As if from some cataclysmic event, a huge part of the rock face had split from the mountain, creating a narrow gorge a few feet wide that dropped to a channel below. The sea surged through the narrow passage, exploding on the rocks. It was a somber and lonely spot. If the Old Eagle of Achill was to be found, this was surely the place.
It took only a glance into the chasm to set Ian arguing once more against a descent. They both ended up shouting, as much from tension as the need to be heard above the wind.
“You have some crazy urge to be a hero!” he yelled. “It’s a bloody death wish!”
“I don’t care what it is! One of us has to do this and I’m the best for the job. I’m the athlete. You’re the one who reads poetry!”
By his furious silence, she knew she had won that round. But then he began to insist that he would go with her.
“You can’t. You’ve got to watch the ropes, and stand guard in case the Fir-Fia-Caw come. Please, I need you to do this. “
Grudgingly, he agreed.
“It’s not as severe as it looks,” she said, fastening her harness. “I’ve got plenty to hold onto.”
Now she took out the rest of the climbing gear and placed it professionally, attaching the ropes to the ground and clipping them to her harness. Lowering one line into the gorge, she handed Ian the other. By the time she had tested the ropes, and he had checked them again, he looked a little less worried.
Laurel took a deep breath to calm herself. She was doing her best to hide her anxiety.
Something clicked in Ian’s features.
“You’d do anything for your sister, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d walk into the fires of hell for her.”
There was nothing he could say to that.
“Good luck, then.”
“Thanks. Watch my back, eh?”
The descent was unnerving. She had to get used to being in the gorge. The wind whistled around her. The waves crashed below. She was caught in the teeth of the rock, miles above the sea. Her breaths came in quick rasps, as much from tension as the icy air. But with each step she took, she found her strength on the mountain. It was exhilarating.
Slowly, cautiously, she lowered herself deep into the crevice. There were plenty of holds to grip on to. Occasionally she came upon a grassy ramp that she could scramble across. Sometimes a smooth slab of stone would stop her short. These she had to rappel, clinging onto the rope till she found purchase beyond.
From time to time Ian shouted to her and she called back to reassure him. If she craned her neck, she could still see him, peering down anxiously. There was no question of her returning yet. Though she had passed many nests tucked into the rock, none were large enough to house an eagle.
She wasn’t sure when she started to feel different. A strange gloom seemed to creep from the shadows and into her mind. The solitude of the mountain began to weigh on her. The lonesome cry of the seabirds made her want to cry too. She thought of Honor and how she had died, falling off a cliff into the sea. The terror she must have felt as …
Stop it.
Then she caught sight of something that wasn’t visible from the top of the precipice. She gaped in astonishment. Where the sides of the gorge ended to face the open sea there were pillars hewn in the rock, with a broken lintel overhead. The arch was definitely not a natural formation. Amidst the cracks in the stone were carved inscriptions. The writing looked vaguely like the traceries of bird print. A shattered ledge ran toward the archway and continued beyond it. The remains of an old road?
Tugging on the rope, she yelled up to Ian and pointed to the arch; then she realized he couldn’t see it from where he stood. Her words were muffled by the wind. When he shouted down, she couldn’t hear him either. But she had decided what to do. Moving sideways, she climbed onto the road. She had to be careful. There were many gaps in the path. If she lost her footing, the ropes themselves would pull her backward and smash her against the rock.
As Laurel neared the arch, she felt suddenly afraid. A cold wind blew through the opening. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Though she could see nothing but the blue of the sky, she was sure someone or something was on the other side. Watching her.
“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice quavering.
Was it the Old Eagle? Or one of the Fir-Fia-Caw? She reached for the nail in her pocket. Her heart stopped. It wasn’t there! She must have lost it on the climb. And she had left the other charms in her knapsack above! She was defenseless. For a moment she thought of turning back. She tugged on the rope for reassurance, as she couldn’t see Ian. The line felt loose. She was about to call up to him when she changed her mind. Fear wasn’t going to stop her now. This had to be the eagle’s domain.
When Laurel stepped through the arch she was struck by a blast of icy air, and found herself standing on a shelf above the ocean. Her head spun before the infinity of sky and water. She suddenly knew that no one had ever stood here before. Looking upward, she spied the great cleft in the rock overhead, like the mouth of a cave. The eagle’s eyrie!
She had just pulled on the rope to signal to Ian when the ground crumbled beneath her. Worn by time and wind and rain, unaccustomed to holding the weight of a human, the shelf collapsed.
Falling was oneiric and unreal. A blur of wind, cliff, and terror. The rope whined as it raced through her harness. Her arms and legs seemed to float. The world was moving strangely around her. Thoughts moved strangely through her mind. How flimsy life was. The puff of a this-tledown. A planet bobbing in the ocean of the universe. A person bobbing in the air. She was both light and heavy. Dropping like a stone. Flying like a bird. And even as she grasped that her life was ending, she saw Honor falling beside her.
Was the screaming coming from someone else? She felt the protest in every part of her body. No! Unfair! It wasn’t her time! She had a mission!
When the beating of wings came overhead, it seemed at first to belong to the dream of falling. But the talons clutched her with violent force. A curved beak slashed at her ropes, severing them like threads. And now she surged upward in a rush of wind and wings. Up, up, past the rock face. Everything was askew. The sea was rushing away, out from under her, and she was falling upward into the sky. Now the mouth of a cave hurtled toward her, opening wide.
Inside, she was dropped lightly onto a floor of soft moss. Stunned by the nature and speed of her rescue, Laurel could only stare around her speechless. She was in a huge nest. It was woven of branches and lined with grasses, but was also adorned with rich fabrics. A canopy glimmered overhead with the iridescent eyes of peacock feathers. Even as she realized that the eyrie was a royal bower, it wavered in her sight and everything changed. For a fleeting second, she stood in the hall of a shining palace with high windows and balconies overlooking the sea.
Yet the splendor of both nest and hall was dwarfed by the great golden eagle that alighted before her. He was so magnificent she quivered in his presence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror. He exuded radiance. Before he closed them, his wings spanned as grand and glorious as an archangel’s. When the tawny head inclined toward her, she flinched at the sight of the hooked beak; but it was his eyes that caught her, shadowed with an age and wisdom beyond her comprehension. Every angel is terrifying.
Instinctively she bowed to him. Then she repeated the words from the guidebook.
It is old thou art, O Bird of Achill,
Tell me the cause of your wanderings,
I possess without denial,
The gift of speaking in the bird language.
He cocked his head sideways and stared at her a while, eyes unblinking. She wondered if he understood her. Wondered also, for a second, if he intended to eat her. Then he spoke.
His voice was musical; birdsong translated into human speech. She strained to listen as the words took shape inside a stream of sound.
“You are not speaking the language of birds. Fortunately I can converse in passable English. I do not sup
pose you have any Irish?”
“I … sorry … no.”
“Pity. ’Tis a language more suited to my tongue.”
“I intend to learn it,” she added, wishing to please him.
“You are courteous for a wingless one. And you have great courage. Few have dared that descent. Why have you come to my eyrie? Speak and I will hear you.”
She knew that she had been granted an audience with a king. It was up to her to state her case and request a boon.
The wind ruffled the canopy overhead. The sea murmured outside. The westering sun illumined the cave with an orange glow.
Laurel spoke simply, describing her search for the Summer King and the need to light the Midsummer Fire. As was her way, she didn’t mention Honor’s death or her private hope of saving her sister. But she did tell of her disastrous visit to the sea fairies and the attacks by her enemy, the Fir-Fia-Caw.
“I’ve come to ask for your help with my mission,” she finished.
The great eagle regarded her solemnly.
“I am of the Old Ones, the Five Ancients of Ireland, they who came before your kind and Faerie: the Salmon of Assaroe; the Old Woman of Beare; Blackfoot the Elk of Ben Gulban; the White Lady; and myself, Laheen, King of the Birds, Lord over Clan Egli,” he paused, his eyes darkening, “and the Fir-Fia-Caw.”
aurel’s heart stopped when she heard the name of her enemy. She had come for help and fallen into a trap! A stray thought struck her. When she fell, the rope didn’t pull her back against the rock face. That meant no one was holding it. They must have got Ian! Panicked, she looked around her. Miles above the ocean, on a lonely coastline, there could be no escape.
Yet the eagle didn’t move to harm her.
“Long have your people lived on Achill,” he said. “A noble line. You are welcome here.”
“But … the Fir-Fia-Caw … they attacked me.”
“All is not as it seems. Let me tell you the cause of my wanderings.”
Once again Laheen opened his great golden wings, and a feathery light surrounded Laurel. What followed after, she could never be sure of. Did she fly through time to see events unfold? Or were memories sent swirling into her mind, like leaves caught in an eddy of wind? Laheen’s voice was always there so that words and images flowed together like a story. Here at last was the missing tale of the Summer King and the Doom of Clan Egli.
I am of the Firstborn from the Dawn Before Time. Behold Eagle Mountain where I made my eyrie. Behold the Temple of the Birds which I did fashion for my Queen and her children.
There stood the sea-swept cliffs of Croaghaun, but not as Laurel knew them. Emerging from the mountain like its very soul was an immense and shining ziggurat. Tier upon tier of pillars and pathways rose into the sky. Clouds sailed through the tall columns carved of white quartz veined with gold.
Behold the Golden Age of Clan Egli. See my people, bounteous, multitudinous, living, glorious.
The Temple resounded with the song of countless birds, as well as fabulous winged creatures of myth and folklore. Some perched on the marbled ledges, preening their feathers. Others wheeled through the air in arabesques of flight. None fought or preyed upon each other, for this place was a haven, sacred to all.
Laurel found herself inside the Temple on a shelf so high it made her feel faint. Near her sat two old ladies, knitting and gossiping together like sisters. Both had bright eyes, beaked noses, and shrill, chattering voices. One wore her hair in a long gray braid the same hue as her skin. The other had a black plait that also matched her coloring. Feathered shawls draped their bony shoulders. Laurel was uneasy to see them teetering so precariously above the earth, their feet in midair. Then she blinked, and there stood a thin-legged crane and a shaggy black cormorant!
Now she glanced upward. Enthroned on the loftiest perch of all were two great golden eagles. The King and Queen of Clan Egli. Laurel recognized Laheen instantly.
Behold my beloved Ular, she who came from Faerie to be my wife.
The queen’s image wavered. One moment there stood a glorious eagle; the next, a beautiful tawny-skinned woman with golden hair and eyes like coins. A jeweled gown flowed to her feet, a crown graced her forehead. Her face was grave and kind. Laurel sensed that she was something much older than a fairy, though he who stood beside her was older still. And while the Queen shape-shifted in form, Laheen did not, for he was an Ancient of Days, a spirit who came before Faerie and the Earthworld.
Ular raised an elegant arm and blew kisses to her children. Only now did Laurel catch sight of the Fir-Fia-Caw, the great raven-creatures with eyes that flashed like lightning. Here and there on every level they flew, black and glossy, cold and aloof. The Temple guard.
“What?” said Laurel under her breath, as the first sliver of doubt entered her mind.
But the vision was already fading in the golden light of the sunset.
And the story changed.
The Sídhe, whom you call fairies, came into being when Faerie was already old but your world was young. Where light mingled with the elements of earth, fire, air, and water, there they were born.
It was the birth of the sea fairies she witnessed.
By the shape of the land, Laurel knew she was looking at the early days of the world. Achill itself was not an island, nor yet was Ireland, for both belonged to one vast continent. Humanity was nowhere to be seen.
It was a midsummer’s night. The warm sky rained falling stars. A tempest of wind tossed the waters. Sea spray exploded in the air. Wherever the starlight fell upon the surf’s foam, they began to emerge. Lithe and sinuous. Wet and luminous. Some crawled to shore like jeweled insects struggling out of their cocoons to lie exhausted on the rocks, shimmering faintly. Others leaped up from the depths of the cold water, like flying fish or gamboling dolphins. Still others rode the white-capped waves, giving cry to the ecstatic joy of their existence. And the tallest and fastest and most beautiful of these was he who would be the Summer King.
Laurel caught her breath when she saw him, he was so exquisite, but her next impression was that he shone too brightly. He seemed incandescent, white-hot and fiery.
Once the sea fairies came to shore, all sparkling like fireworks, they rushed into Minaun Mountain. There they hollowed out the Amethyst Cave for their abode, and set a throne on high for their sovereign. But the king lingered outside to look upon the world. As he surveyed the island that was his domain, his eyes rested on Eagle Mountain and the Temple of the Birds, long established there. In that glance Laurel saw a new birthing: one of discontent.
The Summer King ruled over the Folk of the Sea, but he himself was drawn to fire.
It was a stormy night. Lightning streaked across the sky. The sea roiled. On the rocky shore of the embayment, the outline of a tall figure could be seen, dark against the shadows. Arms raised to the sky, hands sparking with fire, he was singing and chanting—enchanting—working New Magic still young in the world.
Out beyond the bay, volcanic upheavals at the bottom of the ocean spewed up steam and boiling foam. Then slowly it rose up out of the water, like a shining sea serpent: the isle of Hy Brasil.
The Summer King abandoned his palace on Achill and made his home on the island he had called into being. It was a fair flowering place; yet a bright thing may nurse darkness at its heart.
Laurel caught glimpses of green hills and woods, white waterfalls and streams, and dwellings of bronze that shone in the sun. Overlooking all, on the slopes of Purple Mountain were the glittering towers of the Amethyst Palace.
She also caught sight of the king on his battlements, glaring toward Eagle Mountain.
The Summer King brooded over the Temple of the Birds. The West was his kingdom and he did not want to share it. In his heart he declared war on Clan Egli and plotted its doom. Many ages would pass before he could act, but those who live forever need not hurry.
She knew she was now viewing more recent times, for though Achill was not yet an island, Ireland was. And there was Hy Bras
il off the western coast, and the Summer King standing by a great pyre on Purple Mountain. The sun was setting in a red-gold sky. As the king extended his hand toward the pyre, he let fly a spark that set it aflame. Once the bonfire burned, it signaled to the others on hills and mountains girding the mainland. Then, on the broad summit of the sacred Hill of Tara, with a flash of light from the star on his forehead, the High King lit the final fire. For as one was the beginning, the other was the end in that circle of power.
As she felt the sudden surge of energy, Laurel knew this was the Fáinne na Gréine. The Ring of the Sun.
The Sídhe-Folk were pleased with the Summer King’s gift, for it made them stronger. And though they were one of the youngest races in Faerie, they became the most powerful. Thus the High King of the Sídhe became High King over all. But power always comes at a price, though they did not see it. I saw, being an Old One, and yet I could not interfere, for it is not the place of Old Magic to counter the new.
Laurel, too, saw something. In the moment when the circle was forged, the Summer King stepped into the fire and then staggered out again. A sense of foreboding came over her.
Many times was forged the Ring of the Sun before another race came to walk upon the Earth, one whose heart and soul would be linked with Faerie.
It was strange and unsettling for Laurel to observe the early humans struggling to survive. With a mild shock she realized she was looking at her Irish ancestors. She was also surprised to see the two races meet and the people bowing to the fairies as if they were gods. Then the first little boats of skin and wood set out from Achill for Hy Brasil.
They brought offerings to appease the Summer King, but he was not pleased. He removed his island to the Land Below the Waves. Yet every seven years he would raise it again so that the Ring of the Sun might burn at Midsummer. And though the king hated the new race on the Earth, he did nothing to harm them, for he saw that they would further his aims.
The Summer King Page 11
