Page 8

Steady breaths move in and out of my body. I have not turned to mush. My seatmate’s scent of damp wood after a rain surrounds me. He smells of earth and ground, places to plant your feet and not fall.

“Take a small risk, Eala Duir, for a big payoff. Open your eyes.”

Carefully, I accept his challenge.

He stares intently, probably waiting to see if I’ll keel over. Since CPR isn’t required, he continues. “Who spreads light on the gathering hills?” He gestures out the window. “Who can tell the ages of the moon?” His face glows in the light of morning. “Who can tell the place where the sun rests?”

The plane glides toward Shannon Airport, and I don’t slink under the seat in front of me. A countryside of jade, ochre, and gold spills across the world. Houses dot a few of the patchwork squares.

He releases my hands and smiles. “Welcome back.”

There’s familiarity to his chant I can’t quite place. “Your words—where are they from?” I want to remember them—summon them when I need a dose of soothing magic.

“It’s a poem called the Song of Amairgin White-Knee.” Our team leader chuckles at the baffled look on my face. “Ole Amairgin was once a chief ollam of Ireland, a historian, storyteller, sage.”

I swipe a sleeve across my forehead, checking how big a sweat stain soaks the fabric. The sting of salt leaves my eyes. “Of course. I know him. I recognize it now.” I circle a finger around my head. “Sorry, I won’t be up to full capacity until we land.”

“I can keep going. I’m a bit of an ollam fanboy.”

I settle in my seat, unexpectedly calmed by Jeremy’s presence. Lightheadedness and jitters are replaced with a desire to keep chatting with this man. “There’s a fandom I can wrap my head around.”

He sighs. “The world’s chieftains could use talented ollams at their sides these days.” Jeremy Olk’s Irish undertone rises to the surface. He pats the file folder on his lap. “Sadly, no potential ollams in the bunch.”

“Those are poems?”

He flips open the cover. To my surprise, the work is printouts of handwritten sketches mixed with words.

“Attempts. The last assignment I must suffer through before I turn in final grades from my stint at Pogon U.” The stream of air from his lips riffles his bangs. “I’m elated to trade that dreary campus and its dreary students for Kennard Park University.” He holds a hand to the side of his mouth to whisper. “Its nickname was Póg Mo Thóin U.”

A laugh explodes from me. “Kiss my ass, U? I can’t wait to hear what you’ll come up with for Kennard Park.”

“I don’t intend to mock the benefactors that rescued me from K.M.A.U.” He winks. “At least not right away.”

I gesture at the stack of work in his lap. “You’re old school, huh? Shunning the ease of online grading?” In the light from the window, I study the black and brown streaks competing through his hair. Below nicely shaped eyebrows, the same mix of color shines like dark liquid in his eyes. He’s monochromatic without being dull.

Before he catches me studying him, I focus on the poem at the stop of the stack. At the bottom of the paper is a sketch of the same symbol imprinted on Máthair’s coin that now hangs around my neck on a silver chain. I pluck the paper out of the file and point to the drawing. “So, ollam fanboy, do you know what this symbol means?”

Olk slides the glasses from atop his head into place and squints at the four spirals nested in the angles of a plus sign. “If memory serves, it’s the Celtic sign for strength.”

Strength. I won’t turn that down. Pulling the necklace away from my throat, I show Olk the symbol. “It was my grandmother’s.”

He eyes it and nods. “A fitting gift for a journey.”

I return his paper without reading the poem. He busies himself slipping the folder into his messenger bag and hums as if enjoying a private joke.

Following suit, I snug my backpack farther under the seat in front of me with the hope my near panic attack hasn’t left a bad taste in his mouth. I find myself eager to cozy up to Kennard Park’s newest Celtic studies professor and replace this flaky first impression with one that becomes a name worthy of an Irish chieftain’s daughter.

Máthair’s ring shines on my finger as wheels bump onto the tarmac.

Find Me.

I whisper to my grandmother. “I’m here.” If only I knew who or what I’m supposed to be looking for.

Chapter 4

The Chancer

Colleen chatters as we move through the main entrance pavilion of Blarney Castle. Whenever I envisioned an Irish castle, it rose from a profusion of greenery through mists to touch crystal blue sky. A visitor center with ticket windows and a line of tourists did not factor in my mindscape.