The Hunter's Moon

by O. R. Melling

  “I can tell you this, Gwen. Pay attention to any voices you might hear out of the blue. Don’t think yourself mad. If you do cross over into Faerie, take no food or drink or you’ll come under their sway. Most of all, keep your wits about you. With the fey folk, you’ll always get more than you bargained for.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Good Lord, I’ve a sales meeting in three minutes. Eat all around you. The food’s on the house. I’ll ask my secretary to drop you off on the road to Kinvara. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but here’s my card. Don’t be afraid to ring me if you’re in trouble.”

  “Thanks so much. You’ve been really great.”

  Overwhelmed by his kindness, Gwen gave him a hug.

  Mattie blushed furiously.

  He laughed. “You’ll have the whole place talking about me. Good luck to you now.”

  He was halfway out the door when he hurried back to her.

  “I was just thinking. The fairy folk don’t have as much power as they used to. There’s not much scope for them in a modern country. I’m wondering how they could have taken your cousin. Is she Irish?”

  “Yes. Both parents. My mom is Irish too, but not my dad.”

  “That explains one thing,” he said pensively, “but not the other.”

  “What?” she asked, catching his concern.

  “I doubt they could have taken her if she didn’t want to go.”

  Gwen caught her breath. Here was a complication she hadn’t considered, perhaps because she didn’t want to. Findabhair may not have been “stolen” in the true sense of the word. And now Gwen realized something else she had kept from herself. Finding Findabhair was not the sole reason for her search. Deep inside was the secret hurt that she, too, had not been spirited away.

  Mattie was watching her closely. There was understanding in his voice as he warned her.

  “You must take care, my dear. Even as you try to save your cousin, be certain of your motives. Otherwise both of you could be lost forever.”

  Gwen mulled over his words as she tucked into a generous portion of shepherd’s pie with mushy marrowfat peas. She was just finishing her dessert of blackcurrant tart and fresh cream when Mattie’s secretary arrived. An older woman with permed hair and glasses, she was casually dressed in slacks and blouse.

  “Don’t rush yourself,” she said.

  “I’m ready, thanks. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

  “Not at’all. I like to get away from my desk.”

  In the car, Gwen asked about Mattie’s position in the company.

  “He’s the boss. The managing director. Didn’t you know?”

  Gwen was surprised.

  “He must be very nice to work for.”

  “The best there is. Not like the crowd who ran the place before him. We were closing down with all jobs lost, when Mattie got the workers together to buy shares and keep the place going. He was the sales rep before, now he’s the top man. More power to him.”

  Gwen was let off at a junction and shown the road to go. As the car drove away, the loneliness settled upon her once more. She had enjoyed having company. Still, a bubble of optimism welled up inside her. All by herself she had traveled west, made a new friend, and scrounged a good meal. Now she was well on her way to catch up with Findabhair. Everything was going to work out fine. In a country where bosses chased sheep off their lawns and talked about fairies as if they lived next door, what could go wrong?

  he Burren was a craggy tableland embedded in the green countryside like a stone. Formed by glaciers aeons ago, the great terraces of limestone lay open for miles. Over time they had been scored and rilled by rain, till the fluted patterns of karren rippled like a sea of gray-blue stone. Rising above the lunar landscape were stepped hills, slippery steeps, the rugged defile of Glencolumkille, and the cliffs of Slievecarron. With the coming of spring, the rock garden bloomed. From every crack and crevice they peeped; blue gentian, mountain aven, the red bloody cranesbill, hart’s-tongue, madder, purple helleborine, and a dazzling array of miniature orchids. By summer, the air was bright with butterflies.

  Into this bubble of speckled stone, Gwen arrived on foot. As Mattie had predicted, she had no trouble traveling through County Clare, but once inside the Burren she was on her own. The solitude was unnerving. After an hour’s hike, she had yet to meet another soul. On every side were barren fields with nothing but hazel scrub. Some had barbed wire fencing, but most were bound by stone walls interwoven like lace. She knew she was on the right track. Occasional signposts pointed to Carron, but even without them she would have been confident. If ever a place was ideal for fairies, this terrain was it. So wild and forsaken, so strange and beautiful.

  Reaching a crossroads, she came to a public house called Críode na Boirne, “the heart of the Burren.” Cool and dim inside, it was plainly furnished with wooden tables and benches. The smell of stale smoke hung in the air. Only two people were there, an old man at the counter sipping black stout and the young boy who served behind the bar.

  Gwen bought a cola and a packet of peanuts.

  “Is this Carron?” she asked the boy.

  “It is. Are you looking for the Quirkes’ house?”

  “Who? No,” she said uncertainly. “Is there a place around here where someone would hold a banquet?”

  The old man coughed into his pint, while the boy fought to keep a straight face.

  “You’re some ways from a fancy hotel,” he said. “There’s one in Kinvara. But if you need a place to stop, you could try the Field Station. Through the village and first turn on your right. Students do stay there.”

  She heard them snickering as she left.

  “A banquet hall no less,” the old man said. “They’re not the full shilling, them Yanks.”

  Despite their derision, Gwen felt hopeful. She was near enough to what she sought, with a few hours yet to find it. Twilight was the appointed time and the sky was still bright. With renewed resolve, she set off once again down the road. Perhaps someone at the Field Station would be able to help.

  But when she found the building standing alone outside Carron, it was closed and empty. She stared around in dismay. As far as the eye could see, stone walls and stony fields and low stony mountains stretched out on all sides. A strong wind blew over the landscape with a soft hollow roar, as if the rocks were hawing. Exhausted, downhearted, she almost roared back.

  And, if the situation weren’t bad enough, she was starving.

  She was about to turn back for the village, when she heard a sound overhead. Her name echoed on the air.

  “What?”

  She shielded her eyes to look up.

  Wings beat the wind as a sparrow hawk dove.

  “Hey, watch it!” she yelled, ducking down.

  She was glad no one was around. Talking to birds! Then she remembered Mattie’s advice. Pay attention to any voices you might hear out of the blue. She searched the sky for the hawk.

  It hovered over a field nearby. Then with a raucous screech it swooped. Something caught? No, something called. A fox streaked out from the underbrush. Jumping over a stone wall, it landed daintily on the road in front of Gwen. The fiery tail flicked back and forth as the eyes stared at her brazenly. Were those tiny silver rings in his elegant ears? She didn’t get the chance to look closer. With a final swish of his tail, the fox raced away.

  Gwen didn’t stop to think. She immediately ran after.

  Before long she was scrambling over walls and through stony fields. The ground was treacherous. Where the gullies deepened to grykes, she had to jump across openings big enough to swallow her. The weight of her knapsack didn’t help. It felt as if it were packed with rocks. At times she was caught in briary patches that scraped and scratched her. Though she tried to watch where she was going, the inevitable occurred. Her foot caught in a crack and she tripped. In a spectacular fall, she landed on her hands and knees with a smack. The pain was like a burn. The wind was knocked out of her.
Dazed, she lay at the edge of a crevice and peered into the dimness. She could see a profusion of ferns and flowers below, like a tiny forest. Could these fissures be entrances to an underworld? There was no time to investigate. Ahead, the fox barked. Hurry up, it seemed to say.

  Gwen hauled herself to her feet. Rubbing her palms to soothe the sting, she spotted her quarry. On she ran.

  At first she tried to keep track of the way, noting landmarks and any distinctive features, but in the end she hiked blindly just to keep up. Sometimes the fox disappeared, leaving her lost and alone. A gloom would fall over her. What on earth was she doing? Why was she chasing a wild animal? Then his head would pop up, a splash of red against the gray of rock, and she was off again. Her throat grew parched. She felt light-headed. The constant glare of sun on stone hurt her eyes. But she had long passed any notion of giving up. It was as if she were driven in her pursuit of him.

  The chase ended as abruptly as it had begun. The fox came to the jagged face of a cliff. The incline appeared unscalable, a sheer rise overlaid with scree. Nevertheless, the fox scurried upward.

  Gwen’s heart sank. She knew she couldn’t do it. Weak with hunger and fatigue, she felt the ground sway beneath her feet. The landscape was askew.

  The fox stopped only once to look back at her. The silver rings in his ears glinted in the sunlight. His gaze seemed to show disappointment. Was she hallucinating? There was a buzzing sound in her head. Then, with a hail of loose stones in his wake, he disappeared over the top of the ridge.

  Gwen was too sick and dizzy to care. Staggering along a stone wall that eventually led to the road, she came upon an open gate. Exhausted, she leaned against it for support. The iron railings felt cool. She closed her eyes.

  When the shouts rang out, she didn’t react right away.

  The cries came from the next field up. A farmer was waving to her from a stone enclosure. Cows were ambling out of the pen and making their way toward her.

  “Stand fast to herd them!” the farmer called again.

  With horror, Gwen realized that the cattle were heading for the gate. A true city girl, she had no experience with farm animals and found the size of cows terrifying. Frozen to the spot, not knowing what to do, she was certain they were going to stampede and kill her.

  The first to arrive was a black-and-white bullock. It barely acknowledged Gwen as it loped out the gate and down the road. The next did the same, and on followed the rest, till Gwen saw that she was sending them in the right direction simply by standing there.

  Accompanied by a sheepdog, the farmer came last. She was a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a faded shirt and muddied denims with wellington boots. An old cap rested on her mass of red hair. In her hand she carried a hazel switch, occasionally thwacking the rear ends of any cattle that strayed.

  “Thanks for the hand,” she said brightly to Gwen. “This lazy thing should have been doing the job, but he’s too tired to run ahead sometimes. Ready for your pension, aren’t you, Bran?”

  She scratched the ears of the dog, who whined apologetically. Then she put out her hand to shake Gwen’s.

  “Kathleen Quirke. Call me Katie or call me quirky. Are you on your way to my house?”

  Gwen introduced herself. “I don’t know. They asked me that in the pub too. Do you run a hostel?”

  Katie laughed. She was a handsome strong-featured girl with hazel eyes full of humor and intelligence. Taller than Gwen, lean and tanned from outdoor work, she exuded health and high spirits.

  “You could call it that. We take in ‘woofers’—Willing Workers on Organic Farms. They’re always arriving on the doorstep, Americans, Germans, Italians, English. They work on the farm and we feed and house them.”

  “Only foreigners? No Irish?”

  Katie snorted. “You wouldn’t catch the Irish working for nothing. They’ve more sense. Have you got a light? I’m down to my last match and saving it.”

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I. Much.”

  Katie took a half-used butt from her shirt pocket and cupped her hands to protect the flame of her match. Some of the cows had wandered up the road, but most stood nibbling the grass on the verge, waiting patiently for their mistress. She looked set for a long and leisurely conversation, but Gwen put an end to that by tilting forward in a near faint.

  Katie caught her.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded, all concern.

  “I … I’m okay,” Gwen said, steadying herself. But her face was pale. “It’s just that I haven’t eaten for a while and I’ve been walking for miles.”

  “You poor thing!”

  Ignoring Gwen’s protests, Katie slung the girl’s knapsack over her own shoulders as easily as if it weighed nothing at all.

  “The house isn’t far. We’ll soon fix you up. Lean on me and we’ll go all the faster.”

  “Sorry to be such a nuisance,” Gwen said miserably.

  “Don’t be silly. I’d be a poor Christian if it were a bother to help someone.”

  Together they made their way up the road, Katie herding the cattle ahead as they went.

  “We’re nearly there now. I’ll just hunt these lads into the Maher Buídhe and we’ll be home in a tick.”

  The Quirke homestead was a big thatched farmhouse on the side of a mountain. A straggle of white goats wandered in the front yard where a rusty tractor stood idle. A walled garden at the side sheltered apple trees and rows of vegetables. Behind the house were a cattle yard, sheds, and an open hay barn.

  “The car’s gone,” Katie commented, looking around. “Mam and the girls must be counting sheep.”

  The front door opened into a broad shady living room dominated by a fireplace with dark-red flag-stones. Woven panniers stood on each side of the hearth, filled with sods of peat. In the center of the room was a great round table with a crocheted lace cloth and a vase of sunflowers. The television was perched on top of an old piano. Rugs were scattered over the floor, in front of the stuffed sofa and armchairs. On the walls were photographs of the family, going back generations.

  Gwen felt embraced by a sense of “home.”

  “Sit you down while I get us a bite,” Katie ordered, heading for the kitchen.

  She returned with a feast of cold ham and beef, homemade goat’s cheese, creamed potato salad, and a plate of brown bread. The two ate hungrily without a word, washing down the meal with mugs of tea.

  Gwen sat back with a sigh, completely revived.

  “That’s better.” Katie grinned with satisfaction. “You were white as a ghost. I thought you were going to faint on me. I’d’ve had to put you up on the black Limousin. He’s pure wild. Might have run off with you into the mountains.”

  She let out a laugh, but Gwen looked puzzled.

  “Limousine? I didn’t see a car.”

  Katie spluttered, laughing louder.

  “A Limousin is a breed of cattle. You’re a right eejit.”

  Gwen laughed too. She didn’t mind Katie making fun of her. The older girl was already something of a heroine to her.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she began.

  Katie waved away her words.

  “Listen, you’re to stop here tonight and get a good rest. You can help me with a few things tomorrow before going on your way, or you can stay as long as you like. We’ll make a woofer out of you. What do you say to that?”

  Gwen thought it sounded wonderful—to become friends with Katie and meet her family, to work outdoors on the farm, maybe in the garden, or even with the animals. Just to stay in one place for a while, instead of roaming around the country all by herself!

  “I’d love to, believe me,” she said ruefully, “but I can’t. It’s hard to explain. I was traveling with my cousin and she … we … got split up. I’m supposed to meet her somewhere around here, but the … um … arrangements are sort of vague …”

  Katie listened sympathetically.

  “You had a row? That’s bou
nd to happen when two people travel together. Don’t worry, you’ll be friends when you meet up again. A little time away makes all the difference.”

  Gwen nodded guiltily, without explaining further. She wasn’t about to mention fairies to someone near her own age. Mattie was different, being much older. At the same time, she didn’t like deceiving her new friend and she did her best not to lie.

  “Here’s the problem. How will I find my cousin? There’s supposed to be some kind of banquet tonight, near Carron. Not a modern place, I think. Something old or ancient? That’s what we’ve been touring around to see.”

  “There’s Leamanagh,” Katie suggested. “Máire Ruadh’s great house. She was the wife of an O’Brien chieftain who was killed in the Cromwellian wars. She married an English officer so her sons could keep their land. The castle isn’t far from here, but it’s a ruin. It couldn’t host a feast like the sort they have at Bunratty. Something ancient,” she muttered to herself. Then her face lit up. “What about the Fulacht Fia! Could that be it? The Ancient Eating Place on the Boston Road. It’s just outside the village. You must have passed it.”

  “Ancient Eating Place?” Gwen thought a moment. “That could be it. It’s certainly worth checking. I’m sorry to be rude, but I’ll clean up and then go. I’m supposed to be there by twilight!”

  Katie caught her urgency and glanced out the window. The sun was setting over the Burren, inflaming the stone mountains.

  “Never mind the dishes, we’ll wash up later. We can go on my motorbike. Come on!”

  he motorbike bucked and leaped like a colt as Katie sped down the road heedless of the potholes. Behind her, Gwen clung on for dear life as they dipped into curves and skimmed past walls. The sun was low in the sky. Was she too late? When exactly was twilight? As they turned into a narrow lane not far from Carron, Gwen recognized the spot where the sparrow hawk had called her. Did the bird and the fox lead her astray? She made a mental note not to be so trusting. She would have to stop being an “eejit” as Katie would say.

  They drew up at a lonely signpost pointing into an empty field.

  FULACHT FIA. ANCIENT EATING PLACE.