Master of Elements Ch. 01: Fire

Note: all characters are over 18, as set out in the story. This series is for those who enjoyed "The Good Master" type of approach to mind control.

*****

Master of Elements: Chapter 1 - Fire

"No man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun their destiny." ― Homer, The Iliad

I wondered for the thousandth time what I was doing here. Most likely it was a fool's errand and I was wasting my time. But if it turned out that I wasn't ... then that, in most ways, was even worse. I was a Londoner after all, a child of the big city. The west coast of Ireland felt a long way from home, a wild and windswept place; although in truth it was late summer and the weather was being kind. With the sunshine sparkling on the rollers of the Atlantic and dappling the green hills sweeping down to the ocean, this was a place of fabulous beauty.

I was about as far west as it was possible to get in the old world. Nothing lay beyond save thousands of miles of water until you reached the shores of a continent unknown in ancient times; which, I thought, was a point of curious significance as to why I was here.

I looked back to the layby where I had parked the car I had hired in Dublin and then down at the tiny fishing village that lay on the bay below the headland where I stood. The road down from the clifftop was narrow and scarcely suitable for vehicles. I decided to leave the car and walk down to the village. It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes and at least it would delay the embarrassment I faced when I got there.

As I wandered down the steeply sloping road I thought of the ludicrousness of my task. I was here to find someone who I had never seen before and had no idea of their name. All I had to go on was certain physical characteristics I had been told they would possess. I knew she had to be close because the amulet hung round my neck was telling me so, just as it had guided me to this remote place from London, and this being a small community should help, but I still trusting a lot to luck.

I entered what passed for the main street of this tiny settlement which ran on down to a small harbour in which a couple of fishing boats could be seen tied up at the dock. The village didn't possess much in the way of civic facilities, just a small church on higher ground to my right and, nearer the harbour, a pub. I headed for the latter determined to speak to the first person I met.

This turned out to be a burly and thickset man who I guessed was maybe two or three years younger than me, so perhaps about 25. From his dress I guessed he might be a fishermen and he was heading from the direction of the harbour to the pub. I intercepted him just before the entrance and asked my dumb question.

"Umm .... Excuse me. Apologies for stopping you, but I'm looking for someone I think might live near here. I'm afraid I don't know her name but she would be a young woman, very pretty and with flaming red hair. Do you know anyone who would meet that description?" I had anticipated surprise, perhaps confusion, even suspicion at my question, followed by the answer 'no'. I got the latter part but otherwise the reply was not what I expected.

The man started in surprise then his face assumed a hostile expression. "No. There's no one like that here. I suggest you leave now and go look somewhere else Englishman." He said it truculently and for one moment I thought he was going to hit me but instead he just brushed past and disappeared into the pub.

I stood for a moment slightly shocked by his response. One thing that was clear to me was that I was in the right place. He had known from my vague description exactly who I was talking about and clearly was not keen on my asking about her. I rallied my courage and, after a pause, followed my antagonist into the pub.

Glancing round I saw he had taken a seat in the far corner where he was talking to another man. I ignored the hostile stare he gave me and walked over to the guy behind the bar. He was middle-aged, mid-forties I guessed, and I surmised he was probably the owner or tenant of the place. I ordered a Guinness - it seemed best to try a fit in, and anyway I quite like the stuff although I can rarely manage more than a couple - and tried again with my search for information.

"If you don't mind, I have a question," I said. "Only when I asked it to that man over in the corner I thought he was going to punch me. Any idea why?"

"What, Sean?" replied the publican glancing over at where his two customers were sitting, "Well I suppose it depends what question you asked. Are you a tourist? Need directions to somewhere?"

"No, I'm looking for someone in particular but I only have a description not a name."

"Really," said the publican with mild interest. "I'll help if I can."

"I'm looking for a woman. She would be young - say between 18 and 22 - exceptionally good looking and she would be a redhead. You know, really distinctive flaming red hair."

The publican laughed, "Oh you mean Brigit. Brigit McCarthy. She lives on her parents' farm just outside the village. And that explains why Sean was angry with you. He's sweet on the girl - I guess we all are a little - but he's wasting his time. She's too good for him. In fact she's too good for this backwater. A girl as beautiful and talented as that should be in Dublin becoming famous ... or New York maybe."

Brigit, I thought. I should have guessed, of course she would be named Brigit. The Celtic goddess of fire; it fitted perfectly. But also a goddess of poetry and healing I recalled, which sounded nice.

The publican was still talking, "I always knew someone would come and take her away to the bright lights. So what are you? Music producer - she's a fine singer - film agent, recruiter for a modelling agency?"

"Actually I'm an accountant," I said wryly. "Or at least I was until I resigned my job last month." How could I explain this in terms he might believe? "Look, my name's Christopher Ward; please call me Chris. Brigit has come into ... well, a legacy of sorts. I have been sent to track her down, but I only had this vague description, so apologies for that. She certainly sounds like the right person. If I could arrange to meet her then I could be sure."

"Oh don't worry about that," he said, "just go out of the pub, head uphill and take the left hand road. The McCarthy farm is the first one you'll come to. You can be there in under half an hour even on foot."

"Umm ... aren't you worried about a stranger turning up and asking after a beautiful young woman?" I asked. Back in London, everyone would have assumed the worst. Here, the publican just looked at me in surprise.

"Should I be?" he said. "You seem like a nice enough young fella and we don't get any crime round these parts. Besides Brigit's parents will be at the farm."

"Yes, sorry," I said, "force of habit. It's nice to be in a place where people are less suspicious."

"Hmm ... I'd still keep an eye out for young Sean though. He won't see it the same way as me," said the publican.

I thanked him, finished my drink and went to use the toilet. When I came out again I found that Sean and his friend had gone. I decided to ignore that. I was on a mission and now I knew where to go next I needed to get on with it, so I left as well.

*****

The walk uphill was much harder than the previous one down had been and I was sweating in the afternoon heat of the sun by the time I reached what I assumed was the correct farm. I was also getting hungry and asking myself why I hadn't checked if that pub served food at all. Even a pickled egg and a packet of crisps would have been welcome.

The farm yard opened up directly off the road. Across the other side was the farmhouse itself and the yard was otherwise surrounded by barns and sheds of various sorts. What it all meant I had no idea; I was a city boy and to me milk and eggs were things that you found in shops ready packed.

Then I forgot the climb, my hunger and speculations about agriculture, because out of one of the barns walked the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. She was wearing mud-splattered wellington boots, thick corduroy trousers, also with their share of dried mud, and an old tee-shirt out of which the colour had been washed. It was practical but inelegant clothing and yet did nothing to disguise the girl's perfect figure. But even the latter did not distract me more than momentarily from her flawless good looks or her mass of flaming red hair, currently tied back in a long pony tail.

She was carrying a bucket in each hand but seeing me she put them down and gave a sudden beaming smile which seemed genuine, as if she was pleased to see me. I practically melted on the spot but also a pang of guilt shot through me. What I proposed to do was pretty horrible when you thought about it, although I didn't have much choice and the alternatives were potentially even worse.

"Hello," she said brightly. "Can I help you? Have you come to see my parents?" Naturally enough she had an Irish accent and in her case it was as soft, warm and smooth as melted butter. I was back to feeling faint again.

"Umm ... err," I started like an idiot; the girl was affecting me, "No, actually I'm looking for you. Brigit McCarthy right? My name's Christopher Ward, although everyone calls me Chris. I've come from London because .... because I've got something important to tell you."

"Really," she said in surprise. Clearly she had no idea what it could be; no British relatives to be concerned about for example. "Well ... I suppose you'd better come in the house and tell me about this mysterious thing then." She gave a grin, not taking it too seriously. Then she added, "You look thirsty - would you like a cup of tea or coffee, maybe something to eat?"

This brought back just how hungry I was. "If that would be ok? I forgot to ask at the pub."

Brigit laughed and I was struck again by her beauty. Her clear pale skin was offset by luminous green eyes, a shade I have never seen before, and that gorgeous red hair. "This is a farm! We always have food enough for the hungry and mum loves feeding people. I warn you to be careful. If you leave it to her you'll depart here several kilos heavier!" Those green eyes sparkled with mischief. I was already starting to like this girl, which just made me feel even more conflicted.

Once we had got into the house Brigit left me in the keeping of her mother, Brenda, who was indeed a 'feeder'. I soon found myself being cooked bacon and eggs accompanied by buttered toast and as much tea as I could drink, and very good it was too. I could see that Brigit got her colouring from her mother, although Brenda was rather more heavily freckled. In her mid-forties she was a very attractive woman. They say if you want to know what your girlfriend will look like when she's older then look at her mother, in which case Brigit's boyfriend was in luck, although it seemed from the discussion at the pub that she probably didn't have one.

Brenda was also keen on chatting and it was with some difficulty that I managed to keep the subject off why I had come to see her daughter, instead concentrating on the journey itself, the weather and other mundane topics. I did manage to ask Brenda one question that interested me. I had noticed a school certificate framed on the wall with her daughter's name on it. "Brigit ... with a 't' at the end," I noted, "That's not the usual spelling is it? Shouldn't it be Brid or Brigid?"

"It's old Irish," she said, "and the name of a famous saint. I just liked it spelt that way. Not sure why." I said nothing, but I thought she was wrong. The saint was always Brigid and while she was probably a continuation of the pre-Christian goddess the fact remained that only the pagan deity was Brigit. Not that I needed any more confirmation I had found my girl; I was certain of it already. And the certificate had also given away her age. A simple bit of maths told me she would now be nineteen.

When Brigit returned I found she had managed the impossible by looking even more desirable than before. She now wore clean jeans and a blouse, both of which were more figure-hugging than her previous outfit and she had let her long hair loose to cascade across her shoulders and frame her face. I found that it had naturally curly ringlets in it. The colour fascinated me, not being the typical ginger of a redhead but a deeper shade, reminding me of flames flickering in an open fire.

Brigit sat herself down opposite me at the kitchen table where I was finishing my meal. Closer to her than before, the green of her eyes, her pale creamy skin with the lightest of freckling, the warm smile with just a hint of mischief, her clean, fresh smell ... I was finding Brigit very distracting. It was just as well she took the imitative and spoke to me.

Naturally enough she wanted to know what the mysterious thing I had come all the way from London to tell her was, but I had no intention of discussing it in front of her mother, so I stalled for a while and then said, "It's going to take some explaining. How about I meet you at the pub this evening and take the time to do it properly."

"Oooh .... Mr Ward, are you inviting me on a date?" Brigit said slyly and then grinned as I flushed red with embarrassment. "Because I kind of hoped you might be. I'll meet you there at 7." Then she sprang up and disappeared out of the kitchen, leaving me confused. It didn't help that her mother was grinning at me as well.

"I would tell you to behave yourself with my daughter," Brenda said, "except that I'm more likely to need to tell her. You're the handsomest man we've seen in these parts for many a day."

After that comment I beat as hasty a retreat from the farm as I could manage, thanking Brenda for the food, offering payment which was declined and then making my excuses and leaving. The McCarthy ladies were running rings around me, and I needed my wits for this evening.

As I walked back downhill to the village - a much easier task - I considered Brenda's statement. It was true that women seemed to find me physically attractive. I was a good height without being too tall - six foot -and I worked out in the gym enough to look fit without overdoing it. I had been told by my last girlfriend that my light-brown hair had a fringe that fell across my eyes in a way that was 'cute' and was nicely offset by a 'manly' chin and nose, whatever that meant. Apparently best of all were my rich and deep brown eyes.

Now all of that was great to hear but in case anyone is under the illusion it meant I was some sort of stud who went around seducing half the ladies in London, I'm afraid the reality was very different. At the age of 28 I had been in three serious relationships, the longest of which had lasted just over two years. The reason for that is that looks are only a beginning and personality always that matters more.

I recalled what my last girlfriend, Claire, had said when she split up with me six months ago. It was made worse by the fact that she wasn't angry, just exasperated. "Chris, you're a lovely guy in lots of ways; caring, good natured, responsible," she had said before the inevitable 'but'. "But you're so bloody boring! For God's sake take a risk and do something exciting before you die!" Then she disappeared off on holiday to Bali with some guy she had met at work.

I was sad but I didn't blame her that much because she was right - or at least she was at the time. However, Claire would have been more than a little surprised about how exciting my life had been for the last three months - I certainly was. Although 'terrifying' would have been a better description. And as for taking risks, well that was all my life consisted of these days. Boring it certainly wasn't but to my surprise I was coping so far.

I had a couple of hours to kill before meeting Brigit and I had already eaten thanks to Brenda, so I went down to the harbour to sit and look at the ocean beyond. It was relaxing and for a short while I forgot my troubles, so was less than pleased when Sean turned up.

"Hey, English. You went up to the McCarthy farm," he said.

"Yes, I did," I replied wearily. I wasn't in the mood for this.

"And you saw Brigit?"

"Yes. That's why I went."

"You should stay away from her. Why don't you just go before there's trouble." Sean seemed determined to pick a fight. I decided to give him as little excuse as possible, so I kept my voice as calm and reasonable as I could.

"I rather think it's up to her who she meets; she's an adult. But if it makes you feel better it was a business matter." This wasn't really true; what I needed to talk to Brigit about was going to change her life in every way, regardless of what happened. However, Sean seemed partly mollified.

"Yeah, well. Just watch yourself, that's all," and with that last veiled threat he turned on his heel and walked off. Still, he had successfully ruined my mood of relaxation, so I left the harbour and walked back to the pub to wait there for Brigit.

*****

She arrived promptly at 7 p.m. She was wearing the same clothes - jeans and blouse - as earlier, but I thought she had added a little additional make-up. Either way she still looked as gorgeous as ever. She was popular too; as soon as she walked through the door she was greeted with a chorus of friendly greetings. I brought her a drink - just diet coke - and we found the most secluded table we could. I didn't want to be overheard.

Word of Brigit's arrival obviously got round because about 15 minutes later Sean entered with the friend I had seen earlier, bought drinks and then sat themselves as a table where they had a view of her and me, although fortunately too far away to hear what we discussed. I decided to ignore them for the present. If there was trouble coming from that quarter, I would deal with it when it arose.

My attention was on Brigit. I had not attempted to explain this to anyone before and it was hard to know where to begin. "I need to tell you about some things that have happened to me over the last three months because they affect you too, but you'll find it hard to believe. In fact, you'll think I'm mad. All I can say is that that three months ago I would have said that same. I was an accountant working for a city firm and nothing unusual or interesting had ever happened to me. Not until the day Gwydion Jones knocked on the door of my flat ..."

And so I told her my story, or rather some of it. I left out the more horrible bits. There was no need to scare her yet. Then I told her where she fitted in. Brigit listened politely. She was even civil enough not to tell me I was a lunatic or run screaming out of the pub but I could tell she didn't believe a word and I couldn't blame her. Still, I didn't give up because this was all too important to do so.

By the time I had finished it was 9 p.m. and getting dark so I offered to walk her back to the farm. She accepted, although with less warmth than previously. She had clearly decided that however attracted to me she might have been at first sight I was obviously as mad as a hatter but also that I wasn't actively dangerous, just delusional. As for me, I was trying to think where I could sleep tonight. Now I had found Brigit I couldn't leave.

It was Sean who saved me. He had spent the evening glaring at me and Brigit and drinking too much. As we left the pub and started up the hill toward the farm, he and his friend followed us out. "Hey, stop you bastard," Sean shouted, "I want a word with you."

We both turned and looked. It was obvious Sean didn't want a word at all; rather he intended to hit me. For a moment I thought I might have to fight him and his friend but in fairness to the latter he was trying to restrain Sean. Brigit gave it try as well, saying, "Sean O'Connor, leave the man alone, he's done you no harm."