Blackthorns of the Forgotten Page 12

  Adara was less disturbed by this fact than she was by the pieces of hair she kept close to her person at all times. The thin strands were like barbed wire binding her heart. With every breath, a piercing sensation stung her chest. Not knowing how she could continue on in such a state, feeling as if she were fighting for each inhale of breath, she sought the advice of an elderly traveler.

  The month of March was leaving Ireland, kicking up the winds and rain in its wake. Adara could hardly believe the request coming from her own lips. The petite woman wrapped in layers of tattered clothing to protect against the bitter wind smiled with a look of patient understanding.

  Adara stumbled over her words, seeing with absolute lucidity her vision in the castle, but having no verbal grasp for the right descriptions. Since that day, she experienced inexplicable happenings seeming only to affect her.

  She would return from shopping trips laden with bags, fumbling for her house keys, and she would see him; not a full person, but an obscured image on the periphery of her vision, like a sideways glance.

  She could swear the telephone was ringing, but when she asked any one of her four children why they didn’t respond, they looked at her askance. Only she heard the chimes. And when she found a pair of pajamas that Gillean apparently left behind, she knew her impassioned reaction was not that of an impending divorcee.

  Holding the soft material close to her cheek, it was not her husband’s familiar cologne she smelled. She was transported inside the deepest part of herself, taking in the unique scent of burning turf fires, the majestic ocean, and the cool air of the spring fields—something ancient and timeless.

  Adara, desperate for answers and communication with the one entity she believed could bring her peace, sat alone in a cold, abandoned gardener’s shack following the elder gypsy’s instructions.

  “I, I don’t even know what kind of spirit this is, or even if it is a spirit,” she had told the kindly woman.

  “Ya don’t need to know, dearest. Ya believe it to be a good spirit, and wish to summon it. There is nothin’ more ya need do other than follow these instructions.”

  And so Adara had. She chose an isolated spot—one where she was certain she would not be interrupted—and waited for the first traces of darkness. “The gloaming” is the name the Celts give to this ephemeral time, when day falls from the sky slowly, like paint gliding down a canvas, the colors mixing into a beautiful, unidentifiable shade of twilight.

  She lovingly spread out the filaments of hair on a rickety table, and lit a tall candle. She shifted on the uncomfortable stool whispering a personal apology before reciting the words the traveler had given her.

  “Please forgive my disturbing your rest, whoever you may be, but I believe I need you.”

  Concentrating on the high orange flame, and listening one last time for any sounds of intrusion, she could only hear the familiar noises of the countryside making way for the evening. Taking a deep breath she recited the invocation given to her.

  “I call upon the spirit so close, to the one whose heart knows mine the most. Bring your essence to me. I evoke thee. I ask thee, please draw near.”

  She shut her eyes tight, shivering not so much with cold, but with expectation. A few moments passed. When nothing happened she searched the small space with her slate eyes.

  No one.

  Feeling a little more than silly, she stood to blow out the candle. Before the breath left her, she looked to the door and he was there—like a ghost, an angel. The man she had come to trust more than anyone.

  The glow of his ethereal eyes seemed brighter than that of the candle. He was no longer a flickering image, but a man standing before her.

  Her heart expanded, hacking through the wire of pain that imprisoned it all these months. She felt enveloped by the tremendous waters of the sea. Her toes dug firmly into the warm sand just as a spectacular wave crashed against her. Its fury almost took her down, but the memories of him inundating her consciousness gave her the strength to stay upright, feeling the cool spray of brine against her face that was titled towards the sky and his beaming eyes.

  Her gaze lingered on him. He wore white trousers and a simple white cotton shirt. A smart cap covered his untamed hair, the hair she found on Gillean’s shirt.

  The same unmistakable aura that had drawn her to him before was present in his generous smile. Without saying a word, he put her at ease purely by taking her in with his compassionate green eyes.

  “Sully.” The name released itself from her center, like a gem loosened from the earth.

  “’Tis himself.” He did not move, but his smile remained.

  “I hope I have not disturbed your peace.” She looked away, ashamed. She thought she must be dreaming and longed to touch him, feel his body to prove that he was indeed there.

  “I’m always here. But I cannot come to any of ya unless ya ask for me.” He regarded her with his intense eyes. “And I cannot touch ya unless ya reach for me first.”

  She rushed to where he stayed against the door, and placed her arms around him. He was real. She could hear his breathing, his lungs taking in air. Pressing her face to his chest, she could count the beats of his heart.

  It all came back to her—not just how he looked, but how he made her feel. How she cared for him, and how his brutal death had submerged her in relentless agony. He was the echo that remained in her heart. Now she was free.

  “What has ya so troubled?” He sounded overly cautious.

  Overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment and the protracted emotional war she and her husband had been engaged in for the past few months, she cried.

  “You’re upset with me.”

  She backed away from him awkwardly.

  “No. I could never be,” Sully said.

  “You aren’t as I remember you. You’re so reserved, so distant. Why have you changed?”

  “I’d like to think I am merely new and improved, eh?”

  “Oh what’s the use,” muttered Adara. “Everyone has changed. My whole life is changed, why not you as well?” She paced the room with renewed energy. “I have no idea who you are.” She took refuge on the other side of the room.

  “Yes ya do,” he said in a low voice. “Look at me, Adara.”

  Her eyes obeyed, searching his for answers.

  “That is why ya called to me. Ya know ya can trust me. Ask me. Ask me what ya want to know.”

  “It’s not Gillean, it’s you, isn’t it?” she blurted out.

  “Me?”

  “I know what my husband is up to. People tell me I’m distraught over his leaving. But, as ever, we will eventually work things out.”

  She slowly moved towards him. The room was barely lit by the waning candlelight. “I knew that wasn’t the reason for my pain. It was you. The things I remembered tonight…My God!” she cried, placing her hand over her mouth. “You died saving our son!”

  Sully remained impassive.

  “If I ask you to stay here with me, can you? Will you?” Adara gripped Sully’s arms in desperation. “I know you want to tell me the truth. I think you want to stay.”

  Sully eyes moved over her like fingertips, transmitting great sorrow.

  She shook him. “Tell me.”

  He cast his eyes to the floor.

  Adara touched her hand to his cheek. “Stop thinking about Gillean. He is the captain of his own ship, and I need to make some sailing plans of my own. Will you stay and help me? Please?

  Sully shook his head mournfully. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Gillean remembers you, doesn’t he?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She smiled ruefully. “You think he will want your help?”

  “No…I don’t know! But if he should…”

  She reached around him and opened the door. The night was cool and her head finally felt clear. “You will do what you must.” She took his hand, proffering a walk in the same meadow where they had first met a lifetime ago.

  Wings and Petal
s

  Sully was not asked about his present state of being, as if delving into the obscure subject would somehow cause him to vanish once again. Adara spoke only of Gillean's leaving, and of her intentions to pick up the pieces of her disassembled life.

  Sully listened thoughtfully, walking by her side and keeping to himself his own recent experiences with Gillean. He thought it best to focus his attention on how best to help Adara. She asked for him. He didn’t turn inward for guidance. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer, other than his own gut instinct. After all, if a human has the power to bind a Guardian, it was his duty to remain. She asked not out of any malicious reasons, but out of love. He was walking a fine line. He grappled with the decision to tell her what Gillean meant to him, because it was she who had beckoned him and asked that he stay.

  He would not reveal anything about Ciar unless directly asked. Adara deserved the truth, but she needed to come to her own conclusions, without any influence from him, as to what path she would walk.

  The real conversation between the two was the silent dialogue, which found expression only with their eyes and gestures. Each longed to speak about the layer beneath the surface of their words, the place where the truth resonated like the final chord of a song. But the phantom of Gillean kept them both circumspect.

  The interior of the Faraday house was like a grand church. The air smelled of sandalwood and fresh flowers. Sully paused as Adara led him down a corridor.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Listen.” He cocked his head to the domed ceiling above, painted a summer sky pale blue.

  “What?” Adara followed his glance.

  “The breath of sleeping children.” His eyes returned to her face.

  “And what does that sound like?” She concentrated on the easy hush of the house.

  “It sounds like…like peace, security. It’s the certain knowledge that good does exist and they are its purest form.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Do ya know the word ‘inspire’ literally means ‘to take in’, like a breath?”

  “I’d forgotten how much they do inspire me,” she replied wistfully. “Gillean and I have much to make up for.”

  “Ya gave them life. Let them bring some back to you.”

  “But what happened to the life Gillean and I built for them?” She stared at him with eyes the color of December. “You must know what his intentions are. I don’t want to know for myself, but please, Sully, for them.” She gestured to the bedrooms above. “I need to know for my children. Where is Gillean? What is he going to do now?”

  Reality tugged at Sully like a leashed fox. Gillean’s words echoed in his head. “Your silver wings are tied to my steal guitar strings. You are obliged to follow my wishes.” Gillean had no idea of the depth of truth in his statement, or the irony. In trying so hard to cover up his duplicity by acting the bully, Gillean unknowingly made one of the most honest statements he would ever utter.

  He and Sully were bound to one another. Sully had made a vow never to abandon him. After witnessing Gillean’s erratic behavior over the past several months, right down to the last few days, Sully was developing a plausible theory as to what was going on.

  The task was clear enough. He must find out if his hunch was correct. If so, there was going to be one wicked battle about to commence—meaning he and Gillean would need to trust and rely on one another as never before. Since Gillean was close to loathing Sully at the moment, their future did not look promising.

  “Come with me.” Sully lightly pulled Adara into the nearest room.

  “Aren’t you going to turn on the lights?” she asked in a muted voice, as Sully led her to a couch. She took a seat on the edge.

  “It’s best I don’t.” He kneeled on the floor in front of her. “As long as you can see me, it means that anyone else can too. I need to ask somethin’ of ya.”

  “Alright.”

  He took her hands in his. “Remember the day ya danced for me?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her tone brightened.

  “Concentrate on how ya felt when you were dancin’, and hold it in yer heart. I can’t tell ya anythin’ more right now. Will ya do this much, not for me, but for yerself?”

  “I think you can tell me more about what is going on, but you’re afraid to.” She leaned closer to his face. “Don’t misjudge me. I don’t need to be protected. I can handle the fact that Gillean loves another woman. I just ask that you be decent enough to tell me.”

  “Ya know, dear lady, that is between yerself and Gillean.”

  She leaned back against the couch as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. “I see.”

  “Ya believe in the good forces of this world don’t ya?” Sully posed.

  “Yes…”

  “Then ya must believe there are dark forces at work as well. And they exist only to tempt and torture those who are most vulnerable.”

  “What are you getting at?” her voice a tired whisper.

  Sensing her exhaustion, he spoke softly. “I’m sayin’ it’s late. Ya lay down now and get some rest.”

  He took off her shoes, and gathered a quilt around her thin body.

  She didn’t resist.

  “Listen to me. This is important,” he pleaded.

  She quietly waited.

  “Please don’t forget yer still a dancer, please.”

  “I’m…I’m just so tired.”

  He drew in a long breath—inspiration to prepare for the question he had to ask out of respect to her. He would abide by her wishes and censure what was in his heart if he must. She deserved as much. “Do ya wish to be with Gillean? Do ya love him?”

  “I loved a fantasy. How can one be with a fantasy?”

  “Take this time to decide what ya want for yerself.”

  “You’re leaving aren’t you?” She fought against the heavy hand of sleep.

  “I need to be sure of somethin’. But, I’ll be back.” Sully closed his eyes seeing the thick knots of the new promise he was about to make. He depended on the power of love to keep him untangled. “I promise.”

  “I believe you.”

  Bonds

  Gillean reclined in the private aircraft that cut through the darkening Irish sky. His destination was a well-hidden landing strip in Prague. He was risking everything for this inscrutable woman.

  Gazing out over the wide expanse of green, he noted the contrast of white sheep grazing peacefully in the fields—looking more like clusters of puffy dots with their signature red and blue painted wool. Their colored coats meant that someone took care to keep them safe, making sure they would not fall victim to a hungry predator.

  As the plane took Gillean further from all that was familiar, his thoughts were not of Sully, Adara, or Ciar, but of his birthplace and his childhood in Brazil. The bittersweet combination of loneliness and freedom filled his heart, just as it had filled the heart of the nine-year-old boy running under a throbbing, hot sun, and feeling the soft, gritty earth beneath his bare feet.

  His thoughts traveled back to a day that was warm, with a balmy breeze following him like a devoted friend down the narrow streets. A man whose age was difficult to ascertain with his sinuous, black hair and mocha colored skin was sitting on a crumbling cement wall, his agile fingers picking sultry music from a much-exercised guitar. It shone dazzlingly as rays of light bounced off its wooden belly, casting a spell on the untamed Gillean and luring him closer.

  Tourists sat outside local cafes sipping strong, fragrant coffee. They smiled at Gillean, looking every bit the local scamp with his golden brown skin and light cotton pants which hung loosely from his small frame. He ran with his shirt unbuttoned, his uncombed hair needing a good washing.

  “Little Gilberto!” the man called to him, still keeping time to the music.

  Gillean rushed over to the musician, easily fitting himself in the space between the man’s arm and his guitar.

  “Sing for them, Gilberto. Go on, just like I taught you.” The man lau
ghingly nudged the young Gillean.

  “A note, sir, give me my note!”

  Gillean jumped from the wall facing the few seated nearby.

  The man nodded and played a C chord, strumming with great fervor until the boy was ready to begin the song.

  It didn’t take Gillean long to find the key, or his voice. With a knowing smile he began to sing in Portuguese his body swaying to the rhythmic guitar. His eyes met the gaze of each and every person who stopped to listen. By mid-song, a small crowd had gathered. By the time he had finished with a dramatic bow, offering his acknowledgement of their praise, they were clapping and enthusiastically requesting another tune.

  But his joy was short lived. Cutting through the small gathering, his father was unexpectedly at Gillean’s side grabbing at his uncovered arm.

  “Gillean!”

  His father spoke with authority turning himself and Gillean from the hushed assemblage. Even the carefree guitarist had stopped playing.

  Gillean’s face flushed red at his father’s obvious disregard for his talent.

  “Da…” he struggled against his father’s firm grip.

  “Gillean, you were instructed to collect your brother an hour ago to help me at the dig.”

  His father was not a violent man, or one to raise his voice, but he was the sort to demand unquestioning obedience from his children.

  The tourists who, only moments ago had showered Gillean with approval and appreciation, began to disperse. They returned to their coffee and conversations, clearly uncomfortable at witnessing a private matter between father and son.

  “No, no, it is my fault, senhor.” The tall, slender Brazilian approached the two. “I asked Gilberto to stay here with me. Please, don’t blame the boy. My fault, okay?”

  He extended an apologetic hand to Gillean’s da, and Milo Faraday accepted it.

  “Right then. I appreciate your attention to my son, but he has his duties you understand, and entertaining others isn’t one of them.”