The Pearl Diver

The Pearl Diver

On the southeastern coast of Honshu, the ancient port city of Tomonoura has faced the Seto Inland Sea since the beginning of time. Its Japanese landlords along with various other Asians occupied the city streets. Sprinkled amongst the natives were a few European men. Murtagh O'Farrell was one of these men. As he walked the streets from his docked ship towards one of the small beach coves north of the city, the locals always stopped and turned his way gazing at his tall, lanky stature topped with a tussle of reddish orange hair.

It was a time of adventure and great culture for it was 1867, and the world seemed open and alive. This was why Murtagh, captain of the Draper, came to Japan to trade exotic treasures, search for adventure, and acquire riches. That would be the tale he would weave as you shared sake while in port. However, every sailor knows a man who pulls into the same port year after year does it for one reason. Love.

As the road neared the north cove, the captain could hear the steady crashing of the sea against the tiny shore. A small gaggle of girls ranging from 11 to 17 years old was playing in the ocean surf. Upon further inspection, one noticed the organization of the children by 2 of the oldest. With buckets in hand, the girls were given directions to various locations out in the cove. They all began wading into the water then swimming towards their destinations. You see these were not just any girls; they were from a long line of Ama, pearl divers. They drove the coves and nearby sea for shells and abalone in order to harvest the mother-of-pearl.

Sitting in solitude on a rocky jetty was a gangly girl of thirteen years with a pale complexion. From a distance, the girl heard a whistle. She immediately dropped her shells and headed for the man standing on the beach. As her feet hit the sand, “Papa,” she shouted while running. Within seconds, they embraced. “My Ashling, I have missed you. Let me gaze upon you.” Her brown eyes were enclosed with a less pronounced Asian fold over her almond shaped eyes. Her skin was more yellow tones than of her father’s pinkish white skin. As Murtagh, looked at his daughter he saw only love. When the other children in the town looked upon Ashling, they saw only an awkward looking girl with flaming curly red hair.

Their time together as a family was always brief due to the captain’s travels. He saw her only twice a year.

“How are your diving skills?”

“Excellent. They said I cannot be an Ama because I am only half Japanese.”

“Hum…Precious, time will call you an Ama, you will see. You will not just be pearl diver; you will be the Pearl.”

Three years past since Captain Murdagh’s last visit, Ashling used this time wisely. She studied all the books her father had left for her. While standing on the edge of the cove as the sea touched her toes, Ashling practiced breathing. It was something taught to her by her maternal grandmother, one of the oldest Amas on the island. The other girls would mock her and call her Sabure meaning sand, but they meant is as an irritating granule or pebble. Her diving skills had become legendary though out the port city. Merchants paid dearly for the mother of pearl and pearls she and her grandmother found deep in the waters outside of the cove.

The northeast winds were heavy for several days. This was good sailing for the captain; he pulled into port a week ahead of schedule. Murdagh tended to his business during the mid-morning and took lunch while in town. This left him the afternoon to wonder up to the north cove. The wind carried a bit of a chill, but it cooled the skin from the hot, humid summer day. As he approached the cove, he prepared himself for this customary arrival whistle; instead, he was greeted by a sound he hadn’t heard in years. The elders of the cove called it the “song of the sea”. At first, the sound resembled a chant, but as he came closer, the chant blossomed into melody.

The captain stood in awe as the two women, one petite and old with years the other tall and slender with the radiance of youth, standing at the edge of the cove with their toes kissed by the last touches of the Seto Inland Sea practiced their breathing. Quietly, he sat in the sand and watched the two women swim out beyond the cove and drive for pearls. Upon their return to the shore, Murdagh whistled. The young woman turned towards the sound. She pulled the cap from her head revealing a mane of long auburn hair. “Papa,” Ashling shouted as she ran across the beach. As she came within steps of her father, he gasped at the site of her. “Look at the pearl, Papa. Look.”

The captain glanced at the black pearl and then into his daughter’s face. “It’s beautiful.”

facing Seto Inland Sea facing Seto Inland Sea

The Twilight Zone...

Creating the first draft of the baby shower list was a simple task. The general rules of etiquette were used to invite close friends, family including 2ND cousins, and a friend or two from work. So when Lily’s mom, Nancy, asked why Mother Wheeler wasn’t on the list. Lily just moaned, “She is just going to ruin everything like she always does. “
“Mother Wheeler is your only living great-grandmother.”
“Mom, she knocked Sarah’s bridal shower cake off the table.”
“Oh honey, she just tripped on the dining room rug.”
“We call her Cruella DeVil. She always has that awful scowl on her face.”
“Honey,” Nancy tried not to laugh, “You have to invite her. It’s not an option.”
Lily grumbled under her breath and wrote Cruel la on the guest list. There was a tear in her eye as she picked up the brochure from the bakery and looked through the cake flavor list. “Can I get her a personal cake laced with arsenic?” Nancy ignored Lily has she started writing out the invitations.

It was a beautiful June day in Stone Harbor, NJ. From the beach house porch, Lily could hear the ocean waves pounding the surf. At seven months pregnant, Lily weighed about 128 pounds. Her long blonde hair seemed to glow as the summer sun hit it. The sun dress Lily wore was white with big bright orange and pink geometric flowers on it. The empire waist had an orange ribbon with pink polka dots. The dress would seem too childish on any other grown woman, but on Lily, it seemed fitting. Not that she was childish; let it be known that she could be a bit bratty at times. Being the youngest of 4 will do that to a girl. However, Lily had this air of naivety that just seemed so surprising at times for a woman of 32 giving birth to her second child. Lily smoothed out her dress and proceeded into the house heading for the living room, which was full of ladies and baby shower gifts. As the guest of honor glided across the room towards the open chair being reserved for her, Lily hesitated a second before she passed Mother Wheeler. Her great grandmother sat perched on the sofa dressed in her usual black attire with a walking cane held out before her as if it was a royal scepter. Lily gave a forced smile to the old grouchy woman just as if she were a small child trying to please someone she feared. Just then a piercing pain came to Lily’s ankle, and within seconds, she was falling to the floor belly first.

Lily awoke in a hospital room unlike she had ever seen. As she looked around, nothing looked familiar to her. She wasn’t even sure it was a hospital room. The nurses who came into the room were wearing white dresses and little winged hats on their heads. Trying to get attention, Lily opened her mouth to speak by nothing came out. She was in such pain tears came to her eyes. That was when Lily noticed something strange. As she looked out the window, Lily saw sprawling city blocks, but it looked like a movie set of New York City from the 1920’s. The pain had become so unbearable she just closed her eyes and prayed for it to go away.

When she awoke again, Lily realized that her arms were in full casts. A nurse came over to the bed and started wiping her face with a cold cloth. The coldness of the cloth felt good against her warm skin.
“Now, there Mrs. Wheeler, bet that feels better. Don’t you worry about a thing. Your husband will be here soon so we can discuss your condition with him,” the nurse said calmly has she wiped down Lily’s legs. Thoughts were racing through Lily’s head. “Mrs. Wheeler, What the &*#$ does that mean? Mrs. Wheeler? What?” The nurse was walking out of the room when Lily finally pushed all the pain aside and in a desperate voice pleaded to the nurse, “My baby, nurse, what about my baby?” The nurse just walked away. Lily looked at the bump on her belly. With her arms in casts, Lily tried desperately to touch her stomach. She needed to feel the baby but couldn’t feel her baby from inside her anymore.

An entire day past before a thin, dapper looking man in a dark suit walked into the room. A fedora hat was perched just so on his head. As for his attire, it was obviously custom-made and reminded her of the type of suits the old Jazz musicians used to wear during the roaring 20’s. The vest had 5 or 6 buttons. Lily giggled to herself and thought, “A vest and cuffed pants with wing tipped shoes? Who is he, F. Scott Fitzgerald?” His bright blue eyes were attractive at first, but if you gazed too long into them, you would notice that they were angry and soulless.
“Little Annie is dead; thanks to your deplorable mothering skills. How could you let a 3 year old go running out into the street?” shouted the angry man.
“Who are you?” whimpered Lily through tears. The man walked towards Lily’s bed, and bent over her. She could feel his hot, sour breath on her face. “I am your husband, you stupid woman. And now you are worthless to me with broken wrists.” More tears streamed down her face as she stumbled over her words.
“The baby, what about the baby?”
“It’s dead!” and with that the man disappeared as fast as he had appeared.

Lily cried herself to sleep. When she awoke, she called for the nurse, but no one came. Lilly looked around the room. The walls were old white tiles, dirty and cracked. There were no signs of a TV or any medical equipment. Just a white enameled metal bedpan sat on the table next to her bed. As she looked out the window at the cityscape, Lilly saw something odd upon the window sill. Stones. Three roundish, grey stones resting on the sill. All lined up next to each other like soldiers on guard.

There were no visitors, only nurses came into the room to take her temperature and to feed her food. No one spoke to her about her baby. Lily only knew that Mrs. Wheeler had fallen down and tried to brace her fall with her arms. Each time the nurses entered, they would call her Mrs. Wheeler. Lily insisted her name was Lily, but the nurses would just smile nicely and told her she was stressed. After several days, the pain started to subside, and Lily was awake more than she was asleep. Seven stones now sat on the window sill. It was right after she had finished her lunch when Mr. Wheeler, her supposed husband, walked into the room. “Get dressed, Mary, it’s time for you to go to your brother’s house.” At that moment, a nurse walked in with some clothing and started dressing Lily. The man walked out of the room as his wife dressed. “What about the baby?” Lily whispered to the nurse.
“I’m sorry. You are going to have to wait until your body passes the baby,” the nurse whispered back. Tears started streaming down Lily’s face. She started crying so hard she began hyperventilating.

When Lily woke up, her eyes were still closed, but she could hear people talking and what sounded like a baseball game playing in the background. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see her real husband, Ryan, sitting next to her, holding her hand, but watching the TV. An IV drip was in her arm along with several wires attaching her to various pieces of medical equipment, and its humming sound was comforting to Lily. Ryan turned his head towards her, “Hey babe, you gave us a big scare.”
“The Baby?” she whispered.
“He’s fine, same as you.”
She closed her eyes with relief.

After Lily’s discharge from the hospital, she went to stay with her mother. The guest bed room was full of flowers. It brought a smile Lily’s face. As she walked into the bedroom, there were three stones on the window sill.
“Mom, why are there are there stones on the window?”
“Oh, it’s some tradition your dad’s family has.”

The night was long and full of tossing and turning. The morning seemed to take forever to arrive. It was seven in the morning; and Lily was exhausted. Thinking a shower would make her sleepy, she got up and took a long hot one. She crawled back into bed and promptly fell asleep. She awoke to Mother Wheeler staring at her. “Good of you to join us.” Lily looked around the room and wondered who the “Us” was. The Great grandmother just started at her hands. Then without warning, she rose from her chair and started walking out of the room. “Annie wasn’t your fault,” Lily blurted out. The old woman stopped in her tracks. She didn’t move. Lily continued, “Do you remember the stones on the hospital window?” Mother Wheeler nodded her head up and down ever so slightly, but kept her back to Lily. “I know what they mean,” said Lily in a hushed tone.

While Mary Wheeler lay in the hospital with her still born child, her husband filled with remorse over the loss of the youngest children, filed for divorce from his wife and gave his two boys, John and Milton, to Mary’s older sister. Mr. Wheeler kept the thirteen year old daughter so she could take care of the house. John and Milton went to school during the day and then would return to their aunt’s house. At night, they would slip out of the house, and down to the hospital to visit their mother. Since children were not allowed in the hospital, the boys had to take extreme care to sneak their way into their mother’s hospital room. She was always sleeping, so after each visit, the boys would leave a stone on the window sill to let their mother know they had visited.

The old woman slowly turned towards Lily. There was a small tear running down her cheek. “I never knew,” Mother Wheeler said as she looked up and saw the small stones lined up along the window’s ledge. A small smile came across her face.

Belated Christmas Poem for 2010

Christmas is coming. Bringing love and good cheer,
I just want to knock over those pre-light white reindeer.
Neighbor’s houses wrapped pretty and bright,
What have I eaten to make these pants so tight?

Party after party, Smile happy please;
Oh God, I just eat some really bad cheese.
Going over the list, what have I forgot;
This bustle twists my panties in a knot.

During the twelve days of Christmas, I panic and complain;
Then Christmas Eve comes and bad thoughts wane.
It fills me with joy seeing family and friends;
Peace and love; these thoughts I will send.

The girls...

Joan Rivers used to politely ask “Can we talk?” as one of her tag lines during a stand-up comedy routine. I am not going to be polite…

“Girlfriend, sit the hell down; I need to tell you something.”

Since Breast Cancer Awareness month was October, let’s talk about your girls. Now, I am just going to come out and say it. I know I am a human being of the female persuasion, but I like boobs. Maybe it is because I have small ones and different size boobs seem to fascinate me. There are fat women with big or small breasts, and there are skinny women with big or small breasts. The intriguing part is how women treat their own mammary glands (because that what they are; mammary glands whose initial purpose is to feed babies).

Some ladies celebrate their hooters by putting those puppies right out there for all to see. Some ladies cover them up for various reasons. And some ladies just ignore the fact that they have boobies, and let them have free range around the front of their bodies. The rest of this blog is to the latter set of women.

Are your ta-tas are tickling your belly in any manner? Hoist up those puppies because it is GROSS!

The first modern bra was invented at the turn of the 20th century. There was no Victoria’s Secret store in the 1900’s so bras pretty much sucked, and to be truthful, they still suck. However, this is no excuse for letting your girls run about wildly as you go about your day. If you are under the age of 25 and have had no children, then great, wear your tightest t-shirt, and let those babies show all their perkiness to the world. Celebrate them, show them off. I will be happy to attend a party in the honor of your snappy, happy knockers. However, once you are over 25 or have had children, GET YOURSELF A DECENT BRA!

Now when I say ‘decent’, I don’t mean expensive. You can buy some excellent bras in Wal-mart. This is where the bitching starts…

· The elastic pinches my torso: Then either you have gained weight (go buy a bigger bra) or you bought a bra that was too small (go buy a bigger bra).

· The cups are too big/too small/ too itchy/ too see-through/ too hard/ too soft/ too pointy: This could go on for days, and when you talk bras with women, it does. Why did you buy it in the first place? You need to try on bras before you buy them.

· The straps dig into my shoulders: Loosen them; they are adjustable. If they keep digging into your shoulders, go buy a new bra.

· The straps always fall down: Tighten them; they are adjustable. If they keep falling down, go buy a new bra.

· Underwire bras hurt: Let me say this, and I want to make sure I am absolutely clear with my next point. STOP WHINING and SUCK IT UP! Because if I don't want to see your boobies dangling on your belly looking like tube socks, and I can pretty sure guess that your boyfriend, girlfriend, or spouse doesn't want to see them there either.

Here is the thing. The framework for any bra is fabric and elastic; guess what, they wear out with washing and general use. Bras are good for about a year if you have 3 or 4 of them; two years if you have 8 or 9 of them. Yupe! one year, so those of you who are wearing an 8 year old bra. Knock it off!

How do you buy a bra, you say? Well first, there are two sizes. The number (34, 36, 38) refers to the inches around your rib cage. The letter size (A, B, C) is the actual cup size of the boobs. These sizes are mutually exclusive. During your life time, you will gain and lose weight, so your boobs and chest will grow and shrink and usually not together. So, go celebrate your girls and buy yourself a bright pink bra with good support. The people looking at your breasts will thank you.

Snapped

Every person has a breaking point. For some people, it may take years for them to hit it or it could be just a matter of moments. The moment can be an earth shattering event or just the smallest comment that just pierces you like a knife. However, what do you do at that moment when the mental snap occurs in your head?

Heather stopped dead in her tracks and just stared at her husband for a moment. “What,” was all she could think of saying to him? Tom repeated his comment and turned back to watch the football game as if nothing had happened. In Tom’s mind, nothing had happened; he just stated an observation and moved on with his life. Heather’s life, however, came to a complete halt. She walked into the kitchen and started the kettle for some hot Darjeeling tea. She always loved this tea; it was so smooth and calming to her. Maybe it would give her some clarity. She closed her eyes just as she started to replay the moment; the tea kettle started to whistle. As she walked up the back stars dunking the tea bag up and down in the hot water, Heather kept thinking. “What in the hell just happened? What did I do wrong? Why do I keep fucking up like this? What in the hell is wrong with me?” She passed her kids in the bonus room and lightly kissed them on the top of their heads. They gave her the “Whatever” grunt and a “Mom, I am trying to talk to Sophie” comment.

The old sleeper sofa in the sewing/office/guest bedroom was her destination. Heather kicked off her shoes and wrapped a blanket around her as she drank her tea. Her mind was blank as she faced the Monet print; she didn’t see it before her. When she was finished with her tea, she quietly curled herself into the couch and blanket so it almost looked like she wasn’t there. With her eyes closed, she drifted back. It was like watching a video. She was on the couch in the living room reading a Nora Roberts novel. The sex scene was a good one. The leading man slowly, gently caressed the leading lady’s body. The kisses were soft and lingering just a hint of tongue here and there. It was the kind of smoldering kiss that they do in the Hollywood movies. Heather looked up with a girlish grin at her husband and thought “Why not.” She closed the book, and walked over to Tom. She bent over him and kissed him as the characters had just done in the novel. After about 5 seconds, she pulled away slightly and looked into her husband’s eyes as she smiled. Staring back at her were these angry eyes that seemed to pierce through her. “Who in the hell are you kissing?” barked Tom. “What?” replied Heather.

She opened her eyes and looked around the sewing room. There was a Monet print of an open meadow where the flowers seemed to sway in the wind. She glanced at them and desperately wanted to be there or anywhere in the world but not here. That is when Heather snapped.

She stopped reading the romance novels and started reading murder mysteries. Each book was darker than the last. The murders were more gruesome and cruel. With each story, Heather replaced the victim’s character with Tom. She would relish in the way the murder would plan, stalk, and kill his victims. As she finished reading the kill scene in this latest novel, Heather with a malicious smile glanced over to Tom and thought “Why not.”

What plagues me?

As people grow up, create their lives, start a family, they bring bits and pieces of their life with them as gentile reminders of where they come from or how far they have gone. My mom’s objects were very simple, sea shells from the beach, which was 20 miles from our house and a few family heirlooms that seemed to anchor the house with their presences. There was Great Uncle John’s piano that moved from our house to my brother’s house and now resides with my niece, and a dining room set from my Great Grandmother on my Dad’s side of the family, which now is at my house, and books. My mom loved books. Some were old; some were new. No matter how busy mom’s life was as a single mother, she always read to us. Some people have to have a swing set in the yard, ice cream in the freezer, candy stashed in the bottom of a drawer (It’s the secret candy that everyone knows about ; everyone eats, but for some reason, everyone sneaks into the drawer as if it was a hidden treasure).
These are the things that we choose as comforts to give us peace and a sense of belonging. Then there are the things that for some reason just seem to plague us no matter where we go in life. We can move out of state, move up or down in the social latter, be unemployed or a millionaire. But for some reason, you always end up with a house with a rose bush and you hate roses, a boy dog that loves to jump the fence and chase down girl dogs in heat, the relative that seems to eat at your house more than their house, or you always seem to break mirrors (hand or wall mirror doesn’t matter you will break one very 2 to 3 years). For me, I would gladly take one of the above inconveniences.
What do I get?
Poop. Yep. You read that correctly. My life has been plagued with crap. For a woman who is naturally constipated, I certainly have a lot of fecal matter issues to contend with for one person.
It all started when I was young. You see, my mother believed that administering a lukewarm enema would cure most common ailments from the common cold to food poisoning to mental illness. “You’ll feel much better after all that stuff clogging you up is gone.” From an early age, I learned to monitor my bowel movements for signs. After writing that statement, I am completely surprise that the study of BMs did not require chicken bones and a brewed concoction of chamomile and eye of newt with a pinch of licorice root although it would account for my fascination with the forensic sciences and the occult world.
In Kindergarten, I found out that being afraid to go the bathroom in the middle of class has various side effects. One of which is a really bad nickname that can stick with you for several years and is only relieved when one changes schools. The second being that labeling of human waste as dirt when discovered on the floor near your shoes fools no one, not even other 5 year olds.
From this point on, my life seemed to take a turn for the better with only a few incidents of an old dying dog with weak bowels or a niece or nephew to change their diaper during a babysitting gig. Even after having kids, the monitoring of my family’s bowel activities was something I did quietly in the background of living life in the suburbs.
Then one day I did something that was totally out of character, and it must have thrown the Fecal Gods into a tizzy. I decided I would travel France to visit my brother and sister-in-law and to take a book art class. I am not sure how this offended the Gods of Shit, but it did. I had just finished up a day of book making when a screaming email came to my attention. Back home, the family dog had just crapped all over the house. My then husband had to take off the rest of the afternoon from work to clean it up. The next day, a similar email arrived from home only this time, the dog had wrecked havoc upon the master bedroom. This lead to a total melt down in judgment, and my x-husband decided to wash one of the Dupioni silk curtains in the washer and then run it through the dryer. From a small reading nook located in a turret of a 16th century chateau, a horrifying scream was heard for miles. After the news that bathroom cleaner, which contained bleach, was used to clean the celery colored bed skirt from the Pottery Barn, I simply passed out from the shock of it all.
My relationship with bodily waste was improving and then a warning sign came from nowhere. After walking the dog one evening, I notice dog poop on my shoe. Now typically, this happens from time to time when walking a dog along the same path in the woods. However, I knew something was askew when the poop was on top of my shoe and nowhere else. I promptly called Dateman to inquire if he was breaking up with me. He said no. A few weeks passed, and I completely forgot about the pending doom that was before me. Then it came from nowhere in the middle of the day. College Dude (my son) called my cell phone frantically. The call went something like this…
“Mom, the dog just crapped all over the house, but mostly in the kitchen.”
“OK, where is the dog now?”
“Outside. We opened up all the windows because it stinks in the house. We thought we were going to throw up. I think she is sick because it looks really red.”
“OK, take the dog to the vet;’ I’ll meet you there. Make sure you take a stool sample for the vet to test.”
For a stool sample, a large size Tupperware container filled to capacity with poop was transported to the vet’s office. The Vet tech commented on the “ample amount” of the stool sample the boys (College Dude and neighbor side-kick) had gathered and praised them highly for their efforts.
$200.00 later…we all were back home. The boys ran across the street to the neighbor’s house so they didn’t have to finish cleaning up. I walked into a kitchen with dried diarrhea covering floor and a serving spoon lying in the middle of it. To collect my composure, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach for 10 seconds then turned on the radio, grabbed some paper towels and a garbage bag and sang as I cleaned. After the Hazmat team certified that the house was now fit for human occupancy, the dog and College Dude both came back into the house.
Quietly, I monitor the fecal cycle of everyone in the house and wait for the next bowel explosion to occur.

Prologue to Dagda’s Cauldron

Below is a prologue to a story I am writing. Let me know what you think. Good or Bad. Thanks

The cold winter wind stung her skin as she stepped through the circle. The sun was bright and caused her eyes to squint until she became accustomed to the light. It had been several months since Wicklow had been in man’s world. She was excited and full of mischief. She wanted to play with the humans; they always made her laugh. Typically, pixies didn’t come out during the winter months for a bit of tomfollery. But, Wicklow was always breaking the rules and getting into trouble; besides, she had a new game to show the children. She couldn’t wait until the spring ritual.

The house came into view; Wicklow stopped in her tracks. The human house she always visited was still and cold; something was terribly wrong. The front door was strangely open; leaves and animals had found their way into the home. Wicklow went inside and over to the window shutter to close it from banging in the wind. Where were the children? She flew up the stairs and into children’s room; the closet was empty. Where were the toys? One lone wooden soldier lay under the bed: alone and forgotten. The pixie slowly picked up the toy; a tear ran down her cheek. She felt just like the toy. As she made her way back to the living room, she noticed something on the fireplace mantel. There were two letters placed under what looked like a deck of cards.

She opened up the top letter. Tears came to her eyes. The children had gone away. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Flying from room to room, Wicklow franticly searched the house. It was nowhere to be found. The children had taken the stone. She began to smile. She knew would see them again someday.

When Wicklow returned to her home, she went straight to her room to put away her new treasures. There was a slight hesitation just before the cupboard door was shut. She picked up the second letter and began to read…

For those who wish to follow in my footsteps,

There is a story you must know. There was a time when Ireland was young and the land was full of promise. Invaders would try their hand at conquering this land, but the people were strong and full of fight. It has been said that one day a mist like no other descended upon the land. This mist was as thick as the rolling seas and with it came ships carrying our ancestors from Nemend. The Irish people called them, Tuatha de Danaan, since they were the children of the goddess Danu.

They were a mystical people who brought four magical treasures with them: The Sword of Light from the city Findias; the Spear of Lugh from the city Gorias; Dagda’s Cauldron from the city Murias; and the Stone of Fal from Fáilias. These treasures served their masters well. Then the Milesians, a warring band of invaders, seized the land. The Tuatha de Danaan vanished. Legend has it they found shelter within the hills, lakes and rocks of the land and took their treasures and mystical knowledge with them. These are our Forefathers; this is our history.

As a Shanachie, I roam the Irish countryside captivating farmers, merchants and their families with tales of old Irish battles and legends. But these are the hardest times I have seen. The Irish people have always dealt with invaders but the famine. It is a nightmare like I have never seen. The last hamlet was empty of people. As I walked over the last hill towards Donheadaly in the county Tyronne, a plain gray stone house came into view. The shutters were bright blue. It was a welcoming sign after months of wondering the countryside. I could not wait to share my new treasure with this family.

In my pocket was a deck of cards found during my travels. The images on the cards showed the home worlds of the ancients along with places and things seen during their travels. The images would help enhance the stories as I weaved tales of old before the children.

As I entered the Fallon house, the hearth was cold; an open window was welcoming the autumn chill into the house. A note was resting on the mantel in the living room. I picked it up to read. I had to brace myself against the fireplace as I read the words. It was a note from one of their young sons, Mickey. The family had gone to America to flee the famine. My heart was heavy; my soul now broken. My protégé, gone.

My time has come for me to return from where I came; back into the mist. I leave this desk of cards as a reminder of our past and a guide to future.

Shanachie of Danu,

Henry Blackwell

Wicklow slowly folded the letter and then sat on her bed. She stared at the weathered paper being held in her hands. She knew she had to tell the others. The Shanachie of Danu has returned to the land of the ancients. All they could do now was wait… wait for a sign.