Suddenly they realized she meant to kill all four of them. What better way of making sure the prophecy never came true?
“Run, childer!” Michael said. “Run as far and as fast as you can! Meself and Nora will try to slow her down!”
The girls were already backing away, while Donald twitched restlessly from foot to foot. He hated the idea of running away from anybody, but what else could he do?
Melvin had other ideas. He snatched Saint Patrick’s crosier from the old man. The old man stared at him in bewilderment. “Sure what are you going to do with that? That yoke is only any use if Saint Patrick’s holding it.”
Melvin shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Melvin—” Donald began. Melvin half-turned his head as if to say—“Butt out. This is my choice,” and Donald fell silent.
Right then Queen Ula appeared in front of Melvin, slightly breathless from her climb. “You!” she snapped. “This time I’m turning you into a beetle—a wee black beetle. Aye, and then I’m squashing you under me foot!”
But before she could even point her staff at Melvin, he’d gripped the crosier with both hands and swung it through the air as hard as he was able—which wasn’t very hard or fast as the crosier was very heavy and he was just ten—hitting the staff about halfway along its length.
Afterwards, nobody was quite sure what happened next. Only that there was a sound like a thunder clap, so loud everybody was deafened by it, and a smell like burning rubber. Then they all saw the witch’s staff had been broken in two and Melvin was lying stretched out in front of her—dead or alive? Nobody could tell for sure. Just that his clothes and face had been badly scorched.
Even as Penny and Beverly ran forward to see if he was OK, the witch was backing away, her face filled with fury and astonishment. Already she was looking past the two girls and seeing something they didn’t see—how the smith and the harpist were advancing towards her, their faces grim and unafraid.
Queen Ula let out a great cry of rage and frustration, then fled back the way she’d come. She was already in her chariot by the time the others had reached the spot where Melvin lay. “I’ll be back!” she screamed, as her charioteer’s whip snapped across his horses’ heads. “Do you hear me? I’ll be back! By noon tomorrow! And I’m bringing me three brothers with me—Gruagh, Buach and Manus: maybe you heard tell of them? They’ll put manners on the lot of youse!”
By then the chariot was lurching and bumping so much she had to sit down, and that meant turning her back on them, so she never got to say anything else, and in another five minutes the chariot was halfway across the countryside and five minutes later it was lost to view entirely.
“Gruagh, Buach and Manus,” the smith said. “The grandsons of Balor himself! If the witch is their sister—”
“Then she was a fomorian all along,” the harpist nodded grimly.
It turned out the old woman had once been a mid-wife and it was she who examined Melvin. His head was twitching from side to side now, and he was mumbling under his breath, although it was impossible to make out what he was saying. When they lifted back his T-shirt, they saw his torso was purple and mottled and that great blisters were starting to form on his skin, which was burning hot to the touch.
The old woman shook her head. “It’s even worse than it looks. Half his insides have been boiled like meat in a pot. He’s not long for this world, children. I’m sorry. If Saint Patrick were still here ‘twould be a different story.”
“How come?” Penny sobbed.
“Because Saint Patrick could have cured him, no bother.”
Donald swallowed hard. “So how long has he got?”
The old lady sighed and pursed her lips. “A day. Maybe two. No more.”
It wasn’t as if they could bring Melvin back home, short of carrying him—and that would have taken far too long.
“So what are we going to do?” wailed Beverly.
“Stay put,” Donald said finally. “We don’t have any choice. Besides, this is easily the best place to defend ourselves against some fomorian giants, even if it is in ruins.”
“Right you are,” the smith agreed. “Only maybe you should to send your sisters away first.”
“Send us away?” Penny couldn’t believe her ears.
But Donald was already nodding. “It’s not like you could help or anything.”
Afterwards they made a shelter for Melvin: two stout hawthorn sticks were propped against a stone wall, then the magic cloak draped over them.
And just in time too: it was starting to rain again. Even if Queen Ula couldn’t turn people into animals any longer, she clearly hadn’t lost all her magical powers.
Melvin didn’t wake up for almost an hour. He asked for some water, so Donald had to hunt around for a goblet, then find a stream. Luckily there was one just outside the archway. Even so, by the time he got back, it was nearly dark and a dozen or so fairies had materialized outside the lean-to.
Donald couldn’t tell for sure, but they seemed upset. In his dream the fairies had glowed as if they were lit up from inside. In reality, their clothes and their pale, pretty faces gave off only the faintest phosphorescent glimmer. It made them easy to pick out in the gloom, but that was about it. And in his dream he’d heard every single word the fairy king had said, whereas now he could barely hear the fairies at all, even though there seemed to be several she-fairies in long dresses, milling about and wringing their hands and keening, and a fairy piper, sitting cross-legged outside the lean-to’s entrance, playing some sort of lament.
Stepping into gloom of the tiny lean-to, he could still tell right away Melvin had been crying.
Melvin drank from the goblet in quick, thirsty gulps before lying back.
“You okay?”
Melvin made some low sound like a groan under his breath. “What do you think? Somebody said she’s coming back with her brothers—three fomorian giants. Is it true?”
Donald had never heard him sound so miserable.
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
Melvin heaved a deep, shaky sigh. “So smashing her staff was just a waste of time. How come you guys are still here?”
“The girls are going home, but only because I’m telling them to. Me? I can’t just leave you behind, man.”
Melvin sat up again—it took nearly all his strength—his eyes bright and accusing. “You’re going to stay here and get killed? Are you crazy? As if I haven’t screwed things up enough already.”
And then he started to cry in earnest.
Donald leant forward and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “You didn’t screw up. That was a really brave thing you did out there, Melvin. I wish I’d been as brave. Besides, you aren’t the only reason I decided to stay.”
“I don’t get it.” Melvin rubbed his eyes.
“I can’t just cut and run. These people need our help. And then there’s the prophecy.”
Melvin shook his head in disbelief. “You’re staying here because of some stupid prophecy?”
“Hear me out. Somebody gave me a magic spear on my way here. The way I see it, you’ve done your bit, now it’s my turn to do mine.”
But Donald stepped out of the lean-to knowing he was a lot more scared then he’d pretended. The old man and his wife, the smith, the harpist and the wives of the Fianna all turned to face him as he emerged, the fairies milling about their feet. They were grown-ups, but he could tell by the expressions on their faces they all knew about the rhyme and how he was their only hope.
Suddenly he realized he’d been telling Melvin the truth. He couldn’t let these people down.
He’d always known going on an adventure was about bad stuff happening to you. How else could you find out what you were made of? He’d just never realized how scary this might be.
Only if he actually pulled this off, he’d be famous in Tir-na-Nog forever. People back home still told stories about Jack the Giant-Killer. Here in Tir-na-Nog people would tell stories about Donald the Giant-Killer.<
br />
He’d left the spear leaning against a nearby wall. Now he picked it up. “The fairy king gave me this spear. I guess he knew I’d end up having to fight somebody, sooner or later. I just want you guys to know—I won’t let you down. I promise.”
Except the fairy king hadn’t known he’d need the spear to kill three giants instead of just one witch.
The smith was frowning thoughtfully. Now he stepped forward, gently took the spear from Donald, peering closely at the strange runes carved along its length and onto its great barbed head, a big grin slowly creeping across his surly features. “Sure this is the Gae Bolg!”
The harpist drew closer. “Are you sure?”
“See how one side of the head is chipped? That’s where Finn took a lump out of Balor’s shield. I’d know this spear anywhere. It’s a wonder I didn’t recognize it before now!”
Suddenly the women were all clapping and hugging each other, as if he’d already taken on those three giants and won.
Donald was mystified. “What’s going on?”
The harpist smiled. “Finn killed over a dozen fomorians with this spear the day he drove them back into the sea, two hundred years ago.”
“Seriously?”
“Aye. Now we all know you have a fighting chance. Is it any wonder we’re all so delighted?”
Donald shrugged, doing his best to ignore the warm glow deep inside him.
“No. I guess not.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Penny pulled her shawl a little bit more tightly around her shoulders and angrily rubbed away the tears rolling down her cheeks.
The wives of the Fianna had left a few hours earlier. The bard, the smith and Donald had lit a fire. They were sitting around it now, discussing strategies. Meanwhile she and Beverly had decided to sleep in one corner of the great hall—the corner where a bit of the roof was intact. They still had the shawls given to them by Nora, so they weren’t too cold.
Of course the magic cloak could have provided the best protection of all, but Melvin had fallen asleep and neither of them wanted to disturb him.
The smith and the harpist were escorting her and Beverly back to the doorway the following morning.
Penny was furious, mostly with Donald. How dare he say she and Beverly had to go home? That it was too dangerous to stay here? Now they wouldn’t even be with Melvin when he did die.
“I wish I’d never gone through that stupid door!” she thought miserably.
But even as more rain pattered down onto the tiles above, a faint hope flickered into existence inside her.
The old woman had also said Saint Patrick could have cured Melvin. Sure, Saint Patrick was little more than a wild beast now, and miles and miles away, up in the mountains somewhere, but what if—
Penny sat up so suddenly she woke up Beverly, who’d finally fallen asleep next to her.
“Penny? You okay?” Beverly groaned.
“Saint Patrick’s crosier,” Penny said. “Don’t you see? If we give him back his crosier he might be okay. And then he could make Melvin well again.”
Beverly sighed. “We’d have to find him first, Penny. He could be anywhere.”
“He’s up in those mountains. I mean, that’s where he was going, right?”
“And that’s like—what? Ten or twenty miles from here?” Beverly yawned, her voice sleepy and sad at one and the same time. “Donald’s in charge now and he isn’t going to let anybody leave until he’s sorted out the witch and her brothers.”
“Apart from us, you mean.”
“Sorry?”
“We could go. Donald wants us to go anyway.”
“What? You mean you and me?” Beverly sighed. “Penny, I know you’re really cut up about Melvin. We all are. But it would never work. Melvin could barely pick up that crosier. How do you think you and me are going to carry it twenty miles? Then we’d have to find where that—that thing, is hiding. And we don’t even know if giving it the crosier would actually work. What if it just tore us apart?”
“I guess.”
Penny realized there was no point asking Beverly for help. Not that it really mattered.
She knew what she had to do.
Beverly was woken by the faint clink of metal. Right away she knew what it was—even before she looked and saw Penny was gone.
She ran quickly out of the hall. Donald and the others had fallen asleep around the fire. Penny was dragging the crosier out through the archway. It was a wild and windy night. Inky black clouds were streaming by overhead with the moon shining through them every now and then, while great silver sheets of rain moved to and fro across countryside below. Beverly could just make out the mountains looming in the distance, half-shrouded in mist.
Suddenly she was very glad she’d woken up when she did. The idea of her little sister trying to drag or carry some stupid crosier across marsh and bog and over those hills and in such weather, and all so she could give it to some monster—it just didn’t bear thinking about.
“Put it down, Penny!” she hissed.
Penny hesitated, then stuck out her jaw. “No.”
Beverly bit her lip. “What you’re trying to do—it’s impossible. You do realize that? I told you we couldn’t carry it all the way between us, so how do you think you’ll ever manage on your own?”
She barely noticed the fairies slowly gathering around them, their faces intent. Then one little man in a golden tunic with a long green feather on his head stepped forward and bowed low.
“If I might be so bold—” he said.
“What?” Beverly sighed.
“Maybe myself and the others could be of some assistance.”
“How? Don’t tell me you could help us carry it.”
“No. But we could make your journey a wee bit easier.”
Beverly stared down at the fairy’s serious face, trying not to be too irritated. “And how exactly would you do that?”
In reply the little man slowly left the ground, floating upwards until his tiny glowing face was on level with Beverly’s own.
He held out his arms. “See? There’s a trick to it, but ‘tisn’t as hard as it looks. Most of us weigh no more an ounce or two anyway.”
“You think you can make us float? And the crosier too?”
“There’s no way we could carry two big lumps like you and your sister that distance.” A faint smile. “Or the crosier, either. But we could lighten the load for yez. If you’ll let us.”
For a moment Beverly wanted to tell the little man to get lost. Then she saw the expression on Penny’s face.
It was crazy, but hadn’t she always promised herself to make sure none of her brothers and sisters ever came to any harm? So if there was a chance she and Penny really might get Saint Patrick back to normal again and if he could cure Melvin—it was a lot of ‘ifs’, but surely she had to at least try? For Melvin’s sake?
Beverly shrugged. “Okay.”
The fairies were true to their word. They clustered around her and Penny and as long as they stayed close, Beverly could feel a spring in her step and the crosier grow lighter in her grip.
It wasn’t so big a difference. Or at least, she didn’t think so at first.
But as she and Penny half-ran, half-skipped across mile after mile of hills covered in gorse and heather, across patches of wet, gleaming bog and through dense little woods of hawthorn and ash and rowan, she started to change her mind. Not once did they get tired, the crosier half-floating between them at times. Soon they were giggling despite themselves. Even the rain didn’t seem to matter so much.
Whenever some unusual obstacle—the snarled branches of a tree or a particularly big boulder—got in their way and the fairies had to disperse; then she noticed the difference. Suddenly her legs felt like lead and the crosier was so heavy it took all her strength to hold onto it. Usually, this was only for a second or two, but it was long enough to make her realize just how much the fairies were actually helping.
And the whole time the mountains k
ept getting closer and closer. Clearer and clearer they grew, until Beverly realized it was dawn. Around her the fairies were disappearing one by one, uttering faint goodbyes as they did so.
They were only a hundred or so yards from the mountains by then, but they had to carry the crosier the last bit without any help at all. The best they could do was to take turns dragging it.
They’d just reached the bottom of the nearest mountain when they heard a distant, inhuman howl echoing down from above, a howl so miserable and lonely and filled with anguish they both stopped dead in their tracks.
So the monster was roaming around on the mountaintop somewhere. Beverly was suddenly very, very scared. Besides, how on earth were they ever going to get up there? The mountain loomed up into the dark and rainy sky, a great wall of brown heather, without a gap for a valley, or even a track to follow up its steep sides.
It was impossible.
Beverly opened her mouth to say as much, but then she saw Penny’s face and thought the better of it.
“Come on.”
She never forgot that climb.
It rained and rained, an endless procession of big black clouds rolling by overhead, and the mountain was so steep it was as if they really were climbing a wall. The dark, wet heather scratched and tore at their calves and hands, but it was the only thing they could hold onto as they pulled themselves up, inch by inch.
The climb was made a thousand times worse by how they had to bring the crosier up with them. Sometimes one would push while the other pulled and in each heart beat the same cold fear: what if they let go of it?
And finally this did happen. The crosier was so battered and filthy and muddy by then, it was scarcely recognizable as the same crosier Saint Patrick had been holding when they’d first met him, and the muck covering it made it slippery. One minute they were scrambling to get onto a boulder jutting out of the heather (they were halfway up by then and this was the first thing they’d seen which might be possible to sit down on) the next, the crosier had gone bumping and rolling out of sight.
The Witch, the Saint & the Shoemaker Page 7
