The Hunter's Moon

by O. R. Melling

  After everything they had done for her, Gwen felt compelled to tell her story from beginning to end. Despite her embarrassment at parts, she left nothing out: the bus accident and the leprechaun; the abduction of Findabhair from Tara; her own lonely travels around Ireland; the tests and trials she had endured; the many traps and close escapes; the moment of her great failure when she ate fairy food …

  Even as she told her tale, Gwen’s discomfiture grew. She had been so careless and stupid, broken so many rules, made so many mistakes. In the end she had brought her problems into their house and endangered their lives. What could they think of her?

  Granny nodded thoughtfully.

  “Just as I suspected. There was a fairy dart in the apple the little boy gave you. Finvarra was taking no chances you’d be strong enough to fight him. You were holding your own quite nicely till then.”

  Her tone of approval was unmistakable. The same admiration shone in Dara’s eyes, with an added hint of envy.

  “What adventures you’ve been having! And well met, despite the hardship. You’re a great girl altogether.”

  As she blushed at his praise, a stray thought crossed her mind. She was glad Findabhair wasn’t there.

  “Has your cousin chosen to stay in Faerie?”

  Something behind Granny’s question put Gwen on guard.

  “She loves it there, but that isn’t the point. She can’t stay. She’s human, not fairy. I intend to drag her out whether she likes it or not.”

  Dara and Granny exchanged glances.

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Dara said. “There are rules and customs that govern what goes on between us and the Good Folk. You can’t come and go as you please with them. “

  “You mean she’s a prisoner? They won’t let her out?!”

  Granny sighed. “As Dara says, it’s not that simple. There are protocols concerning visits to Faerie, regardless of whether you go by choice or not. The most common period is seven years. For those who are stolen, the minimum is a year and a day, the traditional length of time for lifting a curse or a spell. Many of our kind have entered Faerie of their own free will, but even more have been abducted—young men to take part in their sports, new mothers to wet-nurse their babies, beautiful girls to be the King’s bride …”

  The old woman’s sight clouded a moment, then she continued.

  “The fairies bless whomever goes among them with special gifts. Many a famous Irish musician has ‘gone abroad’ to return with the plaintive airs of Faerie. Other visitors are given wonder tales to delight this world, or the lore of healing with herbs and plants. If a visit goes badly, if a human tries to trick the fairies or steal their riches, he or she can suffer ill health and bad luck, even sickness unto death.”

  The more she heard, the more anxious Gwen grew.

  “Are you saying Findabhair will be there for at least a year and a day?”

  “It’s not such a terrible thing,” Granny said quietly. “I myself lived in Faerie for a spell of time. That is how I acquired my knowledge and arts and my title of ‘Wise Woman.’”

  Gwen mulled over her words, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more, something the old lady was keeping from her.

  “My cousin is changing,” she said slowly. “Each time I see her, she seems more like them. Less human.”

  Now she remembered what nagged at the back of her mind, an image that embodied her greatest concern. The black coach with Findabhair silent inside, cloaked in veils, pale as moonlight.

  As she described the vision to Granny and Dara, she studied their faces. What she saw there confirmed her suspicion. They couldn’t hide the truth. She had read too many tales.

  “It was the Death Coach, wasn’t it?”

  Gwen’s tone was level, more a statement than a question.

  Dara looked sad and couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Some choose to stay in Faerie forever,” the Wise Woman said softly. She paused before she finished. “To live in one world, one must die in the other.”

  Gwen’s face went white. She felt the shock threatening to undermine her resolve, but she pushed it aside.

  “I’m not going to let her die! I’m sticking to my original plan. I’m going in for her.”

  “And we’ll go with you!” Dara pledged. He grinned at Granny. “Won’t we?”

  When the old woman didn’t respond immediately, Gwen spoke up.

  “There’s no need to. Honestly, I can do this myself. You’ve done so much—”

  Granny raised her hand before Gwen could say more.

  “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I do not take these decisions lightly. But I would not let you go without my aid.” She frowned at Dara. “We will have to outwit the masters of trickery.”

  He nodded. “You haven’t said anything about the Hunter’s—?”

  “No need to speak of it,” Granny broke in, “unless it’s necessary. We have our hands full as it is. We won’t add to our worries if it isn’t the time. I will cast a fairy calendar today. Why don’t the two of you take a picnic and go for a dander around the island? I need to be alone. Show Gwen the shelly beach, Dara, and the old fort and the Cairn. Keep clear of the fairy fort at Dunfinn. If Finvarra is on Inch, that’s where he’ll be.

  “Enjoy yourselves, now, before we face what we must. Something tells me our troubles have only begun.”

  he narrow road hugged the coastline of Inch, rising and falling with the hilly landscape. Fields of heather and wild broom rolled down to rocky shores and inlets curved with sandy beaches. The island lay in the crook of Lough Swilly, a slender arm of the northern sea. Shadowing the horizon were the mainland mountains of Inishowen, gray-blue with cloud and mist.

  “That’s Gollan Hill,” Dara told her, “and the dark one behind is the Scalp. The islanders have a saying. ‘When the Scalp puts on her nightcap, Inch may look out.’”

  “Meaning?” asked Gwen.

  “Storm clouds on the summit and we’re in for bad weather.”

  They strolled together along the sunny road, carrying a picnic basket and a rolled-up blanket. Dara pointed out the various sights as they went.

  “That green track leads to Dunfinn, the island’s fairy fort. Do you see how it trails to the left of the whin and the hawthorn? The ‘sinister’ or left-handed way is the path to Faerie. This height ahead of us with the stand of trees is the Fargan Knowe. The windiest spot on the island. There’s a name on every part of Inch, it’s so well known and loved.”

  His manner was easygoing, without shyness or reserve. At one point he picked a wild daisy to tuck behind her ear. He was so charming and handsome, she tripped over her words. But if he noticed the effect he had on her, he didn’t show it. He obviously enjoyed entertaining her and looked pleased whenever he made her laugh.

  They reached a level place with a commanding view. Gwen admired the cream-colored mansion that graced the site.

  “Does that belong to the local gentry?”

  Dara sputtered with laughter.

  “Actually, it’s the milkman’s house.”

  “Score one for modern Ireland,” she said, laughing too.

  “You have a brilliant laugh.”

  Now the road plunged downward, hurrying them along to a small pier where fishing boats were moored. The trawlers gently nosed the dock, like dolphins. A tangle of nets lay drying in the sun.

  They rambled over to the strand nearby and removed their shoes and socks. The shore was strewn with shells, driftwood, and knotted seaweed. Bird prints inscribed the sand like tiny hieroglyphics. The water lapped gently over their bare feet.

  “Why didn’t I bring my bathing suit?” Gwen groaned.

  “Afraid to get wet?”

  He was too quick, she had no time to defend herself. Before she could stop him, he had hauled her into the sea and dunked her. She gasped at the bite of the ice-cold water. Some of it went up her nose and into her mouth. She righted herself, coughing and choking.

  “Are y
ou all right?” he asked, suddenly contrite.

  All shyness fled; her honor was at stake. This was no time to be a shrinking violet. As he leaned over her anxiously, she grabbed him in a headlock and pushed him under the waves. She was still screeching with laughter by the time he recovered.

  They wrestled and splashed till they were soaked to the skin. Dripping like seaweed, they waded out of the water and flung themselves down on the sand.

  Gwen lay with her eyes closed, basking in the sun. Her clothes clung stickily as they dried in the heat. She grinned to herself. She had never felt so good. When Dara moved away, she sat up.

  He was walking along the shore, as if looking for something. Then he picked up a stone and began to draw in the sand.

  She was about to join him when something caught her eye. A dark shape on the horizon, rising up from the lough. She squinted against the glare in an effort to see, but whatever it was vanished. A bird, or maybe a seal? She felt a prickle of unease. She would have told Dara, but as soon as she caught up with him it went out of her head.

  He had written their names in the sand.

  “Will I put a heart around them?”

  His tone was friendly, his eyes bright with mischief. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or teasing. She shrugged, and gave him a long look. His clothes were drenched, but he didn’t seem to mind. A crown of sea wrack lay askew on his head. The slippery strands glistened darkly, like his dark-brown hair and sea-green eyes.

  “Are you really a king?”

  He returned her gaze without blinking.

  “I am king of this island.”

  He began to trace a heart around their names, talking as he worked.

  “There are many such kings in Ireland, on Tory, Aran, and other islands. It means nothing officially, though in some places we have special rights or duties—distributing the post from the mail boat, or opening regattas and patterns.”

  “Only kings? No queens?”

  “Not that I know of. But the kings come through the female line. My uncle, my mother’s brother, was king before me. He died in a motor accident. My sister’s son will be king after me. As I said, it doesn’t mean anything nowadays, but the older generation acknowledge me in their own way. They give me gifts at Christmas and Easter, and sometimes I’m asked to mediate in quarrels between neighbors.”

  He finished the heart and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning at her.

  “It means much more to the fairy folk. The hereditary kings are the only human rulers they recognize. They have no time for the Taoiseach at all.” He started to laugh and at Gwen’s puzzled look, explained. “The Taoiseach is our elected Prime Minister. The Good People only follow the old bloodlines.”

  Gwen was no longer surprised that someone could speak of fairies and prime ministers in one breath. Nor did she find it hard to consider Dara a king. Despite his casual manner, there was something special about him. He had a quality that inspired respect and loyalty. But what was she to make of this heart in the sand?

  “I know a good place for a picnic,” he said.

  Collecting their basket and blanket, they headed back to the pier. Dara helped her over the low stone wall nearby.

  “Isn’t this private property?” she asked.

  “Yes and no. It’s the old fort. Military, not fairy. First built in Napoleon’s time and then restored in World War One. A New Age community lives in it now. Meitheal they call themselves, the Irish word for ‘working together.’ They don’t mind visitors.”

  On the other side of the wall was a grassy demesne with renovated brick buildings, groves of rowan and oak, a walled garden with an apple orchard, and winding paths fashioned of seashells and stones. The buildings were painted with Celtic designs, spirals like eyes and snakes swallowing their tails. Little children played naked in front of the houses. Clothes flapped on the washing lines. A polytunnel of translucent plastic sheltered fruits and vegetables.

  “They come from all over the world,” Dara explained. “Australia, Italy, Germany, North America, and Ireland too. The islanders think of them as hippies, but they aren’t really. They believe in all kinds of things, including fairies, but they use computers and other modern technology.”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “I had no idea so many people believed in fairies. But really, Dara, are you telling me most people do?”

  Dara laughed.

  “Irish people you mean? They do and they don’t. Let’s face it, what has Faerie to do with jobs and politics, new roads or farming? The two worlds have never been so far apart. But you wouldn’t find many country people willing to cut down trees on a fairy fort. Not for love nor money.”

  They had reached the outer perimeter of the fort where grass-grown turrets and tunnels brooded over Lough Swilly. The cliffs sheered to cold waters below. Waves crashed against the mossy rocks. The shrill screech of seagulls pierced the air. Across the water, a sweep of mountains sheltered the town of Rathmullan. The wind carried the salty tang of the Atlantic beyond.

  Choosing a spot on the grassy height, they spread out the blanket and unpacked their picnic. They had cheese-and-tomato sandwiches on homemade bread, slices of cold ham and turkey, a jar of vinaigrette artichokes, two crunchy red apples, and a punnet of strawberries. For drinks they had a flask of hot chocolate and two bottles of lemonade. As they enjoyed the feast, talking and laughing, neither noticed the shadow that moved on the surface of the lough.

  Gwen munched thoughtfully on an apple.

  “It’s weird for me to think of others believing in fairies, except for my cousin of course. I mean, Faerie was always my own little fantasy. I dreamed of it because I wasn’t that happy with reality. Too ordinary, too boring, too … lonely.”

  Dara was stretched out on the blanket, resting his head on his hand.

  “I like the way you think. Most girls are only interested in clothes and makeup.”

  Gwen was quick to retort.

  “That’s not true. Girls just don’t tell boys what they think about, because most boys don’t want to know. They back away if you’re too smart. So we pretend we’re not.”

  Dara sat up.

  “Have you done that?”

  She paused a moment before answering.

  “No. But I think that’s one of the reasons I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

  She pulled at the grass.

  Dara looked surprised.

  “I can’t believe no one has fancied you!”

  Gwen colored at the compliment, and remembered Midir. How quickly her life had changed that summer!

  “Well, one person has,” she admitted.

  “I knew it.” Dara grinned. “You’re very pretty.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully and reached out to touch her hair where it shone in the sunlight.

  “Tá do ghruaig chomh fionn le ór agus do shúile gorm chomh le loch.”

  “What?”

  “Your hair is fair like gold,” he said softly, “and your eyes are as blue as the lough.”

  She drew back, uncomfortable.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Don’t you think …” She bit her lip. “I’m overweight?”

  He looked surprised again.

  “You’re not skin and bones, if that’s what you mean. You’re lovely. I couldn’t help but notice when your clothes were wet.”

  Gwen blushed furiously but was delighted all the same.

  He leaned toward her.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said. “Intelligent, courageous …”

  She smiled with sudden mischief.

  “Maybe I like you because you’re good-looking.”

  She amazed herself. Was she becoming a flirt? But here was truly the reason she liked him. He was so easy to talk to, she could tease him as well.

  He let out a loud laugh. “I hope you also respect my mind.”

  They laughed together, then it happened naturally. Both drew near to kiss.

  “Better ma
ke that two,” said Dara.

  “Two kisses?”

  “Two people who fancy you. And, yes, the other as well.”

  s they left the fort and wandered back to the road, Dara took Gwen’s hand. Thrilled, she grinned to herself as she imagined how she looked walking casually with a “boyfriend.”

  “I could run up a mountain without stopping for breath,” she said.

  He squeezed her hand to show he knew what she meant and that he felt the same way.

  “We could climb the Cairn. There’s a path nearby.”

  Inch Top, known locally as “the Cairn,” was the highest point on the island. Sheep grazed in the lower pastures, but the way grew stonier and steeper the higher they went. Below them spread fields dotted with white cottages. Beyond, in the distance, seabirds circled rocky coves. Where the sun struck the cold waters of Lough Swilly, a mist of light and shadow whispered over the surface.

  “Some people call it the Lake of Shadows,” Dara told her, “but it’s really the Lake of Eyes. Swilly is the English pronunciation for Súiligh. Súil is Irish for ‘eye.’ There’s a legend about a sea serpent who dwells at the bottom of the lough, called Súileach—‘full of eyes.’”

  “Like the Loch Ness monster!” said Gwen. With a shiver of foreboding, she scanned the lake. It was smooth and glassy; there was nothing there. Her attention turned back to Dara. “You know so much about this place. You really love it, don’t you?”

  “It can be pretty lonesome in the winter. Wild winds and storms. Sometimes the Embankment’s washed out and we’re an island again. But rain or shine, I spend as much time as I can here.”

  “What? I thought you lived here!”

  “Not at’all. My parents moved to Galway before I was born. I stay with Granny when I’m here and do odd jobs for her, and we all come up for Christmas. She’s not really my grandmother, by the way, she’s my great-aunt. Everyone calls her Granny instead of Grania.”

  “But I thought, I mean, you being king and all. You seem to belong here. Like the mountain itself.”

  She blushed, aware that she was painting a romantic picture of him.