A Time for Every Soul

Niamh Ó Lochlainn: London, 2024

I writhed on the bed in pain, retching and nauseous, unable to even look at the destination I had paid such a steep price to journey to. The fairy folk had taken small sacrifices from me before. A lost bowl or cup here, a few drops of blood there. But this incantation meant consequences unlike any I had experienced before.

My body craved relief, an end to the pain, but oblivion would not come. The Aos Sí would take what I owed. I held back moans on the damp mattress.

Through the haze, I was grateful for the punishing pain.

It meant that it had worked.

Blurred by eyelashes heavy with tears, I saw a strange little room. Clothes strewn across the floor in all manner of colours, a small desk, a mirror leaning against the wall, and a window through which monstrous sounds roared. 

It was undeniable. I had succeeded.

I had travelled down the river of time and into future days. 

Oh Gods, the vomit was coming. I crawled to an ajar door and entered a damp, small room lined with shiny green stone. It somehow reminded me of a chamber pot, and perhaps that was why I saw fit to drag myself up to a stained white structure and retch into it.

The illness was ceaseless.

Ma and Pa and swam in my mind’s eye. Despite myself, I thought of little Nuala, too.

I groaned. It was like something was missing from my body and the pain wouldn’t go away until I found it. I dragged myself back to the bedroom.

I caught a glimpse of my own twisted – yet familiar – face in the mirror. This was interesting. The ritual I’d performed asked the Aos Sí to swap my spirit with the spirit of my descendent, to send me far from the oppressive routines of life back home in Corofin.

Yet, I looked the same. Haggard, thin and sweaty, yes, but essentially the same. I scooted closer to the mirror and peered at myself.

It was no coincidence that my descendant and I looked exactly alike. Time spoke a different language to us; one of patterns and symbols. My blood and her blood flowed in the same pattern, linking us across the ages.

I took a deep breath to steady myself through the sickly nausea.

Something was sticking out from behind the mirror. A tin box. I grabbed it and crawled back towards the bed on the threadbare floor.

I hissed as something sharp stuck into me. A long needle, like for sewing, with a clear tube attached to the end. As if I wasn’t in enough pain already! I flung it against the wall. Upon further inspection, I found dozens more under the bed. A place of hidden dangers, this room.

 Sitting back on the bed, I opened the tin box. Inside, there was a booklet inscribed “passport” with the name Lucy Loughlin.

My new name.

Lucy Loughlin: Corofin, 1524

Fuck. I felt weird. I reached for my… shit. I pulled my hand back under the blanket. It was fucking freezing. And the mattress was hard and cold, the blankets scratchy. I opened my eyes.

Was I high?

Somehow, I’d woken up inside a farmhouse from the history books.

I was lying on a straw pallet with a fire flickering in a hearth opposite me. The walls held shelves filled with pots and pans. Crisp winter daylight fell through the windows onto the stone floor.

I took a deep breath of the sharp air. The smell of smoke, animals, and straw clashed with the undeniable knowledge that I had knocked out in London.

God, I needed something to take the edge off.

I rose from the pallet and pulled the blanket around me. Rustling through the shelves, my clumsy fingers hit nothing but kitchen utensils. I picked up a large knife and caught my reflection in its dull length.

My cheeks were plump and red. Healthy. In fact, all of me felt a little more muscly than I did yesterday. I squinted. Maybe this was a fever dream. Maybe I’d died. Strange hell, this.

An older woman bustled through the farmhouse door. She put down her bucket and marched over, a fond smile on her broad face. 

“So, the princess awakens!” She wasn’t speaking English; I could tell that much. Yet I could understand her, like the meaning of the words still made their way to me. “You’ve missed all your morning chores, but you were so ill last night I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“Uhhh,” I croaked.

Her eyes narrowed and she loomed over me. “What mischief have you done now. Oh Niamh!” Her voice faltered. “You’ve changed… something.”

“Listen —” 

She stepped closer and truly looked at me. I tensed, ready to run from whatever the fuck this was.

“You are not my daughter,” she whispered. Pride cracked over her face and mixed with sorrow. “She did it. She finally did it. I didn’t believe she could. Or rather, I prayed she could not.”

My voice dropped to a hiss. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“Language, Niamh –” her lips trembled. “I’m sorry. You are not her, though you seem to have her body.” She let out a great choking sigh. “I must respect her decision.”

“Still lost over here.”

“I believe Niamh swapped you two. Took your place… somewhere and gave you her place here. I’m Úna. What is your name?”

“Lucy.”

“A strange name indeed.”

“It’s actually super comm… never mind.” I’d faced a lot of fucked up situations in my life. People dying who shouldn’t have died. People hurting me who I trusted never would. You survive by adapting. By accepting the new situation and pushing through. Or by telling yourself you’re high and playing along. I did both, scratching at my arms, pacing up and down.

“Where am I, then?”

Úna sniffed. “Corofin, County Clare.”

The name rang a bell. My arsehole of a mother was from this end of Ireland.

“And… what year is it?”

“1524.”

“Fucking hell. That’s 500 years ago.”

“500!” Úna’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “This child of mine has gone too far this time. Too far by a long shot!”

“Right. So how do we undo it?” If this woman’s bitch daughter was in my room and she touched my stuff, I’d kill her.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if she even survived!”

“Survived what?”

“The incantation. There is always a debt to be paid when it comes to the Aos Sí. An offering or sacrifice to the fairy folks for their help.”

“Well, that sucks for her, but I need to get back.”

“Good luck, child. Last night, all the planets were aligned in the sky. The veil between our world and the fairy world was thinned by this, the Great Conjunction. But the planets move. Niamh may have worked this magic on the only night it was possible.”

Not an option. Not a fucking option. Sometimes, to get out of crazy, you have to act crazy.

I stepped close to Úna. “Listen here. You’re going to help me get back or I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”

She slapped me. Wish I could say it was the first time that had happened.

“You won’t speak to me like that in my own home, girl. I’ll turn you out into the cold in a heartbeat and I don’t think you’re equipped to handle what’s out there.” She span and picked up a bucket. “There’s a Druid man in the village. Ask him. Perhaps the window of opportunity hasn’t closed yet.”

“Fine. How do I get to the village?”

 “He won’t be back until tonight. For now, out. The Aos Sí agreed to send you back here for a reason, and best I see it, that reason wasn’t to shirk Niamh’s chores. Your undergarments, dress and headscarf are all in that chest there, and boots by the door. There’s bread to bake and stew to make.”

In the absence of knowing what the fuck else to do, I did as Úna said. I’d speak to the Druid man tonight.

Niamh Ó Lochlainn: London, 2024

Another wave of nausea hit in unison with a loud knock at the door.

“Lucy, it’s Kieran,” a male voice said. “I’m coming in.”

Before I could protest, a large middle-aged man bustled into the room. He wore blue trousers and a floral shirt. 

“God, look at the state of you, girl.” He shook his head and sighed. “Listen, Steven and I gave you this room rent-free with the agreement that you’d work in the café.”

“Um, yes,” I said, through twinging muscle aches. 

“You used to be a good tenant and we wanted to help. To stop you doing … what you were doing to make money for your habit.”

He crouched down to me, levelling our eyes. His beautiful skin was unmarked, and he smelled fresh and clean, like grass after the rain. And his teeth! Straighter and whiter than even the carpenter Eoin O'Neill’s, and everyone knew he’d been blessed by the fairy folk with his looks. Was everyone in this time so perfect?

“This is the last straw, hon,” he said. “You can’t bring those dodgy fuckers round at all hours and not even show up for work at the café. You have one week to turn it around. And then we’re done. You’re moving out. Honestly, this time. Do you get me?”

I understood precious little of what he meant, but I did understand this; I had employment and a home – for now. I needed to rid myself of this illness and go out and keep it.

“Kieran, thank you,” I said. “I understand.”

“Time is running out, babe. Get it together.” He sniffed and nodded towards the chamber pot room. “Start with a shower.” He rose and closed the door behind him.

I spent the next few hours experimenting. Through levers, delicious warm water would rush out of the pipes. Lucy had soap that smelled divine and was like nothing I’d ever felt before. No wonder her skin was so soft, in the places where she didn’t have sores.

Beyond the sickness, my excitement grew. There was a village out there to explore, full of beautiful, kind people like Kieran.

Lucy Loughlin: County Clare, 1524

Úna and I walked to a small plot behind the farmhouse in the crisp morning air. We were harvesting turnips.

She showed me how to slide a fork into the soil and turn it, loosening its grip on the vegetable. Then, you pulled it out gently. The soil smelled rich and tangy. It clung under my nails and onto my fingers, until I couldn’t distinguish my own hand from the earth.

I marvelled at my strength and energy – well, Niamh’s. What must she be going through back at my flat, in my body? I’d run completely dry. No more smack. Gone to sleep crying and anxious about how I’d get the next hit.

I almost wished there was some left to help her through the pain. Would the withdrawal kill her?

“Ah, shit.” I’d pulled too hard, broken the turnip’s roots. 

“You’d better fix your language before Nuala gets home.”

“Why would this Nuala care?”

“She’s Niamh’s daughter.”

“Jesus. And I thought I was selfish. Who leaves their kid behind?”

“It’s complicated.” Úna shrugged.

“Go on.”

“Niamh was never much interested in finding a husband or having children. Said she’d become an old spinster and look after us. And I believed her – she had far too much ambition and thirst for knowledge to settle with a village boy. But just because she didn’t entertain the boys’ advances doesn’t mean they weren’t interested in her.”

“Oh, no.”

“Aye. Well. One of the lads caught her on her walk home one evening and did as men do. Eventually, and despite Niamh’s herbal remedies against it, she gave birth to a daughter. Nuala. I raise her as my own. Niamh doesn’t have the constitution for motherhood.”

“I see.” Shitty mothering ran in the family, then. Oh yes, Úna had explained how my blood and Niamh’s blood must be the same, if the swap had worked. Lucky me.

Úna and I passed the rest of the afternoon baking bread in the kitchen. She was a practical woman, who filled me in on life in Corofin with sharp wit.

Soon enough, the door flung open and Padraig, Úna’s husband launched himself merrily through it, holding Nuala. Úna had whispered to me prior that if Padraig didn’t notice a difference in his daughter, I wasn’t to bring it up.

“Hello my little lamb,” Padraig proclaimed as he swooped in to give me a hug, “and mama sheep.” He kissed Úna on the cheek and she whacked him with a wooden spoon.

Nuala reached out for me.

“Oh,” I took her. She was warm and heavy in my arms. Her little face, technically, my own ancestor’s face, looked rosy and bright. “Hey, kid.”

“Pretty flower,” she said, patting me on the cheek. She laid her head on my shoulder. Shadows of my own childhood came flooding back. I didn’t think, in my mum’s crumbling London townhouse, she’d ever held me like this. Would I have trusted her enough to rest my head on her? I’d have gotten a slap most likely. Or a punch.

I held Nuala tighter.

“Well,” I said, “I’d better get going.”

“Where you off to, chick?” asked Padraig. 

“I’m sending her into the village,” said Úna. “We need more herbs.”

“Get back safe,” he said, as I put Nuala gently down.

They equipped me with a lamp for the way back and a cloak for the weather.

I hurried out. Time to get the fuck away from here and back to my life in London.

Walking across the fields, seagulls swooped and banked overhead, screeching. I walked briskly, trying to ignore how the yellow winter light turned the bramble bushes into temples of beautiful, twisting architecture. How it haloed the trees. Beautiful.

Eventually, crossing a little bridge over the river, I walked into Corofin. Along the small street lined with stone thatch-roofed houses, I knocked on the Druid’s door.

Nerves gnawed at my gut. 

The door creaked open to reveal a small man, shrouded in a brown tunic and long beard.

“Well, this is interesting,” he said, slowly. “I see Niamh succeeded.”

So, he knew. He was probably the one who told her how to do it in the first place.

“Yeah, a real “success”, buddy. Look, I need your help. I want to go back.”

“Aye well, it’s only fair for me to share the knowledge with you. I am a man of the spirit world, not a jailer.” He assessed me. “The planets have moved past their full alignment. The boundary between this world and the world of the Aos Sí is growing stronger.”

“Shit.”

“However, there may still be a chance.”

 “How?”

“To cross time itself, you have to perform a ceremony for the fairy folk tonight. You have what it takes. Same blood as Niamh. Same determination, too. So, go to the Ó Lochlainn’s hawthorne tree at midnight. Bring an offering of milk. Invoke the Aos Sì. Then, speak the words of your plea and speak them true. Your petition must be honest and respectful. Thank them. Then, it is out of your hands.”

“That’s it?”

“That is everything. And remember, the conditions for this kind of magic will not come back around for centuries. It’s midnight tonight, or never.”

“Then midnight it is,” I said.

I walked back through the dark countryside to the Ó Lochlainn farm, my little lamp a beacon in the vast abyss. Above me, the Milky Way stretched like a vast galactic “You Are Here” sign.

There was no Instagram. No email. No phones.

There was Nuala, Úna and Padraig.

But there was also no smack. I walked and hot tears fell down my face. I had to go back. Though my body wasn’t craving the stuff, my mind was. Itching for it, burning for it. I couldn’t do without.

I’d do the incantation tonight, as instructed.

Niamh Ó Lochlainn: London, 2024

“It’s like you’ve had a personality transplant,” said Keiran, slicing up a cherry pie I’d baked that morning for the café. 

Steven stole a slice and nodded. “Or an upgrade.”

“Wow thanks, love you guys too.”

“Seriously, we’re just happy to see you happy.”

Healthy, happy and simply astounded. Every day after work, I sat in the British Library and read about the world around me. History, biology, literature, and so much more. I walked the city until my feet ached. I learned and learned.

However, I was haunted by nightmares about the girl I marooned in time, whose life I stole. And also scared – I didn’t know when another planetary conjunction would return. She could send me back at any time. 

The guilt drove me mad until I saved enough to travel to Ireland. I crossed the water in a great boat and drove myself back to Corofin. I asked around about the Ó Lochlainn farm, but nobody knew much of anything from so long ago.

Eventually, I wound up at the Clare Heritage and Genealogy Centre. They had a little display in a glass case with ancient pots and pans from the region. I walked over to it.

In the centre was a pot with graffiti on it. A label explained that the graffiti was in old English, very unusual for the period. The pot had been buried under a tree on a plot of land believed to have been a farm.

Face pressed against the glass, I squinted at the scribbles.

I stayed. Thank you. – Lucy