I buried the book and snorkel in my pillowcase, then zipped shut the duffel bag. I was ready.
MISS HURLEY’S FACE was puffed and white as a winter sheep. She dabbed her swollen eyes with a kerchief and hurried me inside the Brannons’ farmhouse. She took my arm and led me through a daisy-wallpapered corridor, saying tenderly, “Ah, m’dear, the look on Darcy’s face when she sees you …”
We arrived at a weathered white door, a line of green and pink alphabet stickers at the top reading:
D RCY
Miss Hurley tapped on the wood.
No answer.
“Darcy,” tried Miss Hurley.
No answer.
“Darcy, love, I know you’re upset, but ’tis no way to treat a guest.”
The door cracked open and a black-lashed eye poked out—and then Darcy tumbled out of the room and into my arms. I dropped my duffel bag and held her close. When she retreated, she said nothing, but took my hand and led me into her room.
“If you girls need anythin’, give me a holler,” said Miss Hurley, and she closed the door.
There was not a spot of wall to be seen in Darcy’s room. Dance ribbons and photographs and Christmas tree lights cluttered every inch. Darcy sat me down on the bed and began to sort a pile of stuffed animals. “You can sleep with Queen McSnuffagles and Mr. Pigglebean,” she said, handing me a floppy-winged puffin and a ratty pig. “And I’ll sleep with Chewy and Chomp—oh, and Persnickety Kettle, o’ course. She gets pouty when I don’t pick her.” She squeezed a pair of matching goats and a too-stuffed cat against her chest, then looked up to me. “What d’we do now?”
I thought for a moment, stroking Mr. Pigglebean’s ears. It occurred to me that I had never been to a sleepover before, unless our class trip to the Dublin Historical Museum counted, where we slept overnight with the deer skeletons and the badger bones. “Well, we could eat popcorn—”
“’Cept we don’t have the corn to pop.”
“Right, well, we could have a pillow fight—”
“’Cept my pillows are made o’ goose feathers, and with goose feathers, you never know when one’s gonna shoot out of the pillowcase and stab you in the eye or somethin’. Goose feathers are sharp at the ends, y’know.”
“Right, well, we could—”
“Finish the story?”
“What story?”
“‘The Children of Lir,’ o’ course!”
“I did finish it. Back at McCann’s, don’t you remember?”
“I want to hear it properly. All the details, not a button or a mouse or a hiccup left out.” Darcy lay back on the bed, plopped Persnickety Kettle on her stomach and stared at me expectantly.
I sighed and snuggled up next to Darcy, pulling a pink crochet blanket up to our necks. I gazed up to the Christmas tree lights, winking on their wire, and thought back to the way Nuala had first told me the story. I was four years old, sitting on the stoop and feeding stale bread to the sheep when Nuala swished out from the back lilting, “Did you ever see a swan so pale and bright its feathers could be sewn of starlight? Did you ever see a child so red-lipped and pure its soul could be stitched of rosebuds and allure?”
And so I told my Darcy those very words. And then I told her everything. I told her all about how after Lir abandoned his second wife, Aoife (for she was a cruel woman, despite loving Lir’s and her own daughter), he took all four of his children and allowed Aoife but one visit a year on the baby’s birthday. How on that one visit, Aoife took the children for a visit to their grandmother who lived on an isle. How, as the older children, Ena, Fiachra, and Conn, bathed in the water, Aoife tried to take her baby away.
And then I told Darcy of the hawthorn berries. The magic ones plucked from the tree at the edge of the tallest cliff of the isle. “Eat these,” Aoife told the children as they raced up the cliff to her and their baby sister. “Eat these, or your precious sister dies.”
And they ate them. I told Darcy how the children fell to the ground, asleep, but before death had a chance to snatch them away, Aoife’s mother, the half faery, found them. And in the in-between hour of dreaming and awake, the half faery cured the children with another berry plucked from the same tree—though these were blessed with love. But blessed as they were, the berries could not fully undo the curse unless eaten by she who had caused the curse. So, the children were revived, but at a price.
“They were to spend the rest of their lives as an animal,” I told Darcy. “The half faery looked upon her grandchildren, so beautiful, even in near-death sleep, almost like royals.”
I told Darcy how first, the half faery considered the children be turned to brave lions, for lions are rulers of the land. But, surely, they should rule the sea too, and she considered they be turned to gentle blue whales, for blue whales are rulers of the sea. But what about the sky? Surely, the children should rule the sky, and she thought for moment of turning them into proud eagles.
But then, as she gazed out over the shores of her isle, the half faery spotted a swan soar down from the heavens, glide along the sea, then step onto the shore to groom its feathers.
“So thus it was,” I said. “The children would be swans, for swans are rulers of sky, land, and sea.” The enchantment was cast, and away flew the swans.
The half faery banished Aoife from Ireland, then told Lir that his children had drowned, all but the baby. “And ever since, the youngest child spent her days searching, searching for her long-lost siblings-turned-swans.” And as I spoke the last word, sleep, the sly creature, pinched shut Darcy’s eyes.
My eyes, too, closed, but I did not sleep. I listened. Not a sound from the corridor, not a sound from the kitchen; Miss Hurley had gone to bed.
I opened my eyes, braced my feet for the floor. The springs of the mattress screeched as I pulled myself up. One footstep—loud as shattering glass. Another step— loud as the sea smashing at the Burren. Still, Darcy slept on, and I knelt down to my duffel and pulled open the zipper, one zip at a time. I poked my head into my pillow-case and carefully withdrew the snorkel and field guide. And then out the creaking door I crept.
Chapter 9
THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS must have been shy that night, for I hadn’t a drop of light to guide my way. A cloud had drifted over the moon—storm or benevolent, I knew not. Usually I could tell the weather forecast by a glance to the oaks—turned-up leaves and thunder was to come—and the light of the place—greenish brought wind, bluish brought rain, grayish brought snow, and pinkish brought sunshine.
But of course there was no light, and I could not see the trees, and even the wind was strange, prickly against my skin, yet quiet as snowfall—not one tree shivered with the silent gusts. And I admit, though Nuala took me out to the edge of the willow glades to watch the stars or catch some fireflies, I was not as nimble with the woods and the fields, and oh the godforsaken fences, as I was in daylight.
My toes stubbed against stones, and my face thwacked against branches, and my hair tangled in bushes; but still, I carried on, running faster now, pat-a-pat-a-pat-a through the thistle. I veered west as well as I could tell, and a lullaby my father used to sing me hiccuped in my ears—hiccupped because Da often feigned the hiccups halfway through just to wake me up and make me laugh. But little did he know I had been feigning too—sleep, that is. And I would tackle him in tickles until his laughter grew wheezy. The lullaby would go: West for the sea, West for the swans, West for the stories that carry me away.
Soon, the wind breathed her true colors, rumbling louder and louder with each footstep I took. It boxed my ears like a mother scolding her child, and just as I was sure my skin was tearing off with the force of it, something wet caught my foot. For a foolish second, I believed I had reached the ocean at last, but no. There was no sand, and as the wind cooled its temper, I could hear that this water was not seawater at all, but creek water, water ruled by the faery Belisama. This water bubbled over stones and gulped at the dirt walls of its narrow passage.
My foot sli
d on a stone, but I caught hold of a branch to stop myself from completely falling in—I’d had enough falls for one day, thank you very much. The branch’s tree lurched as I reeled myself out and collapsed on a bed of wildflowers, softer than heather. Forget-me-nots, daisies, foxgloves. I knew their scents by heart.
I scrambled to my feet and reached blindly toward the tree. Its bark ran coarse beneath my fingers, but seemed to smooth with my touch. Or perhaps my fingers were simply numbed with the chill of the creek water. Yet still, I recognized the wrinkles, recognized them as well as I would the ones over Nuala’s brow.
“Grandpa Oliver,” I whispered, giving the willow a hug. As I leaned over a branch I supposed would be akin to Oliver’s elbow, something caught my eye. Now, I only saw it because, while the night was black, black, black, this, this was white, white, white. Pale like starlight.
“You kept your promise,” I said, grinning to Oliver, then scurried over to the swan feather tucked in his roots and glistening seemingly on its own accord. Soft as the water sprung from the Wicklow Mountains, the feather glided through my fingers.
And then another one dropped into my vision, a white flame at the bend of the creek. Of course. By this point, I felt rather stupid. How could I forget? The creek emptied into the sea. All I had to do was follow the flow of the water.
I spun in a circle with joy (whopping my forehead on a branch), blew Grandpa Oliver a kiss, and hurried on to the next feather. At last, I had a steady path. So onward I traveled, collecting feathers like breadcrumbs from a story I knew long ago.
By the time the rushing of the ocean crashed into earshot, I had figured out that I was following the flight of not one, but three swans. I had also figured out that I must have had seen these particular swans’ feathers before, for in my field guide, I had taped perfect twins. With every new feather, my field guide grew fatter until I hadn’t a spare page to stuff any more.
As the smell of salt wafted down from the treetops, I became aware of the shoe buckle bopping against my ankle. Flight. The word rang in my ears, echoing from all four corners of the ocean slipping into view.
The ground became rockier, and I descended a stone-carved staircase until my feet hit the sand. I pulled out my orange snorkel and dropped my field journal on the last step. Perhaps the tide rolled in, perhaps the shoe-buckle wing carried me there, but somehow, I found myself standing at the shoreline. Waves lapped at my toes, and I shivered—but the warmth seeping out my heart and through my veins stamped out the cold. The snorkel somehow made its way to my face, though I only vaguely recalled putting it on.
The moon peeked out from its hiding place and illuminated the tip of Inis Eala, scarlet berries from the hawthorn barely visible. I felt close. Closer than I’d ever felt before, and my heart did one of Darcy’s jigs in my chest.
I held my breath. I closed my eyes. I dove.
Swish, into the water I went. I opened my eyes, gulping air in through my snorkel. Moonlight filtered through the blue-green water and a few out-of-bed minnows skirted by. The iciness of the ocean settled into my bones. But, as I glided smoothly through the water, I decided I was glad I hadn’t worn my sweater or my big boots; better cold than drowned.
And so I flippered my feet through the water, bobbing up every now and then to make sure I was still headed for Inis Eala. The rest of the time, though, I kept my eyes shut and my ears open. I listened for wing-flapping, and I listened for swan-honking, but all I heard was my heart. Take me there, was what it said, and it drummed out those words again, again, again, as I swam across the blue-green sea, thra-thump, thra-thump, thra-thump …
Chapter 10
THE WATER WAS CALM, but the moon lost its bright. My limbs had long gone numb, but my feet kept kicking as if someone had flicked a switch in me to autopilot. When I bobbed up to check how close I was to Inis Eala, though, a shiver zipped down my spine. The air smelled of chalk dripping down sidewalks and witches’ brew (which was what Nuala called hot cabbage soup) simmering on the stovetop and rubber umbrellas taken along “just in case.” It smelled of wet sheep and dry blankets and cold hands and hot fires.
And then came a drop. Just one, teensy, innocent raindrop.
I had to get to shore. Now.
The thunder rolled in like a warhorse, at first a far-off trot soon blooming to a rollicking gallop, unstoppable and unbeatable.
I kicked and doggy-paddled as fast as my tired muscles would allow. Inis Eala seemed a thousand times farther away to my legs than to my eyes. So big, so close, yet so out of reach. I gasped for air as water filled my snorkel, filling my mouth with salt water and seaweed.
The water surrounding me turned white, and I tried to let the towering swells lift me up and over, but instead I went through them. I coughed, spluttered, threw off my snorkel, and rubbed the salt from my eyes. Inis Eala was no longer in view—nothing was, but the water engulfing me.
I wriggled up to the surface, expecting to be rushed under again, but for one glorious moment, I wasn’t. And then the song came, reverberating around my head, knocking down all the walls of fear that cornered me in, as if they were made of cardboard instead of concrete. I whispered, “Álainn, álainn, álainn …” That was how Nuala taught me to say “beautiful” in Irish, but I saved the word for special occasions, and, my oh my, it turned the sea salt in my mouth to marzipan. It was a swan song.
As I looked up, however, terror struck my bones. I did not see a swan, but a wave five times my size curling over me like a changeling would a baby cradle, fingers outstretched.
Crash.
The wave dragged me under. But this time, hard as I kicked, I couldn’t reach the surface. I reached, lunged for air, but only sunk deeper and deeper. Slowly, I squinted open my eyes, salt water stinging.
I looked down. Instantly, my stomach lurched; I could see nothing but the deep blue drop. I felt suddenly as if I were skydiving, waiting for the parachute to open.
I looked up. The surface felt even farther away than Inis Eala.
I looked around. Bubbles swirled past me, shapes shifted in the distances, just shadows, perhaps a merrow, perhaps a selkie … No. Someone was there. Someone small. Drowning. He or she or it was drowning. Then reality struck me. We were drowning. Both of us.
I kicked and flapped toward the figure, but it remained just a shadow at the end of my vision, sinking deeper down. My head ached for air. My lungs felt the way an accordion might in the hands of a fearless musician. Then, as if time stood still, the figure looked at me. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I knew it looked at me. It was a girl, I could tell now by the dark hair ballooning around her.
I waved.
The figure gave a lazy wave back, and then, gently, seemed to fall asleep, as if the water were her deathbed.
“No!” I tried to shout, but a bubble trapped my voice.
I kicked harder toward her, but my muscles were failing now. She was too far away. I was too far away. I couldn’t save her, and she couldn’t save me; one of us was going to die, if not both.
It was just as that horrible thought snaked its way into my brain that something magical happened. A whirl of bubbles plunged through the surface toward the figure. I could tell it was an animal, a large animal at that. I considered dolphin at first, but there was something about it that was simply not fishlike. The bubbles rose, and then I saw: wings.
And I knew.
This was the swan. The same swan that rescued me that very morning, the same swan leading me to Inis Eala. Whether Fiachra, Conn, or Ena, I knew not, but one thing was for sure: This swan was a child of Lir.
With a swish of its wing, it swept up the girl, pulling her higher, higher until, at last, they broke the surface. She’s saved, I thought. And I half waited for the swan to come for me too, but it didn’t. Dark spots blinked about my vision, and the pressure lifted from my chest. The water grew more comfortable, almost mattresslike. My eyes closed on their own accord. Something soft brushed my arm, and then death took me by the hand and hummed his
sweetest lullaby.
Chapter 11
THE SOUND OF SCRAPING ROCKS—that was what awoke me. Light filtered through my eyelids, and I had the oddest feeling that I was not lying in my bed under Nuala’s quilt. I was lying on wood. Grimy, splintery wood. I opened my eyes a crack. The sky stared down, rosy-cheeked but indigo-eyelashed, caught in an in-between hour of dark and light, dreaming and awake.
“Finnuala.” The word slipped out like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. At first, I didn’t know what it meant—but then, ah yes, that would be my name. But who had said it?
I tried to heave myself up, but felt as if a pile of bricks were lying on my chest. I squeezed shut my eyes with the pain, and a hand landed on my shoulder, easing me back down to the scratchy wood.
“Where am I?” The groggy, dry-lipped words stumbled out my mouth.
“Lie down. Do not speak,” said the voice again; it was quite clear that this was not a suggestion.
“Yeah, okay …,” I murmured. But then my eyes snapped open and I shot upright—or, at least I tried to, but only managed to lift myself two inches above the wood before collapsing back down. I knew that voice—strong and soft rolled into one. “Nu—”
“Hush. You’ll strain your lungs.”
A splash of a foot hitting shallow water sounded as Nuala hopped out of the rowboat and towed it to shore. Then a blurry face appeared in my vision. Nuala’s hair was down in long, tumbling silver waves—a rare spectacle indeed, as most mornings Nuala tied it in a bun before the sparrows even started singing. Her skin was pallid and her lips quivered with a chill. Big dark circles brooded beneath her eyes, the kind that looked like thunderstorm clouds, and then I remembered. The storm.
“Now, lass,” she said, extending a hand down to me, “up you go.” She tugged, and I pulled, and slowly, with a crackle of Nuala’s back, we both stood. “That’s it, now.” She led me out of the rowboat, and I wobbled onto the sand.
The Serendipity of Flightless Things Page 5
