Time Bends Different

Standing on the edge of the Saint Laurent river, a spot known only to locals but nonetheless with access forbidden as it is lies within private property lines. It was 7:10AM, the sun flooding the sky with warm light and vibrant pinks painted as if with a haphazardly applied brush, accented by a pair of white clouds shaped like wings. “Like angel wings.” She said softly to no one. Filling her lungs with a deep breath as she searched the skies for answers to the questions looming heavy in the corners of her mind. As she was turning to leave, pulling the edge of her coat tighter, she noticed something move out of the corner of her eye.

Her eyes fell upon a tall dark-haired man with a short-trimmed beard and loose ponytail, dressed in fitted grey sweats and a black hoodie, he made a pfft sound “Dragon wings” he corrected her with a discernible Irish lilt in his voice. He stood about 4 feet from her and leaned heavily on a cane held in his left hand. “Sorry?” she said a bit startled that she had not noticed him arrive. “Everyone, or at least a lot of people, think that they are angel wings. They are in fact not. They are dragon wings.” He explained. Nodding, she was suddenly cognisant that her legs in that moment felt immobilised, quickly scanning the area behind her. “Would you be wanting to see the dragon then?” he asked her casually. Putting a hand on her hip, she raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “I think I have seen enough thanks.” As she turned to leave, she thought to herself ‘Does that even work nowadays?’

After taking few steps back towards the road, she heard and felt the whoosh of air behind her. Turning abruptly, she was confronted with something that was not at all what she expected. About 10 feet in front of her was a smooth luminous white creature that could only be described as a dragon. It stood slightly taller than a 6-foot man and easily 4 feet wide, with a potential wing span of about 12 feet. Her eyes darted to the right where the man had been, but he was no longer there. “ughh, okay” she muttered to herself. The dragon tilted its head and seemed to smile. A voice sounded in her head “I could show you the wing span if you like.” It was the Irishman, but he was nowhere to be seen. She whipped her head around expecting to see him behind her. Satisfying herself that he was not in the vicinity, she turned her attention back to the dragon. Stepping cautiously forward, she peered into the eyes of the dragon. They were a green/brown blend and deep enough to drown in. A gasp inhaled, “it’s you then.” She uttered softly. Another smile, or at least what looked like a small lift of the corner of the mouth in acknowledgement.

“I have to go to work” she said briefly looking at her watch. “You don’t.” He remarked “Time isn’t linear here.” Confused she asked him “What do you mean? Like we are in a bubble and time stands still here?” The dragon swished his tail back and forth before saying “It’s like, you have time that functions normally out there, and here it’s different. How it bends though space. Like it takes longer to complete, if that makes sense.” Stuffing her hands in her pockets, “so, are you like trapped here in this realm then?” she asked him. Another pfft sound “I am not trapped anywhere. I am slave to no time.” Raising her hands before her, “I think we started off on the wrong foot. I meant no offense. But what are you doing here, next to a river, in Montréal?” she asked him. “Full of questions aren’t you?” He remarked. Throwing her hands in the air, exasperated she asked “Is there a limit to the amount of questions one can ask a dragon on the riverbank? I mean it isn’t every day you are confronted with a dragon, much less a white one. Let alone somewhere, so suburban.” Not sure if she imagined it or not, but she was almost certain she saw him shrug a shoulder. “At any rate, slowed time or otherwise, I have to go to work.” As she turned to leave she heard a snap and again felt a gust of wind behind her. The dragon descended from the air above her landing in front of her as though he was trying to prevent her from leaving.

“If I am honest,” he started “something has bound me here, and I need it broken in order to ...” he trailed off, watching her face intently as he spoke. She crossed her arms in front of her. “What is it and what does it have to do with me?” she inquired. “Not everyone has eyes that see.” He answered. “Since you are able, I mean to ask you if you will help me.” Stepping closer to him, she asked “my answer depends on what it is, I cannot say yes blindly and have you ask for something impossible to obtain. Also, what is the risk, if I say yes and fail?” The dragon threw his head back and appeared to laugh, “The risk is negligible to you, but immense for me, as I will continue to remain here until someone can.” A slight nod and she said softly “Okay, I will help you, what is it that we need to do?”

In her mind’s eye he projected images, she was assaulted by several fast-moving images, the first of which was a silver chalice held high towards the moon in the night. The second item was stiff green reeds, she saw hands working them into a symbol that she knew to be Saint Brigid’s cross. The third image was a single malt Bushmills whiskey being slowly poured into a clear shot glass. The fourth image was a circle of tealight candles. The fifth was an old book opened in what looked like the center, a red liquid covering the pages. Reeling with nausea when the visions stopped, she said “Do you think I am a witch?” He turned his back towards her and began trans-morphing back into the man he was earlier. “Are you not?” He stepped aside and let her pass and followed her to where her car was parked.

“I suppose it will be easier to drive around with you in this form than the previous.” She said nervously. He said nothing as he opened the passenger door and got into the car. He set his cane down resting it between his legs and pulled the seatbelt around him. “I didn’t catch your name.” she said as she started the car. “I told you already.” He replied “It’s Darragh.” Clipping in her own seatbelt, she replied “Okay, sorry if I didn’t remember. I’m Margaret but everyone calls me Mags.” “I will call you Mairéad.” He told her. A shiver ran up one side of her and down the other when he said that, an overwhelming feeling that something had just been unlocked was upon her.

“So, tell me about how you ended up here?” she asked him as she entered the autoroute heading west, but he wasn’t listening. Further questions fell to the floor without being asked or answered. After pulling into a strip mall parking lot, and finding parking, she twisted in her seat to grab her purse from behind him. As she leaned towards the seat, he turned to her, her eyes scanned his face. He had insanely gorgeous eyes and a sharply defined jawline, a perpetual cocked eyebrow and the hint of a smile being suppressed. A blush rose to her cheeks, she quickly looked away. The liquor store was to be the first stop and where she found the Bushmills single malt. Margret reached deep on the shelf and chose the one with the promotional shot glass still attached. In the same mall complex there was a charity shop a few doors down that she had seen silverware before. As they walked down the corridor she slowed her pace, noticing that he was lagging a bit behind her. “What happened to your leg?” she asked. “I broke my ankle.” He replied matter-of-factly. “Is it at least a good story?” she pressed. “No.” was all he answered.

In the charity shop they headed to the back where the silverware was on display. Handling each one until he put his hand on her arm, she nodded. A warm radiance emanated from the spot his hand was, and even though it was a brief moment, it felt like she could still see the mark. Tealights were found at the nearby Dollar store. The reeds would be the trickier item to obtain she imagined.

When they got back to the car, he told her “We need to go see Eamon in the West Island, here is the address.” Producing a small card from his pocket. Margret took the card from him and punched it into her car’s GPS, his hand again brushed hers when she returned the card to him. Rounding a corner after a short drive they headed into the cul-de-sac that was shaded by a semi-circle of 3 storey apartment buildings. The ride in the elevator up to the top floor was thick with more silence. Stealing glances at him while he leaned against the bar taking the weight off his ankle, she noticed a stray lock had escaped the imprisonment of his hair elastic and dangled against his cheek. She opened her mouth to say something, but the doors opened, interrupting her.

The entrance of the apartment at the end of the hallway appeared darker than the others due to a burnt-out light in the ceiling above. She stopped about 20 feet from the door, sensing her hesitation he turned to her and extended his hand. “Eamon is a dear friend and no harm will come to you here.” Sliding her hand into his, she felt all the worry and anxiety around being in this building with an absolute stranger, about to head into an unknown apartment, slip away. His hand was warm and soft around hers and he gave her hand a small squeeze.

The door swung open long before they reached it and another equally tall Irishman wearing comfortably worn-in blue jeans and a Mayo jersey greeted them in the hallway “Dias duit.” He said in Irish. Darragh replied in kind “Dia is Muire duit.” And followed up with, “Mairéad is going to lend us a hand tonight.” Margret looked from Darragh to Eamon and back searching for some clue as to what the plan was, or when she would be filled in. “Come on in then.” Eamon said waving them through. The apartment was sparsely furnished as though there was a sting operation going on, like the kind you see in movies, evidence suggested that no one actually lived there full time. Reaching down into a backpack on the floor by a cheap and poorly assembled Ikea desk and fold out chair, Eamon pulled out a black leather-bound book and handed it to Margret. Unable to keep the surprise from her face she blurted out “is this the book from the vision?” The two looked over at her, and for a moment neither saying anything. They soon returned back to each other and continued conversing in Irish. Margret pulled the book to her chest and walked about the apartment. Take out containers spilled out from a tiny trash can in the corner next to a window that overlooked the parking lot. Surprised to see how dark it was now outside, Margret wandered back over to the two of them, who were still engrossed in conversation. “Um it is starting to get late, it is already dark outside.” She said interrupting them. Darragh looked over at the window behind her and nodded.

The car ride back to the river was short given that most of the traffic in the area had eased by then. Margret found a shopping bag in the trunk of her car to carry the items in, and they made their way back to the water’s edge. At nearly the same spot where they had met earlier, Darragh explained where the tealights should go in a wide circle. She placed the book on the empty shopping bag and started balancing the tea lights. Darragh disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a handful of reeds. Handing them to her, he explained how the center square was started. He watched her fingers, mesmerised as they flipped the reeds back and forth, weaving end over end creating the cross. “It is like you could have lived a few years in Ireland.” He told her softly. Laying the cross next to the book, once it was finished, Margret picked up the first tealight and searched for a lighter or matches that she thought she had. When she turned around, Darragh was standing a little too close to her and produced a match box from his pocket. Feeling the heat rise off his body, looking from his eyes to his lips, a desire stirred within her. Darragh simply struck the match head along the side of the box and held the flame between them. In that moment, Margret attempted again to make eye contact while she tilted the first candle into the flame, his distracted gaze did not meet hers and the light of the flame flickered in the faintest breeze that rose up, she shrugged and proceeded to light the rest of the circle.

Darragh flipped the book open to a well-marked page and said “pour the Bushmills into the shot glass.” he said as he placed the chalice next to the book and stepped out of the circle. Nodding, she twisted the cap off and tucked it in her pocket while she slowly poured the amber liquid into the shot glass. Once done, she stepped over the tealights and extended it to him.

Darragh remaining on the outside of the circle, shook his head, took the shot from her and downed it quickly. Returning the glass to her, he instructed her to refill it but from within the circle. “Once the circle is lit, you mustn’t leave it, no matter what.” He told her. She did as he instructed and gently placed the shot glass down and screwed the lid back onto the bottle. She reached for the shot glass and as she held it up to the light of the moon, she heard crackling sound. The small glass exploded and cut open her hand. Dropping what was left in her hand, she instinctively reached for something to soak up the blood, the closest thing was Saint Bridgit’s cross. Droplets of blood and whiskey stained the book beneath her hand and the memory of the images from before flashed behind her eyes once more. Looking to see if there was any glass left in her hand, Margret noticed that the glass had split cleanly in two and only one half was covered in her blood.

The night was interrupted by the sound of Darragh’s scream, she whipped around to where he stood. His outstretched arms pinned by an invisible force, a shape began smoking and taking form underneath his t-shirt. Saint Bridgit’s cross began to appear on his chest, the same as the one that she held tightly in her hand. Red soaked through the t-shirt from the center and further emphasized the charcoal like outline. Throwing his head back he cried out in agony, as it brought him to his knees. Tears streamed down Margret’s face, and she dropped the cross to her feet. She desperately wanted to help him but it was as though her feet were cemented in place by a mystical force from within the circle.

A minute within an eternity elapsed and Darragh collapsed on the bank of the river. A wind rose and extinguished half of the candles. The weight that she had felt holding her ankles had eased and Margret rushed outside the circle to Darragh’s side. Placing her hand on his chest she felt the intense heat from the symbol as it continued to burn into his flesh. Grabbing the chalice, she scooped some water from the river and brought it to him. “Purify this water and let it heal the wounds.” She whispered across the rim of the chalice, before blowing the command across the surface of the water. Lifting his shirt to expose the cross, she trickled the water across the image and watched the steam escape as it contacted his flesh. Once the chalice was empty, she set it down next to her and bowed her head resting her forehead on his shoulder.

A gasp for air broke the reverie between them as Darragh coughed and rolled onto his side. Jumping to her feet, she held her arms out, helping him to his feet. Pulling her tightly to his chest, she closed her eyes and succumbed to his embrace, “did it work?” she whispered. “Tá, mo chroí.” Was all he said. Taking her face in his hands, his thumbs rubbed softly along her skin, before he kissed her forehead. Tears began to stream down her face as she gently shook her head. “Don’t leave.” She begged him. The tighter she held him the more she felt him slip away. He bent his head down and pressed his lips firmly against hers, before he was enveloped into the night sky. Falling to her knees, her face cupped in her hands, she sobbed. Turning her eyes towards the river, she spotted the reflection of the two white dragon wings in the sky. Watching them as they grew smaller and smaller until they too, eventually disappeared.