Irish folklore flows through my veins—my great-grandmother’s legacy—and breathes life into my novels, particularly Ghostly Returns. The Enchanted Travelers universe was born from the blood-soaked stones of Drogheda. Those familiar with the siege know Ireland’s anguish. Helen O’Clery’s The Ireland Reader captures it starkly: “Leland asserts that ‘quarter had been promised to all who should lay down their arms’; but the moment the town was completely reduced, Cromwell issued his ‘infernal order’ for a general and indiscriminate massacre.”
This historical wound
opened fictional possibilities. Perhaps Oliver Cromwell loved a Drogheda woman
whose death before the siege drove him to madness and slaughter. Perhaps her
sister wielded magic to reincarnate her soul. Perhaps Cromwell, compelling this
same magic for himself, carried forward the curse that had followed his
ancestor Thomas Cromwell (orchestrator of Anne Boleyn’s execution)—a curse
manifesting in the deaths of wives and children across lifetimes, feeding his
rage through centuries.
In their desperation to
break this cycle of loss and bloodshed, Cromwell and the sister attempt to
rewrite history through magic. Imagine an Ireland where fae intervention
prevented Drogheda’s fall. Envision Cromwell with an unbroken heart. The
Enchanted Travelers navigate this realm where spellcraft enables time travel
and reincarnation, yet fate and destiny remain formidable adversaries. Their
journey awaits you, along with the spells transcribed below.
Irish folk traditions speak of lavender's purifying
powers and the mystical strength of woven straw cords. Village elders once hung
bundles of purple blossoms above cradles and doorways, believing their sweet
scent drove away spirits that meant harm. Meanwhile, the careful twisting of
straw into sacred rope created boundaries the otherworld could not cross—each
knot tied with intention, each strand a barrier against forces that might
otherwise slip through the veil between worlds.
Cleanse the Area: “We move around the forest clearing where the Samhain Festival will
unfold, lavender and cedar smoke spiraling in lazy, aromatic clouds. The air
carries the sweet, resinous bite of cedar mingled with the floral softness of
lavender, an energetic cleansing that seems to brush away every lingering
worry.” Ghostly Returns
Prepare the
Bundle, Bind the Herbs, & Knot the Cord: “Marie
presses the vow scroll to Claudia and Alex. Their voices ring out as Florian
scatters lavender-scented rope rings into their palms. In one sweeping move,
Claudia tosses something small—an obsidian shard possibly—into Florian’s
swirling dance. Florian spins toward Cromwell and thrusts a dagger with
merciless precision.” Ghostly Returns
Placement: In Ghostly Returns, since they want to be completely rid of the one haunting them, they don’t just place but burn. “Claudia and Alex edge to the blazing pit and hurl their lavender rings into the heart of flame. In perfect harmony the intone, ‘Leave this world, Cromwell. You are not welcome here.’”
While this is happening Elizabeth casts a
counterspell to break the curse. Their first attempt at breaking the curse had been in Guarded Time:
At Brú na Bóinne the group has items attached to those affected by the curse:
two stones, horseshoes, and a necklace.
“I bind this curse with the unbreakable bonds of the
Fates in the underworld and powerful Necessity."
I invoke the souls who passed too young. Rise
yourselves and banish this curse.”
The group echoes the words, their voices
synchronized as though the spell has taken hold, transforming them into
automatons.
“For with your help, I will bind this curse to these
objects that we will bury near this sacred place.”
As they bury the object into the hollow earth, a
strong breeze sweeps through, lifting their hair and sending shivers through
them.
Excerpt:
Three years ago, the small town of Ethel, VA, was rocked to its core when the lighthouse became a beacon for something an-cient and hungry. Every year since then, we’ve cast a protection spell, tying knots in rope while visualizing a protective shield, at the weathered tower a week before Samhain, our voices car-ried away by the salt-tinged wind. This year’s no different.
Cormac’s slender fingers intertwine with mine as we ap-proach Orla and Dave across the grassy shoreline. We’ve man-aged to mostly heal from the toxic tendencies of the past—the jealousy, the competition, the midnight arguments that left scorch marks on the walls. Magical abilities complementing each other have a tendency to do that, like puzzle pieces finally finding their fit.
The mid-October sunlight glints off Cormac’s long, blonde hair, turning each strand into spun gold against the blue sky. We don’t meet here at night anymore, not since the shadows began to move independently of their owners. She gently squeezes my hand in reassurance, slight crow’s feet crinkling around her eyes with a smile that blooms one of my own in return. She tries to continue her broody exterior by wearing a scuffed leather jacket with silver buckles, but her face is too full of light these days to continue the façade.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” Orla says as she wraps me in a hug, her dark curls tickling my cheek. Her automatic soul-possessing ability takes hold straight away, a warm honey-like sensation flooding through my veins. I feel her anxiety—sharp and metallic—and she feels mine. While hers is about the treacherous events three years ago, mine is about the small vel-vet box burning a hole in my pocket, holding a moonstone ring for Cormac.
I know she’ll say yes; I hear Orla’s thoughts echo in my mind like a whisper in an empty room. To assuage her anxiety, I push forward images of Cormac and me from earlier in the morning. We’d stayed in bed, all consumed with passionate kisses and bodies moving in rhythmic dance together; sheets twisted around our ankles, the taste of her still on my lips.
Okay, okay, you’re excused for being late, Orla sends through the connection, her mental voice tinged with amuse-ment. Then it’s gone as Dave, tall and broad-shouldered in his flannel-lined jacket, gently pulls her out of the hug. He com-plements her power as Cormac complements mine, his deep voice carrying over the crash of waves against the shore.
“Did you actually expect them to be on time?” he asks her, his breath visible in the chilly air.
Orla looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and we snicker like schoolgirls sharing a secret.
“Some of us know how to keep a woman in bed,” I goad Dave, watching his cheeks flush crimson.
Before he can respond, Cormac says, “Guys, I think you should come over here,” her voice tight with tension.
She’s rounding the other side of the lighthouse, her boots crunching on the path. I jog over to her, worried she might be in danger, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Once I’m next to her, I’m struck with frozen terror, my breath catching in my throat. As Orla and Dave’s footsteps catch up, I try to count the sleeping bodies sprinkled around the remnants of a bonfire.
Sprawled across the damp autumn ground lies a peculiar as-sembly of slumbering figures—some adorned in woolen cloaks and flowing medieval gowns; others draped in shimmering flapper dresses and tweed vests and flat caps. The incongruous sight sends a chill down my spine, conjuring memories of that haunted night years ago when phantoms in pheasant feathers and tarnished armor materialized from the mist. Could history be repeating itself? I draw Cormac closer, my fingers tightening protectively around her shoulder. A bitter wind sweeps through the clearing, rustling crimson leaves and stirring the strange visitors from their dreams.
“Oh, halloo,” calls a woman with cascading silver-streaked hair that catches the morning light. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes as she rises gracefully to her feet, brushing debris from her embroidered skirts. Her button nose crinkles above heart-shaped lips as she smiles warmly. “I’m Marie. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”
“You’re days early for Samhain,” Orla informs her, her voice carrying across the clearing.
“Samhain!” exclaims a younger woman with stylish curls and bright eyes. She leaps up, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm, silver bracelets jingling at her wrists. “I’m Florian. I absolutely adore a proper shindig.”
Another woman glides forward, her tweed vest firmly hug-ging her body. She loops her arm possessively around Florian’s slender waist and extends her other hand, adorned with bangles that glint in the early light. “Kiersten,” she offers, her voice me-lodic but guarded.
“Molly, and this is Cormac,” I reply, mirroring Kiersten’s protective gesture by drawing Cormac against my side, feeling her warmth through her leather jacket.
“Might there be lodgings available in your village?” Marie inquires, her eyes scanning the distant rooftops visible through the thinning trees.
“Not anywhere that could accommodate a gathering of this size,” Dave responds, his weathered hands resting on his leather belt.
A tall woman with anxious eyes approaches Orla hesitantly. A man with sandy blond hair clutches her trembling arm as she nervously smooths out her skirt. Dave and I don’t miss her flinch with his touch, juxtaposing their closeness. It resurfaces memories from when Dave and Orla couldn’t touch. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she murmurs, “and may I present Alex?” Her delicate fingers twist together nervously while Alex soothingly rubs her goosebump-covered arms.
“Orla and Dave,” Dave announces, nodding curtly. When Alex extends his hand to Orla, Dave intercedes and shakes his hand, so Orla doesn’t have to.
“Um, Orla,” Alex interjects, his deep voice surprisingly gen-tle. “Pardon our intrusion, but might Claudia ask you something rather personal?”
“Of course, what troubles you?” Orla asks, leaning forward with interest.
“Do you perceive others’ thoughts when you make physical contact?” Claudia whispers, her pale cheeks blooming with a rosy flush that spreads to the tips of her ears.
“Perhaps we should escort this assemblage to our home-stead,” Dave interrupts, clearing his throat. “We have several spare rooms. Not sufficient for everyone, but certainly prefera-ble to camping outside.”
“We’d be eternally grateful,” Marie responds, casting a con-cerned sideways glance at Claudia’s distressed expression. “A proper rest would benefit us tremendously after our... unusual journey.”
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