girseach (geer-shuck)—young girl
Gread leat! (graad laat)—Begone! (Literally, “be off with you.”)
inis (in-ish)—island
Is glas iad na cnoic ata i bhfad uainn (iss glaws ee-ud nah kuh-nick wawd oo-in)—literally “far away hills are green,” i.e., the equivalent of the English saying “the grass is always greener on the other side.”
Magh Abhlach (mawh aw-v-lawk)—Plain of the (many) Apple Trees (another name for Faerie)
Maher Buídhe (maw-hur bwee)—The Yellow Meadow. Irish farmers tend to name their meadows and fields, reflecting their personal relationship with the land. Maher is an anglicized version of machaire (mock-arr), meaning “plain” or “field.” Búidhe is a variant spelling of buí, meaning “yellow.”
Máire Ruadh (moy-ra roo-ah)—Red-haired Mary is a historical figure of the County Clare who married three times. Her first husband died young and left her a rich widow, her second husband was killed in the Cromwellian Wars, and her third husband was a junior officer in the English army. Through the last marriage she secured her eldest son’s inheritance. Ruadh is a variant spelling of rua, meaning “red-haired.” Máire, often anglicized to Maura, is Irish for “Mary.” In the Irish language, Mary the Mother of God has her own name, Muire (murr-ah), used by no other women called Mary.
Maitiú (maw-t’yu)—Irish for Matthew (see note concerning Caitlín)
Manaigh Liath (mawna lee-ah)—The Gray Monks, also called the White Monks, are the Cistercian Order, so called because their habits were made of unbleached wool of a grayish color. Despite Gwen’s fears, they would not have burned her as a witch. There were few witch trials in Ireland, less than a dozen over the centuries between the first in 1324 and the last in 1711. Curiously, with the exception of the first, all the trials were of Protestants by Protestants.
Meitheal (meh-hull)—working party
Mná na hÉireann (muh-naw nah heer-inn)—“Women of Ireland” was an expression used when referring to the first female (and feminist) President of Ireland, Mary Robinson, and here extended to her successor, President Mary McAleese.
Mo chara (moh har-ah)—My friend (the possessive gives it the sense of “my dear friend” or “my dear one”)
Nach breá an tráthnóna é, a chailín (nawk braw awn trahno-nah ey, ah haw-leen)—Isn’t it a fine afternoon/evening (up to nightfall), my girl?
Ochón (aw-kone)—Alas!
Ochón ó (aw-kone oh)—Woe is me!
pisreog (pish-rogue) or piseog—charm or spell
Ráth na Ríogh (raw’h nah ree)—Fort of the Kings. Rath is now commonly used as an English word—without the accent—for the ancient hill forts and mounds that dot Ireland.
Rurthach (rur-haw’k)—Old Irish name for the River Liffey
seisiún (seh-shoon)—short for seisiún ceoil (seh-shoon kee-ole), an Irish music session, usually held in pubs and often impromptu.
Sídhe (shee)—plural word meaning “fairy folk.” It is understood that the word is related to the Old Irish word síd used for a mound or hill-fort, in which the fairy folk are said to dwell. Sídhe is a variant spelling of sí.
Sídhe Gáire (shee gy-ruh)—The Sídhe are the fairy folk, while gáire is the verb “to laugh.”
skeog (skee-ogue)—Anglicized word used on Inch Island for a fairy thornbush or tree. Provenance uncertain—perhaps from síog (“fairy”)? Or possibly from Scots Gaelic as that language was widely used in the province of Ulster along with Irish Gaelic.
Sláinte (slawn-cha)—Health. In a toast, the word means “good health to you” or “here’s health to you.”
Slán go fóill (slawn go foyle)—So long (literally “safe yet”)
Slievecarron (shleeve-care-un)—“slieve” is the anglicized version of sliabh meaning “mountain” while “carron” is taken from the Irish word carn meaning a “heap” or “pile,” Anglicized to “cairn” and referring to a mound of stones, and sometimes to the stone mounds that are chambered tombs.
súil (sool)—eye
súileach (sool-uck)—Eyed or eye-like. Note: St. Columcille was said to have killed a monster with several hundred eyes in a pool where the Swilly River rises beyond Letterkenny, County Donegal.
Súiligh (soo-lee)—Variant of súile meaning “eye.” In this case the word as been Anglicized to “Swilly.”
Tá do ghruaig chomh fionn le ór agus do shúile gorm chomh le loch (taw doe roo-ug c’hoe fee-un leh orr awguss doe hew-leh gurr-um c’hoe leh lock)—Your hair is as fair as gold and your eyes as blue as the lough.
Tánaiste (tawn-ish-tuh)—Tanist, second-in-command, heir presumptive; in modern Ireland this is the title of the Deputy Prime Minister.
Taoiseach (tee-shawk)—leader, chief, ruler; in modern Ireland this is the title of the Prime Minister.
Teach Míodchuarta (chalk mee-ud-hurt-ah)—Banquet Hall (literally “middle round house”)
Teamhair na Ríogh (tower nah ree)—Tara of the Kings. Teamhair means “a place from where there is a wide view.” Ríogh is a variant spelling of rí, meaning “king.” Author’s note: Though Tara has been the sacred center of Ireland for over two thousand years, there are plans underway to run a motorway through it.
Tír na nÓg (teer nah nogue)—The Land of the Ever-Young (Paradise or Faerie)
Tír Tairngire (teer torn-geera)—The Land of Promise (Paradise or Faerie)
The historical speech of the Irish people is a Goidelic Celtic language variously called Gaelic, Irish Gaelic (as opposed to Scots Gaelic), and Erse. In Ireland, it is simply called the Irish language or “Irish.” For over two thousand years, Irish—Old, Middle, and Modern—was the language of Ireland, until the English conquest enforced its near eradication. Today it is the official first language of Eire, the Irish Republic. Recently it has been awarded official status in the Six Counties of Northern Ireland through the Good Friday Agreement.
As a native language or mother tongue, Irish is found only in a number of small communities called Gaeltachtaí, located chiefly on the west coast of Ireland. Sadly, these communities are declining due to economic factors, reduced rural population, social disintegration, intermarriage with non-native speakers, attrition, and immigration of non-native speakers, and the settling of non-native speakers in the areas. Some estimates put the demise of the Gaeltachtaí within the next few generations, a loss that would be of incalculable magnitude to Irish culture and society. It must be said, however, that native speakers ignore these rumors of their death with characteristic forbearance.
Meanwhile, the knowledge and use of the Irish language is increasing among the English-speaking population of the island. In the most recent census of 2002 (preliminary results), over a million people in the Republic and 140,000 in Northern Ireland reported having a reasonable proficiency in the language. Census figures for the use of Irish continually increase. Globally, study groups and language classes are popular not only among the diaspora—those Irish and their descendants who have emigrated throughout the world—but also among non-Irish peoples such as the Japanese, Danish, French, and Germans. In the United States (Na Stáit Aontaithe), language classes are available throughout the country, while the Internet lists countless sites that teach and encourage Irish.
Back home in Ireland, the grassroots phenomenon of Gaelscoileanna—primary and secondary schools teaching in Irish—is widespread and rapidly growing, despite tacit resistance from successive Irish governments. These schools guarantee new generations of Irish speakers whose second language is fluent Irish. The longstanding Irish-language radio station Raidió na Gaeltachta continues to broadcast from the viewpoint of native speakers, while the new television station Teilifís na Gaeilge (TG4) caters to both native and second-language speakers. Many institutions both private and public support the language, the most venerable being Conradh na Gaeilge (www.cnag.ie).
There are several dialects within the Irish language which express regional differences among the provinces of Munster, Leinster, Connaught, and Ulster. Al
so extant is Shelta, the secret language of the Irish Travelers (nomadic people who live in caravan trailers), which weaves Romany words with Irish Gaelic.
In whatever form, long may the language survive. Gaeilge abú!
O.R. Melling was born in Ireland and grew up in Canada with her seven sisters and two brothers. As an adolescent, she was a champion Irish dancer and competed in many American cities. At eighteen years old, she hitchhiked across Canada and down to California where she lived for several months. As an Officer Cadet in the Canadian Naval Reserve, she worked her way through university, achieving a B.A. in Celtic Studies and Philosophy and an M.A. in Medieval Irish History. “To travel hopefully” is her motto and she has visited such faraway places as Malaysia, Borneo, India, Denmark, Outer Hebrides, Alaska, and Canada’s Northwest Territories. To date, her books have been translated into Japanese, Chinese, Russian, Slovenian, and Czech. The next book in her The Chronicles of Faerie series is The Summer King. She lives in her hometown of Bray, County Wicklow, Ireland, with her teenage daughter, Findabhair. Visit her Web site at www.ormelling.com.
The print version of this book was designed by Jay Colvin and art directed by Becky Terhune. It is set in Horley Old Style MT, a Monotype font designed by the English type designer Robert Norton. The chapter heads are set in Mason, which was created by Jonathan Barnbrook based on ancient Greek and Roman stone carvings.
Enjoy this peek at the second book in O.R. Melling’s
The Chronicles of Faerie,
The Summer King
That night, Laurel had a dream. She was standing on the dunes looking out over the sea. The silver stars were reflected in the water, which lay still as glass. A faint music rose in the east and lingered like sunrise in the dark shadows of Minaun, music so soft and plaintive it made her heart ache. The sweet cadence seemed to echo the sorrow of an exiled spirit, recalling vague memories of a hapless love, or the loss of a home so far away.
White lights like candles moved over the cliffs and across the pale strand of Trawmore. As they drew closer, she saw the cavalcade of bright lords and ladies, tall and shining and blindingly beautiful. Some rode on palfreys of white and gray. Others walked with such grace their feet barely touched the ground. Flags and gonfalons fluttered above their heads. Lanterns glittered with the light of the moon. Their names were whispered on the wind and over the water. The Still Folk. The Noble Ones. The People of the Ever-Living Land. Na Daoine Maithe. Na Daoine Sídhe. The music surrounded them as they went, and they sang together.
Níl sé ’na lá, níl a ghrá,
Níl sé ’na lá, na baol ar maidin,
Níl sé ’na lá, nil a ghrá,
Solas ard atá sa ghealaigh.
It is not yet day, it is not, my love
It is not yet day, nor yet the morning,
It is not yet day, it is not, my love
For the moon is shining brightly.
As she looked upon them, Laurel was overcome with a yearning that pierced her heart. Her eyes welled with tears. Here was a race that would never know the weight of human life. They seemed so slight and insubstantial, so fragile and precious. The dream at the end of life’s heartbreaking journey. She felt a great longing rise up inside her, the desire to protect them, to keep them safe.
At the head of the column strode a tall young man with a glittering star on his forehead. He was dressed in black like the night, and a silver mantle swirled behind him like mist. His red-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were solemn and wise.
Laurel knew without being told that this was Midir, the new High King of Faerie. She bowed her head. When she looked up again, the cavalcade was gone and a young man stood before her in black jeans and T-shirt. His red-gold hair was tied back in a ponytail. The bright blue eyes were warm and friendly. Only the star on his forehead told of his kingship.
She thought of bowing again but changed her mind. He looked her own age. She was surprised, then, when he bowed to her.
“I wish to thank thee for what you are doing for my country and my beloved.”
“Your beloved,” she echoed, with a pang.
She knew immediately whom he meant. She was surprised but not surprised. Hadn’t Honor written that he was in love with her?
“I wished to undertake the mission myself,” he said, “but I could not abdicate my duties to the kingdom. This is a perilous time for Faerie. Since the death of the First King, we are embattled on many fronts. I have yet to come into full knowledge of myself as sovereign, and I am further weakened without my tánaiste, and because there is no queen in Faerie. Where the link between the worlds grows thin, dark things are slipping through the cracks and crevices. Yet we hold back the waves as best we can.
“If you succeed in forging the Ring of the Sun, you will have saved our cause. With the bond renewed, we may heal the land and keep out the darkness, and all will be well.”
“I’ll do it,” she promised, “for Honor and Faerie.” Her voice rang with determination. But then her throat tightened and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Do you know if she’s all right? Would it be possible … Can I see her?”
Midir waved his hand over the ground between them. A pool of silver light brimmed like water. There in the depths she lay, curled up and fast asleep. Honor. She was like a white flower, shining and innocent, a newborn soul.
“Oh,” said Laurel.
She stared at Midir with mute appeal, and saw her own pain and longing mirrored in his eyes.
“Your sister has slipped between the worlds, through one of the tears we hope to seal. When the Midsummer Fires are lit, she will awaken. Then you and I will be reunited with her.”
His declaration was clear and confident, his features serene. Laurel found herself wishing for the same conviction.
“How can you be so sure?”
The blue eyes glittered like the stars above. His smile dazzled.
“I believe in you,” he said, as he began to fade.
And even as Laurel surfaced from the depths of sleep, his last words dispersed like foam on the waves.
“I have always believed in humans.”
The Hunter's Moon Page 20
