Faery Tale

by Signe Pike

  I could feel my heart in my throat, I remember, when I got up the courage to ask. “Dad, can we sit down? I’d really like to talk to you about something.”

  He looked worried. I could see him thinking, Oh, no, what has she gotten into now?Taking a breath, I reminded him of everything—the spankings, the yelling, the stopwatch, the tears every morning before school. He just sat there at his kitchen table looking dumbstruck. After a moment, he reached across for my hand. I looked to see tears—there were tears flowing down my father’s cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Signe. I am so, so sorry.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t remember any of that. I’m sorry, but I just don’t remember.”

  So it was all gone. Repressed. Memory loss maybe, due to the drugs? People who say marijuana is harmless, marijuana isn’t addictive are full of crap. I lived it in more ways than one, and I know. Kirsten and I, we were left with the memories. Such a proud father. So brilliant and beloved by his students. So charming. So adventurous. Such a great mentor. Such a storyteller. Such an angry bastard. And then such a sad, sad man.

  All of these things were true.

  And six years later, he was dead.

  “Sig!”

  “What?” I managed, irritably.

  “I need you to navigate here. We’re coming up to a roundabout.”

  I unfolded our directions.

  “We’re taking the middle exit.”

  “Thanks,” KP said, and let out a long sigh. “I guess I like to remember the Dad who went to Stewart Park with me when I was in eleventh grade to play in puddles when we got too tired of being inside, or the one who threw dinner rolls at me when I was on the phone too long with my boyfriend freshman year.”

  “Ha! I remember that. We were cleaning up and you were gabbing away . . . man! You used to talk on the phone for hours!”

  “Shut up.” She threw a halfhearted whack in my direction. “I liked the Dad who took us cross-country skiing Christmas Eve . . . that made us do things that we always liked having done afterward but at the time we weren’t always happy to have done.”

  “Yes. And we did a lot of singing.”

  “A lot of singing.” I could tell we were both considering bursting into spontaneous song, but then both decided against it. It took too much heart to sing like we used to.

  “It’s amazing how much, if you just love people to death, you can redeem yourself.”

  “Yup,” I said. “He did love us.” That was never a question. “He just had so much more to figure out about himself.”

  We arrived in Kells Bay with time to freshen up before dinner. KP’s friend Vicky had been the head of the English Department at Nobles and Greenough, the private school where KP taught prior to her move to Seattle. Tad was Vicky’s husband, and a teacher as well. His parents had built the house in Ireland when he was growing up, and he’d summered there. Both of them were also artists. Tad painted watercolors, and Vicky designed glass jewelry.

  Just south of the Dingle Peninsula, Kells Bay was a charming little fishing village surrounded by beach and mountains—part of the touristy “Ring of Kerry.” But Vicky and Tad’s place was off the beaten track. Because they would sometimes lend their house out to artists in exchange for pieces of their work, the home was a well-decorated, creative refuge. The woods surrounding the house looked like the perfect habitat for faeries—all big, mossy oaks and ivy-covered greenery. Across from their house was an old estate that had been turned into what was called Kells Gardens—forty acres of rare plants including Europe’s largest collection of ferns and Ireland’s largest palm tree. As Tad toured us around the property, I was amazed to see that they had several ruins of old houses in their backyard, where an old road used to be. The area was separated from the rest of the property by a low stone wall with a series of steps that led into it. It was covered in an arching canopy of trees.

  “I do my best to keep the weeds out,” Tad said. “Most of my time here is spent up in these ruins.”

  “They’re incredible,” we agreed, gazing around. The first chance I got, I was going to dive in and see if anything happened.

  After dinner—whipped up by Tad, who prepared it while sipping a glass of wine and listening to the soundtrack from The Secret of Roan Innish—Vicky and Tad warned that I should wait until morning to head outside, or else be devoured alive by midges, teeny biting insects sent as a scourge from the depths of hell.

  Having experienced my share of blackflies, in the morning I coated myself in bug spray, foolishly thinking, Right. How persistent could they be? The atmospheric beauty of the space was undeniable. The foundations of the houses stood three feet high, covered in ivy. There were ferns, one taller than a human, everywhere, and loose leaves fell here and there from the tall trees. I sat and watched them drift down in shafts of golden light. The feeling of this place, though so close to the house, was completely different from the rest of the property. It felt eerie—there was, Tad had shown me, a short square opening that seemed to lead nowhere but into the hill behind it. Can you say, entrance to the faery world? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I wasn’t brave enough to stick my head in there. In my defense, no one in Tad’s family had ever done it, either.

  But the bugs, the bugs! They crawled in my eyes, my ears, up my nose, down my throat. They buzzed at me aggressively, biting into my neck. I tried to stay calm and open.

  I had a greater purpose! I could not let them win! I tried asking the faeries to make them go away. Soon they were joined by bizarre-looking buzzing creatures that reminded me of bees or wasps, but darker, and a little smaller, more like large houseflies. I noticed that the tree trunk I was perched on was covered in larvae or some sort of nest, just as three of the buzzing creatures formed a tripod and hovered over my head, investigating. Then they dive-bombed me. I wanted to stay, really I did, but in the end, the bugs were victorious, and I was now the lump-ridden loser.

  I tried to console myself. If the faeries really wanted me to undertake this adventure, it would do no one any good if I were devoured by vicious, flesh-eating insects. Right? I went inside, defeated.

  “Sig, you can’t expect something to happen every time,” Kirsten said. “I mean, if that were the case, wouldn’t everybody believe in faeries?”

  “Yes,” I conceded. “I guess you’re right.”

  We spent four days at Vicky and Tad’s, and there wasn’t much time for faery searching, so I dialed it back a bit and enjoyed being a tourist. Maybe KP was right, and a break was what I needed. They made it easy, what with Vicky’s heart-shaped biscuits, glass-working demonstration, Tad’s beautifully prepared dinners, lunches at seaside cafés, beautiful walks, and driving tours of the countryside complete with more stone forts. I allowed them to spoil me in the warmth of their generosity, truly enjoying myself. And I plotted our next move.

  In Ireland, faeries and spirits are often connected to mountaintops. There was Ben Bulben, of course, way up north in County Sligo. In my research I’d come across several spirits that reportedly guarded wells or ancient sites on mountain peaks, thought to be members of the faery kingdom. KP and I were itching for a big climb, but we needed to find something not too far, something in the general area of Dingle. We settled on Mount Brandon, the second-highest mountain in Ireland outside of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, a series of peaks within the Ring of Kerry, farther afield than we were able to go.

  As we hit the road to drive back up the coast to Dingle, I began to notice that Ireland was no longer so much a place of myth as it was a place of numbers. One road sign warned “141 People Have Died in Co. Galway in the Past 4 Years,” advising drivers to drive carefully. Hostels tried to lure tourists with highly emphatic signs with ratings and exclamation points galore: “#1 Hostel in the West of Ireland!” or “Voted #2 Hostel in all of Dingle!” “Dining Pub of the Year, 2005!” “Mt. Brandon! The 8th Highest Peak in Ireland! The 2nd Highest Peak Outside MacGillycuddy’s Reeks!”

  Even Kerry Radio blasted “The Top Ten Re
asons Not to Have a Mobile Home Tax!” And everywhere we went, the radio broadcasted sad stories of desperate people with no work. Collapsed economy, pay cuts, halts on development. Legions of workers had lost their jobs. The country was in the middle of the biggest depression it had seen after such an impressive period of economic boom. The economic tidal wave had struck Ireland, all the way from America. There was no better time to set up camp in a tiny remote village and climb a mountain.

  We camped in the backyard of a pub at the base of Mount Brandon. The proprietor showed us to the back where we could pitch our tent by the edge of the bay, telling us not to worry about the barking dogs.

  “It’ll be me sheeping dogs,” he explained.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “Can I meet them?”

  “No,” he said, crabbily.

  The weather was soggy the morning of our departure, and he and his wife warned us not to go.

  “You’d best not be climbin’ Brandon in this soggy weather,” she admonished. “And two girls, all the same.”

  But up we went. Mount Brandon was supposed to have some of the most incredible 360-degree views in Ireland. It was so foggy I could hardly see three feet in front of my face.

  “Maybe it’ll clear,” KP said. “You know, unpredictable Irish weather and all that.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I wasn’t holding my breath.

  During the Ice Age, glaciers had scooped a series of cauldrons out of the rock on the eastern side of the mountain. Now, in a line nearly all the way to the summit, a stream connected a series of glacial lakes that braided together, the largest of which was called Loch Cruite. Brandon was named for St. Brendan, who lived circa 484 to 577. He was one of the early monastic Irish saints. He built monastic cells at the foot of Brandon, and it was said that he climbed the mountain to view the New World, before setting sail for it. Of course, I immediately thought that it must have been a pretty important place to the pagans.The pagans being the pre-Christian Celts. The pre-Christian Celts being the ones who believed in the Tuatha Dé Danann: the faeries.

  We reached the foot of the mountain and were about to begin our ascent when we were greeted by a charming sign:Going climbing? Are you prepared for tough ground, wind, rain, mists, accidents, etc.? You should have map, compass, torch, whistle, food, water, first-aid kit, stout boots, protective clothing, and spare clothing. It is 10 degrees colder at a 3,000-foot summit than here. A breeze down here is a strong wind up there. Do not climb alone.

  A party of FOUR is recommended.

  KP and I looked at each other. “We’ve got most of that stuff, right?”

  “Right. Apart from that party-of-four thing.”

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  We followed a steep path into the mist. It wasn’t long before we came to a stone shrine to St. Brendan, looking forgotten in the fog. As the slope got steeper, we soon found ourselves on the beginning of “the ups.” I’d missed how mountain climbing made me feel so tough.

  “Those are my girls,” our father would declare. In the Tetons, the Adirondacks, on the slopes of Mont Tremblant in Quebec.

  We passed three men bogeying their way down, warning us, “Can’t see a damn thing up there! You girls should wait until it clears. We got down just in time.”

  “Thanks,” we said, pressing on. The higher we got, the thicker the mist became, soaking our hair, our faces, adding to the moisture caused by our increased sweating. Still it made me feel fresh, somehow clean, rugged. Eventually we were completely enclosed by the sheer rock walls, and the boulders and split fissures in the rocks were easy homes for elves and dwarves. I felt like we could be ambushed by Orcs at any moment. I hoped Orlando Bloom would step out to save me.

  The altitude gain and my pumping blood made my fingers swell, until my engagement ring, which had been getting gradually looser on my finger as the weeks had gone by, was constricting the blood flow to my fingertips. We reached the eastern ridge, where the lakes began, a silver chain up the spine of the mountain, silent and still. There were slugs the size of my little camera case, and the only other sound was the haunting call of a single bird, trilling from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was exhilarating. Eerie. The breath off the water was ancient.

  “I have a curse, I think, involving mountains that are supposed to have spectacular views,” I grumbled, thinking of my windy, cold, wet trip up Snaefell on the Isle of Man. “Sure would be nice to have a view . . .” I hinted to the rocks and pools around me.

  “Well,” KP said, “maybe the faeries are trying to tell you something.”

  “What? Like I should have kept my day job?”

  “No, maybe they’re saying that you should stop looking outside, and try . . . looking within.”

  “Could it be,” I gasped, in mock awe, “that the faery within is the faery that I’ve been looking for?!”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “You’ve been getting so frustrated with things not ‘happening.’ Maybe things are happening.You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Okay. So you think I just need to chillax?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe Kirsten had a point. Maybe, like the tall stranger in the field on Man had said, I just needed to enjoy it.

  At the top of the mountain, which we reached at long last, the wind whipped, and we tossed our packs down to zip into some more layers. We’d been planning lunch on the summit but it was too damn cold, so we just walked around. I picked up a few red rocks. “These are cool,” I mumbled, stuffing them in my pocket. Then I caught myself, and thought, a conciliatory gesture, I hope it’s okay if I take these? There was a strange stone structure dug into the top of the summit—definitely a ruin of sorts, but it almost reminded me of some of the burial tombs I’d seen photos of in Devon. A portal tomb, was that what it was called? It looked like it led down into the ground, but it was now covered in earth. Could it have been a monastic cell? Even the pagans probably weren’t crazy enough to live up here.

  It was then that I realized the entire time I’d been hiking, I’d been seeing them in my mind. Lines and lines of people, trekking up the hill, their feet coming before mine on the ancient stones. I could see their faces. They looked like Celts. Up and up, but only in certain times of the year. Something whispered, This was a special place, a place of pilgrimage, just as it is now, in Christian times. But was it really? Or had I let my imagination get carried away?

  We stopped to eat on the leeward side of the mountain, then climbed back down the slippery wet rock in the mist. At the bottom awaited dinner and a pint, and another night of sleeping underneath the stars.

  Months later, in South Carolina, I wrote a letter to my new friend and partner in historical mystery, Peter Guy.

  Dear PDT Guy,

  I have come across something in my research related to Mount Brandon in Dingle. I have a crazy hunch that mountain was an ancient pagan place of worship, and I think there may be a few clues left in the place names, but have only been able to (with my nonexistent understanding of Gaelic) take my research so far. It all stems from the very un-scientific fact that when I climbed it with KP,

  I had a strong feeling. So back at my desk, I undertook a small amount of research to see if I could turn anything up.

  The largest lake on Brandon is Loch Cruite, which means “harp?” in Gaelic. So literally it could be referred to as Harp Lake. Funny thing is, the lake doesn’t resemble a harp in shape, not from memory, nor from the topographic map. I think it’s more likely the place name contains some older clue or connection to the true history of the land . . .

  What I stumbled upon was my own etymology-based theory. In antiquity, it became custom for those who didn’t know any better to refer to any pre-Christian Celts simply as Druids. As more people converted to Christianity, the term Druid was demoted further, to the title of “bard.” (From that point on in Christian texts, we find examples of bards who are in actuality Druids, making this a proven fact.)

  Of course in Celtic society, the word Druid actually d
enoted a particular and specific high-level position (that of teacher, judge, peacekeeper, etc.), yet in Christian records, monks refused to give any credence to the societal distinction. Druid came to represent the entire pagan Celtic population and their beliefs. A thread of this Christian propaganda still lives today: there is still a common misunderstanding that Druids were a cultural people.

  A harp player was called a Cruitier. A bard was a traveling poet or musician. In many cases, these “bards” were actually Druids, on the run to avoid further persecution. Fighting to keep their sacred culture alive, they traveled among pagan communities recounting oral history, in many cases posing as simple poets or musicians to avoid death. It was during this time, perhaps, that the terms became somewhat interchangeable. If we can accept that, Harp Lake was likely to have been, in essence, a pagan holy lake that was strongly connected to the “Druids.” Lake of the Bards, or Lake of the Druids. After all, what did you look for when looking for an ancient pagan site? You looked for its strongest established Christian church. Or in this case, an entire mountain named after a Christian saint. History would tell us that if this was the case, the mountain must have held a very real cultural or religious significance to the ancient Celts.

  We need look no further than written history to find evidence of this blurring of the lines between bards, pagan Celts, and Druids. In 1283, Edward I ordered the massacre of hundreds of “bards and harpists in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.” Edward was a Christian crusader and was also responsible for expelling the Jews from England seven years later. So, as late as the thirteenth century, a high king of England was ordering the massacre of a group of musicians? It seems certain that in these areas, the Druids still held the loyalty of the local populace—a power that a king found threatening enough to want to exterminate. A contemporary historian, Adam Ardrey, contests that the countryside functioned as strongholds for the pagan religion, and the carriers of its oral history, the Druids, for several hundred years after AD 500. Essentially, Edward I was rooting out the pagans.