Ireland, February 1955
The breeze was raw against Father Lorcan Doherty's face as he walked a well-worn path through the forest that bordered the village. He shivered and pulled his black cloak closer. At this time of year, when winter was on the point of surrendering to spring, the wind still had teeth.
The priest had been appointed to this small parish of St. Mary's in a remote corner of Connemara, where it would be hoped, he'd be safe from the sins that had tempted him back in Dublin. Father Doherty was well aware that the Catholic church imposed celibacy for its priests. He was also aware that he'd been cursed with a raging libido and a weakness for women. Though he'd not gone beyond kissing a female member of his congregation, his mentor Father O'Dowd acted quick and used his considerable influence to prevent a scandal from erupting.
He had taken the young priest under his wing and got him transferred. In this isolated little community, which mainly consisted of older people, the twenty-five year old Father Doherty would be able to focus on his duties to God. An early-morning walk in the forest was just what he needed to clear his head of the troublesome thoughts of "self-sin" as Father O'Dowd called masturbation.
He wasn't happy with his new life in this dull little place. Not merely sleepy but dead, was his first impression of it.
A twig snap from the side caught the priest's attention and he turned, wincing slightly when the back of his cassock snagged against brambles.
Father Doherty noticed a white fallow deer staring intently at him. It cocked its head, its brilliant coat stood out against the soft green and brown of the forest. He found himself waving at the animal, before it let out a playful cry and leapt off. The priest smiled for a minute, puzzled, and stepped down the path when he noticed the deer had paused and was looking at him.
"You're a bold one," he said out loud. Normally these timid creatures fled the moment a human approached. "Want me to follow?"
The deer led him deeper, until sunlight became but beams that pierced through the canopy. Ahead the trees opened into a broad clearing, with a pile of moss covered boulders on one edge, and a small lake beyond.
The deer leapt up onto one of the boulders and poked its head down on the other side. It was enough to make Father Doherty pause and tilt his head, and curious enough to cross the meadow and move around the rock. He let his fingers run over the moss until she found what the deer was looking at.
Carved into one side of the boulder was a small shrine, discoloured and worn at the edges by age. The small statue in the center displayed one of the ancient pre-Christian Goddesses of the Isle. He ran his fingers along the iron base of the shrine, feeling the pits from corrosion in the metal. It was a long-forgotten relic from another age.
"I may not worship you. But I can at least show my respect." He did remember old tales his grandfather had told him as a boy, speaking of offerings given. So, bending down, he picked a snowdrop and placed it on the shrine. Hands clasped together, the priest bowed his head.
The deer let out a small sound, and nudged him. Father Doherty laughed, as it allowed him to stroke its head.
"No antlers, so you must be a lass, eh?" he whispered.
Then, quick as lightning, the deer turned and fled back into the forest.
Well, that was an unusual encounter. He'd never encountered a wild animal that had behaved in such a manner. The sound of thunder brought him to his senses. It looked like a storm was approaching. Time to head back.
Running his eyes along the lake's shoreline, his gaze settled upon a figure laying face down upon the rocky shore, legs still in the waters, covered in a dark green cloak.
"Holy Mother..." he gasped, realising that it was a woman of about twenty years of age. Strands of dark red hair had slipped from the hood of the cloak, and her skin was bone-white, even paler than his own.
Father Doherty rolled the woman over, and took a brief look at her beautiful face. The woman's eyes were closed, and her lips starting to turn blue. Cursing, the priest knelt down, cheek next to the woman's cool lips and nose. He felt faint breath on his skin and let out a sigh of relief before he began checking the body. It was soon apparent that she was completely naked, save for the cloak. She appeared unhurt, but needed to be taken somewhere warm and dry with all haste.
"Hang on Miss," he whispered, struggling at first, to lift her. The woman let out a moan, but didn't wake up.
"It's alright. I've got you." Eventually, he summoned all his strength and managed to carry her the quarter-mile back home.
The clergy house was a small, stone building that had stood for centuries, a bastion of solace and spiritual guidance amidst the ever-changing landscape. With gentle haste, he brought her inside, laying her on the soft, inviting bed in his spare room. She was drenched from head to toe, her robe clinging to her shapely form like a second skin, revealing the soft curves of her body. He blushed as he removed her wet clothing and dressed her as quickly as possible in the only garment he could find - a simple, white nightdress that had belonged to the former housekeeper, Mrs Dolan, now deceased. Still, the woman did not stir, though she was breathing normally and a hint of color had returned to her cheeks.
The priest found himself drawn to her in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He felt the warmth of her skin as he pulled the blankets over her, his fingertips lingering for a moment too long. The air in the room grew thick with an unspoken tension that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his racing heart. The forbidden allure was a siren's call he could not ignore.
The priest hovered over her, his own eyes never leaving hers. He knew that the moment was coming--a moment that would test the very fabric of his faith. He tried to pray, to call upon the strength of the Almighty to resist this temptation, but her sweet scent, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and the way her lips parted slightly with each breath, all served to weaken his resolve. He bent down and planted a soft kiss on her lips before leaving the room.
Father Doherty then spent the next hour praying for forgiveness and walking about in his garden feeling at a loss. He had no idea what to do. Once again he was entering into a situation he feared he would shortly be losing control of. As he pretended to do a spot of weeding, he heard hurried footsteps approaching. Mrs Flanagan and her two small daughters were walking down the lane. A no-nonsense woman, Mrs Flanagan was one of the first people he'd met when he arrived at St. Mary's. Her husband ran the village post office.
"Good afternoon!" Father Doherty called out.
Mrs Flanagan stopped, nodded, crossed herself and said: "Yes Father. Of course. Yes, yes." Then she and the girls took no more notice of him and got on with what they were doing. They were always doing something. Quietly, without interruption, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred and one small things that made up their world. It was a world that was very private, God-fearing and self-contained. By contrast, there was Old Tom, a local man and slave to alcohol, who'd ruined himself due to years of drinking. Tom had a habit of showing up at the clergy house at inappropriate times, usually ranting about all manner of nonsense -- the Fae, or Tuatha Dé Danann, who he believed lived in the woods. Father Doherty prayed that he wouldn't show up today.
He sighed and went back into his home. He couldn't keep his mystery guest a secret forever. In a close-knit community like this, gossip spread faster than the common cold. Where had this woman come from? Was she a victim of some terrible assault, a runaway? Or was she an escaped convict?
After a brief lunch and cup of tea, the priest headed back upstairs and cautiously put his ear to the door of the spare bedroom. Hearing moans, he turned the door knob and peered inside.
"Oh!" He exclaimed, as he saw her sat up in the bed. The covers were pulled up, but he noticed she'd removed the white nightgown and placed it on the chair beside the bed. He took a deep breath. "You're awake. I-I'm glad...er, I'm Father Doherty."
She nodded.
"May I ask your name please?"
Aoife, the name she whispered to him, had an otherworldly beauty that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. Her eyes, the color of moonlit emeralds, searched the room with a bewildered curiosity that spoke of secrets and distant lands. She was unlike any woman Father Doherty had ever encountered--her beauty was not of this earth.
"H-how are you feeling?" He said at last.
