‘While a funeral isn’t the somber affair the Milesians make it, it remained a time of reflection.’
New York Author/artist Christy Nicholas, aka Green Dragon, has lived in Michigan, Florida, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and now lives in Corning, NY. She hails from a family of artists and in addition to her success as a writer (the DRUID’S BROOCH TRYPTICH, GUIDES TO IRELAND and to SCOTLAND, a contemporary story about her parents BETTER TO HAVE LOVED, and the upcoming THE ENCHANTED SWANS), Christy is well known and respected for her beaded jewelry, photographs and digital art which she shows and sells at local art and craft shows, as well as sending her art to various science fiction conventions throughout the country and abroad. All of this she accomplishes while be a dedicated CPA!
Christy knows her beloved Ireland and the wondrous myths and legends that surround its history. This new story she opens in 460 BCE and yet it feels palpably real – fantasy/myth type real and perhaps that is the best. ‘Mother screeched in pain as she gripped my hand. The blood dripped on the soaked floor, splashing the midwife’s skirts. I hummed and pushed my healing will through my hand into hers as the ravens taught us, but she blocked it. “No, Fionnuala, my special child,” Mother’s voice was raw but firm. “You must stay… stay and guard the children.” The dank dimness of the round room closed in on me as she screamed again. The rough flesh of her throat had little power left after two days of labor. Heat and sweat battled in that small space and the urge to flee was almost irresistible. Yet I couldn’t leave. Mother needed me. Another scream raked my ears, the wattle and daub walls and the very air around us. The pain and regret of a lifetime echoed in that scream. Her hand grew flaccid in my own. My eyes grew misty as her life force escaped and faded into the Otherworld. In my grief, the room faded into a cloud of pain. The candlelight fled, and I heard a strangled keening sound which ululated in a haunting rhythm. Belatedly, I recognized my own voice, wordless in its sorrow. Despite my wails, I heard a small voice lifted to join my cries. The cry of a child. No, not just one. There were two squalling infants. Mother had given us twins with her last dying breath. My cry cut off into a wretched sob and a hiccup of hysterical laughter. In the end, she won one last victory. My mother, the shining one. Aobh Bán, delight of my father’s eyes. She of the pale skin and white-blond hair, famed for her splendor and grace. Oh, how I ached for her to be alive again. My throat closed, and my eyes soon followed suit. Our nanny, Saoirse, bundled the children and made small clucking noises with her tongue as the midwife cleaned Mother. No one else was allowed in the birth room. Father should be downstairs, still drunk. My brother Aed should be asleep as the night grew deep. I searched in my mind for my teacher, my anam cara, my raven, Hawlen. A drowsy answer came with a flutter of wings.’ And that is the flavor of this journey. But on to the story.
‘In pre-Celtic Ireland, Fionnuala was a fae princess, born to a life of luxury. She knew her duty and loved her family. She missed her mother, who died in childbirth when Fionnuala was but ten years old. Still, she had hopes and dreams of love and a full life. All her dreams were stolen from her, ripped away in a torrent of envy and magic. Now she must care for her three brothers while learning to live under an evil curse. Will she find a way to break the spell, or would they remain swans, tethered to three places for nine hundred years?’
Few can touch Christy’s kettle of Irish words and names and make it all make wonderful sense- even as fantasy. Where else will she take us?