The Hunter's Moon

by O. R. Melling

  Gwen stared helplessly up at the distraught young man. His nut-brown hair framed strong and handsome features. There was a friendly look to the startling green eyes. His voice rang with panic.

  “Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”

  She tried to speak but no sound came out. He managed to get her onto her feet, but her legs were rubbery and she collapsed again. Frantically he searched for some hidden wound.

  The situation was so absurd Gwen might have laughed if she could. She was like a rag doll. Though her mind was clear, she had no control whatsoever over her body. And here was this good-looking boy, not much older than herself, going crazy with worry.

  “I’ll take you to Granny’s,” he decided. “She’ll know what to do.”

  He removed Gwen’s knapsack and left it with his bicycle in the shelter of the hedgerow. Then hoisting her over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, he set off down the road.

  Gwen’s line of vision trailed upside down. The winding road was lined with hedges of fuchsia. Their blossoms looked like fat red-and-purple bees. Through the gaps in the hedge she could see grassy fields roll down to the coast. Feeling like a sack of potatoes, she worried about her weight on the young man’s back. But his broad shoulders seemed to bear her easily.

  When they reached a whitewashed cottage with a neatly thatched roof, he set her down. A crooked path wound through an unruly garden of flowers and vegetables. Herbs grew in window boxes lining the sills. Turf lay stacked against the side wall. Yellow celandine trailed over the door that was already open.

  There stood an old lady, tall and regal, with gray hair tied back from her face. She was dressed in faded dungarees. Her short-sleeved blouse showed strong arms brown and mottled from the sun. She wore no jewelery except for a silver Claddagh ring on her left hand. Her eyes were the same sea-green as the boy’s, though a lighter shade. They narrowed as she took in Gwen’s plight.

  “What have you brought us, Dara?” Granny asked quietly.

  She helped him bring Gwen into the house. They laid her on a daybed in the kitchen. Dara described the accident, insisting that he hadn’t hit her. Granny checked her over and declared nothing broken, then gazed for a time into the girl’s eyes.

  “It’s some kind of shock,” Dara said, running his hand through his hair. “She’s a tourist, I think. She has a haversack and sleeping roll. I left them by the road with my pushbike. I’ll go and get them. Maybe a passport or something will tell us who she is.”

  Gwen was beginning to feel the first inkling of terror. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t communicate with them.

  Granny saw the fear and placed a cool hand on the girl’s brow.

  “You’ll be fine, ashy-pet. You’re safe with us.”

  Dara frowned at Granny.

  “Shouldn’t we get a doctor? If she’s a foreigner, it might be best if you didn’t treat her. This could be a bad business altogether.”

  Granny shook her head.

  “No odds where she comes from, medicine won’t help her. Not the new kind, anyway. There’s a pisreog on her, of that I am certain. It wasn’t you that struck her but a fairy dart.”

  Though Dara looked surprised, he didn’t argue. He obviously respected the old woman’s opinion.

  With her mind made up, Granny spoke brusquely.

  “Go collect her things and your bike. On the way back, bring me branches from the ash tree and the whitethorn that grows on the Fargan Knowe. Take care as you pass the lone bush on the hill near the hollow. It’s a skeog. If the fairies are there, they may try to stop you.”

  “I am the island king. They will not hinder me.”

  “Perhaps not. But your kingship will surely be tested tonight. By the looks of things, they will come for her soon.”

  Gwen was beginning to wonder if she were hallucinating. Was she putting words into their mouths to suit her predicament? The old lady looked like a retired schoolteacher or librarian. Was she really calling the boy a king? Surely that wasn’t possible in present-day Ireland even if one ignored the blue jeans and Thin Lizzy T-shirt. Had the fairies finally pushed her over the edge?

  When Dara left, Granny bent over Gwen. Her expression was both stern and kind.

  “I could bring in a modern doctor, my dear, but it would do you no good. My name is Grania Harte. I am a fairy doctress. I don’t expect you to understand that term, for few know of the magical arts in this day and age. But you couldn’t have got into this hubble without some misadventure with the fey folk. There is no one who can help you if I do not.”

  Well what do you know, Gwen thought to herself. She’s a witch.

  ranny Harte’s kitchen was like herself, a bemusing mix of the odd and the ordinary. One wall was dominated by a hearth which held a black cauldron. The other accommodated a refrigerator and an electric stove. The floor was a chessboard of red and black flagstones. From the wooden beams of the ceiling hung dried bunches of herbs, and strings of onions and garlic. A portable television was squeezed onto a shelf crammed with crockery jars labeled by hand: adderstongue, nightshade, hemlock, martagon, agrimony, eyebright, eglantine. Was that an astrolabe beside the toaster? A large speckled toad peeped out from the enameled sink. In the corner near the door leaned an ancient besom broom. Above it hung a calendar from the Bank of Ireland.

  Granny moved about the kitchen with quiet purpose. There was something wolflike about her—the gray hair, the wiry form, the pointed features. Though she appeared to be engaged in domestic tasks, her actions hinted of a secret power. She lit a fire in the grate with newspaper and matches. As she tossed various herbs into the flames, the room filled with a sweet-smelling smoke. At the stove she stirred a big pot, brewing up a potion that smelled sour and heavy.

  Unable to move, Gwen could do no more than watch, but she felt reassured. Granny’s air of authority inspired confidence. When a cup was placed to Gwen’s lips, she did her best to swallow. The murky liquid was not unpleasant, as peppermint and honey cloaked something tart.

  “At the heart of this potion,” the old woman explained, “is the root of the elder boiled with the root of an apple tree that bears red fruit. It will expel any inimical spirit. You’ll go into a fever but do not be alarmed. It is to break the hold of fairy influence.”

  The drink coursed through Gwen like liquid fire. Immediately her body began to twitch, first with itchy prickles, then aches and pains. As the jabs grew sharper, she uttered little cries. She knew she was being cured and tried hard to endure it, but she couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down her face. She longed to be at home in her own bed, being nursed by her mother. Not suffering helplessly in this house of strangers.

  When Dara came in, he stood beside her and looked down with pity.

  “Poor wean,” he said. “I would take it for you if I could.”

  The sea-green eyes were warm and kind. She stared mutely back at him, feeling a little better. Strangers, yes, but good ones.

  “Have you the branches?” Granny asked him.

  “Lashin’s of them. On my pushbike.”

  “Wreathe the door and the windows. Then strew this bag of primroses over sill and threshold. They were gathered on May Eve, so they are very potent. These will keep out the Wee Folk. My only fear is that they will call up something older and more perilous.”

  Dara stood straighter. His voice was steady.

  “Rare are the times my kingship comes into use. I am ready to defend her.”

  “Have you your scepter?”

  He nodded. “I will keep it near.”

  It was dark by the time they were finished their work. Night pressed against the windows like black water. An urgency crept into Granny’s ministrations. At the four corners of Gwen’s bed, she placed a lighted candle, a glass beaker of water, a bowl of salt, and a vessel of earth. Now she stood at the fire that had fallen to red ash. One by one, she tossed three stones into the embers, calling out as she threw.

  “The first stone I cast is for the head in mad f
ever. The second stone I cast is for the heart in mad fever. The third stone I cast is for the back in mad fever. Let the mind, soul, and will be free.”

  Gwen was burning up. She could feel herself slipping into delirium. Dara and Granny sat in chairs beside her. Their features were strained. The air was fraught with tension. What terrible thing might come to claim her?

  “Be of good courage,” Granny said quietly. “You do not face this alone. The king and I are with you.”

  The suspense was torment in itself. When the first sounds came, it was almost a relief. For better or worse, this was it.

  There was a scampering of feet, like a dog outside. The door handle rattled. Muffled cries of dismay. Whatever was out there scuttled sideways, from the door to the window. A tap on the pane. More angry whispers.

  Dara and Granny sat without moving. Gwen shivered uncontrollably.

  Now an unseen prowler circled the cottage. The noise it made was horrible. There was a creaking as of some jointed thing, and it appeared to be dragging a large object in tow. From time to time it let out a howl that curdled the blood. Yet despite the clamor, nothing entered the house. The way was barred. After what seemed an interminable length of time, the sounds faded away.

  Dara let out a sigh and went to stand up, but Granny shook her head. It wasn’t over. Gwen’s shallow breaths rasped the air.

  A great thud suddenly struck the door, as if a body had been hurled against it. The three of them jumped. The blow was followed by prolonged battering, like that of a gigantic fist.

  A voice cried out, chilling and dreadful.

  “OPEN! OPEN!”

  “Who goes there?” Granny called back. “No guests are welcome tonight!”

  The door burst open. A cold gust of wind rushed into the room. Dishes rattled in the cupboard. The curtains flapped wildly. The fire in the grate roared into life.

  A giantess stepped into the kitchen. Black-mantled, tall and threatening, she had eyes that burned like red-and-black coals. The most awful thing about her was the single horn that protruded from her forehead. It was thick and curved like a scimitar. The baleful eyes surveyed the room.

  “Who are you?” Granny demanded.

  “I am the Witch of the One Horn.”

  The monstrous apparition turned away to crouch by the hearth. From her cloak she produced a ball of pale yarn and began to toss it in her hands with violent motions. Then she paused to cry out.

  “WHERE ARE MY SISTERS?”

  Immediately another giantess entered the room. She also had a loathsome and terrifying aspect. Dressed the same as the first, she had two horns on her head and whiskers that jutted from her chin like a beard.

  “Give me place!” she screeched. “I am the Witch of the Two Horns.”

  The second witch had no sooner joined the first than a third came in. Her skin was blotched with livid marks. She bore three horns like a hideous crown. She, too, hunkered beside her sisters.

  Writhing and convulsing to some unseen tune, the three began to enact a sinister ritual.

  The first witch unwound the ball of yarn and, twisting it around her horn, passed it on to the second. She, in turn, strung the skein across her two horns, then gave it to the third. That sister did likewise before returning it to the first. Again and again they spun the thread on their horns, increasing their movements to a horrible speed. Illumined by the red glow of the hearth, their shadows danced on the walls, grotesque and eldritch.

  Gwen was suffering the worst nightmare of her life. As the witches pulled and twisted the skein, she felt her insides contort in turn. Her life force was being stretched, as if on the rack, and impaled on the horns of the terrible sisters. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  The witches intoned, one after the other, a ghastly dialogue of ill intent.

  “She was born into this world.”

  “She is called to another.”

  “Split the thread between the two.”

  “It is too thin.”

  “It will break.”

  “Then cut it short.”

  “And let her be forfeit.”

  “To the one who claims her.”

  At that very moment, Granny signaled to Dara and they rushed to the fire. Before the witches could move, both had joined the circle and caught onto the thread.

  On the daybed, Gwen felt a brief respite, a slackening of the tension that was wrenching her apart.

  In a calm high voice, Granny called out:

  “I, Grania Harte, Wise Woman of Inch, claim this thread for my house and hearth.”

  Dara spoke next, clear and forceful.

  “I, Dara McCrory, King of Inch, claim this thread for my land and territories.”

  Now the battle was joined, a war of will, the old woman and young man versus the three witches. Caught in between, Gwen’s life was the thread that was held in the balance.

  The contest was harrowing. Even as they struggled, Gwen’s torment worsened, but it seemed the pain was now being shared. Granny’s features turned a sickly gray. Dara’s eyes were wild and a muscle worked in his jaw, clenched with effort. Then came the moment when Gwen realized the truth. They were losing the battle. She could sense her defenders weakening under the strain. They couldn’t hold on. The thread was being slowly torn from their fingers.

  She felt the anguish of their defeat, their despair. Then, to her surprise, she sensed something else. Their ferocious resolve to fight on. They wouldn’t back down, not even if it killed them. They were willing to sacrifice their lives for hers.

  Inspired by their heroics, Gwen found her own courage. Even as she urged them to let go, to save themselves, another truth struck her. Dara and Granny were losing because they were outnumbered. Two battled three. But a third might level the playing field. If she could join the struggle, they had a chance.

  Now Gwen delved deep inside herself for that last ounce of strength only the brave can muster. This was not just for her, but for her champions as well. I can do it, she swore. For a moment, it seemed, she no longer lay in bed but stood at the heart of a raging battlefield. Her will-to-power roused, she lifted her sword.

  No sooner had the other two sensed her presence in the fight than they rallied anew. Three wills now fought against the three witches. The tide had turned. Slowly but surely the dreadful sisters backed down. Now Granny and Dara freed the thread from their horns. Now the witches let out an abominable shriek. A chorus of howls echoed outside. Still shrieking and keening, the three fled from the house till their wails dwindled on the wind, far in the distance.

  Dara and Granny stood by the fire, the skein of life still entwined in their hands. With infinite care they bore it over to Gwen, who was in the final throes of her fever. As they gently laid the thread upon her, it dispelled like mist and her fever broke. Flooded with peace, she drifted into a merciful sleep.

  Later that night, Gwen’s eyes fluttered open to see dark figures in front of the fire. After a pang of fright, she realized that they were Dara and Granny. The two sat together with cups of tea, talking in low voices.

  “What will we say to her? She can’t possibly understand these matters.”

  “She knows something, Dara. She has gone among them, of that I am certain. But the true question remains: why were the Horned Ones called to claim her? No matter what, we must speak truthfully to her, for she deserves our respect. Few are those who could have survived this night. We will not pretend it didn’t occur.”

  Gwen tried to wake. She wanted to join them, to talk about what had happened. She knew she was finally free of the fairies and in a safe house. Too weak and worn-out from her ordeal, she fell back asleep even as a last thought niggled in her mind.

  What about Findabhair?

  he smell of sausages frying in the pan woke Gwen up, along with the rumblings of an appetite she hadn’t felt for ages. The kitchen seemed to dazzle, with fresh air and sunshine streaming through the windows. Granny Harte stood at the stove, a flowered apron aroun
d her waist.

  The scene was so cozy and normal that Gwen wondered a moment if the night’s horrors hadn’t been a dream, a fevered nightmare caused by illness. She shook her head. She knew too much about that other reality to dismiss it so easily.

  When Granny turned to check on her, Gwen spoke directly.

  “Thank you for saving my life.”

  The old woman blinked at her frankness, then smiled broadly.

  “You’re very welcome, my dear. I was just doing my job. If you’d like to wash before breakfast, the bathroom is down the hall to your left. Your clothes are in the airing cupboard. I took them out of your haversack.”

  In the washroom, Gwen was surprised by the bright yellow fittings and fluffy towels. She giggled to herself. What had she expected from a fairy doctress? Slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails? After her shower, she dressed in clean jeans and a pink T-shirt. Combing her hair, she hummed beneath her breath. She felt wonderfully well.

  “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she told her mirrored image.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Granny set a big plate in front of her heaped with rashers, sausages, egg, and fried mushrooms. There was also homemade soda bread and a pot of strong tea. Gwen tucked into the feast with gusto.

  “My name is Gwen Woods,” she said, between mouthfuls. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

  “Eat first, then we can chat. Dara is gathering seaweed for my garden and will join us soon.”

  When Dara came in, Gwen went suddenly shy. The young man leaned against the door frame as he removed his wellingtons. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves to wash his hands at the sink. He was very good-looking. She hadn’t imagined that. His brown hair fell loosely around finely honed features. The sea-green eyes had an open friendly gaze.

  “You’re looking well,” he said with a slightly crooked grin, as he sat down at the table.

  Granny handed him his breakfast. Gwen was glad she had finished hers. She would have been too self-conscious to eat in front of him.

  “Now, pet,” said Granny, as she sat down at the table and poured fresh tea, “are you ready to tell us how you came to be fairy-struck on Inch Island?”