by Tom Deitz
“Any notion where these ‘guppies’ are supposed to be?” Alec asked.
“Well, we could always call somebody, but let’s just look around first. Last time anybody like that was anywhere near here was when the Goat Man came through a couple of years ago. He hung out over at the old ballfield till they ran him off. Seems like I recall a circus setting up there when I was little, too.”
“I don’t.”
“It was before you came.”
“Breathed hard, anyway.”
“Fool.”
“Of a Scotsman,” Alec finished as they returned to the car.
David backed down the drive, careful to avoid the ivy that flanked it on either side. “Ugh—this thing handles like a tank. Remind me to tell Mom to get a T-Bird next time.”
“I think the tank might be in better keeping with your driving style.”
“I resent that, Alec McLean.”
“Shouldn’t. It’s just the truth—What the—” he cried a second later as David slammed on the brakes. “Don’t take it so personal, Davy!”
“Not my doing.” David grinned, as someone rapped hard against the window glass on Alec’s side.
Alec powered it down as Gary and Darrell stuck sweaty heads through the opening. Neither boy had on a shirt, and perspiration sheened their chests and shoulders.
“Well, look who’s back.” Gary grinned, elbowing his slighter companion in the ribs.
Darrell elbowed him back more forcefully. “Yeah—Fool of a Scotsman and Mad Davy Sullivan—madder than ever, I’d imagine.”
David jerked the car into park and stretched an arm in front of Alec’s nose to grasp the hands that were suddenly cramming their way into the window. “Well! If it ain’t G-Man Gary and Runnerman Buchanan. How you guys been keepin’?”
“Keeping busy’s what,” Gary said.
“Look real busy,” Alec observed wryly. “Looks to me like all you’re doing’s running. Whether into trouble or away from it remains to be seen.”
Darrell slicked a stray lock of yellow hair out of his face. “Yeah, well, gaming without you guys isn’t much fun. Just leaves eating, drinking, and sex as worthwhile activities.”
“Not in that order,” Gary inserted.
“I notice you didn’t include running,” David laughed.
“Running is not an activity,” Darrell shot back haughtily. “Nor is it an option.”
“Maybe not, but one of these days you’re gonna run so long and hard there won’t be anything left when you get where you’re going but a pair of dirty Nikes going flip-flop along the sidewalk.”
Gary looked a trifle apologetic and patted the mere trace of bulge visible above the waist of his shorts. “Don’t look at me, guys, I’m just trying to lose a pound or two.”
“Christ, he’ll have us doing it next,” Alec muttered.
“I like to run,” David reminded him.
“So get your togs and join us. We’ll wait.”
David shook his head. “Can’t. We’re going to see the Gypsies for a second and then I gotta get back home. I wrecked my car just the other side of Franks Gap, and I’ve sorta got to stay in my folks’ good graces for a day or two.”
“God, not your car!” Darrell exclaimed. “Shit, Sullivan, how bad?”
“Good enough for Gary’s old man to get a fair price out of me for fixing it, probably.”
“Well, the labor’s on me if you’ll let me do it,” Gary said.
“Gee, thanks—but what’s a Bimmer dealer charge for Ford parts?”
Gary grinned evilly. “Whatever the market’ll bear. Let’s see, considering that the Mustang’s virtually an antique—”
“A classic,” David corrected.
“Right. So I figure . . . Oh, maybe a thou, or so.”
“Crap!” David groaned.
“I say something wrong?”
“What you haven’t said,” said Alec, “is where the Gypsies are.”
“Huh? Oh, right. Up at the old ball ground.”
“You guys want to join us?” David asked. “Might give you a reason for running, if what my Ma says is true.”
“Sorry, can’t,” Darrell apologized. “Mom’s cooking spaghetti for supper, and then I’ve got a date.”
“May have a date.”
“Well, I’m gonna call again. If it blows, I guess I’ll raid my old man’s beer supply and drown my sorrows over Risk at Casa McLean—if it’s okay with you, Alec?”
“Sure,” Alec replied. “Long as my folks are gone. What about you, Davy?”
David grimaced and shook his head. “I sure would like to. I could use a good game—nor would a beer or two be bad, the way I’m feeling right now. But I’ve got to play it close, at least for a couple of days. Hope you guys understand.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if your name doesn’t come up in conversation,” Darrell said slyly.
“Nor Liz Hughes’s either!”
“I was about to say that,” Darrell added.
“And I have got to be traveling,” David said, as he put the car in reverse. “You guys keep on truckin’.”
It didn’t take them long to find the Gypsies. They were indeed encamped on the north side of town at the ball field that had been abandoned when MacTyrie built a new recreation center near the half-completed bypass to the south. It was a flat area of maybe ten acres, fringed on all but its eastern approaches by a double row of pines. A small creek flowed beyond the trees at the northern side, tributary to the lake that lapped the northeast corner of the town. A low hill studded with small, neat dwellings overlooked its western margin—mostly the residences of faculty at MacTyrie Junior College.
They passed the rusty gateway and stopped in the sandy parking lot. There were a couple of other cars around; some David recognized, some he didn’t: several pickups with Enotah County plates, a Mazda RX-7 from Florida, a battered brown Peugeot 504 (that would be Mr. Johnson, the visiting art prof, David decided—taking pictures for one of his books, probably), an anonymous GM sedan from neighboring Towns County . . .
And a shiny black Ford EXP that had just pulled in behind them.
And kept coming.
Getting closer and closer, until the tiny car’s rubber-capped bumper nudged the LTD’s heavy chrome one.
David flung open the car door and stomped out. “Who the hell is that son of a bitch?”
“David, wait,” Alec called. “It’s—”
“Liz!” David cried as the door opened and a familiar red-haired figure climbed out.
“Mind if I park behind you?” she asked brightly, green eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Liz!” David cried again. “What’re you doing here? Where’d you get that?”
“That is a birthday present from my father,” Liz said, as she came over to stand beside David—fairly close, he noted with some satisfaction. “He got tired of having to run me up here every time I wanted to see . . . certain people. It’s called Morgan, after the Morrigu, kind of, but not exactly.”
David chuckled. “One question down.”
Liz raised an appraising eyebrow. “Oh—why am I here? Looking for you, of course.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Easy. Soon as I heard there were Gypsies in MacTyrie I figured you’d show up sooner or later. I knew the day you were coming back, had a good idea of your departure time. Knew you’d have to give Alec a ride home. So I’ve just been sort of hanging around MacTyrie all afternoon, keeping one eye on Casa McLean and one on these folks. What took you so long?”
David developed a sudden interest in his feet. “I kinda had a wreck.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “A wreck, huh? Well, I was thinking about letting you drive Mr. Morgan, but I’m not so sure about that now.”
“No backseat,” noted Alec, who had been examining the car. “But a space big enough to stretch out in under the hatch. Be even better than a backseat for some purposes I can think of.”
“Alec!” David growled.
Liz looked at him askance. “What’ve they been teaching you guys down in Valdosta, anyway? I thought Governor’s Honors was to make you smart, not horny. There’s enough of that kind in Gainesville. And as for California, well . . .” She rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation.
“The two are not mutually contradictory,” David pointed out.
Liz sighed. “Just when I was beginning to think you two really weren’t like most of the boys I met down there, I come home to this. You’re no better than they are—no different, anyway.”
“I should hope not.” David grinned. “We’ve all got the same hardware.”
It was Liz’s turn to blush.
“So,” Alec continued brightly, “here we all are again, just about to go see the Gypsies, and almost exactly a year later—well, actually it was a fortuneteller then, but small difference. Life runs in circles.”
“Sure that’s not Straight Tracks?” Liz giggled.
“Right. So let’s away.”
Alec grabbed David by the collar and hauled him back. “Uh, Davy, what exactly do we do, anyway?”
“Easy enough,” Liz interjected. “Karen was over earlier, and she told me a couple of things. They’re not really Gypsies, they’re tinkers and traders—Irish Horse Traders, to be exact, not that there’s really much difference in practice. They travel around the country trading horses, laying linoleum, and painting houses, if you can believe that. Do some music on the side. Sell crafts, stuff like that. Evidently they don’t mind folks coming by in the daytime, but not after dark. Karen said they have guards posted at night. Said Mike Wheeler and a bunch of his crew came by a couple of days ago and these folks made short work of ’em.”
David looked impressed. “How long’ve they been here, anyway?”
Liz’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure—week today, I think. Weren’t here one evening, were the next morning. Town policeman came by to see what was up, called the mayor. Money supposedly changed hands and suddenly everything’s hunky-dory. Paid in gold, so I hear.”
“Well,” Alec said decisively, “shall we go see what’s happening?”
David nodded and flopped his arms across both sets of shoulders, suddenly acutely aware of the contrast between Alec’s firm muscles and the delicate bones he felt beneath Liz’s scarlet T-shirt.
“We’re off to see the wizard,” Alec began.
“Not funny.”
“No.”
There was no clearly defined entrance to the Traders’ encampment. A chain-link fence that remained from the glory days of the MacTyrie softball team more or less encircled the area, weaving in and out among the pines, but it had been torn down, or had fallen down, at many points. Those parts that remained upright were shrouded in kudzu, particularly on the nearer side. The old concession stand/ticket office looked like the most promising way in. They pushed past the recalcitrant turnstile and entered the enclosure.
It was like stepping into another world: The sky above was the rich, clear blue of late afternoon, the air felt strangely damp and . . . green, somehow. Foliage framed the clearing on every side, almost masking any view of the rest of the town. The wagons were ahead, maybe twenty of them, drawn up in a three-quarter circle with what looked like a camp fire/cook fire in the center. Each of them was a delight to behold, painted as they were in bright primary colors with elaborate scrollwork ornaments that were either gilded or lacquered in contrasting shades. Mirrors flashed from their sides, and long, multicolored fringes decorated the canvas roofs. A closer inspection showed that every surface bore some carved or painted embellishment, and the designs themselves were disquietingly familiar.
“Celtic knotwork,” David whispered aloud after a moment’s concentration. “Of course. Just like on those T-shirts you sent us. Why fool with baroque froufrou when you’ve got the Book of Kells to steal designs from?”
Liz looked at him skeptically. “Oh, so we’re an art critic now?”
David flicked her a sideways glance. “Hardly. But it’s kind of in my best interest to know as much about Celtic stuff as I can, don’t you think? And that includes their art. I mean, if I hadn’t read Gods and Fighting Men, I’d have been in deep shit last year.”
He continued his survey of the camp, noting a larger semicircle of square green tents lurking beyond the cluster of wagons. Very few people were visible, and those he could see seemed to take no notice of them. The few he could make out looked normal enough, though both sexes tended toward stockiness and red hair. The only thing at all remarkable was that every one of the women wore a skirt or dress. There wasn’t a woman in pants in sight.
“I wonder where the horses are,” Liz said. “I want to come by sometime and photograph them—if they’ll let me. I haven’t had a good horse to shoot in ages. One problem with living in town.”
Alec gestured toward a large open area enclosed by a high fence of bolted-together planks that butted against a part of the wire fence about fifty yards away to their right. “Over there, maybe?”
David squinted in the indicated direction. “See anybody you know?”
Liz shook her head. “Negative. Not native types.”
Alec wagged a discreet thumb at a particular rotund figure who stood by the enclosure gate. “Not Traders, either, I bet. I don’t know much, but I’ll wager no self-respecting vagabond of the road would be caught dead in flowered Bermuda shorts.”
David chuckled loudly as they drew nearer.
“No, but I bet that’s one,” he replied, as he indicated a tall, fair-haired man who was leaning against the fence with one black-booted foot resting atop the lowest plank. The man was remarkably tall, in fact, and very slender; though when viewed from the rear he seemed to evoke the same sense of latent power as a rangy cat. His long golden hair was tied in a ponytail, and blinding white Levis rode low on his narrow hips. He wore a matching white denim vest over a long-sleeved plaid shirt. The right sleeve was pinned up at the shoulder.
As the group drew nearer the man turned and stared at them.
David almost froze in his steps, suddenly aware of a tingling in his eyes. His mouth gaped open. He had seen that face before, though there were subtle differences.
“Nuada!” His lips shaped the words, but his throat gave them no voice.
The tall man raised an expressive dark eyebrow and inclined his head imperceptibly, then shifted his gaze to the right as if indicating the presence of the obvious tourist. “Just a moment,” he said to the gaudily dressed man beside him. “I must point these young folk in the proper direction.”
“Sho ’nuff,” the chubby man replied in an affable (and patently phony) Southern accent.
Nuada casually placed his single hand on David’s shoulder and drew him away from the paddock with Alec and Liz in tow. He bent his head close and David heard him speak. But even as he did so, other words shaped themselves in David’s brain, and it was those unheard sounds which came to him most clearly: I see questions, David Sullivan, but this is not a good time for their answering. Come tonight, after sunset. Bring your friends and join us.
And with that, Nuada dropped the hand and turned his back on them. An instant later he had rejoined the tourist.
David glanced nervously at his companions. “You guys catch that?” he asked, as they headed away from the camp without further investigation.
Alec nodded. “Imagine finding Nuada here with a bunch of Irish tinkers.”
“I certainly never expected to see him in white Levis, that’s for sure,” Liz put in.
“Wonder what’s up—something serious, I bet.”
“Hope it doesn’t involve us. I’ve had enough adventures.”
“Shouldn’t,” David said, though he did not quite feel convinced. “If they’d wanted us, they knew where to find us.”
Alec frowned uncertainly. “Yeah, well, that is a point.”
David glanced at his watch and grimaced sourly. “Crap! I’ve got to get home!”
Alec confirmed Dav
id’s statement with a glance at his own timepiece. “Right you are. Papa Sullivan won’t be satisfied with one cheek now, he’ll want to wallop both of ’em.”
“Alec!”
“Hope that new car of yours has got soft seats, Liz,” Alec went on mercilessly. “Next time you see him, David may need ’em. You see him standing up a lot, you’ll know what happened.”
Liz pursed her lips and looked askance at David. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”
David sighed. “Well, I certainly think so. But Pa says that until I’m eighteen I’m still technically a child.”
“ ‘And,’ ” quoted Alec, “ ‘a good whuppin’ never done nobody no harm.’ ”
“Got any liniment?” David asked, cocking a mischievous eyebrow at Liz. “I may need somebody to help rub the pain away.”
Liz’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m gonna beat Papa Sullivan to the punch if you don’t hush up!”
“Sure.” David grinned as he unlocked the LTD.
Liz got out her own keys. “Eight o’clock okay for me to pick you up?”
David looked up. “I’ve got Mom’s car, I can use it.”
“I’d feel safer in this one,” Liz replied. “It’s got two things yours doesn’t.”
“Oh?”
Her face broke into a glorious smile. “Me as a driver—and no backseat.” She giggled, and slammed the door.
“No backseat.” Alec grinned as he aimed a blow at David’s shoulder. “But a hell of a lot of room behind the front ones!”
Chapter X: Froech’s Discovery
(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer)
A slanted shaft of morning sunlight pierced a dome of frosted opals and stretched Froech’s shadow across the marble floor before him. Yet the darkness that pooled on the snowy tile was as nothing to the despair that burned in his heart. Dread was a fire within him: such dread as he had not felt in all his five hundred years. But there was no denying it.
He stared at the gated archway, at the black stone horses that flanked it, twin lines of ruby eagles sketched thin and glittering upon their incised bridles. At four medallions of gold-wound steel that now hung as broken and useless as the teeth of an ancient hag. And at a white marble stall in which no trace remained of a certain jet-black stallion.