particular to the country of her ancestors.
Ireland was ripe with them.
Ghosts and banshees, pookas and faeries. What a rich and imaginative wonder was the Celtic mind! They said the cottage stood on a faerie hill, one of the magic spots that hid the gleaming raft below.
If memory served, she thought the legend went that a mortal could be lured, or even snatched, into the faerie world below the hill and kept there for a hundred years.
And wasn’t that fascinating?
Seemingly rational, ordinary people on the cusp of the twenty-first century could actually make such a statement without guile.
That, she decided, was the power of the myth on the intellect, and the psyche.
And it was strong enough, powerful enough, that for a little while, when she’d been alone in the night, she’d almost—almost believed it. The music of the wind chimes and the wind had added to it, she thought now. Songs, she mused, played by the air were meant to set the mind dreaming.
Then that figure standing out on the cliffs. The shadow of a man etched against sky and sea had drawn her gaze and caused her heart to thunder. He might have been a man waiting for a lover, or mourning one. A faerie prince weaving magic into the sea.
Very romantic, she decided, very powerful.
And of course—obviously—whoever it had been, whoever would walk wind-whipped cliffs after midnight, was lunatic. But she hadn’t thought of that until morning, for the punch of the image had her sighing and shivering over it into the night.
But the lunacy, for lack of a better word, was part of the charm of the people and their stories. So she would use it. Explore it. Immerse herself in it.
Revved, she turned to her machine, leaving the tapes and letters alone for the moment, and started her paper.
They say the cottage stands on a faerie hill, one of the many rises of land in Ireland under which the faeries live in their palaces and castles. It’s said that if you approach a faerie hill, you may hear the music that plays in the great hall of the castle under the deep green grass. And if you walk over one, you take the risk of being snatched by the faeries themselves and becoming obliged to do their bidding.
She stopped, smiled. Of course that was all too lyrical and, well, Irish a beginning for a serious academic paper. In her first year of college, her papers had been marked down regularly for just that sort of thing. Rambling, not following the point of the theme, neglecting to adhere to her own outlines.
Knowing just how important grades were to her parents, she’d learned to stifle those colorful journeys.
Still, this wasn’t for a grade, and it was just a draft. She’d clean it up later. For now, she decided, she would just get her thoughts down and lay the foundation for the analysis.
She knew enough, from her grandmother’s stories, to give a brief outline of the most common mythical characters. It would be her task to find the proper stories and the structure that revolved around each character of legend and then explain its place in the psychology of the people who fostered it.
She worked through the morning on basic definitions, often adding a subtext that cross-referenced the figure to its counterpart in other cultures.
Intent on her work, she barely heard the knocking on the front door, and when it registered she blinked her way out of an explanation of the Pisogue, the Irish wise woman found in most villages in earlier times. Hooking her glasses in the neck of her sweater, she hurried downstairs. When she opened the door, Brenna O’Toole was already walking back to her truck.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Brenna began.
“No, you’re not.” How could a woman wearing muddy work boots intimidate her? Jude wondered. “I was in the little room upstairs. I’m glad you stopped by. I didn’t thank you properly the other day.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. You were asleep on your feet.” Brenna stepped away from the gate, walked
Ireland was ripe with them.
Ghosts and banshees, pookas and faeries. What a rich and imaginative wonder was the Celtic mind! They said the cottage stood on a faerie hill, one of the magic spots that hid the gleaming raft below.
If memory served, she thought the legend went that a mortal could be lured, or even snatched, into the faerie world below the hill and kept there for a hundred years.
And wasn’t that fascinating?
Seemingly rational, ordinary people on the cusp of the twenty-first century could actually make such a statement without guile.
That, she decided, was the power of the myth on the intellect, and the psyche.
And it was strong enough, powerful enough, that for a little while, when she’d been alone in the night, she’d almost—almost believed it. The music of the wind chimes and the wind had added to it, she thought now. Songs, she mused, played by the air were meant to set the mind dreaming.
Then that figure standing out on the cliffs. The shadow of a man etched against sky and sea had drawn her gaze and caused her heart to thunder. He might have been a man waiting for a lover, or mourning one. A faerie prince weaving magic into the sea.
Very romantic, she decided, very powerful.
And of course—obviously—whoever it had been, whoever would walk wind-whipped cliffs after midnight, was lunatic. But she hadn’t thought of that until morning, for the punch of the image had her sighing and shivering over it into the night.
But the lunacy, for lack of a better word, was part of the charm of the people and their stories. So she would use it. Explore it. Immerse herself in it.
Revved, she turned to her machine, leaving the tapes and letters alone for the moment, and started her paper.
They say the cottage stands on a faerie hill, one of the many rises of land in Ireland under which the faeries live in their palaces and castles. It’s said that if you approach a faerie hill, you may hear the music that plays in the great hall of the castle under the deep green grass. And if you walk over one, you take the risk of being snatched by the faeries themselves and becoming obliged to do their bidding.
She stopped, smiled. Of course that was all too lyrical and, well, Irish a beginning for a serious academic paper. In her first year of college, her papers had been marked down regularly for just that sort of thing. Rambling, not following the point of the theme, neglecting to adhere to her own outlines.
Knowing just how important grades were to her parents, she’d learned to stifle those colorful journeys.
Still, this wasn’t for a grade, and it was just a draft. She’d clean it up later. For now, she decided, she would just get her thoughts down and lay the foundation for the analysis.
She knew enough, from her grandmother’s stories, to give a brief outline of the most common mythical characters. It would be her task to find the proper stories and the structure that revolved around each character of legend and then explain its place in the psychology of the people who fostered it.
She worked through the morning on basic definitions, often adding a subtext that cross-referenced the figure to its counterpart in other cultures.
Intent on her work, she barely heard the knocking on the front door, and when it registered she blinked her way out of an explanation of the Pisogue, the Irish wise woman found in most villages in earlier times. Hooking her glasses in the neck of her sweater, she hurried downstairs. When she opened the door, Brenna O’Toole was already walking back to her truck.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Brenna began.
“No, you’re not.” How could a woman wearing muddy work boots intimidate her? Jude wondered. “I was in the little room upstairs. I’m glad you stopped by. I didn’t thank you properly the other day.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem. You were asleep on your feet.” Brenna stepped away from the gate, walked
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