Holiday Magick (19 page)

“Not today there aren't.” Macha launched into a new fit of rage. “It feels like, everywhere I look, people are suddenly Irish, covered in your stupid mark, celebrating in your honor.”

“As I recall,” Cernunnos said with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself, “the Potato Famine that caused the spread of the Irish culture and bloodline was
your
idea, Macha. The people would have been perfectly content on their little island if you hadn't forced them out. The fact that they shared the tradition of wearing green is hardly your sister's fault.”

“So I suppose this is all
my
fault!” Macha's face pulsed with a purple rage. “Am I also the one who suggested mortals pinch those who go unmarked, warning them that my pets are hungry for their pound of flesh? Does she have an innocent explanation for that one as well?” The crow on her shoulder squawked his indignation.

“I have no idea where that came from.” Anu brushed the grass off her brown skirt. “But I can't say that I'm sorry the people are being warned about your creepy little birds.” She shuddered as the crow snapped his beak.

Dagda seemed to be the only one to notice the sly grin on his impish little servant's face. He smirked, then quickly coughed to cover a chuckle. “I have heard enough.” He cleared his throat. “Macha, as we have all seen, your complaint has no basis. Since you failed to specify the manner in which Anu marked her own, and you did not set a limit on how many she may claim, no wrong has been done. The matter is settled. As it has been every year, and will, no doubt, be again next year.”

“NO!” Macha's shriek ripped through the air. “You won't get away with this!” She grabbed the boulder nearest to her and slammed it into a tree trunk, causing it to splinter.

“Time to go. This is getting to the dangerous part,” the janitor whispered, grabbing Becky and Kelly by the wrist. They crashed through the forest, using Macha's temper tantrum to cover their retreat. Eventually, the sounds of the forest being ripped apart faded, and they slowed to a walk.

As soon as she was certain they were safe, Becky stopped. “Okay, I think we deserve a few answers.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the janitor. “Who are you, and what was that? You could have gotten us killed!” Her voice jumped an octave.

“Becky.” Kelly put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “You can't talk to a servant of the gods like that. Please.”

“And you!” Becky whirled on her friend. “You've been in on this the whole time. Acting like you're in some kind of trance, making me follow you. Pretty sick joke, Kel.”

“What are you talking about? I wasn't in on anything.” Kelly looked truly bewildered.

“Really? Then how did you know who the old guy was? Explain that!”

“I just recognized them all from the stories Mom told me as a little kid. I didn't know they were real until today.”

“And what about him?” Becky jerked her chin toward the janitor. “Why did you follow him, and then give me the whole ‘servant of the gods' crap?”

“I don't know, okay?” Kelly rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I couldn't really control myself at first. It just…felt right.”

“Calm down, lass.” The janitor reached up, putting a tentative hand on Becky's arm. “She couldn't help it. She knows enough of her heritage for her blood to call out when I'm around. This trip was for you. It's time you learned who you are.”

“I know who I am. And I'm not Irish.”

“Are you sure about that, lass?”

Becky snatched her arm away. “Okay, let's suspend reality for a second and say I believe you. Will one of you please tell me who those people were?”

“That part's easy.” Kelly smiled. “The Dagda is the chief god of the Celts. But he's not scary like Zeus or anything. More like everyone's dad. Anu and Macha are goddesses. Macha is the goddess of war and strength, obviously, and Anu is—”

“An earth goddess. I got that part.” Becky snorted. “But what were they talking about?”

“Don't you pay attention in world history?” Kelly heaved an exasperated sigh. “The Picts and the Celts fought all the time in ancient Ireland. Eventually the Celts won out—”

“Because of a deal the gods made, right?” Becky rolled her eyes, trying to maintain her disbelief.

“Yes.” Kelly shrugged. “Anyway, every good Irishman knows that green is Anu's favorite color, so when the wars stopped it became tradition to wear it as a ‘thank you' token to her. Every March 17th. And I guess it also protects us from Macha and her birds.”

“Fine.” Becky collapsed on the grass. “So I'm just supposed to believe we witnessed an actual goddess throwing a fit like a little kid?”

“Or you can believe that there really is a forest in the supply closet.” The janitor shrugged, sitting beside her. “Oh, or maybe you've already left school, and have had one too many of those green beers young Sean has invited you over for. It's really up to you.”

“I'm not even going to Sean's party.” Becky rubbed her forehead. “And how did you know about that? Have you been spying on us?”

“You'd be amazed at what a janitor knows,” Bud chuckled.

“If it makes you feel better,” Kelly giggled, “I don't think Macha was acting like a little kid. I babysit all the time, and I've
never
had a tree trunk thrown at me.” Suddenly, Kelly straightened, serious again. “We really shouldn't be laughing at the gods though. They're not that different from you and me. I've seen you do some pretty dumb stuff yourself when you were upset, Bec.”

“Oh that makes it much better. We're risking the wrath of tantrum-prone gods.” Becky groaned and squeezed her eyes closed. “I just want to go home.”

“Fair enough.” Janitor Bud sat up, grabbing each of the girls by the wrist. “Here we go.”

Instantly, they were back in the invisible current. But this time, they were too worn out to scream. Lost in their own thoughts, no one spoke as the current tugged them along. When the current finally deposited them back in the school hallway, Becky was ready. She rolled out of the way just before the janitor landed on top of her.

“Ooof.” The janitor grunted when he made contact with the hard linoleum. “Well, ladies.” He sat up. “What have we learned today?”

“Never follow a janitor.” Becky grumbled, getting to her feet.

“I, for one,” Kelly looked pointedly at Becky, “thought it was awesome. And all this time I just thought we wore green so leprechauns couldn't see us.”

“That's just a bonus, lass.” The janitor winked. “I didn't see you in the hall earlier, until I ran into you with a broom, that is. I was just lookin' at your friend. Spotted her a mile away.” He chuckled, then tipped his hat.

“Oh so now you're a…” Becky looked around. “Kelly, where'd he go?” Janitor Bud was nowhere in sight.

“Guess he had other things to do. Leprechauns must be busy today.”

“But I still need answers!” Becky yelled. “Why was he here? How does he know about my ancestors? What about—”

“Calm down. He was probably just looking out for you, since you didn't know you were part-Irish. Maybe that's part of his job.”

“But he said—” Becky didn't look satisfied.

“Listen, he's gone, and I don't have any answers. And I really don't want anyone to hear us and think we're both crazy.” Kelly crossed her arms and looked at Becky.

“But—oh, forget it!” Becky exclaimed, shouldering her bag. “I'm out of here.”

“Where are you going?” Kelly reached for her bag as well.

“Home,” Becky said exasperatedly, “I really need to change into a green shirt.”

Around the world, Earth Day is a time to give back to the planet, to remember that the world around us is something to be protected and preserved. People focus on recycling, tree planting, litter collection, and cleaning up the environment in whatever ways they can.

Today, though, few people know the holiday's origins go much deeper, and once upon a time, nature was not to be protected, but feared.

It's early March, and already the forest is whispering.

The full moon shines down on my family's ten acres of moss and weeds, illuminating a handful of trembling sheep huddled to one side of a makeshift fence. I lean across it, the roughly woven reeds scraping my torso as I pat the closest sheep on its flank and mutter something soft and reassuring.

But it's no use. The sheep know what lurks beyond the tree line better than I do, and they don't like it. After several more minutes of useless cooing, I swing a leg over the fence, drop to the other side, and settle against the mud-and-grass lean-to that serves as our flock's shelter from the awful weather that comes with spring.

I hope it stays this calm. If any storms start up, the flock is liable to push through the reeds—the cursed things are brittle as eggshells—and make a break for the river that sits at the edge of our acreage. If that happens, it means a month of latrine duty for me, because the sheep are our livelihood and losing them means no wool to sell at market, and no meat when the winter strips our patch of land down to the rocks.

A cloud drifts across the moon and the entire flock tenses. I do, too.

Normally we wouldn't bother posting watches this early, but the thick forest of alders and oaks that surrounds us on three sides has already started to bloom. That is enough to make my papa divide up the nightly watch among his four children, to make sure our meager flock is safe from what lurks inside the trees.

One of the smaller sheep, a yearling that I tend to favor, bleats and presses against my side. I plunge a hand into the thick wool curling around its shoulders and scratch at the soft skin beneath, hoping the pressure will be enough to coax it to the ground. To my immense relief, it complies, and the rest of the flock follows suit. I let out an appreciative sigh. So far, so good.

A breeze flits past us with sweet alfalfa and the peppery smell of our tomato patch. There's something else there, too—a low, sighing wildness that makes the hair on the back of my neck creep up and puts every nerve on edge. I ignore it.

The trees will do their best to break me, and I'll do my best to pretend I don't feel a thing.

Slowly, the flock's breathing slows until I'm sure they're all dozing. It's then I close my eyes and let my thoughts wander past the river and to Cillian. This time tomorrow, the entire town will be alive with activities, from the twenty-foot bonfire to the lines of dancers swirling to the beat of a dozen drums. No one will talk about the fact that the trees somehow crept closer to Cillian's borders during the winter, or the way that, even in the middle of the hardest snow, their branches reached for us.

The night watch passes with only the whispers from the trees and the flock mumbling their discomfort even in their dreams.