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Have you ever seen the eyes of a woman? The way they look at you, when they love you, but can change so swiftly to that silent fury if they're goaded? Or the way they sometimes glance up in distress, opened wide like they eyes of a dying doe, as they beg and plead for help? Sometimes the eyes of a woman are the most beautiful objects on earth.
I shall always think Aengus saw her eyes first, her deep, dark eyes, wild in their tenative love, perched upon a soft neck of tender flesh. They looked at each other, through each other, even inside each other, for one timeless moment; then he let his eyes stray down, down her neck and her chest, down the soft folds of her linen dress, down until his eyes were blocked by the foot of his bed, and he could see no more of her.
And then, just as he was drawing hs gaze back up to her captivating eyes, there was a little rustle, a soft breeze, and she slowly vanished.
It turned him mad, of course. It would turn any man mad to see the most beautiful woman in Ireland standing at the foot of his bed and then to have her vanish before even a word had been spoken. But Aengus, from that moment on, was utterly captivated by this woman, and by everything about her.
She returned, of course. Every night, for a year, she came to his bedside, to pluck the strings of her instrument, and sing to him more sweetly than any nightingale ever could. And Aengus, in turn, became sick with love, though no one knew why. For a while, it was feared that he would die of some unknown malady, until the finest physician in the land at last diagnosed his broken heart.
Aengus' mother came to his bedside, and heard his woes, and began to search the entire province for the girl, but her search was in vain. After a year of fruitless searching had passed, Aengus' father, the Dagda, asked the king of a neighboring country for help.
The neighboring king, Bodb, sent his people throughout his kingdom for a year, until at length they returned to him with news of a girl matching the description. Aengus was summoned to their country, and shown the girl they had found.
She stood by a lake, surrounded by a hundred and fifty other beautiful maidens, all wearing gold and silver chains around their necks. It was indeed the girl of the night, and Aengus saw her, but she could not yet be his. It was only then, however, that Aengus learned her name: she was Caer, the daughter of Ethal Anubal. It is indeed a beautiful name, one that rolls off the tongue like a wave breaking on the shore, and Aengus, still ill with his love, undoubtedly spoke the word a thousand times or more.
The Dagda asked the king Ailill, in whose province the girl stood, to allow Aengus to take the girl he loved for his own. Ailill, in return, summoned Ethal Anubal, the father of the girl, who refused to come and refused to give his girl to Aengus.
Ailill was mightily irked, and he and the Dagda sent their men to destroy the home of Ethal Anubal, and bring that unhappy man back to Ailill. When Ethal was standing before him, Ailill commanded that Caer be given to Aengus. Ethal, again, refused.
Ethal finally confessed that Caer held a strange power, stronger than any power of her father's, and Ethal could not give her to any man. The girl, each year, was transformed from a girl into a swan, or from a swan into a girl. Her shape changed from year to year, always alternating between the two. Aengus, then, was told to travel in the summer to her lake and call her name.
When the impatient wait was over, Aengus made his trip. Standing on the side of the lake, he saw the hundred and fifty swans, and he called the name of the girl he loved. She would not come until he promised that she might return to the lake, unhindered, after they had spoken, but when she came to him, he made himself into a swan and joined her.
They swam together, and slept together, and sang together as they flew away from the lake together, and Aengus and his bride were then united forever after, and there was peace between the Dagda, Ailill, and Ethal for many years.