[femmeInterrupted]

Quinlan slipped out through the opening of the stone gate and skipped past the confines of the stronghold and the construction behind it. Behind her, the Mourne Mountains stood in silent witness to the industry and steadfast pursuits of the people inhabiting the land. The Castle rose, an imposing grey monstrosity, built from the stone and mortar of the land on which it stood. For all her young life, Quinlan had witnessed the efforts of men, laboriously committed to erecting the structure. The Normans had designed the castle, her Grandmother had told her.

Her older sister Phelan had been hand fasted with the Invader, who having succumbed to her beauty had asked for her hand in marriage. Outside the walls of the keep, and farther away from the Northlands, the was ill whispered talk of the keep, it was said that an enchantment was placed upon the marauders and that Aileach Brugh was safe and prospering while the rest of Erie suffered under the sword and might of the foreign aggressors.

Quinlan made her way directly to the sea’s edge. She stared out to the grey horizon, the sky and clouds blending in tempestuous harmony with the living sea. The temptation to bare her feet and legs to the swirling water was strong, but inside her mind, Móraí’s voice cautioned against it. When the water was cold the Grindylow’s were present, and any chance to grab a person (especially a child her Móraí was fond of reminding her) and drag them down into the deep was taken. It was not the existence of these creatures that frightened Quinlan, but rather the responsibility of knowing that these creatures existed and were in particular, drawn to the waters near their home. Móraí had told her the accounts, over and over, about how the creatures of the deep were drawn to the Stone and the descendants of Ailech Bru. There were many creatures drawn to the stone and thusly the bloodlines that spanned generations, from Mother to daughter for thousands of years, creatures that came through air and mist; creatures that lived in the dark and shadows of forests and the rocky crag’s of the land.

Móraí had told her the stories of their own home. An ancient site, as old as time, the oldest keep in Eire had stood and survived through countless insurgences and carried a gruesome history of battles and blood. Sons and Fathers giving way to new Sons and Fathers while the daughters of the Ailech Bru endured and passed on the lineage and legacy. Oldest and youngest through the ages, through the keeping and sharing of stories, does knowledge survive.

Quinlan raised her gaze from the far slate horizons skyward, trained onto the large black bird that circled in flight above her. As always the bird made a noisy show of recognition and circled in ever closing spirals until it landed only a few feet away from Quinlan. Its sharp intelligent eyes peered intently at Quinlan, taking a quick inventory of the girl. Quinlan returned the assessment. Noting the bird’s impossibly shiny black feathers, and bright emerald eyes, she reached inside her cloak for the small bag tied to her bliaut girone and withdrew a few choice morsels of fatty pork for her. The Raven cawed in perhaps anticipation, perhaps impatience and hopped closer, its head cocked with a keen interest.

“Where is Abbey’s silver bangle?” She asked the bird. The Raven, like most other creatures at Ailech Bru did not like Quinlan’s elder sister. She was petty and unpleasant and impatient with those around her. Being 2nd eldest, and therefore free of the matrilineal obligations of the family, Abbey instead spent her time creating toil and angst for those around her. Móraí hastened caution of her older sister, as she was weak willed and in Móraí's accounting, there was no worse an attribute, save for feeble minded.

“You must return it! She’s raising a ruckus, and you know she’ll eventually turn to blaming me! Return it, Raven, and all is well between us”. She passed the Raven the fatty morsels from her small delicate fingertips and the Raven carefully picked the meat from her, swallowing it in one fell gulp. Quinlan sat down comfortably on a large boulder and continued to feed the Raven with slow, practiced measures.

The Raven, witness and confessional to the girls’ childhood and dreams, listened intently as Quinlan spoke, re-sharing the tales of ancient times gone by.
When one of her Grandmother’s serving maids came down the small ragged path towards the shore, the Raven called out a warning and immediately flew up to a high vantage.
Unwilling to be called back to the chore of being near her sister, Quinlan stood and ran westward along the shoreline, towards the Stone, towards unflinching destiny.

Quinlan ran across the slick stones that littered the uneasy shoreline with a lithe grace that defied the slippery roundness of the washed stones, avoiding the cold water and greedy beckoning waves, respectful of what lived in these waters both seen and unseen. Above her, the Raven cawed in pre-cognition of the girl’s destination.

The ancient burial site contained the bones and remains of her ancestors and the ancestors that begat them for a lineage that even Móraí knew not the beginning of. The unfortunate location on a small peninsula of land jutting out into the grey turbulent sea ensured that the site was constantly accosted by bitterly cold salted winds regardless of season. The Raven flew threw, flapping large glistening black wings, before settling down to preen the white salt from its feathers.

The staircase spiraled downward, carved from stone, and constructed in an endless series of archways and porticos. The moss-covered stone circled its descendent past where any natural light could penetrate the dark, coiling its serpentine way into the heart of the world. How long the steep, deep passage had been there was beyond any memory, as was the last time anyone known had descended down them, or returned. Mystery and myth surrounded the spiral stone passage as heavily as the mist that encircled the round opening.

The air sat sodden and heavy, hovering over the corkscrewing stone staircase and bringing with it the dank scents of wet stone and earth, and something odious, an undercurrent that wafted unpleasantly alongside the earth smells.

Quinlan stood at the top step, a large flat stone elaborately carved with spirals and symbols dulled through the ages. With the tip of a leather-shod foot, she traced the outline of one of these twisting shapes absently, while staring down into the unblinking black eye of the spiral.

There had been a good deal of tensions around the castle and keep of lately. Quinlan, attuned with a vast natural empathy she sensed the growing shift with an increasing apprehension. She wished her Móraí back from her travels with some fear and impatience. Worse still, she understood instinctively that the mounting anxiety had to do with Quinlan herself and the whispered “Changeling” that had followed her most of her life.

Late fall was an ominous time, past the harvest and lingering on the dormant side of the sun, many cast a wary eye to the low dreary ceiling of sky, dreading the coming threatening horizons. The nights grew long, and in the perpetual twilight and gloom the cold came and settled. It was to this silver dusk that Quinlan looked up, to see her Raven soaring back towards her. It landed on the cistern like wall, and walked bow legged over to her, placing the offending bangle on the ledge where she stood.

She held it over the deep well of stairs, the silver of the bangle warring for definition in the low grey light of dusk. The Raven watched, it’s head cocked, black eyes keen on both the girl and the prize. Quinlan stared at the bangle intently, and then with a sure deft flick of her wrist, sent it hurtling downward into the black.