Titel: Say it was only a dream

Sprache: Englisch

Summary: Maeve und Dermott mussten sehr viel durchmachen in ihrer Vergangenheit. Doch was ist damals geschehen?

Category: Abenteuer/Drama

Rating: ohne Altersbeschränkung

Status: Fertig

Maeve listened to the soft patter of raindrops falling gently upon the upper decks of the Nomad. Rain sounded different on the
open ocean, softer. It sounded more like pinpricks gently hitting the ocean swells than the constant drum on leaves and grass.
She liked the sound of rain—gentle rains like this one, anyway. She enjoyed the rhythmic pulse of the drops, lulling her closer
and closer to sleep.

But she couldn’t sleep just yet. Uncomfortable thoughts were hovering just below the sleepy surface of her mind, and she knew
their source. It wasn’t her.

Maeve sighed and pushed the blankets off her legs, rising. She didn’t bother to put her boots or vest back on, knowing that
she’d become soaked no matter what she did. The rain outside was warm enough; she wouldn’t get chilled. She stepped out
into the darkened hallway. All was silent.

Maeve threaded her way noiselessly through the galley and to the steps leading up top. She knew this place so well that she
didn’t need light to navigate in the dark—the movements were instinctual. After a year traveling on this ship, she should hope
they would be. But it was more than that. This place was beginning to feel like home, something no other place had done since
she left her first home at the ripe old age of eight years old.

Maeve stepped through the door, pulling it silently closed behind her. Rain, warm, fat drops, splattered on her as she stood on
the deck, blinking the water from her eyelashes. The deck was soaked and somewhat slippery, but her bare feet stepped
carefully along and she didn’t slip.

She found what she was searching for perched on the mast, a few feet above her. She gazed up at the brown hawk. Any
normal bird would have sense enough to get in out of the rain, especially a bird like a hawk whose feathers were not equipped
with the special waterproofing that waterfowl had. But this was no ordinary bird, and at the moment he was in the middle of
some very somber and very human brooding.

Maeve stretched out on the cool boards of the deck, lying down on her back with her head up against the mast. She
half-closed her eyes to keep the rain out of them, gazing at her brother from underneath dark lashes.

They tell me it’s not good to sulk over things that can’t be fixed, she said in her mind. Raindrops left dark circles on her
white dress—soon she’d be completely soaked.

Dermott’s voice muttered in her mind, full of self-doubt and self-reproach. Don’t throw my own words back in my face,
sister. It’s not kind.

Maeve rolled her eyes softly. "I’m not trying to, Dermy," she said out loud. "It’s just that I want to help you. It frustrates me that
you’re so sad so often. I know you want to be human again, and I’m doing my best to help you, but I only wish I could do
more."

Sweet, you’re doing quite enough, he said. When you said you were going to restore me to my proper form, neither of
us knew just how long or tedious an ordeal it would prove to be. He sent a loving tendril of thought out to her, almost like
an invisible hug. I do not want to see you waste your life trying to restore mine.

Maeve snorted her opinion of that statement and shook her head wryly. "And what, pray tell, should I be doing instead of this?"

Marrying Sinbad and mothering a stable full of children, Dermott replied matter-of-factly.

"Why you dirty little pigeon!" Maeve shrieked, sitting up and glaring at him. Her brother’s laughter rang in her ears and she
growled at him. She could tell just how much he was enjoying teasing her. Well, she was willing to let him have his fun, for a
moment anyway. Anything to get him to stop the endless round of self-doubt and pity that kept them both awake.

Admit it, Maeve, Dermott replied, his mind-voice containing a gently mocking smile. You wouldn’t deny it so fervently if
there wasn’t some truth to the statement.

"I’m not talking about this subject anymore," Maeve said, and that was her last word on the matter.

Ah, well, it was fun while it lasted, Dermott sighed, ruffling his feathers a little bit and sending a small shower of raindrops
down to his sister.

Maeve brushed the rain off and closed her eyes again, the rain cooling on her skin without chilling her. They’d been sailing for
weeks, and no rain until today. It was a welcome respite from the sticky heat of the Middle Eastern sun. She sighed and shifted
a little, making herself more comfortable on the floorboards. "Now that I’m up here, do you want me to stay with you a while?"
she asked. "I know you’ve not enough sense to come in out of the rain."

Please, Dermott sent back, a note of relief in his voice. Being alone gets wearisome. As well you should know.

"Derm, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself!" Maeve said, a note of entreaty entering her words. "You were the best big
brother anyone could ask for under the circumstances."

The words he sent back were full of bitterness. Oh, really? What kind of big brother pushes his little sister away when she
needs comfort? What kind of big brother leaves her stranded in a home that’s no good for her while he goes
gallivanting around the countryside? What kind of big brother—"

"Dermott!" Maeve’s voice was sharp. "Stop it! You were young and you didn’t want to be saddled with a little tagalong. You
did the best you could. You’re only human."

Not even that anymore, sweet one.

Maeve could have hit herself for her callousness. "Oh, Derm, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…"

It’s okay, Maeve. It’s okay. You’re not at fault for anything.

Maeve glanced up at the sky, Dermott a darker blot against the cloudy heavens. "Neither are you."
 

I can recall the sound of the wind
As it blew through the trees, and the trees would bend
And I can recall the smell of the rain
On a hot summer night, coming through the screen
I’d crawl in your bed when the lightning flashed
And I’d still be there when the storm had passed
Dead to the world till the morning cast
Its light all around your room
 

Thunder crashed, making the solid wooden walls tremble. It made her tremble, too, as she huddled in the corner of her little
bed, blankets all scrambled and jumbled in a heap around her. Her thin nightshirt hung from her lean frame and she shivered in
fear as the thunder struck and the lightning flashed. The room was hot and sticky from the summer humidity, but she didn’t open
the window to let the cool air from the summer storm into her room. She thought that the evil spirits causing the storm would
come in, then, too. So she sat in the corner and shivered and clutched at her blankets with two fists grimy from playing outside
and sweaty from fear.

A loud crash of thunder, even louder than the previous ones, sounded. It felt like it was just outside her wall and ready to break
through at any moment. She squealed in panic and darted off the relative safety of her bed, dashing through the open doorway
on the opposite side of the small room and rushing into the room beside it.

This room was bigger (and cleaner) than hers. The bed held a body, a body that wasn’t sleeping.

"Dermott?" The voice was tiny, and she twisted one frazzled red braid nervously around her hand as she watched her older
brother carefully.

He sat up on his elbows and grinned fondly at her. He was much older than her—seven years older, at least—and his hair was
a rich black as opposed to her bright red curls. His eyes were hers, though, a warm brown filled with emotion.

Now he held a hand out to her, motioning her to come to him. Another flash of lighting illuminated the darkened room and she
squealed again, diving for the bed. He half-pulled her up to sit beside him, rubbing her little back as she trembled.

"Hey, now. Storms aren’t that scary, are they?" he asked, grinning at her. She buried her face in his shoulder and nodded
vehemently. He chuckled and hugged her tightly for a moment before releasing her and tweaking her nose. "Silly one, storms
are nothing to be afraid of. They’re just Lugh’s way of giving water to the grass."

Maeve raised doubt-filled brown eyes to meet his amused ones. "Can’t he do it quieter? Without all the flashes and the
crashes?"

He laughed and gathered her into his arms, hugging her again before burying her under the blankets. "Crazy girl," he said. "Go
to sleep now."

"Let me stay?"

He pressed a hand gently over her eyes, keeping them closed. "If you’re quiet, little one. Now sleep."

"’Kay. Love you, Dermott."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The morning dawned sunny and warm, the sun slipping over the hills and painting everything bright and new, as if in atonement
for the awful night before. Dermott slipped out of the room, his clothes draped over one arm, trying not to wake the child still
asleep in his bed. She lay on her side all curled up in a little ball, one thumb wedged firmly between her lips, her cheeks glowing
faintly with health. He grinned at his little sister fondly, then stole away to begin the morning’s chores.
 

We lived on a street where the tall elm shade
Was as green as the grass and as cool as a blade
That you held in your teeth as we lay on our backs
Staring up at the blue, and the blue stared back
I used to believe we were just like those trees
We’d grow just as tall and as proud as we pleased
With our feet on the ground and our arms in the breeze
Under a sheltering sky
 

There were two big huge trees in the courtyard just before the house, two wonderful huge trees just perfect for climbing. She
couldn’t quite get up to the first branches yet—her big brother had to help her.

"Lift me up, Dermott!" she pleaded with him, reaching up for the first branch. He laughed down at her from his seat in a niche
before reaching down and hauling her up with one of her tiny hands engulfed by his fist. She squealed as the ground fell away
beneath her and his grip slipped. He was unbalanced from lifting her up, and they both toppled to the ground again. They lay
there, Maeve giggling a little bit every now and then, until they got their breaths back.

"No more lifting for now, little one," Dermott gasped as he stretched out on the ground. He crossed his arms behind his head
and leaned against them, staring up through the branches of the tall tree. The sun danced through the swaying branches and
dappled his skin with soft shadow.

"Make me a doll?" Maeve asked, reaching out to touch the sheath where he kept his whittling knife. "Da burned the last one."

Dermott’s jaw tightened a little bit at that. He didn’t like their father’s habit of burning the little wooden toys he made for
Maeve. Their father said Dermott was too old to be whittling and Maeve was too old to be playing with toys. That was
ridiculous—at least, the last part was. Maeve was barely seven. That was not too old to play with toys. That was the age toys
were made for. But their mother simply said to mind their father, so he didn’t say anything about it.

But he did make Maeve toys whenever he had the chance.

Now he pulled the knife out of the sheath and groped for a piece of small deadfall from the tree. It took minutes to carve the
green, supple wood into the crude likeness of a doll, with a smiling face and rough clothes. Maeve watched avidly, her face
right near his shoulder. He gazed back into her sweet, trusting brown eyes every now and then. Their father’s anger and
resentment hadn’t gotten to her yet. She was still an innocent little thing, and she trusted everyone. And Dermott most of all.

"It’s beautiful," Maeve breathed, touching the doll. Dermott stuck his knife into his mouth for a moment as he used both his
hands to give the doll to his sister. She cradled it against her dirty dress, a loving smile on her face. "Will you teach me how to
make them one day?"

Dermott resheathed the knife and leaned back against the grass. "One day," he promised.
 

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream
 

"Maeve! Dermott! Where are you? There’s work to do!" The hoarse voice was their father’s, and he was standing in the
doorway. Maeve pocketed the little wooden doll and stood up, ready to trudge dutifully up towards the house. Dermott saw
how her shoulders slumped, though. She didn’t like answering their father’s summons.

Dermott reached out and ruffled her hair, picking her up and setting her on his shoulders. She reached up and slapped at the
tree limb above her, showering moss down on them. "Thank you, Derm," she said, and he knew she was talking about more
than the doll. She was remarkably grown-up sometimes, and more than once he’d wondered if the Druid blood flowed within
her. They didn’t have any history of it in their family, but it wouldn’t be the first time it had cropped up unexpectedly. He
squeezed his little sister’s knee.

"No problem, little one. Best keep your doll away from Da, though. You know he doesn’t like them."

"I know." She leaned over, balancing precariously, and planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Love you, big brother." Dermott
grinned. She was always saying that. And he loved hearing it. He twirled around a little bit, making her giggle furiously.

"Love you too, sweet one."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Those aren’t the only memories you have, dear Maeve, Dermott sent down to her almost visciously from atop the mast.
Maeve blinked the rain out of her eyes.

"They are the ones I choose to remember."

I was not always such a good brother, if you’ll recall, he went on. When I got older…

"You didn’t want a little tagalong going everywhere with you. That’s perfectly natural, Derm."

Oh? Dermott’s voice was laced with sarcasm as he sent another round of memories, his choice this time, down to Maeve.
 

A big truck was parked in the drive one day
They wrapped us in paper and moved us away
Your room was no longer next door to mine
This kid sister thing was old by that time
But oh, how our dreams went bump in the night
And the voices downstairs getting into a fight
And the next day a silence you could cut with a knife
And feel like a blade at your throat
 

They were fighting again. Dermott could hear it. He hated listening to his parents fight. The sounds carried upstairs extremely
well, sounds of his father bellowing and his mother’s shrill voice calling back. Eventually though, that shrillness would be
replaced by hysterical crying. Then, usually, the front door would slam and there would be silence. But not tonight.

They just kept it up, on and on. He was alone in his room, a new room, not the one he grew up in. That house was far away,
almost on the other coast of Eire. His father had moved them to get away from their maternal relatives, because he said they
babied the children too much. Dermott sighed. Maeve missed her Aunt Shannon, and he missed some of their cousins. But that
was the reason they’d left.

The voices continued to argue, deep and shrill sounding at the same time now, neither listening to the other. He crept to the top
of the stairway, where he could see his parents’ shadows silhouetted against the far wall. They danced eerily in the firelight. This
new house was strange. It didn’t feel right; not like the old one. It even smelled funny. But that’s what his father wanted:
something that they didn’t understand. He wanted them to be completely dependent upon him, and not have anyplace else to
turn. He wanted control.

Dermott couldn’t make out the words—all he heard was the high pitched, furious voices. His mother said something sharp and
biting…

And his father slapped her across the face.

The sound of the smack rang through the house, and then all was silent except for the frightened sobs of his mother. Dermott
winced, his heart refusing to beat for a few moments. His father had hit his mother.

A small whimper came from behind him.

Dermott whirled around to see his little sister standing in the hallway, an old wooden doll she’d somehow managed to save
from her father’s anger in the pocket of her nightgown. Her hair refused to stay in braids, and now it hung in curly tendrils down
her back. She gave another whimper, her brown eyes big and dark against her pale, scared face. She didn’t move, or make a
sound—just that one whimper.

Dermott sprang up and grabbed her arm soundlessly, propelling her back into her room. "What are you doing?!" he hissed, his
face inches from hers. "Do you want to be next?"

"I want my mama," she whispered, trying to free herself from his tight grip. "He hurt my mama!"

"And he’ll hurt you if you don’t shut up!" Dermott said, giving her a rough shove toward her bed. She stumbled toward it, but
turned to gaze at her older brother with pleading eyes.

"Let me go with you, Dermy," she pleaded. "I’m scared!"

"You’re nine. You’re not supposed to be scared anymore," he said, and turned to go. Maeve leaped for him, clinging to his
nightshirt.

"Dermott!" She looked up at him, her usually cheerful face pinched and white. "Please!" She sniffled. "You said I wasn’t ever
gonna grow up. You said I was a fairy child…"

He bent down to her level, his nose almost touching hers. His brown eyes burned mercilessly into hers. "Do you know what a
fairy child is, Maeve? A fairy child is a changeling, something stupid and ugly the fairies give to mortals when they steal a real
baby away. And they witch the parents to think they still have a real, sweet baby. But the older brothers always know better,
and they make the changeling to back to the Shadow-land where it belongs." He leered at Maeve. "Do you want to go to the
Shadow-land, Maeve? No? Then go to bed!"

She shook her head fiercely. "It’s not the big brothers that know better, it’s the little sisters!" she whispered vehemently. "You
must’ve been taken by the fairies, because you’re not my nice big brother! My brother would never say that!" She glared at
him, her small white face defiant.

Dermott, at a loss for words, snatched the wooden doll from his sister’s pocket. He stared at its crude features for a moment
before throwing it into the fire and stalking out of the room.

Maeve sat at the fireplace for a long time after that, watching her toy burn.
 

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream
 

"Dermott, you were young and scared," Maeve said wearily. "It was late at night, our parents hadn’t stopped arguing since
dinner time, and I was being difficult. You didn’t know how to handle it. I don’t blame you for what you did, love. Why must
you blame yourself?"

Because I hurt you! he shot back. The rain spattered down, warm and welcoming, on hawk and human alike. Maeve was
thoroughly soaked by now, and she didn’t care. Dermott ruffled his feathers again and Maeve heard his mental sigh. Don’t you
think I haven’t asked myself a thousand times why I hurt you like that? I wish I could go back and change it, but I
can’t. I’m so sorry, sweet one, but I can’t change the past. And I haven’t the means to change the future.

"No, you haven’t," Maeve agreed softly. "That’s my job."

Maeve, I hate to see you wasting your life because of me. I love you, my sister, and I want to see you happy.

Maeve blinked a particularly fat raindrop out of her eye. "Then let me continue on my quest! Seeing you standing straight and
tall as a man will make me happy."

Maeve, sweet one, what did I ever do to deserve you?
 

The day you left home you got an early start
I watched your car back out in the dark
I opened the door to your room down the hall
I turned on the light and all that I saw
Was a bed and a desk and a couple of tacks
No sign of someone who expects to be back
It must’ve been one hell of a suitcase you packed
 

It was empty. There was nothing left. Maeve gave a shuddering sigh and looked around. Dermott didn’t even know she was
awake. All he knew was that he was leaving. He didn’t care about anything else, or he would have heard her tears. She
crawled up into his bed, stripped of its quilt, and leaned out his window. She saw the wagon he’d built the summer before, and
the horses he’d bought at auction. They were traveling slowly down the road, away from it all, toward Dublin. She watched him
until he crested a rise and dipped down out of sight. He never looked back.

Maeve leaned back into the sheets. They didn’t belong to Dermott, so he hadn’t taken them. He refused to take anything that
didn’t belong to him. She looked up at the drawing of a city street in Dublin he’d sketched on the wall. He wanted to get away
from this living and go where excitement was. He didn’t want to stay in this house where his mother wore long sleeves and
high-necked shirts to cover her bruises. And Maeve couldn’t blame him. She didn’t want to be here either.

Slowly she fingered the only wooden toy she had left—a small hawk her brother had carved for her almost six years ago. She
was growing up. Thirteen was too old to play with toys. Her father would skin her alive if he knew.

But he didn’t know. He thought she was the perfect daughter—obedient, quiet, tame. She hadn’t said a word when he told her
she’d be marrying the son of his friend in a few years. She knew better than to tell him there was no way in hell she was
marrying that stuck up bastard. She was going to follow in her brother’s footsteps and leave, as soon as she was old enough.
Five years was a long time to wait, it seemed. Eighteen seemed so far away. Dermott was twenty. That seemed even farther
away. Would she make it until eighteen or twenty, alone in this big house with her mother and father? Maeve knew she would
have to.

Slowly she knelt at the fireplace and tipped the remaining toy into the embers of the fire. The glowing coals snatched at the old,
dry wood, but it didn’t catch immediately. Maeve regretted her decision almost instantly and, without thinking, snatched the
bird back with her bare hand. It felt warm, but didn’t burn. She didn’t think it strange at the time, though later she would
wonder. Silently Maeve pocketed the toy. She would keep it to remember him by.
 

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream
 

Maeve yawned and sat up, shaking the rain out of her hair and eyes. "I’m tired, and it’s the middle of the night," she said,
standing. "I’m going back to bed." She squinted up at the dark shape on the mast. "Will you be all right?"

Yes, my sister. I will be fine.

Maeve continued to watch him for a long moment. "I will restore you, Dermott. I promise."

Her brother’s mind-voice was soft and loving. I know you will, Maeve. I know you will.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sinbad was in Maeve’s cabin when she entered, sitting at her desk. He rose as she shut the door behind her, raising an
eyebrow at her soaked appearance.

"What were you doing, Maeve, dancing in the rain? Is it some strange Irish ritual I don’t know anything about?"

Maeve rolled her eyes and made a face at him. "If you must know, I was talking to Dermott. He hasn’t the sense to come in out
of the rain."

The captain grinned. "Neither have you, apparently," he said, taking the blanket from his shoulders and wrapping it
considerately around her wet form.

"Thank you," Maeve said, stifling a yawn as she accepted the blanket. "To what do I owe this visit?"

Sinbad shrugged. "I had a question to ask you, but I kind of forgot." He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry."

"No apologies necessary," Maeve said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I’ve had too many today already."

Sinbad gave her a measuring look before letting the comment drop. He glanced around the room uneasily, as if searching for a
reason to stay. The gulf of silence widened.

His eyes lighted upon a small wooden hawk sitting on a shelf. He stepped over and picked it up, turning the rough wooden
figurine over in his hands.

"Is this Dermott?" he asked, curious as to why Maeve would have a homemade child’s plaything in her possession. He looked
up at her with calm curiosity in his eyes.

Maeve stepped over to him, her shoulder brushing against his. He shivered involuntarily, his memory reminding him of how she
looked, clad only in her white dress, soaked to the skin, when she first entered her cabin. She took the toy from his hands,
cradling it absently in her long, slender fingers for a moment.

"It was a gift," she said softly, returning the toy to its place on the shelf. Her hand lingered upon its wooden back for a moment,
her eyes unfocused, as if remembering something from long ago. Sinbad found the nerve to touch her cheek gently.

"Maeve? Is there something you’d like to tell me?"

She gave a little shake, as if pulling herself back into the present moment, and gave him a small, contemplative smile. Sinbad let
the gesture warm his heart for a moment, losing himself in her strange beauty.

"Perhaps, Sinbad. Not tonight. But perhaps."
 

Twirl me about and twirl me around
Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground
And when I look up at you looking down
Say it was only a dream