Oceans of Time: The Faery Chronicles

© 2007 Kisma K. Stepanich-Reidling. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/10/2007

ISBN: 1-4208-3583-1

ISBN: 978-1-4670-9588-4(ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007909300

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Cover photo & design by Laura Walthers.

Contents

THE OLD ANNALS SAY…

OCEANS OF TIME

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

A LONG TIME AGO

… The World of Humans …

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

FAERY TIME

…Present into Past…

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

FAERY TIME

…In the Land of Faery…

CHAPTER 22

HUMAN TIME

…In the Ancient Past…

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

FAERY TIME

…In the Ancient Past…

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

THE TWO WORLDS INTERTWINE

…In the Ancient Past…

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

BETWIXT AND BETWEEN

…In the Ancient Past…

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

The Faery Chronicler’s Report

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

THE BATTLE

…Humans & Demons Collide…

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

THE BETWIXT

AND

BETWEEN

… now …

CHAPTER 49

ALL WORLDS

… now …

CHAPTER 50

ANOTHER TALE

CHILDREN OF THE STARS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

UNDER THE NAME Kisma K. Stepanich-Reidling

The Last Matriarch

The Faery Chronicles

Faery With Teeth

Oceans of Time

UNDER THE NAME Kisma K. Stepanich

An Act of Woman Power

The Gaia Tradition: Celebrating the Seasons of Mother Earth

Sister Moon Lodge: The Power and Mystery of Menstruation

Faery Wicca, Book One

Faery Wicca, Book Two

Faery Wicca Tarot

UNDER THE NAME Kisma Reidling

The Druid Clan of Dana

The Beauty of Morrigu

The Love of Brigid

The Art of Meditation, Book One

The Art of Meditation, Book Two

Faery Faith Traditional Wisdom, Codex 1~ Irish Cosmology & Faery Glamoury

Faery Initiations, Stone, Sword, Spear & Cauldron

…For Jack & Tristan…

THE OLD ANNALS SAY…

When the world was young and magic and mystery still abounded; when the lands themselves were not fully shaped; when the creatures of imagination walked the fields and monsters ruled the depths of the new oceans, then the gods walked this world and communed with the sons and daughters of man. And some came across the seas in their great glittering ships that were of metal and precious stones. These were the Tuatha De Danann, the People of the Goddess, and gods themselves in their own right, and their power and majesty held sway over the small emerald isle for generations.

The Tuatha defeated many enemies and scoured the land of evil, but in the end they fell to the slayer of all gods: time. And slowly the power of the Tuatha was eroded away. New gods rose and came to prominence on the island, and foremost amongst these was the One God, the Christ. The people gradually forgot the gods of their forebears, and the People of the Goddess became as other lost gods: more than mortal, but less than divine.

So they retreated to the Secret Places: the hidden valleys, the lands beneath the waves, the Magical Isles and the Worlds Below. Their numbers dwindled, but they survived in myth and legend as the Shining Ones, the Sidhe, the gentry, and time and ignorance confused them with their servants, the Dark Folk, and they became collectively known as the Faery Host.

But they lived on.

And some remained in the Worlds Below, which could only be entered through the Faery Forts….

… but mortals often meddle where

they do not belong.

This truth is applicable to any age:

Fourteenth century or Twenty-first century,

it makes no difference.

Human nature is predictable…

~Sinend, Faery Chronicler

OCEANS OF TIME

CHAPTER 1

She stood before him, a phantom. The flimsy gown that shrouded her emaciated figure fluttered in the wind. She looked to be the typical ghost reputed to haunt hillsides, derelict castles, and wayward inns long abandoned to the passage of time and the encroachment of meddling weeds.

The corners of her mouth were rounded, giving support to the eerie sound emanating from the hollow chamber within her chest. She was not human, and so it was thought by human standards that no heart beat within that empty chest, no blood coursed through such veins, no brain ticked off thoughts, and, like wise, no thoughts could find birth with the vibration of riddled words and lays, although her mention was found often enough in the legends surrounding the district.

"Tradition says the banshee

Keened a sad and lonely wail

With grief no human bosom

Had ever known

As she paced those ancient ramparts

Towering o’er the sunny vale

When they laid him in silent Teampall Nua."

On this day she keened for joy not grief…he was dead! Though, to the human animal she was deemed dead herself. The Faery were more alive than any would have suspected, or perhaps those favored mortals whom the Faery had long ago touched, or still called, knew Them to be fully alive even though such life could never be proven. Empty facts, just hearsay, no court of law, no judge would ever find favor in that! No supportive ruling would ever become verdict. The Faery were simply condemned to the realm of fantasy, a fallacy uttered through the slurred words of the drunkard or the rattling of the lamebrain caught on the heath after twilight when the world slipped into the dark cloak of the midnight hour.

Nonetheless, she—a Fay—stood over the prostrate form of Sean McDowell now, gazing down at the shell, watching and waiting for the dark soul to lift up out of it and stand before her. She had waited a long time for this moment. Oh how she had waited and she laughed herself, out loud and ruthless, not caring who might hear.

A group of mortals now prepared to enter the Laois Stone, the giant stone circle, which was the real cause for her attendance as well as for the gathering of the Hosts. However, the struggle between the Sidhe, the Hosts of Faery, and the dead sorcerer had existed long before the woman and her group had come to the Lough.

True, the mortal woman, Vivian McFarlain, was instrumental, but that was nonessential to the Sidhe. After all, mortals were often used in such matters…the Sidhe could manipulate a mortal only so far before another human was required to "finish the job," as humans were so found of saying.

Still, Ainé had to admit that she did feel a touch of remorse, after all, the dead man, or rather, the dark soul within the dead man had been her husband at one time and the father of her beloved son.

Ainé shook herself.

Snap out of it, she admonished herself, and wound a strand of long golden hair around her finger. Her gray eyes studied the dead man. Sean McDowell had been a worthy body for him to choose. The man was pushing ninety and had certainly outlasted many of the others. This time, however, she was not going to allow that dark soul to slip into another unknowing mortal.

A muffled cough caused Ainé to turn. A demure smile edged the corner of her lips as she realized who stood behind her.

The mortals are preparing to enter, said Sinend. The sound of her silky voice was soothing to Ainé. I take leave to witness the test.

Of course, Ainé said quietly, and with those words turned back to await the disassociation of soul from body. Listening to the quiet rustle of movement behind her, followed by the sudden coolness of open space, she wondered how long the Chronicler had stood behind her before finally deciding to interrupt.

Ainé glanced over her shoulder in hopes of catching sight of Sinend before she slipped into the ethers, but it was too late, Sinend had already entered the betwixt and between. Her thoughts were pulled back to Vivian McFarlain.

Ainé’s eyes grew soft and unseeing, focusing in another time and space, a day of sunshine and warm summer breezes that caressed Knockainey, her sacred site. Upon the crescent of the hill the image of Vivian stood with arms raised to the heavens. She stood before a gray granite marker.

Ainé, bless me.

Who is this mortal that suddenly haunts me?

Ainé had no memory of Vivian before then.

Bless me, Ainé, Vivian whispered again.

Oh how that simple request affected Ainé. She blinked, focusing back on the human time in which she then stood and turned back to Sean McDowell’s body. Soon the dark soul would be released and when it did, she planned to devour it and put an end to Geároid Iarla’s dark powers. For it was he, the son of the King of the Norman Faery, the Second Earl of Desmond, whose evil sorcery had taken-over countless mortal bodies and held sway over the parish of Lough Gur since 1359.

The time of his reign must be put to an end, Ainé mumbled to herself as she stepped to the side of the Rannach Croim Dubh, the huge orthostat of the great stone circle, to view the mortals standing inside it’s circumference.

Yes, he must be stopped now!

CHAPTER 2

A slithering, sucking sound gripped Ainé. She whirled around and came face to face with three ugly creatures. Red beady eyes flared at her. The stench of rotting decay clogged the air. Ainé automatically covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. Slobber dripped from the sharp fangs protruding from their gaping mouths. Ainé cringed.

The creatures shifted forward, hissing and sucking against their fangs as a crackle riffled through the air, followed by the sound of something snapping like twigs broken underfoot. Next came a loud popping sound.

For a moment Ainé felt dizzy. A thick fog gathered around her. She swatted the air as if it were smoke that could easily be dispersed and shrieked as her hand hit something solid. The ugly pockmarked face of the largest creature pressed before her. The foulness of it made her shudder.

Behind it, two other creatures bent over, poking at the dead body with their long, sharp claws. One creature looked up. A hideous grin broke its features as it issued a gurgling laugh. They moved to either side of the leader, forming a crescent barrier around Ainé.

She automatically stepped back, feeling the firm and unyielding granite of the Rannach Croim Dubh against her back. The three repulsive creatures shifted uneasily as the air filled with blue sparks and a shimmering image extracted itself from the prostrate body.

He was as Ainé remembered him. A round compact head, shoulder length blonde hair, a square face with a fine nose, deep blue falcon-like eyes, and good lips, not too thin or full. He was of pale complexion and a sturdy build. He was the perfect statue of a Norman warrior, with muscular arms extending from broad shoulders, an undulating chest, defined stomach muscles, and thin hips supported by solid, firm legs.

Geároid Iarla, the Second Earl of Desmond, stood before her naked, still as stone, eyes frantically blinking the human time into vision. Finally, the dark blue orbs focused on Ainé, and with the slightest tilt of his head, the three creatures stepped back so that her body was displayed. His eyes licked her image, lowering to her feet and rising again to settle on her own eyes. A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

"I would not give me Faery wife for all the dames of the Saxon land;

I would not give me Faery wife for the Queen of France’s hand;

For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or, he paused, lifting an eyebrow, or life," he stressed.

An outlaw–so I’m near her, to love till death me Faery wife.

He paused. ’Tis good to see you, Ainé.

Ainé did not move but remained still as stone herself, an apparition of the otherworld faintly materialized in the human one just as Geároid’s evil spirit was. It gave her pleasure that he was the first to move when he lifted a hand to touch the form of his immaterial face.

She would not give him the satisfaction of even a smile, but watched intently as he continued the recitation of his poem, the one he used to whisper to her as they lay entwined in each other’s arms on the bank of the Camogue River, where the waters stilled and formed into a warm pool once upon a time.

"I knew the law forbade the banns–

I knew me king abhorred her race–

Who never bent before their clans

Must bow before their ladies’ grace.

Take all me forfeited domain,

I cannot wave with kinsmen strife–

Take knightly gear and noble name,

And I will keep me Irish wife."

Ainé pulled her gaze away from the empty image of a mortal she once loved and forced herself to look at the grotesque creatures, rags hanging from their distorted bodies, bare hairy feet more animal-like than human.

Be gone! growled Geároid.

The three bodies jerked and twitched and sank into the ground, disappearing.

When Ainé looked back to Geároid, he was also gone. In the place where he had stood was a rift in the fabric of space. A brilliant light seeped from the bend in time through which Geároid slipped into the other country, though she wasn’t sure he’d gone into Faeryland.

A familiar tinkling sound caused Ainé to look up. Three small nature sprites darted around her head.

Don’t follow him, begged one, its small voice grave with concern.

"He’s of the Slouth," reminded the second one, its tiny elongated face creased with worry.

Ainé, stay here for he’s bent time back, gone back to the beginning, said the third one.

It was this revelation that caused Ainé to step closer to the rift, wondering if she could change things by going back after him?

Don’t be foolish, the three sprites chimed together, their tiny bodies poised mid-air before her like three iridescent hummingbirds preparing to dip their long needle-beaks into the trumpet of a rare flower and sip the sweet ambrosia contained deep within at the base.

Ainé flipped her hair over a shoulder and, gathering the skirt of her long gown in one hand, stepped forward. She bent slightly at the waist to peer through the rift, hoping to catch a glimpse of what might lie beyond.

In unison the three sprites sprang forward. Each grabbed a strand of hair and pulled back.

Ouch. Ainé jerked her head forward, swatting at the sprites.

He’s not who you think he is!

Don’t go—

It’s not what you think it will be—

Not Faeryland—

It’s illusion—

Backwards—

False!

False? Ainé repeated and turned to look in their tiny faces. False you say? Shaking her head, she pointed a long finger at them. Illusion? Not Faeryland?

The sprites moved out of reach and huddled together in a fright. Their gossamer wings batting together sent sprays of silver dust into the air.

"The other country is all and nothing and a realm in which we dwell—Faeryland. It is not for you—nature spirits—to forbid one of the Sidhe from moving betwixt and between space or time!" Each word was a blow to the sprites, an admonishment against their attempt to meddle in Faery doings.

"Fill dul dúlra croí!" Ainé shouted, using the old tongue, and turning about, jumped through the rift.

Ainé!

The tinkling sound of their sorrowful voices followed Ainé into the brilliance.

"Don’t forget to remember to forget to remember to forget to remember," the chant swirled around Ainé, filling her head with delight and confusion, as she lost conscious hold and became light and formless, a feather floating down and sideways, caught in a gust of wind, moving up into the cacophony of crows squawking and dogs barking and cows bellowing and sows snorting and water gurgling and peaceful silence.

A LONG TIME AGO

… The World of Humans …

CHAPTER 3

An enchanting melody was plucked on harp strings. Ainé opened her eyes and smiled at the red haired bocan, dwarf, sitting on the clover-laden grass with his most cherished harp—the one he called Muirnín—cradled in his lap, and watched his fingers lovingly caress each string. His deep-set eyes were closed, accentuating a squat, broad nose in the center of a rugged face. As he hummed, he tucked in his lips giving his face the illusion he had none.

Ainé sighed and looked up into the cloudless blue sky; it stretched wide overhead. A tiny crease furrowed her brow as she fought to catch the daydream she’d just snapped out of. The fleeting image of a beautiful warrior flashed before her eyes, making her smile and sigh again. It had been a good daydream. Her hand crushed the clover and, feeling the stem of a dandelion, she snapped it and lifted the yellow orb so she could see it. Fer Í slipped into song. His soothing alto brought a shudder over Ainé.

"O woman, shapely as the swan,

On your account I shall not die …

The men you’ve slain—a trivial clan

Was less than I.

"I ask me shall I die for these;

For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?

And shall that delicate swan-shape

Bring me eclipse?

"Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,

The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;

And yet I shall not suffer death,

With Ainé over me."

Ainé rolled onto her stomach and threw the dandelion at the dwarf. Fer Í, she admonished him. Fer Í laughed and continued his song.

"Those even brows, that hair like gold,

Those languorous tones, that virgin way;"

At this Ainé rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

"The flowing limbs, the rounded heel

Slight men betray.

"Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,

Thy shining throat and smiling eye,

Thy little palm, thy sides like foam

I cannot die.

"O woman, shapely as the swan,

In a cunning house hard-reared was I;

O bosom white, O well-shaped palm

I shall not die."

In a show of skill, Fer Í ran both hands over the strings before gently laying them flat against them. He grinned at Ainé.

You are so sure of yourself, she began. Fer Í grinned all the more. The audacity of such a scoundrel, taking leave on his own good authority to sing such words in my audience is grounds for immediate flogging!

Ainé sat up and threw a handful of ripped clover in his face. She covered her mouth with her hand and snickered at the sight of the green leaves clinging randomly to his coarse red hair, an eyelash, the tip of his nose, and several dripping down the front of his brown leather vest.

You no good dog! she said when the humor subsided. She watched the dwarf lay his harp aside and begin picking green stuff off his body. This small act caused her to grow quiet.

I’ve had a vision.

Fer Í paused in his chore, glancing up. He kept his eyes lifted to her face, an air of expectation settling over his countenance. He politely folded his hands in his lap.

Perhaps it was a premonition of things to come, she tossed in as an afterthought.

Well, ye are a Fay. His unusually gruff voice startled Ainé as she’d not expected his intrusion.

Hmm, she admitted.

Ye get them all the time me flower. Remember when ye said Midir’s Etain was seen in the ambrosia by yerself?

She waved a hand in the air, shaking her head from side to side.

"No, I’m not talking about that kind of vision, she said, looking doubtful. It’s the past that I’ve seen." She raised an eyebrow and looked up at him.

He scrunched up his face and scratched at his jaw.

Now how can ye have a vision about the past? Wouldn’t that be called ‘a memory’?

Humph.

What? What? He raised both hands into the air. Vision infers future, blossom, not past. So make up yer mind. Did ye have a memory recollection or—

That’s it! She pointed a finger at him. I’ve had a memory recollection.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you my dear bocan!"

Fer Í discolored under the sudden affection and roughly pushed her away. Ainé stood.

"Slán agat mo fear." She left the dwarf staring after her.

CHAPTER 4

Diarmuid MacMurrough, Ard-Righ of Leinster and a known tyrant of the day, was the direct odium of bringing forth the English into Ireland—curse his blasted head. The gruff voice of Michael Quinlain, the local historian of the parish, silenced the sounds of nature around the glen. He plucked at an unruly gray hair at the edge of his right eyebrow, while his sharp blue eyes bit into the small group of bards clustered on the grass before him. Hocking the spittle at the back of his throat, he spat to emphasize the severity of what he was teaching.

The year was 1169 of our Lord. MacMurrough—fearing for his feckin’ life—fled to Britain, beseeching King Henry II to give him aid. Unable to do so at the time, Henry provided MacMurrough—the traitor—with three letters authorizing any of his British subjects who wished to go to Ireland to aid MacMurrough to do so without penalty of harm.

Ollav Quinlain paused for effect; a scowl creased his weathered face. With a nod, he placed his arms behind his back and began to pace. The skirted bottom of his rust brown cotehardie flared out with each about-face, giving a glimpse of the top of his white woolen leg hose.

Several of the younger bards-in-training snickered and fell stoic as the blue-eyed glare suddenly turned on them. The Historian tugged at the tunic, adjusting the thick brown leather strap belted low and snug about his hips. He unconsciously fingered the smooth leather, the most costly item in his wardrobe, which had cost him the sacrifice of a portion of his family estate.

"Richard de Clare, the Norman-Welsh Earl of Pembroke, known as Strongbow, was most interested in the prospect of regaining his lost fortunes in Ireland. But alas, he was then in disfavor with Henry and feared to go without the monarch’s express written permission. Strongbow advised MacMurrough to seek help from his two-half brothers, the knights Robert Fitz Stephen and Maurice Fitz Gerald.

Robert Fitz Stephen, his Uncle Herve de Mont Maurice, Maurice Fitz Gerald, and another Knight, Maurice de Prendergast, along with the first cluster of Norman militia, landed at Bannow Bay in Wexford on the first day of May—a blessed day to be so defiled!

Ollav Quinlain clasped his hands together, turning his eyes heavenward. This brought another bought of uncontrollable snickers. Again, his glare silenced the younger lads, who had grown tired of the lecture and wanted to be off in play.

The first cluster of Norman militia to set foot on Irish soil—I might add! He peered at the group. "Consisted of thirty fully mail-clad knights, sixty horsemen in half-armor on horses in full armor, and about three hundred foot archers.

"MacMurrough returned home and while in wait of the Normans succeeded in raising a body of five hundred of his own subjects. They joined the Normans at Bannow Bay and together marched against the Danish City of Wexford; after two caustic assaults, Wexford capitulated to the—admittedly so, God forgive me—wonderfully skilled and disciplined Norman soldiers.

"MacMurrough, having regained his stronghold, bestowed the city upon Fitz Stephen, nearby lands upon de Prendergast and Mont Maurice, and southern Munster to Fitz Gerald.

Our blessed Éire once again suffered and survived yet another foreign invasion, and thus the Norman Geraldine’s came to us, and the branch of their Irish lineage was birthed.

Ainé slipped away from the henge unseen. She had heard this historical account of the Sean-Ghall from many different ollavs over the past two centuries since the Fitzgeralds had first come to the area.

As she moved away, an unseen entity, she knew that the historian would tell his bardic students how the Geraldines became the Earls of Desmond. He would tell the young faces how the Earls of Desmond built their three castles around Lough Gur and how they had ruled as absolute monarchs over a hundred miles of territory to the present day.

Then Ollav Quinlain would speak of Geároid Iarla, the current Earl, saying what a great poet and gentle sage the young man was. He’d then bestow compliment after compliment on the castle in Gortacloona that Geároid Iarla had built for himself–and finally, the ollav would say,

"Geároid has proclaimed his time for marriage to be at hand. Thus, he is–in the tradition of all the Sean-Ghall, God bless them for that– looking for an Irish cailín to wed." Blah, blah, blah.

What he would not say was, The man is dabbling in the black arts because to admit to such would mean admission to his own failure to convert the current Earl of Desmond to Christianity.

Ainé shook her head in disgust. Humans! They were all so a like and hadn’t she been the good Bansidhe not to go near the man? Her poor friend, Alva, had, but at the time Alva hadn’t announced that she was planning on paying the mortal a visit and so none of the Hosts knew she had disappeared until a great deal of time had passed. All that remained of her dear friend now was a lonely and desolate hill named after her memory.