Aedan Calahan and the Silver Hand

Chapter 19

The smell of potatoes infiltrated his nose and his eyes shot open. He tried to sit up, to then get ready for breakfast, but he didn't have the strength.

He looked around, blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Yet, there was the sun, shining bright in midday form just outside his window.

"What are you doing awake?" Sister Fuss said.

"Uh, sorry?"

"Never mind that, you need to eat. If you don't eat, you die. It's that simple." She stormed off.

"Excuse me, Sister," a voice said from outside the door. "May I have a minute, ple—yes, I understand. Of course, he's up too soon. I don't know what he was thinking either. Maybe if I could just have a mome—I agree, Sister, he will die if he doesn't eat at some point. Neglectful, yes."

It was amazing that Poet Kevin Quinn was able to keep up with her. Aedan was having a hard time deciphering what she was saying, she was speaking so fast.

"Well," Kevin pushed his words in at the first break he got, "that's a young boy for you. Please, Sister, if I may, let me have a few words with him." A quick procession of words that Aedan did not understand. "Thank you, Sister."

Poet Kevin Quinn shut the door quietly behind him. "Maybe if we talk with considerable care and quietness," he said, as he took a seat in an old wooden chair with three legs besides Aedan, "she'll forget we're even here."

"Not likely." Aedan smiled. It was good to see a familiar face. "I could use the food, anyway. She wasn't wrong about the not eating and dying part."

Poet Quinn smiled. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Well, how do you feel? Your hand?"

My hand? Aedan thought. Then, it all came back to Aedan in a rush. "Mum!" He tried to sit up but his body wouldn't allow it. And then he remembered the ending. "Mum," he whispered. He fought the urge to cry in front of Poet Quinn.

"Your mum recovered faster than you did," he said casually, as he gazed at the ceiling.

"What?" was Aedan could say.

Poet Quinn smiled knowingly at Aedan. Then, with his index finger, he pointed up.

"Quite remarkable Druidry, the Isle of Skye. One of the few forms of Druidry where both the origin and execution is entirely unknown to us." He paused. "Has anyone told you why they call it that? Why the Isle of Skye received its name?"

"No," Aedan said, frowning at the brown ceiling. There was nothing to look at but worn wood. "Professor, my mum is alive?"

"Yes, and recovering well. She has no memory of what happened, and I think it's wise we leave it that way. She woke up in her bed this morning to warm breakfast and kind smiles, just like she has every day since she's arrived."

Aedan's eyes swelled with tears and this time he didn't hold back. "How?"

"Quite remarkable Druidry, the Isle of Skye," he repeated, pointing up at the ceiling. This time, when Aedan looked, a familiar shoreline surrounded by high cliffs was painted on the ceiling. The waves rocked casually beneath the bright sunshine. The air was occupied by oncoming bird traffic.

"That's the Isle of Skye!" Aedan practically spit. "That's the place! How?"

"How can we see what's happening on the Isle of Skye from the comfort of this room?"

Aedan nodded.

"The Isle of Skye was originally how the Old Gods, or the Tuatha Dé Danann if you will, communicated with the Druids. Messages they deemed of immediate and supreme importance, would be announced from the highest cliff on the Isle, and projected into the sky. Thankfully, we now have more private forms of communication."