Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 118

APoS regained

I'm in Houston, right now, for a job but also to research Brendan's time here in the 70s. Since we got the packing done quickly, I've been able to haunt several book stores seeking info...and finding little. Brazos books had next to nothing. Kaboom had nothing at all. I wound up getting the most useful books at the Barnes & Noble in River Oaks, while I was driving around the area to get a better feel for it. His aunt and uncle live next to River Oaks, off Shepard.

I then drove out the route Brendan is taken on when he's grabbed by some KKK members and beaten for daring to date a black woman. It happens out in Deer Park in the middle of the night. This spot near an elementary school gave me the exact image I needed for it -- Oak trees surrounding a playground.

I visited NASA, as well, and finally had some BBQ at a Rudy's that's not far from there. I didn't make it to the library. I've had 2 nosebleeds while in Houston and am now paranoid I'll get blood on a book. So I set myself up at a hotel near the airport, turned in my car and am staying near a sink, just to be safe. The second one wasn't nearly as bad as the first, but it's still unnerving. I now have an appointment with an ENT for the 29th. Get my nose cauterized, again.

I never did find any information about the master plan for Houston that came out in the middle 70s, showing major buildings to be built on the east end of downtown. That stopped with the financial collapse in '87 and didn't pick up speed until recently. But I did notice a number of new high-rise structures on that side of downtown, now.

I'll keep looking for it...but I have a map from the period and have a fair idea I'm doing all right on the details, so far.

Updating the opening of APoS

 In the Beginning

To start with the truth of it, those who knew Eamonn Kinsella (and were being at least somewhat honest with themselves) would have to admit that were my father born but ten miles to the west or north, his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. What is more, my poorly-disguised pleasure at his passing would have been deemed understandable...if still somewhat inappropriate. After all, he was flesh and blood to me, wasn't he? Though often more of the latter than the former when it came to me and my older brother.

His body was found off the Limavady Road in a ditch of flowing water on a cold, blustery morning late in February. His coat had been pulled down his arms and his hands bound behind him. Every bone on every finger had been broken, several ribs shattered, an elbow dislocated and his face pummeled into the mere hint of a human visage. Blood soaked his shirt down to his trousers, the knees of which were torn and scraped as if he’d been forced to walk on them or been dragged, and some said his every tooth was broken out, as well. Of course, little of this is truly verifiable because the only report we received was from the undertaker, who at the time was gently suggesting a closed casket.

The Coroner’s only comment on his death? It was the purest embodiment of Protestant simplicity.

“Mr. Kinsella perished due to a bullet fired into the crown of his head.”

Perished.

Not killed. Not murdered. Not slaughtered like a cow in the abattoir. No. Perished. A charming word that can mean so much.

I mean, many's the time I'd hear more than a few men say, "I'm perished from the thirst." Or hunger. Or cold. Or work. Or the mere seeking of a job. And women would say it, as well, but not once until that Coroner's used it did I ever connect the damned word with death.

That made no sense and sent me to the library to look it up, as they had a dictionary, and to my surprise it was defined as such, with synonyms being expire, wither, shrivel, vanish, molder and rot (any of which might have been just as appropriate...save for the last, since he didn't time to) so I guess the meaning must be true.

If still cowardly and so bloody fucking typical.

It was determined he had lain in that wet icy ditch for a full day and night. On his back. His one unseeing eye open and tinted by blood; the other being swollen shut. Still bound tight as if against the possibility of him returning to life so as to haunt his killers (and in truth, I'd not have put it past him).

The problem is, that made it difficult to set an exact time of death, said one and all, and having the peelers claim it was somewhere between midnight and four in the previous morning was quickly disputed by one and all. For he was last seen being jostled out of McCleary’s Pub in his usual condition just after last orders, that night. And thanks to the stories spread by that reticent undertaker's wife, it was soon obvious to one and all that his death had been anything but easy or quick.

The reason for this certainty being so quickly taken up was simple; he was from Belfast and had worked as a navvy on their docks. Despite it being years since his last position, his hands still held the calluses the job built, his back still carried the strength gained from it, and he had only just begun drifting into sloth. Such a man would not have released his grip on life without a full-on fight, and it would have lasted for more than a few pathetic hours. So said one and all.

Word of his murder spread quick, as such news always does. Within the hour, many a man at many a pub had sad remembrances of his bleak eyes and long face, all bringing to mind tortured poets and sad balladeers. They spoke of how he could sing so well as to make angels weep, elegant tunes of Ireland's ruined past and her dead future. Others recalled melodious stories spun by him of fairies living in Oak glens that once spread forever across the land, and of gods roaming her once glorious green fields, and exciting tales wrapped around Grianán Aileach, the ancient ring fort but six miles and a hundred worlds away from town, all brought forth in such beauty and perfection you'd have thought he lived through each one.

There were also tales set in times more modern, violent and furious and savage and dealing with the unnatural order of life in this corner of our fair isle. Even his enemies, of whom there were more than a few, acknowledged he had a true Irish heart, and in another time under better circumstances would have given the likes of James Joyce and Sean O’Casey a challenge as the nation’s bard.

A few adventurous, less-pious souls ventured the slight possibility that he might well have lived through some of his tall tales, including those ancient, gently hinting at the heretical idea of reincarnation. It made sense to me, for it was hard to see how so much anger and grace could have been poured into one man in fewer than thirty-six years unless he had carried it over from a previous existence. Oh, the rages he could build about the horrors of being a working man without work in a land cursed by God, with a wife and five wains to feed. Barely living off the dole, they were, with naught but spuds burned in the open hearth and tea made from thrice-used leaves for their breakfast. Rags on their backs. A hovel of a dwelling on Nailors Row, close to collapsing around them and lucky to have that. No steady heat or indoor plumbing. Spuds for supper and dinner, as well. No prospects for a decent job as once he’d had, even though that had been the worst kind of cruelty to his back and taken him away for too long from his devoted family...and wouldn't you please front me another pint, m’boy?

Despite the reality of how you’d never see a farthing of repayment from him. Naturally, that last memory was minimized in honor of the dead. Hypocrisy is much expected at both funeral and wake.

Still, within not a week past his burial some felt it safe to acknowledge that he might have taken a dram too much, now and again. Of course, that was not viewed to be a true problem; as many would say, most of the men in this pinpoint of the world were of the same bent, for it was one of the few comforts offered in their existence. Women as well, though not as many because they had little time for it, caring for their latest wain or working the shirt factories or keeping their man from making too great a fool of himself (which could be a full-time position unto itself).

Nor was him being a bit too quick to temper banned from some sly cows' remembrances. A wrong word. A wrong look. A wrong touch, and suddenly you're on the floor with a bloody lip or blackened eye. He cared not for size or ability of his chosen victim, and it would always be the other's fault, no matter how improbable.

Of course, more than one would response in whispers that anger was sometimes the only emotion men like him were allowed to hold forth. And if his wife was seen at market with a fresh bruise over one eye or across one cheek, or out walking her wains around till her lord and master had sworn himself into weary, drunken sleep...well, she was hardly known for her gentleness, was she? Her nails had left scratches deep on more than just his back, and her quickness with an iron skillet was not unnoticed. I heard so many of these comments bandied back and forth, on and on and on, soft and low, often accompanied by a click-click-click of the tongue.

Just having a bit of craic on the stoop, nothing more, with no concern for any of his children who happened to be close by and listening in.

But I will say that for most, those few peculiarities were being swept into the past. Starting with his wake, his trek to sainthood was begun and the truth of his existence drifted away like a ghost, aided and abetted by that closed casket and the need for his burial to be quick. It was paid for through the intersession of Father Demian, a priest who’d so often visited the man’s home in times of violence or distress in the years prior, he felt no need to knock before entering, and who tried to comfort the new widow's weeping and wailing as best he could.

“What’s to become of us?" became her favorite cry. "How shall we live?” Over and over, to the point where even those sympathetic to her wondered if her laments were over his passing or more from her sense of guilt for having loudly wished him dead, many a time. While I may have agreed with the latter sentiment, it was not their place to cast judgment on her. Only a man’s kin may determine the meaning of his passing and worth, even those with more...oh, let's just say, complicated reasons.

But in truth...how did we live, now he was gone?

Simple. The burned spuds and weak tea for breakfast were replaced by porridge and milk. Fish and chips could be brought in, on occasion, and eggs and fresh bread. For the one benefit of having to deal with poverty on less than half the dole's miserly payment was that Kinsella's widow knew how to stretch a ha’penny the length of a mile. Even better -- because the widow had five with another soon due, the Derry Committee (the bastards who ran the town) were forced to promise better lodgings for us once the last of the Rossville Flats was completed.

If there were room still available on the queue, of course. Can’t make promises one might have to keep.

So yes...for me there was no sorrow at his death. And as mentioned, while it was deemed inappropriate, me being his second son, I sensed even then it was for the better of me, my two brothers and two sisters...and even my mother, weep as she might. Something no child the age of ten should be thinking about his own father. But I cannot tell you how many times I'd seen his fists upon her as my elder brother and myself tried to stop him. The blood on her face. The tears from blackened eyes. Hers as well as ours. The time he broke my clavicle by shoving me down the stairs when I got too tight between them. And how she blamed me for it and expense incurred by a trip to the clinic. And how often Ma would turn on us, herself, with her own words and slaps and scratching nails, as if to make certain we shared in every part of her misfortune.

It was confusing, true, but also considered normal. Ours was hardly the only family in such a situation. I had mates whose mothers were just a quick with their slaps and fathers who did not spare them their fists.

But what broke through the confusion and set me against the both of them was the night at Winter Solstice, when he came home early, not quite perished from the drink (see how that word's usually used?). I'd heard him coming up the lane, singing a fight song, so had warned my older brother, young Eamonn, who picked up Rhuari, the younger one, and headed up the stairs. Mairead, my older sister, and Maeve were already in their bed, reading, and for them we had little worry; Da never aimed his fists their way. As for Ma in the kitchen? I shot a quick, "Da's comin'," to her then I scurried up to our bed, hoping to have covers enough to cushion his blows.

Except on this occasion he didn't crash through the door, raging. Instead, we heard him clomp inside, exchange some murmured words with Ma, then jump upstairs to crash into their room, in the front of our hovel. Moments later my sisters were heard screaming and crying. Young Eamonn and I both went to the door to see what was wrong to find a horrified Mairead carrying a weeping Maeve downstairs. Then young Eamonn jolted and tried to cover my eyes, but not before I saw Da standing at the railing, bellowing, "Bernadette! I'm callin' to youse!"

Now this was not the first time I'd heard him say it, and even at the age of nine I had a fair idea it meant they'd be husband and wife, for a little while, but this was the first occasion where I saw him stark naked. Top to bottom. With his tadger pointing out straight from between his legs.

I pushed young Eamonn's hand away just as Ma came all but leaping up the stairs. She was in her shift, her hair wet and streaming down her back as she called over her shoulder, "Mairead, wrap yourselves in the comforter on the couch. I'll let you know when to come up."

Fortunately, we'd kept the door closed tight enough so she didn't notice us watching as she danced past and threw herself into his arms. They kissed and stumbled back into the room and their door slammed closed, and for half an hour the creaking of their bed could have been heard clear to Armagh.

Young Eamonn pulled me back to the bed, where Rhuari was already asleep, and we crawled in. Moments later, I could tell he was also dead to the world. Granted, we'd heard that creaking many a time, before, but I could not shake the image of what I'd seen, and I knew already young Eamonn would tell me nothing about it, so I just listened and thought and came to a decision.

Never again would I try to protect her from him. Why bother, when it's obvious their fights mean nothing and it only brings double the hurt to you? So when I sensed them about to begin their dance into violence, or up to their joyful bed, I would find something to fix in the hutch. Then when I returned, after the worst of it was done, I'd only have Ma's punishment to handle for having been outside late, not the both of them. It seemed better, that way.

Now of course, since I ask for honesty from others, I must also be honest with myself. My relief at Da's passing was also colored by the recent occasion where he’d nearly crushed my right hand because I dared wish to keep the sixpence I’d earned helping Mrs. Cahan clean her hutch instead of hand it across so he could have a part of one more pint of porter. And never once since has my mind changed my attitude.

However, Eammon Kinsella (the elder) lived and died in Derry, Northern Ireland (Londonderry for those who cannot be bothered to learn the city’s proper name). And upon his death, he was lionized for who he was -- a Catholic man -- as memories of the brute he was were quickly cast aside. And when it was learned he was killed by two drunk Protestants who swore to heaven and earth they’d only meant to have some fun with the Taig (which was as high a pile of shite as could be imagined but, naturally, was accepted as the most reasonable explanation by the Peelers) his martyrdom to Mother Ireland was carved in stone.

A poor family man trying only to keep kith and kin together as he slaved for the pennies tossed his way by Loyalist scum.

It would bring full-throated laughter from even the most forgiving of men. If they were being honest with themselves.

Still...that would also have been tucked away, eventually. Added to the long list of offenses against the Catholics of the North and soon forgotten but for several Catholic schools being attacked, that year. And the emergence of a band of Loyalist mental defectives who, sensing the growing restlessness of the oppressed in Ulster and the push for civil rights, stupidly thought killing a few more of us would remind the Papists who was still in charge. Called themselves the Ulster Protestant Volunteers, they did, and in their deluded minds would become bigger and better than the Ulster Volunteer Force or B-Specials. Love, respect, and honor were sure come their way from similar-minded Protestants as they showed the bloody IRA who was the true master of this world.

Instead, they wound up simple murderers, banned, and imprisoned at Long Kesh.

However, their stupidity was not completely in vain. For their side. For in honor of their foolishness, the Derry Corporation, who ran the city like it was their fiefdom, decided no Catholic would be relocated till it was time to redevelop their street. Meaning we kept living in that hovel for three years more. Ma, the new wain and the girls in the front bed, me and the lads in the back, even as life settled into a fresh, bold direction around us.

That was in 1966, my new beginning at the ripe old age of ten, feeling joyful and free even as the subtle brutality of my only known world surrounded me, waiting for the best moment to bring forth its fullest impact, growing closer and closer to an explosion of hatred and cruelty made only the worse by it happening in a supposedly civilized part of the fast-dwindling British Empire.

But what child can see the build of history around him? Even few adults can, in truth. Events occur that you’re part of but at the time carry no meaning beyond themselves. You either rejoice when all ends well or weep when it doesn’t. So my father's death only held resonance for me in the most selfish of ways -- that I could now live my life in the manner I chose, that of a child filled with hopes and dreams and prayers and promises, believing himself now to be in a place of safety.

Fuck 2021, I'm back with Brendan...

 

2021 can fucking bite itself in the ass. Here we are, 9 fucking days into the new year and we've had a rollercoaster ride of epic proportions, already. I can't handle another 356 days of this shit. So I'm withdrawing back to A Place of Safety. I figure if we're going to have something similar to The Troubles happen in the US, may as well get prepped for it.

The Troubles began with civil rights marches, where peaceful protesters were attacked all over the place by those who wanted to remain in power. A lot of it was caught on camera in newsreels and photographs, and the attackers didn't care if they were seen committing illegal assaults. They knew they would not be held accountable...and sure enough, they weren't.

It didn't matter how the world viewed their actions; they maintained real control until the Easter Accord of 1998. It took thirty years of death and destruction to wear them down before they agreed to even share power, and that pissed off a shitload of the radicals on the Protestant side. There are still people trying to destroy the accord, on both sides. It's like no one learned a goddamned thing about what happens if you don't let people be part of the process.

We may be entering that here, now. The Right Wing Nut Jobs had social media to build their forces and they currently number in the tens of millions. An ungodly number of them tried to grab members of Congress, including the Vice President, and probably kill them. All on camera. And with what is looking more and more like the help of Capitol Police. All at the instigation of a lunatic who can't stand to lose.

Some of them are being arrested, but nowhere near all. Members of Congress who egged them on are still in their seats. There's talk of impeaching the Orange Bastard a second time. Next week. Not now, gonna wait next week to give him time to wreak more damage. And if we do stop this insurrection, there will be hundreds if not thousands of pockets of RWNJs who will begin their terrorism of those they oppose. Assassinations. Bombings. Laying blame for their actions on others. And the cops will go along with it because so many of them are on the terrorists' side.

We are now living in interesting times, so I'm removing myself back to when it was only small-scale evil as opposed to armageddon. It's easier to deal with.

Strange Days...

I've been in an odd mood the last few days. No writing done, just research...and I've seen I have a lot of rewriting to do if I want the first part of Darian's Point to happen 3500 years ago and not 6000. For example, crannogs like this one were being used much earlier than I'd thought...which is one of the reasons I wanted to actually visit on in Ireland and view for myself. I think this jolted the story in my head and I'm having to realign everything before I can continue.

It's also the end of 2020 and I am so damned glad. In 20 days, if all goes according to plan, Biden will be president and that orange beast will be gone. No guarantees, yet. I don't put it past him to pull some shit that throws everything into chaos. He thrives on that. Lives for it, like some maniacal James Bond villain. "I will rule the world or I will destroy it!"

Anyway...I haven't been able to focus on anything. Just been drifting like a raft on the Mississippi. Preparing for the end of unemployment benefits because the GOP is filled with craven hypocrites who put the rich over everyone else, and Democrats are proving over and over they're too cowardly to fight them. I'm at a point, fortunately, where I can survive, as is, for a year.

I have plenty of available credit to cover my rent, food and other necessities. I'll have a steady income from Social Security. Not enough to live on but a bit of a cushion. I'll end the year in a lot more debt, but I can deal with that, then. Right now, it's about survival.

And hoping 2021 will be an improvement on this last one.

Still jumping...

I spent all day, yesterday, trying to convince myself to get back to writing on Darian's Point, then this morning had a flash and realized I was just trying to unblock an idea about the story. Big idea, that I hadn't even considered but suddenly crashed through me, this morning, and made it even wilder.

Rather than write it, however, I made some notes then dug into the part where Morrigan conjures up the harpies from The Dagda's sins. He's at the base of the Cliffs of Moher, using the powerful waves to help him cleanse himself of all he's done wrong. 1600+ words that I know I'm going to expand upon, as is usual for me, but it's getting there. Because I finally understood the how and why it happens.

Initially I'd had it where Morrigan's furious that The Dagda impregnated Caera, a girl from a people considered beneath him and his kind, and she's driven solely by jealousy.  Especially since Caera is given a son.

But she's also angry that he hurt a young man she cared for -- Caoimhin. She loves the boy and knows he cares for her...but Caera's pregnancy crushed him and he rejected her. Then Morrigan killed her and now he feels guilt over her death, because of his actions. He blames Morrigan for it, demanding some sort of punishment, hurting her...so the woman loses not only The Dagda but Caoimhin, and she is out for revenge.

On top of this, she's fighting a prophecy concerning the future of the Tuatha d'annan, her people. So there are several levels of reasoning behind her decision. And all of it leads straight to a hellish reality for those concerned, filled with death and destruction. One that guarantees nothing will turn out right...not until the last part of the story is told, in modern times.

You know, a typical Irish fable.

Continuation of yesterday's post...

Here's the rest of the moment between Morrigan and Caoimhín...
______

That froze Caoimhín in place. Was she telling him his fears had been realized? Was she telling him that golden beast had taken Caera? No...no, it couldn't be. She would not give in to him and he would never force himself upon her. Not while a guest of his father. It would be poor manners, at best. Not even the worst of the beastly men who'd been given shelter had even tried to do such a thing. 
But The Dagda was not like other men, so would he?
Morrigan seemed to ignore him as she continued. "What a lovely man he has always been. Tend to my wants and needs and desires, and perhaps I will notice yours. Perhaps. Perhaps not." She gave a soft laugh. "More often, not." Her voice drifted into sadness. "So many times it has been not."
Caoimhín's mind whirled. She was verifying everything he had come to believe about the man. He was able to ask, "How do you know this?"
"I know him," she shot back. "I know his ways. His charming voice. His gentle manner. His blue eyes and hands so soft upon you. I don't know why he was over here. This is not part of our world. He must have been seeking something...or someone. He does that. Most men do that." She shot a glare at Caoimhín. "Are you that kind of man?"
He could not answer. His was lost in wondering what had happened. Had Caera chosen that man over him? Could he have promised to carry her home with him? Take her away to whatever palace he lived in? Even when he already had a mate? Could he have more than one. Too little was known about the Tuatha d'annan to say, for sure. He was confused beyond understanding.
Morrigan's voice cut through to him. "Well? Are you?"
He looked at her, blank. "I...I did not hear what...what you said."
Her entire manner changed and she sighed. "Caoimhín, I have hurt you in some way. I have brought trouble to you. This was not my intention."
She drifted over to him, her every step seductive in ways heartbreakingly beautiful. She caressed his face with the purest tenderness as she continued, "Has my mate planted worry in your heart, for someone? Has he done all he can to appear perfect and glowing and worthy of all to love him? He's very good at that. He can sit as still as the earth and, by doing nothing more than caressing his own lower lip cause every woman close by to gaze upon him. It's a gift, I suppose. Or a curse, if you're fool enough to love him."
Caoimhín was unable to focus on her words. Suddenly, he could see Caera holding that man close. Kissing him. Being with him. All he could think to say was, "How do you know all of this?" His voice shook as he spoke.
"I told you," she said. "I know him. I also know he takes great joy in finding the finest youth of each clan he visits and doing all he can to torment him without raising a finger. Like a cat that's caught a mouse by its tail."
She unfastened his pelt and let it drift away. Her fingers trailed over his tunic and down his arms as she whispered, "When I watched you, a moment ago, standing there and calling to the sea, I could tell you were the finest of your clan. You're strong. Well formed. Then you turned and showed me you have a good chin. Fine lips. Your eyes are open to your soul. Your hair...well that could use some tending, but considering the wind, it is not surprising. What girl could resist you, were it not for The Dagda's magical manner?"
She rested the palm of her hand against his face, the smallest finger gently caressing under his eye. "If he has taken one you fancied, you cannot blame her. He is the one to blame, for none can resist him."
Caoimhín took a step away from her, even more confused and feeling sensations deep within himself that he'd only felt with Caera. "Then what chance have I to be first in her heart?"
Morrigan's smile was tender. "Time will do the replacing. For if she truly cares for you, he will not remain there. He cannot. He is like a spirit that drifts from here to there and cannot rest." Again, she ran the backs of her fingers over his cheek. Light and easy. Sending fire into his heart.
"I...I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do."
"Then stay here until your mind is at rest. Try to recapture that moment of joy you held. I will stay with you. I am not bad company. We can sit here and speak of the world as it exists." She lowered herself to sit on the pelt in a manner that was so easy and elegant, he could not help but watch her. "Let the wind dance our troubles away."
"You...you know of the world?"
"I know where we are, right now, is not the end of it." She reached for his hand. "Some might say it is only the beginning."
He let her guide him down to sit beside her. "Are you not cold?" he asked.
She almost giggled as she shook her head. "We came from a land much colder than this. I am used to it. But if you want to build a fire..."
He looked around. The largest branches were from bushes and shrubs. "Nothing really to use. It would burn out quickly..."
"Then hold me. Let us warm each other."
She nestled herself against him. He hesitated then wrapped his arms around her. She seemed to melt into the same form as him, and the feel of her was intoxicating. The way she drew his arms tight around her, over her breasts...it sent screaming lightning through the whole of him. Her hair flowed down her back like the reeds flowed in the water passing under Aoibhinn. He nuzzled her neck.
"You smell of flowers," he whispered. "How? How can you still smell of flowers before their season?"
She gave a soft light giggle of a laugh, deep and glorious. "It is from the water I bathe in. Heated with dried petals. They lend themselves to me."
"Is that why you're so soft" he asked. "Your skin so fine?"
"I only feel this way because your hands are strong and rough. Your arms solid. I can tell the earth has joined with you."
He chuckled. "Perhaps I should wash in your heated water."
She leaned her head back to look at him, saying, "Don't. My mate, as you call him, would do so. Surely you noticed; there is none of the earth in him."
He laughed. "He said he'd been out hunting. Nearly caught a stag. I found it hard to believe, he was so clean. Stalking any beast is dirty work."
She touched his lips, soft and easy. "You are not one to hide from the need for it. The need to follow your duty. To your clan. But does that need include yourself?"
"Me?"
"All men have a duty to themselves as well as their clan. To show you are able to handle yourself is to show your clan you are able to meet your duty to them."
He almost chuckled. "You know so much...what is my duty to me?"
She licked her lips. "To prove yourself the equal of any man. Even my mate."
He kissed her.
She shifted around to face him. Her left arm circled around to draw him close as her right hand mingled her fingers in his hair. He pulled back a little, looking into her eyes. He almost spoke but she stopped him, murmuring, "This is no time for words. I know the world. I know its meaning. Embrace it, through me. Regain yourself through me. Take back your pride through me. I can show you ways to make anyone love you. Anyone. If you still want her..."
He kissed her, again, and let his hand take a breast. The cloth she wore felt more like her skin...until she took in a deep breath and let him pull it down...down...down her body, revealing her as she let her hand trail down his back and over his rear to grasp the bottom of his tunic and pull it up. He traced his lips down to one of her teats and caressed it with his tongue. She gasped in a laugh of pleasure, then she gripped one of his buttocks, making him jolt up. And chuckle in amazement before he returned to her breasts and nuzzled his face between them. Rubbing one cheek against one then the other cheek against the other.
The sensations now screaming through him were nothing like he'd ever felt before. Her hands trembled as she slipped the other one to hold the other half of his rear. He gulped in shock at how lovely it felt. He feared he was about to explode and could tell from her quickening breath and half-closed eyes she was feeling much of the same...and they had not even joined, yet.
He shifted her dress up her thighs. The beautiful cloth. So perfect and flowing so smoothly along her skin. Now soft and deafening in its need.
Her breath quickened and her hands traced over his hips to take hold of him...then guide him to her. Let him brush himself against her. He gasped. Almost whimpered. Then entered her and suddenly felt he had become one with all existence. Her groans mixed with near laughter as he pushed into her and pulled back then pushed in, again...and with each movement he knew he had found the true meaning of life.
Her hands almost fluttered from the intensity of feeling in her, and she danced her fingers up to grip the neck of his tunic to pull him closer...then suddenly tore it open.
For a moment, she looked horrified, but then he laughed and dove in for another kiss and her hands wrapped around his neck and her nails dug into his skin and he rocked in and out and in and out, faster and faster and faster, holding her and shifting back and wrapping his arms around her as she did the same and on and on and on until waves of need washed over him and her hands dove under his tunic and her fingers dug into his back, cutting him as she groaned and he gasped, and both of them went faster and faster and faster until she screamed for joy and he felt every part of her grip him tighter and he could no longer stop but had to allow furious sensations crashing into him take over and he felt himself unloading into her, over and over and over and she continued to tear into his neck and back and came close to weeping and smiling as gasping short little bursts of joy whimpered from her and he could do nothing more than fight to remember to breathe.
And time stopped.
He pulled her close. Held her tight. Continued to lie atop her. Her breasts against his chest. Her hands now tenderly holding him, her arms gently wrapped around him. He felt himself beginning to wilt, within her, but did not want to move. Could not think to move. Her hair still smelled of flowers. Her skin was wet but still soft and glowing. Her face was light and easy, her eyes focused on some distant thought.
He could not help but kiss her. Then put his cheek next to hers. His voice was filled with joy as he murmured, "I almost feel like howling, again."
She giggled then kissed his ear and let her hands slip off him and around him and under him...and pinched his nipples.
He yelped and jolted up to sit on his haunches, startled.
She laughed like a child.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, only half joking.
"Did you not like it?"
He joined her laughter. "I don't know. It was very...so very surprising."
She sat up, coy and joyous. "There is much about me that is surprising. Why don't you stay with me a while and I show you?"
He looked around. The sky was growing dark and the wind increasing. He noticed the smell of water about to fall from the sky. "I do not think you'd like to be under a storm..."
She brushed his hair behind his ears then playful tugged on them. "I know of a cave, nearby. I think it has wood in it, for a fire. We could stay there through the storm. I could send for food and drink.
"How?"
She raised a hand and one of the large white birds whispered down to stand on a rock, near them. She clicked her tongue in a series of odd sounds, then it flew away.
He watched her then watched it. "You're a witch."
"I am of the world, Caoimhín. I am one with the earth. And with the sky. And with the sea. And with the wind. I know the creatures of the air." Then she cast him a wicked grin. "And the creatures on the ground. And you...are one creature I would like to know more of."
"So I'm a beast to you?"
"We are all beasts. But you..." She traced her fingers down his arms, sensuous and loving. "You are more than this to me."
"More than your mate?"
"A thousand times more." Then she pulled him into a kiss before whispering, "Will you stay with me, tonight? In my cave? I will be there, with or without you."
He whispered back, "It would be wrong to leave you alone in the middle of a storm. Alone through a night in the wild."
"Will I become your duty?" she asked, toying.
"That, you could never be," he said, his voice low and filled with meaning.
She rose to her feet, adjusted her dress and whipped her cloak around her. "Then come. And bring the pelt. We will sleep on it."
He stood up, grabbing the pelt as he did so. "Perhaps I should stay in the storm. Let it wash some of the earth from me."
She ran her finders over his chest, where she had torn the tunic. Tickled the hairs. Her voice low. "I would rather you not."
"What do you want from me?"
"I have already gotten what I wanted. I have hopes you will give me more."
Then she kissed him and took him by the hand and led him down the hill.

 

Here's the rest of the moment between Morrigan and Caoimh...

Here's the rest of the moment between Morrigan and Caoimhín...
______

That froze Caoimhín in place. Was she telling him his fears had been realized? Was she telling him that golden beast had taken Caera? No...no, it couldn't be. She would not give in to him and he would never force himself upon her. Not while a guest of his father. It would be poor manners, at best. Not even the worst of the beastly men who'd been given shelter had even tried to do such a thing. 
But The Dagda was not like other men, so would he?
Morrigan seemed to ignore him as she continued. "What a lovely man he has always been. Tend to my wants and needs and desires, and perhaps I will notice yours. Perhaps. Perhaps not." She gave a soft laugh. "More often, not." Her voice drifted into sadness. "So many times it has been not."
Caoimhín's mind whirled. She was verifying everything he had come to believe about the man. He was able to ask, "How do you know this?"
"I know him," she shot back. "I know his ways. His charming voice. His gentle manner. His blue eyes and hands so soft upon you. I don't know why he was over here. This is not part of our world. He must have been seeking something...or someone. He does that. Most men do that." She shot a glare at Caoimhín. "Are you that kind of man?"
He could not answer. His was lost in wondering what had happened. Had Caera chosen that man over him? Could he have promised to carry her home with him? Take her away to whatever palace he lived in? Even when he already had a mate? Could he have more than one. Too little was known about the Tuatha d'annan to say, for sure. He was confused beyond understanding.
Morrigan's voice cut through to him. "Well? Are you?"
He looked at her, blank. "I...I did not hear what...what you said."
Her entire manner changed and she sighed. "Caoimhín, I have hurt you in some way. I have brought trouble to you. This was not my intention."
She drifted over to him, her every step seductive in ways heartbreakingly beautiful. She caressed his face with the purest tenderness as she continued, "Has my mate planted worry in your heart, for someone? Has he done all he can to appear perfect and glowing and worthy of all to love him? He's very good at that. He can sit as still as the earth and, by doing nothing more than caressing his own lower lip cause every woman close by to gaze upon him. It's a gift, I suppose. Or a curse, if you're fool enough to love him."
Caoimhín was unable to focus on her words. Suddenly, he could see Caera holding that man close. Kissing him. Being with him. All he could think to say was, "How do you know all of this?" His voice shook as he spoke.
"I told you," she said. "I know him. I also know he takes great joy in finding the finest youth of each clan he visits and doing all he can to torment him without raising a finger. Like a cat that's caught a mouse by its tail."
She unfastened his pelt and let it drift away. Her fingers trailed over his tunic and down his arms as she whispered, "When I watched you, a moment ago, standing there and calling to the sea, I could tell you were the finest of your clan. You're strong. Well formed. Then you turned and showed me you have a good chin. Fine lips. Your eyes are open to your soul. Your hair...well that could use some tending, but considering the wind, it is not surprising. What girl could resist you, were it not for The Dagda's magical manner?"
She rested the palm of her hand against his face, the smallest finger gently caressing under his eye. "If he has taken one you fancied, you cannot blame her. He is the one to blame, for none can resist him."
Caoimhín took a step away from her, even more confused and feeling sensations deep within himself that he'd only felt with Caera. "Then what chance have I to be first in her heart?"
Morrigan's smile was tender. "Time will do the replacing. For if she truly cares for you, he will not remain there. He cannot. He is like a spirit that drifts from here to there and cannot rest." Again, she ran the backs of her fingers over his cheek. Light and easy. Sending fire into his heart.
"I...I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do."
"Then stay here until your mind is at rest. Try to recapture that moment of joy you held. I will stay with you. I am not bad company. We can sit here and speak of the world as it exists." She lowered herself to sit on the pelt in a manner that was so easy and elegant, he could not help but watch her. "Let the wind dance our troubles away."
"You...you know of the world?"
"I know where we are, right now, is not the end of it." She reached for his hand. "Some might say it is only the beginning."
He let her guide him down to sit beside her. "Are you not cold?" he asked.
She almost giggled as she shook her head. "We came from a land much colder than this. I am used to it. But if you want to build a fire..."
He looked around. The largest branches were from bushes and shrubs. "Nothing really to use. It would burn out quickly..."
"Then hold me. Let us warm each other."
She nestled herself against him. He hesitated then wrapped his arms around her. She seemed to melt into the same form as him, and the feel of her was intoxicating. The way she drew his arms tight around her, over her breasts...it sent screaming lightning through the whole of him. Her hair flowed down her back like the reeds flowed in the water passing under Aoibhinn. He nuzzled her neck.
"You smell of flowers," he whispered. "How? How can you still smell of flowers before their season?"
She gave a soft light giggle of a laugh, deep and glorious. "It is from the water I bathe in. Heated with dried petals. They lend themselves to me."
"Is that why you're so soft" he asked. "Your skin so fine?"
"I only feel this way because your hands are strong and rough. Your arms solid. I can tell the earth has joined with you."
He chuckled. "Perhaps I should wash in your heated water."
She leaned her head back to look at him, saying, "Don't. My mate, as you call him, would do so. Surely you noticed; there is none of the earth in him."
He laughed. "He said he'd been out hunting. Nearly caught a stag. I found it hard to believe, he was so clean. Stalking any beast is dirty work."
She touched his lips, soft and easy. "You are not one to hide from the need for it. The need to follow your duty. To your clan. But does that need include yourself?"
"Me?"
"All men have a duty to themselves as well as their clan. To show you are able to handle yourself is to show your clan you are able to meet your duty to them."
He almost chuckled. "You know so much...what is my duty to me?"
She licked her lips. "To prove yourself the equal of any man. Even my mate."
He kissed her.
She shifted around to face him. Her left arm circled around to draw him close as her right hand mingled her fingers in his hair. He pulled back a little, looking into her eyes. He almost spoke but she stopped him, murmuring, "This is no time for words. I know the world. I know its meaning. Embrace it, through me. Regain yourself through me. Take back your pride through me. I can show you ways to make anyone love you. Anyone. If you still want her..."
He kissed her, again, and let his hand take a breast. The cloth she wore felt more like her skin...until she took in a deep breath and let him pull it down...down...down her body, revealing her as she let her hand trail down his back and over his rear to grasp the bottom of his tunic and pull it up. He traced his lips down to one of her teats and caressed it with his tongue. She gasped in a laugh of pleasure, then she gripped one of his buttocks, making him jolt up. And chuckle in amazement before he returned to her breasts and nuzzled his face between them. Rubbing one cheek against one then the other cheek against the other.
The sensations now screaming through him were nothing like he'd ever felt before. Her hands trembled as she slipped the other one to hold the other half of his rear. He gulped in shock at how lovely it felt. He feared he was about to explode and could tell from her quickening breath and half-closed eyes she was feeling much of the same...and they had not even joined, yet.
He shifted her dress up her thighs. The beautiful cloth. So perfect and flowing so smoothly along her skin. Now soft and deafening in its need.
Her breath quickened and her hands traced over his hips to take hold of him...then guide him to her. Let him brush himself against her. He gasped. Almost whimpered. Then entered her and suddenly felt he had become one with all existence. Her groans mixed with near laughter as he pushed into her and pulled back then pushed in, again...and with each movement he knew he had found the true meaning of life.
Her hands almost fluttered from the intensity of feeling in her, and she danced her fingers up to grip the neck of his tunic to pull him closer...then suddenly tore it open.
For a moment, she looked horrified, but then he laughed and dove in for another kiss and her hands wrapped around his neck and her nails dug into his skin and he rocked in and out and in and out, faster and faster and faster, holding her and shifting back and wrapping his arms around her as she did the same and on and on and on until waves of need washed over him and her hands dove under his tunic and her fingers dug into his back, cutting him as she groaned and he gasped, and both of them went faster and faster and faster until she screamed for joy and he felt every part of her grip him tighter and he could no longer stop but had to allow furious sensations crashing into him take over and he felt himself unloading into her, over and over and over and she continued to tear into his neck and back and came close to weeping and smiling as gasping short little bursts of joy whimpered from her and he could do nothing more than fight to remember to breathe.
And time stopped.
He pulled her close. Held her tight. Continued to lie atop her. Her breasts against his chest. Her hands now tenderly holding him, her arms gently wrapped around him. He felt himself beginning to wilt, within her, but did not want to move. Could not think to move. Her hair still smelled of flowers. Her skin was wet but still soft and glowing. Her face was light and easy, her eyes focused on some distant thought.
He could not help but kiss her. Then put his cheek next to hers. His voice was filled with joy as he murmured, "I almost feel like howling, again."
She giggled then kissed his ear and let her hands slip off him and around him and under him...and pinched his nipples.
He yelped and jolted up to sit on his haunches, startled.
She laughed like a child.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, only half joking.
"Did you not like it?"
He joined her laughter. "I don't know. It was very...so very surprising."
She sat up, coy and joyous. "There is much about me that is surprising. Why don't you stay with me a while and I show you?"
He looked around. The sky was growing dark and the wind increasing. He noticed the smell of water about to fall from the sky. "I do not think you'd like to be under a storm..."
She brushed his hair behind his ears then playful tugged on them. "I know of a cave, nearby. I think it has wood in it, for a fire. We could stay there through the storm. I could send for food and drink.
"How?"
She raised a hand and one of the large white birds whispered down to stand on a rock, near them. She clicked her tongue in a series of odd sounds, then it flew away.
He watched her then watched it. "You're a witch."
"I am of the world, Caoimhín. I am one with the earth. And with the sky. And with the sea. And with the wind. I know the creatures of the air." Then she cast him a wicked grin. "And the creatures on the ground. And you...are one creature I would like to know more of."
"So I'm a beast to you?"
"We are all beasts. But you..." She traced her fingers down his arms, sensuous and loving. "You are more than this to me."
"More than your mate?"
"A thousand times more." Then she pulled him into a kiss before whispering, "Will you stay with me, tonight? In my cave? I will be there, with or without you."
He whispered back, "It would be wrong to leave you alone in the middle of a storm. Alone through a night in the wild."
"Will I become your duty?" she asked, toying.
"That, you could never be," he said, his voice low and filled with meaning.
She rose to her feet, adjusted her dress and whipped her cloak around her. "Then come. And bring the pelt. We will sleep on it."
He stood up, grabbing the pelt as he did so. "Perhaps I should stay in the storm. Let it wash some of the earth from me."
She ran her finders over his chest, where she had torn the tunic. Tickled the hairs. Her voice low. "I would rather you not."
"What do you want from me?"
"I have already gotten what I wanted. I have hopes you will give me more."
Then she kissed him and took him by the hand and led him down the hill.

 

In the Beginning...

I did a bit of a jump in writing Darian's point and worked up a sex scene between my MC and Morrigan, who according to Irish mythology is either a goddess or the Queen of the Banshees. It's revenge sex for the both of them, and it gets pretty heated. Here's part of the lead up to it...I'll post more, tomorrow...

-----

Caoimhín stalked through the whole of the darkness and well into the sun's light, unwilling to rest until he had crossed as much of the earth as possible. Be as far away from his settlement as possible. He splashed through icy streams of water without thought. Stormed up and over hills that grew higher and higher and seemed never to end. He cared not where he was or how he would even find his way back. His only thoughts were of how Caera had looked at The Dagda.
And how the man had returned that look.

It wasn't right. That godlike creature was mesmerizing his beloved and, without even a word, had sent him spiraling into feeling like he was nothing, in comparison. Something he had never felt about himself, before. He'd been so shocked and angered by it, he had almost broken his clan's honor.
You did not challenge anyone you were giving shelter to, and Caoimhín was proud of how well he had done with so many, before. Some of whom were foul and rough with their actions, and who treated the women as mere slaves. His father had worked around them, using words and distractions to manage the worst, while the rest were merely tolerated, and Caoimhín had followed his father's lead.
But this blond god. He held to their honor in ways that almost seemed to mock it. Neither did not said anything that could be misunderstood. Not one word that passed his lips was wrong, but deep within Caoimhín sensed a gentle tolerance of their ways, as if he were far above it. As if he were amused by it. That every woman in the clan wished to care for him, be they with mate or not, seemed expected by this man. Even his mother had shown a shocking willingness to ignore Caoimhín's concerns and had shrugged off the creature's interest in Caera.
Caoimhín had missed none of it. Had seen how eyes as pale as ice followed her every move. How his smile became tender when she brought him drink. How his fingers caressed hers as he accepted the cup. And how she blushed, knowing his interest.
And she had done nothing to reassure Caoimhín. The man who was to be her mate after a few more sunrises. When the moon would begin to let the sun spend more time in the sky. What was worse? She had belittled his worries as childish fears. Called him a boy, again.
A boy.
That single word stung him. Cut deeper than any knife could have. The last time the sun had reigned supreme over the dark, staying in the sky twice as long as the moon, his father had told him a similar day had been the day he joined the world. He showed him marks carved into the wood of their hut's entrance. Eighteen of them. Eighteen, and he was only now joining with a woman to build a family of his own, when many of his friends who'd been birthed at the same time were fathers themselves.
Woman? He snorted in derision. Caera had joined the world long after himself. Just after the first mark on the entrance. Yet she derided him for being wary of a man who was old enough to be her father.
No, he chuckled to himself, Grand-father.
Caoimhín did not understand it. He had always followed his duty -- to help his clan, learn from his father...and torment his brother, whenever he could. He knew what else was expected of him, but it was only during the last warm days, before the cold weather came, that he and Caera had begun to think of that other duty...one to each other. It hadn't been for very long. Could she have changed her mind? Could she now see him as less capable of providing for her? Less of a man in comparison to this golden god?
He began to wonder if he was a child, in comparison.
Because to look at this in all honesty, The Dagda could provide for Caera a hundred times better than he, and easily. His cloak, alone, had proven that. How warm it seemed to keep him. How dry against the water from the sky. How easily he had slung it off, next to the fire. And she knew. She knew. He could tell by the manner in which she caressed it as she folded it and laid it by the door. So he had stormed away from Caera and his anger and confusion. Away from Mícheál and his understanding words. Away from his father and mother and their disapproval of his actions. So he had walked. And walked. And walked. Trying to silence the torment in his mind, but it would not stop.
Caera had always been his, and he hers. He had waited for her to be ready and let him know it was time to join. Had ignored his mother's attempts to find him another girl to be with, since Caera was taking her time. Toying with him. Laughing at him. Unwilling to let him know until she was in full bloom and her smiles were more often those of tenderness rather than amusement.
But not one smile had she sent to him since that man arrived. Only anger and scorn, and he felt as if he had been tossed aside like rubbish, not even worthy of being ground into the earth to help the grain grow and...
Suddenly, he had to stop...because to his shock he had reached the edge of the world. There was nothing beyond but the angry water, below him. So far below him, he could not even hear it. And all he could see beyond was more of the angry water, nothing else.
He froze. The nothingness before him was almost terrifying. He had never realized there was no earth for the rest of the world. Nothing solid upon which to stand or build, just the dirt beneath his feet. Finally, he looked down, down, down to where the water was rolling and angry as it rushed up to dash itself against the black, immovable rocks. And between them and him, creatures of the air with wings of white or black or the color of the dirt upon which he stood floated in lazy circles.
Below him! Not above him, as they always had been. Even now, they could drift up and be at the same height as he, with no trouble whatsoever. Some looked at him. Eyed him with curiosity and wariness. Called to him. He almost laughed.
Were these the same rocks he had seen them from their settlement? True, it have been from a distance, while helping pull in nets filled with fish, but never had he even wondered what he would find atop them. What he would see.
He had not once thought of making the journey here. It had seemed pointless. To go someplace just to see what could be seen? It was like a denial of duty and refusing to do what needed to be done.
But now? To finally be here? To finally see the edge of the world for himself? It overwhelmed every thought in his head. Drove his fears about Caera and The Dagda to nothingness. He stood upon the packed earth, unable to move thanks to the sheer wonder of it all.
The wind tore at his back. Pulled at his pelt. Wanted him to grasp its fur-covered edges and leap and see if he could become one with the floating beings. It seemed to whisper, Do it. I will hold you. I will show you how they fly. He felt dizzy from the mere thought of it.
The sun grew bright, though not enough to warm. Clouds parted and the water gleamed...and revealed there were, in truth, more small strips of earth floating atop it, in the near distance. Far but not far. Perhaps close enough to reach in one of their boats, on a quiet day.
He looked to his right, the same basic direction from when he had come. The earth slowly drifted lower and lower to the area his clan lived upon. He could see a hint of the water where his people cast their nets. Surrounded by hills so green and peaceful. So perfect.
He looked to his left to see more of the towering black rocks, all of them just as tall and upon which was more green. His clan could not have seen this, from their part of the earth, because it circled away as it continued. Could it be leading to an edge without the water before it? He had no idea...but might it not be fascinating to learn?
He howled, long and loud. He no longer felt like Caoimhín, but like some new creature born to be master of all he could see. All of it. And he felt tender towards it all. Protective. Loving, almost. He released another howl, longer and more filled with meaning, his mind now clear and his heart pounding and...
"It is beautiful, isn't it?"
The voice jolted him. Came from behind. Instinct drove him to crouch and spin and have his sword ready in hand, ready for any attack. But it had been a soft voice. A woman's. And he saw her, instantly.
She was as tall as he, with hair like fire being whipped in the breeze. Her eyes the color of the grass. Her skin like milk. Her form the vision of a dream. She wore a dress made of some material he did not understand. It was the color of sand and trimmed in the finest gold, and was lighter than that of The Dagda. It caught the light of the sun and held it within as it clung so gently to her...in all the right places. Her breasts. Her hips. Her legs. Her cloak, as dark as the earth, was rich and warm and regal in its beauty, but she did not hold it tight to herself. It was as if the cold did not cause her discomfort.
She gazed upon him, almost amused.
"You would attack me?" she asked, her voice hinting at mockery. "I have no weapon...well, except for this."
She held up a silver dagger, gleaming in the sunlight.
"It would be of little use against your mighty sword," she continued, her tone gentle yet with a hint of mockery.
Caoimhín rose to stand straight, facing her. The wind continued to pull at him.
"You surprised me," he said. "Where did you come from?"
"Over there," she said, smiling as her right hand motioned vaguely behind her.
He huffed, keeping his sword at the ready. "That is our land. You are Tuatha d'annan."
She gave a soft chuckle. "I am Morrigan."
He nodded, wary. "You, I have heard of."
"And you are?"
"Caoimhín, of the clan Ui Briúin."
"Ah, and you...I have heard of."
He snorted. "I don't see why. Your sort pay little attention to us."
"Not always."
"All right, except when you want something. Then you are close and caring. One of you is with us, now."
Her smile became both haughty and amused. "And is he wanting something?"
Caoimhín growled, the peace of a moment ago now long gone. He started to walk away.
"Where are you going?" she continued.
"Home."
"Why? Have you some reason to be there?"
He glared at her. "Why would I stay here?"
"You were happy a moment ago. I heard it in your voice. I like to see young men who are happy. It's so rare to find."
He hesitated. "I have duties..."
"And yet, you are here."
"As are you."
"I have nowhere else to be."
He eyed her, careful. More than wary. "I hear you are The Dagda's mate."
Her expression grew haughty and cold. "I am no man's mate." She spit the word out. "I am Morrigan. I am a Queen!"
Caoimhín sneered as he backed away, down the hillside. "Well, your King is with us, now."
"No longer," she all but murmured. "He got what he wanted."
He froze.

Non-linear it is...

I'd intended to write Darian's Point in a linear fashion, but today I chucked that idea out and started the moment when Caoimhín and Morrigan meet atop the Cliffs of Moher and, seemingly, commiserate over betrayals by their respective loves.

He feels Caera has chucked him over for The Dagda, and sees himself as extremely inadequate in comparison to the man; Morrigan is furious at The Dagda for going after a girl of the Fir Bolg, people they had bested in battle.

I'm trying to keep it subtle, here, so it leads naturally into the two of them having sex...and him staying with her for a couple days. By the time he gets back to the settlement, Caera is furious and their rift threatens to grow wider...but they make amends...until Caera realizes she is pregnant with The Dagda's child. That's when things explode.

I did over 1400 words, but it took me hours to work myself into them. One good thing I'm finding is, writing a story set 3500 years ago takes me away from the catastrophe that's going on in this country, thanks to the GOP. I am actually wishing death on certain Republicans, something I hate to even think. But it's real.

I don't hold the Democrats blameless. They let things get to this point with damn near nothing in the way of pushback. Right now, I'm glad I can stay in my room and not face the world; it's getting to be scary out there.

I was going to have a job to do in Santa Fe, but New Mexico has posted they want everyone flying into the state to stay in quarantine for 14 days, with few exceptions. That won't work, so we've postponed it. It'll be bad enough dealing with Houston. I'll need a Covid test before I return and one after I'm back, within 4 days. That or it's quarantine...which I may go for, this time.
I wonder if I'm becoming agoraphobic?

Working...

 I went back over what I wrote for the beginning of Darian's Point, expanded on it and am now up to over 5000 words. I emphasized some moments of fear and anger...and one of, I hope, heartbreak...as Caoimhín faces his fate. Then the story jumps back five years to show how events led to Darian's Point.

I have grown to really like Tom Cullen's look for Caoimhín. Simple, direct, attractive, but also strong. Even a bit wary.

What's fun is, I've given a couple of trees near their settlement names, and they will play a part in the events. Fedlimid (which means beauty or ever good) is an oak tree that gives shade to their compound; Aoibhinn (which means lovely) is a willow by a stream that helps them hide, when needed.

I've added a moment where Caoimhín remembers seeing a harpy for the first time, when he's using Aoibhinn's branches to protect a child from it. I don't think I'll ever refer to the monsters as harpies in this section; just describe them and let the rest come together.

It'll be in section two, in 1910 Ireland, that the name is first put to them...and we start to see how the story of how they began is not being told properly.

I have much left to learn about the times, but this seems like a good beginning, and sets the stage for a sort of horror-tragedy. For as wonderful as Caoimhín is or can be, he's also a stubborn little hothead and unintentionally starts the story rolling towards its end. All because he wouldn't listen to his brother's advice...or their father's.

Typical man.

Oh, I also finished the Belfast Noir anthology...and they were good. Some a bit predictable. One that turned into a ghost story, which was interesting. But my favorite was Rosie Grant's Finger, by Claire McGowan. It's a funny little tale about Aloysius Carson, a self-possessed 17 year old detective...who had to become one because there are no jobs and who really likes his Pot Noodles. He's asked to find a missing girl and gets himself into all sorts of trouble.

I mayt actually read one of her books.