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Ireland is a mystical place where Faerie belief lives. Na Daoine Maithe —the Good People, the Other Crowd, Them––referred to with reverence and fear.

Calla

“I’m sorry, lass. There’s nothing I can do. The rental company wants the vehicle back to Dublin.” The tow truck driver gazed toward me through warm blue eyes, my broken rental car hanging from the tow bar of his mud-splattered truck.

“Dublin? But I’m going to Ardara.” How could I have known the flock of black-faced sheep dotting the sloping green hills would scatter across the road the exact moment I reached for my cold cup of double-double dark roast coffee? I grappled with the steering wheel, twisting hard left and away from those deep, endearing eyeballs. Submerged axle-deep in the boglands? Well, I didn’t expect that.

The car had bounced off the road, flew over the ditch, and lurched to a hard stop, deploying the airbag and knocking me senseless. I wrestled with the airbag, stabbing it with my handy dandy utility knife—something every woman should always carry.

“I’ll run ye over to Donegal town, but I can no go to Ardara.” The man scratched his forehead with grease-stained fingers. “There’s a wee fair about today. Ach, but you’d need your wits about ye, lass. ’Tis a sharp crowd.”

“A fair? No. I can’t go to a fair, not like this.” I extended my muck-stained hands. “Look at me. I can’t believe this happened.” I planted my hands on both sides of my face, dragging my fingers down my cheeks and spreading more muck.

“Aye. Aye.” He turned to his flip phone, punching numbers with a fat finger. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m after a mucker going your way.”

“A mucker?” He didn’t answer my question. He chatted into his phone, nodding his head with every pause while I relived my moment of despair.

The open window had offered the only means of escape. I scrambled head-first, fell flat on my face, and kissed a chorus of heather and heath. The peat gurgled its welcome, wrapping me in a wet blanket of earth and sea, wool, and wet dog. Slime oozed between my fingers. Yellow bees buzzed around my head.

The nice man spoke into his phone with a quick Irish lilt. I couldn’t understand a word he said.

“To be sure, to be sure.” He ended his call and then smiled. “It’s sorted, lass. Oisin will come around the bend at any moment. He’d be happy to give you a wee lift. Aye, that he would. That he would.” He nodded.

Shadowed thoughts filled my mind.

Would the water-breathing lung suck me into its depths, inhale the nutrients from my body, leaving my remains pickled for the next millennium? Or could the groaning mass be a portal into the underworld, a threshold between this world and the next?

“Oh-sheen?” My situation slammed me in the face. Somehow, the wrinkles on the tow truck driver’s face lent some credibility to his character. But now my future lay in the hands of a man called Oh-Sheen.

“Aye, Oisin O’Donnell. Talk the hind legs off a donkey, that one. Those were likely his sheep after running ye from the road. Ach, nothing to be scundered about, lass. ’Twas an odd wind this morning likely unsettled the wee beasts.” He lifted his nose, taking stock of the blowing currents.

“An odd wind? Okay. How will I know this Oisin fellow?” Hugging my backpack to my chest, I watched the man, my very only best friend in all of Ireland, climb into the cab of his tow truck.

The bog had determined my fate and spat me out. Knee-deep in the resinous heathland, I plucked one platform sneaker after another from the muck, launched myself forward, clung to the slippery bank, and discussed the rest of my life with the bees.

My thoughts scattered with the goddamn sheep.

“He’ll be driving a tractor hauling a clatter of turf. You can’t miss him. Now you stay put, lass. And he’ll likely find you.” He leaned out the window, then pulled away, leaving me in the middle of the road, wondering what in the world ‘turf’ could be.

The sheep, every single one of them, grazed away, oblivious to my predicament.

“Okay,” I said into the cloud of exhaust, peering after my broken rental vehicle. I wondered how long I should wait. By my calculations, Ardara was another hour away by car. The wind intensified, whistling over each blade of grass. I planted my hand on my head, saving my ball cap just in time.

I looked in every direction, searching the glacial landscape for any sign of life. White cotton balls danced on long stems. Mats of heather blanketed the rolling slopes. Who’d have thought a watercourse of muck would flow beneath those vibrant banks? I swallowed hard, appreciating that dangerous beauty for the first time.

I walked back and forth, pacing from one side of the road to the other. No tractor. No trailer. No Oisin. I dropped my backpack onto the pavement.

The clouds shifted, blocking the midday sun. The sheep lost interest and wandered far and away, one by one. Two magpies jumped onto the road—one for sorrow, two for joy. I repeated the familiar nursery rhyme in my head. The curious birds pecked the earth, swiveling their pretty heads in every direction.

A fast-moving vehicle loomed larger by the second. Hope flirted with my heart when the engine screeched, protesting the driver’s heavy foot. I glanced toward the gurgling bog, unable to commit to another mud bath.

Tires whirred, grinding the pavement. The car’s rear end swerved sideways, and the driver emerged from the sporty car.

My mouth dried. My heart fluttered. I looked up and up again at the long drink of water. Formed from the crags of Iron Age rock, the man embodied the essence of an ancient Celt.

“Would ye be the wee lass in distress?” His voice painted images of misty glens and shadowed lakes, cloud-capped mountains, and rolling green hills—Ireland, the Emerald Isle, a land of a thousand hellos, or something like that.

Dear God, I hoped that wasn’t true. I had banked on some anonymity here—a land where no one knew who I was or what I was––the strange girl who saw things others didn’t. I have a gift. I call it a curse.

“Are you Oisin?” I realized he wasn’t driving a tractor or hauling a load of turf. His attire suggested someone else. Tan cargo pants, snugged tight over thick hips, complemented the khaki-colored combat boots. My gaze followed each button of his matching button-down shirt. Hard muscle shaped the canvas fabric and kept it wrinkle-free. He exuded a rugged charm belonging to the wilderness or a desert storm. He seemed a man not to be underestimated.

“No. I’m Colm. Colm O’Donnell. Oisin’s my brother. It sounds like ye got into a bit of trouble.” He lifted his eyebrows, his blue eyes catching me in the riptide of a turquoise sea.

“I did. Yes. Well, thanks. You, Colm O’Donnell, are a lifesaver.” I lifted my shoulders and preened like a delicate little dandelion.

“You’re a bit wet.” Pink waves flooded his face––the moment etched itself forever into my mind until my realization of my situation crashed down on me again. I could look. I couldn’t touch.

“I lost control of the car. Crashed into the bog.” I plucked a loose twig from my sleeve, scrunching my nose at the rising stench.

“Aye, are ye all right then?” He towered over me, ravishing me with more than his scent.

“I’m fine.” I gazed into those eyes. Oh yeah, that man could easily rob me of my soul.

“I’m sorry, luv, but have we met before?” He blinked once, then twice, his head tilted perfectly so. Copper pennies fell from the sky, framing his long face, full lips, and square jaw.

“No. You don’t know me.” My mouth dried, and a vibration settled deep in my soul. I wondered whether he had been there forever.

“Aren’t you the girl on the telly? You are, you’re Calla Sweet.” His knowing gaze set me back on my heels.

“Excuse me? How did you know?” My mouth dropped open, my gaze zeroing in on the big Irish lad standing in the middle of the clear blue sky.

“Look, it is you.” He fact-checked his phone’s browser and then offered his screen—my face smiled back.

“Well, yes.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. How long could I play that charade? I was not that girl, not anymore. l had loved my job. Frontline anchor on a major television network, in line for advancement, my future golden. But then, after a few too many pops at the last office party––kaboom. Cat out of the bag, secrets revealed. It was bad enough when they believed my affliction was a simple case of Tourette’s. Breathe, Calla. Let. It. Go. It’s a new day. It’s a new life. That’s a song, isn’t it?

“Are ye sure you’re all right, luv?” He peered at me, his gaze inviting conversation.

“Oh yeah, just great. How about you?” I bobbed my head up and down, forcing a smile.

“My day just got immeasurably better.” He extended his hand, a long, smooth hand with neat fingernails trimmed into perfect ovals.

I stared at his boots, noting the intricate ladder lacing finished with a neat bow. Not a speck of mud anywhere.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t do that anymore.” There’s no way I’d shake his hand––not now, not ever, uh-uh, no way. I bit down on the inside of my mouth, taking one giant step backward.

“You don’t do what?” He seemed oblivious to my discomfort, ushering me toward the passenger seat with a sweep of his big hand.

I avoided answering his question.

“Are you sure about this? Do you have a towel or something?” I gestured toward my disastrous state: my bog-soaked sneakers, my denim street coat, and the dripping brown stench in them.

“Not to worry. It’s a rental.” He smiled through those shining baby blues and climbed in behind the wheel of the compact car.

“A rental?” I slithered into the bucket seat, setting my backpack on the floor. I inhaled his scent––all sunshine, lollipops, and hot chocolate swirling in minty froth.

That life-changing moment, when disaster struck, floated through my mind.

“We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. You showed such promise, dear. We are sorry things didn’t work out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Budget cuts, dear. Your position has been terminated.”

I couldn’t sugar-coat that, no matter how hard I had tried. I chewed my lower lip, quelling the heat gathering beneath my eyelids. I would not cry. It was only a job—it was all I had.

I left my career behind and trudged out the door. A cardboard box packed with my laptop, my coffee mug, and the photo of my adopted family—the chances of finding another position in the broadcasting industry were slim to none. People talked. They didn’t whisper. They shouted it for the world to hear. Snide comments between friends––not friends, not anymore. And word traveled fast, Calla Sweet, the crazy girl. She’s trouble. She’s troubled. That’s what they thought. And I take all the blame. I could not deny it. I said things, blurting out the obscenest prophecies at the most inopportune times. At first, people found it funny, but then it morphed into something ugly. I made them afraid. That’s what I did.

“The sheep scared ye off the road, did they?” His voice danced with my heart while my mind searched for answers I couldn’t find.

I wouldn’t recognize a solution if it smacked me in the nose. Let’s be honest. My life was a fucked-up mess I was running from. Keep your mouth shut, Calla Sweet—my mantra from now on. I’d learned my lesson well, to coin the phrase.

“You could say. This is a rental, huh? Are you visiting Ireland?” I twined my fingers together, reminding myself again. I could look. I couldn’t touch.

“Aye, for another week. A wee vacation, visiting the family.” The deep tenor of his voice held my attention.

“You live in Canada, I take it?” I presumed from his comments and his immediate recognition of my smiling face. I shifted in my seat, sending whiffs of bog stench throughout the vehicle.

“Nova Scotia for the past seven years.” One lustrous curl fell onto his brow. Copper highlights, auburn lowlights. Just wow.

“Hmm.” I removed my ball cap, unleashing the Kraken. Untamed and wild. Some would say unruly. My hair always had and always would live a life of its own.

“Well, let’s get on then. Where are you staying?” He gunned the motor, his eyes shimmering.

Who has eyes so blue? I shook off the enchantment. The sooner I arrived at my destination, the better.

“The Black Horse Pub. Do you know it?” My destination rolled off my tongue. Since when had I become one of those friendly people?

“Aye.” He rested his left hand on the stick shift—no jewelry. “My family lives close by. My brother owns the bakery in Ardara. You’ll have to try the sticky buns. Tell him I sent you.” He dropped the gearshift into overdrive, rocketing the little car to the moon.

“Your family?” My stomach fluttered and then groaned. When had I last eaten? When was the last time I sat that close to a man?

He smelled so good. Clean laundry and spearmint. Every time he smiled, his teeth sparkled. The insanity of my situation dawned on me. Twenty-nine years old and still a virgin. How pathetic.

“A big Irish family. Seven boys, Hugh Jr. and Tadgh are identical twins, and the rest are Irish twins. All of us were born within five years of each other.” The crooked grin on his face told a happy tale.

“Must have been wild.” I gathered my hair behind my head, twisting the black mass over one shoulder. “Having such a big family? Especially on the holidays.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and opened the passenger window, inviting the swirling wind.

“Aye. I don’t often get back.” His rough tone caught me off guard. His eyes changed from soft blue to icy glaciers, signaling the end of the conversation.

In an instant, I realized how unapproachable he had become. There was something dark and almost terrifying in the set of his jaw. I shifted to the edge of my seat, distancing myself from him. What kind of fool would get into a car with a stranger?

“Do you have a family of your own?” I dug deeper despite the shiver running down my spine.

“No, lass. Love has never found me.” The dark force lifted, and light returned to his eyes, the demon releasing him from its grip. “Have ye been to my wee country before?” His facial muscles relaxed, and he smiled, oblivious to my horror.

“No, I’m holding the V-card on that one.” I looked out the window at waves upon waves of wildflowers, at undulating hills and rocky outcrops, the wind buffeting my face. My stomach flipped sideways, and a familiar warmth surrounded me, raising my heartbeat into a pounding echo only I could hear.

The sun moved, and the world dimmed. The haar crept over the fields, the sea fog coming for me alone. My mind had left my body, the connection to the other side absolute, opaque, and somewhat obscured. A crow, all-seeing and all-knowing, flew through the half-light over mountain and sea, following its path. I had closed my eyes and focused on the one part remaining the same—my pounding heart.

My therapist called it disassociation, a disconnect between my mind and the world around me, a needed escape from reality. Nope, not what that was—that was a full-on, out-of-body experience, and the most profound sense of foreboding came with it. I had learned not to fight the sensations. Clenching my hands into fists didn’t help. The scourge swallowed me every time.

The fog lifted, leaving behind dew-laden blades of grass dusted with diamond jewels. I pinned my lips together, breathed through my nose, and let the tide wash away. That was the way of it—waking up to a brand-new day with a sad, sad secret. Those otherworldly sensations had been mine forever. What they meant or why they happened remained a mystery.

He hummed a melodic tune, unaware of my absence. Whatever ghosts he lived with were his alone. I had my problems to deal with. I glanced at his watch—thirty minutes left of the joy ride to paradise. I calmed my racing heart and reminded myself to be friendly. What could it hurt?

“What do you do for yourself, Colm? Tinker? Tailor? Soldier? Spy? Sheep farmer?” I gave him the biggest smile in the whole fucking world.

“I have a tree farm in Nova Scotia.” Shadows flickered in those baby blues.

Something didn’t sit right. The way he dressed, for one. I pressed for more.

“You don’t look like a tree farmer.” I raised my eyebrows, staring him down. His smirk raised another red flag, one of many I had ignored on this journey. “What kind of tree farmer wears combat boots?”

“I was once with the Sciathán Fianóglach an Airm .” He spoke the Irish language with a smooth lilt. His charming demeanor would captivate any other woman. “It means the Army Ranger Wing, a special unit within the Irish Army.” He veered right, missing a pothole in the road.

“You said ‘once.’ Why did you leave?” I regretted my question. Expressing interest could only lead to complications I was unprepared for.

“I found myself at odds. It was better to make a change.” He tilted his head, his voice so soft I craned to hear. “And now, I own a wee farm in Nova Scotia.”

“You’re serious? You farm trees?” A nurturing horticulturist? A spear-throwing warrior or an axe-wielding combatant, given his Viking size frame.

“Aye.” He refused to meet my gaze, but the smile on his lips confirmed my suspicions.

“Are you a dangerous man, Colm O’Donnell?” I studied him, looking for a reaction. He gave nothing away.

“No, mo grhá .” He cut left at the upcoming roundabout. The welcoming sign showed a castle and read Donegal, Historic Town.

“I hope you don’t mind. I need to make a stop.” Colm braked the car and pulled off the road into an automotive parts depot. Behind a high chain-link fence, the metal roof of an industrial building showed.

“I don’t mind.” I settled deeper into the seat.

He climbed from the car, his long strides taking him across the parking lot. Moments later, he returned, carrying a small cardboard box.

“Would you like a coffee or perhaps tea? The toilet?” He placed his hands on the car door, leaned in, and killed it with a brash smile.

“I’m fine, but thanks.” I couldn’t imagine stripping out of and back into my soiled undergarments. I wanted a hot shower and a bar of soap.

He returned to his seat, filling the vehicle with homey goodness even my bog-soaked stench couldn’t squash.

He shifted gears and followed the slow-moving traffic along the river's winding banks. I hung my head out the window, following the flight of a great egret swooping low over the gentle banks.

“One of many fairs in Ireland.” He nodded toward the intersection, a cobblestone diamond bordered by three merging lanes of traffic, where a gathering was underway.

Medieval tents, with flags billowing atop pointed spires, gave the market fair a pagan atmosphere. The salty sea breeze mingled with the lilt of so many voices.

“Aye, ye best have your wits about ye. ’Tis a sharp crowd.” I grinned, giving my best imitation of my very only best friend in all of Ireland.

“Not bad.” He locked eyes with me, his smile warm and welcoming.

I looked away, my gaze following a clown on stilts juggling red balls high into the air. A woman gestured wildly toward a fishmonger, filleting a large fish with a bloodied knife while his helper scooped blue-shelled mussels into clear plastic bags.

“Donegal Castle up ahead.” His melodic lilt was a constant distraction, capturing more than my gaze.

“A real castle?” My desires wandered with the winding road. I wondered what it would be like to play in the castle dungeons with a man like him. I kept that thought to myself.

“There’s not much left of O’Donnell’s castle—the trip staircase, the ground floor. But the restoration keeps many of the original features.” His rumbling voice caressed my heart.

I stayed there a moment too long.

“A relative, I take it?” We sat in backed-up traffic, the stone walls of Donegal Castle looming ahead.

“It’s complicated, but yes. From way, way back.” His eyes filled with shadows, and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. The car inched forward, passing dimly lit pubs overflowing with patrons. Cafe tables sat opposite lace-covered windows—restaurants served all-day breakfasts, scones, and tea. Shop windows stared back, showcasing everything leprechaun and everything green. A Gypsy woman sat on a three-legged stool on the wide sidewalk, working a little girl’s hair into delicate braids.

“You’re lucky.” I envied him. Grounded in this land, his lineage ran deep from one century to the next. “I have no one,” I murmured under my breath. My ancestry remained a mystery, one I hoped to discover. My adoptive parents’ faces flashed before my eyes. I missed them. They were all I had.

“Are ye hungry? Would you like to stop?” The hearty aroma of braised stew and the comfort of crispy beer-battered fish and chips floated through the open window.

“Maybe a rain check, huh?” I plucked the stretchy spandex, showing off the brown stain climbing the length of my leggings. Microbes of E. coli crawled over my skin. I gazed at the muck beneath my fingernails.

“You’re traveling alone, mo grhá ? No partner? No husband?” His glance expressed more than a passing interest.

I hesitated, unwilling to divulge my current status. If he looked, my secrets were there for all to see, but why would he bother?

“So, what do you do for fun, Colm? When you’re not busy chopping down trees?” I chuckled under my breath.

“There’s more to tree farming than that.” The slight muscle tick in his jaw told me all I needed to know.

“Do you go to the pub? The gym. The squash courts? Do they play squash in Nova Scotia, Colm?” He had no intention of sharing the truth with me. And why would I care? I couldn’t be with him, even if I wanted to.

“Have you heard of Hurling? Ireland’s national sport?” He pressed the brake pedal, nosing into traffic—backed up in all directions.

“Oh my, God. Look at that.” My breath hitched.

Plumed in ostrich feathers and draped in purple, two jet-black Friesians pulled a funeral hearse. The two powerfully muscled horses drew the death carriage along the cobblestoned street, carrying a flag-covered coffin on its last journey. The horses took my breath away, and the driver gave me pause—attired in black livery, his expression sober beneath his black top hat. The spoked wheels turned, marking the passage of time—for all of us.

I stared through the glass windows at the faces shrouded in sorrow. One carriage after another, followed by those walking. They sang hymns and recited prayers.

A woman turned away, hiding her child’s face from the funeral procession. Shopkeepers closed their doors and pulled down the shades.

My heart tightened, and my mouth dried as I comprehended the sight before me.

“Welcome to Ireland. We celebrate life, death, and everything in between.” Colm inched the vehicle forward, keeping a sympathetic distance.

Keening cries chased the stately cortege. I looked overhead, discerning nothing. That soughing breath belonged to me.

“Calla?” Colm threw me a sidelong glance.

“I’m fine,” I murmured. I closed my eyes, fighting the impending fog and the encompassing warmth threatening my sanity.

“You seemed far away. Is everything all right?” His voice lingered, filling the gaps in my mind with rough edges.

“Hurling, huh? Is that like cricket?” My voice caught in my throat. I focused my thoughts and drilled down on one thing only—shutting down the murmuring voice.

“Similar, but a faster game.” He turned north at the castle keep, leaving Donegal town behind. The road tunneled through hedges of glorious blooms, lacy caps of purple, mop heads of pink. We passed white cottages roofed in thatch, each with tidy front yards.

“Do you play?” I knew a thing or two about the game. My favorite movie in all the world— The Grand Seduction . Is that what this was?

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