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My current WIP is a novelization of the beloved Irish Myth, The Children of Lir. The Irish are enamored of this legend, as it symbolizes their emergence from 900 years of servitude under the English Crown. I am just about done with the first draft. Here is the opening scene... feel free to critique, I've got nice, thick dragon hide.


It is set around 500 BC in Pre-Celtic Ireland (well, barely Celtic). The race is the Tuatha de Dannan, who later became known as fairies by the Celts.




Mother screeched in pain as she gripped my hand. The blood dripped on the soaked floor, splashing the midwife’s skirts. I pushed my healing will through my hand into hers, as the ravens had taught us, but felt it blocked.

“No, Fionnuala, my special child,� Mother said, her voice raw but firm. “You must stay� stay and guard the children.�

The dank dimness of the round room began to close in on me as she screamed again. The rough nerves of her voice had little power left after two days of labor. Heat and sweat fought in that small space, and the urge to flee was almost irresistible. But I could not leave. Mother needed me.

Another scream scratched my ears, the wattle and daub walls, and the very air around us. In that scream was all the pain and regret of a lifetime.

Her hand grew flaccid in my own as the midwife shouted. My eyes grew misty, feeling her life force escape and fade into the Otherworld.

Mother had died.

In my grief, the room faded into a brown cloud of pain. The candlelight fled and I heard a strangled keening sound, ululating in a haunting rhythm. Belatedly, I realized it was my own voice, wordless in its sorrow.

Despite my wails, I heard a small noise of hope. The cry of a child. No, not just one. There were two squalling infants. Mother had given us twins with her last dying breath.

My cry cut off into a wretched sob, and a hiccup of hysterical laughter. In the end, she had come through with one last victory. My mother, the shining one. Aobh Bán, delight of my father’s eyes. She of the pale skin and white-blond hair. Famed through the land for her beauty and grace. Oh, how I ached for her to be alive again. My throat closed again, and my eyes soon followed suit.

Our nurse, Saoirse, bundled the children and made small clucking noises with her tongue as the midwife cleaned mother. No one else had been allowed in the birthing room. Father would be downstairs, still drunk. My brother Aed should be asleep, as the night was deep. I felt in my mind for my teacher, my anam cara, my raven, Hawlen. A drowsy answer came, with a flutter of wings. She would join me soon.

I stood and looked down at what had been my mother. The body was drained of color, pale as the full moon. There was no spark of life left, and yet I touched my hand to her cheek. It was still slightly warm, and I shivered. How could the Gods have taken her from me now? I was but eleven winters old, still a child, ready to embark on the wonders of womanhood. This is when I needed her the most. Aed was still nine, and the babies� how could they thrive without their mother?

The midwife put her hand on my shoulder, and I spun around with a sob in my throat. She backed up with a sad nod, full of understanding and resolve.

“Fionnuala, go. It must be you who tells your father.�

I rebelled at the notion. Why must it be me? She was the midwife, it should be part of her service. I was simply a child. But I was a royal daughter, and knew it was my duty.

Hawlen arrived and landed on my shoulder. She squawked and said, “I shall be with you, Fionnuala, fear not.�

With a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and went to deliver the news to my father.

I like the way it starts. :) For an opening scene, it's pretty good.

Thank you!

I just finished the first draft of this novel - 90,000 words. Whew! Now to edit...