The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  She drew back.

  “Don’t,” she said. “We’ve got work to do and so little time. We need to figure out how to free the king.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then he relented.

  “Right, no messing. It’s your turn to hit the books. Find out everything there is to know about Slievemore. I’ll go buy some food and cook us a meal. I could eat a farmer’s arse through a thornbush.”

  “What?”

  Laurel shook her head. Irish expressions were bizarre.

  After he left, she spread the map of Achill over the table and riffled through her grandparents’ guidebooks. There was plenty about Slievemore, “the Great Mountain.” In her mind, she thanked Honor for all the nights of enforced study. Who would have thought it could prove useful? She was already sifting through wads of information, jotting down bullet points, and earmarking pages with slips of paper.

  “And you call yourself the dumb twin?” was Ian’s comment, when he returned.

  He had stopped to look over her shoulder before heading for the kitchen. Soon the cottage was filled with the savory smells of onions, tomatoes, and peppers simmering in the pan with olive oil and basil. He whipped up a pancake batter and grated some cheese.

  “You’re an amazing cook,” she said, looking up from her work.

  He stood at the stove, his back toward her, stirring the pan.

  “I learned young. I didn’t want to eat meat, and both my parents do. My mother tried her best, but she’s a traditional cook—meat, spuds, and two boiled veg. In the end, it was easier if I looked after myself.”

  She saw his shoulders slump.

  “That must have been lonely,” she said quietly. “It’s hard when you feel it in your own family.”

  Though she was referring as much to herself as to him, he looked angry when he turned to face her. She steeled herself for a cutting remark even as it occurred to her that this was how he shielded himself. Then his features changed and he smiled briefly.

  “We shouldn’t fight so much.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, smiling back.

  Lunch was vegetable crepes sprinkled with parmesan, and a green salad on the side. Neither spoke as they ate, they were both so hungry. When they were finished, Laurel presented her research on Slievemore.

  “From what I’ve read, it’s like a sacred mountain. There are ruins scattered all over it, not only abandoned villages but megaliths and portal tombs. I looked for any legends about it. I remember reading in one of my Granda’s books that folklore is a kind of ancient memory.

  “The guidebooks say there’s a web of tunnels inside the mountain which no one has found for centuries. There’s even mention of ‘the King’s Cave,’ but nothing about where it might be.

  “I started to think about why the Fir-Fia-Caw imprisoned him in the mountain and not somewhere else. They were the Temple guard. In the vision of Hy Brasil, I saw swarms of them. They must have had a barracks or stronghold or something.”

  “Of course!” Ian swore. “What better place to keep him than in their own fortress?”

  Both were silent a moment as they acknowledged what that meant.

  Ian looked grim.

  “Any idea how many there are of them?”

  She bit her lip.

  “I think most were massacred, and when Laheen mentioned survivors he didn’t give a number. We know there are at least seven from the night they attacked us, but after that …”

  “Right, it’s seven or seventy. Hopefully not seven hundred. Stealth mode all the way. You got a plan?”

  She did.

  “My guess is the King’s Cave is at the heart of the mountain and most likely high up. It wouldn’t make sense to keep him on the lower levels or the outer fringes. That would only help a rescue or escape attempt. So this is our mission: go deep inside headquarters, find him and get him out, while avoiding the guards.”

  There was another moment’s silence.

  “You found a way in?” he asked, in a quieter voice.

  She showed him the map and the places she had circled.

  “I looked for anything about entrances or secret doorways and came up with two. One’s somewhere near the Deserted Village, the big ruins at the southern base of the mountain. The entrance has an Irish name.”

  He checked what she had written.

  “Teach Faoi Thalamh,” he read out loud, and then translated for her, “The Underground House.”

  “The second entrance doesn’t have a name but it’s on the northwest slope of the mountain, above Blacksod Bay. It’s just outside a place called Dirk, one of those booley villages, like the one we found on Croaghaun.”

  He nodded. “But what are the entrances like? Are they caves? Potholes?”

  “That’s the bad news. No descriptions or details. And they could be blocked up, destroyed, whatever. We won’t know till we find them.” She sighed. “We don’t know ‘what’ but at least we know ‘where.’ Once we get there, we use our eyes.”

  He studied the map again.

  “We should go for the Underground House first. It’s the easiest to reach. If we don’t find it or can’t get in, then we head up to Dirk.” He stopped a moment and frowned. “But maybe we should check out Dirk as well? I mean, before we go inside? Confirm two exits? That’ll give us a second escape route.”

  “There isn’t time. We’ve got to get moving. Keep it simple. Whichever way we go in, we go out.”

  “You’re the boss,” he conceded, and though he looked worried, he said no more.

  But she had caught his look. She, too, was beginning to dread what lay ahead. Who knew what waited for them inside the mountain?

  They packed their knapsacks with flashlights, compasses, ropes, candles, matches, and bottles of water. The eagle feathers were tucked in their back pockets where they could reach them easily. When Laurel offered Ian charms against the Fir-Fia-Caw—packets of salt, a bag of white stones, several daisy chains—he didn’t refuse this time. He also packed his switchblade and the dagger he had won from Grace.

  “You got to keep it!” she said, surprised.

  “You kept what you won.”

  She heard the intimation and chose to ignore it. He changed the subject.

  “Once we free the king are we bringing him back here?”

  She shook her head.

  “He could be hostile, according to Laheen. Even with the feathers to bind him, I’d be nervous about trying to control someone so powerful. Best to take him to Grace. She can lock him up in her castle. Then we’ll have her ships to get us to Hy Brasil when the island appears.”

  “You’ve covered all the angles,” he said, admiringly. “Brains to burn.”

  He reached out for her.

  She backed away.

  It was the last straw. He had only so much patience.

  “What is it with the hot and cold game? Are you messing with me?”

  “I can’t do this,” she pleaded. “Not now. Not when I’m so close to saving her. I’ve got to stay focused.”

  He opened his mouth to argue when he suddenly froze. His eyes widened.

  “Saving her?” His voice was incredulous.

  Laurel started to tremble. She hadn’t meant to tell him. It was a slip of the tongue. Not something to be uttered.

  He gripped her arms before she could flee.

  “What did they promise you?” he demanded.

  She refused to answer. She could see the fear in his eyes. The fear for her. But she didn’t want to see. He spoke urgently, firmly, as if to a child. But she didn’t want to hear.

  “The fairies are tricksters, Laurel. They can’t be trusted. No matter what they’ve told you, you can’t save her from death. It isn’t possible. Honor died. You can’t change that.”

  “What do you know about it?” she cried, breaking away from him. “It’s my mission, not yours!”

  Both were already tense, it didn’t take much to push them over the edge. Grief and guilt bled into her emoti
ons, bad temper fueled his.

  “I should never have got involved with you,” she said. “You’re distracting me. You could ruin everything!”

  “Are you talking about last night? It’s my fault again, is it? Because you let yourself be happy for a few bloody hours? You managed to forget her?”

  She wanted to hit him but instead, to her horror, she started to cry.

  Her tears shocked him out of his anger. He was dismayed by his outburst.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But, look, we’ve got to talk about this. Her death—”

  “Get out of here!” she screamed.

  “Laurel—”

  “Get out!”

  White-faced, he grabbed his knapsack and left the cottage.

  She heard the motorcycle start up, heard it howl away into the distance.

  And then the pain hit. That was the nature of grief. It waxed and waned, pulling on the emotions like the moon on the tides. It could be low and quiet, a dark under-stream of hurt and loss. Then it would surge with sudden violence, set off by any twist of feeling: a rogue wave breaking against the rocks. She uttered a strangled cry and clutched her stomach, then dropped to her knees, torn apart by sobs.

  When the wave withdrew, Laurel staggered up. She was alone again. It had to be that way. Anything else was a diversion. She was here for one reason and one reason only: to save Honor. Though her eyesight blurred with the last of her tears and she felt so weak she could barely move, she finished her packing and left the cottage.

  She drove the Triumph Herald through Keel and turned left for Slievemore. The mountain loomed up immediately, at the end of a long, narrow road. The great whale-backed ridge glowered down at her, a colossus standing guard. The peak was lost in a veil of mist. The landscape all around was flat and bleak, sparsely inhabited. It was raining and everything was shrouded.

  She parked the car at the foot of the mountain, near the graveyard beside the Deserted Village. The ruins of the old settlement stretched across the southern slope. More than a hundred families once thrived here; men and women working the potato beds, children playing between the cottages, cows tethered to rings on the outside walls. Now nettles sprouted in the empty doorways and a cold wind blew through the eyeless windows. All that remained were stone skeletons, picked clean by time. It was a desolate place, echoing loss and defeat. Laurel could feel the despair seep into her bones.

  “Where are you?” she whispered, her face wet with rain and tears. “Where have you gone?”

  According to her research, the Underground House was somewhere outside the village, on the slope above it. Yet she didn’t move to look for it. She had come to a standstill, plagued by doubt. What was she doing here? Could she really save Honor? Was Ian right? Was it impossible? Her sister’s death seemed more real in this place, the promise of her resurrection a cruel delusion.

  Laurel didn’t see the danger. The trap she had fallen into.

  They were pushing their way up through leaf mold and soil, thick viscid toadstools skulking in the grasses, their bloodred caps pocked with white warts. They made a ring around her. Amanita muscaria. Fly agaric. Fairy mushrooms.

  Believing her eyesight to be dimmed by tears, Laurel didn’t realize that she had gone blind. Immobilized by grief, she couldn’t sense the paralysis that crept through her limbs. Had she thought to cry out, she wouldn’t have been able, for she was already struck dumb. And because of the deafness that blocked her ears, she didn’t hear the sound of the motorcycle in the distance …

  Heading her way.

  e was there, outside the ring, prowling around it like a panther; trying to find a weak spot, an opening. He kept calling her name. His voice was frantic. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t speak. Her body stood stationary in the rain.

  “They’ve caught you. Can you see them?”

  He was urging her to fight.

  “Where are your charms?”

  Her knapsack was on her back.

  Now he stood directly opposite her, fixing his gaze on hers. Rain trickled down his hair and over his face. His eyes glittered with intensity. She sensed him near her, but couldn’t react.

  “Give me your hand. Try.”

  He mouthed the words carefully, but still she didn’t move. In desperation, he reached over the toadstools. His body jerked back from the shock. Fury flooded his features. He kicked at the mushroom in front of him. Another jolt hit him, stronger this time, but it only made him angrier. He started stomping on them all, roaring with rage and pain. The ring was being smashed to smithereens.

  Laurel felt its hold loosen.

  Then Ian pulled her from the circle and into his arms.

  She leaned against him, like a bird seeking solace in the lee of a cliff.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He held her tightly.

  “Me too.”

  He kept his arm around her as they made their way up the mountainside. Her body tingled with pins and needles as the last of the paralysis withdrew.

  “Thanks for coming back,” she said.

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “At least we know we’re on the right track,” he pointed out. “That was like a perimeter defense back there. We need to watch out for traps.”

  He kept his voice neutral but she heard the undertone. Something else to worry about. He was already scanning the sky for ravens. His concern was contagious. Was her plan too risky? Should they have gone with his instead?

  The ground was boggy, covered with heather and grass. Though the slope appeared smooth from the base of the mountain, it rose in a series of ridges that led to the final summit over to their right. The lack of trees or bushes left them exposed and vulnerable, but it also allowed them to search more easily.

  Laurel’s research had convinced her that the Underground House was just beyond the Deserted Village, and they both assumed they were looking for a cave or something similar. The first thing they checked were visible outcrops of rock, but none had openings. Next they investigated any patch of ground that looked different, either hillock or hollow. Ian used his switchblade and Laurel, the dagger, to stab at the grass. If they struck stone, they would clear away the turf to see what lay underneath. More than an hour passed as they hunched over their task, wet and cold from the incessant drizzle, but neither mentioned giving up. And all the time they kept watch for ravens.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Ian, scanning the empty sky. “They’re waiting for an army.”

  “Let’s hope that’s what it means,” she answered.

  Then at last they were rewarded.

  It was Ian who found it and called her over to work alongside him. Cutting away furiously, they uncovered a stone slab overhanging a little cave. The opening was small and dark, like a badger’s hole, but there was enough room to squeeze through.

  “This must be it,” she said, afraid and excited. “The Underground House.”

  Still smarting from her defeat by the fairy ring, Laurel insisted on going first. With flashlight in one hand and a fistful of salt in the other, she crawled into the hole on her elbows and knees. The wet ground soaked into her jeans. It was hard to move in such a tight space and the bulky knapsack didn’t help. A sudden flashback to the Amethyst Cave brought a panic attack. Her heart beat rapidly. She couldn’t breathe. The sea fairies had been bad enough, but the Fir-Fia-Caw were far more terrifying. And she was entering their lair! She gripped the salt in her palm.

  “All right?” came Ian’s voice behind her.

  It was muffled. He was still outside.

  She forced herself to calm down.

  “Yeah,” she called back. “It gets wider. Follow me in.”

  She could see where the burrow opened ahead. Was it some kind of air vent? It seemed too narrow for an entranceway. Then she crawled out into a chamber that allowed her to stand up.

  Round in shape, like a megalithic tomb, the room was built of stone blocks with a corbeled roof. O
nly five or six people could fit inside it. Her flashlight picked out niches carved in the walls. For weapons, she guessed, judging by the scattered remains on the ground—a piece of bronze sword, a pile of sling stones, some chipped metal discs. Moving closer, she was able to make out inscriptions in the stone. The same feathery hieroglyphics as the archway in the gorge. The place felt long abandoned, but that wasn’t what upset her.

  When Ian arrived he, too, looked around with dismay.

  It was a dead end. There was no other opening besides the one they had come through.

  “We’ll have to head up to Dirk.”

  “No wait,” she said, thinking. “It doesn’t make sense. If this is a military stronghold, why would they have a room like this? What’s it used for?”

  “Good point.” Ian kicked at the broken sword. “The Underground House,” he muttered. “Guardhouse, maybe? First defense post?”

  The same thought struck them both, and they ran to the walls to push against the stone.

  Nothing happened.

  “Try the parts where there’s writing,” Laurel suggested.

  Now as she pressed a certain spot, a deep rumble sounded. One of the blocks began to move. They had found the way in.

  The passage was dark and breathed cold air onto their faces. Pointing her flashlight ahead, Laurel stepped cautiously into it. She felt as if she were being swallowed by the mountain. Cracks fissured the stone walls. The elegant inscriptions were covered with black mold. Where the stone had broken away in places, the earth was bared like a flesh wound. Something crunched underfoot. Bones? She aimed the flashlight down. Brittle bits of stone. The dankness clawed at her throat. She heard Ian cough behind her. Judging by the state of decay, the tunnel had been unused for centuries. The cobwebs were the worst part. From time to time, she had to fight her way through sticky curtains of them. Only pride stopped her from asking Ian to lead.

  Then something dropped on her head.

  She smothered a shriek and signaled urgently to him. Get it off me! Get it off me! He ducked as something landed on him too. They both kept whipping around, trying to see with the flashlights, flailing their arms as more things rained down on them. In a fit of wild panic, they ran down the tunnel, heedless of the dangers that might lie ahead.