Sean knew his brothers snooped through his treasures, but he also knew that none of them would even consider pinching his picture of the Blessed Virgin. Whether it was superstition, fear of eternal damnation or just a lack of interest in religion, Sean didn’t care. The important thing was that the framed picture made a perfect hiding place.
He carefully pulled the easel back off the picture and withdrew a faded photo he’d hidden there eight years ago. He’d managed to keep the photo a secret, from his brothers and his father, all these years. Maybe that was his talent, Sean mused as he stared at the only surviving photo of his mother—he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
He’d been just three years old when Fiona Quinn had walked out of their lives. His father’s anger and sadness had cast a gloom over the house and he’d begun to drink heavily and gamble more than usual. Two years later, Seamus told them their mother had died in a car crash. All traces of her had been wiped from the house. Though his brothers had grieved for a time, they had quickly moved on.
But Sean remembered. He remembered the spot, now empty, in front of the stove where she used to stand. And her smell—he remembered that she always wore perfume and a red apron. When he’d found the photo, caught behind a kitchen drawer, he’d tucked it away, preserving the only evidence he had of Fiona Quinn’s existence.
He rubbed his thumb gently over her face, as if he were touching her. She was the prettiest lady he’d ever seen. She had beautiful shiny hair and twinkling eyes. And a smile that made him feel better just to look at it. And she was kind and understanding. She was his angel, and whether she was dead or alive, he still felt her presence.
“Ma,” he murmured. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her saying his name. In some secret corner of his mind, before memories even began, he found the sound and it was soft and calming, making the anger he held so tightly inside of him dissolve.
A knock sounded at the door. Sean scrambled to return the photo to its hiding place. When he’d shoved the box back into the drawer, he laid down on the bed. “I don’t want to talk to you!” he shouted, knowing it would be Brian. His brother hated it when people were mad at him.
“It’s my room, too,” Brian replied. He knocked again, more insistent.
Sean hopped up and unlocked the door, then flopped back down on the bed. “You don’t have to be such a pest.”
“I can come in if I want. You can’t keep me out of my own room.”
“Suit yourself,” Sean muttered. “But I don’t have to talk to you.”
Brian sat on the end of Sean’s bed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, you shouldn’t be mad. After all, you are a Mighty Quinn. We all know Mighty Quinns aren’t supposed to like girls. Da says they’re dangerous. Falling in love with girls will destroy us. Just suck the strength right out of us.”
Sean laughed derisively. He’d heard the Mighty Quinn stories for as long as he could remember and recognized them for what they were. “Yeah, well, if you believe all that crap Da feeds us, then you’re dumber than two piles of dirt.”
The stories had become a part of their family history, stories of strong and clever and brave Quinn ancestors who had slain dragons and fought ogres and rescued fair maidens. Though he’d enjoyed the tales when he was younger, he soon saw them for what they were—elaborate lies, filled with his father’s hidden warnings about the evils of the opposite sex.
“Remember that story about our long-ago cousin Ronan Quinn?” Brian slid a little closer.
“I don’t want to hear a story,” Sean insisted.
But Brian wouldn’t be deterred. He loved the stories. “Ronan was from a poor family who lived in a little cottage at the edge of a huge forest. His father was always away and his mother struggled to feed a family of six. When the last potato was eaten and the last bit of flour gone, Ronan knew they were in a desperate state.”
“I don’t want to hear a damn story!” Sean insisted.
“Yes, you do,” Brian said. “It will make you feel better.”
“So he decided to take his club and dagger and go deep into the woods to hunt the wolf,” a hesitant voice continued. Sean and Brian glanced over at the door to see Liam peeking in, adding his own part of the story. He waited, expectantly, hopefully, and when Brian nodded, Liam raced into the room and threw himself on the bed between them.
Brian reached out and ruffled Liam’s dark hair. “If Sean won’t have a story, then I’ll tell it to you.”
Liam grinned. “I love this story.”
Sean cursed beneath his breath and slouched on the bed, determined not to listen to another ridiculous tale of imaginary ancestors.
“The king had put a bounty on the head of every wolf in Ireland,” Brian continued, “and the bounty was enough to feed Ronan and his family for many years. But hunting wolves was a dangerous sport, especially for one so young. And with only a wooden club and a small dagger, Ronan would have to come face-to-face with a wolf in order to kill it—close enough to be killed himself.”
“Wolves have really sharp teeth,” Liam commented. “My teacher showed us a picture of one. They can kill a man.”
“Now, Ronan had never gone to the dark forest and wasn’t sure how to find the wolves. But he vowed to stay in the woods until he found his prey and killed it—or was killed himself. Hunger and thirst tormented him from the start. Then he came upon a small quail with colorful green and yellow feathers and thought, Here is my dinner. But just as he was about to kill the quail with his dagger, the bird turned to him and spoke.”
Liam spoke up in a high, wavering voice, “‘Please,’ she begged Ronan, ‘spare my life and if you do, I will give you a magic acorn. The acorn will give you one wish, and I will give you a piece of advice.”’
Brian nodded. “That’s right. And Ronan, always tenderhearted, couldn’t bring himself to kill the quail. So he took the acorn and bent closer for the bird’s advice. And what was it?”
“‘These woods are full of magic,”’ Liam said.
“So Ronan wished to have a bucketful of money, but nothing happened. ‘I’ve made a bad deal,’ Ronan said to himself as he headed deeper into the woods. He’d been fooled and all he had was a silly acorn in his pocket. Hours later, he still hadn’t seen a wolf or found a bite to eat. But he came upon a huge black boar, rooting in a clearing near a beautiful crystal stream. Ronan’s stomach growled and again he thought, Here is my dinner. He snuck up behind the boar and raised his club, but the boar turned and spoke. ‘If you will let me live, I will give you a magic acorn and a bit of advice,’ the boar said. But Ronan wasn’t about to be duped again. He wasn’t that stupid.”
“Yes, he was,” Liam said. “He took the acorn even though he was starving. And he got more advice. ‘Everything is not as it appears in the magic forest.’ That’s what the boar said. And that was good advice. Wait and see.”
Sean groaned. “Do we have to? You both know how the story ends. Ronan meets the deer with antlers of gold and gets a third magic acorn and more advice. ‘What you want and what you need are not always the same.’ And then he meets a wolf and—”
“No,” Brian interrupted. “This version is different.”
“How?” Sean demanded.
“Ronan meets a…a beautiful druid princess dressed in…in a sparkling white gown, with a crown of emeralds covering her long, blond hair. Ronan had never seen a woman so beautiful and he was immediately captivated.”
Liam frowned. “Wait. That’s not how the story goes!”
“Yes, it is,” Brian insisted, shushing his brother. “The druid