Celtic Karma in Lisdoonvarna

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I wrote this for my bb Zigster's birthday and thought I'd share. In Dublin slang, a mickey dodger is a nun. Amhráns are songs, bodhráns are Irish goatskin drums, and amadáns are eejits. Eamon is Edward and Cullen, hehheh, is truly an Irish name from Co. Kildare. Hope you get a chance to go to Lisdoonvarna Co. Clare. I stuck in Eamon O'Cullen for shits and giggles….Sorry Bella, Amelia's got him now. Oh, yeah, a hooley is a party and craic means fun All of other great fics for Zig's B-day can be found at http://www . fanfiction . net/~zigsbday

Thanks to AmaZen for betaing at the 11th hour.

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Mighty craic. Loads of frolics,
Pioneers and alcoholics,
Hairy chests and milk-white thighs,
And mickey dodgers in disguise.
There's amhráns, bodhráns, amadáns,
Arab sheiks, Hindu Sikhs, Jesus freaks,
This is heaven, this is hell. Who cares? Who can tell?
Oh, Lisdoonvarna
Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoonvarna!

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I'd way stopped crying and my past was behind me on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Very early, on a cool drizzly Irish morning, I stepped out of the terminal at Shannon Airport in county Clare feeling like I was taking my first baby steps as a single woman. I'd taken the ring from my finger before I left New York, but my finger still felt naked without it. Still, I was with my BFF Amelia, free as a bird, and a long way from Bill and New York City. Amelia slewed her eyes at me, guessing my thoughts, the way she always did and muttered, "Fuck him and fuck Lorena."

But the wounds still hurt, though now I was more angry than sad. He'd cheated on me and then married the bitch he'd cheated with. Pride fucks with your head in some nasty ways. I was proud. Too proud to have admitted the truth even when my friends tried to tell me. You know what they say about pride. The fall was long and very hard.

Still, my divorce was finalized. I was free and it was time to recover from the Big Hurt. Amelia arranged our trip as a "liberation vacation," saw to all of the details, and handed me my ticket when we went out to celebrate my new status as a single girl. Amelia had her heart set on a trip to the Emerald Isle because she gushed, "I love Irish guys! Those accents! Besides, I want to combine my DNA with a hot-blooded Celtic bad boy who looks like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Cillian Murphy, or Colin Farrell." Ihad no plans to combine my DNA with anyone's no matter how dark and Irish they might be. But my great-grandfather, Niall Brigant, was born and raised in Clare in the west of Ireland and I'd always wanted to visit.

We drove away from Shannon airport in a fine Irish mist and headed north-west past neat white houses, grey stone walls, green fields, cows, sheep, a ruined abbey, and the restless blue-green sweep of the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the Cliffs of Moher. The Emerald Isle indeed. Then, the countryside changed into a lunarscape of pockmarked limestone pavements crisscrossed by huge cracks, bursting with gentians, wild orchids and bloody cranesbill. We were in the Burren, the heart of the county Clare. As we did the tourist thing and maneuvered across four foot deep cracks in the limestone toward a Neolithic portal tomb, I could totally believe that unusual and magical occurrences, romantic and otherwise, happened here on a daily basis.

We pulled into a bright, modern B & B called Burren Breeze a mile outside of our first destination—the town of Lisdoonvarna. When I stepped out of our en suite shower, Amelia was grinning and fluttering around our room like a pheromone-crazed female moth. This, it turned out, wasn't far from the truth. We emerged fresh and clean and made our way to the parlor where the B & B's owner had Lyons tea; cheese, tomato and cucumber sandwiches, and the most delicious scones I had ever inhaled.

I was in the process of inhaling and nearly choked on a raisin when our hostess enquired with a twinkle in her voice, "So, ladies you're here for the Matchmaking Festival. There's quite a crowd this year."

She swept a practiced eye over us and winked. "But you two will do brilliantly. The lads are eager and burning embers are easily kindled."

She cocked her head at Amanda conspiratorially and I had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. O'Hallorin and Amanda were in cahoots. "You've set up your appointment?"

Amelia grinned sheepishly and my hackles rose. "Ah…yes…right after lunch at The Matchmaker's Pub."

Correctly discerning my need for alcoholic reinforcement, Mrs. O'Hallorin laced my tea with whiskey as she explained that one of Ireland's oldest traditions is matchmaking. And that it's done openly for five weeks in Lisdoonvarna. And that time was now.

" Ah sure, we're just a spot on the map, but when the festival gets under way, hoards of singles hunting for mates, or just wanting to mate, swell the town's population to the thousands." She glanced at her clock. "You'd best get going…you'll have trouble finding a parking space with the crowds."

The Mini Cooper's air was definitely charged as we drove the winding mile into town. My eyes bored into the side of Amelia's head as she whistled tunelessly and stared straight ahead.

"You're whistling in your very own graveyard chica," I hissed, " 'Cause I'm gonna kill you…"

Amelia smirked. "No …you won't. Not when you consider the…possibilities available to us… especially when you see who Mr. Daly's got lined up for you."

I groaned. "Jesus Amelia...I've barely climbed out of the pit …why the HELL would you think I'd want to jump back in?"

Amelia waved her hand in dismissal. "I know you girlfriend. Haven't I always called it right when it comes to your men? Didn't I tell you Bill wasn't right and that that Alcide guy was too mind-fucked and whipped…even when I knew you'd get pissed off at me? C'mon Sook…I love you sister! I'm doing this for you because I know in my bones you need this."

I knew that Amelia really did love me and was out for my best interest no matter what my opinion might be, so I stopped glaring, leaned over, and kissed her cheek even though butterflies were swarming in my stomach.

"OK. OK. I'll do this because you've very obviously gone to great lengths and schemed to get me here…and because I love you every bit as much as you love me."

Amelia just smiled serenely, reached over and patted my hand. "You won't regret it…"

"And if I do?"

Her mouth quirked, "Well, there are a lot of cliffs around here…I guess you could claim I was clumsy. Or…if it's a truly hideous experience, you pick me a guy just as bad as the one you wind up with and I'll have to hook up with him."

The town was swarming. Punks, Goths, bikers, conservatives, geeks, and mad looking Americans in cable-knit Aran sweaters, tweed caps, and Kelly green slacks that screamed, "I'm not awesome! I'm not Irish! But I'm available and very, very desperate!"

The horror. The horror.

Amelia wasn't leaving anything to chance. She had lined up a pro.

Willie Daly, our personal matchmaker, was holding court in a small front room at The Matchmaker's Pub at a table with a hundred-year-old, family-owned matchmaker's ledger. He stood, shook our hands, and pulled out our chairs like a gentleman, before getting down to business. My conspiracy theory gained a ton weight when he turned his attentions to me and was amazingly sympathetic and solicitous about my "troubles". What the hell had Amelia told him?

He opened his ledger and pointed to recent happy endings that began in Lisdoonvarna. Then he turned further back to pages curled from age. The ledger was stuffed with poems, photos and recent love-seeker applications. His accent was easy, slow, with a musical lilt.

"Sure an' there's nothing to worry about miss. My arrangements are all above board. Women sign up for free; men pay around twenty Euros. Take them or leave them as you please. At the Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival, it's the chemistry of a face-to-face introduction that can turn wishful thinking into a possible mate." His eyes flashed with humor. "Add in non-stop dancing, music, flirting, flowing pints, and racing hormones, and it's no wonder the festival's lasted for one hundred and fifty years. Your friend here has already corresponded with a prospective suitor, but most of my matches are made after the Festival. Ah…the musicians are warming up. Your lad should be here shortly. "

Amelia excused herself and made her way over to the session group where a short but gorgeous brunette flashed an adorable crooked smile and actually kissed Amelia's hand before she pulled him into a lip lock. I glared at Amelia. Et tu Brute. Ha! Conspiracy confirmed.

So there I sat, like a wilting wallflower, Willie Daly at my side, as the place packed and turned tribal. Bodhráns beat rhythmically driving the beat of jigs, reels, hornpipes, and stamping feet. Lust was in the air. Quite against my will and better judgment, I was in the market again. But what was I looking for--a prince, an angel, or just a good time? I was inclined to skepticism, and like our immortal Dubya said, "Fool me one shame on me; fool me twice…can't get fooled again."

OK. I decided, I was here with Amelia for the craic—nothing real, nothing intense. End of story.

There was a break in the music while the musicians refilled, and Amelia immediately dragged her Mr. O'Right over to meet me. The brazen hussy didn't look the least bit perturbed that I had figured things out. The musician, to give him credit, did seem a bit shy and sheepish in a sweet sort of way. Plus, he smiled his crooked smile and shook my hand with just the right amount of pressure as Amelia babbled.

"Sookie, this is Eamon O'Cullen. We've been um…corresponding. Willy set it up and …"

She smiled and her whole face lit up. "I feel like it's Christmas!"

As the Irish saying goes Amelia and Eamon were chalk and cheese from the get go, but they made it clear that opposites do attract. Eamon wasn't my type. He was almost too beautiful—but he did have the voice of an angel.

Amelia had her angle, but where was mine? It didn't take much looking around at this crowd of washed out patrons, eager women, and horny males both local and foreign to conclude that, besides Eamon O'Cullen, there were no members of the angel host anywhere within an ass's bray of the Matchmaker's Pub.

Until—holy Mary Mother of …incoming at six o'clock—of the Fallen variety, but an angel nonetheless. Everything was moving in slow motion except my heart—goose bumps—I felt hot, then cold –the room whirled. Shit! I was holding my breath.

Breathe Stackhouse. Breathe!

What was approaching me was six and a half feet of lithe grace and power—his mane of blond hair pulled into a pony tail --blue jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket and intense blue eyes the color of the restless waters off the cliff of Moher on a sunny day. And his face—God help me— high broad cheekbones, wide sensuous mouth--incredibly male—with a shadow of plush stubble across his chiseled jaw. And, Jaysus, he was gripping a guitar case and a bodhrán. I'm a sucker for musicians. Bill played the piano really well. If my angel could play, I was royally fucked.

His eyes locked on mine and I was caught. Deer in the headlights caught; in the path of a tsunami caught.

Be nice angel. I prayed. On second thought…storm the keep. Sack and pillage.

The bulge in his pants was heavenly. My eyes dropped to his fly and the zipper's tab. Mmmm. The beautiful bastard saw me do it and grinned a pussy-eating grin.

Eamon O'Cullen called out—"Jaysus it's Northman. Get up of your asses as fill up the glasses. The craic will be mighty now."

Breath in. Out. Yes. Another.

He was joking with Eamon O'Cullen and the other musicians, but his eyes kept coming back to me and mine were riveted upon him. I tried to tear my eyes off of him. Impossible. I was like a frozen hard drive whose lust program wasn't responding to my frantic attempts to reboot.

His eyes took me in head to toe with particular attention to my boobs. Willy grinned.

"That's yer man alright! Take a good look. Will I give him the nod then? The lads are slagging him something fierce."

I licked my lips. He noticed that too.

"Um…sure."

Nod? Hell yes! Give "yer man" a standing ovation just for taking up space and breathing. He threw back his head and laughed. A genuine laugh--rich and full bodied.

"Ah...leave off for a minute will ye!"

Fuck! His accent. A Viking god with an Irish accent. Assuming his peen was proportional, what more could a girl who was out for a good time want than this vision of dropdeadfuckinggorgeouness?

My fallen angel, my dangerous, addicting, temptation bent and carefully placed his case beneath an unused table displaying his high, tight ass right through the jeans. As he straightened and turned toward me, an American chick, with a Kelly green T-shirt that said "Hooley in My Pants" bumped into him, then nearly melted at his feet. He murmured something in a lovely Irish accent, but looked straight at me and smiled. Dazzling. Every nerve in my body went wild, sparking like a fuse about to explode.

Those eyes. That heartbreaking smile. The way he rubbed his thigh slowly up and down, up and down.

Every move he made said, Sex. Hot. Sizzling. Over every inch of you. Sex like you've never had it before and never will again.

And in the middle of that pub in a small town sitting smack dab next to a sixty year old matchmaker, I was away with the birds—lost. Fucked! When he came over and started to chat me up…I was putty—very happy putty—in his hands.

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Fictus Interruptus…Should I continue me darlins??