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- 04/12/2015
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The First Circlet: The Twining Of The Three - 1. Segment 1: The Rider in the Heath
Moira O'Brien woke to the rare sun of an Irish spring day quite refreshed. She'd finished the next to the last chapter of her book concerning druid history. It involved the use of dolmens and the fact that they were, perhaps, struts for something more substantial, perhaps a surface version of a barrow or enclosed prayer ring. At least this was her thesis she had used her book to prove.
The society and history of the ancient Irish had long fascinated Moira, especially that of the ancient druids. Many historians prided themselves on knowing the nature of the ancient priestly culture of the druids. From long told legends and archaeology that seemed to support these legends they felt they had a pretty good bead on things. A largely classist society based on animism or the worship of nature spirits, with the druidic masters being the 'wisest' elders of each of the hundreds of clans that made up ancient Celtic society.
Yet, things like Stonehenge in England and the ancient barrows of Ireland remained impenetrable mysteries since so little remained of these sites to really understand their purpose and complexity. Though studied at length in the past, they sat largely ignored by current archeologists and anthropologists because funding for continued research was just not there. Also, the Government in London, in particular, found that having English sites remain mysteries added to their allure as attractions...and thus revenue generators.
But Moira expected more...there was a mystery there, indeed. But one that had yet to be cracked...and one that she felt would open a new world to history. She felt close to discovering something very important, but could not quite place what it was that niggled at her brain.
Moira made her toilet, dressed herself simply in her walking attire, complete with wellies, her floppy hat, and her long trenchcoat. She had a mind for breakfast at the tavern up the road a couple of miles. It was such a beautiful bright morning...and one that should not be missed.
Out of doors the air was crisp, but in a manner refreshing rather than freezing. White puffy clouds drifted in the sky with no threat. They were there only to add interest to the deep blue morning of the early Irish sky. As was Ireland's particular and ubiquitous charm, the heath was greener than the brightest emerald, shaded only slightly by the gray purples of lavender and heather awakening to the spring.
She walked the side of the dirt road from her whitewashed thatched cottage. The road was only slightly muddy from the rains a day or so ago. The mud was just soft and not slippery or sticky...it actually made for pleasant walking. She was not one to mind dirt in the least. She heard a familiar tinkling arise from behind.
She turned to see the sight of Mr. McShane, the dairyman, on his cart being driven by David, the draft horse. Motorcars were not such a thing this far out into the country...far too fast and delicate they were for the earthen roads that connected farm to village.
"A bright mornin' to ya, Lass." the old man squeezed through his dried larynx in a manner of inborn goodwill. "Off to the ‘Fae Horse’, I see." He surmised to the obvious, as this had been the beginning of many a conversation between Moira and Mr. McShane.
"Aye. As it always is so. Best full breakfast I don’t have to cook on me own." Moira's brogue had deepened in her time out here.
"I left ya some cheese from Connacht. Its a soft blue, this time. Thought it might go good with something from your back garden…or possibly a pint." He said with some exuberance. Mr. McShane was a connoisseur of cheese unmatched by any French gastronome.
"Ah! Sounds lovely! How much do I owe ye?" Moira asked.
"Shah shah...tis a 'try-me-out'. You try it and then tell me all about it later." Mr. McShane waved it off as if it were a buzzing fly. David chuffed in seeming agreement and put his nose against Moira’s chest.
Moira stroked David's nose affectionately. 'You put him up to this did ye, David?' David remained silent on the matter. David was so named because of the unusual blaze on his chestnut nose. A white six pointed star that looked for all the world like a Christmas version of the Star of David.
“Well, need to be movin’ on, Moira, me luv. Milk an’ cream don’t deliver themselves, alas.” The elderly man tipped his weathered felt hat in Moira’s direction to which she returned a slight curtsy in the playful manner. Mr. McShane chuckled.
“Och…that I had been born 40 years later, but me mum…she couldn’t be left waitin’. Take care the heath, m’darlin’, things have been a might treacherous upon them as late with the mires and what not. Stay by the road.” He warned and then gently stirred the reins. David chuffed in compliance and continued his plodding methodical course.
“Thank you McShane…I’ve no need to go upon anything but this road at present.” Moira assured the milk man’s back.
“Just so…” Mr. McShane acknowledged from over his shoulder.
In McShane’s wake, Moira continued along. The bright morning and moist air was more enlivening than any cup of tea…though she could dearly fancy one, as well as a bit of bacon. Her tummy grumbled in agreement. As she went along a sudden chill touched the air and she found herself buttoning the top button of her coat and tucking her hands in her pockets. It seemed that winter had yet to take his hands of off all of Ireland’s body. A mist had formed in response to the chill and Moira found herself suddenly in a fog.
Much of the noise from the land had been swallowed by the fog. The birds had stopped their springtime caroling and it was silent as Sunday by the seaside. Even the breeze had ceased. It was then that a queer feeling overtook Moira…a feeling like she was being watched. It was this or perhaps the chill that caused her to tuck her chin into her coat and shiver a mite.
Then she felt compelled to look off to her right onto the heath where a willow grew. Through the fog she thought she could see something move…she stood to stare. The fog cleared a bit to reveal the gauzed shadow of a horse and rider standing at the lei of the willow. The horse’s tail swished. The rider’s head seemed to turn to her, but she could not make out the features. Moira felt an uneasiness and wondered if possibly some ne’er-do-well was there to make trouble. She fondled the Mace in her pocket.
With astonishment, while she watched, a bit of sun broke through the now thinning fog and, for the briefest of seconds, the light touched part of the horse and rider. There was a gleaming flash of reflection off of something that looked like…gold?
Then a roll of the thickest fog she’d ever seen came between them and as suddenly as the fog had come it was gone…and with it so was the mysterious rider of the heath!
This is a story dear to my heart.
I hope you will enjoy it too.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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