The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  The leader’s dark eyes searched the garden again. Laurel stood poised on one leg, holding herself back with agonizing effort. If she lost her balance, she was done for.

  Please make them go.

  The chanting broke off suddenly. Ian had lurched into the porch and opened the front door. Bracing himself between the jambs, he stood on the threshold, battered by the wind and rain. His eyes were blank.

  When the Fir-Fia-Caw saw him, they exploded with rage and ear-splitting shrieks. In fitful spasms, they shriveled back to raven form. Now great wings beat the air and they flew away, disappearing into the night.

  Safe at last.

  Laurel staggered from the circle. Drenched, freezing, and trembling all over, she stumbled toward Ian.

  He stared at her, bewildered. His hair was plastered against his face, his wet clothes clung to his body. Like a sleepwalker slowly coming awake, he tried to focus and make sense of the scene.

  “Your pajamas are inside out,” he said.

  Then he collapsed in a heap.

  alf-dragging, half-carrying him, Laurel got Ian into the house. They were both drenched and shivering, but there was something else wrong with him. The edges of his mouth had a greenish tinge and his eyelids fluttered unnaturally. Both the biscuits and the Fir-Fia-Caw chant had affected him badly. He was slipping deeper into unconsciousness. She had to act fast.

  The fire in the stove was still burning beneath the cover of slack. She shoveled in several loads of coal until the heat rose up in waves. Hauling Ian closer to the warmth, she stripped off his clothes, swabbed him dry with towels, and wrapped him in blankets. She was searching the cupboards for medicine when she spied it on the windowsill above the sink: a daisy chain. Wasn’t that one of the charms the fairies spoke of?

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The black kettle was simmering noisily on the hob. She dropped the daisy chain into a mug and added the boiled water. Leaving the tea to brew, and Ian wrapped up by the stove, she went to change. As she didn’t have a second pair of pajamas, she borrowed a nightgown from Nannaflor’s dresser. Her grandmother’s scent lingered in the soft folds, comforting her.

  Back in the living room, she cradled Ian’s head in her arm and spooned the pale-gold liquid into his mouth.

  The tea trickled from his lips. Nothing happened.

  “Please,” she said quietly, tipping back his head and trying again. “Please drink it.”

  He started to cough as he swallowed. A little color seeped into his cheeks. His eyelids flitted opened.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, anxiously. “Should I call a doctor?”

  He stared at her, mystified. His features showed his struggle to understand.

  “No. I’m okay. I … what happened? The last thing …”

  “Not now,” she said, relieved and exhausted. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She helped him to stand up, still bundled in the blankets, and led him to the sofa. He was too weak to protest. As she placed a cushion behind his head, he closed his eyes and sank into sleep. She stood and watched him for a while. His breathing sounded normal and he looked much better. Without thinking, she brushed the hair from his forehead, then pulled back her hand.

  She was almost fainting with fatigue. The storm had died down and all was quiet outside, but she was worried that the Fir-Fia-Caw might return. She put more salt around the house and placed knives under every cushion and pillow. Then she dragged herself to bed and fell quickly asleep.

  The next morning, Laurel woke late to a room flooded with sunshine. The horror of the raven-creatures seemed like a nightmare dispelled by daylight. She scrambled out of bed. She had to clean up before Ian woke. She couldn’t begin to explain the odd things left about. But would he remember what happened?

  She pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and one of Honor’s sweaters. Already sensitive to the Irish damp, she found Achill even colder. As she ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back in a ponytail, she glanced in the mirror. There were purple smudges under her eyes and her look was gaunt. She turned away. Her appearance didn’t interest her.

  She was about to leave the room when a knock came on the door.

  “Breakfast’s ready if you are,” Ian called.

  When she joined him in the living room, she was surprised to find him looking well. There was an unusually cheerful air about him. His light-blue shirt accented the color of his eyes. His skin seemed to glow. Even the silver stud in his eyebrow shone.

  The table was laid with plates of scrambled eggs and toast. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air.

  “I drove down to the shop for a few things,” he said.

  She couldn’t stop herself from tucking in. The night’s encounter seemed to have given her an appetite. The eggs were delicious, cooked with butter and a hint of herbs.

  “Is this a bribe or something?” she asked him.

  Ian sat opposite her, eating more slowly. He paused before answering.

  “It’s a thank you. I don’t remember much, but I’ve got the weird impression you saved me somehow?”

  She was thinking fast. She couldn’t possibly explain. Nor did she want to. Things were complicated enough without adding him to the mix.

  “You were sleepwalking,” she said quickly. “I found you outdoors in the rain.”

  His eyes narrowed. He looked unconvinced, but also uncertain.

  “Did you take off my clothes?” He stared at her frankly. “I woke naked.”

  She felt her face go hot.

  “You were soaking wet,” she said, flustered. “I was afraid to disturb you. You’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker.”

  “What about the others?” he persisted. “Men in black coats and hats?”

  She had to end this line of questioning.

  “Sounds like you were hallucinating.”

  “I don’t do drugs,” he said, so forcefully she wondered if it was a lie.

  And there the interrogation ended.

  “I don’t care what you do,” she said tartly, “but you promised last night you’d leave today and I’d prefer if you did.”

  She saw the flash of anger in his eyes, watched it battle with disappointment and despair. A part of her sympathized with him, but there was nothing she could do. She was overburdened already, and barely coping. There was no room in her life for anything else.

  “Why don’t you go home?” she suggested. “Why make things harder for yourself?”

  “What would you know about it?” he snapped. “You don’t know anything about me or my life!”

  Her temper was as quick as his.

  “And I don’t want to! When are you going to get that into your head?” The chair crashed behind her as she jumped to her feet. “I’m going for a walk. You’d better be gone by the time I get back, or I’m calling the police.”

  Breakfast abandoned, she stormed out the door.

  Achill looked refreshed and invigorated after the night’s storm. A cool sunshine was drying out the island. The air was so clean it tasted like champagne. Laurel strode down to the dunes and onto Trawmore, the great strand of Keel. Before her stretched two miles of sand curving toward the Cliffs of Minaun. The tide was out, and a thin mist lingered over the water. Seagulls circled in the sky with lonely cries. Looming over the strand from the north side of the island was the great mountain of Slievemore, capped with mist like a cauldron brewing. The beach itself was deserted, except for a stroller walking his dog.

  Laurel wandered along the shore. Tiny birds skittered across her path, pecking in the sand. A cold wind bit through her sweater. She had left the house without her coat, but she wouldn’t go back. She felt raw and shaken, all her emotions ajar. She was furious with Ian, yet she knew he wasn’t really to blame. After a year spent in a state of numbed shock, she had begun to feel. And she didn’t want to. It left her open to the unbearable anguish of her loss. The pain was always there, trying to break through, like waves pounding against the seawall; and s
he just barely held it back.

  Now an awful thought struck her. She had accused Ian of hallucinating. Could it be true of her? Had the pain driven her to some crazy delusion?

  The flat of sand before her was glazed with a film of water that reflected the sunlight. Land, sea, and sky seemed to blend together in a haze of blue. Laurel raised her hand to shield her eyes.

  And that’s when she saw her.

  Out of the mist, crossing the water, came the White Lady upon her pale horse. Like an elusive mirage, she seemed both distant and near. Her silvery hair streamed behind her. She was riding toward the Cliffs of Minaun.

  The vision lasted the length of a heartbeat, but it was enough. As Laurel raced for the cliffs, she spied the caves cut into the rock face at the edge of the sea. Dark, wet, and rimmed with moss, they were only visible because the tide was low.

  She clambered over the barrier of huge stones that lay before the cliffs. Seabirds nested on the heights above her. Water sluiced through the grasses that straggled down the crags like long green hair. The smell of dank seaweed curdled the air. Though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, she began to explore every crack and crevice. None went deeper than a foot or two and all were empty.

  Laurel sat down on a rock and stared out to sea. There had to be a reason the Lady rode this way. She picked up a stone and flung it glumly.

  “There ye are now!” piped a voice so tiny she thought at first she was imagining it.

  Something tickled her hand. A little red spider no bigger than a dot. She flicked it away.

  “Ow!” it cried out.

  She hunched down to get a better look. The cluricaun!

  “Why are you so small? You’re almost microscopic!”

  “I’m the size of your opinion of me,” he squeaked. “We’re simpatico, ye know.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she got the gist.

  “Serves you right. Why didn’t you tell me about the Fir-Fia-Caw?”

  A tiny sigh issued from the tiny cluricaun.

  “Ah, the Doom of Clan Egli. A bit of an oversight for which I am heartily sorry. Mea culpa. Sure, amn’t I payin’ for me sins?”

  She had so many questions to ask him, but Laurel found herself fighting off a fit of giggles. She was talking to a spider!

  “Will you have to stay this way for long?”

  “Haven’t a bog,” he cheeped. “But it’s all for the best right now. Keeps me incognito. Have ye found the way in?”

  “What do you mean? The way into the cliffs? But where am I going?”

  “That’s good. Keep up the questions. They like that game. You’re in need of allies, girseach. Time’s fleeting and the bird is on the wing. Ye can’t be doin’ this all on your sweeney. Find the Amethyst Cave. It’s the old palace of the Summer King. If ye play your cards right, his people might give ye a hand. But they’re a fishy folk, so be on your guard. Now ye can’t say I didn’t warn ye this time. Follow the music and—”

  The cluricaun’s instructions broke off with a screech as a beetle scuttled toward him. Laurel brushed it away, but a small crab took its place, pincers clicking. Suddenly the rock was crawling with insects marching in lines like an army.

  “They’re on to me!” the cluricaun screamed. “I’m off! Remember what I said. Ask questions all the way!”

  And then he was gone.

  Laurel let out a frustrated noise. She needed to ask him about the Fir-Fia-Caw, why they were against her, and what she should do about them. And what was the Doom of Clan Egli? The fairies had mentioned it too. There were so many things he hadn’t told her. She was beginning to wonder how far she could trust him. Still, she agreed with his suggestion to try and gain allies. A good thing to acquire, now that she had enemies!

  Her search of the cliffs resumed. After a while, she came across a fissure veiled by a little waterfall and half-choked with grass. She couldn’t explore it without getting wet. As the icy shower struck her she let out a yelp, but squeezed herself through. The dousing was worth it. She had found the way in.

  There was a moment of doubt as Laurel peered down the dark passageway. Where did it lead? Who or what would she meet? The rock around her pulsed with the beat of the waves striking the far side of the cliffs. The air was thick with the smell of fish and seaweed. When was the tide due? If she went in, would she have time to get out again?

  Inching forward, she felt her way along the walls of wet rock. A phosphorescent lichen eased the darkness with a greenish light. When she came to stone steps leading downward, she halted. Her heart beat rapidly. She was already deep inside Minaun. How much further would she have to go? She started down.

  It wasn’t easy. The steps and walls were slimy with sea moss. Despite her caution, she kept slipping. She would be black and blue before the day was done. The stairway seemed endless, but there was no question of turning back. She could already hear it: the faint sounds of music and revelry below.

  At last the stairs came to an end, and there stood a high arch fashioned from the stuff of the sea. Clustered like flowers on a trellis were periwinkles, purpura, cowries and conches, crusted barnacles and fans of sponge, slender razor clams, speckled starfish, and clumps of brightly colored coral. The whole structure resonated like an aeolian harp, whispering and sighing.

  Surely something so beautiful could only lead to something good. What was there to fear?

  Laurel stepped through.

  othing could have prepared Laurel for the sight she now beheld. Not her grandfather’s books nor her talk with Granny, not even her encounters with the cluricaun and the Fir-Fia-Caw. Indeed, no feat of the imagination, either hers or anyone else’s could have been quite so fantastical, gorgeous, or extravagant. She was almost convinced she had walked into a dream.

  The hall before her was as immense as a cathedral, carved out of the hollow of Minaun mountain itself. Walls of cream-colored rock met corbeled roof, all veined with glittering streaks of amethyst. Galleries a thousand feet up dripped with sea plants, while slides and waterfalls splashed down into blue pools. Flying fish leaped out of the water and through the air like silver birds. Every ledge and cranny was festooned with creatures twinkling like gems; sea urchins with ivory spines, pearled oysters and mother-of-pearled abalones, white stars of ascidian, red beadlets of anemone, blue-rayed limpets, spangled tompot blennies, and soft-bodied sea-lemons like yellow meringue.

  But it was the fairies themselves who took her breath away, for these were also creatures of the sea but not as she knew them. And so different from familiar fairy images! They were not garden sprites nor winged woodland dwellers, but boctogaí, water fairies. Bunadh na Farraige. The Folk of the Sea. Amorphous and mercurial, like flowing water, they changed size and shape at will, one moment as small as a cowry shell, the next human height, and taller still. Their skin colors mirrored the waters of the world; sea-green, briny-blue, aquamarine, the deep brown of mountain rivers, the white of capped foam, the flecked gold of sunshine on the waves, the silver sheen of moonlight on the night surf. Some had webbed toes and scalloped ears, others feathery antennae and green hair like seaweed. Many had scales. They dressed in lurid hues of pink, lime-green, inky blue, and orange, and their jewelry was made of coral and shell.

  The whole scene was a mad dream, luscious and bizarre. A party in a giant aquarium! Divers leaped from pool to pool, jackknifing and somersaulting in the air. Some arrowed across the cavern with the flying fish. Teams slid down slides, gripping whips of kelp. One group played with a freckled squid who kept squeezing off ink blots before disappearing underwater. The boctogaí squealed as they dodged the squirts, but there was always someone who got pelted with the dark sticky fluid. And behind all the laughter and chatter wound mellifluous music.

  No one noticed Laurel at first, where she stood in the archway, utterly agog. Then one of the fairies spotted her and let out a cry. The music stopped. The revels ceased. A profound silence settled over the hall, broken only by the tintinnabulation of falling
water. It was as if a thousandeyed sea beast had suddenly turned to gaze at her.

  Fear and wonder surged through her. She was fairy struck. The collective stare only worsened the sensation that she was caught in a dream. Instinctively, she checked to see if she was dressed. When she looked up again, they were all around her. She stifled a scream. One of them reached out to touch her. A clammy stroke. Her body jolted from the shock. These were beings who lived in her world but were not of it. Yet those starry eyes regarded her as if she were the alien.

  Laurel fought the urge to flee. She was there for a reason. She had a mission. It actually helped that some of the glances cast her way were unfriendly. Cold splashes of reality. She needed to keep her wits about her. This wasn’t a safe place.

  An emerald-skinned lady draped in pearls addressed her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a melodious voice.

  Laurel was about to answer when she remembered the cluricaun’s instructions.

  “W-w-why do you ask?”

  Her own words made her flinch, she could hear how rude they sounded, but she saw immediately that she had said the right thing.

  The fairy faces lit up. Some let out little cries of pleasure. She knew the rules. The game was on.

  “Have you lost your way?” asked a pixie with purple hair.

  Laurel hesitated, still anxious not to offend.

  “Have you found it?” she countered.

  A titter echoed through the hall. Some applauded, clacking seashells together like castanets. There was a frenzy of whispers. Good sport. Well played. A clever mortal. Send in the Master Riddler. The crowd parted to make way for a young man of amber-brown color. He wore a tunic of shells that rattled like chain mail and a mantle of seaweed. His eyes flashed with mischief, but his smile was friendly.

  “Why do you always answer a question with a question?”