During those middle school years, I found solace in an exquisitely illustrated book of Celtic myths in my dad’s home office. Someone had given it to him as a present, due to our last name being Sullivan, though we weren’t any more Irish than any other eighth generation American.
I loved that book. I especially loved the pictures of the Tuatha Dé Danann, depicted as tall, beautiful people with streaming hair that reminded me of my own. I fixated on them, and the myths, and by the time I reached high school I related almost every project I worked on back to ancient Ireland. At fourteen, I wrote a detailed analysis of The Tain, a Celtic epic set in the first century of the Common Era. I wanted to prove that one of the central figures, Queen Medb, was an actual ruler. I was obsessed with proving that the mythological Tuatha Dé Danann and Fir Bolg were actually based off real people.
In the last years of high school, that settled into a more academic interest in the original people of Ireland, who were mentioned in several of the classical Greek sources. The explorer Pytheas of Massalia visited in the fourth century BCE, and Ptolemy wrote a general geography in around 150 CE. Ptolemy called the island as a whole “Ivernia,” and noted that the name was the same as that of a people who lived in the extreme southwest, who may once have been the first inhabitants of the land. He located a city in their territory named Ivernis.
Which I decided to find.
It wasn’t that easy, of course. Archaeology didn’t happen as quickly as it looked in two-hour NOVA specials or made-for-TV movies. Archaeologists didn’t just show up on a plot of land armed with shovels and machetes and have at it. Instead, we had to broker deals with landowners and governments and partner universities.
And by “we,” I really mean grad students.
It had taken me three months to get Mr. Patrick O’Connor to give permission for me to excavate his property, Kilkarten Farm, which I had identified as the most likely place for Ivernis. A study had tested the earth there seven years ago and found it used to be saline water. Since I knew from old maps that Ivernis had been located on a bay, it seemed probable that the inlet had silted up, thus covering and hopefully preserving the harbor.
Patrick O’Connor had agreed to the dig after a fair amount of grumbling and haggling over price, but his nephew was being even more elusive. I spent late into the night and most of the next day trying to get in touch with O’Connor through various methods: fan email, the team itself, his agent.
But I didn’t get any answer until three days later when I was on the commuter rail up to Westchester for my weekly dinner with my parents. I’d refreshed my email on my cell for the millionth time, and I almost didn’t believe it when a response from O’Connor’s agent popped up. I came very close to yelping for joy on public transit, but managed to keep it to grinning wildly and swinging my foot. I’d be meeting with O’Connor tomorrow.
And thank God for that bit of good news, because I needed to get through dinner with my parents. I didn’t expect them to be happy that I’d received the grant for Ivernis, but I sort of expected them to be proud of me. That’s what parents did, right? Showed pride when their children achieved success.
I walked the several long blocks from the station to my parents’ house. They’d upgraded after I left for college, and while the new house was undoubtedly nicer, it seemed too large for only two people.
I cut across the immaculate lawn to the back door instead of using the imposing front entrance. I pushed open the unlocked door. “Hello!”
Unlike the house I’d grown up in, everything about this one was oversized—big kitchen, high ceilings, large leather couches across from a massive television. Several shots from my mom’s modeling days used to hang in the old house, but now only large, posed family portraits decorated the wall.
I hugged my parents and we unpacked the take-out Dad has just picked up. Things went downhill almost immediately.
Mom stirred her fork and took small, mincing bites. “This isn’t very good.”
My father stopped cutting into the fillet, his clenched hands stalled at ninety degrees. “We didn’t have to order it.”
“You said you wanted Thai.”
“We could have gone to Lemon Grass.”
“But you’re tired of their menu.”
I leaned into their line of vision, swooping the menu off the table. I flashed a smile to the right, then the left, forcing eye contact on both my parents. “Let’s make a note on the menu, and then we’ll know not to order from it next time.”
Dad finished cutting off a small corner and popped it in his mouth, then spoke around the mouthful. “I don’t dislike it.” He leaned backward in his seat.
As though pulled by a taunt string, Mom leaned forward. “But do you like it?”
He shrugged.
I put the menu down. “I have good news! I got my grant for Ireland. Isn’t that exciting?”
My parents didn’t often agree with each other, but now they looked aghast.
“I don’t understand why you can’t stay here.” Mom reached out and ran her fingers through my thick blond hair, which I’d left loose as a concession to her. “You just got back.”
I frowned. “I told you. I went to Ecuador for a specific class, but since I want to write my thesis on Ivernis, I need to spend the summer in Ireland. I can probably even spend most of the year there, since I’ve finished off all my coursework.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do? You’re so pretty, Natalya.” Mom’s famous gray eyes mourned. “I thought maybe we could spend some time this summer seeing if there were any photo shoots you were interested in.”
I looked from her to my father, and both appeared unhappy. “Oh.” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended. “You didn’t expect me to get the grant.”
“It was very competitive—” Mom said hastily.