Page 25 of The Scald Crow

I tapped the horn twice and waved, passing a slow-moving farm tractor.

“Jaysus, is your foot stuck on the feckin’ accelerator?” She threw her hand onto the dashboard.

“Shush.” I grinned when the car slid on the wet pavement.

“Don’t shush me, you bastard.” She swept the white strands away from her face. I recalled the day her hair changed from lustrous black to ghostly white. Struck down by Scarlet Fever at twelve years of age, she hung onto life by a thin thread, the effects lingering long after. I have often considered the time she spent in the world of the dead and the toll she must have paid. Once, I asked the question. She responded to my concern with a cold, dark stare.

“You need to drive this thing, Breda. Blow the carbon out. When did you turn into such a Nervous Nancy?” I punched the gas for good measure, fishtailing the back end.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. You, Colm O’Donnell, are the problem.” Her face paled.

“Hmm.” I pondered Breda’s statement.

Rush-filled fields thick with mud stretched in every direction. Dark clouds drifted across the stark skies. A cold chill seeped into my bones.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back. You should stay.” She scrunched her nose and then laughed. “Jaysus, I’ve missed you.”

“I have a life of my own, Breda.” Somehow, returning didn’t hold the thrill it had a day ago.

“Are you thick in the head? Can’t you see, we love you? Why don’t you buy that fishing boat you always wanted?” Her voice rose, her eyes filled with hope.

“Ciarán’s dream.” I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, my mind conjuring up images of the past, of the summer day a long time ago. What a find it had been—a broken-down rowboat washed up by the seas. Of ten-year-old Ciarán, sweat pouring down his brow, affixing a pole-wood mast to the middle beam, and Breda, her pale hair falling into her eyes, painting the prow a vibrant royal blue. Breda—always part of every memory.

“The two of you had such grand plans. Stop this, Colm.” She stared me down.

“Stop what?” I tilted my head toward her, seeking clarity.

“Blaming yourself for Ciarán. You did all you could. So did your da…How long are you going to keep punishing yourself, then?” She peered at me, her brows drawn tight.

“I’ve missed you too, Breda.” I smiled.

We left the main highway, snaking through lush green fields, the landscape rolling with every bend in the road. We passed through small villages and remote lookouts—so many shades of green—bloodied with so much pain.

Everything remained the same, yet everything had changed. Breda had been right about one thing: it was time for me to stop running.

4

Calla

“Hey, thanks for driving me. I appreciate it.” I marveled at Saoirse’s driving skills. Her chin barely skimmed the top of the steering wheel, yet she chased every twist and turn the narrow road presented. Faster. Faster. Each bend inspired awe. From the grassy mountains towering high into the clouds to the pretty cottages nestled into the lush landscape. Just wow.

“I don’t mind. It’s not far, anyway. Do you have what you need?” She hit the wipers, clearing the drizzle from the windshield.

“I think so, thanks to you.” I hugged a wicker basket filled with goodies from the Black Horse Pub: a container of Orlaith’s famous chowder, cockles packed separately, with specific instructions to add the tiny delicacies at the very last moment, sheaves of fresh baked Wheaton bread, and a block of fragrant white cheddar.

“See the place with the slate roof? That’s Niall and Bonnie.” She motioned with her lifting chin.

“Oh, okay.” We zoomed past a white stucco cottage at the bottom of a green slope. Niall and his wife Bonnie were friends from the pub. The moment was etched in my mind—the crowd silenced when I joined the singalong.“Where did you learn that song? It’s Elven. It’s with the angels,” they said. They welcomed me, sealing my fate. They knew my name and where I lived. A thousand hellos before the night ended. I could only imagine what tomorrow would bring. What would happen when they found out the truth? There were no secrets in Ardara town.

“Dermot’s place is just around the next bend.” She took her foot off the gas, allowing the roadster to coast down the next hill.

“Saoirse, listen. I want to apologize––about the wake. I didn’t mean to...to rush you out.” Colm’s face came back to me, not broken, not confused. No, he looked right through me, his jaw set in a hard line, his gaze burning with hunger and something far more dangerous.

That moment eclipsed all others. I had wandered into the land of lust, and dear gods, he walked with me—in sync, in time. I kissed the man in a meadow, under a tree, or did he kiss me? And now, my dreams were filled with him. They seemed so real.

My pulse raced. My mind was a switch that wouldn’t shut off. Too much had happened, too much to take back. The pressing question was my connection with Colm O’Donnell and our shared visions. Sexy. Hot. Visions. I clamped my lips tight, refusing to acknowledge the heat. If I closed my eyes, the wind would sing, the clouds would unfurl, and I would be lost. It was more than an out-of-body experience.

And then there was the man only I could see—his brother, Ciarán. I spoke to him, and he answered, his blue eyes wide with awe. I thought nothing of it at the time. He gave me the distinct impression he wanted to share something significant. I tried again to delve deep, but my mind resisted, thrusting me backward and rejecting my efforts—an impenetrable wall I could not breach. My connection with Colm felt different; it was as if Ciarán belonged somewhere else.

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