Title: Gaelic Wind 
Author: Ingrid Kane
Feedback: danisc@ntic.qc.ca

DISCLAIMER:
The characters are not mine. If they were, I'd be rich, famous, married and I'd know how to surf. 
The Celtic song "Full Circle" (mere coincidence) come from Loreena McKennitt's album "The Mask 
and Mirror".
CLASSIFICATION: Vignette / Story / Implied MSR
RATING: -- G --
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: (none)

ARCHIVE:Anywhere as long as my name and address is still attached and that the text is not 
modified from its original version.

WARNING: A bit different from what we are used to.

SUMMARY: In ancient Ireland, Dana Scully sings a celtic lullaby to her child.

To use the words of my good friend Katie, "this is what happens when
you have plenty of mood but no plot". Well, precisely. This is more
like an image. One that came to me last night as I was lying very
still in bed (like a corpse) and listening to Celtic music in the
dark, around 2am. That music is nothing if not atmospheric.

                        And I saw this.


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                                 GAELIC WIND
                                  by Ingrid Kane

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        The rocky cliff hangs several hundred feet from sea-level,
overseeing the tumultuous waters of the ocean beneath. The waves are
of a dark blue and green, and come crashing on the reefs, breaking in
so many drops of cold, relentless water.

        On the land, the green field runs from the horizon and comes
to a sudden, precarious stop at the edge of the high cliff. The grass
rug is thick, ever green. Its familiarity is a comfort for those
living here, for it is all that the landscape, an endless turf of
smooth hills, had offered to the eyes of Ireland for centuries.

        The sky is dark, the gray clouds covering the setting sun and
the rising night orb. They are threatening, but also comforting in
their presence. For rain is the source of life and its people are not
ones to attempt to stall its benefic actions. But the sky remains gray
and heavy.

        The air is thick and humid, full of the ocean's salty smell.
One could smell the forthcoming storm in the air, but one would
certainly enjoy its intensity. For a storm is never really
threatening. Neither is the wind, the powerful squalls running over
the water to climb the cliff and comb the grass of the clifftop and
field.

        And she sits, silent.

        Her long, curly autumn-orange hair is entwined loosely with
the wind, flowing gently behind her. The sensation is as always a
cleansing one. The woman is young and lovely. On her cheeks are
sprinkled pale subtle flecks and her healthy complexion creates a
stunningly beautiful contrast with her clear blue eyes. She is sitting
a few feet away from the cliff's edge, legs tucked under herself,
sitting on her feet. Her green dress is simple: long sleeves, a fit
bodice with a modest cleavage, a small belt hanging on her delicate
hips, the rest of the long dress flowing more freely. A delicate line
of gold decorates the hems, but it is the only hint of vanity, except
perhaps for the thin leather bandeau on her forehead. But that is a
decoration every woman her age is granted. And a small ring, one that
emprisons a small emerald in its tiny silver fingers, subtly indicates
that she is wedded.

        Her child rests in her arms, nestled in the crook of her arm,
head resting on her mother's shoulder. She holds her dearly, hugging
her preciously to her chest. The child, so small and delicate, no more
than six years of age, is her future, their own name communicated to
the next generation. Her love for her is fierce and unconditional. She
knows she would gladly sacrifice her own life for the continuation of
hers. But such a noble sacrifice is not necessary in this time. The
child is safe.

        The child's eyes are closed, hiding from sight her innocent
hazel pupils, although she is not asleep, expectant to what there is
to come. Her equally red mane is loose and floats freely around her
young face. It is held away from her brow by a deep blue head-band,
one that matches the color of her own modest gown, much like her
mother's although in a smaller version.

        And as everything around them stood silent, muted by the sound
of the wind and the water, a clear, soothing voice escapes from the
young woman's lips, directed to the child in her arms. The chant is
one that the young woman had learned from her own Celtic culture, one
that has been passed from generation to generation, a song her own
mother used to sing to her. It is calming in its slow rythm,
mesmerizing in its high-pitched melody.

                Stars were falling deep in the darkness
                As prayers rose softly, petals at dawn
                And as I listened, your voice seemed so clear
                So calmly you were calling your god

        She caresses the child's hair softly, a familiar gesture they
both constantly crave.

                Somewhere the sun rose, o'er dunes in the desert
                Such was the stillness, I ne'er felt before
                Was this question pulling, pulling, pulling you
                In your heart, in your soul, did you find rest there?

        The child melts into the slow rocking motion, her small hand
clutching instinctively at the velvety material of her mother's dress,
needing the constant contact. The clear voice of her mother lulls her
and sleep finally taunts her...

                You in your robes sang, calling, calling,
                        calling him
                In your heart, in your soul, did you find
                        peace there?

        As her voice died, her arms tightens around her child and
holds her safely on her heart, her fingers gently stroking the auburn
curls.

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Wow. That was SO fun to write. Expect more of this. I'll probably
throw in the father, too, for good measure...

Feedback is always appreciated. Tell me if you liked it. I need to
know someone actually *enjoys* the same things I do. And as I keep
saying, feedback has become a food group of mine now. Feed the hungry!

Don't let me starve!
-- Ingrid Kane
danisc@ntic.qc.ca

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