The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  After supper, when Nannaflor left to visit Ian’s mother, Laurel sought out her grandfather in the library.

  Dusk was falling outside the bay window that overlooked the back garden. The evening had grown cool. A small fire burned in the grate. The marble mantelpiece held photographs of the family, ornaments, and an ormolu clock. Firelight flickered over the leather furniture and the shelves of books lining the walls. In the far corner of the room was an antique desk with a computer, printer, and fax machine. Her grandfather was searching through the drawers, perplexed.

  “Have you lost something?” she asked him. “Can I help?”

  “What, my dear? No, I don’t think so.” His brow furrowed as he cast a cold eye over his collection of books. “It could be anywhere. I use it as a bookmark. A gift from an old friend.” He sighed, shook his head. “I’m growing more addled by the day. It’s retirement, you know. A man should never stop working. His mind seizes up.”

  “Dad says you’re still writing papers.”

  She was proud of her grandfather, a professor and well-known expert on folklore.

  “True. But I’m beginning to think it’s just an excuse to get out of the house and into the college library.”

  He came over to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  “I wanted to ask you something,” she said, a little shy.

  He invited her to sit in one of the armchairs by the fire, while he took the other.

  “You didn’t join in the conversation at supper,” she began.

  A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth.

  “The days are gone when Florence and I fought long and hard over such issues. Indeed, I believe we married so we could continue the arguments at our convenience.”

  Laurel smiled back.

  “I respect your grandmother’s beliefs and I, too, am a member of the church, but the Good Book itself tells us that in our Father’s house are many mansions.”

  Granda stood up to pace the floor, slippers padding softly over the carpet. His hand brushed along the spines of his books.

  “Our great poet, Mr. Yeats, spoke of ‘the rise of the soul against the intellect.’”

  He pulled out an ancient volume and brought it over to her. Printed in 1815, the hardback was frayed with age, the pages as brown as autumn leaves. The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies. Inside, a young hand had scrawled the words: WILLIAM THOMAS BLACKBURN, DECEMBER 1952.

  “This was mine as a schoolboy. I almost know it by heart. The author, the Reverend Robert Kirk, was a minister of Aberfoyle who was ‘taken’ by the fairies in the seventeenth century. He swore that he had direct experience of Faerie, and that when he died he would return to that magical land.”

  As her grandfather took down more books, little heaps formed around Laurel, on the arms of the chair, in her lap, and spilling over the floor. The titles alone were enchanting. The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries. The Crock of Gold. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some were old and smelled of must. Others were new with lavish illustrations on glossy paper. Faeries by Brian Froud and Alan Lee. Michael Scott’s Irish Myths and Legends. Joseph Campbell’s The Masks of God.

  “Here is Professor Tolkien’s essay ‘On Fairy Tales.’ I like this line.” Granda read out loud, “‘Behind the fantasy, real will and powers exist independent of the minds and purposes of men.’”

  Laurel handled the books reverently. What the Bees Know by P. L. Travers. Lady Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland. Dr. James Hollis’s Tracking the Gods. She felt a little lost, as if she were wandering in a foreign land where the language and customs were strange to her.

  “This was the kind of stuff Honor loved,” she murmured.

  Her grandfather watched her closely. When he spoke again, she could see he was choosing his words carefully.

  “For the ancient Irish, Faerie was the place where they went after death. There are those who believe to this day that we can still go there, if we wish.”

  Laurel caught her breath. Her heart beat rapidly.

  “What do you believe, Granda?”

  Old eyes gazed into young and didn’t turn away, but she saw a struggle there and a sudden reluctance to speak. She could only assume it was out of concern for her, or perhaps a fear of ridicule.

  “Please tell me,” she persisted.

  “I believe,” he began, then frowned, stopped, and tried again. “I believe there is more to creation than either science or religion allows. I believe that a death in one world means a birth in another. And, most of all, I believe that Faerie is one of the rooms in our Father’s house.”

  He had no sooner spoken than Laurel felt the other question rise with such force that she had to stop herself from shouting it.

  “Can people come back from Faerie? Can they return to this world?”

  Her grandfather blanched. She saw his anguish and knew what it meant, his fear for her, and his guilt and regret for leading her to this point.

  “I’m the one who brought up the subject, Granda, not you. Please tell me what you know,” she urged. “That’s all I ask.”

  They were both suffering, but it was obvious she was determined to see it through.

  Though his voice sounded sluggish, her grandfather did his best to respond.

  “There are various tales of those who have tried to retrieve their loved ones from the other world. Orpheus. Tam Lin. The first was not successful. The second was. Then there’s the story of Catkin. He was a kitten that went to Fairyland to rescue a child who was stolen when he was minding her. The outcome in that story was a compromise. It was agreed she would spend part of her time in this world and part in the next.”

  Laurel could hardly breathe. His words mesmerized her. They were exactly what she wanted to hear. And for that very reason she doubted them. Not so long ago, she would have dismissed them as nonsense or a cruel fantasy. But the shock of her sister’s death had cracked the monolith of her disbelief. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. Wasn’t that from one of Honor’s favorite songs?

  Laurel rubbed her forehead. Too many conflicting thoughts.

  Granda squeezed her shoulder.

  “Have a look through the books,” he said gently. “I think you’ll enjoy them.”

  He left her alone curled up in the armchair. The ormolu clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The fire settled into a labyrinth of red embers. A hush fell over the big house. The only sound was the soft fall of rain outside. Poring over the books, Laurel was soon enthralled. There were tales of demon lovers, stolen brides, shape-shifters, and enchanted beasts. Some of the stories were so beautiful they filled her with a strange longing. Others told terrifying accounts of tithes and curses inflicted on humans. A few were so sad she almost cried. At the bottom of the pile was a journal with dried flowers pressed between the pages. The delicate scent of bluebells, harebells, foxgloves, and daisies tickled her nose. A little shiver ran up her spine when a handwritten note listed these flowers as fairy favorites. Did it belong to her grandfather? She touched the dried primroses. Yellow, blue, pink, purple—they looked like colored wafers, tempting to taste. Absently she slipped one into her mouth even as she read that eating primroses allowed one to see fairies.

  “Hello,” said the little man.

  He was sitting in the chair opposite her, legs crossed, feet above the floor. His appearance had changed from the last time she saw him. He was much tidier. The coppery hair and beard were combed, and the dark-red suit looked new despite its antiquated style. He even sported a waistcoat stiff with gold embroidery. His shoes were of black patent leather with silver buckles. On his head perched a tricorner hat, which also had a shiny buckle. Puffing on a blackthorn pipe, he sent smoke rings toward her that smelled sweet and grassy.

  Many of the stories had described folk like him. Before she could stop herself, she asked him outright.

  “Are you a leprechaun?”

  “Would ye go ’way o
uta dat,” he said, and chuckled.

  Laurel laughed too, surprised at herself and a little embarrassed. The books were obviously influencing her. In fact, she felt groggy from reading so much. Specks of light floated in the air around her. The room was very warm. She must have dozed off. That explained why she hadn’t heard him come in.

  “I’m a cluricaun.”

  He stared at her boldly, as if daring her to object. Glints of red light shone in his eyes.

  “Of the Fir Dhearga. ‘The Red People’ in your lingo. We’re the more cheerful branch of the family. Leprechauns don’t have the diplomas to deal with your kind. Too cross and cranky, and short on the oul gray matter. This is a tricky situation. I’ve been sent by the High King himself to confab with ye.”

  “High King?” Laurel frowned. Her head ached. She felt dizzy. “Isn’t Ireland a republic? I didn’t think it had monarchs.”

  The room was definitely too stuffy. Perhaps if she got up and opened a window? But she couldn’t move. Her body felt heavy, like a lump of lead. An inkling of terror crept through her. This wasn’t right. There was an outdoor smell in the room, wet soil and leaves and the night perfume of columbine. Her eyelids began to close. She forced them open. Though the fire was nearly out, red shadows were dancing over the bookshelves. The little man’s silhouette rose up behind him, large and vaguely menacing.

  She opened her mouth to yell for help, but instead she yawned.

  “Ye’ve got to fight it,” he said, and his tone was urgent. “The solace of sleep. ’Tis your human nature. It wants ye to nod off so ye can tell yourself this is all a dream.”

  He leaned toward her, eyes dark and glittering.

  “’Tis no dream, girseach, and ye’ve got to accept that. We can’t be about our business till ye do. Can I give ye a little hint o’ help? Something to get ye around that wall of logic that bricks in your brain?”

  Laurel tried to speak, but couldn’t. Waves of fatigue were washing over her. Her head kept dropping onto her chest. She was overwhelmed by the desire to have a little nap. Maybe lie down on the carpet in front of the fire? The alternative was too bizarre: to continue talking with this little man who looked like one of Santa’s elves.

  His tone was suddenly matter-of-fact.

  “Look, stick to the essentials and never mind the existentials. Forget all that palaver about fantasy or reality. Act as if ye believe and see what happens. Is that too much to ask?”

  It wasn’t. In fact, the suggestion was so simple and pragmatic it appealed to her instantly. No need to wrestle with the bigger issues. Take it a step at a time. And Laurel so wanted to believe. She knew the stakes. Either there were more things than she had ever dreamed of, or there was nothing beyond her own experience and philosophy. And if the latter were true, there was no hope for her. She would never, ever see her sister again.

  “I’ll try.” Her tongue felt thick and furry. She had to force the words out. “I’ll act … as if … I believe.”

  She had no sooner uttered the words than she began to feel better. The room came back into focus. Energy returned to her limbs. The little man himself looked more solid and even normal, as he rubbed his hands gleefully.

  Laurel sat up straight, her mind clear. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

  “Was my sister stolen by the fairies?”

  The cluricaun was quick to answer.

  “No, she’s not with us, more’s the pity. She’s caught in a quare place.”

  “What do you mean?!”

  Laurel’s heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint.

  The little man sighed, even as the turf ash sighed in the fire.

  “Your sister’s fallen through a crack, a tear in the fabric of Faerie. It’s a story that belongs to a bigger tale, like most things.”

  He drew on his pipe. Laurel held her breath.

  “These are dark days for the Realm,” he declared momentously. “’Twas only a short while ago we lost our High King. Not the new one who sent me to ye, mind, but the old one. The First King.”

  “What happened to him?” she asked, trying not to be impatient.

  “’Twould take a book to tell ye. I could be here all night with tales about the fairies. The story in a nutshell? He lost his heart to a human girl and that was the end of him.”

  “Dead?”

  The cluricaun nodded.

  “Dead to our world, alive in yours. But there’s no time to be talkin’ about metempsychosis. There’s too much to do and it should’ve been done yesterday.”

  “It’s okay, I understand. My grandfather explained it earlier. But I didn’t realize it went both ways, that fairies could die and come here!”

  “Well, they can,” he told her, “but it’s never happened to the High King before! The place is in rag order because of it. Ruptions and ructures and ruaille-buaille. Your sister’s not the only one missin’. But I’ll tell ye this. If things aren’t set right and soon, bedad, they’ll only get worse. And if Faerie is doomed, ye know what that means.”

  After all she had read, Laurel did. Disaster for both worlds. As the two were linked, the existence of each depended on the other. Faerie needed humanity to protect and believe in it, while the Earthworld was nourished by the land of hopes and dreams. She recognized the chief theme in her grandfather’s books: the Rescue of Fairyland. And in all the tales, it was a mortal who did the job.

  Outside, the wind whistled round the corners of the house. The ivy trailing over the window tapped against the panes. The cluricaun put more turf on the fire, and continued.

  “Midsummer’s Eve is nearly upon us. It’s a high feast celebrated by the fairy folk and those of your kind who remember the old ways. ’Tis a special night, but all the more so in the seventh year. For every seven years, on the day that’s in it, the isle of Hy Brasil appears in the West.

  “This magical island is the home of the Summer King who rules the fairies of the western seas. He’s the one who lights the Midsummer Fire on Purple Mountain. It’s the beacon that triggers the others to burn until the last, the heart-fire, is set ablaze on the Hill of Tara by the High King himself. Thus is forged the Fáinne na Gréine, the Ring of the Sun, a fiery chain that pours light and power into Faerie.”

  The cluricaun stopped to catch his breath.

  “Here’s where the plot thickens,” he warned.

  Rummaging through his pockets, he produced his little bottle and took a slug.

  “This is the seventh year, when Hy Brasil rises in the West and the Ring of the Sun must be forged. But there’s no Summer King to light the Midsummer Fire.”

  “He’s one of the missing!”

  The cluricaun blinked and a sly look crossed his face, but Laurel didn’t notice. She was feeling a bit dazed. After all the fairy tales she had read that evening, here was one just as weird and wonderful, and somehow it involved both her and her sister!

  “The mission Honor wrote about in her journal …” she said slowly.

  “Now you’re gettin’ it,” he said.

  She could see he was waiting with bated breath. His pipe had gone out and though he clutched the bottle, he didn’t take a drink.

  “You want me to light the fire?”

  He shook his head. “Only the Summer King has the spark to do it.” He paused a moment. “We want ye to find him.”

  A heavy silence fell over them. The ticking of the clock on the mantel sounded ominously loud, like the toll of a bell. The fire was a heap of gray ashes.

  Laurel was thinking hard. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something wrong with the cluricaun’s story. Something didn’t add up. Still, though her instincts warred against her, it made no difference. There was only one thing she cared about.

  “If the fire is lit and the Ring of the Sun is forged, will that save Honor?”

  The little man nodded so vigorously his hat spun around.

  “Go cinnte! Once Faerie is fixed and the cracks are mended, she’ll be right as r
ain.”

  It was as if a sunburst exploded in Laurel’s brain. She felt giddy and lightheaded. Just like that, her deepest dream and greatest hope presented on a silver platter! She ignored the faint alarm at the back of her mind. There could only be one response to such an offer.

  “I’ll do it!”

  eaving Dublin behind, the train sped across the midlands on its way into the West. The landscape was flat, sprawling with the monotony of suburban estates and the rectangular boxes of factories and offices. Building cranes swayed on the horizon. Plastic bags flapped in the trees. From time to time a field peeped out through the urban blight, like green eyes wincing.

  The train was sleek and shiny, with newly upholstered seats facing each other over narrow tables. The driver used the intercom with zeal, roaring out messages and announcing the stations in Irish and English.

  Kildare. Cill Dara. The Church of the Oak Tree.

  Laurel had placed her knapsack on the empty seat beside her. The car was not too crowded, a few families with children, some young people with backpacks, and several tourists with big suitcases blocking the aisle. People played cards, read newspapers, and to her surprise, drank. Beer cans and wine bottles were conspicuous on all sides. Cell phones were also an Irish custom apparently, as everyone was talking on them. Laurel reached for the one she had bought in Bray. Honor used to text her constantly, even if they were only in separate rooms. She put it back in her pocket and stared out the window.

  The train was passing green fields hedged with bushes of yellow whin. She turned on her iPod and listened for a while to the Peatbog Faeries, then switched to Runrig, a group from the Outer Hebrides. Their sound was strange to her ears, wild and anarchic. The Scots Gaelic words and rhythms were like waves pounding cold shores. It was not her music, but Honor’s. She had replaced her own collection with her sister’s.

  Togaidh sinn ar fonn an ard,

  Togaidh sinn ar fonn an ard,

  ’S ged ‘tha mi fada bhuat,