Irish at Heart

Donegal Castle, Ireland, January 9, 1732

Blaine flung open the door to the library, heedless of the resounding crash of solid oak into wall paneling. Like a baited, wounded panther he stormed into the dimly lit room and slammed to a halt in front of the gray-haired man in the black leather armchair. The flames of the candles on the mahogany side table flickered wildly with his approach, as if heralding the imminent battle.
“Ye’ll no’ force me into this, Da! No’ in this life! I’ll kill that Sasanach whore Elizabeth Stanton, afore I’ll wed her, or bed her!”
The O’Donnell slowly lowered the leather-bound book to his lap and looked up.
Breath quickened in anger, Blaine stared down at the pale gray eyes meeting his from under bushy, furrowed brows--angry, silent, condemning eyes. He hated the thick brogue of his own words, as clear a sign of his fraying control as a fist driven into a wall; hated himself for revealing to his father how the old mans cursed ploy had betrayed him. Yet the O’Donnell said nothing at his outburst, only continued fixing him with those clear, commanding eyes.
Shaking with rage, lips tightening to a bloodless line of disgust, Blaine clenched his fists and took a single step back. It was not a retreat; it was an instinctive distancing from something loathsome, vile, for fear that the taint might defile him too. “Ye might have pressed Kevin into this ungodly alliance, might be coward enough yerself t’ have sought it, but I’ll be havin’ no part o’ it!”
His voice was shaking now. Another moment and it would break. Whirling, Blaine stalked back toward the door but caught himself after only two steps and spun back. He could feel the fury he could not master twisting his features into a devil’s mask, surely no kinder than the grotesque gargoyles carved into the black Killarney marble of the mantelpiece. Yet he faced his father squarely, a mere pace distant, his own stormy gray eyes narrowed to slits as words spilled like lifeblood from his throat.
“Ye started this! Turnin’ on yer own kin afore Grandda’s body was even cold!” He exhaled fury, drew in a short breath. His voice did not break; it grew stronger. “And t’ think that I’ve yer traitorous blood in me veins! God’s wounds, the O’Donnells dead six hundred years surely spun in their graves at yer deeds. They gave kings t’ this land, long afore even the Normans ever set foot on it! And look at ye, Da! Pantin’ in yer efforts t’ please the English dogs, forsakin’ yer own land and God--”
His father surged up out of the chair, moving with the sudden power and agility of a youth. The blow came too quickly, too unexpectedly for Blaine to dodge or block--not that he had ever dared raise a hand against his father. He reeled backwards with the force of it, into the mahogany shelving of the library wall, and tumbled to the polished wood floor. Books spilled out of their racks, rained down around him even as he pushed to his elbows and half turned, hand rising in disbelief to his face, the taste of blood in his mouth.
“I’ve had all I’ll take out of you, lad. For that’s all you are, and you’ll bloody well mind your tongue when speaking to your sire!” The O’Donnell stepped back, gestured angrily around the room. “Next time you think to throw temper tantrums, look around you! Look at Buchanan castle, at the dozens of other estates that once belonged to the Irish! They’re gone! Gone, all of them! And do you know why?”
Blaine shoved to his feet, a rush of blood staining his neck and cheekbones, fury and shame intermingled. “I know they fought back! They--”
“They are dead!” The O’Donnell paused, regaining a measure of control, folding his arms across his chest. “Most of them. Others, exiled. Only the ones that knuckled under, as you’d call it, yet remain. And they’ve become tenants on their own holdings! Donegal, even as it stands now, is among the last castles in all of Munster that’s left in Irish hands.”
“But at what cost!”
“Go, then,” the O’Donnell challenged him harshly. “Go live in poverty; go work your hands to the bone, with too little to eat and no ease in life! Go, live like one of them, little better than slaves, and then tell me of the price! I’ve kept this family alive, and better than alive--I’ve kept us living in relative ease to what’s all around us! I’ve had the means to feed, and clothe our tenants, when they could not do so for themselves, and to give aid to those even on English estates.”
He paused to glare at Blaine. “Think you my pride is so dear to me that I’d let so many suffer of I could help it?”
Blaine stare at his father mutinously, unrepentant. After an instant of silence, the O’Donnell shook his head slowly, scowling. “Go ride out, and look around you. And open your eyes, lad. Look at the babes crying out in hunger, the young women old afore their time. And then tell me you’d see your lady mother working for some English lord, taking out kitchen slops or tending the fields!” His voice rose, harsh and cold like the sleet whipping against the windows. “Tell me you’d see her servant to one, and cleaning his laundry and obliging him in his bed!”
Blaine’s jaw remained clenched, ensuring silence. The O’Donnell stared angrily at him for another second, then suddenly, there was no more rage, no more strength at all. Sinking in the chair, he gestured tiredly to the door with his back facing his son.
“Go. And speak no more to me of rebellion. You’ll be schooled and registered a Protestant, as Kevin was, may he rest in peace, and be legally wed by a minister of the Church of Ireland to an Anglican bride. And if you’ll ‘be having no part of it,’ you’ll no longer be a son of this house. I’ve grown tired of trying to beat the pride out of you. But I’ll see Donegal and all upon it safe if ‘tis the last think I do.”
After a moment of silence, Blaine spun and stalked wordlessly from the library, the sound of his boots on the marble tiles of the hall like thunder echoing outside as he flung his cloak around him and all but ran into the howling storm that raged across the snow-clad cliffs of Donegal.
******
Donegal Castle, Ireland, June 13, 2004

Elizabeth looked around her in fascination. The silent longing she had held dormant for years came loose. Her eyes holding a wonder which hadn’t dimmed in all her 20 years. Her chest tightened to an almost painful point. The reality of it all still hadn’t sunk in since she had arrived in Ireland three days ago.
Ireland, her one true love. She was finally here after all her years of dreaming. And now she was at Donegal Castle and feeling as though she’d waited for this moment all her life. As though this place was her home, had always been her home…
Ridiculous of course.
She tore her blind gaze away from the O’Donnell coat of arms hanging above the fireplace in the main hall and shook her head. She dismissed the odd sensation of familiarity as stemming from a picture she must have seen of Donegal Castle at some time. Her memory was good at playing tricks like this on her. Just then an alien thought shot through her mind.
“The lady peered out her window, her heart heavy. She knew what she had to do. She couldn’t bear that her love wouldn’t return the love she had given so freely. A lone tear trickled down the gently hill of cheek, only to plunge down to the floor. The sound of someone approaching had her spinning around only to meet the eyes of the very man that caused her this pain. Their gazes met and held for longer than was comfortable. The intensity of his gray eyes traveled all the way to her soul, and buffeted her with feelings of dread from the look of caged hostility in his gaze. His lip curled to a sneer. ‘Only a fool would love a whore.’ Those harsh words stung her to the very core of her being. She turned sharply and ran as fast as she could.”
Elizabeth shook her head. Where had that thought come from? She silently asked herself. I need to get my heads out of the clouds. She silently walked on, feeling oddly uncomfortable.
As she turned the corner, she found herself face to face with the handsomest man she had ever seen. It’s a pity he’s only a painting she thought to herself as she stared gapingly at the portrait. She dismissed the odd prickling at the nape of her neck and meandered towards the battlements.
“He stared blankly down at her lifeless body. Guilt washed over him in waves, making him regret the very words he had said to her that evening. He gently placed his hand over her hand. Leaning over her, he whispered brokenly ‘ I’m so sorry lass.’ At that moment, he realized the love he felt for her. The love she would never know.”
Elizabeth shook her head as her eyes misted. Sighing, she wandered over to the edge of the castle and peeked over. Her stomach did a little flip which sent her stumbling backwards. She needed to be as far from the edge as possible. She simply couldn’t stand heights. They made her shake which was exactly what she was doing right now.
“The sharp raps of her heels on the wooden stairs and then on the marbles tiles of the hall echoed crazily around her, matching the frantic pounding of her heart. No one saw her flee down the hall, out into the darkness of the night, where the cold biting rain tore at the flowing fabric of her dress. She hesitated briefly upon the battlements, indecision clearly in her moves. The hesitation was brief however, for she ran to the edge where she silently plead, “Forgive me Father!” and jumped into a sea of inky blackness below”
Elizabeth blinked to stop the flow of the image from intruding in her mind. She really had to get some sleep. She was starting to be delusional. She started to turn back, when she felt her foot lose purchase on the slippery stone. Her cry of shock carried unnoticed upon the wind. She lost her balance and went down. The sound of her skull making connection with the stone was deafening in the still silence. Pain bolted up and throughout her entire body. Then as suddenly as the pain had come, it left, leaving in its wake a bone chilling numbness. The ground tilted and spun, as if it was a black hole waiting to gobble her up. Light slowly receded until there was nothing left but a black void of nothingness.
Then she felt as if she was floating. She opened her eyes and looked down at a scene below her. She saw herself, which didn’t seem as impossible as one would think. Her pale lifeless body looked grotesque enough to make her turn away.
Am I dead? She thought to herself. Panic seized her. Suddenly a sensation of peace overcame her. She glanced over and saw the man she had seen in the portrait. He held his hand out to her and quietly moaned “Lizzie…”. Elizabeth walked readily to him, knowing who he was, Blaine O’Donnell, 10th cheiftan of the O’Donnell clan, and the second half of her soul.