The Power of Three
LORRAINE COPE
‘Mammy the swans are crying, oh no she’s dead!’ cried Orla as she sat up in bed. Orla’s vivid dreams were nothing new but since her grandmother had returned home the dreams were becoming more frequent. Orla’s grandmother said the girl had the gift, yet Mammy worried it was more of a burden and a curse.
‘Now, now my love, you’re dreaming, let’s go see,’ Mammy whispered.
The cool air cut across the field as the morning sun slowly hovered above. Orla ran ahead while her mother followed fixing her bog-coloured shawl tightly to keep out the early autumn chill. Orla, bare foot and bare headed gushed gleefully as she raced down the hill to the water’s edge.
‘Oh Pearl, you’re safe, my darling girl and Sass too. Gran is worried about Dett, Mammy and I can’t see her,’ fretted Orla as her mother approached.
‘Come now, she’ll be fine. Gran will need a hand. You can come back to the lake after you’ve done your chores,’ said Mammy.
The thatched roof cottage was centuries old, its thick, whitewashed walls bore witness to the generations of O’Brien’s who had worked the land through famine and flood. Gran’s only daughter Bridie had inherited the farm after her brothers left Ireland for America. The farm was all Gran had known and, after her recent trip to the hospital in Cork, she was happy to return.
‘Where have you been so early in the day Orla?’ asked Gran.
‘She had another one of those dreams, you’ll have to stop your tale telling and stories.’ Bridie said brusquely to her mother.
Gran looked to Orla; her left eyebrow raised as she slapped her hand on the kitchen table. ‘Oh, be quiet woman, the girl needs to learn and my job as a shanachie is to keep our stories alive.’
‘What’s a shanachie Gran?’ Orla asked as her mother bristled and rolled her eyes.
‘A storyteller, someone who fills young heads like yours with tales of fancy, now get along and feed the brood, your breakfast will be ready soon,’ Bridie replied.
Later that morning Mammy and Orla helped Gran onto the back of the cart, ‘I’ll come and join you after Mass,’ Bridie said, as Orla led the pony down the well-worn path to the lake.
‘Oh, my favourite place in the whole world, come and sit Orla. Your Grandpa first brought me to this spot many years ago.’
Orla smiled, ‘Do you miss him Gran, did you not want to find another fella after he passed?’
‘No one could take his place, dear child and besides this was his farm. Now Orla tell me about your dream, did you say one of the swans died?’
‘Aye Gran, the swan was on the edge of the lake, the other swans were honking, like they were calling her back to the water. A big swan came up behind her, and pushed her in, then he sat on her, and she drowned! The other swans began to cry as he flew around the edge of the lake, getting higher then higher until the water and the sky turned black and then he flew away,’ Orla replied.
Gran edged closer and wrapped her arms around Orla, ‘What happened then?
‘The rest of the swans stood high in the water flapping their wings near the dead swan. Golden tears rolled down their faces until the sun burst through, and then the water was clear again. Oh, Gran it was so strange.’
Just then a single swan limped out of the water, dragging one leg as it waddled over to Gran. ‘Odette, my dear you’re not looking any better today,’ Gran said as she gently placed the bird on her lap and looked at her leg. ‘When your Mammy was a baby, I’d bring her to the lake and Dett, that’s what your Mammy called her, would watch over her as I collected nettles and herbs,’ said Gran.
‘How old is she?’ asked Orla.
‘Well, she’d be nigh on 30 years, and it’s not likely she’ll see out the winter.’
Orla fed her birds, Pearl and Sassy and then fussed over their cygnets. Gran picked up Dett and slowly hobbled up the hill to the nearby Hawthorn tree. Once the bird settled Gran collected armfuls of branches, which were full of blood red berries, and placed them around Dett. Other swans followed and formed a protective outer circle, purring in unison as they bowed their head one by one. In a dirge-like chant Gran sang a slow, mournful Gaelic song while kissing the Celtic Knot around her neck and pacing slowly between Dett and the outer circle of swans.
Orla was mesmerised as she watched. Dett sat quietly until Gran stopped and called her name. Suddenly all the other swans stood tall, purring their quiet lament before heading back down to the lake. Gran sat exhausted while Dett lay her head on Gran’s lap and listened to the old woman’s heart felt troubles.
Orla sensed something magical had happened, she knew the Hawthorn tree was sacred and a doorway to the Otherworld. She also knew of Gran’s belief in magic, her knowledge of the woods and traditional stories which were renowned in the nearby villages and farms. Gran and Mammy argued a lot about Gran’s beliefs, but Orla felt the magic too and often sensed the presence of otherworldly creatures and spirits.
*
‘What is it with you and your gibberish and hokum, scaring our girl down at the lake like that?’ hissed Mammy as she sat near the fire that night.
‘Oh Bridie, whatever do you mean? Orla saw the beauty of it all and yes, she felt sad, but she wasn’t scared. You said you would join us at the lake, and you didn’t come. Dett is dying,’ said Gran her face contorted with pain.
‘I was busy…this place doesn’t run itself, you know!’ said Mammy.
‘Bridie you know the swans are our clan spirit and you should’ve come. Dett is your bird, she’s dying, and she needs you to say goodbye.’
‘That’s bunkum, it’s a bird Mammy nothing more. Orla tells me you were at the Hawthorn tree. I don’t like it…you’ll bring bad luck to this house!’
‘Aye, so when it suits you do follow the old way! I asked Dett to speak with the faeries and help us break our rift, to help bring our family together before I go!’ said Gran.
Bridie scoffed and looked away.
Gran sighed and continued, ‘Oh you must know I don’t have long my girl, and I need to know you’ll care for the farm, especially the swans and the Hawthorn tree. Orla is a kind and sensitive girl; she needs to know our customs and lore because she has the gift,’ Gran said.
‘The gift! You, and your false gods,’ cried Mammy blessing herself. ‘Orla is a good Christian girl not some wild child from the woods, it’s blasphemy to speak of swans and faeries and the like. It’s your ways that bring about her bad dreams and fears,’ screamed Bridie.
Gran seethed and said, ‘The only fears are those which come from ignorance, and Orla needs to know how to keep our traditions alive. Have you forgotten Bridie? It was the swans who saved poor Paddy from a watery grave, helped save him from the wild boars so you could bury him. Where was your God then?’
Half asleep, Orla appeared in the doorway and said, ‘Why are you screaming and talking about Daddy like that?’
‘Orla go back to bed,’ snapped Bridie.
‘Nay, it’s time she knew what happened to her daddy,’ said Gran.
Bridie fumed.
‘You know of the storm and that your Daddy drowned? Well, there is more too it Orla, so please come and sit. Daddy had managed to get some of the herd to the high ground, near the Hawthorn tree, just as the rain began lashing down again. It was dark, a moonless night full of fear and horrors, a night none of us will ever forget. As the neighbours came with ropes and lamps, they could hear Paddy calling the cows. He was waste high in water, and as he reached out to grab a calf, she panicked and floated away, knocking your daddy off his feet. The men searched for hours but couldn’t find him. The next morning, we heard Dett at the door, carrying on, honking, and screeching. Your Mammy and me followed her down to the lake and there was your daddy lying face down at the edge of the lake.’ Gran said.
Bridie sobbed as Gran continued, ‘The swans were in a circle around Finn, most of them were at your daddy’s back, gently pushing him onto the shore, tending him until we came. They purred quietly and raised their wings to shield him against the rising tide of branches and God know what else that was in that foul, black water.’
Orla began to cry as Gran continued, ‘I left your Mammy with Daddy and went to settle the cows who were sitting under the Hawthorn tree, exhausted from the terror of the night before. They lowed mournfully, their eyes wet with sorrow for the loss of their calves and your darling daddy.’
*
A few weeks later, for the first time in months, Bridie joined Gran and Orla at the lake. The swans were excited to see her, nodding their heads as they waddled at pace to join the family picnic. The air was fresh as the shifting shapes and shadows on the water danced rhythmically, a portent of the new dynamic which was about to unfold for the O’Briens.
‘Mammy, I have a letter from Aiden,’ said Bridie.
Orla passed the grainy envelope to Gran who held it close to her chest with her eyes closed before she kissed her charm and gently opened the envelope.
‘My word, he’s coming home, what a delight!’ Gran said her face glowing. ‘I had a bit of a notion; I could feel it in my bones. Aye Dett, come over here girl, you have worked a wonder!’
‘Aye, and our Aidan has big plans for the farm. He’s made himself a bit of a fortune over there in America. Look at the drawings Mammy, he wants to build the up the herd, and he has ideas for making a milking machine. I feel as if a great burden has been lifted, it’s a miracle. We have much to do and Orla you’ll have to bed down with me for a while,’ Bridie said grinning widely.
Orla couldn’t remember her uncle, but she felt the excitement and joined Gran and Bridie in a jig, laughing and crying all at once. Hasty arrangements were made, and people from the village helped the family prepare for Aidan’s return home.
*
Once settled Aidan and Bridie spent time planning the changes needed to modernise the farm. Gran was bedridden now and Orla cared for her while listening to stories about faeries and the old ways, and the power of nature in helping the sick. Bridie now felt a deep trust in the love and tenderness shared between her mother and daughter, and a new sense of purpose.
Gran passed away peacefully on the first day of spring, not long after Dett. The villages gathered with the family to grieve and celebrate her life while keeping watch. The keeners laments told stories of Grans charity and healing ways which had helped so many of the local people. Three days later she was laid to rest near the Hawthorn tree.
‘Orla, dear child come and sit I have some things Gran wanted you to have,’ said Bridie the night after everyone had left the house.
Orla opened the wooden box Gran kept her specials things in and found a sprinkling of blood red berries on top of three swan feathers on which Gran’s charm sat. Underneath was a weathered, leatherbound book, with a Hawthorn tree engraved on its cover. Inside were pages of intricate drawings of plants, their uses, and ways to make poultices and herbal remedies.
‘But Mammy, why is it not for you?’ Orla asked.
The Celtic Knot
‘Your Gran and I spoke of it, and I agreed with her decision, it was Gran’s dying wish,’ Bridie said as she fixed the charm around Orla’s neck. ‘Gran’s Celtic Knot is a token of the bond between women, the crone, the mother, and the maiden…that is to say the past, the present and the future. We will help you and work together for our as a family.
Orla smiled as she gently ran her fingers over the charm, ‘What’s a crone?’
Aidan cleared his throat and wiped away a tear, ‘A wise old woman like your Gran. Now let’s us three take a walk to the lake, it’s a grand day and we can visit the swans.’
*
Lorraine grew up in the UK and now lives in Sydney, Australia. I have an affinity with the natural world, the unknown and the magic of childhood. I find Celtic traditions and culture fascinating and hope to travel and experience it first hand. I love writing non-fiction and fiction for children and spending time with my three grandchildren.
