Time to start the show.

“Imagine, if you will, the most perfect summer day. The blue sky with fluffy, white clouds overhead, green grass under your bare feet.  Pammy, do you have a special someone?”

The girl shook her head with a slight frown.

She had to give her points for honesty. “How about a secret crush?”

The hand went back over the mouth, covering a giggle. “There’s this band. They’re not real popular yet. Poison.”

Her grandmother put her hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder and gave her an indulgent smile. “Peculiar name, but they all have such great hair.”

Pammy continued. “The lead singer is named Brett. I’d like it if you’d use his name. I know it’s silly, but well…” She paused and wringed her hands as if embarrassed.

“No problem. Can do. Imagine you’re walking hand in hand with Brett. You’re deeply in love. He’s pledged his heart to you. You gaze into his clear-water blue eyes resembling still lagoon waters surrounding a tropical island.”

Lola saw the image in her mind, but instead of green grass, the warm sand shifted under her bare feet. Her hand rested in another Brett’s larger one. She wore a flowered sarong tied on one shoulder with her long auburn hair falling in rivulets down her back. A shirtless Brett strolled beside her in a pair of white pants rolled up for wading. A seagull squawked overhead sounding a bit like Pammy.

“I’m not sure what color Brett’s eyes are.”

Mercy. What happened? Instead of spinning Pammy’s fantasy, she’d taken a side trip into forbidden territory. “Um,” she cleared her throat, tamping down her wayward thoughts. “It doesn’t matter what color they are. You know. They are nice eyes…sincere ones…you could lose yourself in, especially when he teases you.”

Pammy held her hands in a prayer position, her eyes large with awe. “You know Brett Michaels?”

Well, talk about things going south in a hurry. “No, I, ah, have a good imagination.” The same imagination must be on auto drive, spinning dreams she dare not dream. After all, she came from a long line of practical women. Translation: women who fell in love with a man who left them to deal with the hardships of life alone. Never mind that the war took her great-uncle, her grandfather had succumbed to cancer, and a bull gored Cousin Willard. In the end, the men left the women of her family.

Today's prompt is push. We left off with Lola wondering if she should still go on her sales call after her close call on the highway and meeting Brett. Unfortunately, the sales call is still a go.

A lopsided number made locating the house difficult. An overweight teen clad in an apparent handmade dress of stiff printed cloth and an aged woman, similarly dressed, stood on the stone porch staring in her direction.

Oh great, Lola would be the evening entertainment. No wonder they wouldn’t cancel. Time to shift into the dream spinner mode. Tom called her the best he’d ever seen, creating a dream world the customers couldn’t wait to join. Also, she kept pace with the hottest males, without any sex appeal on her side. The female hires tended to be ordinary in looks. Tom discovered girls most likely to have hope chest dreams seldom bought from beautiful women. Gorgeous women also got much better-paying jobs at the local watering holes. Her lack of a sizable rack kept her from qualifying as a sports bar server.

 The heavy display kit took both hands to carry. While it didn’t contain everything in the line, it included a sampling of the wares. Be the dream spinner; give the people a good show for their time. The job paid a modest stipend, and mileage, but the real money came from sales. At the end of her presentations, almost everyone wanted to buy even when her conscience was against it. She even tried to tone down the rhetoric when she noticed threadbare furniture and cars dotted with primer sitting in the driveway.

Part of the dream scenario starts with the client. Most, raised in impoverished settings, see a wedding as the stepping stone into a new life: a wedding they fantasized about fueled by television shows, bridal magazines, and relatives marrying. All Lola did was bring the elements into play. People like Lola didn’t believe in fairytale weddings and happily ever after scenarios.  Her mother’s constant litany, how men only let you down, settled deep in her bones, causing her to end any relationship before it ever became serious.  

The older woman stepped forward to meet her, holding out a thin, veiny hand. “Welcome. Glad you could make it. Sorry to hear about your car trouble. Pammy here has been looking forward to your visit for days.”
Her hand enveloped the older woman’s hand gently. She knew enough from interaction with her own grandmother that the elderly would not appreciate a hearty hand pump. It’s hard on the arthritis. “Glad to be here.” Not really, she mentally corrected herself. Still, the people merited her best manners.

Pammy stepped forward with a smile. “I made some snickerdoodle cookies. Granny bought some cheese puffs and Coke. It will be a party with us girls.”  Her hand went up, covering her mouth as she giggled.

Odd gesture. Habitual. Probably hiding bad teeth. She should probably soft pedal the wares. They were already out some money for refreshments. Her stomach gave a rumble, demonstrating its empty state and appreciation of a supper composed of cheese puffs and homemade cookies. The television set flickered in the corner, running an old black and white rerun. An older man sat in a vinyl recliner, dull with age and patched with duct tape. Her entrance caused him to sit upright, pulling the chair into an erect position.

“This is my cue to vanish into my workshop.” The man smiled briefly at the three of them before reaching for his cane.
“You don’t have to go, sir. You’re welcome to stay.”

He pushed up his slipping glasses. “Ah, thanks. Got work to do. A broken stool to fix.”

Regret crowded her mind as he tottered away. No doubt he wouldn’t enjoy the presentation. Might even see through all the smoke and mirrors. A person with no investment in having a hope chest would realize what a ridiculous ritual it was. The others were her customers. The ones who placed their secret wishes and desires into a physical object.

Pammy cleared off the dining room table, pulling off a hobnail glass bowl filled with wax fruit, followed by folding up the lace tablecloth. A predesigned layout dictated where she placed everything. Each item she would pick up, ask for names, scenarios, dream honeymoon location to insert into each fantasy she wove. Then she passed the product as if it were magical. In some ways, it was.

A glass emblazoned with Flintstone characters and chocked full of ice and soda appeared at her elbow along with a plate piled with cheese puffs and cookies. Decent people.  They deserved much more than an easy payment plan for overpriced cookware and bottom of the line china. No way for Pammy to understand, though. She would change her mind a hundred times on her favorite pattern before she ever married. The overhead light shined through the translucent blue crystal goblet as Lola held it up.

Brett’s face formed on the glass surface. She never allowed herself to daydream. Her mother referred to them as practical people. She considered herself a woman of sense, not a dreamer. As for her mother, the woman felt wronged that her husband had the bad form to die in a car accident before Lola’s seventh birthday, causing her mother to mistake bitterness for practicality. Where was her highway hero? Probably on his way, wherever that was.

Time to start the show.

​

Brett twisted off the ignition and opened the car door. “I made the mistake of complaining how boring the run was,” he said then swatted the hanging compass. He grabbed it, looked at it then looked at her. An odd expression danced across his features, transforming them briefly, but not long enough for her to identify the emotion displayed in the depths of his clear-water blue eyes.

“It’s a compass. A friend gave it to me because I have no sense of direction.”

He cradled the compass in his large hand, staring at it. “Your friend cared about you, but’s it not doing you any good swinging wildly. It needs a base to anchor it and be able to direct you.”

Brett had no clue how right his words were.  A missing base could be the solution to more than the compass. “I’ll have to get a base. I could glue it to the dashboard. Is there anything I can do to thank you?” An earlier search in her purse, before she decided to go on a sales call revealed four dollars and seventy-five cents, a full pack of Certs breath mints, and her half pack of cigarettes. Not exactly a treasure to offer the man who didn’t kill her.

His long legs had already swung out of the car with his scuffed cowboy boots resting on the pavement. He turned at the waist resting one arm on her bucket seat. “Mmm, a thank you for my superior handling of the big rig and not crunching your import like a beetle. Let me see.” His eyes rolled up as he pretended to ponder the situation.

Lola didn’t expect him to ask for anything. He would probably put two fingers to his head in a salute and say, “All in day’s work, ma’am.”

The corner of his lips twitched up as he held up one finger. “I do have one request if you don’t mind.”

If you don’t mind? Would she be able to say no, seeing as he hadn’t run her over? He had to be a good driver since he hadn’t hit her or any other cars and didn’t roll the truck. “Tell me.”

“Okay.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I want a kiss.”

“Is that all?” She didn’t expect something so simple and readily given. She leaned toward him with her cheek prominently displayed expecting a quick peck and he’d be off, leaving her with a romantic tale.

No kiss. She drew back disappointed only to find Brett’s mouth twisted to the side as he tried not to laugh. Her temper flared. Men. They made no sense at all. She poked her pink frosted index finger nail into his KISS t-shirt and hard muscular chest underneath. “You ask for a kiss. Then you don’t take it. No wonder women don’t understand men.”

Brett’s laughter surprised her as much as his entangling his fingers with hers sending some of his personal energy into her body. His laughter died down as he released her hand. “I’m sorry, Lola.”  His fingers touched her furrowed brow bestowing more of his grade-A alpha energy. “The way you presented your cheek to me as if we were both in second grade and out on the playground. You might as well have said, ‘Yes, Brett Mayers, you can kiss my cheek now.’”

It sounded bad the way he described it. Made her sound like some spoiled princess doing a commoner a favor. “Okay. Help me out here. Make me understand.”

He pulled his legs back into the car. A promising sign as he took her hand in both of his. “Lola, sweetheart, I know you don’t know me from Adam. No real reason for you to trust me, or anything. All I wanted was to feel like I mattered to someone. Being a truck driver is a lonely life. I guess I wanted you to kiss me. To make me feel like I mattered to someone even if it was pretend. Stupid, I know. I’ll go.” He was at the edge of the parking lot before she sprang into action.

“Wait, Brett. Stop.” She ran as fast as her stacked heel slides would carry her. Brett spun around and opened his arms. She flew into them without thought. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground.

Their lips touched gently at first. His moved and she mirrored the motion, deepening and prolonging the kiss, easing into a familiarity she never dreamed possible. Her fingers drifted to his head feeling a slight bristle under her fingertips.
Before she could investigate further, her heels touched the ground.

“Very nice. You did make me feel special. Important. You have a way of making dreams come true.”

“Yeah.” She agreed, rather breathlessly. What a kiss! Um, yeah. Say something else. Be cool. “Just call me dream spinner. “

“All right, dream spinner.” He looked back at the highway. “I need to get back to my truck.”

She nodded, not sure what to say after such an encounter. “Drive safe.” Her comment made him grin as he jogged toward the exit ramp.

For Pete’s sake, she sounded like her grandmother. Why not, see you later, sexy?  

Once inside the car, she grabbed her keys and purse, clutching them to her chest. Safe. Everything secure, she peered through the window for any sign of Brett. Nothing. No doubt, he’d already reached the highway with those long legs of his. Her shoulders drooped as she slumped back into the driver seat. Strange day, near death experience, a romantic interlude, but over now. Several heartbeats thudded as she replayed the last minutes of her life.  Thank goodness, the police didn’t make her stay since she still had a sales appointment.

Had it been twenty minutes? In some ways, it felt like a lifetime full of lights and colors she’d never experienced before.  Then in another way, it felt more like a blink, a hiccup in her ordinary life. Something unusual never to happen again. Who was Brett Mayers? Did it matter since she’d never see him again?

A cigarette later, she decided to call into work using the payphone outside of the drugstore to give them the details of the incident then call her appointment.  With any luck, they’d cancel. 

Sister Thomas snorted and placed her hand on her hips. The snort would have merited a report if the right ears were in listening range.

“Oh no, you’re wrong there. It’s the reason I came here. A woman like me, old, past her prime, won’t attract too many loving glances. Any I do will only be for my money.”

“What about children?” Meara always assumed if her mother lived that they would have had a happy life together. At least now, she could add a father to the faded fantasy life.

“I would have stayed if my son had lived, especially if I had grandchildren to dote on. I left and took all the wealth my husband left me and bequeathed it to the Church. I did that deliberately to prevent my husband’s shiftless brother, Birney, grabbing it all. I knew once the church got their hands on it no lawyer stood a chance.”

Untrustworthy brothers, greed, deceit made it sound like Cain and Abel. “What did you mean it would be different for me?”

“Ah,” the woman inhaled deeply again before letting loose a noisy sigh. “You’re young, pretty, and your innocence shows, which will attract the men, both young and old, good and bad. I hope you have some male relative to look out for you.”
“I do,” she answered somberly wondering if being out in the world was a scary proposition as Sister Stephen reminded her when she helped in the apothecary.

“Good. He’ll look out for you. He won’t let any oily sort court you.” Sister Thomas wove her fingers together over her stomach and bobbed her head, as if agreeing with herself.

“What is court? Why would a man want to court me?” The word puzzled her since she’d only heard it used to refer to the pace between the gardens and nunnery as a courtyard.

This time, Sister Thomas, swiveled her head to check out the passageways before speaking. “I’d heard you were born here, but truly you know nothing. You’ve must have heard from the scriptures that men take wives and have children.”

“Yes, I know.” It puzzled her why the woman would even explain it. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Hmm,” Sister Thomas hesitated and shuffled her feet, “I’m not the person to speak to you about this. You should have your mother or older sister.”

“I have none!” Her voice grew loud in her agitation. The last thing she needed was to attract attention to Sister Thomas, who didn’t have the option of leaving. She lowered her voice to a whisper, “Tell me.”

The woman worked her jaw back and forth before speaking. “There are several good things in the life outside the walls. I forgot about this as I ran to the nunnery to shelter me from Birney’s machinations. There are roses, delicious food, and laughter. Well, there used to be, a year or so ago. Right now, there’s a war happening.”

Meara’s eyes grew large. No one had ever mentioned a war, although conversational topics were limited. “A war?”

“Yes. The Germans have huge flying machines called zeppelins that drop bombs from the sky. If you ever see,” she stopped speaking to make an egg shape in the air, “one of these, run the opposite way it came.”

“Zeppelin,” she repeated the word thinking it sounded like a sky born monster.

The sound of footsteps had them both looking to the left hallway. Without speaking, they gave each other a quick nod, and then hurried off on their separate ways. Meara slipped into her cell to repair her tunic with the needle and thread she’d hid under her simple corn shuck mattress. This wasn’t her first tear.

If anyone found the needle in her room, she’d be charged with theft. Sister Peter kept a small stub of a candle when she asked for a new one. Someone told and she’d been forced to wear a sign with Glutton written on it. The discipline made no sense to her. If the woman waited until her candle was gone, then she’d be in the dark. Perhaps her thoughts meant she wouldn’t make an appropriate sister sailing through the halls with folded hands and a serene expression.

Meara knew she belonged out among the trees, open sky, and the elusive nature spirits. It energized her even if there were a large object, promising death traversing the skies. It had to be better than creeping around in the dark halls where every turn promised another horrific artistic image of a tortured man on a cross that somehow her sins put there several hundred years ago.

​There had to be more than trying to earn her way into heaven, which from what she heard wasn’t that much different from the convent. If only she could taste some of the rich food, Sister Thomas spoke about.  Her uncle might take her different places, maybe far away from where the zeppelins cruised the skies. Even though it frightened her a little, a sense of anticipation built up in her. Fourteen days, not long, when she considered how many years she’d spent keeping her voice low and her mind reasonably controlled.

Mother Superior’s voice was strong, reminding her of angel barring Adam and Eve from paradise. She would have made an excellent avenging angel with a strident certainty filling each word.

“Your sister was not buried on sacred ground.”

“Why the hell not? She was as good a Christian as you are. I suspect better.”

“Now Simon, calm down. Don’t go forgetting where you’re at.”

She recognized Angus’ voice and the fact he was trying to placate her uncle. Obviously, she wasn’t the only one in the family who had difficulty holding their words.

“Sir, remember we had no way of knowing where a scared, dirty, beaten woman came from. She collapsed on our doorstep similar to a stray mongrel ready to whelp.”

“I thank you not to refer to my sister as a dog.”

Meara wished she could see the tableau on the other side of the door. It was more emotion than she’d ever witnessed from Mother Superior.

“I will speak plainly. We tended to your sister. Brought your niece into the world and cared for her these last sixteen years, which you owe us for. A hearty contribution to the convent would be in order. If we knew she was a Druidic get, we would not have raised her.”

The indrawn breath had to be her uncle or possibly Angus, maybe both. The sisters would have let her die because her father was a Druid. She wasn’t even sure what a Druid was, maybe Sister Gabriella knew.

“I’ll be back in two weeks, I expect my niece to be ready to leave. No doubt, you’ll be anxious to get her off your hands.”
The words signaled the end of the conversation, which sent her rushing down the hallway. There had to be something she could busy herself with to appear as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping.
 

Simon’s hand covered his face, he brought it slowly down and gazed at Meara with eyes that reminded her of the eye she saw in the tiny reflective fragment she’d found.

“Aye, that’s a good question. I expect those who did in Fulmen now sit on the land.”
Her shoulders stiffened as her hands fisted. Only minutes before she did not have a father, now outrage filled her on his behalf. “That’s wrong.”

“I agree. My concern wasn’t about land, but about my own blood, which you are. I came for you to take you back to your family. My son, Ronan, is a few years younger than you. You have a cousin, Brigid, who may be your age or a few months over. You have a family waiting for you in Galway. I have work to do for the university, but I’ll come for you when I’m done. It will be less than a month.”

A home, a family, someone near her age, her heart swelled with joy making Meara wondered if it could burst out of her chest. “I’ll be ready.” Truer words she’d never uttered.
Simon released her hand signaling the interview was over. She stood and looked at Mother Superior who made a slashing movement with her arm, which meant she should leave. Meara hurried to do so knowing she’d already broken several rules with her unruly tongue. If she could escape while Simon planned her trip perhaps, she’d escape punishment.

​She stood for a moment outside the door listening for the sound of her uncle’s voice. “I’d like to see Sorcha’s grave.”
Her mother had a grave on the grounds this was news to her. Looking both ways to be sure she wouldn’t be seen, she rested her ear on the door to hear better.

Today's excerpt is from Faerie Lights

​Meara knew the couple must have continued to see each other or she wouldn’t be here. “Did they run away together?”
“I figured they must have. Since one day she was at home, the next day not. Over a year later, a letter came from Beacon, Wales. Sorcha told me how happy she was and that she was expecting a babe any day.  My first impulse was to find a freighter heading that way, but I couldn’t leave.”

“Why?” The question popped out of her mouth before she fully thought it through. It was a habit she’d worked hard to correct without success. Especially since her saying, what she thought was a sign of uncontrolled spirit. Her shoulders hunched for the expected lash she’d receive, but it didn’t come, neither did the verbal reprimand.

“When Sorcha left, my da took to his bed. Some say it was his heart, which I know to be true because it was broken. My da lingered on death’s doorsteps for many years. In the intervening time, I met my wife, Erin. She helped care for Da and even urged me to seek out Sorcha, which is what I did.”

Meara squirmed in the hard chair wanting to ask what took him so long, but she’d already had one outburst. Instead, she asked with her eyes full of pleading for more details.

Angus answered, instead. He leaned forward, resting his large hands on his knees. “This isn’t Simon’s first trip. The first one took place about six years past after your grandda died. Went down to the Brecon area, but mouths were tight and none mentioned Sorcha by name.”

Simon shook his head. “If only I had taken more interest in Fulmen. I didn’t even know his last name. As extraordinary as the name sounds, there were more than handful of Fulmens in the place, but none were Sorcha’s Fulmen.  Even offered to pay people for information. Even though they were Celts as much as I was, they told me nothing. Erin was expecting our own babe so returned back to Galway. Two years later, I made another trip with almost the same result. It felt as if Sorcha and Fulmen vanished from the earth. I made up cards with my name, contact information and passed them out. This year I received a letter for my efforts.”

“What did it say?” Meara pressed her hands together in a prayer like position against her heart, forgetting her vow to forgo any future outbursts.

“The sender refused to give his name because his own relatives took part in the dastardly act.  Fulmen’s cousin died without any children and left prime farmland to Fulmen. It was a big holding sought after by many. Along with it, came the house and holdings. Some of the best in the area. A few offered to buy the land from Fulmen, but offered an insulting low bid. Fulmen intended to stay on the farm until Sorcha delivered, maybe indefinitely. The writer didn’t know. All he knew was that his da and uncle were worked up about it. Because the Druid squatter wasn’t welcome there. The writer claims he was only a child at the time and overheard talk when they thought he was asleep.”

As much as she wanted to hear about her parents, this tale was not going the way she wished. It didn’t seem like her parents had a fair life the short time they were together. Her mother abandoned her family for love and apparently stepped into a desperate mess in England.

Simon stopped talking and glance back at Angus, who cut his eyes in Meara’s direction. “Go on, I want to know,” she urged, knowing they had reached a difficult point in the retelling.

Her uncle cleared his throat. “To put it plainly, they meant only to scare Fulmen off the land, but he was determined to protect you and your mother. Your father’s death may have been accidental, but the results were the same. Your mother fled to the scene, apparently walking for days through the woods until she came across the convent where she had you.”

The brutal ending story didn’t surprise her, but it did push on her with great waves of sadness. She’d hoped her mother had lived a happy life until the time she died. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case, a desperate escape after witnessing her husband struck down. A sigh escaped her. “Poor Sorcha. Poor Fulmen. What happened to the farm?”

​Angus raised his eyebrows. “Now, that sounds like something a Cleary might ask?” At Meara’s surprised look, he explained. “You’re a Cleary. It’s the family name of both Sorcha and Simon. It means clerk, which suits since the Clearys always know the bottom line.”

Today's prompt is paint. See if you can find it.

Setup: Meara is in Mother Superior's Office with the two men she saw on the road. This is the first time she ever finds out anything about her mother.
​
“My mother’s name is Sorcha. I never heard it before.”

This somehow angered Simon, who threw another accusing glance at Mother Superior who huffed making no verbal reply.

He reached for her hand clasping it in his large, masculine hand. Warmth flowed between their skin along with a sense of connection she never felt before. “You are,” she tried to shape the word she wanted, but it eluded her since all talk of families were forbidden because that was the past. “Family?”

Mother Superior moved faster than she had ever witnessed and pulled their hands apart. “No touching is permitted.”
Her hand felt suddenly alone after the brief touch. Worse, she lost the connection. The only time she felt a sense of belonging, outside the forest. Mother Superior spoke true; touch wasn’t permitted except in dire circumstances, such as healing or catching a sister who might be falling. Even then, if the sister was only falling a little distance she was not assisted because it could be a divine lesson. Many a sister had tripped on the uneven stones and resulting in a headfirst fall on the hard flooring.

The seated man's lips pulled down in a forbidding frown that could have peeled paint. Meara watched with interest, not only because she’d never witnessed such a display of emotions, but she’d never seen anyone go up against whatever pronouncement Mother Superior made. Inside the convent walls, she served as a direction extension of the patriarchal deity they bound themselves too, which meant a stern, unforgiving figure who hated laughter and frivolity.

Simon turned to face her with his former smile returning. “I can’t believe I finally found you. Sorcha wrote me that I’d be an uncle a donkey’s age ago.” He looked past Meara’s shoulder as he took a long, unsteady breath.

Angus stood and dropped his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. He nodded his head at Meara. “It’s hard on your uncle. Travel is never that easy between the countries, but now with the rumors of wars and the various navies crowding the sea, made it a diabolical trip, fer sure. Simon never gave up on Sorcha. We came on the university’s dime to join a team heading for Egypt.”

“Egypt,” she repeated the word, trying to think where she’d heard it before. A bump caused her to look back in the direction of Mother Superior who managed to shuffle closer while Angus spoke.

Simon transferred his gaze from the wall to her. He threw a black look back at the black-garbed nun daring her to say anything. “Forgive my behavior, it’s just, that, he paused, gulping loudly, “I always assumed Sorcha lived. My sister, your mother could be a stubborn one. She gave her love freely and strong. On the other hand, no one could hold a grudge like her.”

Angus leaned in to add, “Sorcha was known to be the right grudge holder of Galaway County. People did not cross her.”
“That she was,” Simon agreed. “My sister did everything with passion. I remember when she met your father who was visiting his people nearby. She marched home all smiles and told me she intended to marry Fulmen.”

“Fulmen,” she said the name slowly sounding it out. Even though, she’d never heard her mother’s name, having an actual father’s name made her beginning more tangible. She wasn’t a changeling, a gypsy’s git, or any of the other unflattering terms whispered about her.

“Aye, I asked her what type of name was Fulmen.”

Meara wondered too, although, the only male names she knew belonged to the saints.

“Ah, Sorcha put both hands on her hips and proudly announce the name was Druidic and meant lightning.”

A feminine gasp announced Mother Superior’s close location. The woman must have scuttled closer rather spider-like. Not a fair comparison to a creature that had never done her any harm.

Simon continued with a sad smile. “She told me he stole her heart just as fast as lightning. Sorcha was proud, as the day is long. She threw her flaming hair over her shoulder and declared she’d have no man, but him. I should have realized she meant what she said.”

“What happened?” The love story of her parents fascinated her. It’s the first love story she’d ever heard because the sisters never spoke of their pasts. If as green as she was, she knew if a woman had a great love she wouldn’t become a sister, or if she did, her beloved must have perished.

“Da, both Sorcha’s and my father, forbade the union.” Before he could continue, Mother Superior harrumphed her way into the conversation.

“Well, she should. No good would come from hooking up with a heathen.”

​Simon threw her another dark look that had her sliding back a few steps. “My da, your grandda, was a great one for the church, although he attended services on the high holidays. In his grief over my mother’s death, he turned bitter and hard. The only thing that mattered to him was family. All he saw in your father was an Englishman who would steal his daughter away, one of the last living remnants of his beloved Colleen.”

A low growl emanated from the man’s throat. The other man placed a hand on his shoulder while speaking loud enough for her to hear. “Careful Simon, don’t be doing something you might regret.”

He shook off the man’s hand before addressing Mother Superior. “Meara is my mother’s name. A good Celtic name my sister chose to preserve in the family. It means the sea. As for my sister, you ruined her name with your slander. She was married to one of your kinsmen, an Englishman.” He spat the last word as if it were poison and needed to be out of his mouth.

‘Meara, come closer.” He gestured to a chair close to him.

She regarded it the same way she did the large cat she’d encountered in the woods. It was an unknown and possibly dangerous creature. Once she reached the hard wooden chair, she slid into it since her legs had turned weak.

“Could you give us a few moments alone,” he directed the comment to Mother Superior.

“Certainly not. I have the girl’s welfare to consider. Whatever you have to say can be said in front of me.

The man called Simon mumbled some unfamiliar words. They were enough to make the abbess gasp in consternation, which made them very powerful words indeed. She wished she knew them. The other man touched his companion.

“Remember where we are, this isn’t a public house.”

“Sorry, Meara.” He nodded at her and smiled again. The simple lifting of the lips caused his own face to light up. Even his eyes sparkled. He studied her as if she were an unusual bug. “You have the look of my sister, Sorcha, when she was younger. Doesn’t she Angus?”

​The other man gave her a measuring look before replying, “She does indeed.”

What was more surprising was that Gabriella knew she snuck out on a regular basis or that Mother Superior requested her attendance? Her left hand smoothed down her tunic and pulling it off the evil brick that snagged it.  Mother Superior‘s request had to be connected with her outside visits. An image of a gate into the natural world slammed shut.
Inside the cloistered walls running was against the rules, along with talking in a loud voice. It didn’t matter since she had no desire to do either now. A sense of foreboding pressed down on her shoulders. Her already sedate pace slowed more.  A desire to escape back to the forest glen tugged at her. Back underneath the trees, she felt safe and welcome.
​
Years of obedience kept her feet moving forward despite her desire to do otherwise. The sisters kept her out of Christian charity. They fed, clothed her, and even educated her, a luxury for many of her gender. All she ever read were the scriptures, but even those were limited for fear she might tear or soil the delicate pages. Sister Gabriella once spoke of a wonderful place called a library full of books, but it existed outside of the walls. What would it be like to read into the late evening hours? The possibility distracted her a little from the upcoming meeting. No books would come inside the convent walls. Even if they did, reading would require an extravagant use of lamp fuel.

Once she’d picked up a shiny scrap of metal on her unsupervised walks outside. The scrap was smaller than her fist. When she held it up to her face; she could see one eye staring back at her and the bridge of her nose. It fascinated her since the sisters didn’t look at their own reflections to prevent the sin of vanity. No mirrors existed anywhere. Meara had never ever seen her face, except for that one wide, unblinking eye.

The scrap would have caused trouble if found in her tiny cell of a room, but it vanished mysteriously, although she suspected Sister Gabriella. The woman gently guided her more with actions than words. Often, she felt the young sister was her only true friend.

A large door with an arch at the top separated her from Mother Superior and whatever edict she would issue. Someone as low as she never received too much of the Holy Mother’s time. When she did, it was never good. The last time she’d entered the hallowed room was in reference to her habit of whistling. Her poor efforts were to mimic the birds, perhaps even call them to her side. Someone heard her while gardening and reported it. After doing a three-day indulgence that included crawling to the chapel, which made her knees bloody, she never whistled again inside the convent walls. Mother Superior believed whistling kept company with the sins of vanity and pride.  After all, it drew attention to oneself. Her eyes narrowed as she searched her memory for any recent whistling. None, she could recall.

Her raised fist hung in the air before hitting the prescribed three knocks of medium force. The door swung open before she had mentally prepared herself for the ordeal. No matter what the infraction levied against her, she couldn’t show any emotion. Any tears, pleading or remonstrations fell under the sin of pride, and possibility falsehood.

The tall robed figure of Mother Superior filled most of the doorway, but the sliver of a pants leg of a seated man drew her eyes more than the frowning matron did.

“Mary, you are late.”

The name always grated, giving her a mental jar strong enough to bring her back to the current situation. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Sorry Mother, I came as soon as Sister Gabriella told me.” She sucked in her bottom lip wondering if Gabriella had been searching long. It was not her intention to transfer blame to the kind sister.

Mother Superior snorted her belief, but rather than say anything else, she stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.  
Meara’s shoe stuck to the stone floor as if she’d stepped in spilt honey. Both men stood and turned curious gazes her way. Her eyes traveled over them both, memorizing their features and their strange clothes. Later, when she was alone in her cell, she’d reexamine them in her mind.

A flash of white teeth showed in one man’s beard. A smile, she recognized it without being told, although smiles were rare inside the walls. It was a sign of frivolity, a lightheartedness that did not become a bride of Christ.

Even though the sisters accepted that their God took male form, they seldom spoke of the male gender at all. This other sex could roam free outside the walls without worrying about falling prey to the temptations of the world. How could this be?

“Make haste, Mary.” Mother Superior slapped her hands together, which bespoke her irritation.

Meara shook off her initial fear and strode into the room, stopping short of the door. The smiling man’s expression changed as he sent a sharp look at the Mother Superior.

“You told me her name was Meara.”

Her heart leapt. Outside of Sister Gabriella whispering her name when she asked for details about her mother, she’d never ever heard another person say it. Mentally, she called herself Meara because she didn’t want to lose that slender wire that connected her to her mother.

The woman swung around so fast that her black veil fluttered from the motion. Even though, she couldn’t see her expression Meara knew it would be stern enough to cause trembling in the most stalwart of the sisters. The man did not seem intimidated. Strange.
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“Meara is a heathen name. Even though her mother chose to name her Meara. I chose the name of Mary to inspire the child who came from a sinful union.”