Castle Dive Prologue
Current day…
Dennis O’Donoghue squinted with rheumy eyes through the thin mist on the bank of Lough Leane as he guided his half-asleep grandson, Patrick to a stone bench not far from the water’s edge.
It was pre-sunrise on the first day of May in Killarney, and the Irish air was starting to carry the warmth of spring. It was a lot kinder to his 71-year-old bones than the arid cold of winter had been six weeks before.
He was grateful his American daughter-in-law had a soft spot for Irish folklore as well as for his only son, or he’d never have had the chance to bring his grandson to Lough Leane at such an ungodly hour. An adventure, he’d called it, but in truth, it was a family tradition.
Traditions were important to him and his peers – especially ancient family traditions. They kept kin close, tightly knit, even members who normally lived far away.
Of course, teaching the young those traditions could be fraught with objections, particularly from a grandson who was as outspoken as his grandda – and their family’s previous generations.
Patrick’s bleary blue eyes peered out from under shaggy bangs the color of aged whiskey.
“Why did we have to come here so early?” the youngster moaned to his grandfather as he plopped on the long stone bench embedded in the rocky shore of the lake.
Nothing stirred in the large, majestic, tooled limestone and granite castle looming behind them, a ruined dream of power and purpose. Few trees surrounded the ancient fortress these days; so much of Ireland had been ploughed over for farmland and grazing in the last few centuries.
No one joined them on the windswept shore. The only sound was the call of a collared dove, who seemed to object to the early wakeup as well. Only the slightest of ripples marred the lake’s glassy surface.
Dennis creakily eased onto the bench and grinned at his beloved grandchild as he tugged an arm around Patrick’s small, lanky shoulders. “Because it’s May First, and if we see Himself today, it’s good luck for the rest of yehr life.” As much as his logical mind told Dennis the legend was a fantasy, the bard in his soul wished it to be real for his son’s oldest child with everything he had in him.
Stories of druids marched in lockstep with those of Christian miracles in Irish folklore.
Patrick gazed across the lake as the sun began to rise over the oak and alder trees and was reflected on the water. Geese were quietly swimming across the span. “See who?” the boy demanded grumpily. “All I see are geese, Grandda.”
A silvery white horse suddenly materialized to their left, carrying a grinning rider in glowing armor. The rider was a tall, older man with a powerful frame and flowing black hair streaked with silver. The argent steed surged on his sturdy back legs for a moment as the rider laughed raucously, easily maintaining his seat with his knees. The pair landed forcefully on the bank and charged forward on their journey, racing the building wind.
Both Patrick and Dennis caught their breath as horseman and steed bulleted by, the rider throwing a gleeful fist in the air, dashing along the shore. Dennis jumped to his feet and pointed as the horse and rider pulled into a gallop, putting distance between them. “See him! That’s Ross O’Donoghue! He built that castle behind us.”
Patrick blinked in astonishment as he jumped up quickly from the bench. He spun around, studying the rock-solid five-story structure for a moment and then snapped his attention back to his grandfather. “But…that castle is six-hundred years old! That’s what Mom told me.” The boy nodded in the direction of the departing rider. “And he built it? Is he for real?”
Dennis plunked his hands on his hips and furrowed his brow as he gazed over his shoulder back at his grandson, pretending mild irritation. “Did yeh see him or not?”
Patrick gave Dennis a quick, sidelong glance. “It’s the twenty-first century, Grandda.” His eyes darted back to the horse and rider still eating up the shoreline with their gallop. “There are a lot of things I see that aren’t real.”
“Yeh’re too young to be such a cynic, lad.” But then again, America had become such a cynical place, he sighed to himself. Damn shame, that was. Dennis sat back down on the bench, eyes riveting back to the forms growing smaller in the distance. “Well, he is real. Or at least… he was.”
Patrick plopped back down on the bench and gazed in horrified fascination at his grandsire. “Is he a ghost?” Patrick had heard all about ghosts; every Halloween, one of his friends would dress up in something clingy and white with big eyeholes, pretending to be a spirit hailing from the underworld.
Dennis slanted a sly glance at the freckled face pondering spirits. “Now, that’s a good question, Patrick. And a long story…”
Patrick groaned and rolled his eyes. “All of your stories are long, Grandda.”
Dennis gave him a sharp grin. “This one is part of yehr heritage, lad…and it starts with an evil witch.”
Patrick’s eyes grew round. “An evil witch?”
Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “Although at first peep, she may not look evil…”