Findabhair was taken aback by the force of Gwen’s words.
“I’m not the only one who has changed, cuz.”
The admiration in her voice calmed Gwen down. A thoughtful silence fell between the two. The memory of their long friendship rose like flames to warm them, reminding each of how much she liked the other. Both were reluctant to speak in case they broke the good mood.
“I brought your stuff, “ Findabhair said at last.
She pulled Gwen’s knapsack from under a bush and handed it over, a peace offering.
“Thanks,” Gwen muttered. “I’ll never think of old ladies as harmless again.”
Findabhair snickered. She went back to dabbling her feet in the stream. Gwen shuddered at the thought of the icy water. She joined her cousin on the bank but kept her shoes on.
“What is it with these guys anyway?” Gwen said lightly. “I mean, aside from the fact that we’re beautiful and intelligent, what’s the attraction?”
Her cousin laughed.
“Novelty, m’dear. They’ve been around for millennia. They know each other so well they’d die of boredom if it weren’t for us. Humanity, I mean. Could you imagine a marriage lasting a thousand years? Then multiply that by a few thousand more!”
“I see your point.” Gwen nodded. “So, are you still cooling the King’s heels?”
Findabhair kicked her feet till the water foamed.
“Funny thing about that,” she said softly. “You’ll think I’m full of myself when I say this, but I’m pretty sure he’s falling in love with me.” She smiled secretively at the frothing bubbles. “I don’t think he intended to. It seems to be throwing him for a loop.”
Gwen shook her head, bemused.
“Is this a dream or a nightmare or what?”
She had barely uttered the words when a blast of wind shook the trees around them. The fair folk had arrived. Dressed in tattered greens and browns, hair knotted with twigs, they were like a band of outlaws grinning at her. She looked for Midir, but he wasn’t among them. The King stepped forward to catch hold of Findabhair, Robin Hood claiming his Maid Marian. Gwen saw the burning glance he gave her cousin.
Now he turned to Gwen with a courteous bow. His features were cool, his eyes aloof, but the voice was rich and dark like the night.
“Thou hast free will in this matter and thou hast not. Death is one of the penalties for those who come unbidden to us. Instead we grant thee life. Our life. To sleep in a mound is to place oneself under the sway of Faerie. Yet we were kind and did yield to thy choice not to join us. Thou didst pursue us and enter into our court. In sporting spirit we tempted thee. Thou wert warned not to eat of our food, yet thou didst eat. The judgment is fair. The decision is thine. Accept our rightful claim to thee or be banished to your own world, a wandering wraith.
“What dost thou say?”
wen was thinking fast. How was she going to get out of this one? Even she had to admit there was a strong case against her. Her cousin’s eyes pleaded.
“I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no,” she began.
The King’s features darkened. She finished hurriedly.
“I need to think about it. If you own eternity, what’s a little time?”
True to his nature, Finvarra’s temper transformed. A smile of approval lit up his features.
“You wish to continue the game?”
Gwen nodded. She held her breath as he considered the proposal.
“It has been good sport thus far.”
With a royal wave of his hand, he made his decision.
“Granted. A little time. No more than a day of your own reckoning. We go to our northern kingdom by the Lake of Shadows. Join us there tomorrow’s eve or accept your doom.”
“Where?” Gwen asked him, glad of a reprieve however short. “I don’t know Ireland very well.”
Findabhair was about to answer, but the King cut her off.
“In your world it is called …,” he paused, mischievously, “island island.”
The fairies burst into raucous laughter. Findabhair tried to speak again but in the blink of an eye she had vanished, along with the others.
Gwen stood alone in the forest night. Island island. Now what could that mean? Was it a trick? An anxious pang shot through her. Finvarra was a master trickster. She’d have to work hard to avoid his clutches.
But first, she needed sleep.
She looked around for a spot to camp down for the night. Piling up leaves to make a mattress, she spread out her ground sheet under an old apple tree. Snuggled inside her sleeping bag, she inhaled the scent of damp earth and greenery. The night noises of the forest played around her: the creak of branches, the sigh of leaves, the scurry of small creatures in the undergrowth. From time to time came the hoot of an owl or the call of a woodcock. The darkness seemed to gather round, pressing against her like black water. Her heart fluttered, small and nervous. Was she safe? All alone in the dark wood? Despite her fears, exhaustion won over and she closed her eyes.
In the deep of night she awoke. Emerging from the warm dark bath of sleep, she found herself drifting upward. A thistledown on the breeze? Or was she a butterfly newly risen from her cocoon? She felt impossibly tiny, like a speck of starlight. A sudden shift in the wind sent her tumbling. Now she was caught in a moonbeam as she continued to spin. The whirl of bright motes made her dizzy with laughter.
Am I a fairy? she wondered.
Then, with a wondrous ache of joy, she felt the leaf-thin pale-veined wings that fluttered from her shoulders.
“Gwenhyvar! Come dance with us!”
The voices echoed from everywhere. She was not only surrounded by others of her kind—tiny, winged, and light as air—but by every creature and spirit who lived in the forest. Birds, insects, and animals had joined the throng. Elemental beings quivered in the dimness. Sylphs dropped from the air, dryads left their trees, and naiads rose up from the stream, luminous and wet. Parting leaf from twig and eyelid from slumber, anyone and everything was awake in the night.
To life we wake from the long-forgotten dream, the beautiful mystery. The taste of existence is a drop of honey on the tongue. So very young and so very old, we have gone to seed and run wild with the wind.
It was a dance of stars and flowers and souls. Gwen stepped into the chain to become part of the whole. How long she danced she couldn’t know. Time branched like a tree and each bud was eternity. She could feel the world dissolve into myth.
Unto what is the journeying? What stitches the weave of the warp and the weft? What lies between the layers of every moment?
She felt happy and beyond hope. Hidden like a pearl in the shell of her being was a secret message. In the shadow of the forest, beneath the sky of stars, it was all so simple. This dance had begun in ancient days and would continue on forever and ever. All that belonged to life danced this dance together.
And though there was a moment, somewhere in the night, when she sensed the menace moving deep in the shadows, the dark thing that hunted her beyond the trees, she knew she was safe at the heart of the dance. She knew she was immortal.
Early the next morning, Gwen was awakened by a loud chorus of birds. Sunlight streamed onto her face through the branches of the apple tree. She felt refreshed and invigorated. Some wonderful dream had trailed away with the night, but its imprint of bliss still lingered in her mind. Jumping up, she stripped off her clothes to wash in the stream. The shock of cold made her whoop out loud, and she danced on the forest floor to dry herself off.
“I’m going fairy,” she laughed, tucking leaves in her hair.
Despite the ultimatum hanging over her, Gwen had to admit she felt on top of the world. No matter how many obstacles he put in her path, the King had yet to defeat her. She knew in a way she had never known before that she was strong and courageous and capable of anything.
As she walked back through the forest to reach the road, she found herself smiling at everything around her. She felt as if she wer
e greeting old friends. Those pale-yellow mushrooms with the tiny frills. Where had she seen them before? A picture flashed through her mind: herself under the shade of a golden umbrella, sharing a cup of nectar with a field mouse. Now she tripped over a gnarled stump. The twisted sculpture of root and wood looked like a statue of Pan. The moss was the green hair of a satyr’s limb. Was that a wiry face bowed to the flute of a twig? Amused by her imaginings, Gwen hurried on. Behind her piped a trill of music.
Once on the road, she marched past the spot where the old woman had trapped her. With a jaunty toss of her head, she saluted the bush. And when she came to the ruined abbey of Boyle, she admired its airy grandness without a trace of dread.
Boyle itself was waking up for the day. Delivery vans pulled up at butchers, bakers, and grocery shops. With a rumble and clatter of metal, ale barrels were rolled into the cellars of pubs. Here and there, doors opened to usher out people on their way to work. Sleepy faces brightened at the touch of sunshine.
Gwen entered the pub cum tourist office in the hopes of finding Bernie. But there were no customers at that early hour. The proprietor stood alone, polishing glasses behind the bar.
“Excuse me,” she asked him. “Is there a place in the north of Ireland called ‘island island’?”
She could tell by his look that he was wondering about her. Then his face cleared.
“It’s for the cryptic crossword in the Irish Times, is it?”
“Yes,” she replied, though she had no idea what he was talking about.
He scratched his beard with concentration, then went into the kitchen to question his wife. He returned in triumph.
“Inch Island,” he declared. “In the northern county of Donegal. ‘Inch’ is an English derivation of Inis, which is ‘island’ in Irish. Inch Island. Island island. How’s that for you? The wife has brains to burn.”
“Great. Thanks,” said Gwen. After a moment’s hesitation, she threw all pretense to the wind. “So, how do I get there?”
wen’s high spirits stayed with her on the journey north despite the “in-between” state Findabhair had warned her about. Luckily, most of the day was spent in transit. Slipping between the worlds wasn’t too great a problem while sitting on a bus, though buying her ticket had been another story. She was certain the young man who sold it to her had no idea of the stone window that arched behind him. Through it she had glimpsed a lady’s chamber draped with tapestries. There was a high bed with a white lace canopy and a fire burning in the grate. A golden harp rested in a corner against the wall. Gwen could only wonder to whom it belonged.
But even the bus ride was unsettling at times. Into the endless parade of green hills, stone walls, new bungalows, and old cottages strange sights kept intruding. The silhouette of white towers gleamed in the distance. Cloaked figures walked over a rainbow as if it were a bridge. On a faraway hill, light fell like spears on a lone tree hung with gold and silver apples. Sometimes she heard music, a piper piping away, and the music was so sad it brought tears to her eyes.
Gwen began to worry that she was on a never-ending journey. Was she trapped on the bus, traveling forever? She was sure they had crossed that wide river before. And the ruined castle with the broken gate looked familiar too. But there was no way she could tell for certain. She was a stranger in a strange land. No landmarks or signposts could place her on the map. The road itself seemed to shift and change. Most of the time it was a modern highway, a smooth line of gray tarmac crossing the countryside. But sometimes it was a tortuous track, rough and potholed, hemmed in by trees that scraped the window. Then the sleek and air-conditioned vehicle would turn into its ancestor, something rickety, juddering, and claustrophobic.
Gwen had just decided to get off the bus as soon as possible, when something happened to change her mind.
She sensed the vision before it came. A profound silence fell over the bus, like a heavy blanket. The hum of the engine suddenly ceased, along with the chatter of the other passengers. Everything seemed to be eerily suspended. Then she saw it, outside her window, moving swiftly and silently through the traffic. An ebony coach drawn by great black horses. The horses’ eyes were pale and blind. There was no driver. As the carriage drew up alongside Gwen, she could see its occupants. Two figures sat in the dim interior. One was Finvarra in midnight colors, the kingly star aglow on his brow. The other was her cousin, slender and still, draped in dark veils. Findabhair’s face was as pale as moonlight, her eyes distant. Gwen tapped on the window and tried to call out. Her cousin didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her. Then the black coach moved on, speeding into the north.
Gwen knew she had no choice but to follow. That brief cold glimpse had showed her deepest dread. Findabhair was leaving this world behind. She was shedding her mortal self.
It was late afternoon when Gwen arrived in the village of Burnfoot. A cluster of buildings straggled along the one main street: a small inn, post office, chip shop, and grocery. All around rolled the hills of Donegal, purpled with heather. The air was damp with the hint of rain and the sea beyond.
She went into the shop to ask for directions.
“No, you won’t be needing a boat to Inch,” she was told. “There’s a causeway to the island as good as a road. You might have to walk it, unless a car passes you by. First left outside the village, go along a twisty road, then left again and you’re on the Embankment.”
“Is there a place to stay on the island?”
“Oh aye. The Clan House of the O’Dohertys takes in visitors. It’s run by one of your own and open all year round.”
As she left the village, Gwen was met by a little boy on a tricycle. The impish face grinned up at her from beneath a mop of black curls. His eyes were bright with mischief. He held out his hand to offer an apple, dark red and shining.
“Oh thank you!” she said, enchanted. “Aren’t you cute?”
The fruit was the first thing she had felt like eating in ages. But she had no sooner bit into the crisp skin than the child crowed with delight.
“Tonight you will play with me on Magh Abhlach. The Plain of the Apple Trees!”
Gwen dropped the apple as if it hid a worm.
“What did you say?”
The boy was already speeding away, legs pedaling with all the urgency of childhood. She stared after him, bewildered. Was he a little kid talking about an orchard? Or was he a fairy child sent to trick her? The collision of worlds was taking its toll. How could she know for certain? Everyone and everything came under suspicion.
Or was she just being paranoid?
But something had happened.
And Gwen grew aware of it as she trudged down the road. The dense hedges of hawthorn seemed to close in on her. The cloying scent of greenery made her cough. A cloud of midges swarmed at her head. When she tried to outrun them her legs dragged heavily, as if she were wading through water. Her knapsack felt like a bag of bricks. It became a struggle to put one foot in front of the other; but at last she reached the causeway.
The moment Gwen stepped onto the Embankment, she recovered instantly. A wholesome breeze blew across the water. Ducks and swans moved over the smooth surface. Behind her ranged the ridge of mountains that formed a barrier between Lough Swilly and Lough Foyle. Her gaze settled on the cashel that crowned a high hill, the ancient stone fort called the Grianán of Aileach. Once she would have been eager to explore it; now she shivered at the sight of its jagged silhouette. Would she make her last stand behind those walls?
She had no doubt about the nature of the struggle ahead. Though much was shrouded in mystery, Midir’s warnings and her own premonitions pointed to one thing: her life and her cousin’s hung in the balance.
And despite the distractions of the journey north, she had come up with some tactics to deal with the fairies. The least likely to work was a desperate speech about freedom, an attempt to appeal to their good side. More probable was the proposal of a time-sharing compromise, the kind she had read about in various tales. She a
nd Findabhair could spend some of the year in Faerie—their holidays perhaps—and the rest in their own world.
The bottom line? She was planning to fight. Her true hope and intention was a daring escape, dragging her cousin along whether Findabhair liked it or not. Gwen was depending on Midir to help her out, or at least to create a diversion. And there was something else she was counting on. Her secret weapon. A weakness she had detected in her adversary. It was Findabhair who had mentioned it, the last time they had met, and Gwen had seen it herself in the King’s fiery glance. I’m pretty sure he’s falling in love with me. I don’t think he intended to. It seems to be throwing him for a loop. The King had used Gwen’s love of food against her; she hoped to do the same with his love for her cousin. A soft spot always left room to maneuver and manipulate.
I can do this, she assured herself, as she marched smartly across the causeway.
But no sooner had she reached the other side than the dreadful lethargy returned. Were the fairies jinxing her? She looked back over the causeway she had just crossed. Lake water lapped against the sides of the Embankment. Of course! Didn’t Findabhair say the fairies had less power near water?
But she couldn’t stay there. She had to move on.
Gwen didn’t get far on the island road. After the brief respite of well-being, the sluggishness felt even worse. Her feet were like blocks of concrete. Despite all her efforts to keep going, her legs finally buckled. Unable to stop herself, she fell on the road.
As she lay there struggling in vain to get up, a cyclist came speeding around the corner. He tried to stop the moment he saw her. Too late, he skidded and lost control of his bike, toppling over with a crash.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What the—”
Swearing vociferously, he extricated himself from the tangle of wheels and handlebars. Then he saw that Gwen was still slumped on the road.
“Good God, did I hit you?”
The Hunter's Moon Page 11
