“No single person can make a story. A story is something wooven of many threads, each dyed a different colour. At t times that colour fades, as it had with Lir. At others, it bleeds brightly to the surface, outshining all else”
I was given the opportunity to feature an excerpt of The Children of Lir by Marion Grace Woolley which is based on the Irish myth with the same title. I also included here the book details in case you are intrigued and wantedto check the book out. Enjoy reading!
The traders from the North believe that our fate is woven long before we are born. They say we are only threads, weighted by loomstones, our lives bent into the patterns that the Nornir decide for us.
I do not believe that. I live here, wild and free in the open air, my fate has not been spun for me by giantesses far beneath the earth. I am the spinner of my own story, I dye my own destiny. Yet still that cloth is subject to that which I do not control: the whispered words of the gods, that irresistible natural force which draws the bee to a flower and pushes fresh shoots through the frozen earth in spring.
“That is a fine horse,” Lir said, approaching as I brushed Arrow’s flank with a buckskin mitten. He stamped his foot, straining at his halter as my lord approached, jealous, always, of another’s affection for me.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered in his ear. “He has only half the hooves you have, thus half the man.”
Arrow snorted and nodded as though agreeing.
“Is that your father’s horse?”
“No, mine,” I replied. It should have been obvious to anyone, for his coat matched the colour of my hair. I continued to brush him, pretending that I did not feel Lir’s eyes upon me. “Can I help you, my lord?” I asked, after too long a silence.
“I was wondering…” he began.
“I was wondering whether you might accompany me today, on a ride?” I let the question linger and he filled the empty air with more words. “My children have gone with your sister and Sorcha to watch the swimming trials at the coast. I find myself alone, without companion.”
“Perhaps you should join them.”
“I have little interest in swimming,” he replied, and I knew he truly meant he had little interest in the sea. I knew the rumours, those dark tales that fuelled the fires at night and spoke of his past love and his other son, the one who appeared in the mist and ferried the dead to the land of the Forever Young. I wondered what he had told my sister Aobh of those times, and whether he still whispered to her across the waves. “I thought perhaps the woods?”
I smiled, but did not let him see.
Book Tittle: The Children of Lir
Author: Marion Grace Woolley
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Word/page count: 119,000 words/467 pages