The Lament (a Story for St. Patrick's Day)

The north wind was relentless. It clawed at and slammed the wooden shutters of the old house as the dark skies swirled menacingly overhead. Haunting screeches and unearthly moans rose and fell over the surrounding moors. It was as if the heavens were at war with the earth; a thunderous echo from the past. For 900 hundred years the MacLoughlin family lived in the hills overlooking Baile an Mhargaidh (Bally an Margah). They were one of the original families there from the time of kings. It was a time when ruling clans fought for the lands, the winners claiming victory over their enemies only when the head of the clan lay open eyes unseeing. It was a time when betrayal was common and everything was uncertain. There was, however, a certainty for the MacLoughlins that befell them every 50 years. Each generation would pay the price for the broken oaths of their forefather, Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn, who bound and blinded the ruling king who had unseated him. With these actions, he incurred the vengeance of St. Patrick. Everyone inside the house knew when the rains came they would bring with them an inescapable fury that would encompass the house until it could claim its victim. Once again, the curse was upon them.

James, seventeen and the oldest son of Ronan, huddled quietly by the hearth in the great room while smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves. The rest of the family had taken refuge in the kitchen, but James wanted to be alone. The hysteria that hung in the air in that room with them was too much for him to bear. It was hard enough on the nerves not to collapse on the spot with each clap of thunder or flash of lightning without having to listen to his mother’s and siblings’ sobs or his father’s heavy sighs. James’s large frame nearly overwhelmed the small armchair he had pulled up to sit upon. What he really wanted was a glass of whiskey but his father had banned all alcohol from the house on this occasion. It was a move that James has argued against but it was tradition and his father would see no other way. It had something to do with appeasing the soul of St. Patrick, something about paying dues with a clear mind and heart. As far as James could see they had already paid too dearly for the errors of their foolish forefather. Someday the curse had to be broken. Someday they had to break even.

James furrowed his dark brow as his thoughts turned to the woman in the market. A few days before, his mother had sent him and his younger brother, Seán, to pick up some staples in town as they had done every week since James had turned 12. Walking through the market had always filled James with the energy of life. The hum of a hundred voices, the clacking of carts, the flapping of the awnings in the gentle breezes reminded him that there was more to the world than just the barrenness of hills and moors. Of course, the place of his home held treasures that could never be found in the town, but James enjoyed the contrasts and made a point of acknowledging as many as he could. This last time, however, he had detected a strange kind of sombreness that he had never felt before. At first, he couldn’t really figure out from where it was emanating. On the surface everything looked the same as it always did. But then he saw her, almost hidden in the crowds, a stunning beauty with long golden-red hair crying as if her heart had been broken into a million pieces. “Look!” James had shouted urgently to his brother. “What’s wrong with her?” When Seán seemed unable to spot her, James grabbed his arm and they moved toward her location, but she must have seen them and moved on, for when they reached where she had been standing, she was gone. In fact, after several minutes of searching the market grounds, James decided she had left altogether.

Or had he completely imagined her? Seán claimed he never saw her. He was just following his brother’s lead. In fact, when asked, people who had been in the vicinity of where she stood also claimed that they had neither seen nor heard her. As James sat staring into the fire in the hearth and listening to the storm raging on, he shook his head, completely perplexed. Why did he even care about this young woman anyway? Surely her plight was no more dire than his own. A deafening clap of thunder shook the old house right at that moment as if to underline James’s thought. He brought his trembling hand with the cigarette to his lips and took a long, slow drag. As the smoke filled his airways, James closed his eyes. The woman’s image came clearly into his mind. Her skin was so fair, fairer than any he had seen, and her hair was brilliant like fire but soft and flowing. Truly she was a combination of Irish perfection; a fantasy he would have held onto if he’d thought he had time to enjoy it. Someone would die in the house tonight and James believed it would be him.

The suspense had gotten to Ronan. He could no longer handle waiting to find out which member of his family was going to die tonight. It truly was a sick joke that haunted each generation. How the MacLoughlins managed not to die out over these 900 years was a miracle. Perhaps instead of having an average of six children each, if they stopped procreating, St. Patrick would have no one to take anymore. But then, the extinction of the line was probably what that bastard saint wanted anyway. At the very thought of cursing St. Patrick, Ronan swallowed hard. “Fuck you!” he muttered aloud and then braced himself for a bolt of lightening to strike him where he stood. It didn’t happen and it wouldn’t. His generation had already lost a soul; Ronan’s little brother Colin who had only been 5 at the time. Now it would be one of Ronan’s own precious children.

Ronan walked purposefully to the cupboard where he’d hidden the alcohol. Swiftly he pulled out the whiskey, opened the cap and took a swig. It burned as it went down and, almost immediately, he could feel it coursing through his bloodstream into his fingers and down his legs. Before he could take another swig, his wife let out a bloodcurdling scream. “What are you doing?! This is strictly forbidden!” The agonized look on his wife’s face was almost too painful to bear. “What difference does it make, Siobhan? It will happen sooner or later. I’d prefer to get on with it.” He couldn’t look his wife in the eye with that statement. “Get on with it?!” She shouted incredulously. “My god!” Suddenly the thunder shook the house as though it were made of cardboard. The storm was right on top of them now. Somewhere a window shattered and Ronan bounded from the room, closely followed by the rest of the family, to find James.

This was her family, the MacLoughlins, and the sadness she had endured these many centuries, was almost too much, even for a Bean-sidhe (banshee). She knew he had loved her at first glance in the market and she appeared to him again, as the young woman of fiery hair and milk-white skin, before he was taken. James’s frightened brown eyes had softened as she took his hand. She helped him forget, momentarily, she comforted his heart and soul. She held his gaze as the thick, old, oak beam crushed his skull when it loosened and fell from the vaulted ceiling above. She didn’t let go of his hand until his last breath escaped his lips and his heart beat its last. Any young death was a tragedy, but she had seen one too many here. In agony she crashed through the window and screeched, unrelenting, upon the moors, wailing as though it would tear her apart. When she returned to the window, the family was there with him. She stood, in mourning, outside the broken window of the great room, her white skin a flicker in the moonlight and her long white hair tossing in the strong winds. Her wails blended with those of Ronan, Siobhan, and the children. The Caoineadh (coeeneh), the lament, had begun.

Note: This story is mostly fictional. Please forgive me, MacLoughlins of the world, I dearly hope no such curse exists.
Sources:
Anna’s Irish Folklore – Banshees
Wikipedia – Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn

Where did you come from, Esmeralda?

So there I was, completely immersed in my monthly writers' group. We were writing short stories from prompts. Here's your prompt, look at it, now write...you've got 10 minutes. I was tired. I'd already spent a full day of work and had already taxed my brain to produce two stories before this one. I'm not used to writing any more. I have no stamina at all.I spent a mere 2 minutes on the story. Surprisingly... it worked. But that's not what this post is about. It's what happened while I was waiting for the others to finish writing.

I channeled Punker fairy...well endowed Punker fairy. I have no idea where she came from. I mean, if you look at my other fairies, they are whimsical, flowery, and rather...well...soft. But this... Esmeralda...I'm sure that's her name...really surprised me. She's dark, bold, hard edged and well, different. She's so different, she wouldn't even take a name that started with F. What do you think? Should I try a new direction in the looks of my fairies?

Perhaps I will. Just for fun.

Look for Esmeralda soon.

Faryn - The Winter Fairy

It had been months since I'd made a fairy. If you're a creative person, you probably know how the need to create something grows inside you until you just can't ignore it. You kind of feel like you might explode if you don't do something about it. For a long time, lack of time (and energy) dashed any hopes of being able to quell this emerging storm. But suddenly, almost magically, opportunity shone on me and I grabbed it. My dear sister's birthday falls early in February and who better to create for? In fact, creating a fairy for her was entirely my inspiration.

Snow, ice crystals, and solemn, gray skies abound here at this time of winter. Every so often, the sun peeks through and illuminates everything creating a beautiful winter glow. Those days of sun were enough fodder for my imagination to dream up the perfect winter fairy. I nearly skipped through the craft store allowing the accumulated creative energy to serge through me. I grabbed white and silver flecked tulle, pure white petals, silvery yarn for hair, silver trimmed white ribbon and a beautifully soft and full feather boa. And then one last requirement...flesh coloured cotton cloth...I had a new element to try with my fairies.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, I've long admired the beautiful craftsmanship of the cloth art-doll makers. Not being particularly good with a needle and thread, though, I was a bit reluctant to try my hand at it. However, I wasn't planning on creating the entire fairy out of cloth, only the arms and legs, so this seemed a little less formidable. Besides, I wanted to maintain the same elements of my original fairies while giving them a bit of an upgrade so to speak.

The sewing of the arms and legs, aside from a few minor setbacks, came along much better and more easily than I had anticipated. I even made little slippers for her. I did, however, have to go one step further and make a slender cloth body in order to attach the legs and arms. That worked out fine too although maybe slightly unsophisticated. I suppose I will, in time, come up with a more attractive way to finish this part of the doll. Although it is all hidden by the time I get the flowers and other accessories on her, I would feel better about the finished product if it were well crafted in all parts.

All in all, however, she turned out very well and I was pleased with her. And the best part? My sister was ecstatic to receive her and that made everything worth while.

Fairy Inspiration

I've created another fairy. However I cannot post about her until she is delivered to her new home. (A birthday gift, so shhhh) In the interim, I decided to try my hand at drawing a fairy. I never have before. In fact, I haven't done much drawing in a very long time. I used to enjoy it when I was a child and teenager, but as I grew older, it became lost in amongst all the other creative endevours I got involved in. I have tried, occasionally to get back into it, but I usually get frustrated and quit before anything comes of it. In this instance, however, I became more and more enthusiastic as the fairy appeared on the paper. I completed the line drawing with pencil and then scanned the image into the computer. There, I added the colour. I like the boldness of the colour that I can get on the computer but I don't really have a proper graphic illustration software; just a basic one, so the drawing is not as crisp as it might be. For me, however, that's not a crisis. I will continue playing around with different ways to colour her and see what I can come up with. For now, here she is as she's been completed today.

I'm Famous!

Well...not quite...but I've had a post written about my fairies and for me...that's close to famous! :) Thanks very much to Scott of Midnight Folklore, a very interesting site that covers many aspects of folklore. Go have a look...I have bragging rights now. I think my fairies' smiles have just grown too...

Back to production...

Happy Imbolc...a few days late. Cheers!

Why Faeries? Why Flora?

Pink Fairy with Blossom -
Elizabeth Moore Golding

Ever since I was a child, I was fascinated by the diminutive. Miniature villages, models, dollhouses, and...yes...fairies, always drew my full attention which, if you knew me, you would know that is difficult to do. There was something so, might I say, magical about a world so small and all the little people, or creatures, that may live in it. Perhaps it was too many episodes of The Friendly Giant that I watched as a toddler (although I really don't think you can watch too many episodes of this sweet show) that influenced me. Or maybe it's just that small is often overlooked in a fast-paced world and if we stop to look, we find all sorts of delightful things.

A fairy, according to folklore, is a magical spirit who exists in likeness to a flower, insect, or other small creature. She is a problem solver, helper, fixer, and protector of nature.1  In some stories fairies were known to interfere in human lives by using their magic, but in most instances, they are benign creatures. They seem particularly delicate in comparison to elves or nymphs and the concept of gnomes holds no allure to me at all. I think, likely, that it is the fairy's association with flowers and my affinity to the garden that connects us on the level of imagination and creativity.

Flora Goddess of Spring - Jay DePalma

Flora is a botanical term we use to describe all plant life indigenous to a particular area. The word was, however, derived from the name of an ancient goddess of the Sabines. In their mythology, Flora is the goddess of flowering plants, especially those that bear fruit. She is a fertility goddess and was invoked by the Sabines to ensure a fruitful harvest and to drive away any diseases that might cause their crops to fail. Later she was adopted by the Romans and she became known, simply, as Flora, Goddess of Flowers and Springtime.

Her powers gave charm to youth, sweetness to honey, and fragrance to flowers. Flora in her generous nature gave mankind countless varieties of flowers, honey, and seeds.2

Every year, even by some to this day, Flora is celebrated during the festival of Floralia - a feast which coincides with the blossoming of spring flowers.

In my fairies I try to combine the feminine - the goddess, the diminutive, the flowers. A little of the Flora and a little of the Faery. I hope that their recipients will derive from them a positive energy and a connection to nature. They might even view their fairy as a talisman or charm. At the very least, they can appreciate it as a decorative piece. But however they are perceived,  it will not change my enthusiasm toward creating them. I look forward to further developing them and making them unique and well crafted. I think it is a project which will hold my attention and enjoyment for quite some time to come.

So why faeries and why flora? I say...why not?