‘Feamainn’ by Ali Brennan
I am here to take one home.
The pub is low and dim. An over-fuelled fire is trying to escape its hole in the back wall. Eager flames lick and lap at the brick edges, sending plumes of black smoke upward to linger in the dense thatch. An aproned man beats it to submission with a poker and I slink to a small corner table. And wait.
He is there before I have a chance to eye the room twice. I am not from around here, he tells me. He would remember a beauty like me. Tall and lean, his face is not long a man’s but he has the raw hands of one who works on the bay. I cannot say I am and my God will you stop. I blush and bow my eyes in false embarrassment as I have been taught to. Is it waiting on someone I am, he is curious to know or will I surely have a drink with him. I am not in the least and surely I will.
I had always wanted to try whiskey. It is a telling thing. It makes all love glow out of his face; from his cheeks to his lips. It makes me sharp and slant in the eye. What started as polite cursory sips has now grown to long, greedy gulps to fortify our nerve. He fell in love the moment I walked in the door he whispers. Never seen a creature like me and where did I come from? An angel with a red halo he says. I am bold now and do not cast my glance aside. I eat his words whole and on the mouth. Every eye in the room is held in rapture as he reaches to finger my damp curls. He thinks half the Atlantic blew in with me. I rise silently, into my coat and out the door.
His hands are at my waist as I lead him away. The glow and din from the pub grows weaker over our shoulders with every new step. What do you mean where am I taking you and will you not see soon enough. I draw him nearer still, remind him where my warmth is. I am full-bellied and unashamed. The landscape grows rougher. We follow the mohawk of green moss that centres the bóthirín. There is soggy peat in the air and his hot Powers breath at my neck.
I do not imagine he will be missed.
We turn now and start down the dunes. Every footfall in the virgin sand feels soft, sacred. We trip and falter, unfamiliar in our limbs like new foals. The sound of the waves grabs me by the ribs and sets me running. He thinks it is a chase. I let the slant take me and rush for the beach. He catches up to me, gasping and we fall into a clumsy mess of ready bodies. My laugh in his ear sinks to a soft hum, my siren call. Now you are mine I tell him. He hooks me in a dirty kiss. It lingers, and I feel him taste the salt from my lips. His too rough touch knocks a comb from my hair. But I will not hinder his advances. Not now.
I halt him on the shoreline and make for the water. The crackle of feamainn underfoot runs up my spine. I am barely up to my ankles when I feel it. The wet. A familiar dampness coming from between my legs. I feel my thighs tense. Knees leaden. The tingle as it creeps over my skin. Smiling, I turn to face my lover. I raise my skirt to reveal them, glinting green in the fresh moonlight. Scales. Growing down the length of me like ivy. Coming forth as if from my very bones. I fall back and am baptised anew. Free and weightless again where I belong. And when I surface he is there. Waist deep and still walking.
From issue #1: autumn/winter 2015
About the Author
Ali Brennan lives and writes in Dublin. Her work has previously appeared in wordlegs. She reads as much Lorrie Moore, Claire Keegan and Nuala Ní Chonchúir as she can. She tweets nonsense.
