Cha dhealaich sinn a’chaoidh.
Laurel was doing her best not to be overwhelmed by the task ahead.
“Ye must go to Achill Island on the western seaboard. ’Tis off the coast of Achill that the isle of Hy Brasil appears. Begin your search there. Be of good courage and keep your wits about ye. The fire must be lit by sunset on Midsummer’s Eve.” He cocked his head and blinked at her. “That’s Friday week.”
“What?” she had gasped. “So soon? There’s hardly any time!”
“Well didn’t ye waste most of it gettin’ here? Ye’ve only yourself to blame for the last-minute element.”
She would have argued with him, but she knew there was no point. Six days were all she had, and that was that.
One of those days was spent convincing Nannaflor to let her go.
“You want to travel around a strange country on your own?”
Her grandmother had tried to talk her out of it, but Granda was supportive.
“You were the same age, Florence, when you went off to England—a strange country—all on your own.”
“I went there to study, William. That’s hardly the same thing. And it was a safer world back then.”
It was Laurel’s destination that clinched the matter. As soon as she mentioned Achill, all protests ended. Her grandfather had grown up on the island and though the big family home was long gone, he and Nannaflor owned a little cottage by the sea where the two of them spent vacations. Their “love nest” they called it.
While she was surprised by the coincidence, Laurel was more than happy that it saved the day. She packed her bags that night.
The next morning, her grandfather drove her to Dublin to catch the train.
On their way into the city, Granda gave her final instructions for the cottage and the old car that went with it. He kept hesitating, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. When they reached the station he spoke up at last.
“Achill is like nowhere else on earth. A special place. Your grandmother and I would have liked to bring you there ourselves. Are you certain you want to go alone? Isn’t there any way I can help you?”
The look he gave her was so wise and kind, she almost told him of her mission. But it was all too fragile and illusory, like the stuff of dreams. She was afraid it would disappear if she expressed it out loud.
“I’ll be fine, Granda. I need to do this alone. You mustn’t worry about me. I promise to call.”
On the train, she battled with second thoughts and doubts. Was it a wild-goose chase? Another desperate way to hold on to her sister? Was she deluding herself? Going crazy? She had seen her face in the mirror that morning, pale and haunted. And yet, at the same time, she was feeling more alive than she had in ages. However faint, there was hope ahead. Act as if you believe and see what happens. She repeated the line like a mantra.
Even as Laurel whispered the words to herself, the train passed a field covered with dandelions. The downy tufts were dislodged by the draft and sucked into the open windows. The car was deluged with feathery seeds, floating and dancing and drifting like snow. Children clambered on the seats to catch them, crying out with delight. The passengers smiled at each other. Laurel, too, felt the thrill. Magic was alive in the world.
Tullamore. Túlach Mhór. The Great Hill.
Three men clambered onto the train, shabbily dressed in torn jeans and old sweaters. They were short and stocky, with bulbous noses and bulging eyes. After loading their table with cans of Guinness, they took out their instruments—a fiddle, a tin whistle, and a bodhrán drum—and played as if their lives depended upon it. When they lit up cigarettes, it wasn’t long before the driver yelled over the intercom.
“GET RID OF THEM SMOKES OR YOU’LL BE PUT OFF AT THE NEXT STOP!”
This was met with hoots and jeers as the cigarettes went flying out the window. Chastened, the three struck up a gentle ballad. A hush fell over the car as everyone listened.
There’s something sleeping in my breast,
That wakens only in the West,
There’s something in the core of me,
That needs the West to set it free.
Indeed the train was now traveling into the West. The passengers clapped as it crossed the Shannon River, a natural border recognized by all. The river was wide, cold, and dark blue. The countryside beyond it looked different. Stone walls replaced hedges in a lonely vista where towns were a rare sight. Horses, sheep, and cattle dotted the fields.
Castlerea. Caisleán Riabhach. The Brindled Castle
It was at Castlerea that an elderly lady got on and sat down opposite Laurel. She was tall and stately, dressed in an old-fashioned manner, with a trouser suit of forest-green and a white ruffled blouse. Her high-heeled boots had pointed toes that curled slightly at the tips. She wore gold jewelry, a big brooch shaped like a serpent swallowing its tail, and earrings to match. Her steely gray hair was pulled back in a bun, revealing a strong forehead, narrow cheekbones, and a sharp narrow nose. Her eyes were dark and dramatic.
An old actress, Laurel mused, or maybe a music teacher. How about a witch? The stray thought surprised her; the kind of thing Honor would have whispered if she were there.
The woman had a carpetbag with wooden handles and a small suitcase on wheels.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to Laurel, as she tucked her luggage under their table. Her voice was deep and measured.
Laurel murmured a polite greeting and looked away, hoping to avoid conversation.
The old lady didn’t seem to mind. She took out a cell phone and began texting messages with long deft fingers. When the phone rang with the hoot of an owl, she threw Laurel an apologetic look before answering.
“Yes, I’m on the train. Claremorris? Better still. There’s a chance we’ll make it yet. Don’t rush now. Drive carefully.”
Laurel continued to gaze out the window. In the distance rose a range of mountains scarved with blue mist. There something caught her eye. At first she assumed it was a trick of light in a cloud formation, but then the image was suddenly shockingly clear.
A female figure. A giantess, to be visible at such a distance. In radiant garments, with streaming hair, she was running across the hilltops, trailing light behind her like wings. She was only there for a second, but it was a moment as perfect as a pearl.
Laurel gasped in wonder. So did the old woman. Startled, they looked at each other.
“You saw her?”
Immediately wary, Laurel didn’t respond.
The old lady glanced at the flag on her knapsack.
“Ah,” she said, “another good neighbor from across the water.” She lowered her voice. “Grania Harte is my name, but everyone calls me Granny. I am a fairy doctress. You may speak freely with me.”
Laurel remained silent. Her first instinct was to flee, change seats or even cars.
The old woman frowned as she studied Laurel’s features.
“You are not a believer,” Granny said at last. Her voice echoed surprise, but also sympathy. “And yet you have the Sight.”
“The … the what?”
“The Second Sight. The ability to see beyond the veil. It must be difficult for you. A curse, perhaps, instead of a blessing?”
Her kindly understanding disarmed Laurel.
“I’m getting used to it,” she said tentatively. “Do you know a lot about … Faerie?”
Granny smiled. “No one can know ‘a lot’ about the Faraway Country, not even its own inhabitants, save perhaps the High King. With the fairies you’ll always get more than you bargained for. But I have earned in my day the title of Wise Woman. I know some of the old ways and can work spells and cures.”
Laurel could almost hear Honor crow. Like I said, a witch.
“Who was she?” Laurel asked, and her eyes strayed to the horizon.
Granny spoke with awe.
“The White Lady. An ancient being of the Old Magic that came before the creation of our world and even Faerie itself.�
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Laurel was suffering a mixture of fascination and horror. It was like turning over a rock. What else might show up? And did she really want to see these things? She took some comfort from the fact that the old lady reminded her of Nannaflor, self-assured and plain-speaking. That made it easier to hear what she said.
“The nature of Faerie is complex and elusive.” Granny cupped her hands in an effort to explain. “Think of our reality as an island surrounded by an infinite ocean. Faerie is all around us, lapping against our shores, a world of the imagination, ever creating and re-creating itself. Yet what it becomes and how it evolves is affected by its relationship with us, even as our world can be influenced by it.
“The territories and denizens closer to us belong to the New Magic ruled by the High King. But the farther out you go, or the further in perhaps, the more intangible and mysterious things become. The Old Ones are the primal beings who existed before everything else, or at least everything we know of. From time to time they enter the worlds, and may even intervene for the good of all.”
Granny looked toward the mountains.
“She is on the move for some great purpose.”
A thrill ran through Laurel that was also a shiver; joy edged with a trace of fear. She knew in her heart that the White Lady had gone into the West for her. But she wasn’t ready to admit this to Granny nor to speak of her mission.
The snack trolley came trundling down the aisle and stopped beside them.
“Tea, sticky bun, crisps?” asked the attendant.
He was a tall young man in a disheveled uniform with the shirttails hanging out. His long red hair was tied back in a ponytail. Silver rings pierced his ears, eyebrows, and lip.
Ignoring his flirtatious grin, Laurel purchased a bottle of mineral water.
He slipped a Danish pastry, wrapped in plastic, onto the table.
“Something sweet for a sweetie,” he said with a wink.
Before she could react, he had moved down the aisle, whistling to himself.
Granny threw him a suspicious look, then grimaced at the bun.
“Don’t eat that, my dear, it’s all artificial ingredients. They don’t serve proper food on the trains anymore.”
From her carpetbag, she produced a lunch that made Laurel gape. First came a flask filled with hot chocolate, then a little basket of wheaten farls, and a pot of red jam and another of clotted cream. She even had knives and linen napkins.
“Would you care to join me for a bite?”
Though she meant to decline, Laurel found herself sipping the rich chocolate and nibbling on a farl. The jam tasted of fresh strawberries. Even as she murmured her thanks, it occurred to her that the old lady was trying to gain her confidence. But Laurel was not someone who trusted people easily, especially with matters so private and bizarre.
“It’s an amazing coincidence we’ve met,” was all she said.
“Good heavens, there’s no such thing as coincidence!” Granny protested. “Whenever that word is used it simply means we don’t know the full story. A web of circumstances has me sitting here beside you, including a sick brother, a lost ticket, and a missed train. I even had a porter insist that I take this very carriage! Something is afoot. We were meant to meet and they arranged it.”
Silence fell between them again, resonant with unspoken questions and answers.
“It’s because of Faerie that I am traveling today,” the old woman continued. “I’m on my way to Shannon Airport, hopefully to catch a plane despite the delays. I’m going to New York with my nephew, Dara, to join his American sweetheart and her Irish cousin who lives there. We are all Companions of Faerie.” Granny paused a moment, emphasizing the importance of what came next. “We are meeting with Finvarra, the former High King, he who died and was born again, as a mortal.”
Laurel was now hanging on every word.
“We are gathering because of Faerie. We have heard nothing since Finvarra came among us and not one of us has been invited to return to the Realm. We are concerned that no word has come from Midir, the new High King. And yet, in truth, this is typical of the fairy folk. They are always about their own business, and only call us when it suits them.”
“You mean they use us at their convenience.”
The bitterness in Laurel’s voice took Granny aback, but she replied honestly.
“Yes, I suppose you could put it that way.” Her shrug was light. “They are not like us, the Daoine Sídhe. They have their own way of doing things. And they consider their existence more important than ours. Yet I would not want to live in a world without fairies.”
Granny was about to say more when her cell phone rang. Excusing herself, she answered it.
“Excellent! I should be there shortly. On schedule? Oh dear. Then we’re down to the wire. We’ll just have to do our best. Here’s some good news. I’ve made a new friend, another Companion perhaps. Yes. I’ll tell you about her when we meet.”
Granny was tucking the phone back into her carpetbag, when Laurel blurted out the words: “I’m on a mission. Faerie is in trouble. Maybe that’s why there’s been no contact.”
In a rush of words, she told of the cluricaun, the lost Summer King, and the Midsummer Fire that had to be lit on Hy Brasil. She didn’t speak of Honor’s death or her hope of saving her sister. That was her own concern and too personal to reveal.
But she had said enough.
The old woman’s face had gone deathly pale. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Her voice was barely audible.
“I know this king. I know this story.”
And now her features were alive with panic.
“What is your name, child?”
“Laurel Blackburn.”
“Blackburn!” Her eyes widened. “I know this name.”
The train let out a high-pitched whistle, signaling its approach to the next station.
Claremorris. Clár Chlainne Mhuiris. The Plains of the Clan Maurice.
“We’re out of time!” Granny looked stricken. “This is all my fault! I’m losing my touch! Too old and doddery! They crossed our paths so I would help you. We should have spoken sooner!”
Her anxiety was contagious. Laurel was already regretting that she had taken so long to let down her guard.
As the train pulled into the station, it passed a young man pacing the platform. When he spotted Granny, his face flooded with relief and he ran to catch up with their car.
Visibly distraught, Granny was struggling in the aisle with her suitcase. She spoke hurriedly to Laurel.
“It’s an old story, a tragic tale. It belongs to a time when I was Queen in Faerie. You must be careful! Have they warned you of the dangers? Have they given you weapons and charms of protection?”
Laurel moved to help her with her luggage. Only now did she see in Granny the frailties of an old lady.
“Dangers?” she repeated, a little stunned. “Weapons?”
“Oh my dear girl.” Granny’s expression was pained. “You are dealing with Faerie. The Perilous Realm.”
The train jolted to a stop. Passengers hurried off as new ones embarked. The doors would soon close. Granny had to go.
“I’ll be okay,” Laurel assured her, though she had no idea if it was true.
She watched as the old woman was helped out of the car and hugged by her nephew. He had dark-brown hair and a handsome face. The two stood on the platform talking animatedly. Now the young man glanced over at Laurel where she sat in the window. He looked concerned, and was about to call out to her, but he was left behind as the train pulled away.
Laurel sat dazed, clutching her knapsack. Granny’s words circled in her brain like birds of ill omen. Danger. Weapons. The Perilous Realm. The cluricaun had said nothing about such things, had given her no warnings. And the old woman knew the Summer King! A tragic tale. If only Laurel had opened up sooner. If only she had heard the story.
The train was heading north on the last leg of its journey that ended at Westport. Clouds s
cudded across the sky in the evening sun. Shafts of light fell on the hillsides where horned cattle were silhouetted like mythical beasts. Now rain spattered sideways against the window. As the train curved around a steep corner, she caught sight of the coastal mountains ahead. The sun still shone there, beyond the veil of gray.
Castlebar. Caisleán an Bharraigh. The Castle of the Proud.
The eerie beauty of the landscape did nothing to ease Laurel’s foreboding. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was journeying into enemy territory.
When the train arrived at the last stop, her fears proved true.
e grabbed her the moment she stepped off the train. She caught only a glimpse of a tall figure behind her and a dark wide-brimmed hat. Sharp nails dug into her arms as she was propelled forward. The station was a blur of details imprinted with shock: wooden benches on the platform, an old stone building, flower boxes in the windows, a passageway that led to the street. There was no time to struggle or cry out. She was pushed into the Left Luggage storeroom beyond the passageway.
Laurel was stunned by the speed and violence of the attack. She backed away from her captor as he slammed the door shut. Gaunt and ragged, he seemed to tower over her. His capacious black coat was sleek and oily like feathers. The broad fedora shadowed most of his face. He had kept his head lowered, but when he looked up, her heart stopped.
He wasn’t human.
His skin was dark with a violet tinge, his features hard as if carved from ebony. The neck was thick, the nose hooked like a beak. But it was the eyes that truly terrified her. Pure black and rimmed with gold coronas, they burned with a feral intensity.
Laurel felt weak. There was something very wrong here. He was grinding his teeth as if from some inner torment. For an incomprehensible second she thought of Ian.
“What do you want?” she demanded shakily.
She clenched her fists against the terror as her mind raced with wild plans of escape. From the corner of her eye, she scanned the room. It was dimly lit, with only one dusty window close to the ceiling. Metal shelves and lockers lined the walls, stacked with boxes, baggage, and cleaning supplies. Was there anything she could use as a weapon? Just behind her was a wooden counter with paper and pens; beside it, a swivel chair with a big ginger tabby curled up asleep. Where was the person in charge? The sounds outside were muffled and distant. No voices. She had got off the last train. Everyone had gone home.
The Summer King Page 5
