Free Wild Irish Roots (The Mystic Cove Series) by Tricia O'Malley Page A

chanting. A midnight-blue cove that glowed from within. And eyes. A sharp, crystal-blue pair of eyes stared at her through the flames.
    Keelin gasped and dropped the package. Her heart pounded quickly and she tried out some of the deep-breathing techniques that she had learned in yoga. Though her hands trembled, Keelin shook her head and laughed at herself. Her mother always sighed at what she termed "Keelin's Little Fancies" and clucked that Keelin would never find a man if she was always daydreaming. Keelin wished that these images were just daydreams or the result of an overly creative brain. Unfortunately, Keelin's talents ran more to the science side of things than the creative, daydreamer type. Yet, Keelin never knew how to describe the images she would see when she touched certain things.
    Things? Who was she kidding? Keelin thought. It didn't just happen with objects. It happened with people, animals, and even places. She had recently started to wonder if she needed to take her mother's not-so-gentle advice to go see a therapist. Her gut told her that a therapist would do little to shed light on Keelin's problems. She'd learned long ago to shelter herself and to keep these images that flooded her brain quiet. Living in Massachusetts had implemented in her a healthy fear of the repercussions of being different, if the history of the Salem Witch Trials indicated anything. 
    She held the package and took a deep breath before she immersed herself back in the image. This time, she focused on the feelings it brought.
    Dark images slashed at her. A fishing village at night. A lone dog wandering a hill. A man tying a fishing line. As Keelin waded through the images she decided that there was a sense of foreboding, yet also of homecoming, that threaded through the images. It wasn't evil, yet there was a sense of stepping over a threshold.
    It was almost as if she was being pushed away and pulled in. Her fingers trembled as she peeled back the paper. In some respects, she had been waiting for this. There had always been something in her life left unsaid – undiscovered even. Keelin wondered if this was finally her answer.
    A small book lay nestled in the paper. A rich brown leather cover, creased with age, and with hand stitching at the binding, encased the yellowed pages. Keelin marveled over the beauty of the simple craftsmanship. No words or symbols marred the soft leather, yet years of scratches from use weathered the cover to a perfect patina.
    The book seemed to speak volumes without a word on its cover.
    This book was old. Really old. Keelin wondered if she needed gloves to touch it. A book like this belonged in a museum, she thought. She gently opened the cover and gasped at the pages. These were vellum pages. Her hands shook as the enormity of the delicacy and strength of this book struck her. Keelin had known the book was old but writing on vellum dated back to the Book of Kells days. This was a book that was not to be taken lightly. Who had sent such a gift to her? Keelin suspected she knew the source of this gift. The real question was: why now?
    A folded piece of paper that was tied with the same twine and matching seal as the wrapping lay tucked in the front of the cover. Keelin gently pulled it out and unfolded it.
    The words struck her like a punch to the gut. 
    It is time.
    Keelin stared at the letter in shock. In recognition. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Her socialite mother carefully tinted the red from her hair, sniffing, "It's too Irish." But Keelin secretly loved her hair color and always refused to have it dyed when her mother's second-favorite stylist discreetly suggested the change each month.
    It is time.
    The words bored into her brain. Had she known this was coming? She held the letter up to her face. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Smoky, almost. Visions of a moonlit cove and a fire crackling, with strong voices chanting flashed through her mind.
    It