The Best Gift of the Blarney Stone

Sage was as silent as she was beautiful; it was this mystique that kept the boys guessing. It wasn’t that she couldn’t talk; she just didn’t want to. Ever. 

“Just a long drink of water,” her grandmother used to say about her, drawing out the o. Sage loved her worn blue jeans and faded T-shirts, her keds with holes in the toes--old things that flexed comfortably. She loved the farm life and bonded with animals better than humans. When lambing time arrived, she practically lived with the sheep. She frolicked with the lambs and nuzzled her face in their wool even if it wasn’t clean. She breathed the scents of lanolin, earth, and manure as if their smells were soul food. 

She noticed things: the tiniest baby bird fallen from a nest, a dead mole or vole, even the worms left drowned on the sleek pavement after a rain storm. These and more were, if not rescued, given a respectable burial, the tiny dirt mound strewn with wildflower petals gathered from the fields.

She loved to run, her long dark hair flying free behind her. And when the summer left heat waves shimmying from the tarmac, she loved the water. Her long limbs stroked a graceful freestyle, unmatched in races across the swift, flowing river to the opposite sandbar.  

As the years passed, music wrapped its blanket around her. She picked up a guitar and taught herself classical songs and pieces on the soft nylon strings. For hours she’d sit on the edge of her bed, guitar in hand, plucking and singing, lyrical and sweet—but always to herself. With music, she could express herself better than with words. 

She sang with the wind, bloomed with the flowers, and ran with the animals, leaving a magical air dancing in her wake. Other kids loved her wild ways, but as she grew, teachers became downright intimidated by her intelligence and aura, yet she never boasted a drop of deceit. 

As she started school, words escaped her at the least hint of formality. Free and happy with friends, her heart turned stony when faced with grownups and their relentless questions. Her chin would lower, she would stretch herself tall and imposing, and give them her silent stare. She was after all, an inch shy of six feet. 

Classmates drooled in envy at her grace and elegant confidence. Every boy was enthralled, and she never even tried. They vied for her attention, phone calls, gifts, and invitations. Often she’d accept, but she never took things further than a good, clean friendship. Her queen-like ways set her apart, aloof. One red-head boy, though, never tired of throwing his hat in the ring for her bid. He was bold and gregarious, as determined as a bucket of nails with the gumption of a racehorse. But his persistence was only met with ripples of laughter, not mean and condescending, just lighthearted, a playful poke at his valiant attempts. 

Devoid of swagger, flaunt, or sham, Sage just was. She never bonded with the loud, gossipy cliques; she didn’t need their validation. She preferred to keep her own company or those of simpler social standing. She never judged, but was constantly concerned about offending someone else. 

Towards the end of her high school years, however, her lack of words started eroding her self-confidence. Social settings set off paranoia. Her group of friends shrank to a handful, and she spurned the social life she used to enjoy. Entering crowded places, her heart palpitated, her hands shook. She’d rub her sweaty palms down her thighs and lower her eyes. She’d see groups of people standing, laughing, making small talk.

“I just can’t do that. I don’t know what to say.”

Young men plagued her, but she waved them off believing them to be an added stress she could do without. So many words, words, words. So many expectations. 

She finished a teacher’s training, however, and found that entering a classroom of kids, she was perfectly at ease. Kids simply loved her. While she carried a spirit of authority, she was also fun, vivacious, and creative-- herself. 

In a situation with adults, however, she broke out in sweat, trembling.

“I feel judged because I can’t talk. 

Adults judge you by how 

well you can talk.

People like

you if 

you can 

talk.

I 

can’t.”

***

For days, Sage planned her pilgrimage. A journey in search of words. Spring break was a few weeks away, and she would take a trip, a trip few knew about. 

Seated on the plane, she pondered how words are what make a person accepted in the adult world of complicated humans. 

The plane landed in Cork, Ireland, and she flagged a taxi. She wore her determined look as she stepped into the taxi. “Fancy a chat?” the driver asked. Sage was calm, her face set. She shrugged. She loved a good conversation, that is, if it was one-sided. She was a good listener. Always had been. 

“Here we are then,” the driver stated the obvious. “So, you have plans after this?” Sage shrugged again and grabbed her small knapsack. She nodded a thank-you and shut the car door. Before she started down the flower-lined pathway, she noticed the gray sky, the ribbons of clouds sweeping low, the green, the dampness of spring, the scent of growing things. Walking up the pathway, Blarney Castle appeared out of nowhere, its rugged fortifications beginning to crumble after nearly six hundred years of weathering. A faint rumble, a forewarning of storm, rolled in the distance, but Sage hardly heard it. Her mind was set like a mountain, stubborn like the Irish in their beliefs in magic. She entered the castle and started up the winding staircase.

Her mind spiraled with the stairs as she looked upwards, expectant. Step by step, all 128 of them. (She’d done her research.) She breathed deeply and quicker and with each circular turn, adventure returned to her heart like a little lost leprechaun. A gleam, a thrill, like a spark, rekindled the fire that once burned in her as a child. 

The steep passageway echoed gloomily, but her heart brightened with anticipation. She was on her way to claim words, words that would make her a better person, a person like everyone else who could jabber, play the professional game, and be “normal”. 

She climbed steadily as her fingertips brushed against the ancient stone, chiseled stone laid hundreds of years ago, silent, solid stones that spoke of ancient lore, stories with no words. Higher and higher. A cool wind wafted through her jeans and swirled up around her face. Periodically, the narrow windows revealed the thickness of the castle’s bulwark, silent walls that whispered Gaelic tales of witches and queens, intrigue, love and war, cowardice and bravery. Sage smelled the damp stone, the moss, age itself, and she smiled.

She reached the battlement and looked skyward at the now racing clouds, low and dark. Far below, the trees swayed wildly, plants and bushes bent with the oncoming wind. She breathed the ocean on the wind, the wetness of storm. She lifted her chin and let the first drops splatter on her cheeks and forehead. Irish rain worked magic, she had been told.

When it was her turn, she arched to lean on the rough rock and lowered her head backward for the enchanted kiss on the Blarney Stone, a stone set in the wall below the battlement, a magical stone thought to bequeath the kisser with the gift of the gab. 

Just as her puckered lips reached for the stone, a lightning bolt flashed from heaven to earth. In the same instant, a mighty clap of thunder reverberated through the Irish world, shaking the very ground upon which the crumbling castle stood. Leprechauns and witches would have fled from the fright, but Sage calmly straightened, her beautiful features upturned to face the deluge. She stood tall, alone on the battlement. 

In her mind, she heard the distinct and authoritative voice, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

“Wait, that’s old Shakespeare’s voice from over the Irish Sea,” she snorted to herself. “Can England and Ireland ever drop their quarrels?” 

Water gushed in rivulets through her hair, over her face, down her spine, and pooled in her sneakers. She smiled. “Words are sneaky things anyway,” she said to herself, “overrated and just a little mistrustful.” 

Her mind that so often moved in spirals unwound as she descended the narrow staircase. At the bottom, rain spattered gently and her breath came back, free and easy. She started down the pathway, her sneakers making soft sloshing noises with every step. Suddenly, a voice came as if out of nowhere, “Hi there, Sage, ah…what about we find a warm pub and grab some food?” His eyes twinkled in amusement. His hair seemed redder than ever despite the rain, more orange, like it was on fire, as bright as his indomitable spirit.

“Wh, what are you doing here?”

“I followed you here. I wanted to let you know I still love you. It’s been five years of chasing you. I saw that look in your eye when you left for this trip. I knew it was something important, and I needed to be a part of it. Marry me.”

He didn’t repeat it. 

“I know you’ve always found my conversation excruciating…” 

He was silent. A minute passed. Nothing but raindrops between them. He wiped at a raindrop cascading down her cheek. 

“But do you know me?” She grinned. “All that talking you’ve done over the past months, I was listening. I know you, but do you know me?” 

He pulled her close, and whispered in her wet ear, “I know one thing: I love you, and I just needed to give it a last shot and test my luck. ‘Chance your arm,’ the Irish say.” He lifted a wet strand of hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. He moved in to trace a finger over an arching eyebrow. “It’s St Patrick’s Day, after all,” and he gave her cheek a pinch. 

She could have stiffened and backed away. But her mind and heart were still unwinding from the spiral stairs, and she leaned into him, two wet bodies held close. 

“Look, love, there’s a wee bit of a rainbow up there in the mist. Marry me,” he said again.

And she heard herself whisper, “Yes.” 

“Let’s chance this together. Find our pot of gold.”

“But remember,” Sage said, “silence is golden, too.”

May the lilt of Irish laughter lighten every load. 

May the mist of Irish magic shorten every road. 

– an Irish blessing