The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  His voice sounded vaguely familiar. She smiled back at him.

  “Do I do that?”

  The outburst of laughter was unnerving. Some even hooted and hollered, while a few capered about. Then, as if by some unspoken signal, they resumed their revels. A new tune rang through the hall. Trumpeted on conches, with clams clattering like bones, it was an air as wild as a storm at sea. Everyone began to dance.

  Caught by the hand, Laurel was whirled between partners till her head spun. She tried to relax, to join in their antics, but the shock waves kept hitting her. Again and again the truth would present itself, like a pearl inside an oyster: she was dancing with fairies. Fairies!

  They brought her to a banquet table laid out with a feast. The centerpiece was a fantasia of fruits and nuts glazed with honey. Silver platters held heaps of caviar, black and red. To her surprise, her favorite foods were also there: barbecued chicken with roast potatoes and crispy duck with fried rice. A golden cup was placed in her hand. It sparkled with something that looked like champagne. She was about to take a sip when the Master Riddler walked behind her and muttered quickly.

  “Eat no food and drink no wine if you wish to see your world again.”

  Trembling, she realized she had almost been trapped. Didn’t Granda’s books warn not to touch fairy food? The table wavered before her sight. A fishy whiff wafted from the dishes. For a moment she saw a very different meal. Great tureens spilled over with plankton, algae, and moss. The cup in her hand was a conch of sea water! Other warnings rang in her mind. They are not like us. You are dealing with Faerie, the Perilous Realm. They’re a fishy folk, so be on your guard.

  Stealthily, she placed her goblet aside but of course they noticed.

  “Will you not accept our hospitality?” someone shouted.

  There was an edge to the voice. She was about to apologize and make some excuse when she stopped herself in time.

  “May I ask for something else instead?”

  The music came to a halt, but this time with a discordant clang. Her suspicion was confirmed. The game was still on. Yet it seemed to have taken a darker turn. Many of the fairies appeared tense and uneasy. Some looked hostile.

  Once again, the Master Riddler stepped to the fore. He no longer smiled.

  “What is it you want?”

  Laurel took a deep breath. The moment had come. It was now or never. She glanced upward into the recesses of the roof. She had spied it earlier when she was dancing. High on a rocky ledge it stood, glittering and abandoned: an amethyst throne.

  “Will you help me find the Summer King?”

  The hall erupted. As her words rebounded from the walls—the Summer King? the Summer King?—it was met with a cacophony of cries and conflicting emotions: outrage, terror, fury, dismay. Gathering momentum, the swells of feeling surged higher and higher, threatening to collapse and swamp them all. Some of the fairies began to fight among themselves. Others ran away screeching. Many fled to the craggy ledges above, to peer down fearfully at the pandemonium.

  Laurel was growing more anxious by the minute. Things were seriously out of control. The crowd was near to rioting. Hemmed in against the banquet table, she was a long way from the arch on the other side of the hall. And she had to get past the fairies to reach it. Some were already throwing her sullen glances. A few huddled together, whispering furtively. The malice in their eyes was plain to see. A little mob began to move toward her.

  Laurel looked around quickly for a weapon. She was about to grab her goblet when someone sidled up to her and caught her arm. The yell died in her throat as she saw who it was.

  “Come with me,” said the Master Riddler, under his breath.

  He led her around the perimeter of the crowd. She was grateful for his help. At the corner of her eye, she could see the other group shadowing their movements.

  “Don’t look back,” he murmured.

  She trusted him, for she had finally recognized his voice. He was her champion from the previous night, the one who had kissed her!

  At last they reached the shelly archway. Clasping her hand, the Master Riddler pulled her up the stairwell. They moved impossibly fast, their feet barely touching the slippery steps.

  “Why are they so angry?” she gasped as they went. “What have I done?”

  “All is not as it seems,” he told her. “You have been schooled by the Gentry. We are spirits of another sort. We do not bow to the Court.”

  They climbed so quickly, Laurel could see the top of the stairs and the green light of the passageway that led out of the cavern.

  “Please tell me what’s going on,” she begged. “Do you know what’s happened to the Summer King? Do you know where he is?”

  The Master Riddler didn’t answer. He either wouldn’t or couldn’t say more. Shouts rang out below them. Her enemies were in the stairwell and heading their way!

  The Master Riddler let go of her hand.

  “Make haste!” he urged. “I will try to hold them back.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “It is not me they are after.”

  She paused to kiss him on the cheek with a “thank you,” then she was off.

  The stairs were no longer easy to manage. Without his help, she kept slipping and sliding on the moss. As she grabbed at the walls and the steps in front of her, the jagged rock cut her hands. She was moving too fast to be careful. The angry noises behind spurred her on.

  Suddenly the Master Riddler called out.

  “Seek the Old Eagle of Achill.”

  His voice sounded strangled. Were they hurting him? His words triggered a furious howl from the mob. They sounded so near. Glancing over her shoulder, she yelped. Livid faces were charging at her!

  Laurel bolted to the top step and down the passage. A sliver of light flickered ahead. She could hear the waterfall. But she could also hear the heavy breaths behind her as her enemies bore down. Heart pounding, she raced for the opening. With a triumphant cry she reached it and started to squeeze through.

  The cry died in her throat.

  Became a strangled screech.

  Cold webbed hands had grabbed her like pincers. She screamed and struggled, but in vain. As they pulled her back into the passageway, more arrived to swell the assault.

  “Won’t you let me go?” she cried.

  It was too late to be clever. The game was over. She could sense their ill will, malevolent and merciless. They were all around her, pushing and pulling her back to the stairwell. The light of the fissure faded behind her. Weeping and pleading, she tried to resist, but their fingers dug cruelly into her skin. Some pinched and poked her. In her frantic struggles Laurel fell on the steps, banged her head, bit her tongue. The taste of blood was in her mouth. No matter how hard she fought, they drew her inexorably downward.

  Now she realized the truth. She was about to disappear forever, into the underworld. That insight brought a surge of new strength. She had been a tomboy when she was little. She had tussled with the best, in the schoolyard, on the streets, and at the hockey rink. She was a girl who knew how to brawl. YES! Like a wild thing battling for its freedom, fighting for its life, she rose up with a roar. In a furious flurry of kicks and punches, she threw them off and sent them tumbling down the stairs.

  Shrieking with rage, they rushed back.

  She was waiting for them, sitting on the steps, fists up, eyes cold.

  “I’m one of the fighting Irish too. Come on, I dare you.”

  They came to a halt. She could see the doubt assail them, respect mingling with fear in their eyes. A few were nursing bruised limbs. Others whimpered. Some began to edge away, creeping back down the stairs. But the remainder obviously intended to fight.

  As the first few charged, Laurel kicked them back with such force they bowled the others over. Their squeals were deafening. Another group set upon her. She sent them flying too. She had the advantage of the higher ground. Each time they came, she drove them back, and more would slip away and not retu
rn. In the end she was left with three, the ringleaders. They stood on the steps below her, glaring up. They were much bigger than the others. Her courage wavered.

  “Okay,” she said, chest heaving, heart pounding, fists back in the air. “Winner goes free.”

  True bullies, they rushed her together. Two pinned her legs, while the other scrambled ahead on the stairs and tried to choke her. With a last gasp of will, she twisted so violently that the ones holding her limbs crashed into each other. Then she reached up to grab the third and hauled him over her head. As she flung him at the others, she kicked out ferociously. They all went sprawling down the stairway.

  It was her chance to flee. She dashed up the steps and back through the passageway. The fissure shone like a beacon ahead. With tears of relief she reached the opening and squeezed her way through, gasping at the splash of water. Then she stumbled out onto the shore, blinded by sunlight.

  Her clothes were torn and dirty. She was limping from her injuries and staggering with shock. Her only thought was to get away, as far and as fast as possible. But she wasn’t able. The barrier of rocks bordering the cliffs was too hard to cross, called for too much effort. She collapsed on the ground.

  How long she lay there, she wasn’t sure. She felt a hand on her shoulder. With a yell she struck it away and tried to rouse herself to fight.

  “It’s all right,” said Ian. “It’s me.”

  He was out of breath. His leather jacket looked too heavy in the sunshine. His boots and jeans were caked with sand.

  “I came as fast as I could. I couldn’t get the bike across the beach.”

  She saw the alarm in his eyes. Did she look that bad? She tried to stand up and almost fell, but he caught her in time.

  “Lean on me,” he insisted.

  She didn’t argue. She knew she couldn’t make it herself.

  He grasped her around the waist and led her forward. They had only gone a short way when they both saw it was impossible.

  “I’ll have to carry you,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to object, but hadn’t the will. Though she was mortified, it was sweet relief to be lifted from the ground. The strain on her bruised body instantly lightened and her shock eased.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered, as he tread carefully over the rocks. “It will help balance me.”

  “I … I’m sorry about this,” she mumbled.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said, with a grin.

  She rested her head against his shoulder. The black leather was warm and soothing. She closed her eyes. He smelled of soap and aftershave. A nice smell.

  Once they cleared the rocks and were on the strand, Ian picked up speed.

  “You’re light as a feather,” was his only comment, “don’t you eat?”

  As they approached the dunes near her grandparents’ cottage, she insisted that he put her down. His motorcycle stood in the marram grass. Dark-blue and silver glinting in the sunlight, it waited like a patient horse for its master. His helmet lay on the ground where he had apparently flung it.

  “If you sit on the bike,” he suggested, “I can push you to the door.”

  Laurel agreed. Though she was beginning to recover, she still felt weak. As he helped her onto the saddle, her mind raced. She was more than grateful that he had come to her rescue, especially since she had thrown him out, but what would she say to him? What could she say?

  “Do I look like hell?”

  s soon as she was in the house, Laurel went to shower. Peeling off her clothes, she inspected with horror the many cuts and bruises that covered her body. This was not fun and games with the fairies. And yet, the experience had steadied her. She was no longer struggling with mystical impossibilities. Faerie was as real as her own world, and though it had proved indeed to be “the Perilous Realm,” she now knew she could handle it.

  She changed into baggy trousers that wouldn’t rub against her wounds, and another sweater of Honor’s. Wrapping her wet hair in a towel, she checked herself in the mirror. Despite her ordeal she looked quite good. There was color in her cheeks and her eyes were clear.

  In the living room, she found a mug of soup left out on the table. Tomato, plain and fortifying. She had heard Ian leave when she was still in the bathroom. Sipping the warm soup, she wished she had got the chance to thank him.

  When she heard the motorcycle roar back up the road, she hurried to comb her hair.

  And when he came in the door, she felt suddenly shy.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the warmth of her tone, but said nothing as he dumped a shopping bag on the table. He started to take out various items—bandages, ointment, a packet of paper stitches. Then he removed his jacket and hung it on a chair.

  “Sit down,” he said. “I want to look at that gash on your forehead.”

  His voice was neutral, as if he were handling her carefully.

  She didn’t think to argue. Her head was throbbing, and she was glad he was there. She winced as he dabbed the cut with antiseptic. Then he applied a strip of stitches. His fingers felt rough against her skin.

  When he was finished, he tipped up her chin till their eyes met.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “I was climbing over the rocks and I fell.”

  He frowned.

  “Liar.”

  The word struck her like a dart. He watched her closely.

  “Oh yeah?” she countered, but her voice faltered. She was still shaken by her ordeal. She tried to stand up, to get past him. “Look, I can’t do this right now. I’ve got to lie down.”

  He blocked her path.

  “What is it with you?” he said, exasperated. “You’re acting so weird.”

  “Oh, and you’re Mr. Normal All-Irish Boy?”

  He was about to snap back but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he shook his head.

  “You’re something else.”

  They had reached an impasse. She sat down again, too weak to oppose him. He took the chair near her and stretched out his legs. His manner was deliberately casual.

  “Are you involved in some kind of cult?” he asked.

  Laurel’s eyes widened. Her own early suspicions of what the fairies might be! She was too surprised to dissemble.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Men in black. Scissors and knives. I don’t remember much from last night but I’m pretty sure I was in some kind of danger. And I’ve been in enough fights to know your injuries didn’t come from a ‘fall.’ What are you hiding? Who attacked you?”

  Her bravado was beginning to crack. He was forcing her to face the truth. First the Fir-Fia-Caw and now the boctogaí. Two attacks, and she had only begun her search for the king! The quest was dangerous, deadly dangerous, and she was all alone.

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  Laurel let out a sigh. She searched his face for something that might encourage her to confide in him. The black hair fell over his forehead, obscuring the stud in his eyebrow. Though the pale blue eyes were calm, his features looked tense, tormented. He had shown he could be kind, but most of the time he was at war with the world. Hardly someone who could hear her story.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said hopelessly.

  “Try me.”

  In the silence that fell between them, two breaths were held.

  “Okay,” she said, finally. “First you have to answer a question with complete and total honesty, no matter how crazy or stupid it sounds. Do you agree?”

  He looked bemused.

  “I don’t make promises, but I’ll do my best to be straight with you.”

  Laurel rushed out the words before she could stop herself.

  “Do you believe in fairies?”

  She expected him to laugh or sneer or accuse her of mocking him. She would not have been surprised if he had flown into a temper and stormed out of the room. What she couldn’t
have foreseen was the way in which he was so caught off guard that he looked like someone else altogether. Someone younger and happier.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yes or no?”

  It was almost funny then. He looked abashed. His voice fell, low and embarrassed.

  “Yeah. When I was a kid. In a big way. If I was really pissed off, with school or home, or if I had just got in a fight, I would go off on my own. Up Bray Head, or along the cliff path, into the mountains. I was always looking for a way out. A way in. To their world. I was always looking for them.”

  He glared at her defiantly, daring her to laugh.

  Instead she asked softly, “Did you ever find them?”

  His mouth thinned. He was about to retort sharply when she stopped him.

  “Now I can tell you.”

  Without mentioning Honor, she spoke of the cluricaun, the missing king and the Midsummer Fire, the old woman on the train, then the attacks of the Fir-Fia-Caw the night before and the sea fairies that morning. Even as she detailed the events, she could see the struggle in his features, disbelief and cynicism battling with astonishment and wonder.

  “I’m not the sort of person who makes this stuff up,” she finished. “You know that.”

  He didn’t respond right away. Though he looked a little stunned, she could see he was thinking.

  “Why are they against you?” he said, at last. “Sounds like the king’s disappearance is more than a case of missing persons. And I’d take what the cluricaun says with a pinch of salt. All leprechauns are tricksters. You can bet there’s more going on than what he’s told you.”

  She almost cried with relief. He hadn’t even asked for proof!

  “My feelings exactly. Granny spoke of a tragic tale. The Doom of Clan Egli? Something sad and terrible happened to the Summer King.”

  “Find the missing story, find the missing king,” he agreed.

  That’s when she told him the Master Riddler’s message.

  His face brightened. “The Old Eagle of Achill? That explains it! Do you know how I found you? I wouldn’t have seen you from the road, you know. I was driving away when I spotted it—a great golden eagle, flying over Minaun. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”