The Light-Bearer's Daughter

by O. R. Melling

  There was no time to wonder. The rain clouds were scudding over the hills and heading her way. The open summit offered no shelter. The air was already chill. Quickly she changed into jeans and sweater, replacing her sandals with socks and running shoes. She was glad she had brought her waterproof jacket with the hood, but soon wished she had packed the wet-pants as well. As always in the hills, the rain lashed sideways. Minutes after it arrived, her jeans were soaked and clinging to her legs. Things could only get worse.

  Missing the deer, Dana started down the western scarp of Knocknacloghoge in sight of Lough Dan. The descent through heather and moor grass grew trickier still as the ground got drenched. She kept sliding and slipping. A climbing stick would have helped. She promised herself to look for a strong branch the next time she passed a tree. Her stomach was rumbling, but she ignored it. She had to keep moving. Though it wouldn’t be dark for a good while yet, the afternoon was fading. The dread question of where she would spend the night loomed in her mind. The burden of the task began to oppress her—the drizzle and the mud and the dreariness of the hike. It wasn’t fair. How did they expect her to do it without any help? She started to sniffle, then got angry with herself. Suck it back! You’re the one who said you could do it!

  When she reached the bottom of the hill, she had to fight her way through another sea of bracken till she came to a small river. As she struggled across it, she skidded on the stones and fell to her knees. Now she was bruised and even wetter. Would it never stop raining? Before her lay a sodden field bristling with sedge. Beyond it was the rocky slope of Scarr Mountain. To her right lay the dark-blue waters of Lough Dan. She spotted a group on the trail nearest the lake, their colored jackets like bright birds in the rushes. All had lowered their heads against the rain and didn’t appear to see her. Nevertheless, she hunched down as she hurried away.

  By the time she had begun her climb up Scarr, Dana had to force herself to keep going. Placing one foot in front of the other, she counted her steps and stopped for breath after every ten. Though it had finally stopped raining, her feet were soaked, her legs aching, and her knapsack felt like a bag of bricks. The mountainside was moving shakily beneath her, and she thought she might faint. Plunking herself down in a patch of heather, she grabbed a handful of chocolates from her knapsack and crammed them into her mouth.

  Life’s shite, eat dessert first.

  She was chugging on the bottle of cola when something caught her eye. It was moving down the ridge on the far side of Lough Dan. For a moment she thought it was a deer, and her heart lifted. Then she went cold. What was it? She couldn’t see clearly at that distance, and the thing itself kept scuttling behind the rocks. Then she got a clear sighting. Human. With limbs and a head. She almost laughed. Things were bad enough, why was she scaring herself? Still, she kept watching it. Then came the moment when it emerged from a rock once again and she saw something else: a reddish body, oddly segmented, with too many legs.

  As the waves of terror washed over her, Dana scrabbled up the hill. Was it the thing from the waterfall? Or some other enemy? Had it seen her? Was it coming after her? Fear gave her new energy. Drove her onward. She could hardly breathe. Her lungs were heaving. Her panic made her careless. At one point she almost fell backward. Steadying herself, she stopped to look behind. There was nothing in sight.

  A moment of relief.

  Then she spied a flash of red near the spot where she had crossed the river. She almost cried out. It was following her scent, like a dog. It was hunting her.

  The last few feet to the peak were a blind dash of dread and hope. No longer caring about anything else, Dana prayed that someone would be at the top. A group of hill-walkers. A lone hiker. Anyone. Please.

  When she reached the summit, her heart plummeted. Nothing but rock and coarse heather. She was alone and defenseless against an unknown predator.

  here were a few moments when Dana lost all control. She ran in frenzied circles, like a terrified toddler. A monster’s coming after me! A monster’s coming after me! She didn’t scream, but only because her fist was jammed into her mouth. Then she drew up abruptly. Forced herself to think. What can I do? Where can I hide? The grassy summit was pocked with outcrops of rock and several small cairns. Searching quickly through them, Dana found a narrow opening overgrown with heather. There was enough room inside. Crawling backward to allow herself to see out, she did her best not to disturb the heather that provided some cover. In each fist she clenched a sharp stone. If cornered, she was prepared to fight like a wildcat.

  The wait was harrowing. She was cramped and wet, shivering with cold and fear. Breath held, stomach knotted, she peered through the greenery, dreading what might come. Footsteps approached. Slow and heavy. Loose stones were kicked out of the way. Instinctively she cringed, as if to make herself smaller. Then a figure came into view. She nearly gasped out loud.

  Murta!

  In the first moment of relief, so glad to see a familiar face, she almost scrambled from her hiding place. Something stopped her. She remembered the creepy feeling she got whenever he was near. What was he doing there? And wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that he had been at the waterfall too? A sick feeling came over her. What could this mean?

  Murta sniffed the air as he looked around. Was he searching for her? Her mind insisted on a reasonable explanation. She had been missing for almost half a day. Search parties would be combing the mountains. But if he was part of one, why was he alone? And he didn’t look like he was on a rescue mission. He didn’t even have a rucksack.

  Murta’s cell phone rang out, piercing the quiet. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at it a while. Slowly he raised it to his ear.

  “Yeah?… No … I’m … I’ve … got business.”

  Dana shuddered to hear his voice. It sounded strange and sluggish. Now he put away the phone and with a last glance around him, stalked away, disappearing down the western slope.

  She didn’t come out till she was sure he was gone. Her mind was in turmoil. What was going on? Nothing made sense. And what should she do now? She needed to go west, but didn’t want to be seen by him. She would have to take another route. Detour around Scarr. She had just decided to have something to eat and consult her map, when she froze in new horror. There, near the cleft where she had been hiding, something protruded from under a big rock.

  Two legs and feet!

  She screamed.

  A male voice croaked in response from beneath the stone.

  Someone trapped!

  “Are you all right?” she cried. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”

  She started to push frantically against the rock, shouting encouragement. The person underneath had begun to move, twitching his feet and yelling also. She worked all the harder, thinking he was in pain; but when the stone finally rolled over, she discovered he was shouting at her.

  “What in the name of all that’s holly and ivy are ye kickin’ up such a racket for?” he roared.

  Speechless, Dana gaped at the little man. He was yellowy-brown and as wrinkled as an autumn leaf. Both his hair and beard fell in thick knotted strands that curled around his feet like a bird’s nest. His shirt and trousers appeared to be made of brown paper tied with twine, making him look like an abandoned parcel.

  Now footsteps sounded on the western ridge and Murta came into sight. He was breathing heavily, eyes darting around. He seemed bigger, darker, red-faced, and terrifying. His glance passed over the little man, but he jerked back in surprise when he saw Dana. Then a ghastly grimace distorted his features. She knew in an instant that she was in danger.

  Dana stood transfixed, unsure what to do. At the corner of her eye, she searched for the stones she had dropped. She needed weapons.

  Murta licked his lips as he bore down on her.

  The little man had stopped yelling to stare at Murta, and now turned to Dana.

  “Are ye with the likes of that, girsearch?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  Sh
e had meant the word to be emphatic, but it was more like a whimper.

  Murta was almost upon them. His eyes were burning. Dana tried to force her feet to run but she was paralyzed with fear.

  “I thought not,” said the little man.

  Rooting in his clothing, he pulled out a dandelion with its thistledown still intact.

  “Hold on to yer britches,” he said, catching hold of Dana’s hand. “We’ll be away in a hack.”

  He puffed on the weed.

  And blew the two of them away. Right off the mountain!

  It was the oddest sensation, like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. With a whoosh the landscape blurred around Dana in streaks of green and brown with a blue blotch of sky.

  Then she found herself on another mountain peak entirely, dizzy but relieved.

  “Thanks!” she said fervently. “That man scares me to death!”

  “Man?” said her companion, blinking through the tangle of hair that fell over his eyes.

  Dana regarded him curiously. Was he some kind of leprechaun? And had he helped her because she set him free?

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you imprisoned in that rock or did it fall on top of you?”

  “Are ye a complete eejit or what?” he said. “I was having a lovely kip when ye rousted me out of it.”

  “But I thought …”

  Dana stopped. He was having a nap? She felt a little light-headed. Between the huge relief at escaping Murta and the antics of this funny little man, she couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Are you a fairy?” she asked him.

  “Do I look like one?” he said testily.

  Her giggles died.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “The Lady told me—”

  He raised a grubby hand and his voice softened.

  “Stop the lights! I have ye now. Yer the Lady’s messenger.She sent word to watch out for ye. Is that why yer able to see me when none of yer kind do? They’re always passin’ me by with their big banjaxed feet and bags o’ grub. They all sit down on Yallery Brown’s bed—the Traveler’s Rock, they call it—and divil a one of them offers me a bite to eat. You’d think I didn’t have a mouth on me.”

  He eyed her knapsack hopefully.

  “I was just about to have my tea,” she told him.

  Yallery surveyed the peak around them and pointed to a large flat stone nearby.

  “There’s a handsome piece of furniture,” he said. “’Twill do for our table.”

  They settled down on the stone and Dana laid out her fare—a chunk of cheddar cheese, a leftover salad roll, four samosas, some pickles, several apples, and a little heap of chocolates.

  Yallery eyed the samosas.

  “I never seen the like o’ dat before.”

  He picked one up and held it to his nose. His whiskers trembled. Holding the pastry with both hands, he began to nibble it daintily, starting at the corners.

  Dana had to fight back another bout of giggles. He ate like her hamsters. She herself wolfed down the sandwich of lettuce, tomato, red onion, and chopped peppers. She was starving. It was hours since the picnic at the Powerscourt Waterfall. After all that had happened, it seemed like days. She stared up at the sky. The sun was lower. Evening was coming. Rummaging in her knapsack, she pulled out her map and spread it on her lap.

  “Can you tell me where we are?” she asked him, her mouth full.

  Yallery Brown peered down at the map. It was a three-dimensional image of the Wicklow Mountains, showing peaks and valleys, lakes and rivers.

  “There,” he said, placing a grubby finger on Duff Hill.

  “Oh,” she said, dismayed.

  He had blown her north, way off course, adding at least another day to her journey. Doing her best to hide her disappointment, she offered him another samosa. Perhaps if she kept him in good humor, he might be persuaded to use another dandelion.

  Gnawing away on the second pastry, Yallery stretched out his legs.

  Dana noted the two left feet but didn’t comment. It was time for dessert. She doled out three chocolates each, mindful that reserves must be kept for the road ahead.

  Yallery licked the edges of a coffee cream with his pale pink tongue.

  “Give us an oul scéal,” he said. “I haven’t heard a human tale in ages.”

  She looked confused.

  “You mean like a fairy tale?”

  “Nah, sure they’re old hat and a load of blatherumskite. Too much use of the imagination. Ye always have to guess what’s really goin’ on. Give me a human tale any day. All facts and feelings. Will I tell ye a story about Johnny Magorey?”

  She nodded, chewing on a toffee.

  “Shall I begin it?”

  She nodded again.

  “That’s all that’s in it!”

  His cackles ended in a fit of coughing.

  Dana laughed too.

  “Good one. I’ll tell it to me Da when I get home.”

  The sudden thought of Gabe brought a sharp pang and her mood changed.

  Yallery gave her a thoughtful look. He began to chant in a singsong voice.

  Skinnymalink melodeon legs,

  Big banana feet,

  Went to the pictures

  And couldn’t get a seat.

  She was laughing again.

  “Your turn,” he said. “A poem or a song or a tale.”

  “I can’t,” she pleaded. “Da’s the storyteller in the family. How about a joke?”

  Before he could object, she launched into one.

  “A grasshopper goes into a bar and the barman says, ‘Do ye know there’s a drink named after ye?’ ‘Really?’ says the grasshopper. ‘There’s a drink named Bob?’”

  Yallery Brown blinked, perplexed.

  “There’s a drink called a grasshopper,” she explained.

  “What? Are ye tellin’ me yer kind drink grasshoppers’ blood? The poor wee craters!”

  “No, no,” she said, and tried to explain again, but it was no longer funny.

  “Asha, that won’t do at’all at’all,” he said, relentless.

  “What about yer own tale? Isn’t everyone the grand hero in his own life story?”

  “There’s not much to mine,” Dana said. She thought a moment. “Well, to start off. My name’s Dana Faolan. I belong to the Faolans of Wicklow, that’s me Da’s people. His mum, my gran, is a Gowan from Wexford. She lives in Canada. I don’t know anything about my own mum’s family. She left before I could ask her about them.” Dana was quiet a minute. “She left before I could ask her about anything.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ve only got half a story I guess.”

  Yallery Brown patted her hand.

  “No matter, a leanbh. Sure, yer still inside your tale. And what is it that yer kind do be sayin’? It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”

  The latter was said with such an awful attempt at an American accent that Dana couldn’t help but laugh.

  Satisfied, Yallery brushed the samosa crumbs out of his beard and produced another dandelion from inside his clothing.

  Dana scrambled to gather up her things.

  As the little man blew on the downy clock, his last words sailed through the air.

  “Fare ye well on the journey, girl. Follow the greenway.”

  And then with a whoosh, like water sucked down a drain, he disappeared.

  Dana looked around her. Yallery Brown was gone and she was still on top of Duff Hill.

  “Damn!”

  f Dana hadn’t been so cheered by Yallery Brown’s company, she would have been devastated. All around her ranged a wilderness of rock and damp grass under endless sky. She was on the northern flank of the Wicklow Mountains, on a long ridge that wound through windswept bog. She was nowhere near the trail that would take her to Lugnaquillia.

  Glumly she stared at the map. She would have to stay on the ridge, of which Duff Hill was a part, and continue westward to Mullaghcleevaun. From there she could head south for the Wicklow Gap and west again to her destinatio
n. Just looking at the route, she knew it would take days. Her only choice was to hike as far as she could before it got dark, then camp out for the night. Perhaps in the forest below Stoney Top.

  With that decision, Dana heaved her knapsack over her shoulders and set out. Westerly winds blew down the exposed corridor. She wished she had brought her wooly hat and gloves; neither hood nor pockets could fend off the cold that gnawed at her ears and hands. The landscape itself was bleak and miserable. Though a few sheep straggled over the lower fields, there was no sign of a house or farm. No evidence of humanity. Yallery’s retreat had taken her far off the beaten track. Faerie appeared to favor the more forsaken regions. Were its people hiding out in the last scraps of countryside? Were they doomed, like the wilderness itself, before the march of man?

  It wasn’t long before she began to see them.

  A harsh croak pierced the air as a great raven landed nearby. Dana knew immediately it was no ordinary bird, for it was the size of a big dog and had silver-white eyes that flashed like lightning. As soon as it landed, it began to transform. The blue-black feathers melded together to form a capacious cloak from which limbs emerged. A layer of dark skin slid over its face as the beak withdrew to become a sharp nose. Glossy dreadlocks fell down its back. The raven had changed into a tall and beautiful woman, both striking and terrifying. Her fierce black eyes, rimmed with gold, lingered on Dana for one nerve-wracking second and then dismissed her. As the raven-queen strode away, Dana breathed a sigh of relief.

  But now she jumped with fright when a mountain hare exploded from a patch of heather. She was less surprised when this one turned into a wrinkled old woman, for Dana knew the superstition that hares were witches. Again, the creature simply went about her business. As the Lady had said, the denizens of Faerie assumed Dana was blind, and she was glad they showed no interest in her. Yet here was the catch to the Lady’s gift. Did Dana really want to see what was all around her?

  Moving to a lower slope to avoid the biting winds, she came to a stream that ran down a dark crag. At first she thought the waters ran red because of iron in the soil. Then she heard the singing. The voice was mournful and high-pitched, a keening wail. Craning her neck, Dana spied the female figure kneeling on the ledge above. Long straggly hair hid most of her face; her hands were wrinkled and blood-stained. Beside her lay a pile of soiled linen. As she washed the garments in the stream, the waters ran red.