The Light-Bearer's Daughter

by O. R. Melling

  “I want to go back,” he said quietly. “I haven’t been there since … before you were born. I know it’ll be hard for you at first, but you’ll love it in the end. Canada is a great country.”

  It was the quiet tone that convinced her his decision was final. She stared at him speechless. Had she been the sort of girl who cried, she would have burst into tears. Instead, she gritted her teeth and spat out her words.

  “You didn’t even ask me! We didn’t even talk about it! Like it’s got nothing to do with me! You’re just a … a dictator! I hate you!”

  Jumping up from the table, she stormed into the house.

  Minutes later, he heard the bedroom door slam.

  Gabriel stared at the last of the raspberries pooling in red juice at the bottom of the bowl. The days ahead would be a nightmare. He knew what to expect—quarrels, tantrums, and sullen silences. But wasn’t that at the heart of his decision? Not her moods or defiance, but his inability to handle them. His own fears and lacks. There were times when he simply didn’t know what to do. While he had managed to muddle through her childhood with reasonable success, the past year had unnerved him. There was no manual for rearing an adolescent girl on one’s own. He needed help. His mother was eager to see more of her grandchild, and his two younger sisters were like teenagers themselves. When things got rough, he could call in the cavalry.

  Gabriel started to clear the table. Yes, it was the right decision. For both of them. Now all he had to do was convince his daughter.

  eep in the woods, the spoor of red mist trailed through the trees. Squirrels sat up in their dreys, alert. The chirr of insects ceased. A fox stopped in its tracks, nose to the air, hair bristling. A wild rabbit thumped the ground. Warning. Danger. All held themselves rigid, awaiting catastrophe.

  At first the demon clung to the fetid shade of the undergrowth, avoiding the light that worsened its pain. In misshapen and inchoate form, it instinctively sought life to feed upon, consuming the insects that crossed its path. Killing brought relief. It grew ravenous for more. The mother bird screeched helplessly as her young were devoured. The hare tried to outrun its fate but to no avail. And the great antlered deer fought with ferocious courage before it, too, fell.

  As the shadow’s strength grew, shreds of image and memory coalesced into thought.

  It had a mission.

  A target to destroy.

  What? Or who?

  It knew that it did not belong to this place, yet it had been here before. Before the fiery blast that had ravaged its mind.

  So much was lost. So much it needed to remember! And even as it grasped for knowledge, it sensed the two worlds that existed around it, peopled with many different beings. One world was solid and visible; the other of a different fabric, lapping against the first like waves against the shore. In which of these worlds would it find its prey?

  And how could it carry out its mission in its crippled state?

  It needed to grow, to learn, to know.

  Creeping through the half-light of dusk, under cover of the forest canopy, it came to a clearing where a bonfire burned. The warmth and brightness of the flames repelled it, but it did not flee. Already it sensed some kinship here. Cloaked in gloom, it watched and waited, brooding upon the scene.

  A band of brave companions sat together, laughing and talking. Drinking cups were passed among them and plates of cheese and oaten bread. The chieftain was a robust man with a weathered face and a hearty laugh. There was a flame within him as bright as the campfire itself.

  With the firelight flickering in his features, the chieftain put a question to his comrades.

  “What is the most beautiful sound in the world?”

  They cheered at each other’s replies.

  “The calling of a cuckoo from a high tree.”

  “The song of a lark breaking suddenly over a field.”

  “The belling of a stag across the water of a lake.”

  “The laughter of a lovely girl.”

  “The whisper on a beloved’s lips.”

  “What do you think is the most beautiful sound in the world?” they asked him in turn.

  He let out a great roar.

  “The music of what happens. That is the finest sound you will ever hear.”

  Their merriment was painful to endure, but the demon felt drawn to the circle. For there was one in the company who was not unlike itself. Yet it had to be careful. Already the leader suspected its presence and was peering around the campsite with a frown. One of the women shivered. The chieftain stood up, signaling to his lieutenant to scout the area.

  Too late.

  It was already moving among them, hiding in the shadows they cast themselves.

  sea breeze blew through the open windows to cool the stuffy interior of the old Triumph Herald. Air conditioning could not be expected in a car built in the 1960s. The leather upholstery was sweaty and Dana’s legs kept sticking to the seat. She didn’t complain. She had grown up in that old car: naps in the backseat during long drives through the country, picnics on the side of the road in the rain, journeys by ferry to Brittany and the Outer Hebrides when Gabriel played in Celtic music festivals.

  She threw a furious glance at her father. All that would go too! As the first shock of his announcement wore off, she faced the magnitude of what lay ahead. How much she would lose. Her best friend. Her soccer gang. Her street. Her life.

  “Once you start school, you’ll make new friends,” Gabriel had said that morning, in an effort to cheer her up.

  “It won’t fix what’s gone! Nothing can. You know that!”

  As soon as the words were uttered, she was sorry. He looked as if she had hit him.

  “Oh Gabe … Da … I didn’t mean …”

  He stood up to put the kettle on for tea. She flinched when she saw the slump of his shoulders. He was more sensitive than she, more easily hurt.

  They continued their breakfast in silence. The toast felt dry in her throat and she started to choke. He handed her a glass of orange juice and rubbed her back. She smiled apologetically through the tears caused by her coughs. He smiled back.

  “Let’s go to the glen today,” he suggested. “I need to talk to the lads. Maybe you could see a tree house?”

  It was a peace offering, almost a bribe. He had refused to let her near the tree houses built by the eco-warriors in the Glen of the Downs. She had been begging to climb up to one since the environmental protest began earlier that summer.

  It was an old story befalling an old country that had suddenly found itself new and rich. Economic progress was rampaging across the land. Green fields were being smothered in concrete and tarmac, small villages swallowed by urban sprawl. Winding roads lined with hedge-rows were disappearing into webs of roundabouts and motorways. Though the Glen of the Downs was a Nature Reserve protected by law, the government had approved the widening of the road that ran through its heart. Great tracts of trees were marked for felling in order to accommodate a four-lane highway. Eco-warriors had arrived from around the world to join the protests of Irish environmentalists. Setting up camp in the endangered woods, they halted all work at the site by living in tents on the ground and tree houses in the branches.

  Gabriel slowed the car as the speckled peak of the Sugar Loaf Mountain loomed ahead. Past the mountain, the road wound like a snake through the Glen of the Downs, a deep gorge torqued by the tidal forces of an ancient glacier. On either side of the road, the slopes rose skyward for over three hundred feet, cloaked with forest. To the right, above the tree line, an old famine wall crested the ridge like a broken crown. Painted crudely on the stone in great white letters was the cry: WHO WILL FIGHT FOR THE GLEN?

  Turning left into the parking lot, Gabriel drew up the Triumph under a banner strung between two trees. NO MOTORWAY HERE. Dana was out in an instant. They were already inside the forest, surrounded by tall beech, birch, and oak. Only a few yards behind them, the road was hidden by greenery. The susurrus of the speeding cars blended
with the soughing of the wind in the trees. The understory was lush with nettles and purple foxglove. It had rained earlier and the air was rich with the smell of loam.

  Dana loved the glen. She and Gabriel often hiked its trails. When the protest began they had joined up immediately, helping with petitions, supplies, and fund-raising. Though many locals viewed the eco-warriors as hippies and troublemakers, there was widespread support in the community for “the tree people.”

  GIVE TREES A CHANCE.

  THE EARTH DOES NOT BELONG TO US

  WE BELONG TO THE EARTH.

  IN WILDNESS IS THE PRESERVATION OF THE WORLD.

  THE DEATH OF THE FOREST IS THE

  BEGINNING OF THE END OF OUR WORLD.

  The banners and signs were everywhere, hanging from the trees like gigantic catkins. Dana raced past them and into the clearing where the eco-warriors had set up their central command. The area was surrounded by Scots pine, with a carpet of brown needles and cones that crunched underfoot. Here the protestors gathered around the campfire for meetings and meals, and companionship when they weren’t on duty. Though legal action was being taken to evict them, they were using the time to build support for their cause.

  After weeks of living and sleeping outdoors, the eco-warriors looked a little rough, as if gone to seed. In muddy boots and soiled clothing, with straggly hair and unshaven faces, they sat around the fire on old chairs and a burst sofa. Dana thought of them as a gang of outlaws, like Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Big Bob was the leader, a broad-shouldered bear of a man with laughing eyes and a booming voice. His hair was sandy-colored and so was his beard, and he wore faded dungarees tucked into his boots. An organic farmer from County Monaghan, he had left his farm in the hands of his wife and grown children in order to lead the protest.

  “Seems right to go when you’re called,” he would say.

  The moment he saw Dana he hurried over to give her a great hug.

  “How’s the youngest eco-warrior in Ireland?” he roared.

  “Ready to fight the good fight!” she shouted back, as always.

  “That’s my girl! Got a barman joke for me?”

  “I do!” she said, delighted. She had been saving it. “A priest, a rabbi, a minister, a blonde, and a dog went into a bar. ‘What’s this?’ said the barman. ‘A joke?’”

  Big Bob laughed loudly and clapped her on the back.

  “Goodgeon!”

  The others made room for her at the fire. A blackened kettle sat in the flames, boiling water for tea. Cracked cups and mugs were passed around. Everyone smelled of burnt wood. Though occasional breezes caused clouds of smoke to billow around them, no one moved. Instead, they sat like ghosts in a fog.

  Dana smiled over at Billie, an English backpacker with piercings in her ears, nose, lips, and eyebrows. The tattoo of a blue serpent ran up her arm. Next to her was Murta, Big Bob’s lieutenant, a wiry man who rolled his own cigarettes and was always talking on a cell phone. Several new arrivals introduced themselves to her, but it was a while before she noticed the other stranger, the one who hovered in the shadows of the trees, leaning against an old oak. He wore a black wide-brimmed hat with green leaves tucked into the band. His jacket, jeans, and T-shirt were also black. He didn’t join the circle but seemed to be watching them from under the rim of his hat. The others ignored him, but Dana kept glancing in his direction. Something about him made her uneasy.

  The talk around the campfire concerned the illegal dumps found in the Wicklow Mountains.

  “Tons of toxic waste,” Billie said, shaking her head, “polluting the soil and the groundwater.”

  “It’s no longer a matter of politics or economics,” Big Bob declared passionately. “The ecological crisis is a moral issue. It’s a battle between what’s right or wrong for the Earth!”

  Dana listened for a while, but once they turned to injunctions and legalities she lost interest. With nothing to distract her, she was left with her own gloomy thoughts about the move ahead.

  Big Bob noticed her unhappiness.

  “As the barman said to the horse, ‘Why the long face?’ Da giving you a hard time? Do you want me to box his ears?”

  Gabriel signaled to him to let matters lie, but it was too late. Dana sensed an ally.

  “He’s taking us away! Off to Canada!”

  Big Bob looked dismayed. “You’re not leaving us, Gabe! When? Why?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “I’ve been offered a job. The money’s too good to pass up. And I think it’s time. Time to go. Time to let go …”

  His voice trailed away as he stared into the flames.

  Looks were exchanged among his friends. Billie got up to pass around a packet of chocolate biscuits. Murta made more tea.

  The conversation moved on to ways of raising money for the cause.

  Dana’s heart sank as her hope of support vanished. Would no one take her side? Was she all alone? She heaved a sigh, scuffed the ground with her feet. And to make matters worse, by the time the cookies reached her, the packet was empty.

  Billie caught her eyeing it ruefully.

  “There’s more in the cave. Help yourself.”

  She didn’t need much encouragement. Dana loved nosing around in the clapboard shack where they kept their supplies. Set back in the trees, the cavernous shelter had wooden shelves from floor to ceiling cluttered with groceries, books, tarpaulins, and sleeping bags. Rain gear hung from hooks on the walls. Cupboards were crammed with cooking utensils, tinned goods, and sacks of rice and potatoes. Dana was rummaging through the foodstuffs when a blast of wind buffeted the shack. Everything rattled and shook, but nothing was disturbed except for a packet of chocolate biscuits that landed at her feet.

  “Hey! Great!”

  As she stooped to get it, she was suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. She straightened up. There stood the man with the wide-brimmed hat. She hadn’t heard him enter the cave. A strange nervousness came over her. There was something about him that she didn’t understand. Was he young or old? She couldn’t tell. His features were striking, pale and handsome. His red-gold hair was tied in a ponytail that draped over his shoulder. But it was the eyes that really struck her: bluer than any blue she had ever seen.

  Shyly she offered him the packet of biscuits, but he declined with a smile.

  “Follow the greenway.”

  Though he spoke quietly, his voice resonated in the air. She was reminded of Gabriel’s blackwood flute.

  “What?” she said.

  He lifted his hand to his hat. She thought he was saluting her, but he plucked a green leaf from the brim and handed it to her. A ticket? An invitation?

  “My lady awaits you.”

  Again he spoke softly, yet the words were unmistakably a command. She would have asked questions but he didn’t give her the chance. Tipping his hat in farewell, he stepped out of the cave and back into the forest.

  “Wait a minute!” she said.

  Another blast of wind shook the trees. He was gone.

  “That was weird,” she muttered.

  But then none of the eco-warriors were what you would call normal. They were all “odd sods and bods” as Gabe would say. In fact, that description applied to most of his friends.

  Dana stuffed the leaf into her back pocket and returned to the campfire. More tea was being brewed. More plans were being made. She groaned. They would be there all day. Slow death by boredom.

  “Da, when can I see the tree houses?”

  Before her father could answer, Big Bob responded.

  “Let her go, Gabe. She’s safe here. We’re all over the place, like guardian angels.”

  “All right then,” Gabriel agreed. “But no going near the road. And don’t climb any trees. You can look at them from the ground and I’ll bring you up later. After lunch. And shout if you need me. And—”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” Dana said quickly.

  Then off she ran, before he could think up more rules.

  • • •


  Big Bob grinned as Dana disappeared into the trees.

  “She’s getting big. Heading for womanhood.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Gabriel sighed. “It’s one of the reasons I want to go home. She can be a handful.”

  “Twelve is a tough age,” Big Bob said, nodding with sympathy. “Half kid, half teen. Betwixt and between. I’m glad my lot are well out of it.”

  “She needs a mother,” Gabriel murmured.

  “Aye,” his friend said gently, gripping his shoulder.

  wimming through layers of storied memory, the giant clutched at fragments of words and images. Were they pieces of a true tale that belonged to him? Or were they slivers of the spell that pinned him down?

  Imdha toir torudh abla,

  Imdha airne cen cesa,

  Imdha dairbre ardmhesa.

  Plentiful in the east the apple fruits,

  Plentiful the luxuriant sloes,

  Plentiful the noble acorn-bearing oaks.

  Fado, fado.

  Once upon a time, long, long ago …

  … there was a Mountain Kingdom that curved like a chain on the blue throat of the sea. It was a place of dark forests and windy peaks, of sunny glens and rushing rivers. The lakes and streams brimmed with trout and silver salmon. The trees rang with the song of bright birds.

  The King of the Mountain, the King of the Woods, was tall and broad-shouldered, of courteous speech and gentle manner. He did not care for war or battle. His chief delight was to roam the hills in the company of wild creatures, great and small. In the light of day, his peals of laughter rolled over the highlands like summer thunder. In the shadows of the evening, he swam in cool waters under the moon. Oh, how tranquil was his world! How green its valleys! How sweet the air and clear the waters!

  And when springtime thawed the white frost of winter and everything living bridled with new joy, the Mountain King’s people would call out to him.