Page 6 of Good Golly Miss Molly

My love for him, my loss — it changed me. No longer could I disregard the suffering of humans, no longer could I discount the value of their short lives. And so when the war began — so cunning and subtle that the humans didn’t even notice — I could not abide what was promised to come, and I went over to the other side, to their would-be savior, and I alerted him to what was planned. In return, he granted me — as he had for so many others — asylum, refugee status, in this enclave in a state so small that “Delawhere?”is a running joke.

The only condition? That I not take any lovers. I had already sworn that oath to myself, and I did again, willingly, to him. And to assure both of us that I would keep that vow, the contrivance of my collar was created. Neither of us was sure it would work to contain my magic, the allure inherent to the leannán sidhe, let alone my more lethal abilities. But he said such devices had worked before, in other contexts, and assured that I could tolerate wearing steel, that pact was made, and I was collared.

Never think it’s against my will. I am no dog chained to a tree. Think of it instead as the hand on the hound’s back, reassuring it that no action on its part is needed or desired. And while I will inevitably wither for the lack, I will not take a lover. I will not feed this hunger.

One can stand outside the doughnut shop and not end up walking out with a dozen assorted and crumbs already clinging to her face, no?

3

Sing About It

Logan

Ican’thelpmyself…I want… Molly. She’s Molly. A fantasy made real walked into my shop today, and she let me touch her hand. She didn’t reject me outright, as so many have. The ugly scar on my face is just the most visible of my flaws, but she didn’t even seem to notice it. In fact, she seemed enraptured with my song, my creations…

“In Dublin’s fair city,

Where the girls are so pretty,

I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,

As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,

Through streets broad and narrow,

Crying,‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’”

No, I can‘t help myself. I sing the old tune as I test out the new acoustic that is finally dry, strung, set up and playable. It is the perfect instrument for this song, a solid presence across the lower register, impactful mids and brightness overlaying it all. Perhaps I should name this one Molly…

I set it back down on my workbench behind the shop counter. Should I even sell this one? Could I sell one I named after that glorious creature, with her pale skin, long mahogany tresses and almond-shaped eyes whose color reminds me of red oak. I chuckle. Oak — sacred to the Druids. Of course.

I‘m naturally inclined toward Druidry. Naturally. Trees and all that. There’s much more. But it’s a sign of my nature that I was drawn to the practice. A nature I wasn’t even aware of for half my life…

My fingers go reflexively to the scar across my eye. I was born with it, or so I‘m told. The one person who might know for certain and also be willing to tell me isn’t around anymore. But he ensured I had a solid start in life, even after being abandoned by my birth parents. And he ensured I could function in a society that’s often unkind to those who are different.

My eyes travel to the small charm dangling from the bracelet on my left wrist. Inextricably linked, the scar and the charm — and it‘s a charm in both senses of the word. Enchanted steel in the design of a triskele surrounded by a ring of Celtic knotwork. I had no idea why until I turned 17. And then the man I looked up to as an older brother revealed the reason I had always worn that charm, on a bracelet, necklace or ankle bracelet, almost literally since I was born.

I‘m not human.

I pass for human, and that‘s by design. It’s hard for the fae to steal a human child and replace him with an unwanted infant of their own if the rejected child can’t at least seem, on the surface, to be human. Still, changelings are notoriously ugly, as well as bad luck for their human families. And my benefactor had deemed the risk of discovery too great if I was allowed to remain amongst humans without some kind of safeguard. My mother had been a sidhe woman of great power, it seemed, and chances were I’d end up with some kind of gift. Many changelings had a gift for music.

And that was certainly a gift I possessed, unrestrained by the charm that veiled my appearance from human eyes and ensured that even those who were sensitive to such things would remain unaware of my nature. So I was hidden amongst a ragtag group of refugees, raised by their version of the proverbial village, until I became an official adult at 17.

Gifted my own apartment, tuition and a secret I could tell no one. Happy birthday!

But I refuse to be bitter. Far worse fates could have been mine. And knowing that has given me a unique outlook on life. I take it day by day, planning only my projects and for the financial success of the shop I sold so many of my precious instruments to buy. Being able to do what you love for a living is a true gift, and I appreciate that every day.

I run my fingers along the fretboard of… Miss Molly? Yeah — I like that… The smooth ebony is inlaid with abalone in a tree-of-life pattern, side fret markers in the shape of leaves, each one individually hand-carved by me. It’s a living design for a living instrument. And it will be hard to let her go, even if I didn’t name her Molly, because I’ve traced every cell in this piece of wood from the moment it arrived in the shop, getting to know it as well as I know myself and then waiting for the perfect project to give it its best life, even after it was cut.

That‘s my gift, along with the one for music. I can read trees inside and out, at a touch.

When I turned 17, I was taken aside and told the story of my birth, my arrival in this place and what would be needed for me to assimilate into human society. Not the least of which was to ensure I always had that charm on my person. I realized upon hearing my story that I had been tremendously lucky. So many more changelings lived lives tarnished by bad luck that followed them or isolation within their unknowing adopted families. And I knew I wanted to keep the life I had been and was once again being given. So it was easy to promise I‘d keep the charm on me.

Easy to promise, but harder to ensure, without some extra measures taken. So I agreed readily to having a steel cable bracelet created to which my charm would be securely attached and then soldered closely fit while on my wrist. It‘s loose enough not to impede my skill at playing instruments of all kinds but still small enough that it won’t slip over my hand.

But during those brief moments when the new bracelet was being constructed, I laid my hand on the arm of the wooden chair in which I waited, and I was instantly lost in a world full of sun and wind, storm and shade, rain and heat, strength and flexibility proven against the forces of nature and time. The tree told me its story and welcomed me as kindred, a caretaker of its legacy.

When I came back to myself, the bracelet had been put in place, a closed loop ensuring I would always be protected by that spell. And, despite the constraining influence of steel, my communion with trees remained. Perhaps it was because I was engaged in it when the bracelet was fitted. Perhaps it was that once the connection was made it could not be broken. But from that moment forward, I was able to combine my gift of music with my talent with wood, and the result was inevitably an instrument that delighted those who played them or heard them.

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