Hello, readers! This story kind of came to me randomly… I've been writing a story for Carlisle and Esme, and some of my chapters I was going to upload erased and I kind of had writer's block for it after that… you know, when your chapters are erased and you can't write them as good as when you did the first time? Oh, so I decided to write a story about Maggie, because I noticed that there weren't a lot about her… Old-time Ireland has always kind of made me interested anyway, and I did some research and here I am…
I don't own Maggie or any other characters created by Stephenie Meyer, but I do own the ones I make up… Enjoy! By the way, I get a lot of inspiration from the CD Celtic Mystique, so if you want to listen to that while you read it, I'm sure you can find it on YouTube… ENJOY! SORRY FOR THE LONG DISCLAIMER!
Prologue
Da was a tenant farmer, so we lived on the same land he farmed. It was a small plot of land, only a few acres, but to me, it was the whole world. We lived in a banjaxed old house that was groaning at the seams, but we always made do with what we had. Though I always knew we were poor, we weren't as poor as some, and I was proud of my Da for giving me something to brag about to the others. He always said if you can't get blood from a stone, you can't get blood from a stone. He worked hard for our family's money, and we were fortunate to not be left hanging at the bottom of the food chain.
My father never came home buckled; I'd only ever seen him drunk once after Ever was born. It was a tough winter, and Ma was dyin', so he was a little mad in the head. I hugged him and told him 'Daddy, Daddy, please don't drink like those langers in town." I was six. Having heard the word from an older boy at school, I had no idea what it meant. I was knocked off my feet when he clubbed me in the head. Apparently ,he wasn't that drunk, and he damn well knew everything his six year old child had said. Any boy at school that called my family culchies would say hello to my fist, and they would be a'swearing like there was no tomorrow. That's where I learned most of the words. In school-yard brawls.
I was a good little one. People always said what a cute one I was, and always pinched my cheeks; my least favorite part of being "cute". Ignorance was bliss to me; I didn't really care what anyone else thought of me unless they called my parents something full of it. Their parents were usually pious morons that thought my family, the McAuleeys, an unsatisfactory bunch of dirty, gammy kids who didn't have an education. Which was a lie, because every one of us walked the two miles to school every day, swinging my leather book strap on the way. It wasn't exactly my fault if they got slightly muddy. But I found out the teacher wasn't kidding about slapping my wrists with a ruler if I got so much as a smudge on them. Ma was never happy about the notes the teacher sent home with me.
I knew when a person was lying. I never tried to keep quiet about it because when someone was lying to me, I felt the great need to blurt out the truth in front of whoever they were lying to. If a man tried to cheat father out of money, or when another kid questioned my pride, I was punished for voodoo and witchcraft. That was why my only friend was Tad.
Thaddeus Magnus Pritchett was the best, and only friend I had. He was poorer than I, and if the others at school thought the McAuleeys were dirty, mingin' muck-savage, Tad was much worse. His family was so poor, he could only come to school half the time because money was so tight, and he was often working out-of-town. Sometimes I seldom saw him for months.
Tad is where my story begins.