Death's Excellent Vacation

by Charlaine Harris

  The flight was predictably rowdy. Pat couldn’t understand why the other passengers and the flight attendants were so tolerant. They even seemed to enjoy the impromptu rendition of “Galway Bay” from his father, Jerry, and the uncles.

  In the gray light of morning the plane slid down through the cloud cover and the O’Reillys got their first glimpse of what for them was the Promised Land.

  There was a whoosh as everyone let out their breath at once. Pat’s father put an arm around his mother.

  “Look at it, my love,” he sighed. “Did you ever think there were that many shades of green in the world?”

  Eileen smiled and caressed his hand. “I never thought I’d see them. Whatever happens, this is worth it.”

  “Nothing will happen.” He cocked his head in Pat’s direction. “This will be the grandest vacation we’ve ever had. Won’t it, son?”

  Pat didn’t answer. He was staring out the window with the fervor of a pilgrim in sight of Jerusalem.

  THERE was a bus waiting for them with O’Reilly painted in big black letters on the side. The clan piled in, exhausted and eager at the same time. Pat realized that he had no idea what kind of place they were going to. He had imagined some sort of manor house, with polished wood wainscoting and stone fireplaces. Or perhaps a nice resort hotel with a golf course.

  Instead the bus drove for what seemed like hours into a countryside where there seemed to be nothing but windswept fields and hundreds of sheep wandering freely. Finally, they pulled in to a sort of trailer park, with old-fashioned silver caravans arranged in concentric circles around a couple of large, whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs. There was smoke coming from the chimney of one of them, and Pat got his first whiff of the heady and slightly intoxicating scent of burning peat.

  Then they were surrounded by a sea of people, all of them small, with dark hair and skin ranging from deeply tanned to the shade of pale milk. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Pat thought. There really are more of us in the world. The babble of accents was surprising, especially coming from such familiar faces. The English assaulting his ears was broad Australian, British, and Anglo-Indian. He even thought he heard cadences of Spanish and French. How far had the O’Reillys emigrated?

  Pat and his family were shown to one of the caravans, which turned out to be nicely appointed in a three-quarter size that was perfect for them, with a small kitchen and a shower in its own stall next to the bathroom. Eileen was delighted.

  “My grandmother told me about these, from when she was a little girl,” she told Pat. “Isn’t it cozy? Just like the ones the Travelers have, although not so colorful.”

  She seemed disappointed about that, but, for once, Pat was too tired to try to get more information. He wanted a shower and a sleep. Then, he promised himself, he’d rent a car or a bike and strike out on his own.

  It was the singing that woke him. Dusk had fallen and the bar must have opened. Pat now saw the sense in having this reunion far away from other people. He pulled on some clean clothes and ventured out.

  A huge bonfire had been built in a hollow in front of one of the buildings. Long trestle tables and benches were ranged around it. Lamplight gushed from the open door and all the windows. The tables were full of people happily tucking into shepherd’s pie. Every hand held a glass. The smell of the lamb and potatoes was enticing.

  Pat picked up a plate and a glass. Perhaps he’d wait until tomorrow to make his getaway.

  The fire grew higher, sending out sparks in bursts of blue, red, gold, and green. In a haze of alcohol and peat smoke, Pat thought what a neat trick it was to make it seem as if the fireworks were coming out of the center of the blaze.

  There was singing and drinking and dancing and drinking and wrestling matches far into the night. Pat soon realized that he had imbibed more than he could stand. He knew this because he tried to stand and failed. He began to crawl back to the trailer, blaming his lack of stamina on the jet lag.

  His eyes must be going, too. He’d hardly gone ten yards when he felt someone fall on top of him.

  “Oops-a-daisy!” a lilting feminine voice giggled. “Sorry, mate! I didn’t see you down there.”

  Pat muzzily looked around for the source of the body and the voice, but didn’t see anyone. Jerry must have been right. The porter in Ireland was much stronger than the kind they drank in the States. He continued on to the trailer and fell into bed.

  HE awoke the next morning feeling completely disoriented. The silver curve of the ceiling gave him the impression that he was lying inside a metal ball that was rolling uphill. After several moments spent clutching the edge of his bunk to avoid falling out, he realized that it was only the wind sweeping from the ocean across the treeless land that was rocking the trailer. The door to his parents’ cubicle was ajar. Pat peeked in and found they were gone. The clock on the wall said half past ten.

  As Pat dressed and boiled water for coffee, he read the program that he found on the table.

  “Welcome!!! Welcome!!! Welcome Home!!!” it began.

  Pat liked their enthusiasm. He skimmed down the page. It seemed that he had already missed the full Irish breakfast. The morning seemed to be taken up with seminars, not what he had expected. However, if everyone was inside listening to edifying talks, he should have no trouble creeping off.

  The kettle whistled and Pat sat down again with his mug. He looked over the program more carefully.

  “What the hell . . . ?” he said, reading the titles of the seminars. “ ‘How to keep your pot of gold in trying times.’ ‘Invisibility, the best defense.’ ‘Which end of the rainbow?’ ‘To jig or not to jig: fighting the stereotypes.’ ‘Making shoes that last.’ What kind of nonsense is this?”

  Burning with curiosity and no little annoyance, Pat gulped down his coffee and set out in search of someone who could tell him what this was all about.

  THE sun was beginning to burn off the morning fog as he crossed the field to the central buildings. Wisps of smoke still rose from the coals of the bonfire. Pat saw no one, although he could hear music coming from the far building. A banner above the door proclaimed this the meeting hall.

  Inside, the building was a typical Irish shotgun house, if much larger than most. A long hallway stretched from front to back, with rooms branching out on either side. The subjects of the talks were posted on the doors. Pat first looked into the one on invisibility, but it was empty. The next room was the talk on keeping a pot of gold. This one was packed. He edged into a space near the door. No one noticed him as they were all intent on the speaker, a solemn woman with thick spectacles and a mound of white hair pulled into a bun.

  “Of course,” she was saying, “apartment living makes subterranean deposits difficult. However, a well-constructed space beneath the floor-boards, preferably in a bedroom, can be used in a pinch.”

  “But what about fire and thieves?” a man in the front row asked.

  “We always have to worry about thieves,” the speaker told him. “As for fire, don’t they teach the protection charms anymore? Really, that should have been explained to you about the time you were weaned, young man. What is this race coming to?”

  She gestured to the audience. “How many here never learned the five essential charms?”

  Over half of the group raised their hands. The woman sighed. “Eithne, add that to the seminars for tomorrow. Just because you’re living away from home doesn’t mean you can go native.” She looked at the note cards in front of her. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, guarding against fluctuation in the price of gold.”

  Watching the audience intent on every word, Patrick was certain he had found the secret his parents had been hiding; he came from a family of lunatics. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

  He started out the open door, back into the sane sunshine, when he collided with something. He wasn’t much hurt, for it was soft.

  “We meet again,” a voice said in his ear. “Is this the American idea of courtship?”

  Ve
ry, very slowly, Pat turned his face in the direction of the sound.

  In the sunlight something was sparkling. The bits of light gradually coalesced into the form of a woman. When he could make out her face, Pat saw that she was straining in concentration, eyes squeezed shut and her mouth tight with effort. At last she came into focus. He saw that she was about his own age, with black curls, hazel eyes, and the sun-touched skin of the Australians. She laughed at his expression.

  “I know I’m not great at reappearing,” she said. “But that’s no reason to look like a dying mackerel.”

  Pat closed his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going back to my bed until I wake up.”

  It had to be something in the beer. There was no other explanation. Perhaps this was some sort of CIA experiment. He probably wasn’t in Ireland at all, but strapped into a chair with electrodes stuck in his brain. Although why the government would want him to believe that beautiful Irish-Australian women could appear out of thin air was more than he could imagine.

  Before he could make a move, the sound of applause signaled the end of the talks. The doors flew open and people came piling out. Patrick grabbed his father as soon as he appeared.

  “You have got to tell me what’s going on!” he demanded. “Am I hallucinating or crazy? Is any of this really happening?”

  Aunt Teresa appeared at his elbow. Had she been there a second before? She shook her head at Pat in disgust.

  “That’s what you get for being blind drunk last night and missing the breakfast meeting,” she told him. “Eileen, it’s time you told the boy the truth. I never agreed with the way you and Michael kept him so completely in the dark.”

  “Mind your own business,” Eileen shot back. “It’s not like you told your children the whole truth.”

  “Well, they at least know the five charms.” Teresa went nose to nose with her sister. “You just let Patrick stuff his head with all that Celtic nonsense.”

  “This is not the time,” Michael said, gently pushing the women apart. “Come along, Pat. Teresa is right for once. Your mother and I have some explaining to do.”

  THEY settled back into the trailer. Eileen fussed with the tea things for a bit, making such a clatter that conversation was impossible. At last she set mugs down for each of them. Michael cleared his throat.

  “You see, son,” he began. “You seemed so happy thinking you were a Celt that we didn’t want to—”

  “Oh my God!” Pat interrupted. “I’m adopted!”

  “Of course not,” Eileen laughed. “And you with your granddad’s nose and his mother’s own eyes. Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s the O’Reilly name, Pat,” Michael continued. “We took that when we came to America. We’re Irish, right enough, but not from the Celts. Our ancestors were the Fir Bolg, who were here before the Tuatha ever landed and long before the Celts appeared.”

  Patrick waited for the rest of the explanation. He knew the old stories. The Fir Bolg were the Irish defeated by the Tuatha de Danann at the first battle of Magh Tuiredh. They were relegated to the wilds of Connaught, and some were enslaved by the conquerors. Later, Celtic invaders defeated the Tuatha, who faded away under the hills and became the sidh, the fairies of Ireland. At least, that was the legend. His father had always stressed that the Fir Bolg were the first ones, the true Irish. But it was just a story.

  Pat searched his parents’ faces for signs of suppressed laughter or incipient madness.

  “All right,” he said carefully, in case they became violent. “Our family is descended from the oldest of the Irish. Interesting. Are you saying that we’re part of the sidh? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd, seeing as they’re mythical?”

  “They’re not a myth,” Eileen stated. “A legend. There’s a big difference.”

  Michael leaned over and put a hand on Pat’s arm. “We should have told you, son, but we’ve tried so hard to fit in. We put our money in banks, instead of burying it. No one in the family has soled a shoe in decades. America was a new start for us. It’s not as though it was easy for our kind here in Ireland, forced to work for the Tuatha, hunted by men for our gold, and,” he faltered, “and by other things.”

  Something finally connected in Pat’s brain. He leaned back in the chair and started to laugh.

  “You had me going there,” he told them. “You and that girl with the vanishing trick. You can’t be serious. You want me to believe we’re leprechauns?”

  Michael drew himself up. “And why not?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “We taught you to be proud of your heritage,” Eileen added. “None of us married out for four generations in America and four hundred in Ireland. Teresa was right; we should have taught you the charms. But we thought you were charming enough on your own.”

  She smiled fondly and stood up, brushing her hands on her swirling peasant skirt.

  “Well, now that you know, shall we get back to the group? There’s a seminar on soda bread recipes that I want to go to this afternoon.”

  “A few of us were going to go down and dig our own turf. It will be too damp for the fire tonight, but we wanted to see what it was like,” Michael said. “Want to come with us, son?” He got up, too.

  “Whoa!” Pat caught them at the door. “You tell me a boatload of bilge like that and then expect me to just get on with the party?”

  “Sure,” Michael answered. “You’ve got your explanation. Now that you know you’re not going mad, you can get on with enjoying yourself. Once you’ve learned the five charms for staying out of trouble, you can take the invisibility class.”

  “But no cobbling shoes,” Eileen warned. “Some of these others have some idiotic idea about tradition and want to go back to the old ways, but I say that’s bringing back the bad old days. I’ll never be a cobbler to a bunch of airy-fairies who still live in earth mounds.”

  Pat was too dumbfounded to resist as they took his arms and led him back to the reunion.

  “The very first thing you do, my boy,” Michael said after lunch was done, “is get to the charm class. I always told your mother that you should have at least been taught that much.”

  “Right, Dad.” Pat could think of nothing to do but go along for now. There were too many of them to fight, and they all seemed to share the same delusion.

  He hesitated before going to the charm session, not because he thought it was silly, which he did, but because that Australian girl might be there. And he wanted to find her again. Not because she was attractive, not at all. He was determined to get her to tell him how she had made him think she could turn invisible. Pat grinned to himself. He was sure he already had enough charm to talk that one around. A woman didn’t bump against him twice unless she was interested.

  Pat did a circle of the camp and the session rooms, but didn’t see his quarry. It occurred to him that she might still be invisible, and then he shook himself for even considering such an absurdity.

  The charm class had barely started when he arrived. The teacher, a slim man even shorter than Patrick, spoke with a lilt that seemed more Spanish than Irish. Pat wondered how many O’Reillys there were in the Mexico City phone book.

  “The five charms—pay attention now.” He glared directly at Pat. “These can save your life and your gold.” He held up his hand and counted them off. “You must learn to ward off fire, flood, cave- in, wicked tongues, and most of all, the envy of the ones who stayed behind.”

  Someone in the front raised a hand.

  “Why should we care about the Old Ones?” a boy asked. “They didn’t have the courage to get on the boats with the rest of the Fir Bolg. There are hardly any left here, my mother says, and they have no power.”

  “No power?” The teacher made a complicated gesture with his left hand. “You take a dozen steps outside the rings here and see what happens. No power! Do you know how much force there is in a grudge held for two hundred years? They hate us all for escaping while those cowards stayed behind. Now I
want you all to know these inside out before you leave this room. No power,” he muttered again. “What are they teaching them these days?”

  Pat did his best to pick up the chants and gestures, mostly because he knew his parents would grill him. The rest of the people in the room were practicing as if their lives depended on it. Once again, Pat longed to get out and find the Ireland of his dreams. He wondered if that was the reason this remote site had been chosen. Out in the wilds of Connemara, surrounded by treacherous bog, with no car and a cell phone that only worked in the States, the only way to leave was to walk and hope to find some sort of habitation that would let him call for a taxi.

  He was getting close to risking it. Looking around him at all the idiots solemnly waving their hands about while reciting words in a language a thousand years dead, if not entirely made up, Pat felt like a duck in a flock of loons.

  That afternoon he spotted his cousin Jerry sitting at a table with a bunch of people from the invisibility seminar. They were on the other side of the bonfire, so Pat was sure that it was a trick of the light that made them fade in and out. Just to be sure, he took his glass and went over to join them.

  “Hey, Patrick!” Jerry greeted him heartily. “Isn’t this the most amazing holiday ever? Who’d have thought we were magical? Won’t they get a laugh out of this at Biddy’s when we get back?”

  “You aren’t going to let our friends know we’re leprechauns!” Patrick was aghast. “Don’t we get enough guff about our size as it is?”

  “But look what I can do.” Jerry concentrated on his arm and it slowly vanished, leaving a pint mug floating in midair. “They’ll be buying me drinks all night, just to watch.”

  “And none of this seems strange to you?” Pat asked, gesturing at the happy commotion around them.