I remember hearing the stories as a child from my Aunt Darla. The history of how we came to be. She would curl up next to me by the fire and tell me of our great creatress, the Goddess Danu. The most ancient of all divinity and mother of the Tuatha Dé Danaan; her children with her consort Bilé became the Gods of the Celtic world. Her son, Nuada, the God of War was the first King of the Tuatha Dé Danaan.
Our ancestors, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, arrived in Ireland concealed in clouds of mist and enchantments, attacking the reigning tribes of the Fir Bolgs; driving them into hiding. But the Fir Bolgs became wise of their powers and broke through their enchantment.
On the day of the Summer Solstice the two armies launched into a bloody four day battle which ended in the death of the Fir Bolgs king and Nuada losing his hand. To this day, we still celebrate the solstice to commemorate our great victory.
But the ultimate defeat of our ancestors finally came at the hands of mortal men; the Milesians, who would not have been able to defeat their enemy without the assistance of a Druid Priest. The Tuatha Dé Danaan were driven underground and became known as the Daoine Sidhe, or the People of the Hills. The Gods became the Fae.
Many years passed before the Fae would do more than occasionally involve themselves in mortal affairs, but there were those who jealously coveted the mortals’ lives in the physical world; these Fae would enchant and seduce humans. We, the Eolande, are the result of their lust.
The Daoine Sidhe, when they became aware of our existence, formed the High Council. This council is made of the Daoine Sidhe, and now the Eolande Elders; their purpose is to monitor the activities of the Eolande within the mortal realm; to insure that our existence is not exposed; that the humans we live amongst are not unnecessarily put in harms way.
When the witch hunts and inquisitions hit Europe our people were the first to be persecuted, tortured, killed. Most ran, leaving our homeland for distant shores – in the hopes of finding a safer land to call home. My mother was born in Donegal Ireland, but left soon after. I returned to our family home in this small town only ten short years ago.
Not all of our kind left; some stayed in the hopes of fighting. But as more Eolande blood ran, their decision to stay and fight became a thirst for the blood of their enemies. They lived only for vengeance; drinking the blood of those who would kill us. They evolved into the Leanansidhe; a vampiric race who bestow gifts on their victims only to drain them of their life’s blood in order to retain their beauty and immortality. Stories of the Leanansidhe are still used today to keep wayward children in line. The human’s version of the boogieman I suppose, except this boogieman isn’t a figment of our imaginations; their threat is quite real.
The High Council gathered together all of the most powerful of the Eolande into a secret administration to hunt the Leanansidhe and return them to the High Council residing on Avalon for reparation. My aunt would never discuss what reparations were demanded, and I never asked.
My mother was among this administration. She, as I, have – or had, an elemental affinity; very rare among the Eolande, but exceptionally useful to the High Council. This is what killed my mother, which is why I refused to work for them. The Fae have natural affinities with the elements; their name, Sidhe which is said to be derived from the Hindustani word Siddhe means, something which controls the elements.
There are others as well, the Kailen, or shifters. These are the warriors. They have the rare ability to shape-shift at will. It is their job to protect the Elementals as they hunt the Leanansidhe. My mother’s Kailen wasn’t there to protect her as she labored to bring me into the world; so I suppose you can say we both had a hand in her death; which is something I’ve lived with my entire life.
But this is our history, how we came to be; and this is all I will say for now – I don’t want to ruin the story.
More information available on http://caleencanady.yolasite.com/
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Murder In The Emerald Isle - Chapter One (Rough Draft for Critique)
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…
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…
Writer's Credence
In addition to working on finishing my novel, I'm also working on the proposal that I'll need to send out to an endless number of possible agents. One required section is what I'm affectionately calling the cheerleader segment. This is about a page long which includes a description of myself, where I'm from, what work I do and anything I can possibly come up with that will tell the unnamed agent that I am the only one who can write this book and make it a bestseller.
I've been putting a lot of thought into my potential writer's guruness and trying to come up with the answer to this question. Why should I be the one to write this story? The first thought that comes to mind is that this is MY story. I came up with it and it's mine, all mine! Okay, now my adult answer... I think anyone can become a writer if they choose to; now I didn't say a good writer, but anyone can make up a story and write it down. Besides, that's why we love editors, they're paid to make our words beautiful! Yeah for editors!!
But seriously, we're story tellers by nature. And we all have wild imaginations. Just think of all of the times in the past when someone in your life has said or done something...and you have gone off the handle because "THIS" is obviously what they're saying/doing. (The jerks!!) See what I mean...wild imaginations. Or, how about when the tables have been turned and someone accuses you of meaning "enter some inane and completely idiotic thought here" and you just look at them with an odd expression on your face and wonder, "How on earth do you make it from day to day and survive?"
So besides having what I consider a healthy and slightly overactive imagination, I also study anthropology, actually I have for the past 17 years; which for those of you who may not know is the study of human beings. What we do, why we do it, how we do it and when; particularly archaeology. You have to have a pretty open and imaginative mind to take a pile of dirt and be able to turn its contents into the daily lives of a people who lived there hundreds or thousands of years ago. It seriously takes some talent to be able to see through the mud and grasp the human lives that were there; I thought it would be easy, I was wrong.
I've also studied other religions for as long as I can remember. This opens up a whole new world(s). Myths and stories evolve, names and locations change, but the basic structure stays intact; which is why you can find a flood story, or a resurrection story in just about every religion on the planet. And for the most part, religions are pretty great; its the people who decided to write them down in what ever way would suit their personal interests, shove them in other's faces and force specific interpretations that have screwed up the whole system. That's just my opinion though, you have every right to disagree.
But studying religions allows you to see what has motivated people. And unfortunately, what has motivated people to kill, torture, accuse and hate; but on the flip side the same religion can motivate love, compassion, friendship and empathy...There are plenty of stories and plots to be had when looking at religion.
So you put all of this together and build a story revolving around an open interpretation of a Fae and human mixed-blood race who have been secretly living amongst us, who were persecuted during the time of the witch craze and inquisitions, a vampiric race out for blood and vengeance, shape-shifting warriors, elemental beings, murder and love, family and lose, friendships and resentments - and viola! You have my story, as only I can tell it :-) That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
I've been putting a lot of thought into my potential writer's guruness and trying to come up with the answer to this question. Why should I be the one to write this story? The first thought that comes to mind is that this is MY story. I came up with it and it's mine, all mine! Okay, now my adult answer... I think anyone can become a writer if they choose to; now I didn't say a good writer, but anyone can make up a story and write it down. Besides, that's why we love editors, they're paid to make our words beautiful! Yeah for editors!!
But seriously, we're story tellers by nature. And we all have wild imaginations. Just think of all of the times in the past when someone in your life has said or done something...and you have gone off the handle because "THIS" is obviously what they're saying/doing. (The jerks!!) See what I mean...wild imaginations. Or, how about when the tables have been turned and someone accuses you of meaning "enter some inane and completely idiotic thought here" and you just look at them with an odd expression on your face and wonder, "How on earth do you make it from day to day and survive?"
So besides having what I consider a healthy and slightly overactive imagination, I also study anthropology, actually I have for the past 17 years; which for those of you who may not know is the study of human beings. What we do, why we do it, how we do it and when; particularly archaeology. You have to have a pretty open and imaginative mind to take a pile of dirt and be able to turn its contents into the daily lives of a people who lived there hundreds or thousands of years ago. It seriously takes some talent to be able to see through the mud and grasp the human lives that were there; I thought it would be easy, I was wrong.
I've also studied other religions for as long as I can remember. This opens up a whole new world(s). Myths and stories evolve, names and locations change, but the basic structure stays intact; which is why you can find a flood story, or a resurrection story in just about every religion on the planet. And for the most part, religions are pretty great; its the people who decided to write them down in what ever way would suit their personal interests, shove them in other's faces and force specific interpretations that have screwed up the whole system. That's just my opinion though, you have every right to disagree.
But studying religions allows you to see what has motivated people. And unfortunately, what has motivated people to kill, torture, accuse and hate; but on the flip side the same religion can motivate love, compassion, friendship and empathy...There are plenty of stories and plots to be had when looking at religion.
So you put all of this together and build a story revolving around an open interpretation of a Fae and human mixed-blood race who have been secretly living amongst us, who were persecuted during the time of the witch craze and inquisitions, a vampiric race out for blood and vengeance, shape-shifting warriors, elemental beings, murder and love, family and lose, friendships and resentments - and viola! You have my story, as only I can tell it :-) That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
The Challenge
So I've decided to challenge myself. Seven years ago I came up with an idea for a novel, I was looking for a job and needed something to fill my days between sending out resumes and twiddling my thumbs waiting for the phone to ring. The story just came to me, I was reading a paranormal mystery and thinking, "I can do this", so I did.
It started out as a vague idea of a story, then it just kept flowing out of me and I just kept writing it down. Before I knew it I had a very basic twenty-one chapter outline for a book. I started doing research online of locations and history, character names and murder plots. It slowly started coming together and I felt like I was accomplishing something in my mundane existence. Then I got the call, an interview at last. Then I got the job offer and snatched it up faster than a cat pouncing on your head at 5am on a Saturday morning (I had five cats at the time). And the book just stopped. Life just got in my way, and my idea was left unrealized.
I thought about it over the years, but never put in any time or effort to really work on it. I had a job with a real income, my marriage fell apart, then we reconciled (or so I thought), broke up, bought a house that required a complete gutting and overhaul, reconciled again, got pregnant with my son, threw my husband out, had my son...and so and and so on. Life just sort of does that.
Fast forward to the present. My son is turning three, I'm almost done with the projects in my house, I'm in a job that is okay and basically pays the bills, but I'm not doing what I really want. Don't get me wrong, I have it a lot better than most. I have a great supervisor and I genuinely like the majority of my co-workers, and I get to be creative with my job. I started out doing student support, then started helping out with graphic design (which is what my degree is in), and now I'm working on the events/media committee. I handle all the visual communications for the school I work in, help coordinate our events and I've just sent off a book cover design for a custom text that is being published. I have a lot going for me and I have a lot of good ideas to make my job and the procedures in the school more effective. I'm also working on my second degree in anthropology and religious studies (one of the perks of working at a university). But it's still not my passion. I want more.
So why a book? Why not? It lets me be creative and create my own world. But do I actually have any "real" writing experience? Not really, just a few short stories I've written in my English classes (all of which received A's I might add and the praise of my professors for their originality). But I really think I can do this, just look at J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer. If they could do it, why can't I?
It's a new project that I'm excited about, and I'm actually working on it. So far I've taken my sketchy outline and started summarizing my chapters. I've added a lot and changed around some of the scenes to fit what is currently selling in the market. I've snatched up books by authors on the bestsellers list in my genre to see how they're doing it. I've joined a couple of writer's associations with good recommendations and offer assistance with finding agents and editing my manuscript. I've looked at all sorts of "tips and tricks" for new authors. I've set up a Facebook page so my friends can see what I'm writing and give me pointers and comments. And yes, I realize that one must have a thick skin when taking the criticism of others, but I'm ready for it. If I can handle people telling me that my designs suck, I suppose I can handle the same with my writing. But I know that the criticism's will only help me make my novel great and eventually get it published. And I have some English major friends who are more than happy to help me with the initial edits before I actually send anything to an agent for review. I know I can do this, and I will.
So now I've given myself a deadline. The unedited version of chapter one must be online and ready for friendly (or not so friendly) review in July. I only plan on posting my first three chapters though, these are the most important because agents typically ask for the first three chapters of your book when they review your proposal, that is if you get past the initial query review. If my adoring friends and fans want to read the rest, they'll just have to buy my book :-)
So to all of the newbie and wanna be authors out there, just start writing, and keep writing, and don't listen to anyone who says you can't do it; they're probably just jealous that they didn't come up with the idea themselves.
It started out as a vague idea of a story, then it just kept flowing out of me and I just kept writing it down. Before I knew it I had a very basic twenty-one chapter outline for a book. I started doing research online of locations and history, character names and murder plots. It slowly started coming together and I felt like I was accomplishing something in my mundane existence. Then I got the call, an interview at last. Then I got the job offer and snatched it up faster than a cat pouncing on your head at 5am on a Saturday morning (I had five cats at the time). And the book just stopped. Life just got in my way, and my idea was left unrealized.
I thought about it over the years, but never put in any time or effort to really work on it. I had a job with a real income, my marriage fell apart, then we reconciled (or so I thought), broke up, bought a house that required a complete gutting and overhaul, reconciled again, got pregnant with my son, threw my husband out, had my son...and so and and so on. Life just sort of does that.
Fast forward to the present. My son is turning three, I'm almost done with the projects in my house, I'm in a job that is okay and basically pays the bills, but I'm not doing what I really want. Don't get me wrong, I have it a lot better than most. I have a great supervisor and I genuinely like the majority of my co-workers, and I get to be creative with my job. I started out doing student support, then started helping out with graphic design (which is what my degree is in), and now I'm working on the events/media committee. I handle all the visual communications for the school I work in, help coordinate our events and I've just sent off a book cover design for a custom text that is being published. I have a lot going for me and I have a lot of good ideas to make my job and the procedures in the school more effective. I'm also working on my second degree in anthropology and religious studies (one of the perks of working at a university). But it's still not my passion. I want more.
So why a book? Why not? It lets me be creative and create my own world. But do I actually have any "real" writing experience? Not really, just a few short stories I've written in my English classes (all of which received A's I might add and the praise of my professors for their originality). But I really think I can do this, just look at J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer. If they could do it, why can't I?
It's a new project that I'm excited about, and I'm actually working on it. So far I've taken my sketchy outline and started summarizing my chapters. I've added a lot and changed around some of the scenes to fit what is currently selling in the market. I've snatched up books by authors on the bestsellers list in my genre to see how they're doing it. I've joined a couple of writer's associations with good recommendations and offer assistance with finding agents and editing my manuscript. I've looked at all sorts of "tips and tricks" for new authors. I've set up a Facebook page so my friends can see what I'm writing and give me pointers and comments. And yes, I realize that one must have a thick skin when taking the criticism of others, but I'm ready for it. If I can handle people telling me that my designs suck, I suppose I can handle the same with my writing. But I know that the criticism's will only help me make my novel great and eventually get it published. And I have some English major friends who are more than happy to help me with the initial edits before I actually send anything to an agent for review. I know I can do this, and I will.
So now I've given myself a deadline. The unedited version of chapter one must be online and ready for friendly (or not so friendly) review in July. I only plan on posting my first three chapters though, these are the most important because agents typically ask for the first three chapters of your book when they review your proposal, that is if you get past the initial query review. If my adoring friends and fans want to read the rest, they'll just have to buy my book :-)
So to all of the newbie and wanna be authors out there, just start writing, and keep writing, and don't listen to anyone who says you can't do it; they're probably just jealous that they didn't come up with the idea themselves.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Freedom of the Press: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Why do writers write?
Because we have something to say. Our lives and experiences give us knowledge and ideas for stories that we want to share with those who want to read them. As writers we are aware that just as there may be many who like what we write, there will be just as many who do not. The beauty of all of this however, is that no one is forcing anyone to read what we write. So if you don't like it, stop reading it. No one is holding a gun to your head. But - and there's always a but - there will also be those who feel that they need to argue with you and your words. Those who feel they have the right to forcibly censor you for no other reason than the fact that they do not like or agree with your words.
Now, if you are a journalist or fiction writer who is using actual names of individuals and spreading lies or vicious rumors that are completely unsubstantiated you should probably rethink what you are allowing to be published. But then again, walk into any grocery store and pick up the weekly tabloid and all you'll see are lies and rumors about famous individuals. So even in those cases, writers have a lot of freedom and rights regarding what they submit for publication.
But - yes, another but - there will also be those who may try to find ways of forcibly censoring you with false accusations and charges. It's unfortunate and extreme but it happens. So, to begin...
What is harassment?
According to the Canadian Human Rights Commission (which is where I live) it is a form of discrimination. It involves any unwanted physical or verbal behaviour that offends or humiliates you. Generally, harassment is a behaviour that persists over time. Serious one-time incidents can also sometimes be considered harassment.
Harassment occurs when someone:
- makes unwelcome remarks or jokes about your race, religion, sex, age, disability or any other of the 11 grounds of discrimination.
- threatens or intimidates you.
- makes unwelcome physical contact with you, such as touching, patting, pinching or punching, which can also be considered assault.
What is slander?
The legal definition of slander is defamation by oral utterance rather than by writing, pictures, etc.
What is defamation?
The act of defaming; false or unjustified injury of the good reputation of another, as by slander or libel; calumny.
What is libel?
The legal definition is:
a. defamation by written or printed words, pictures, or in any form other than by spoken words or gestures.
b. the act or crime of publishing it.
c. a formal written declaration or statement, as one containing the allegations of a plaintiff or the grounds of a charge.
The same for the above legal terms. You need to be naming someone specifically, you need to be writing and publishing articles and/or stories that include discriminatory language against the specific person and the individual needs to be able to show in a court of law how they have been injured by your published words. Injury can include ruin of the individuals reputation through the media which has caused them to loose their job or somehow cause a lose of wages which can be tracked directly to your publications. Injury to one's reputation is hard to prove, but possible if it has cost the individual in a physical way that can be presented in court.
Injury can also include any publications of unsubstantiated lies or vicious rumors that defame the individual in the public eye regardless of any monetary lose. An example would be publishing that someone committed a violent crime when in fact they had not. This is why journalists are so vigilant on checking and double/triple checking their sources. Another example would be spreading rumors about someone's activities (say at a party or bar) that are purposely used to humiliate the individual, regardless if the statements are true. These can be grounds for being charged with libel or defamation of character.
So with all of that said the laws are pretty clear on what is and is not reputable in the media. As a writer you learn very quickly that your words can really piss someone off. It's our right to be able to publish what we choose. We each have the freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of communication. Some may not like that we have this freedom, but they have this same freedom which allows them to voice their opinion within the legal system and file any charges (false or not) within that system. Of course, if someone's actions and consistent trouble making actually causes us as writers our wages due to false charges that cause censorship unnecessarily - we have a legitimate case against them.
We can't please everyone, and as writers we usually don't try. It's literally an impossible task. So we put up with the trouble makers and enjoy the fans in order to write for the public. We shouldn't have to be scared of what others will say or do if we are being responsible in our writing and staying away from the kinds of writing that can actually get us into a lot of trouble. Some may try threats and scare tactics but we have a right to express ourselves freely.
I write based on my personal experiences and dramas that go on in my life in regards to health and parenting. The people around me give me a ton of ideas and inspirations for articles. I literally have pages of possible topics. Do I write anything that could be used as libel against me or seen as defamation of character - no. Do I purposefully attempt to humiliate anyone in my writing - no. Do I spread lies and vicious rumors - no. Do I voice my opinions - yes. Can those who read my articles get an idea of some of the experiences I've had in my life - yes. Am I going to continue writing - yes.
I enjoy writing, I enjoy learning, I enjoy sharing my experiences and knowledge in the hopes of helping someone else out there. I have a right to express myself and I use that right. I hope that my current experiences and information I've listed can help someone else out there who may not know what is and is not acceptable to publish. But if all else fails, have a professional editor and/or lawyer review your submissions for any possible legalities. Happy writing!
Helpful writing links
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Only the Positive May Enter...All Else is Locked Out
For my followers on my Fibro Survivors United Facebook page, you all may have noticed that I do not post any of the hundreds of pictures and comments that reflect our pain, frustration, depression and fears. It is extremely difficult to do; allow only the positive to enter your life, to enter your mind. We are trained early on to always seek perfection, a better way. As we get older this turns into criticism of ourselves and others until all that is left is the negativity. War, hate, fear, self-loathing, lack of confidence and self-esteem.
Toss on top of this ever burdening load an invisible illness that causes chronic widespread pain throughout your entire body. Family and friends do not understand, doctors think you're faking, even conspiring to get ahold of the 'good' drugs for no other reason than to get high. You must fight to stay employed or fight for disability. We do deal with pain, anxiety, depression, insomnia, weight gain, migraines, loss, fear of the future. But what has concentrating on, talking about, and worrying about the negative aspects of my life ever gotten me but more of it?
It is a tough decision to decide that I will no longer allow all of the negative to walk through my door. I want to scream and yell at times to make others really see and hear my pain, but what would that accomplish? Their pity? If I cannot have an adult discussion on my diagnosis with them, and have them understand - is it worth it to keep fighting to try and force them to see me? The answer I finally came to - NO.
I have been reading and studying on the principles of the Law of Attraction. I have experimented with it. On small things that I would like...to test it. Everything I have put out into the Universe has come to me...as long as I only see the positive, and let it go. The principles are a bit trickier than that...but that is the jest of it. So there is something to all of it. It does work. Others say they have healed themselves through this process - doctors have called it a medical miracle. So what will it hurt to try?
My decision has led me to make some changes. I do not pay much attention to the news. Pain and hate is what sells and it is what the media likes to cram down all of our throats. So I say - no more. I no longer write about (complain about) my pain, frustrations, anger, etc. in my blogs or on my Facebook page, to my friends or my family. I no longer comment on or share any images or words that concentrate on the negative aspects of chronic pain. I only look for the positive information to share with myself and my readers.
This doesn't mean that all the ickyness of Fibro has vanished from my life in a magical poof of smoke and fairy dust (that would be very cool though), but I'm making progress. I try very hard (and I mean VERY hard) to stay on course. I meditate, do deep breathing, take long hot showers and Epson salt baths. I do yoga and get outside each day. I read fun books. I watch shows I like and keep my spirits up. And I write. I do not (try not) to discuss all the bad and icky of what I go through each and every day because the more concentration and time I put into the negative - according to the LOA - the more of it I will attract into my life.
I take my meds and see my doctors - I do not listen to them when they say I must accept my pain and that it will be with me for the rest of my life. What do they really know? Not much in the area of fibro...we've all found that out. So why listen to that? I choose not to. I research various methods, tips and tricks for helping and give them all a try. Some help, some don't. I'm trying to go with what works and just let all the rest go. It doesn't deserve my time and attention.
The negative people who have tried to stay in my life...no more. I am selfish because I love myself and I know better than any one else on this planet that I deserve happiness and joy. I deserve to feel good. I deserve a good nights sleep. I deserve anything and everything that I want for myself - and absolutely no one, no matter your level of education and how many initials you can place after your name, is going to be able to convince me of anything else!
So, I pass on all the images and sayings that increase my thoughts of pain and anything else negative in favor of the positive. Some days are easier than others, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm not going to beat myself up for forgetting this or that, or misplacing something or not meeting everyone else's expectations. I'm not going to let others have the control over me that they have had in the past - they cannot make me feel inferior or insignificant because of their own ignorance. I know exactly what I deal with each day and I don't need to discuss it at length with anyone except to update my doctor and keep my husband and kids updated on what my day is going to be (ie: I can do more today than yesterday...I need to take it easy today). I let my family and doctor know what I need without the complaining, crying, yelling and anger (ok, ok...I try VERY hard to do this).
Some might think this idea is stupid, ineffective or as one reader put it - to placate, but it gave her a really good laugh. We all have the right to our opinions but I've seen the difference a positive attitude and positive atmosphere have on a not very positive situation. There is just too much evidence that says there is something behind these principles to brush it aside. I do feel better on the days I'm able to stay more positive, and worse on my negative depressing days.
So this is what I'm doing, and this is why you won't find any negative imagery on my sites. I'll keep everyone posted on my progress.
♥ Gentle Hugs ♥
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Best Ways of Dealing with a Sleep Disorder: Learning How to Cope
If you can't seem to get to sleep at night, thoughts won't stop racing through your head or you can't stay asleep if you do finally fall asleep; you are probably dealing with a sleep disorder. This goes beyond the occasional inability to get a good nights sleep. This can go on for days, weeks, months, even years. I should know, I've been dealing with a sleep disorder for the past 3 years. But there is hope, and there are ways of helping yourself get back to your normal sleep routine. Here are some of the best ways I've found for dealing with a sleep disorder.
See your doctor. If it's been a couple of weeks and your sleeplessness is not letting up, go see your doctor. It many cases a sleep disorder is an underlying symptom of another more serious condition. For me, it turned into a chronic pain condition which took nearly 4 years to accurately diagnose. There may be medications that can help immediately (prescription and over-the-counter). Have an open and honest conversation about what is going on in your life so your doctor can get you on the right path.
Consider Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). CBT is not your typical therapy. If there are other stressors or health issues going on, a therapist trained in CBT can help walk you through the steps you can actively take to learn to deal with what is going on. Help you learn to deal with your stress in a more positive way, and accept your own limitations without feeling like you're failing in some part of your life.
Be an active participant in your own healthcare. This is a big one. You can't just stand on the sidelines and let a doctor do everything for you. You MUST take an active role here. There are things you can do every day to help yourself in learning to deal with your sleep disorder:
- Eat a healthy diet and get plenty of exercise. Discuss with your doctor or a nutritionist on the best plan for you.
- Stick to the same schedule every day. Get up at the same time (even on weekends) and go to bed at the same time. The worst thing we can do for ourselves when dealing with a sleep disorder is constantly changing our internal clocks.
- Have an evening bed time routine. Have a cool down period before bed, drink a cup of warm chamomile tea, take a leisurely walk, meditate. Just something that is going to allow you to let go of your day and calm your mind and body.
Published on Yahoo!Voices / August 7, 2013
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