The Irish Thunder(Charles E.J. Moulton) The Irish Thunder

A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

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Do you like fighting with me, Rhonda Byrne? Do you like throwing your red hair back behind your neck, giving me that wild stare as dangerous as the white lightning bolts cast upon the green meadows of Wicklow on a cold and stormy night? Do you like the thunder? Do you want me to challenge you with my words, my deeds, my actions? Do you need for me to throw you against the wall, calling you names? Do you need my hatred, Rhonda Byrne?

So you tell me you want my full devotion, my sword, my shield, my castle, my legions, my guardians, my warriors, but not my heart. And yet, I ache for you. I will serve only you.
Your laughter on a summer's night soothes my soul.
Your tears on a winter's morning kisses my spirit.
Your woes on a spring day leave me heartbroken.
And your anger when those leaves fall from the autumn trees teaches me how to cry.
The lovemaking under the moon sends me eternity.
The kissing on the castle walls gives me light.
The drinks by the fire causes me to sing.

Still, that persistent feeling of yearning prevails and I cannot get rid of it.
Is it what you expect of me? Is it me not being able to live up to your expectations? Are you that treasure of gold on a shelf too high for my grasp? I, the dragonslayer, cannot live up to your glory. Do you need to set your standards so high?

You want me to be that wild savior that carelessly never ever even thinks of asking for any kind of attention or servitude. You want someone who does not need love, but gives it.
And yet, I give it to you willingly.
Someone who will not ask for love. Someone who goes out, slays a thousand bloody beasts before breakfast and doesn't even blink with an eye when he has to rebuild the fortress after dinner. Someone that does it only for you, his inner life in turmoil because of it. You want a perfect father to your children and a perfect husband and a perfect mate, a builder, a man, a hunter, a cook, a king that never questions anything. Never talks. Just answers. You want to speak, Rhonda Byrne. But will you listen? My sweet and tender love?
I am the king. My legions will not hesitate to pick up their crossbows and kill the werewolves that pace our gates if I ask them to. And yet, you deny me peace.

I stand before you, a broken man, offering you my heart, and yet you look upon it as if it were clay. You seem to have no clue that your rage rips me apart. So when I run up the hill, cursing the Gods of Aengus and Dagda, swinging my sword at the thunder, all you do is stand there in the wind screaming at the lightning, telling me that I am not enough and never will be enough for you. That my efforts to win your trust will always be in vain. I am never good enough. And yet, I try to be.

You red hair blows in the breeze. Your green eyes throw sparks. Your cheeks light up red as hellfire. Your teeth grind. Your nostrils flare. You stomp your heels. Clap your palms against your thighs. Swing your skirt. Spit blood. Ooze sweat. And I stand with my weapon raised, rage in my wounded heart, jealousy pumping in my veins, that sorry tin whistle emoting its lonely minor tune in my soul, colored by electric fire. I stand still, hoping you will calm down. Tears in my gaping core protrude as I ask you if you still love me. You rush through our castle, shouting at me that I will never be enough of a man for you, oozing vermine out of your red and hot mouth. I will never be enough of a man, I repeat, hoping, at least, that my dark castle lit up by flickering flames in stone alleyways is good enough for you. But, so I have heard, so have our servants spoken, my fort was never too much to your liking. The walls too thick. The windows too breezy. The paint too thick. The kitchen too small. The bathtub too tiny. The garden too big.

So I ask yet again, Rhonda Byrne, do you like fighting with me? It seems so, for you stand there on the hilltop waving the Irish banner, yelling at me of your Celtic roots and how proud they make you. That you, top, have royal Irish roots. To top things off, you throw menacities at me as I rip out my bagpipes, playing a west Irish jig in your face. You spit at me to stop my silly playing as you tell me to become responsible for once. I belittle your harm as I rip out a mead from my sleeve and gulp it down in three merry sweeps. To what have we come, I ask, if we can't be merry?

Oh, gentle Queen of hormonal outbursts. When shall win your heart? When the Irish seas run dry? When the green hills have turned into dust? When the moon turns to mud? Your anger tears me apart, Rhonda Byrne. I wave my coat of arms in your fervor. I write you sonnets of love. Sing you love ballads. I dish a banquet in your honor with peacock, swan, pheasant and duck, happy musicians that sing you songs under the chandelier by the open fire, your glass filled with the most exquisite wine worth three gold stallions. And yet all I hear is that my stables are not adequate.

And so I realize your distance is what I desire. You, the unreachable. My one desire. The prize that keeps me pushing through relentless weather. You teach me courage.

You, my gold mine. The rose that grew out of the mudpits of the depths of my heart. You, the goal I will never fathom.

Then, I see you sitting there on your own by the fireside, that cup of mead in your hand. Why are you crying, I ask you? You look up, your green eyes glistening in the fire. Your tears glistening on your cheeks.

You blush. And as you do, I see one sweet glimpse of the Rhonda I fell in love with. The anthem of light shining in your eyes. Heaven a spark of light in your eyelid. A lark whistling a tune of sweetness and kisses in your heart. Even the flames that used to burn so viciously now seem like one heavenly body. The angels replacing the demons. Death becoming life. Showing me the light. And with me, we shall travel the night and turn it into day.

What has happened, I inquire?
You point toward your belly.
You tell me the stables were too inadequate for the coming, the kitchen too sparse and the bathtub too small and the bed too hard. Your little babe in your belly, my child, causing you to fear that nothing will be good enough.

The child needs perfection, you whisper. I am afraid I will not be enough of a mother, you weep.
I cry, kiss you, tell you you will be the perfect mother. More than perfect.
An angel.
For the first time in what seems like an eternity, you smile. And kiss me back.

I love you, you say.

I am sorry for my Irish thunder, I hear you add.

I answer that Irish thunder is my favorite kind of weather.

Pregnant. And all your anger turns into light. You jump up and show me that the Irish thunder can become the light of day. And all of sudden the fiddles are brought out and you dance to the beat of love. To the sweet sound of the tin whistle and the joy of fiddles, you just tell me you were worried I did not care and so fear took the better of you.

On the bearskin rug in front of the fire to the sound of the Irish music, I lay my head against your belly, imagining what wondrous life is growing in there.

Suddenly, the unattainable goal has been reached and even the werewolves at the gate howl a sonnet of lunar love. The dragons of yesteryear snooze wonderously under a full moon.

Love has a name.

The Irish Thunder.

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