Gossamer Axe Read Online Free
brave the taunts of this Sidh bard. “If Chairiste is dead, then it is in the Summerland that I will find her, and the Goddess Herself will bring our hands together that we may be reborn, and meet, and remember, and love again. But you, Orfide, will fade, and it is a misty hand you will lift to your harp one day, and your bloodless voice will be unheard—”
“Enough.” Lamcrann takes Siudb’s arm, leads her away toward the open doors of the palace. Cumad toys fitfully with the lacy hem of her sleeve. Orfide watches for a moment, then bends over and retrieves his tuning key as Siudb breaks away from the king and runs off into the twilight meadows that surround the palace.
When Orfide looks up again, Cumad is still there. She meets his eyes, and her lips work soundlessly for a moment before she turns and follows after the king.
Christa was dreaming of Ireland.
Curled up in her bed under a light sheet, the windows open to the cool night air and the distant sound of traffic on Colorado Boulevard, the harper dreamed of her girlhood in Corca Duibne. Once again she wanders barefoot and barelegged across the wide green fields, climbs the embankment about her father’s steading, peers through the hedge of crabapple and elder. She leans her back up against an old rowan tree and stares off at the sea, wondering if what the old storyteller said the night before is true: that the Summerland lies a league out and a foot above a tall man’s head.
And with the illogic of dreams, she knows at the same time that she is dreaming, that she is both Christa Cruitaire, the harp teacher of Denver, and Chairiste Ní Cummen, by this dream a little girl again, who sits on this earthen bank and wonders about the Summerland.
And she knows also that this is not Ireland. Ireland is the creation of another people, of another language. This is Eriu: land of the Goddess, land of the Gaeidil. There is still a king at Cashel, and Christianity is but a new arrival come to contest the rule of the Gods.
Christa’s hands clutched at the sheet, and for a moment she thought she saw her bedroom, the glow from the LED display of her clock radio turning everything into pale-blue abstractions, light from the almost-full moon patterning the wall with horizontal shadows from the blinds. But she wanted to dream. It was Midsummer, and she wanted to remember.
And she did. The rowan tree comes back, and the hedge, and the steading. The piquant smell of a wood-and-peat fire drifts through the clear air.
She is older now, no longer a little girl. Harpstrings have been often under her fingers these last years, and men and women come from distant steadings to hear her play. The sky is blue, the sea gray; and now she sees Siudb crossing the pastureland, running, her dark hair streaming out behind her and her tunic flapping about her thighs.
“Chairiste!” she calls. “Come and see! Father and Donal are out to catch the brown bull in the north field, and he is not coming, and father is so angry he looks like Cu Chulainn getting ready to fight the men of Connaught!”
But Chairiste, hurt and angry after yet another argument with her mother, does not reply. She waves to her beloved Siudb and motions for her to come up on the bank.
Arms about one another, the two young women look out at the sea. The harper of Denver wept in her sleep at the touch of her friend’s hand and the feel of Siudb’s brown hair mixing with the copper and red of her own. Siudb had been gone for a long time. Dreams were all Christa Cruitaire had left of her.
“Mother is talking about marriage,” says Chairiste.
“Is she leaving your father then? I cannot say but that it would be a good idea, with himself holding to the old ways and your mother taking up the new.”
“No, she is not leaving father. She wants me to marry.”
Siudb looks shocked and hurt at the same time. Her hand tightens possessively on Chairiste’s shoulder. “Is that not your choice? Her people have the ear of
“Enough.” Lamcrann takes Siudb’s arm, leads her away toward the open doors of the palace. Cumad toys fitfully with the lacy hem of her sleeve. Orfide watches for a moment, then bends over and retrieves his tuning key as Siudb breaks away from the king and runs off into the twilight meadows that surround the palace.
When Orfide looks up again, Cumad is still there. She meets his eyes, and her lips work soundlessly for a moment before she turns and follows after the king.
Christa was dreaming of Ireland.
Curled up in her bed under a light sheet, the windows open to the cool night air and the distant sound of traffic on Colorado Boulevard, the harper dreamed of her girlhood in Corca Duibne. Once again she wanders barefoot and barelegged across the wide green fields, climbs the embankment about her father’s steading, peers through the hedge of crabapple and elder. She leans her back up against an old rowan tree and stares off at the sea, wondering if what the old storyteller said the night before is true: that the Summerland lies a league out and a foot above a tall man’s head.
And with the illogic of dreams, she knows at the same time that she is dreaming, that she is both Christa Cruitaire, the harp teacher of Denver, and Chairiste Ní Cummen, by this dream a little girl again, who sits on this earthen bank and wonders about the Summerland.
And she knows also that this is not Ireland. Ireland is the creation of another people, of another language. This is Eriu: land of the Goddess, land of the Gaeidil. There is still a king at Cashel, and Christianity is but a new arrival come to contest the rule of the Gods.
Christa’s hands clutched at the sheet, and for a moment she thought she saw her bedroom, the glow from the LED display of her clock radio turning everything into pale-blue abstractions, light from the almost-full moon patterning the wall with horizontal shadows from the blinds. But she wanted to dream. It was Midsummer, and she wanted to remember.
And she did. The rowan tree comes back, and the hedge, and the steading. The piquant smell of a wood-and-peat fire drifts through the clear air.
She is older now, no longer a little girl. Harpstrings have been often under her fingers these last years, and men and women come from distant steadings to hear her play. The sky is blue, the sea gray; and now she sees Siudb crossing the pastureland, running, her dark hair streaming out behind her and her tunic flapping about her thighs.
“Chairiste!” she calls. “Come and see! Father and Donal are out to catch the brown bull in the north field, and he is not coming, and father is so angry he looks like Cu Chulainn getting ready to fight the men of Connaught!”
But Chairiste, hurt and angry after yet another argument with her mother, does not reply. She waves to her beloved Siudb and motions for her to come up on the bank.
Arms about one another, the two young women look out at the sea. The harper of Denver wept in her sleep at the touch of her friend’s hand and the feel of Siudb’s brown hair mixing with the copper and red of her own. Siudb had been gone for a long time. Dreams were all Christa Cruitaire had left of her.
“Mother is talking about marriage,” says Chairiste.
“Is she leaving your father then? I cannot say but that it would be a good idea, with himself holding to the old ways and your mother taking up the new.”
“No, she is not leaving father. She wants me to marry.”
Siudb looks shocked and hurt at the same time. Her hand tightens possessively on Chairiste’s shoulder. “Is that not your choice? Her people have the ear of
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