He grinned his crooked grin.
“Of course I belong here. This is where my family comes from, generation after generation. These are my ‘roots,’ as you would say. But I can’t make a living here any more than my parents could. I’m not a farmer or a fisherman. We own a holiday resort in Connemara. You know, cottages for tourists. And we do travel packages to archaeological sites. I’m starting a degree in early history at the University of Galway so the two will go together, my studies and the family business. I’ll always come back to Inch, and I expect to retire here someday, but my life is elsewhere.”
Gwen was struggling to keep her dismay in check.
“What does Granny think of your work?”
“She thinks it’s brilliant. I’ll be doing something I love. Business is booming with the new currency. Other Europeans can see what they’re getting for their money. The more we unite with—”
Dara’s excitement died when he caught Gwen’s look.
“What on earth is wrong?”
With anyone else she might have hidden it, but with him she couldn’t lie or pretend.
“It all sounds so … ordinary.”
Impatience flickered in his face, then he relented.
“Ach, Gwen! Ireland isn’t a fairy tale of wishes and dreams. It’s a real place with real people in it. We have to make our living like everyone else in the world.”
“But what about your kingship?” she persisted. “And Faerie and the old ways and everything Granny knows?”
He shook his head.
“Why does it always have to be either/or? Mundane or magic? Body or soul? I don’t put things into separate boxes. I live with all of it.”
Suddenly Gwen understood, not only him but herself as well. Here was her problem with the fairies in a nutshell. Either. Or. Practical reality. Airy Fairyland. She was the one who made them opposites, and then kept changing her mind about which she preferred. And here were Dara and Granny, comfortable with both, because they did not see the worlds as mutually exclusive.
The two continued up the mountain, talking about their lives, their families, their hopes for the future.
“I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” she told him. “It’s in my blood. Both my parents are, but it’s not just that. I love kids. I’m always babysitting, not just for the money but because I like it.”
“All the little boys will have crushes on you,” he said, laughing.
As the path grew narrower and choked with gorse, they broke apart to walk in single file. From time to time, Dara would go ahead to scout the way. He was much fitter than she. Gwen had already promised herself to join her mother’s gym, or maybe jog with her dad. At one point she stopped to catch her breath, and gazed over Lough Swilly. Her heart jumped. She shaded her eyes.
A dark shape was moving over the surface of the lake. A long ragged streak. Was it a bed of floating seaweed? It had to be very large to be visible from that distance. An undertow perhaps? It was advancing swiftly toward the island. The shadow of a cloud? But the sky was almost clear, only faint wisps of cirrus.
She called out to Dara. The wind buffed her words; he didn’t hear them. Quickening her pace, she hurried after him. When she stopped to glance behind her once more, she froze with terror.
The dark shape had reached the shore and was flowing over the sand like an oily slick. Now it slid across the road and onto the trail that led up to the Cairn. It was following in her footsteps! Fear seized her mind, numbing her thoughts, paralyzing her. Even if she had tried, she couldn’t move. She was mesmerized like a small creature stalked by a predator.
On the path above, Dara had stopped at a barrier of stinging nettles and turned back for Gwen. Now his cries echoed over the mountainside as he spied her peril.
But she heard nothing. Indeed, she could hardly see what bore down on her as it blotted out the sun and the light of day. Everything in her sight went dim. As the shadow blew its breath upon her, a piercing chill invaded her body. She shivered uncontrollably. Her own breath streamed like gray mist. A thought entered her mind that the sun had never existed, nor had light or warmth. There was nothing but the cold and bitter void.
Now the dark shape opened like a maw to consume her. In its depths she caught a glimpse of a viperous form exuding power and terror. It was only for a moment, but that moment was an eternity, a descent into the abyss where no life existed. Her very soul trembled.
Gwen struggled against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Desperately she clung to some faint sense of herself, some feathered memory of light and hope. Alone in the universe, with no one to help her, she fought to hold the darkness at bay.
But she was not alone. Even Dara was not aware of the change that came over him, though he raced recklessly down the path so cautiously climbed just before. For it was not a boy in blue jeans who ran toward her, but a kingly figure trailing a royal mantle.
As soon as he reached Gwen, he stepped in front of her to block the shadow.
“Bí ar shiúl!” he cried, raising his hand. “Be gone from the island! The king commands it!”
The shape loomed larger and darker. Gwen suffered a pang of new fear, not for herself but for Dara. He looked so slight against the shadow, and his voice sounded pale in the dimness. She wanted to help him, or at least to stand by him, but she was rooted to the spot unable to move.
Dara’s breath misted in front of him. His body trembled in the icy cold. But he didn’t waver. He raised his other hand till both were extended to bar the horror.
“By Fír Flathemon, the Sovereign’s Truth, I am the law on this island. Even you must obey me!”
And now it appeared Dara was not alone. All around him were shining figures, stern and kingly, called to defend the rights of their lineage. When he spoke again, his voice echoed with theirs, the voices of his ancestors ringing down through the centuries.
“Gread leat!” he thundered with inexorable force. “Return to the Deep! The king commands it!”
A great spasm convulsed the shadow. As it backed away, down the path it had come, it slowly diminished like darkness before dawn. By the time it reached the lough, it was a smear of mist that dispersed over the water.
Finally free of the thing’s hold, Gwen shuddered behind Dara and covered her face with her hands. He turned quickly to put his arms around her.
“Are you all right?”
Despite the sunlight, she was shivering violently. A film of darkness seemed to linger around her. She struggled to shed it like a skin.
“Was that the fairies?”
“No,” he said shortly. “It was something far older. It’s what I was afraid of. We must get away from here!”
“But what was it? Do you know?”
“Not here,” he urged, catching her hand. “That was only the shadow. Not the thing itself.”
He didn’t have to say more. Gwen was not only keeping up with him, she was leading the way, pulling at him to make him run faster. One thing she knew, that thing had come for her. She never wanted to face it again, or any other version of its horror.
Reaching the road, they ran without stopping till they burst into Granny’s.
“The shadow of the Hunter,” Dara gasped between breaths. “It came out of the lough!”
The Wise Woman was already nodding before he finished. The remains of her oracle lay on the table—white candles, a scrying glass, quill and ink, and lunar charts marked with calculations.
Granny’s voice rang with dread.
“The night of the Hunter’s Moon is upon us. The time of the sacrifice.”
wen felt the chill grip of new fear. Granny sat her down in a chair by the hearth. Dara added more turf to the small fire in the grate. Their simple actions comforted her, but she knew they were preparing to give her bad news. It was Granny who explained.
“Faerie is a wondrous dream, but all things cast a shadow. Even the story of Paradise was wrapped in the snake’s tail. Beyond the gates of Faerie lies a mystery in th
e shape of a Great Worm. Crom Cruac is his name and he is also called the Hunter. Driven from Faerie at the dawn of time, immortal and indestructible, he is bound by a form of tribute.
“At a certain time on the fairy calendar, which may be centuries or more in human terms, a hostage is sacrificed to appease his appetite. If this were not so, he would rise up and devour Faerie itself. Even as the Great Worm exacts a tribute from the fairies, they in turn exact one from us. The sacrifice, the hostage, must come from our race.”
“I, too, was the Hunted and the Sacrificed,” Gwen murmured.
“There is often danger in entering Faerie,” the Wise Woman continued. “But whoever has the misfortune to arrive in the time of the Hunter’s Moon faces the greatest peril of all. By a simple stroke of fate, they become the hostage. The sacrifice. I think you know what this means, my dear, though it pains me to tell you.”
“Findabhair.”
Gwen felt numb. She could hardly think.
“But why did the Hunter come after me? Because I’m her cousin?”
Granny reached out to clasp Gwen’s hand.
“Your link to her is one of name and blood, but stronger again is the bond of fairy law. Since the night in the Mound of the Hostages at Tara, the King of Faerie has laid claim to you both. For him, two hostages meant a double-fold gain. One to live as his bride. The other to die as his sacrifice.”
“Tricky divil indeed,” Gwen said bitterly.
It all made sense now. The unrelenting nature of Finvarra’s pursuit. The mounting ferocity of the hunt. Here was the dark plot that Findabhair had suspected, and the source of Midir’s concerns. The shadow behind Faerie’s glamour. The worm at the heart of the apple. Gwen felt sick. Her triumph over the King could mean only one thing. Findabhair would be the hostage who died as the sacrifice.
Like the flames in the hearth, Gwen’s anger rose to thaw her shock.
“I don’t accept this. And I don’t care if it’s tradition or law or what. My cousin is not going to die. Now, more than ever, I’ve got to get her out of Faerie.”
Granny raised her eyebrows. Dara let out a whoop.
“I’m with you, girl! Come hell or high water!”
“Very aptly put,” was the old woman’s warning. “You mean to defy the fairies, but it may bring the Hunter down upon you.”
Gwen shuddered at the thought, but she remained firm.
“I’ve got to do it.”
“Come on, Gran,” Dara urged. “You know you’re with us. Life’s a risk, and you’ve always taken it.”
His great-aunt managed a brief smile, but her look was troubled.
“Here is the brunt of the matter. There is more at stake than we originally feared. If we fail in our challenge to free Findabhair from the fairies, we could lose Gwen as well. You know what that means. She would become the sacrifice.”
It was at that moment that Gwen considered retreating. She would never forget her confrontation with the shadow on the mountain. The thought of facing it again—worse, the original of its horror—caused an anguish inside her that was almost unbearable. Her natural instinct for survival warred against her desire to save her cousin. She didn’t want to die.
“I’ll take the chance,” she stated at last.
Dara’s look was all the support she needed, but he added words to bolster it.
“It’s a gamble, but some of the odds are with us,” he said. “We have your arts, Granny, along with my hereditary rights of kingship. And we have Gwen. She has countered every trick and trial the King has set against her so far. It would be wrong to underestimate her now.”
Gwen felt a surge of warmth at his praise. At the same time she caught a glimpse of the truth behind his words.
“You speak rightly, Dara,” Granny agreed. “We three have power. Though seven is the strongest number, a triad wields great force.” She smiled at the two of them with affection and respect. “Oh my dears, this will not be easy, and we may yet fail, but I know in my heart we are right to do it.”
They spent the afternoon making their preparations. Once again, the cottage was fortified to bar the fairies. Windows, doors, and all liminal places were wreathed with garlands of elder and broom, and bunches of primroses, heather, holly, and nettle. Once the house was girded, they armed themselves. Granny brandished a staff of blackthorn, her witch’s rod. The ogham runes engraved in the wood crawled over its veneer like glittering insects. From an antique chest lined in damask, Dara took out an oaken scepter. It was finely carved with a point like a spear. He slid it into his back pocket as if it were a knife. Only now, when she saw it again, did Gwen remember it from the night of the three sisters.
“It’s my badge of office,” he told her, “handed down from king to king. In our world it’s purely ceremonial. In Faerie, it’s a weapon that wields great power.”
“I have no magic,” Gwen said, with a pang.
“Magic is useless without heart and will,” said Granny, “and you have plenty of both. Remember that, even as you use what I am about to give you.”
It was a thin wand of hazel, peeled bare and white. As Gwen tucked it into her belt like a dagger, she was told of its nature. Sacred and powerful, the hazel had mystical properties few could plumb. But though she knew little of its spirit, she would be able to wield it if she were brave and true.
At twilight the three set out for Dunfinn, the fairy fort on Inch Island. It was situated on a high promontory in sight of Granny’s house. A narrow trail wound up the hill through gorse and wild bramble. The further they went, the more difficult it got. When they reached a sea of bracken as tall as themselves, Granny led the way, using her staff to beat back the greenery. Clouds of midges swarmed in protest. The scent of bruised leaf and stem was suffocating. As the ground grew sodden, the mud sucked at their boots. Nature herself seemed determined to block them. Whenever they reached a patch they couldn’t cross—briars like barbed wire, or stinging nettles—they would turn to the left. Deep in thought, each walked in silence, brooding on what might lie ahead.
Their plan was simple, if daring and dangerous. An exchange of hostages. Gwen for Findabhair. Once Findabhair was safe in Granny’s cottage, guarded by the Wise Woman, then Gwen would make her move. All being fair in love and war, she would do everything in her power to escape from Faerie. As well as her wits and her hazel wand, she was counting on a little help from her friends. It was Dara’s intention to accompany her. As King of Inch, he would claim the right to move freely between the worlds.
“Finvarra may not allow it,” Gwen had said, worried.
“He can’t keep me out,” Dara swore. “There is a tale of an Irish king who dug up a fairy rath to rescue his stolen queen. I’ll do the same.”
She had no doubt that he would, and it heartened her. Gwen was also expecting some help from Midir, but chose not to mention this to her boyfriend. No need to complicate an already tricky situation. Her fingers curled around the wand at her waist. Regardless of who or what came to her aid, she was ready to fight.
At last they came to Dunfinn. A spinney of straggling hawthorn trees crowned the height. At its center, the ground dipped into a shallow bowl of marsh. An eerie mist whispered through the reeds and rushes. Tall bulrushes stood to attention, a guard of pale spears. It was a forlorn and lonely place, with a strange chill upon it.
Gwen shivered. It was unlike any other spot she had seen on Inch.
“The islanders know this is a fairy fort and they avoid Dunfinn,” Dara told her. “But there are plenty of stories about people getting lost on their way home from the pub. After stepping on a fóidín mearaí, ‘a fairy sod,’ they always find themselves here.”
“The palace lies beneath,” said Granny, “in caverns deep underground. We’ll wait till they come for us.”
They stood at the edge of the spinney, overlooking the rushes, keeping a watch on Dunfinn. All eyes and ears, they awaited some sign that would herald the approach of the fairy folk: a blast of wind, voices raised in song,
or the echo of music. But though the night darkened and clouds drifted past the moon, the silence was unbroken.
“Why do they not come?” Granny said. They could hear the anxiety in her voice. “I sent word of the parley.”
“The King doesn’t trust us,” said Gwen.
“Even if he doesn’t,” Dara argued, “he’d still come. He’d take the risk. If he loves her, he’ll do anything to keep her alive.”
Dara was holding Gwen’s hand as he said this, and he gripped it tighter.
“He may deceive us in turn,” the old woman said suddenly. “There is something in the air. I feel it. Will they try to take Gwen by force?”
The three immediately drew together, back to back. The shadows in the trees seemed to darken. The night crouched around them, ready to pounce.
“Be of good courage,” Granny said softly.
She raised her staff like a spear. Dara took out his scepter and Gwen wielded her wand.
All held their breaths, braced for attack.
The loud crack of a twig made them jump. A slight figure stepped through the trees toward them. Gwen let out a cry.
“Findabhair!”
For there was her cousin, looking pale and calm, dressed in normal clothes, with her knapsack on her back. A quick glance into the spinney confirmed she was alone.
Gwen ran to hug her.
“Thank God you’re here! Your life is in danger!”
“If you mean the Hunter’s Moon, cuz, I already know.” Findabhair’s voice was strangely flat. “Finvarra told me himself. He’s in love with me and doesn’t want me to be the sacrifice.”
“So he set you free!” Gwen cried, delighted.
Yet again the King had turned the tables, but this time Gwen didn’t mind at all. Breathless with joy, she introduced Findabhair to Dara and Granny, describing how they had come to rescue her.
“You’re so American,” Findabhair said quietly. “Did I ever ask to be saved?”
Gwen was brought up short by the remark. Dara looked puzzled. But Granny’s tone was stern.
“Tell her the truth, girl, or I will. I see the mark on your brow.”
The Hunter's Moon Page 14
