The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  No one would hear her scream.

  The creature opened its mouth. Laurel shuddered at the flash of incarnadine red.

  “Aaarrcckkk. Listen!”

  His voice was harsh and guttural, grating on the nerves as well as the ears. When he spoke, he lifted his arms from his sides, like a bird flapping its wings. He cocked his head this way and that, as if trying to get a better look at her.

  A bird-man, she realized. Yes, that’s what he was.

  She would have to fight him. A sudden charge to catch him off guard? Quick knee to the groin? But his coat looked heavy, like padded armor, and would probably soften any blows.

  “Corrraawwkkks. No help king!”

  An idea struck her, a desperate bid. She inched back toward the counter as he continued to shriek at her.

  “Go home! Aaaarcckkkk! You go? Yes?”

  “No!” she cried suddenly.

  And she lunged for the big tom asleep on the chair.

  “Time for work,” she told the cat.

  Then she flung him at her captor.

  In the furor of feathers and fur, screeches and yowls, Laurel pushed past the bird-man and out the door.

  She stood dazed a moment in the blaze of a red sunset. Behind her came the whirr of wings as a great raven took to the air, cawing loudly. A glance into the storeroom showed it was empty. On the threshold stood the tabby, black feather in its mouth, eyes blinking with satisfaction.

  Laurel was trembling all over, but fought to stay calm.

  “Good boy,” she said, leaning down to scratch the tom’s head.

  He purred like an engine.

  Now she glanced at her watch. She had a short walk to catch the bus for Achill. Her grandfather had told her where and when it arrived. If she didn’t hurry she would miss it! Dashing through the passageway, she ran for the town center. Her knapsack felt like a bag of bricks, slowing her down. As she raced down the hill toward the bus stop, she caught sight of her bus up the road, disappearing around the corner.

  She stood on the sidewalk, devastated. Things were going from bad to worse. Only now as she caught her breath did she face the horror of the attack at the station. Though the cluricaun had said nothing about an enemy, it was obvious that someone or something didn’t want her to find the king. Granny’s warnings of danger were true. Laurel braced herself against a wave of fear. She was stranded and defenseless in a foreign country.

  The urge to return to her grandparents in Bray was overwhelming, but it wasn’t an option. To give up on the mission was to give up on her twin. As she debated what to do next, a different kind of bus pulled up in front of her.

  A vintage vehicle, it was painted deep purple with the word WINGS emblazoned in gold on the side. Her first thought was that the cluricaun had come to her rescue. Then the doors hissed opened and a cloud of incense wafted toward her, followed by a blast of folk music and the driver’s greeting.

  “Sawr ye miss yon bus. We’s gangin’ north if yer goin’ tha’ way. I’m Sandy. ’Op on if ye like.”

  The hippie girl leaned on the big steering wheel of the bus. Pentangles dangled from her ears, half-hidden by a mane of dark hair. A necklace of crystals hung around her neck. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt over a patchwork skirt that fell to sandaled feet. Her toenails, like her fingernails, were painted in bright colors. Her arms were tattooed with zoomorphic designs.

  After a moment’s hesitation, in which she reflected she had no alternative, Laurel climbed onboard.

  There were at least fifteen people living on the bus, a jolly crew of young and old, including several toddlers and a baby. Most of the seats had been removed and replaced with rugs and cushions. There were built-in bunks and hammocks for sleeping, and a kitchen in the back. The windows were draped with beaded curtains. Glass chimes and mobiles dangled from the roof. Books, toys, and musical instruments were scattered everywhere.

  When Laurel introduced herself, names like Pip, Lavender, and Sinbad were called out in turn, their accents echoing various parts of Britain. As she made her way to a seat by the window, a group of musicians struck up a song.

  Oh fair-haired lady, will you go,

  Beyond the land of mortal woe?

  To the kingdom of the light,

  Beyond the stars, beyond the night.

  Taste the golden honeyed mead,

  Eat the cakes of sweetened seed,

  Life itself grows pale and sere,

  After you have lingered there.

  The sweet strains of the hammer dulcimer mingled with the mandolin. Against the lighter notes beat the understream of a bodhrán drum. Laurel rested her head against the window. The music and the steady pulse of the engine soothed her nerves. She rubbed her arms where the bird-man had clawed her. The dark side of Faerie. Would she meet it again? How would she protect herself? What should she do? What could she do?

  Outside, the hills rose steeply like the great waves of a green ocean. As the road climbed higher, the way grew rougher. Sometimes the dips were so abrupt she felt her stomach drop. The mountains she had seen from the train were drawing closer.

  A young man named Fionn came to sit beside her. His long fair hair fell in fine strands to his shoulders, his eyes were gray. Unlike the other passengers, he had the soft lilt of an Irish accent. Though he wore jeans and a T-shirt and appeared otherwise normal, Laurel sensed something unusual about him. She found herself wondering if he had fairy blood.

  “Where are you going?” he asked her.

  “Achill Island.”

  “The Isle of the Eagle,” he said with a nod, and at her puzzled look, explained. “It’s said the name comes from the Latin word aquila, meaning eagle. The King of the Birds used to be plentiful on Achill, both white-tailed and golden eagles, but now they’re extinct in Ireland.” A shadow crossed his face. “Hunted out of existence.”

  “You know a lot about birds?”

  “I like to read them,” he answered. When she raised an eyebrow, he smiled. “They are messengers of the gods. If you can interpret the patterns of their flight, you can learn many secrets.”

  Laurel wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. She indicated the black birds circling the sky.

  “So what are they saying?”

  A mischievous look crossed his face.

  To see one raven is ill luck, ’tis true

  But it’s certain misfortune to set eyes upon two

  And meeting with more—that’s a terror!

  Then he laughed. “I’m speaking in riddles. You may have heard of a ‘murder’ of crows? According to some, the collective term for a raven is a ‘terror.’”

  Laurel shuddered involuntarily as she thought of the bird-man. She was considering telling Fionn about him, when their conversation was interrupted by one of the children.

  “Sandy wants to know where you’re going,” she said to Laurel, handing her a map.

  “You mean she’ll drive me there?!”

  The kindness of strangers.

  “Well, we’d hardly drop you off in the middle of nowhere,” said Fionn. “It’s not on the way.”

  He unfolded the map. It was hand-drawn and crinkled with age. The place-names were written in gold ink, and fantastical beasts marked the four corners.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Thank you. I copied it from a map in a monastery on the Continent.”

  “Were you a monk?”

  “In one of my lives.”

  Laurel didn’t know what to say. There was a time when she would have dismissed such remarks—and the one who made them—as ludicrous. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  He touched the map reverently.

  “Here lies Loch Béal Séad. The Lake of the Jeweled Mouth. This is Leitir Bhreac. The Speckled Hill. This, Inisbófin. The Isle of the White Cow. And here is the place I mentioned. Trian Láir, roughly translated to ‘the Middle of Nowhere.’”

  “It really exists!” she said, astonished.

  There was a ripple of laughter around
them.

  Outside, the night had grown darker. The landscape was lost in shadow; lonely fields of scutch grass, bog, and stone. She caught her reflection in the window opposite and was startled by what she saw. The face looking back at her was more like Honor’s, fey and dreamy-eyed. Who was she becoming as she journeyed through a strange countryside to an even stranger future?

  Fionn regarded her solemnly.

  “There is a great sorrow upon you,” he murmured, “and you so young.”

  She looked away.

  He tapped the map lightly.

  “Be sure to avoid this place now. The coldest spot in all Ireland.”

  Laurel bent her head to see where he pointed. She read the name out loud.

  “Birr.”

  Her laughter slipped out before she could catch it, even as the others joined in. It was an old gag but a good one, and he had got her fair and square. It was the first time she had laughed since Honor died.

  “Fionn Mílscothach!” Sandy called back. “Thar’s ole honey-tongue workin’ ’is magic.”

  Pulling over to the side of the road, she got one of the men to take her place. She invited Laurel and Fionn to join her in the back of the bus where they sat at a booth in the little kitchen. Someone brought them a pot of fennel tea.

  Sandy asked to see Laurel’s hand and gazed a moment at her palm.

  “Ye mun take care where ye go in th’ night,” she said gravely. Then she offered to do a card reading.

  Laurel’s first inclination was to politely decline. She remembered the time Honor dragged her to a New Age convention in exchange for a camping trip. Utterly cynical, Laurel had cast a cold eye on the crystal-gazers, aura seers, and rainbow therapists. When her twin consulted a fortune-teller about her love life, Laurel quickly spotted the sleight of hand. Laying the gilded deck facedown on the table, the man had made a sly motion with his finger, pointing to a certain card. Oblivious to the subliminal suggestion, Honor duly chose it.

  The King of Hearts.

  “You’ll marry a royal with red hair, rich and handsome,” the fortune-teller pronounced fulsomely.

  Honor had looked all flushed and happy.

  Laurel had snorted.

  “I can’t believe you believe that.”

  Sandy’s deck was similarly gilded but the cards were frayed and obviously very old.

  “Th’ Gypsy Oracle,” she explained. “Maw great-grandmother’s cards. ’Alf Romany, ’alf Welsh. Ah’ve th’ gift o’ the Seeght thro’ hur.”

  “Born at Stonehenge,” Fionn whispered to Laurel, in case she had any doubts about Sandy’s credentials.

  Laurel had already decided to hear the reading, reflecting wryly to herself that “act as if you believe” was beginning to apply to more things than expected.

  The four suits of Sandy’s deck were unique: clubs had been replaced with triple spirals, spades were stone daggers, diamonds were crystals of amethyst, and hearts were made of gold. The distinctive features of the kings and queens expressed the nature of their suits. The royal hearts appeared passionate and full of laughter. The spiral couple were lofty and serene. The amethyst pair showed strength and willfulness, while the king and queen of daggers were cold and aloof.

  As instructed, Laurel chose seven cards at random and laid them facedown.

  Turning them over one by one, Sandy’s eyes widened.

  “Weel done! They’s nut ah small un. A pa’rful spread!”

  Laurel gazed down at the kings, queens, and aces. A good hand for poker, but what else could it mean?

  “Th’ Queen o’ Hearts,” Sandy began. “Yon fair-haired woman be ye. She tha’ acts fur love. Thar’in lies her power. Then cooms th’Ace o’ Hearts.” Her eyes darkened. “’Tis the severed heart. Yer heart be wounded as Fionn say. An’ this be the cause. Th’Ace o’ th’ Dagger. The knife tha’ cuts th’ thread o’ life. It wur Death as had broken yer heart.”

  Laurel’s face paled. She had been ready to hear nonsense, or at the best something vague, but this was too close to the mark.

  Sandy stopped when she saw her distress. Fionn looked sympathetic.

  “Please go on,” said Laurel.

  She would hear what had to be heard. Like the bus ride itself, the journey was beyond her control She was already on the way, there was no turning back.

  “Now th’ King o’ Daggers,” Sandy continued softly. “He be th’ Dark Knife. The flaysome bane o’ light. ’Ware him, for he be yer enemy. Thar beside him, th’ King o’ Spirals. The Hidden Lord. The Enchanter. He stands in th’ shadow o’ the Dark One, his prisoner perchance.”

  Everyone on the bus had grown quiet. Only the engine rumbled and roared, as if they were deep in the belly of a beast that prowled the dark roads. Sandy touched the last two cards with awe.

  “Th’ Ace o’ Spirals. Th’ eyes o’ th’ White Goddess. All reversals an’ fresh ortherings an’ pa’rful transformations. Th’ Wheel o’ Fate. Then cooms at th’ end, outa th’ vortex, th’ last king, th’ last card. The King o’ Hearts. Burnin’ wi’ light an’ red-gold fire, th’ power tha’ binds th’ worlds together. Love is all.”

  The young woman stopped speaking. Pale and exhausted, she closed her eyes, absently rubbing the center of her forehead. When she opened them again, she smiled at Laurel, but there was confusion in her look. Even as she uttered the final prophecy, it was evident that she didn’t understand her own words.

  “A bright thing may lie hidden inside the dark.”

  Laurel shook her head, dazed. The phrase sounded vaguely familiar. Given her mission, some of the reading made sense, while other parts hinted of possibilities to come. She felt overwhelmed by the weight of mystery.

  Sandy stood up and made a general announcement.

  “Thar be great doin’s here, folks. We mun aid th’ queen. We mun bring ’er to ’er destination. We mun bring ’er to ’er destiny.”

  Then she resumed her place at the wheel.

  The bus moved swiftly through the dark landscape, over long winding roads dimly lit by the moon. When they crossed the Michael Davitt Bridge, they left the Irish mainland behind and arrived on Achill.

  Even in the dark, Laurel could see this was different country from the Ireland she knew. Here was a place on the edge of the world. A great craggy island dropped into the ocean. Except for a few sheltered areas, the land was treeless, its vegetation stunted by harsh winds and salt air. Small white houses huddled on the hillsides like gulls come to land. The smell of turf smoke and wild thyme drifted through the windows. They were now in sight of the Atlantic, glimmering in the night. On their left rose the Cliffs of Minaun. On their right brooded Slievemore, the Great Mountain.

  Laurel joined Sandy at the front of the bus to give her directions. She kept watch for the boreen that led to her grandparents’ seaside cottage. When they passed the village of Keel, she knew they were near.

  “There it is, just ahead!”

  Sandy drew up the bus near the verge. The air brakes hissed. Two stone pillars marked the little road that ran down to the dunes bordering the seashore.

  “We canna go dahn thar,” she said. “We’d ne’er get aht agin. Hahsiver, we’ll bide an’ watch whar ye go till we see th’ lights go on in yer hahs.”

  “How can I thank you?” Laurel said shyly, as everyone crowded around to say their good-byes.

  Fionn kissed her hand in a courtly manner.

  “Think of us when you enter the Kingdom.”

  The moment she stepped into the cool night air, Laurel felt the loneliness settle over her. The hippie bus had been warm and homey. Trudging down the lane, with her knapsack on her back, she felt the shadows press against her. Fields of marram grass spread out on either side. Above glittered an immensity of stars undimmed by the spill of urban light. All around whispered the sound of the sea.

  The lane ended at her grandparents’ cottage. Long and low, it stood pale in the moonlight, its curtains drawn like lidded eyes. The roof was thatched and there was a square front po
rch. A path lined with white pebbles led to the door where two stone vases stood guard. As she reached behind the left-hand vase to get the key, she wished that her grandparents were inside to greet her. Her Granda would be filling the kettle for tea as Nannaflor took fresh scones from the oven.

  No key.

  Had she got the instructions wrong? A search behind the vase on the right was also proving fruitless, when she heard the bus start up at the top of the road. She was surprised they were leaving before she got in the house. Then she saw the light spilling out the window. Her heart stopped. An intruder! The raven-man? Before she could move, the porch door jerked open and there he stood.

  Laurel could only gape.

  “I guess you’d better come in,” said Ian.

  hat are you doing here?!”

  Laurel followed him into the cottage and saw immediately that he was camping out in secret. The place was cold and damp. No fires had been lit, either in the fireplace or the solid-fuel stove that fed the central heating. He had just finished his meal. A teapot stood on the table beside a loaf of bread, cheese, and a jar of olives. There was also a book and a flashlight.

  Ian didn’t answer her question. He cleared away his dishes and began to wash them at the sink, his back toward her. It was obvious he was thrown by her arrival. His movements were awkward and nervous.

  She was unsettled herself, tired from traveling and still shaken from thinking he was the raven-man. Dropping her knapsack on the floor, she sank into the couch.

  The cottage smelled faintly of turf smoke. The one big room was both living space and kitchen, with bedroom and bathroom off to the left. The walls were hung with water-color paintings, mostly scenes of Achill. The furnishings were antique; crowded bookshelves, an oak table with high-backed chairs, and a wooden dresser with china and crystal. The stuffed sofa and armchair were by the fireplace. The far wall was dominated by the solid-fuel stove with a black kettle on the hob. Next to the stove were the kitchen appliances, cupboards, counter, and sink. Nannaflor’s touches could be seen everywhere in the dried bunches of wildflowers, pieces of pottery, and lace antimacassars.