Dia dhóibh, Catherine. Hello to you and to–

Samhain is only hours away, and the walls … Tell me. Will you be walking the earth together?

Summer is ended here. The season of light gives way to darkness, to winter. But, underground, in the dark silence, comes the whisper of new beginnings, the stirring of the seed – hopes and dreams for the coming year. Or so they say.

I’m stepping stone to stone on rocks the great Fionn mac Cumhaill ripped from the earth and tossed to the sea. Here he paced, thinking a giant’s thoughts, desiring a giant’s challenge. I think I have one last book in me, Catherine. Another little fable for children. I hope, one day …

Go maire sibh. Be well, the both of you.
Brigit

Oh, Brigit!  The Giant’s Causeway, spectacular! There are places here, beautiful hidden places, perhaps rendered by a cousin-goliath. It’s not all darkness and silence below.

We’re overjoyed to hear that you are working on something new. And a children’s story! You once told me that wouldn’t be possible. I do so hope that means the darkness is lifting. When you’re ready, we have the perfect audience for your book … eager young hearts who still believe in the magic of possibilities.

Does your writing keep you too busy to travel? There are things we would like you to see, that we think you need to see. A visit, perhaps?  Please say yes.

Love,

Catherine and ….

Catherine,

Hard, soft – these are qualities of the Irish weather. Your postcard arrived on a hard, hard day. The words ran a bit, whether from raindrops or tears, but not before I read it through twice.

My first visit to America was cut short, you know. I missed the show of holiday lights, the shop windows with their trains and sleighs, the ball dropping at midnight. Oh, we have our twinklings here strung eave to eave, and our house parties, but I’ve not put up my own tree this year, nor lit a single candle. I need a new perspective, the one you suggest, perhaps.

The magic of possibilities. Such exquisite words. You’re sure? Shall I book a flight?

Yours, Brigit

We’re sure! Come as soon as you’re able. We’ll share all the experiences the city has to offer a visitor and then some. There’s much to talk about, so much I want you to see.

Soon!
Catherine

Dear Brigit,

I’ve been chastised, and rightly so, for sending off that last postcard without checking with him first. I was just so excited by the prospect of your visit.

He’s excited also. He says come sooner than soon. And he adds this – You let some light in on the dark places. You were there for me. Let me return the favor.

With love,
C&V

Sooner than soon! I’d been searching for the ‘voice’ of the wee boy in my new story. When I read these words … I knew. And he smiled at me – in my head, you know – and ‘twas as if the sun peeked through the brume. So tell the man his favor is a sweet and powerful thing I gratefully accept.

Alas, soon is not so much the Irish way. I borrowed my landlady’s bicycle for a trip into Ballycastle where a friend has a private telephone. (Mine’s a shared service line.) I’m dropping this in the mail while I’m here in town, which should cut three days off the post. Here’s hoping this card finds you before I do. I’ll arrive at Kennedy in a fortnight.

Might I as favor of you, Catherine? Could you see to a hotel for me? I’d like to be near the two of you, and can’t begin to imagine just such an address. I’ll call your office as soon we land. You can direct me to my lodgings.

I’m wondering if I’ll recognize you out of costume. Him, well …

Slán go foil, a chara. Goodbye, for now, my friend.
B

Dear Catherine. I’m home. This is the view nearly from my window, and ‘tis lovely, but I’ve seen wondrous places now, never to leave my mind’s eye. As familiar as it is – the rocks, the sea – I’m lonely for you. For both of you.

The candle you held aloft for me when I got off the plane in New York is on the small altar I keep. I cannot bear to light it again, as I never want it to burn away, yet its remembered flame glows and warms and shows me … another life.

Ní hí feoil ná fuil ach an croí amháin a dhéanann bráithre agus siúracha asainn.

Neither flesh nor blood, but the heart alone, makes brothers and sisters of us.

I’ve heard that said all my life, but never before could I understand. Now I do.

Slan agus Beannacht. Many blessings.

Until … Brigit

(Three days later.) Tell Jacob he owes me a waltz as he has lost a significant bet. I’ve proof I could send him, should he doubt me.

And tell our mutual friend the darkness that threatened to return cannot hold.

Again … until.

B.

Dearest Brigit,

Your message has been passed to Father, who received it with a most uncharacteristic grin. I’ll not ask, not just now anyway, but one day I’ll have you tell me what that was all about.

The children, who so very much enjoyed your reading, are anxious to know the fate of your young hero. Although they’ve been assured I’ll bring them one of the very first copies on publication, they insist that you should come complete the story for them yourself. So there you have it, a mandate for another visit.

The view from your window is lovely, but feels so far away. It’s hard to believe that you’re on another continent when you seem so close, such a part of us. You brought a special light to our world, Brigit. Your family misses you.

I have a stack of letters for you – watch for a separate parcel.

With love,
C

Oh, Catherine. My letters! I’ve read them until they’re soft from unfolding. Please tell each of my young friends to pay special attention to the dedication page of the little book – several advance copies of which I’ve instructed my American publisher to box up and deliver to you – as there’s a hidden message for them there. Let me know who deciphers it first. I do wish I could wink myself there to read it to them.

I didn’t tell you, but a new story – a sequel – came to me as the three of us walked up together my last day there. Confined to his underground fairy world, young Aidan is restless, and against the advice of every elder Tuatha, determines Samhain shall not be his only foray above. And, so, one spring morning, he takes the Newgrange passage out …

Before I send a final draft to my editor, I should, don’t you think, run the story past my reading group? At the risk of my Granny turning in her grave, I was planning to invite myself back, but now you’ve saved me. Again.

Soon, full soon,
Brigit

__________

Author’s Note: This illustrated ficlet is one of The Postcard Stories, a project created for WFOL 2013. The entire collection – conversations between seven character pairs and as many authors – may be read here.