance, A Time to Mourn

  Gillean Faraday always heard the music. Even in the blissful semi-conscious state he was presently in—naked and content as a child in the womb, he heard it. The wind colliding with the trees reminded him of the waves beating against the unyielding rocks lining the shore. A bird’s distant call came at him like the lone charm of a tinker’s whistle. A shiver ran up his spine at the sound, a prelude to the chimes riding on the wind. The sound was imperceptible to everyone but him. Something archetypical stirred in Gillean, something which he had spent most of his life fighting against. He was constantly beckoned to the sweet notes mingling in the shafts of early morning light, and most disturbingly, held hostage by the low, haunting melodies hiding among the shadows, the sounds that live in the dark places.

  Local folks spoke of ghosts and spirits where he lived as easily as they discussed the dreary weather. It was mostly tradition. Not many would dare lay claim to actually witnessing the kind of paranormal happenings which Gillean possessed a begrudging certainty about.

  The rain battered against the window of the thirteenth century stone castle. He remembered when he was a child and the chilly, rain-swept November day when his parents had first taken possession of the crumbling, old building. It had been in a substantial state of disrepair then, and had only gotten worse since. They had dreams of turning it into a family run hotel.

  At first it was all charm and mystery, but soon the reality of the situation hit them with the full power of the eastern wind. Many bitter nights the family was forced to go to bed fully clothed—coats and all—because of the lack of electricity. Delight turned into dismay for the ten-year-old boy. That was when Gillean had vowed to escape his imposing home and newly acquired homeland as soon as he was able.

  He missed the continual warmth of his birthplace, Brazil. His family had never returned once they settled in Ireland, not even for a holiday. As he grew from a boy to a young man, Gillean couldn’t differentiate between his real memories of the tropical island, and what were merely dreams of a far off place. The castle, dubbed Teach na Si` (in honor of the myriad fairies who purportedly ran rampant in the country) was now heated by modern technology, and filled to the brim in the spring and summer months with guests from around the globe. These short-term visitors provided the captive audience the budding musician treasured. But it still seemed like the Tower of London to a young man who dreamed of fame and fortune. Being held hostage in a God-forsaken tourist attraction was torture to him.

  He rolled over with a grunt, rubbing his numb hands together. “Christ, I hate Ireland!”

  The woman who shared his bed wiggled her way onto his stomach. She too was naked.

  “You should come back to Paris with me.”

  Her French accent was as alluring as her warm, voluptuous body. Gillean reluctantly thwarted her efforts to engage him in a kiss.

  “I can’t.” He stroked her blonde hair with the great desire to return to their love-making. “Right now I am supposed to be studying. And you better get back to your own room, or we’ll both be hearing it from my mother to be sure!”

  She tried once more to place her lips on his.

  “Now, now, I’m an adult, and a paying guest!” she purred. “I bet your mama
n has many things to do to keep her other paying guests content. Trust me, cherie, she is not worried about where her son is at…” She leaned over to glance at the antique clock on the table next to the bed, “…one in the afternoon.”

  He gently pushed the woman back onto the bed, sat up, and reached for his trousers.

  “Ah, you don’t know Mrs. Faraday. She does indeed know where both her sons are at any hour of the day or night. And I assure you, she is very concerned with her youngest son’s time management skills right about now!”

  He slipped on a heavy wool sweater, the kind a sailor would wear for extra warmth during a jaunt at sea. Gillean felt a lot like a sailor, wishing for the wild, wind blown ocean, and heading for undiscovered destinations.

  “I’m sorry, luv, but I must go and make an appearance. Besides,” he grabbed for his guitar standing beside the bed like a dutiful wife, “I have to get in some practice before this evening.”

  “I’d say you can get all the practice you need right here with me.” She patted the mattress moving her slender calf seductively in and out of the covers. “Not that you aren’t an expert already, and at such a young age! How old did you say you are?”

  He tried his best not to be persuaded by her provocative gestures, but the older, more experienced woman was difficult to deny for an arduous man of nineteen.

  “Old enough to please a beautiful woman like you, no?” he smiled, his dark eyes hooded by even darker eyebrows.

  “You are young enough to be my…little brother,” she laughed. “But old enough to be my lover if you choose.” She kept her languid eyes on him as he moved about the room getting ready to leave.

  “A tempting offer, but as you are scheduled to return to your country in a few days, I’d say our love affair is ill fated.”

  He bent down to give her one last kiss, but thought better of it. No matter how much time he gave her, she wanted more. Gillean Faraday would never be constrained by the demands of another.

  “We’ll always have Tullamore,” he joked.

  She grabbed for him but he was already heading for the door, guitar in hand, his head cocked towards her in a gesture of farewell.

  “And maybe I will be waiting for you little singer, and we shall meet again.” Her eyes seemed to change from deep blue to pitch black.

  “Please return to your room, madam. We wouldn’t want any of the guests to talk. After all, I do have to perform for all of them tonight.”

  He blew her a kiss and was out of the room making his way down to the Great Hall, pausing at the sound of a recognizable song surging like a musical wave from down below. Gillean shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. He laughed at his own suppositions. So now it seemed the resident ghosts had also taken up music, or perhaps he should have just stayed in bed, alone.

  He was able to go undetected, or so he thought, past the spacious first floor kitchen where his mother was making one of his favorite foods: butterscotch fudge. His older brother sat at the table warming his hands over a cup of tea. In about an hour’s time the heat of a roaring fire would pervade the space, and several employees would be preparing the guests’ afternoon meal.

  ~~~

  Gillean’s mother, Ena, was a compact little lady, but she condensed terrific energy, wit and strength into five feet of Englishwoman. People would constantly remark that her younger son took after her in stature and personality. Perhaps that was why Ena and Gillean were always at odds with each other. Ena saw her son as being untamed and undisciplined. He had too much of the dreamer in him. He was so much like her own father who had filled Gillean’s head with tales of his great adventures, having been in both World Wars. She knew her son had a wonderful way with people—especially the women. He possessed a genuine warmth and sincerity that came across in his wacky sense of humor, but most of all in his tender, poetic music. When she first heard him play, she wondered where on earth he came upon such a gift.

  Gillean scoffed at his mother’s disbelief. He suggested it was bestowed upon him by one of the spirits that shared the Teach na Si` with them. When Gillean bravely endeavored to play for the hotel guests a year earlier, Ena worried her son might rashly decide to give up his University studies for a near impossible career in music. Young people these days were so intent on pursuing the unattainable. But visitors repeatedly espoused the brilliance of her son’s music. There was no denying that he was headed for something other than a university degree in Literature.

  “I don’t know, mother. I think your little plan may backfire and innocent people could get hurt.” Joseph helped himself to another biscuit.

  Ena turned the thick, sugary confection with a wooden spoon, and looked up to address her eldest son. He was always the one with the level head. He never gave her a moment’s worry. Even when her boys were children, Joseph took to looking after his brother without any prodding from his parents. It was simply his nature to be responsible and dependable.

  “For goodness sake, Joseph, it’s not as if I have rigged a bomb to go off. I’m simply taking on a new employee. I think she might do our Gillean some good, that’s all.”

  Joseph diligently brushed crumbs from his gray vest. He was twenty-five going on forty, as his little brother was so fond of saying.

  “Uh, huh, well, I don’t want to be around for the fall out. I won’t be able to resist the urge to say ‘I told ya so’ this time.”

  “Just hush up now, and get me a cup of tea, will you.”

  Ena sat at the table taking a moment’s respite before she began to roll out her fudge. She was hoping she could hear what was about to happen in the bar down the hall. So far the music continued uninterrupted, but she knew her Gillean. He wouldn’t be able to resist such a calling.

  ~~~

  Gillean entered the bar with his guitar behind his back. As he came through the door, a Bob Dylan tune—the same one he had heard drifting through the hallways—was still in full folk swing, broadcasting from a transistor radio set upon the hearth. All the spotlessly polished chairs and tables were pushed back to the far corners of the room, leaving an aged but shiny plank floor exposed. A young woman glided across the wood, jumping and pirouetting with all the poise of a seasoned ballerina.

  Gillean placed a hand over his mouth to stifle his delighted surprise. She took no notice of his entrance, her eyes half closed. But he took notice of her. She looked to be his age, a slight lass in her black leotard and knee length cotton skirt. Auburn hair fanned out around her like ginger flames sparking with her movement. Her feet, clad in tatty pink slippers, barely made contact with the ground.

  As quietly as he could, Gillean perched on a barstool taking up his guitar, and joined in the next verse. It was second nature to follow a Dylan song. The man’s work was part of Gillean’s nightly repertoire. Watching her dancing the few brief moments while he played was hypnotic. It was a high he did not want to relinquish.

  Just as he was immersing himself in the experience she stopped, turning her head in his direction, and switching off the radio.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  She was a local girl. He could deduce that much from her accent. Gillean noticed her slate eyes resting on him. He stood in front of her smiling like a boy who had successfully captured a firefly.

  “No need to apologize. It was smashing! I would have liked to continue. Women are always so quick to put an end to a man’s pleasure.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up into a wry grin. He liked the sarcasm he saw there. Even more, the taint of it in her voice when she responded. “And men are always so quick to inject themselves into places they are uninvited.”

  He shook his head in awe of her candor, his laughter spontaneous.

  “Well bein’ as how I live here, I would have to say that you, my lovely, are the uninvited one.”

  Her pale face flushed crimson. Her eyes anxiously searched the room.

  “Oh.” She dabbed with her sleeve at the sweat beading her forehead.
“I do apologize. Mrs. Faraday said it would be alright for me to practice in here. You must be one of her sons. Please, forgive me.”

  Gillean was touched by the girl’s sincerity. He reached for her hand, and bent down to kiss it.

  “Not at all. I quite enjoyed the experience. I’m Gillean. It is a pleasure to meet such a talented dancer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dance ballet to Dylan. You do him a great honor.”

  He reached behind the bar, tossing her a hand-towel, which she caught with an appreciative nod.

  “Gillean is it?” She wiped her cheeks.

  “The one and only. It’s obvious by the tone of your voice that my mother already told you all about me. This is the part where you run from the room screaming.”

  Her gaze was cast directly on him, as if she could see right through him. He found the intensity of her stare unnerving. He’d been drawn to more beautiful women, but it was that unassailable quality she exuded from within that made her so enticing.

  “I have no fear of the infamous Gillean Faraday. I’ve confronted much more frightening figures than you, and I must say you are quite the musician.”

  She smiled now. He liked the way it lighted her face.

  She continued, “You have a most unusual accent—not quite Irish, not quite English. Perhaps you really are an intruder?”

  Gillean found this attractive too, her ability to notice something about him few others did. So many foreign guests hardly took note of the numerous cultural influences in his speech, and the local Irish didn’t seem to care.

  “Well now, I must say there have been many times I have felt like a stranger in a strange land,” he admitted. “My mother is English and my father Irish. We traveled a great deal when I was a boy, but mostly I remember living in Brazil before ending up in jolly Eire.”

  “Brazil? Most uncommon.” She rested her feet in a dancer’s stance. “Now, would you be singing in Portuguese or Gaelic?”

  His dark eyes momentarily rested on her strong legs then moved leisurely upwards to her mouth.