“Is she all right?”
“Right in the head? Is that what ye mean?”
“Is she safe?” Gwen persisted, annoyed with his antics.
“That’s a quare word. Is she safe and sound, are ye askin’ me?”
His cackle was disturbing. Despite his small size, there was something sinister about him. He was like the ventriloquist dummies that always gave her the heebie-jeebies.
“Sound in the head and safe in her bed,” he continued. “Have ye any right to demand that, after barging into secret places without so much as a by-your-leave? If it’s safety and soundness ye wanted, ye’d have been better off follyin’ the Yankee trail to Killarney and all that blarney. There’s only one thing the fairy folk ask of your kind and that’s to be left alone. Ye broke more laws than your own when ye slept in the mound.”
Gwen shifted uncomfortably at his tirade. The leprechaun had gone red in the face, stealing the righteous indignation that had helped her be so bold.
“We didn’t know,” she said lamely.
“Ye did too,” he retorted.
He was relentless. Gwen slumped in her seat. She knew Findabhair wouldn’t have let him browbeat her into silence, but she wasn’t Findabhair. With a sigh, she looked out the window. The countryside was speeding past in a multicolored blur. The car was going incredibly fast for something so old. As if it had wings.
“Okay. We did know what we were doing. Sort of. I guess we have to take the consequences. What happens next?”
“That’s the spirit,” said the little man, in a friendlier tone. “We all love a contest and ye are two fine girls, strong and true. We’ll get great sport out of ye.”
Gwen flinched. Hardly a comforting thought. And now an even less pleasant one struck her.
“Were you the one who drove our bus off the road?”
His wicked chuckle answered the question before he did.
“A tidy bit of manhooverin’ that.”
“You could have killed someone!”
“Well I didn’t, did I? So give yourself a rest. The two of ye were way offtrack, like Wrong-Way Corrigan. I had to set ye’s right agin.”
He started to fiddle with the antique radio in the dashboard. Gwen was surprised that it worked and more surprised at what it played. The Dropkick Murphys’ frenetic rendition of “The Rocky Road to Dublin” ricocheted off the windshield and around the car.
Then off to reap the corn,
Leave where I was born,
Cut a stout blackthorn
To banish ghosts and goblins.
A brand-new pair of brogues,
Rattlin’ o’er the bogs,
Frightening all the dogs,
On the rocky road to Dublin.
“Aren’t they the boyos?” said the leprechaun, bobbing his head to the music like a crazed noddy dog. “Asha, it’s not much of a rocky road these days, is it? With all these fancy carriageways.”
One-two-three-four-five
Hunt the hare and turn her
Down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin
Whack fol lol dee dah.
They were indeed on the road to Dublin, as Gwen could see from the signs along the motorway. Pushing well over a hundred kilometers an hour, the little car kept pace with the speeding traffic. As they overtook a tractor-trailer hogging the right lane, the little man made a rude gesture at the driver.
“Them articulated lorries think they own the road.”
The truck driver blasted his horn.
“Up the yard!” roared the leprechaun.
They approached the capital city through the spacious grounds of Phoenix Park. Deer grazed on the green lawns. Few strollers were about. As they passed Áras an Uachtaráin, the palatial home of the Irish President, the little man doffed his hat.
“Your store of happiness to ye, Mná na hÉireann!” he shouted in a fulsome tone.
Gwen caught a glimpse of his pointy ears before the cap was clapped back on.
“A grand lady she is, our Mary,” he said. “She believes in us, ye know, as do all truehearts, not like the rest of them blackguard politicians.”
The Triumph shot out of the park like a bullet and into the early morning bustle of Dublin City. Pedestrian lights seemed irrelevant to the leprechaun as he plowed through intersections, scattering the crowds.
“You’d make a good cabby in New York,” Gwen commented, gripping her seat.
“Heh? What’s that?”
But all his attention was on the road as he switched lanes with abandon. Swerving past a double-decker bus, they flew down the quays, the River Liffey a brown streak. They had just begun a death-defying race with an overloaded milk van, when the traffic on O’Connell Bridge brought them to a halt.
“We’re early,” the leprechaun muttered, glancing at the clock that hung over the Harp Lounge. “How about a jaunt round the oul town? Show you the sights? I’m an urban elf meself.”
“I’ve done the Dublin Bus Tour,” Gwen said quickly, hoping it would deter him.
It didn’t. For the next twenty minutes, she endured the most bizarre sightseeing excursion imaginable. Dashing through the thousand-year-old city at breakneck speed, the leprechaun shouted out names of various attractions that Gwen knew couldn’t be right.
As they headed up the broad thoroughfare of O’Connell Street, they passed a modern sculpture cum fountain. It depicted the River Liffey’s goddess, Anna Livia, lounging in a narrow concrete trough.
“That’s the Floozy-in-the-Jacuzzi!” roared the leprechaun.
Just beyond the fountain a new monument soared into the sky, the elegant metal needle called the Spire.
“Stiletto-in-the-Ghetto!”
After an illegal U-turn at Parnell’s statue, they drove back across the Liffey, past the venerable Trinity College, and into Grafton’s shopping street mall. The little man had begun to sing, completely out of key.
In Dublin’s fair city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on Sweet Molly Malone.
“Tart-with-the-Cart!” he announced, as they passed the buxom brass of Molly Malone beside her wheel-barrow of cockles and mussels. “Alive, alive-oh!”
Gwen closed her eyes. Traffic was banned from this street, but they were weaving around the pedestrians.
“You’ve missed the Time-in-the-Slime,” the leprechaun remarked, “the clock that was counting down to the new millennium. It was just under the water line at the bridge. Wonder where it went. Maybe it flew.”
He chortled away at his own joke, and didn’t seem to notice that he had long left his passenger behind, figuratively.
By the time they came to a stop, brakes screeching, in front of the Central Bus Station, Gwen was utterly bewitched, bothered, and bewildered.
“Here ye are now,” he said. “Go west, young woman, to Galway Town. Make your way to the Burren in the County of Clare. There’ll be a banquet tonight at twilight. Carron is the nearest human habitation. Use your wits and ye’ll find it.”
He hauled her knapsack out of the car and leaned it against the glass doors of the station. Gwen didn’t move. Though she couldn’t say she liked the leprechaun, he was her only link to the fairies.
“Couldn’t you drive me there?” she pleaded with him. “I’ll pay for the gas, for your time.”
“Sure what would I want with them bits of paper? Isn’t it always becoming less with that deflation business?”
As he opened the door to hurry her out, his eyes suddenly narrowed with a greedy gleam.
“Have ye any gold on ye?”
“No,” she said forlornly.
“Away ye go, then. I’ve done me job. I was to point ye in the general direction and that’s what I’ve done. Good day to ye.”
He got back behind the wheel and turned the key of the ignition. Desperate, Gwen ran to his window.
“Please,” she begged.
The little man hesitated. Was that a hint of sympathy in his e
yes? Or was it slyness? He cocked his head.
“Ye’ve me heart scalded with your moanin’, but I’ll say this for ye, you’ve got pluck. There wasn’t a squeak out of ye about the drivin’. I’ll give ye a word of wisdom. If you’re betwixt and between, trust the one with red hair. Now that’s more than I should be tellin’ ye. I’m off. I’ve shoes to mend.”
The Triumph Herald disappeared around the corner, along with her last hope of a direct route to Findabhair. Dejected, Gwen picked up her knapsack and walked into the station.
After all she had been through, it was unsettling to be suddenly faced with the ordinary. People sat on benches waiting for their buses, reading newspapers, or talking on their cell phones. Ranged around the station were a cafeteria, pub, newsagent, and ticket office. She felt disoriented, straddling two worlds, unsure of what was real.
The door of the cafeteria opened and the rich smell of bacon tickled her nose. She read the sign hungrily. FULL IRISH BREAKFAST. €5.00 RASHERS, EGG, BLACK AND WHITE PUDDING, GRILLED TOMATOES, FRIED POTATOES, MUSHROOMS, AND BEANS. SERVED WITH BUTTERED TOAST AND A POT OF TEA.
If she ate that, she’d be ready for anything! She checked the bus schedule. Plenty of time to eat, as the leprechaun had promised.
The waiter was a tall young man with red hair shaved on both sides of his head. His ears, nose, and eyebrow were pierced with tiny silver rings.
“The full monty?” he asked her.
“What?”
“D’ya want a big feed? Blood puddin’ and all? Gowan, be a divil.”
“Okay,” she said, laughing, “I’ll have a bit of everything.”
he bus left Dublin City behind and sped down the road on its way across Ireland. Gwen gazed out the window, alone and anxious. Was she waving or drowning? She kept alternating between a wild optimism that she could handle the situation and a despairing panic that she was in over her head. Mostly she was worried about Findabhair. The leprechaun had refused to say if her cousin was all right. What if she wasn’t? Though Gwen tried hard not to, she couldn’t help but dwell on the dark side of Faerie. A lot of the Grimms’ stories were truly grim. What about the mermaid who danced on knives at the wedding? And all those kids eaten by witches and giants? Fairy tales did not always end “happily ever after.” Nor did many of the modern fantasies she liked to read. Why on earth did she ever want to go on a quest? What could she have been thinking!
While her mind raced in frantic circles, her eyes rested on the country outside. Slowly but surely, Ireland worked its magic. A sudden rain showered the landscape. The faraway hills were veiled in gray. Then the downpour ceased as abruptly as it had started, leaving everything breathless and silvered. Hedgerows dripped sparkles of water. Puddles glistened at the side of the road. Now a splendid rainbow spanned the sky. Gwen was lulled by the beauty into a state of quiet bliss.
Though the bus traveled through towns and urban centers, the dreamy feeling stayed with her. The sight of bungalows, supermarkets, and gas stations only confirmed a notion that was growing inside her. There were two Irelands beyond her window, like layers of story on a palimpsest. One was a modern nation outfitted in technology, concrete, and industry. The other was a timeless pagan place that hinted continually of its presence. An old castle stood wedged into a terrace of new houses, a cloaked stranger in the crowd. High on a hilltop, above a factory, was a grove of sacred oak. A tractor plowed a field in the shadow of a stone circle. Behind the flashy hotel leaned a ruinous tower. Like a magician playing with colored scarves, the hidden land revealed itself in bright flashes and glimpses.
“It hasn’t died,” she murmured to herself, “only gone underground.”
When the bus arrived in Galway City in the early afternoon, Gwen’s distress returned full-blown. She hurried nervously through unknown streets. There were no familiar faces in the crowds that pressed against her. Eyre Square was thronged with young people lounging on the grass, shoppers taking a break, and workers eating their lunch in the sunshine. Vainly she hoped to spot someone she knew. Findabhair, where are you?
Her stomach grumbled at the vinegary smells from a fish-and-chip shop, but there was no time to eat. She needed to find the place the leprechaun had mentioned. His instructions were her only guide. Make your way to the Burren in the County of Clare. There’ll be a banquet tonight at twilight. Carron is the nearest human habitation.
A bus brought her to the outskirts of Galway where she found a spot to hitchhike. She didn’t like thumbing alone, but she had no choice. She was too unsure of where she was going to take public transportation. County Clare was south of Galway, according to her map, and that was all she knew.
When the sleek silver Mercedes drew up, Gwen looked inside. The car’s interior was immaculate, pale-blue leather with dark-blue carpets. Céilidh music echoed from the radio. She studied the driver to assess his character. He was a businessman in a smart suit and tie. His briefcase lay on the floor beside him. Forty-something and slightly paunchy, he wore a gold wedding band on his left hand. His freckled face had a friendly look. The deciding factor was the mop of red hair, brushed sideways in a halfhearted attempt to cover a bald patch. If you’re betwixt and between, trust the one with red hair.
He leaned over to open the passenger door.
“You can bung your haversack in the back. There’s plenty of room,” he said, misinterpreting her slowness.
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
Biting her lip, she got into the car.
“How far are you going?” he asked, as he eased back into traffic.
“The Burren. A place called Carron. It must be very small, it’s not on my map.”
“I know the spot. Near the University of Galway Field Station. Are you a student? Is that where you’re staying?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
He gave her a curious glance but continued in his friendly manner.
“I can put you on the right road. My office is near Kilcolgan. You go west from there, through Kinvara on the way to Ballyvaughan, then south to Carron. Anyone will point out the way once you’re in the Burren, though I wouldn’t say your chance of a lift would be great. It’s fairly barren country.”
“I’ll walk if I have to,” she sighed.
He gave her another look, then frowned as if debating whether to speak or not.
“Is everything all right, pet?” he asked at last.
The kindness in his voice broke down her defenses. After all, he had the red hair that had been recommended to her, and she so wanted, needed, to confide in someone. In a rush of words, she told him about the night in Tara and how she had awakened to find her cousin gone. Then she explained that she was following the instructions of an odd little man. Though she avoided mentioning the words “fairy” or “leprechaun,” she could still hear how crazy it sounded. When she was finished, she wondered what she would do if he insisted on taking her to a hospital or police station.
After a long pause, the businessman spoke quietly.
“Brave girls to sleep in a mound, but foolhardy too. There’s no doubt about it, the fairies have taken her.”
Despite all that had happened, Gwen was shocked.
“You believe in fairies?!”
He laughed, a rich warm sound that was pleasant to hear.
“Are they any less likely than angels or saints or Himself for that matter? I thought you looked a bit touched, but when I heard the accent I was sure I was mistaken.”
“You mean this kind of thing happens all the time?!”
“Oh God no. But there was an old man in the village I was reared in who was taken by the fairies when he was young. To play a hurling match for them. He was the best hurler in the parish. He was never quite the same afterwards. Had that look about him—not quite here, not quite there. I remember it, still, after all these years. When I saw you, it put me in mind of him.”
Gwen shuddered. She was not at all happy with the idea of looking “touched.”
He was aware that sh
e was upset. “Have you eaten?” he asked. “We have a company cafeteria. Hot and cold buffet.”
“That would be great,” she said, cheered by the mention of food. “I’m Gwen Woods, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, Gwen. Mattie O’Shea at your service.”
They drove up the avenue of a company head office. Glass doors and wide windows gleamed in a façade of new brick. A rainbow of cars filled the parking lot.
“Not again!”
Mattie swore as he spied the sheep grazing on the front lawn. A few had already made their way to the flower beds and were nosing among the roses. He parked the car hurriedly and jumped out to chase the culprits. After shooing them back into a nearby field, he used branches to block the gap in the hedge where they had come in.
By the time he returned to Gwen, he was puffing from his exertions and mopping his face with a handkerchief. His red hair sprouted in all directions though he did his best to tamp it down.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or sympathize.
“Is glas iad na cnoic i bhfad uainn,” he said with a grin. “The grass is always greener on the other side of the hill.”
At the main entrance to the building, he held the door open for her in gentlemanly fashion. Waving to the receptionist, he ushered Gwen down the corridor. In the cafeteria, he nodded to various employees having their lunch.
“What a lucky coincidence you picked me up,” Gwen said, as he handed her a meal ticket.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence, pet. It was a complicated set of events that made me late for work today, including a mislaid report and a slow puncture, but I wouldn’t hesitate to say that I was put in the right place at the right time to give you a hand. There are rules and traditions that govern the mingling of the fairy folk with our kind. They’ll help you as much as hinder you. But it’s a shame, now, that we aren’t near my home in Kerry. I could find you a fairy doctor. That’s what they call the local wise man or wise woman who has ‘the cure’ for various ailments and who knows the ways of the Good People. Not too many of them left nowadays, but they still exist. Like the fairies themselves.”
He let out one of his deep laughs.
The Hunter's Moon Page 4
