Awakening the Gods: A Celtic Urban Fantasy: Rise of the Celtic Gods, #1

PART I

THE WEST ASLEEP

1

SAOIRSE

Ibounced down the road, my feet cooperating for a change, earbuds in, music up, trying to absorb the upbeat vibe. It was an old Planxty track and the mad pace of it was nearly working to help me forget that I was now an unemployed barista with a first class degree in English Lit from Trinity. Who knew that being late five times would end with dismissal? At a glorified cafe. A hot and hip cafe, to be fair, but a cafe nonetheless. You couldn’t change that. I made myself concentrate on the neat change up of the music. Very tidy. I smiled. But then out of the corner of my eye, there they were.

Feck.

I blinked and turned my head away. But they were still there, those shadowy little figures whispering, eyes staring. On impulse, I turned to them and glared, made a face but they’d vanished. I peeked down the little laneway at the side of the pub to see if they’d gone there, but it was dark and seemingly empty. I sighed and decided to leave it. Those feckin’ creatures were popping up more and more, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure what their purpose was. Imagination it was not, no matter how many times I’d tried to kid myself when it happened as a lonely girl in boarding school, but I knew I couldn’t fool myself this time. It wasn’t that they were threatening or scary, just feckin’ annoying. Like a bunch of gossips talking about me.

I sighed and pushed the door to the pub. I could already hear the music within. The Mangle Pit was my haven, my own little island of joy and escape, where I could forget my rudderless existence and just live in the music.

I walked towards the back, weaving through the crowd of Thursday drinkers, my Doc Martens feeling the familiar stick of spilled beer. Gentrification hadn’t caught up with the Mangle Pit. Behind the bar I saw Finbarr and Gregor busy pulling pints, though Gregor glanced up and gave me a flirty wink. I cocked my head and moved along towards the music source. I grinned when I saw all the usual suspects were there playing, plus a few others. I felt a little spark inside when I saw one of them was Luke. He came on occasion but he wasn’t a regular. This evening he had chosen to play and I couldn’t help the little thrill going through me. It meant an even better time than I’d anticipated. His playing was top shelf, but so were his looks. His blond hair caught the light as he leaned over his uilleann pipes just then and I sighed. Normally I would despise a surfer like him, but you couldn’t argue with his musicianship, though if I were to be honest, I knew it wasn’t just that. And it wasn’t every day a surfer would find a particle of interest in playing trad music.

I closed in on the group, holding my flute case in front of my chest to negotiate the last little huddle. Declan spied me first.

Saoirse.

He grinned and nodded, still playing his concertina. With his leg he drew up a stool beside him and I took the seat at his side. Around the small tables crowded with glasses, the various musicians winked or nodded to acknowledge my presence. They were winding up the set of jigs they’d been playing as I entered and I quickly shucked my jacket, shoving it underneath my stool, phantom little men forgotten. With a speed driven from much experience I assembled my flute and had it ready for the next set. Cormac led the session with his dancing bow very Slíabh Luachra, and the rest of us followed once he’d set the tune going. For this set he’d chosen a few newish ones and I glanced over to Luke who sat two away, to see if he was okay with them. I knew he would pick it up quick enough, but I just wanted to be sure.

He caught my glance and smiled, his startling blue eyes full of humour as always. I grinned back and nodded because I could already hear his pipes, following Cormac who sat at the other end. Luke was always discreet with his pipes, never doing the overpowering look at me playing that some did. Next to him, Eileen sawed away on her own fiddle, her springy curly hair flying all around her. She was nice enough, late twenties, an artist of some sort. Glass? I couldn’t remember. Every finger covered in rings, bracelets banging away as she played. God would you ever give those bangles a rest, I thought. But I knew those sentiments were more of a reflection of the way she bantered with Luke every time he came. I turned away and looked at Declan, his pudgy fingers flying along the buttons of his concertina, and I was soon as lost in the music as he was. Cormac was enjoying himself as well, leaning back, eyes closed. He looked a bit like Santa with his full white beard and bushy hair.

Cormac barely paused when the set ended before he launched into the Postman set that he knew I loved and he looked across at me and raised his brows. Aw, the dotey creature. I smiled back and lifted my flute to my lips and sailed away on the driving beat that Patrick gave his guitar and we were all going grand.

Behind us, a few whoops cheered us on and feet were tapping as they picked up our energy and spirit. Before I knew myself I’d done it, I looked in the other direction to Luke and saw that he’d switched out the pipes for Mícheal’s bouzouki and was picking out a counter tune. Jesus will you look at him, I thought, it kills me. He caught my look and I widened my eyes and he laughed, knowing what I was thinking. Eileen looked almost proud, as though he were her prodigy. I glanced away.

The night sailed on and the music pulled me in, until just before the break, when someone shouted. Give us a song, Saoirse.

I laughed and shook my head. Maybe later, lads.

Go on!

You will!

Cormac gave me a questioning look and I sighed, shrugging. All right then.

There were a few shouts of appreciation and then shushings all around as I prepared myself to sing. What would it be? Something in English or Irish? I had feck all Irish, much to the disgust of my teachers, but I could sing the words of a song and had a decent idea about what they meant. I decided for English and began My Lagan Love on a whim. It was a song I enjoyed, not so much because it was short, though that was a plus for me if my nerves suddenly took hold, but the range also suited my voice.

The pub was silent as I sang, but soon I was lost to my surroundings, getting caught up on the words and the music in my head. My eyes were closed and I could see them there, the pair of lovers meeting up. I finished the song, opened my eyes amid the hush until a shout and whoop broke the silence and clapping ensued. A moment later the talk resumed and the pub was as loud as before. The musicians stood up without a word. Break time. Finbarr nodded over to us and disappeared out the back to fetch the sandwiches for when the musicians returned from the toilet, or smoke, or whatever amusement they decided to pursue.

I moved towards the bathrooms and Cormac caught my arm. You’re in good voice tonight, Saoirse. Lovely song.

I smiled and thanked him and let the warm feeling from his praise spread through me. He was great for encouragement, but his words were always genuine and I appreciated that. When I arrived at the bathrooms the queue was thankfully short. It was only Jilly ahead of me, the English girl who played the concertina, clad in her usual combat trousers and T-shirt. She was about my age and had been in Dublin over a year, waiting tables at a restaurant in Swords.

Hey, she said.

I nodded. How’s things?

She shrugs. Oh, you know.

I nodded.

You? she asked.

I got sacked today, but otherwise, grand. I don’t know why the words left my mouth and the regret of them rushed through me an instant later. I barely knew the girl.

Shit.

Yeah, but tonight’s about the music. I’ll think about the rest tomorrow.

She laughed and moved on, the stall free. I sat there and thought about the tomorrow when I would have no job to go to, the think about the rest tomorrow girl fizzled out already. Would I ask my father for yet another loan I would never pay back? I could barely afford the hovel I lived in, the rent was due, the lease nearly at an end, and until I got another job I needed something to tide me over. But I hesitated to approach him. He made me feel uncomfortable, always lacking. Though to be fair, it might be all in my head and my own disappointment with myself. The little I knew of my father would probably be seen in his Wikipedia page. A high powered property development mogul who travelled the world. The part that, while he did this, I’d been in a remote boarding school in Ireland would be omitted from Wikipedia, of course. I could count the Christmases we’d spent together on two fingers.

Good luck, said Jilly as she passed by, her bathroom visit finished. I nodded and moved into a stall.

A few minutes later, I found myself heading towards the back door, deciding a breath of air amid the fuggish heat of the pub would see me right. Once outside, in the little laneway that acted as the delivery area, I leaned back against the wall and sighed. At the laneway end, near the street, I recognised Cormac laughing loudly among a group of others sucking on fags, their smoke curling up above their heads. Mícheal’s skinny frame looked incongruous next to Cormac though he towered over his companion. They were fast friends of the music sort after playing together for years at this pub and others. Their musical chemistry drew many session musicians to share the tunes and the craic. The others in the group I recognised as regulars who came on Thursdays to hear the music. I toyed with the idea of going down to bum a cigarette. It seemed a day for that.

There you are, Ginger. said a voice behind me.

I turned and saw Luke coming out the service door, the edges of his dark blond hair damp with sweat, a pint of lager in his hand. I struggled not to sigh at the sight of him and what might lie beneath his clothes. His T-shirt, flannel shirt and low-slung jeans gave me only a hint, but every girl and her mother would want to see more.

Some would call my hair titian, I said.

Would they now? He came over to me and touched the long braid that was wrapped around my head. ‘The twilight gleam is in her hair’, he quoted. It’s like a crown of flames.

It’s ‘in her face’, if you’re quoting the song I sang.

I studied his expression for signs of mockery. He leaned against the wall, facing me. Even in leaning, his large frame was shouting the lithesome grace I found so attractive. He wasn’t my usual type, which was the dark haired, skinny, intense musician, but for him it seemed exceptions were made by all. I looked down at my Doc Martens, purple tights, red corduroy skirt and floral shirt. I wasn’t his usual type either, I was certain.

Good session tonight, he said.

I gave him a wry look. What was he after? It is that.

Are you playing gigs anywhere? he asked.

I gave him a dumbfounded look. Ah, no, no. Are you, yourself? Sure, you must be.

He shrugged. I’ve been tempted a time or two, but resisted in the end. He looked over at me and his mouth lifted on one side. But I’d be more inclined to if I was playing gigs with you. You’ve got a great touch on the flute. Good voice, too.

A flush of pleasure bloomed inside me. Sure, you must be joking. I’m only okay.

No, there’s no joke, I promise you. You’ve a grand voice and your rolls on the flute are first class. Where did you learn? Were you playing sessions growing up?

I looked away. I segued from classical, I said evasively. How to explain my childhood? Learning classical flute in boarding school and then sneaking off to try out the latest tunes I’d loaded on my iPod. It was a chance interview Martin Hayes had given on the telly years ago that had first attracted me. His thoughtful and compelling explanations of his love for traditional music, followed by his haunting and mesmerizing performances had driven me to make these tunes my own. It wasn’t until I was at university that I even had the opportunity, or the courage, to play at a session.

Well, you’ve a grand style.

Thanks, I said. Are you getting up a group, now? Is that it?

Maybe. I’m exploring possibilities at the moment.

And the late nights won’t get in the way of the surfing? I asked in a teasing tone. Or your day job?

He raised his brows. That is a consideration.

Shit. I’d been caught out. He would know he hadn’t told me himself that he was a surfer. He took a deep drink of his lager. I eyed it disdainfully. I was a beer, stout or whiskey person myself, or at a pinch maybe tequila. But for his praise of my playing, I could forgive him.

What do you do, anyway? I asked.

Something in design, he said.

Something in design? Is that like code for it’s too embarrassing to say, or too complicated to explain?

He smiled. Neither. Too boring. I design logos.

Oh, I said. What do you say to that? He was right. It was boring.

What do you do?

I hardly heard his question because behind him, they appeared in all their bold glory. I’d never seen them before when I was talking with someone. Their whispers were audible and I could even make out their eyes this time, they were that close. I glanced nervously at Luke, who stared at me questioningly.

Are you okay? You’ve gone pale.

I closed my eyes and straightened. When I opened them they were gone and so was the whispering. There was only a crow perched on the roof above, cawing away like it was cackling with laughter at my reaction.

I sighed and shook my head. I’m grand.

Come on you two, said Cormac from the group at the end of the laneway. It’s time.

2

SAOIRSE

Ithrew the keys on the table and placed the flute case on the floor by the wall. Gentrification hadn’t caught up with this flat either. It was on the top floor of a definitely not Georgian old house that had seen better days, and swinging even a mouse would be a challenge. A small table leaned up against the sofa to mark the end of the sitting room and the beginning of the area of a wall of cupboards, sink, fridge and cooker that was the kitchen. A box room off the area stood in for the bedroom and the small toilet and stall shower was crammed in beside it.

Still, it was mine, at least until the end of the month or I could find another job quickly. I’d asked around at the pub briefly to see if they knew if anyone was hiring, but no such luck. It was early days, I told myself. I stepped over to the counter and switched on the kettle. A cup of tea would settle me down after the session.

I thought again of Luke. Would he have kissed me if we hadn’t been shooed into the pub? He had certainly given me a few winks and flirtatious little flourishes on the pipes afterwards. And all during his low whistle piece he had looked at me. I had played a piece on my own low whistle along with Cormac on the fiddle. Afterward Luke had taken my whistle, examined it, blew a few notes and leaned over and told me that he thought something was off with it. I had been surprised. I knew it wasn’t perfect, but it had been all I could afford at the time. Seeing my dismay, Luke had squeezed my arm and told me he would take it and fix it sometime. And that had been it. No lingering after the session. He was out the door with a see you lads before we’d even begun the last piece. No parting look at me, nothing.

Now I just had to sit down, drink my tea and forget it so I didn’t spend all night dissecting every detail of what was clearly just a musical flirtation. Sure, didn’t it happen all the time? You get so into the music someone played and their skill that you start with your own bits, back and forth, sly and subtle or bold and brassy, however it took you. A little wink and nod at what was going on and no one hurt.

I was just pouring the tea into my mug when the buzzer went for the door. I pressed the intercom.

Who is it?

Is this Saoirse Doherty?

Yes. Why do you want to know?

It’s the Gardaí.

My heart pounded. What did the police want with me? I ran through all the possibilities. Sure, they couldn’t be here for yelling at my boss after he fired me, or any of the minor things I may have done in the past few days. I grabbed my keys and went down to let them in.

When they entered the apartment I felt my nerves heighten even more, no music for now in sight, only the saving the bad for tomorrow, or whatever bollocks I’d said earlier.

Can we sit down? The tall dark haired man in his early thirties asked. Beside him was a young woman, her blond hair pinned back under her peaked cap.

It was when I saw her face that I realised this was not anything to do with some imagined misdemeanour. Pity filled her eyes and softened her mouth.

I blinked but gestured to the sagging sofa. Have a seat.

They sat down almost in unison.

Tea? I asked. I just made some.

The woman glanced over at the man and he shrugged. Since you’ve made it.

I took out mugs and filled them quickly, wanting to get this chat over with. Once the tea was brewed, bags sorted, I handed out the mugs and took the chair from the kitchen table and brought it round to sit on. With an expectant look I stared at them.

The man cleared his throat. I’m Garda Murphy and this is Garda O’Connell. I’m sorry to intrude at this late hour, but I’m afraid I have bad news about your father. He paused.

My father? What about him?

He cleared his throat again. I’m sorry. It seems he’s been in a car accident. A serious one.

I stared at Garda Murphy, disbelieving. Is he all right? Is he in hospital?

Uh, no, Miss Doherty. Saoirse. He died.

I sat frozen for a moment, staring at him and all the impossible words that he’d spoken. Dead? But that’s impossible. He’s in South Africa. At least I think he is. Let me see. I reached for my phone to look at the most recent message I’d had from him.

Yes, it was South Africa. That’s where the accident occurred.

I stared at my tea, still trying to make sense of the words he’d just said. How? When?

The South African authorities just notified us. Apparently it was a few hours ago. His car went off the road, crashed and went up in flames. If it’s any comfort, his death would have been instantaneous.

I looked up then. Instantaneous?

Garda O’Connell nodded. Yes, that’s what they said. I took the call. I’m sorry for your loss. She leaned over and squeezed my hand.

Thanks, thanks. Yes, it’s good to know. Thank you for telling me. I uttered all those phrases, my Irish instinct to say those reciprocating phrases said at death, at the wakes and funerals, to replace the keening wails and shrieks.

Other thoughts flooded my mind and it all seemed a bit much. What shall I do? Do I need to go over there and claim the body? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

Garda O’Connell looked at her companion. Um, well you don’t have to do that. It seems there really aren’t any remains to speak of.

Oh. No other words came into my head.

The South African authorities will be in touch with our embassy and they’ll let you know if you are required to do anything. In the meantime you can go ahead and plan his funeral.

How? I mean there’s no body.

Garda O’Connell studied her a moment. Ask your priest.

I snorted. Priest. My experience at the convent boarding school had left me giving all of that a wave goodbye. Sorry. I don’t really have a priest. Not around here in any case.

And your father?

I shrugged. I don’t think so. We never really talked about it.

They both gave me a bewildered look.

We were never really close, I said. I was in boarding schools most of the time and he was always off travelling.

Garda Murphy nodded. I caught Garda O’Connell surveying the dingy apartment with a puzzled look. I could just imagine the debate going on in her head as she tried to figure out exactly why I was living in this hovel with a father who obviously had money.

Call his solicitor, then, said Garda Murphy, his voice a little kinder. I’m sure he had one. Would you know who it is?

I nodded, relieved. Yes, I do. I’ll call him, then. Thank you.

The two of them rose and I was glad. I’d had enough. I wanted to be alone.

Garda Murphy took out a business card and handed to me. If you need anything else from us, feel free to ring me.

I thanked him and ushered them both out.

An hour later I was out of the apartment, striding down the road. I tripped but managed to right myself. No skinned knees tonight, thankfully. It was madness to be out walking at this hour, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to move and my few metres of space was not going to satisfy me. There was an all-night gym the next road over, maybe I could go there. I laughed. Who was I kidding? I’d never worked out in my life. I didn’t have any gear on and I was a hopeless klutz, bound to do myself an injury.

My steps kept on and I found myself heading towards The Mangle Pit. I’d only got to the end of the next road when I saw them. They were nearly visible this time. One was taller than the rest, dark trousers and dark jackets, in an older style, standing there at the edge of a small laneway. There was no whispering. Just silence. They nodded to me as I met their eyes. I froze.

I stuffed my earbuds more firmly in place and tried to focus on the music that came from them. It was a sweet recording of Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill, made before the Gloaming and all of that diversification. Not that I minded the musical collaboration, but there was something fun and pure about the playing of the two of them that I really loved. The phrasing and chemistry, the diddly di di humour of some of it, the magical wonder of other bits that caught me up. But not, it seemed, so much today. Today the door was open, but I couldn’t quite get inside.

I looked over at the secretary who worked busily at her desk. She caught my look.

Not to worry. He won’t be long. The phone call was unexpected but it will be brief.

I nodded and forced a smile. I decided to imagine the bow work and how Dennis matched some of the strokes with his own beat. But I still couldn’t help but remember the sight of those…men? Yes, men. The night I got the news about my father’s death. I’d tried to convince myself for the past week that it was just the result of shock. Nearly had when I’d attended the excuse for a funeral that was held for my father two days ago. It was all a bit rushed. An unfamiliar priest. A few strange people who presented themselves as colleagues of my father. And a few of my own friends. Nina from the cafe and the lads from the session, along with Finbarr and Gregor. Lads minus Luke. He was the invisible man, the phantom musician, appearing only when you least expected, never when you wanted.

I sighed and shifted my weight, determined to shove it behind me, away from that room of music I wanted so much to enter now. Fiddle away those men, dance a jig instead. Blow away the piper, reel and slide and slip jig into the tunes instead. Didly, diddly, dee moves and shifts, a hop and skip. Aah now.

The phone buzzed. The secretary answered and looked at me. It was time. I sighed, feeling the skip, hop and jump. The spin and whirl, fade away into the harsh fluorescent light above.

I rose and slowly walked into the solicitor’s office. The only tune playing here, I thought, was money. The kind of money I hadn’t encountered since boarding school. The kind of money that I’d only glimpsed on the few occasions I’d been to my father’s house. The money tune played out in his suit, his hair, his furniture and his perfectly groomed face and beard. I knew from the outer office that it was a far from seedy firm, but the wide expansive space now—floor length windows overlooking the Liffey and expensive artwork took it up a