Murder in the Emerald Isle
Donegal Town, County Donegal, Northern Ireland
Chapter One – December, present day
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I’m being watched again. I can feel their magick roll over my skin; there is something so familiar about it, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. They aren’t close enough for me to have to worry, but close enough to keep an eye on me. Although, I have no idea who or what is watching me, or why.
I keep peering over my shoulder expecting something to jump out at me. This is ridiculous, I need to quit spooking myself. I take a deep breath and keep walking – almost there.
“It’s colder than usual tonight”, I breathe out in puffy white clouds to no one in particular as we briskly make our way to O’Neill’s. We being myself and Ena, my three year old black lab who goes everywhere I go.
“Tine tar isteach”, I whisper into the night air, and a blanket of warmth wraps itself around us as we make our way down the rain glistened cobbled street; Ena staying close so she can enjoy the warmth.
I’ve loved every day that I’ve lived here in Donegal; we’re a close community, and most of the villagers have grown up together. Well, except for me. I’m going to be sixty-eight this year, but I didn’t grow up here. I’ve travelled around for much of my life, only settling down and living in Donegal for the past ten years. Of course, I know I can’t stay here much longer, you see, I may be sixty-seven, but everyone thinks I’m in my thirties. What’s my magick secret of youth, you ask? I’m an Eolande.
At sixty-seven I stand about 5’ 6”, have pale white skin, long midnight black hair that drapes in a thick curtain down to my waist and sapphire blue eyes. I haven’t changed in nearly forty years.
We are a mixed-blood race of Fae and human, and have been living secretly among humans for generations. There used to be thousands of us here, but with the witch hunts and inquisitions many scattered to other countries trying to find a safe place to live and raise their families. In County Donegal there are now only two left, myself and my Uncle Conor. Well – and who ever has been watching me over the past few weeks.
Ena’s ears perk up as we get closer to O’Neill’s; music and friendly banter floating out through the doorway, and I can just make out the two dark heads of Ena’s parents sticking outside. Ena lets out a whine and runs the rest of the way; disappearing through the doorway. I stop long enough to take one last look behind me before following her over the threshold.
O’Neill’s Pub & Inn has been in the O’Neill family for nearly three hundred years. Originally it was a boarding house. Liadan and her late husband Garrett O’Neill ran the inn from the time they were married, since Garrett’s death seven years earlier Liadan has continued their dream and run everything on her own. They kept the original construction of the building the same, the only updates have been to add running water, electricity, and heating. The three-story inn was built with large hand carved granite stones, worn smooth from standing up against so many years of hard weather. An expansive picture window in the front looks out onto the street from the dining area. The door leading into the establishment with its brass latch handle sparkling by the light from the street lamps showcases an ornate piece of beveled glass with a Celtic knot work design etched around the edges in the upper half of the door.
The sign above the entrance reads O’Neill’s Pub & Inn in freshly painted red and green letters. Walking in you’re taken back in time, with a grand solid wood bar made of dark stained mahogany and highly polished brass railings running along the length of the front room, high back bar stools upholstered in soft, deep, red leather. Mirrors line the entire back wall of the bar; in the middle hangs a plaque of the O’Neill Coat of Arms. The walls are paneled in dark timbers and scattered with an array of bric-a-brac. The well-worn wood floors cushion each step from years of walking and serving those who come for a home cooked meal and a warm bed to rest their weary heads. The brass light fixtures spread a warm glow throughout the inn.
Next to the entrance is a black wrought iron coat rack piled high with coats. The open dining area is set up with tables and chairs in front of the bar, and farther down to the right is a sitting room with a few well-worn upholstered chairs and coffee table in front of a stone built fireplace large enough for a grown man to stand in. Along the walls are a few booths done in the same deep red leather for more privacy. Behind the small wall next to the bar are the stairs leading upstairs to the rooms on the second and third floors.
There are seven rooms and two common bathrooms on each floor. The rooms are small, but comfortable. Each has a soft, warm bed with lavender scented bed linens and soft, exquisitely hand quilted blankets, a wash basin, small table, chair, and lamp near the window, and a small closet with extra blankets for cold nights. Each room has a window overlooking the village below with sheer green floral curtains. The bathrooms on each floor are spotlessly white with green and blue accents, and each has an antique claw foot bathtub. Liadan always has a vase with fresh, blue wildflowers placed in each room and bath. Down a small hallway leading behind the bar, is the kitchen. Its’ flagged floor leads to an open-hearth fireplace along the back wall, next to the door leading to the greenhouse behind the inn. Liadan always keeps the shelves well stocked and grows all of the fresh herbs in her greenhouse. Next to the greenhouse is the cottage Liadan has lived in since she and Garrett were married.
Liadan O’Bannon was fifteen years old when she first met Garrett O’Neill. The O’Neill’s were celebrating the birth of Garrett’s first nephew. Liadan was home visiting her family from school and attended the party at O’Neill’s with her parents. Their fathers, who had been friends since childhood, felt they would make a good match, and after introducing them, tossed them out onto the dance floor together. They spent the entire evening talking and dancing, blissfully unaware of anyone else. Two years later Garrett surprised Liadan at school with a beautiful bouquet of blue wildflowers and his great grandmothers’ emerald claddagh ring, a year later they married. As a wedding gift they were given full ownership of O’Neill’s, and they spent the next eight years putting every ounce of energy into making O’Neill’s what it is today.
Liadan and Garrett O’Neill spent thirty-eight years together in their little cottage behind the inn. On his final night they went to bed, he kissed her goodnight, and never woke up. Still deeply in love with her late husband, she fills their home with blue wildflowers and still wears the antique emerald ring he proposed to her with when she was only seventeen. Every Sunday after services, she goes to the town cemetery next to Saint Michael’s church and tends the graves of Garrett and their son Begley who died tragically when he was only six years old. And each Sunday evening I meet Laidan at O’Neill’s for Sunday dinner.
Liadan and I have been the best of friends for the ten years I have lived in Donegal. A devout Irish Catholic, Liadan has been friend to all who enter her establishment, giving jobs to the local kids and being very active in the church. But of all the people in the village, I have been her closest and dearest friend. She’s also one of the only humans who knows what I am.
I was raised by my aunt Darla. We travelled a lot, she being nearly three hundred years old, you can’t stay in one place for too long. And my mother was murdered the day I was born, aunt Darla saved me before IT took me, too. By IT, I’m referring to one of the Leanansidhe.
Before the witch hunts and inquisitions they didn’t exist. But once the Church and its overzealous supporters began pointing fingers, our kind were the first to be questioned, tortured and executed. We were more open about ourselves in those days – from what I’ve been told, and it was easy to blame the woes of the world on our doorstep. Most ran, leaving Ireland behind and traveling to the Americas. Some stayed, not because they refused to leave their homeland, but because they wanted revenge. Blood. Their need for vengeance turned into a lust for the blood of their persecutors, and finally into a lust for blood of any kind. The High Council isn’t sure exactly who the first Leanansidhe was – or who they were, but when those of us began to return to our native soil, they were here, waiting.
My mother worked for the High Council. The High Council is made up of the Daoine Sidhe and Eolande Elders; they advise our people on issues that arise with humans and watch to make sure our existence remains hidden. They also exact punishment to those who would needlessly harm any human or put our secrets at risk.
My mother and I are very rare among the Eolande because we have an elemental affinity. My mother’s was with water, mine is fire. Most Eolande with an affinity end up working for the High Council, our gifts are very helpful in finding information and people and keeping the peace when necessary. But it killed my mother, and I never wanted anything to do with the HC. My aunt never pushed me.
So we travelled and she taught me about my element as I discovered it. She told me about my mother and all that she did, I wish I’d known her – I wish I’d gotten a chance to be in her arms, just once. And when I wanted to settle down, make an attempt at a quiet life for awhile, I moved to Donegal – where my mother was born. And I’ve lived in my mother’s family home for the past ten years. It’s my only way of being close to her.
My Uncle Conor has lived here on and off for the past fifty years. He’s an expert at using glamour to make himself appear aged, except with those who have the sight; they see right through any glamour we may try to use.
So my uncle and I have set up shop in this little town on the coast of Northern Ireland, he with his medical practice and I with my writing. How else would I explain all of my travels and lack of a steady job?
But now, after ten years of peace and quite, something – or someone, is watching me. Lurking in the woods.
As I enter O’Neill’s my senses are assailed with the fresh scent of pine. Liadan, as always, has spared no expense in decorating for the winter holidays. Fresh pine and holly garlands hang from every corner, candles are lit on every windowsill and mantle, and mistletoe hangs in every doorway. A massive Christmas tree is decorated in the front window with twinkling lights and daubles, gifts for all her family and friends piled high beneath. Ena; having greeted everyone in the dining area, has moved to the sitting room in the back with her parents to warm by the crackling fire burning in the hearth. So I hang my shawl on the coat rack and go to sit by the fire and warm myself while I wait for Liadan to finish taking care of her local patrons.
Jessica, one of the waitresses at O’Neill’s, walks over with a tray laden with drinks and hands me a mug of hot apple cider, and Ena curls up at my feet.
As I watch Liadan enter the room, her long silvery blonde hair, glowing like a halo around her soft face and rosy cheeks, makes her crystal blue eyes sparkle from the fire blazing before her.
"Well Aideen, how are you this evening?"
“I’m good”, I say, with a cheery little smile on my face, there’s no need to worry her about my little stalker, “How’s everything going here?”
"Oh, were doing good - not as busy as last winter, but we’re all fine. Brian’s setting up his office at your uncles and Brigid has outdone herself working with the kids in their singing class and with our upcoming pantomime performance at the church." Sinking down into the chair opposite me, "So, how goes the preparations for your Yule party?"
I take a sip of my cider, "My ritual is complete, I just need to finish decorating. I spoke with Brian about Uncle Conor, and he agrees that it will do him good to attend. Being around all of his friends and family, it won’t be long now, his time of crossing is near." I look down at my cup, a frown on her face. "I’m going to miss him terribly; he’s been so good to me."
"I know dear, he’s been so good to all of us, but he really isn’t gone, gone. He’ll be in Avalon waiting for you. Will he be able to come to the tree decorating in the square tomorrow?"
"Yes, I’ll be picking him up. We may have to leave early if he’s too tired, but he insists on attending. He says he’s helped with the tree decorating every year and he has no intention of sitting at home alone on this, his last Christmas."
"He always was a stubborn old mule, but he deserves to go out with a celebration." Taking a mug of hot cider from Jessica, she moves her chair closer to me. Reaching over and taking my hand, "I just have to ask – how old is he, really?”
Obviously, we don’t age like humans do. I think the oldest one was almost twelve hundred when they crossed over. And we don’t die like humans, oh – our souls leave our bodies, but they cross-over into Avalon with our ancestors. Our bodies just disappear and await us in Avalon. Yeah, the Egyptians had it right on when they went to such lengths to preserve their bodies; except that most of them weren’t an Eolande.
“I honestly don’t know”, I tell her. “He mentioned once to me that the Black Death was one of the worst times in history, that was in the mid fourteenth century, so he’s at least seven hundred – that’s all I know. He’s never once given me an actual age.”
She looks more than a little shocked. Actually, she kind of looks like her eyes are trying to pop right out of her head. I keep forgetting that it’s a bit difficult for humans to adjust to our lifespans.
She takes a drink of her coffee and clears her throat. “Well, he’s a wonderful man who has cared for each and every one of us in this village; we’re all going to miss him."
Sighing, I smile up at her. "I know, Liadan, but he’s been acting oddly this past week. Brian said he brought him his mail and something he received upset him, but he won’t say what it was. I just have a feeling that he’s leaving this world with something undone, but he won’t say a word. Maybe it’s my imagination, I don’t know."
"Don’t worry yourself about it dear, if your uncle is ready to leave this life for the next, than he’s left nothing undone." Changing the subject, "Deirdre has been asking about you. She wants to know if you’ll be able to begin lessons with her soon. What should I tell her?"
Deirdre is Laidan’s granddaughter, Brian’s fifteen year old daughter. She decided she’s interested in botany and my greenhouse is an excellent place for her to learn.
"Oh, I’ve been so busy with Uncle Conor and Yule I haven’t had time to think about anything else. When you see her, let her know that I’ll talk to her about it at our Christmas Eve dinner this Sunday."
I look up and notice that the fire is dying down. “Tine tar isteach.” And I wave my hand in the direction of the fire. The flames slowly rebuild.
I look over and see that Laidan is smirking at me with one eyebrow raised. “What?”, I ask. “No one can see me.” She just shakes her head and laughs softly under her breath.
We both look up as the lights begin to flicker and a child’s laughter rings out throughout the inn. Milo Corey, the town barber and village drunk, looks up from his usual barstool set up against the wall next to the sitting room.
"Good evenin to ya Glenna ma dear. How’s the hauntin this eve?" He attempts to take another drink of ale, but it doesn’t quite make his mouth and dribbles down his bristly chin.
"Oh no, I forgot he was still here, the drunken fool." Exclaims Liadan. "Milo, you’ve had more than your limit for tonight. Go home before Maeve locks you out of the house, God knows she should!"
Getting up she half drags, half pushes him off the barstool and out the door. Saying as she shoves him out the door, "Why she puts up with you I’ll never know."
"At least ma dear sweet ghosty Glenna likes me company!" Milo drawls as he stumbles out the door and onto the street.
Glenna has made O’Neill’s her favorite haunting ground since her death there in 1786. At the time, O’Neill’s was a boarding house. Glenna and her mother came to Donegal shortly after her father passed away, trying to start a new life. Her mother found work in the village, and until they could put money down on a home they were living at the inn.
A few days after arriving Glenna, at a mere six years of age became ill with fever. The doctor fought tirelessly for eight days trying to save her life, but in the end she succumbed to the fever and died in her sleep. There was a small service held for her at Saint Michael’s Church where she is buried. Her mother, unable to cope with the lose of both her husband and only child, fled from Donegal never to be heard from again.
Glenna; however, decided to stay on. She can be heard laughing throughout the inn, and loves to play with the light switches. Sometimes she appears to guests staying in her room, giving them quite a start. She has become something of a local celebrity and her story has helped to bring in tourists from time to time. Being so popular among the townsfolk and guests, Liadan even gave their little ghost her own children’s menu, Glenna’s Specials.
Milo and Maeve Corey run the barber shop and hair salon in town. Married for thirteen years Milo has become well known throughout Donegal as the "official" town drunk. Everyone was aware he had a drinking problem, all except Maeve. Love is said to be blind and this was definitely the case. But three years into the marriage and even Maeve could no longer turn a blind eye to his problem. Found in drunken stupor’s all over town and even at the doorstep to their home, unable to even get the key into the door, Maeve continues to stay by his side. Most of us are waiting for the day when Maeve has had enough and tosses his drunken ass out on the streets.
Liadan walks back into the sitting room and drops back down into her chair. "I hope Maeve gives him a swift kick in the backside."
Laughing I stand up, "I’m sure she will. I think Ena and I should head home before it’s too late, we still have decorating to finish before the party." Ena gets up and starts to move to the door; her parents stay by the warmth of the fire, but lift their heads in good-bye and drop back to sleep.
Liadan walks us out, giving me a hug and Ena a pat on the head. "I’ll talk to you tomorrow, love. Have a good night, and if you need any help with the decorations let me know." With that, she waves us both off and re-enters the inn.
I wrap my shawl tightly around my shoulders to block out the cold as we make our way back to my uncle’s office where I left my car. I pick up the pace as the rain begins to fall again.
My home sits on the edge of the village next to the shore; it has been passed down from one female generation to the next. The first in my family to move to Donegal was Mara Kelly, my great, great aunt. A woman of shady wealth, she purchased the two story cottage when she moved here to raise her niece, Deborah Kelly, and nephew Conor Delaney.
The women in our family have always kept the name Kelly; any boys born into the family usually take their fathers’.
Deborah inherited the cottage after her aunt and raised her two daughters Darla and Marie, my mother.
The Kelly women have been raised as healers for the past eleven generations, and we’ve passing our knowledge on to the next. Uncle Conor showed an interest in healing and decided to go into medicine, returning to Donegal about fifty years ago with a medical degree – actually, I think he has five or six degrees now, and starting his own practice out of his home. My Aunt Darla and Great Uncle Conor, with an extensive knowledge of medicine and healing arts, raised me with the same knowledge. I use it when it’s needed, but I prefer my writing.
The house is situated at the edge of Donegal next to the tourist viewing piers along Donegal Bay. Its two stories with a heavy thatched roof, and a wrap around porch, painted white with deep blue trim. I have my greenhouse outside the kitchen and a gravel path winding from the front porch down onto the beach below. The cottage is furnished with beautifully carved mahogany furniture made to fit the home by a local craftsman when Mara came to live in Donegal.
As you enter you walk into a small entry way where you can hang your coat and take off your shoes, as you walk in you enter the living room which has a large stone fireplace and sitting area with a sofa, chairs, and side tables. Every room is painted a different color. The living room is a light coffee color with white trim. Antique black light fixtures hang along the walls along with family photos. To the right of the entryway is the dining room with a large oak table and cushioned chairs that seat ten. The kitchen is a dusty blue. That color always makes me feel calm and relaxed.
This is where I like to sit and write in the mornings. There are windows all along the front of the home so you can look out over the front yard, and can spy the greenhouse from the dining area. Behind the dining room is the kitchen and doorway leading out to the greenhouse and a shack which used to be the outhouse, but I’ve since converted it into storage space for my gardening tools.
In the back of the kitchen is the stone hearth and staircase that leads up to the second floor with an identical stair leading back down into the living room. The second floor consists of three bedrooms and two bathrooms; all done is shades of misty greens and plum, not together of course. The master bedroom is mine and has its own fireplace; the others are used as an office and the other a guestroom. The master bedroom has its own private bath; the other is located between the two additional rooms.
As we arrive home Ena jumps over my lap and races to the front door waiting to be let inside. Then I feel it, the same magick I did before. They’re in the woods, watching. A wolf howls and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Wolves? But there aren’t any wolves in Ireland? Just great, I say to myself as I rush out of the car and almost run all the way to the front door, opening it as quickly as I can. I shut and lock the door behind me.
I whisper, “Tine tar isteach”, and the fireplace in the living room springs to life as do the candles on the tables in the room. Ena shakes herself off and trots over the fireplace, lying down on the rug to warm herself.
I try to ignore the feeling of foreboding that has been growing over the past few weeks. Hanging my shawl up and kicking off my shoes I walk into the kitchen where the remains of my Yule decorations sit on my kitchen table. Pine and holly branches that have been twinned and wired together into garland, twinkling white lights and candles all sit ready to be put up around my living room and kitchen. My Yule tree is already up and decorated as is the outside of the house with simple white ice cycle lights. I grab one of the garlands and head back into the living room to wrap it up the staircase banister. Ena looks up at me as I enter the room, then puts her head back down.
We’ve never celebrated the Judeo-Christian holidays. My aunt and I always observed the Earth’s Seasons, or what many today call the Wheel of the Year or Celtic Sabbats. In December, we honor the Winter Solstice or Yule. It’s a time to be with family and friends; of welcoming the rebirth of the solstice sun; of letting go of the past and looking to the future; of making plans for the coming of new growth, both physically and spiritually.
Just as I’m winding the last of the garland around the sofa table Ena raises her head and begins to growl. I immediately stop and reach out with my senses. Something is near.
“Imigh”, and the lights die down as I slowly walk to the main window in the living room. My heart is racing as I kneel down to spy out the window towards the forest; Ena stands beside me, ears up listening. Our eyesight is also much better than humans, more in line with those of wild cats; far better than my Ena’s. I can see movement at the edge of the forest; something dark, almost mist like. Then out of the corner of my eye I see the silver streak through the trees and the wolf’s howl. I jump and hold Ena close. I slowly back away from the door and towards the staircase leading upstairs.
“Ena, come here babe. Let’s go upstairs now.” I make my way to the stairs, my heart in my throat; my hands shaking. “Ena, come”, I command in a shaky voice. Ena turns and walks over to me. We make our way upstairs to my bedroom.
One feature of the house that can’t be seen are the secret passageways. There’s one that leads from a secret door on the side of the kitchen hearth and another that leads from a false door in the wall of my closet. It used to be a dressing room when my Great Great Aunt Mara lived here but was later converted into a walk-in closet. Both passages connect at the back of the kitchen and continue underground through the cliff itself to the shore far below. Mara had them built when she first purchased the property just in case she needed to make an unexpected exit. In her time, persecution ran rampant; you could never be too careful. Escape routes were the norm for those wealthy enough to have them secretly included in the construction of their homes.
I had never had a reason to think I would need to use them – until now. Ena and I made it into my bedroom. I quickly get a candle from my bedside table and I open the door to the closet for Ena to go in. I close the door behind us and call fire to light the candle. I have a stool near the back wall and pull it out to place the candle in its glass container on top. Ena positions herself by the door and I go to sit down by the secret panel that will open up into the passageway.
I always figured it would be best to use the passageway from the bedroom; this way once I heard someone enter the house they would still have to search the entire downstairs and greenhouse before moving up to the second floor. More time for me to get away. So I sit in my closet and reach out to try and sense who or what is out there. But no one tried to get into the house. I’m not sure how long we had been sitting in the closet, as I finally fell into a restless sleep my only thought was of my mother and if she had been stalked by her killer this way…
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