“I suppose not,” Gwen hedged.
She wasn’t as headstrong as her cousin, but she didn’t want to be left behind, either.
“We’ll camp overnight in the mound,” declared Findabhair.
“Omigod!” wailed Gwen.
The couple at the next table glanced over at them. Findabhair continued inexorably.
“I’ve always wanted to sleep in a mound or on top of a rath. You know that’s the best way to enter Faerie. It’s in all the old tales and the aislings, the vision-poems.”
She closed her eyes a moment as a thought flitted through her mind. Something to do with a Sídhe-mound, and Tara as well. Something in a book? The memory teased her, but remained elusive. Nevertheless she had made her decision. But would her cousin agree?
Despite the self-confessed yellow stripe down her back, Gwen was seriously considering the proposition. By no coincidence was she facing this dilemma. Hadn’t she traveled to Ireland in search of adventure? It was the kind of risk that suited a quest. Though a hundred doubts and fears assailed her, some queenly part inside was giving the royal nod.
“You realize we’ll be breaking the law,” she pointed out. “Trespassing and who knows what else.”
“Forced entry. There’s a padlock on the gate.” Findabhair was jubilant. If her cousin was working on the details, she was obviously in for the count. “If we get nicked, you do the talking. When they hear the American accent, they’ll go easy on us.”
“Never mind the accent,” Gwen said, swallowing her fear. “We won’t get caught.”
t was almost midnight when they returned to Tara. They had spent the day in the village of Dunshaughlin, window-shopping, strolling around, and dawdling over fish and chips in the local diner. For safety and secrecy, they chose to walk the long road back.
As they trudged through the dim landscape, Gwen kept an eye on the passing traffic. She found herself thinking about the odd little man.
“Do you really not believe in leprechauns and ‘wee things with wings’?” she asked her cousin.
“You mean fairies at the bottom of the garden?” Findabhair snorted. “You must be joking. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
Gwen’s tone was wistful. “I loved those little flower fairies when I was a kid. Still do.”
“You’re a sad human being.”
When they arrived at Tara, it was dark and empty. The tea room was closed with its windows shuttered. The tables and chairs had been taken inside. The girls hurried furtively across the parking lot, and scrambled over the stone wall onto the hill.
In the silence of the night, Tara was a desolate place. The shadowy earthworks were like graves rising up from the grasses. The humped shapes of the mounds seemed ready to pounce. Nervously, the two kept looking around. They knew they were treading on forbidden ground. A chill wind raised goose bumps over their skin. They couldn’t shake the sense that they were being watched.
“Hold the torch steady,” Findabhair hissed.
They were crouched in front of the Grave Mound of the Hostages. It loomed ominously over them.
Gwen trained the flashlight on the gate that barred their way. She was still battling with second thoughts. But there was no turning back. You’ve put your toe in the water, might as well get wet.
Gently, Findabhair worked the padlock with her penknife. For a while the only sound to be heard was the quick rasp of their breaths and the scraping of the knife. Then came a triumphant click.
“We’re in.”
They were too excited for last-minute doubts, too busy making themselves comfortable in the cramped inner space. It was like a small cave, cold and dank. They had to crawl to move about, spreading out their ground sheet and unrolling their sleeping bags. The walls and roof seemed to press in on them; the massive stones corbeled together and weighed down with sods of earth.
Findabhair played her flashlight over the biggest stone on the left. Circular designs whirled across the rock.
“They’re like spiral galaxies,” Gwen said, awed.
“We should lie with our heads against them,” her cousin suggested.
“That’s what the Druids did,” Gwen agreed. “In the heavy chambers of darkness.” Then she added uneasily, “I think we should stay dressed.”
“For a quick escape?”
“You never know.”
The flashlight lit up the cave like a little campfire, casting shadows around them. Once they were settled inside their sleeping bags, they turned it off. The darkness engulfed them. Neither could speak at first, overwhelmed by what they had done. The clammy scent of moldering earth was unmistakable. They were trapped in a tomb.
Slowly their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, and they breathed more easily.
“What do you think might happen?” Gwen whispered.
“Anything. Nothing.” Findabhair was serious. “I’m not sure I really care. Just to do this is an adventure in itself.”
“I know what you mean. I wouldn’t have done it on my own in a million years, but I love it. I’m really glad we’re here.”
“Me too.” Findabhair let out a low laugh. “Anyone else would think we were mad.”
“Guess what?” said Gwen. “I meant to tell you earlier. I was looking at the guidebook to Tara when you were in the restroom. There’s a place nearby called Tobar Finn. What do you make of that?”
Findabhair was delighted.
“Tobar is the Irish word for ‘well.’ What a brilliant coincidence that it’s named after me. I knew it was my destiny to come here!”
“Mine too. My name is the same as yours. Findabhair and Gwenhyvar. I’ve got the Welsh and you’ve got the Irish, but they both mean the same thing.”
“Yes,” her cousin murmured.
With a start, Findabhair turned on the flashlight and rummaged in her knapsack.
“What’s up?” said Gwen.
“I can’t believe I forgot to show you this! I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere. I guess all the fuss of the trip put it out of my head. Have a look.”
Gwen turned sideways in her sleeping bag to admire the little book bound in green with gold letters.
“The Wyrd of the White Lady,” she said softly. The words echoed from the stones around them. “Wyrd means ‘fate’ in Old English, doesn’t it? I love the title. We’re both white ladies, really.”
She turned the pages and began to read aloud.
Be fleet of foot, O fair Hunted One,
From the dark of the shadow—
“Stop!” Findabhair said suddenly. She was overcome with foreboding. “What made you pick that one?”
Gwen caught the panic in her cousin’s voice and felt a tremor of the same fear.
“What’s wrong?”
“I … I don’t know.”
Findabhair grabbed the book and shoved it back into her knapsack.
“Gwen, was I the only one who wanted to come to Tara? Were you against it?”
“Don’t be silly. It was always on the agenda. I was dying to come. But later, not sooner.”
“Then it could be me, or it could be you, or it could be both of us.”
“Are you going to let me in on this train of thought or do I have to buy a ticket?”
Findabhair grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I’ll let you know as soon as I do. I think I had a dream about that book and now I’m getting premonitions.”
“This is not the time and place! You’re spooking me out! Let’s leave it till the morning, okay?”
“You’re right,” Findabhair laughed. “What are we like? A pair of eejits!”
She turned off the flashlight. They continued to talk in low tones, about their school year, their interests, their friends and teachers, anything that didn’t involve the quest. Though neither said it, each was haunted by a nameless dread. But eventually their conversation was punctuated by yawns, till they both dropped off to sleep.
Neither sensed the changes outside the mound. As darkness met light in the d
im borderland before dawn, the stillness over Tara began to shudder. To come alive. Before time could cross from night to day, one world was about to eclipse another.
The abandoned earthworks began to glow as if a falling star had landed upon them. From the empty trench of the Banquet Hall rose the shining silhouette of a glorious palace. Walls of gold and silver glittered with gems. A thousand candles blazed within. From the graceful arch of high windows, sweet sounds issued forth: unearthly music, murmur, and laughter.
Padded footfalls came out of the shadows.
“There are humans in the mound!”
The whispers rustled in the wind.
“Does the King know of this?”
A wild laugh trilled like a panpipe.
“Have you not heard? Before this night is through, he will take them hostage!”
At that very moment Gwen turned in her sleep, troubled by a hint of warning. Beside her, Findabhair did the same. Their heads rested against the great stone behind them. As light seeped into the grooves of the spiral designs, they were both illumined by halos.
A voice called inside the mound.
“Gwenhyvar, fair one, Gwenhyvar fair!”
Gwen frowned in her sleep. Behind her eyelids motes of light joined together to form an image at the foot of her sleeping bag. He was a youth of her own age, slender and naked. His skin shone palely in the dark. Around his neck were beads of jet and amber.
“You must leave this place! Be fleet of foot!”
Though she was dreaming, Gwen sensed that the danger was real. She wrestled against the bonds of sleep, but her efforts sent her tumbling dizzily through space and colors.
“Help me!” she cried to the boy.
“I cannot,” he said sadly, as he faded away. “I am only a barrow wight. A shadow of my self long gone. I died in this place many centuries ago. I have no power other than to warn you. For I, too, was a hostage. I, too, was the Hunted and the Sacrificed.”
His words made her blood run cold. What terrible thing had happened to hold his spirit to this mound? What terrible thing might happen again?
Even as Gwen struggled to wake, Findabhair was dancing her way through a seductive fantasy. She was at a fancy-dress ball. Everyone wore gorgeous costumes of silk and satin, with sparkling masks and peacock plumes. She herself was dressed in a gown of shimmering midnight with a black feathered cloak. Her hair was caught up in a crespine of pearls. Swirling and twirling at a breathtaking pace, she waltzed in the arms of a startling young man. As is the way of dreams, he was somehow familiar though she didn’t know him. His features were hawklike, his eyes dark and piercing. His raven-black hair fell to his shoulders. Upon his forehead glittered a star. He didn’t appear to be speaking, but words spun in her mind in time to the music.
O Lady, if thou comest to my proud people,
’Tis a golden crown shall circle thy head,
Thou shalt dwell by the sweet streams of
my country,
And drink mead and wine in the arms of
thy lover.
His arm tightened around her waist.
“Come with me.”
It was more a command than a request.
There was no beginning to the dream, so Findabhair didn’t consider an end. In that moment there was only the music and the dance and the dark eyes of her suitor.
Yes.
The word sighed on her lips as she lay sleeping. Beside her Gwen turned again, sensing the doom that was upon them.
The clatter of hooves. A wild charge in the night. Louder and louder as the horse drew near. The gate of the mound burst open! The inner core was now immense, a stone cathedral. In galloped a stallion, darker than the shadows, nostrils flared and snorting flame. Astride the horse was a black-caped rider with a face as sharp as a hawk’s.
He swooped for his prey.
“No!” cried Gwen.
The horse reared up. The rider glared down. There was no remorse or pity in those sloe-black eyes.
“‘No’ is your answer but ‘yes’ was hers. I take my bride from the Mound of the Hostages!”
Plucking Findabhair from the ground, sleeping bag and all, he slung her over his saddle.
Then he rode from the mound.
“No!” screeched Gwen once more, loud enough to wake herself at last.
Weak and trembling, she reached for her cousin to seek comfort from the nightmare. New terror gorged her throat.
Findabhair was gone.
wen couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her. Findabhair and everything belonging to her had vanished! There had to be a simple explanation. Her cousin had woken early and gone for a walk. Or maybe she was playing a joke on Gwen. That would be just like her. She was probably in the tea room right now, ordering their breakfast.
Gwen pulled on her shoes and scrambled out of the mound.
It was a damp drizzly morning. The sky was gray and cloudy. Trails of mist snaked through the grasses. As if to outrun her fears, Gwen raced from the hill and across the parking lot. The tea room was closed. Her heart sank. The windows were still shuttered like lidded eyes. Back to the hill she ran, over the earthworks, calling out Findabhair’s name. Her cries echoed on the air like a lonesome wind.
No response.
No Findabhair.
At last she stood still as the truth struck home. Her cousin was gone. She had been abducted. But by whom? Or what?
Gwen fought back the tears. Slowly she recalled the night’s dreams and visitations, confirming a reality she could barely accept. It was all very well to set out on a quest to seek things unimaginable, fantastical, and unknown. It was quite a different matter to find them. Only now did she admit that she hadn’t really believed in that other world. It had all been in the realm of the imagination. Till now.
“She’s been stolen by the fairies.”
The words issued from Gwen’s mouth on the mist of her breath, shivering in the air.
“What am I going to do?” she wailed.
Dazed, she wandered around the site like a lost soul, reluctant to leave the place where she had last seen her cousin. Returning to the Grave Mound of the Hostages, she packed up her things. As she replaced the padlock on the gate, the click of finality made her wince. Findabhair would not be found here again. The rider had taken her away. But to where?
Unable to stem the tears any longer, she wept openly as she trudged down the road. What should she do? What could she do? Call her aunt and uncle? Contact the police? A kidnapping had occurred. Words from her dream came back to haunt her. I, too, was a hostage. I, too, was the Hunted and the Sacrificed. A wave of panic washed over her. She had to do something! And quick!
There was no question of going back to her aunt and uncle. What could she tell them? Nor was there anyone she could ask for help. Who would believe her? There was only one option. She would have to rescue Findabhair herself.
Despite the panic this decision engendered in Gwen, she began to feel a little better. She also began to think. The fairies were the enemy. What did she know about them? Behind the tales told to modern children was an old peasant belief in another race who lived alongside humans. They were called “the Good People,” not because they were good, but because they needed to be appeased. For when they were good, they were very very good, but when they were bad, they were horrid. Some legends claimed they were gods. Others said they were fallen angels; not good enough for heaven but not bad enough for hell. Descriptions varied in all the books and stories. They could be tiny and winged like butterflies, or taller than trees in fiery columns of light and shadow. Though they didn’t dislike humans, they often played tricks on them, sometimes cruel ones. Their favorite mortals were little children, beautiful youths, and generous adults.
Like the Irish weather, their temperament was unpredictable and ever-changeable, moving swiftly from storms of passion to sunny humors. They were willful and capricious and wild as the wind, loved music, dancing, and perpetual frolic. Their palaces were found under
hills, in deep forests, and dark mountain caves. They also dwelt in coral castles beneath the sea. They might be glimpsed scurrying in an eddy of green leaves, or dancing at night in moonlit woods. Their voices could be heard in the plash of waves or faint echoes on the wind. The bending swathe of barley across the fields marked the path of the Elfin King and his Court.
The more she thought about it, the more disheartened Gwen grew. What did any of this mean? How could she use it? She was missing Findabhair in more ways than one. While Gwen was the steadier of the two, with more common sense, Findabhair was the daring one who made all the decisions. She always knew what to do.
“It’s not fair,” Gwen groaned. “The game has started and I’m only half a team!”
When she reached the main road, she stopped in surprise. There in front of her, as if waiting patiently, was the battered Triumph Herald. It shone with a fresh coat of green paint, but inside sat the same wizened little man.
He beckoned to her.
After all that had happened, Gwen knew without a doubt what she had only suspected the day before. Flinging her knapsack into the car, she plumped down in the front seat to confront the leprechaun.
“Now don’t be leppin’ on me as if I’m to blame,” he said quickly. “Fair’s fair. Ye got what ye came for. I’m here to lend a hand.”
With a crunch of gears, he moved the old car into traffic. Perched on two telephone books, white and yellow pages, he peered over the dashboard like a child at the wheel.
“I’ll get ye to Busáras in plenty of time to break your fast. Your bus leaves at ten o’clock sharp.”
“And where am I going, if that’s not too much to ask?” Gwen said archly.
At the same time she was feeling a huge sense of relief. The cavalry had arrived. All was not lost. And behind her relief was the rising thrill of excitement. Was this an adventure or what!
As if he could read her mind, the leprechaun chuckled.
“Ye were looking for somethin’ and now it’s found ye. Make the most of it. The fairy court is on its summer circuit of the country. Ye’ll have to be fleet-footed and quick-witted if ye want to find your kin.”
The Hunter's Moon Page 3
