by Lisa Mangum
Mr. Paxton licked his lips and looked away. “Well, we’d like the DNA to be certain.”
“And how much will that cost me?” Padraig demanded, thinking he’d found the rat in the whole affair: the council was looking to get money off him to identify the remains of a no-account, long-dead relative.
“Actually, Mr. Murray, we’d pay you,” Mr. Paxton said, raising his head and meeting his eyes. “For your time and any light you can shed on this mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“Why is it that a man who should be dead over a hundred years ago only died last week?”
* * *
It was all true. Oh, the council didn’t pay all that much but Padraig didn’t have to worry about petrol or food for a week and the dead man truly was his long-lost great-uncle Joseph Murray.
He’d been found wearing a shirt and breeches. His head was bashed in but he’d been found on a rock. The police were convinced that he’d hit his head in a fall but were clueless as to how that happened. Inside his pockets there’d been some greens, which the farmer who found him identified as a rhubarb stalk and the top of a beet.
“He had a smile on his lips, like he was happy,” the farmer had told Padraig shyly as though trying to ease his pain.
“Anything else?” Padraig had asked. The farmer had flinched and hastily shook his head, saying that he had to go home, glancing at Mr. Paxton for permission.
“So, Mr. Murray, do you have any ideas?” Mr. Paxton had asked.
Padraig shook his head. He’d never met this long-lost relative, how should he know anything?
“It’s just that he didn’t look a day over seventy,” Mr. Paxton said to himself. “Like he’d found a way to drink from the fountain of youth or something.”
Padraig said nothing. The city folk were always giving farmers shite about fairies and fairy rings. He would do nothing to add to it.
“We can arrange a plot in town, if you’d like,” Mr. Paxton offered, seeming ready to forget the whole issue.
“No,” Padraig said. “No, I’ll take Gran home. I’ll bury him near the church.”
Outside the police station, Padraig stalked across to the nearest pub. It wasn’t that he really wanted a drink—contrary to all opinion, Padraig wasn’t much of a drinker—but he was certain he’d meet the farmer inside.
“Mr. Murray!” Sure enough, he was waved over to a table. The farmer had a beer in front of him and the empty glass of another pint on the side. “Tom Mahony.”
“I’m grateful for all that you did for my kin,” Padraig said as the farmer rose and shook his hand.
“Will you be having any?” Mr. Mahony asked, waving toward the drink.
“No, thanks, I’ve a fair drive and things to set in order,” Padraig told him. “But I’ll sit with you for a bit, if you don’t mind.”
The farmer waved him to the seat opposite and Padraig took it. They chatted about the weather, what crops they had in and how the markets looked and then lapsed into a companionable, if charged, silence.
Finally, the farmer spoke. “There was lightning just before.”
Padraig raised his head, meeting the other’s eyes.
“Lightning and then a flash of rain, just a mist and a rainbow,” Tom continued. His voice dropped as he added, “You know what they say about rainbows.”
Padraig smiled and nodded. There wasn’t a lad in all of Ireland nor Scotland nor Wales nor even England that hadn’t once gone trying to follow the rainbow—just in case there was a pot of gold at the end. “Did you find any?”
“No,” the farmer allowed sullenly. “But just at the last, I saw your man—great-uncle, isn’t it?—I saw him out of the corner of my eye.”
Padraig waited silently.
“It must have been a trick of the light or something,” the farmer said, taking a deep draught of his beer, “but it looked like he was on a horse.”
“What color?”
“Purple,” the farmer said. He drained his glass and rose abruptly, heading toward the door. “My sympathies to you and yours.”
* * *
And so Joseph Murray had been laid in the family plot in the local church. Father Connelly had decided to mark the date of his death as the day he’d disappeared from the family’s reckoning and so, even though the grave was brand-new, the last year on the stone was 1848.
Padraig had visited from time to time just as he’d once managed to be near Tom Mahony’s farm and dropped in “just to thank him” as he’d said. But sure enough, neither was fooled, and they spent several hours going over the site where Tom had first spotted Great-uncle Joseph. Neither said anything but both were uncomfortable.
Back at Tom’s house, over a cup of tea, Padraig got up the courage to ask, “Are there many fairy rings near?”
“A few,” Tom allowed, crossing himself. “They’re pretty things and don’t seem any harm.”
“We’ve no less than six on my farm,” Padraig said musingly. After a moment, he added, “I always wondered about them.”
“There was one no less than a hundred yards from where I found your kin,” Tom allowed.
They finished their tea in silence. Padraig drove home in silence and that had been that.
* * *
The days had passed into weeks and the weeks into months. Padraig had taken to visiting the grave once a week. It wasn’t a great burden as the great-uncle was laid in the family plot so Padraig would take time from talking with his mother and father, his brother lost in far-off wars, and his wee sister who never had her third birthday, to talk with the great-uncle no one had ever known.
And when it wasn’t Sunday, Padraig would work the farm, fighting to keep crops and kill weeds, keep the damned tractor running—even though it was nearly as old as his lost kin—and never wonder beyond how he would cope with tomorrow.
When the rains came, they were vicious. And there was lightning, not all that common in that part of the country.
Padraig found himself starting out one morning in brilliant sunlight and trudging back in the afternoon in the dark of clouds and spitting deluge. The weather was always like that, changing from one moment to the next. But this day was different, almost malevolent in its ferocity.
Lightning cracked right behind him, and Padraig jumped, turning back in fear that the barn had been hit.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash and movement. He turned to look at it fully and then jumped to one side as a fierce beast clattered past him. He tried to get up but was thrown back to the ground by the weight of a bundle, seemingly thrown from the horse now long gone.
“Where is he?” a voice demanded from inside the bundle. Before Padraig could realize that the bundle was a cloak and the voice was a girl’s, a pair of hands grabbed his throat and clenched tight with more strength than he imagined. “Where is he?”
Padraig scrambled with one hand to push the girl off even as he said, “Who?”
Either he was lucky with his hand or the question caused the girl confusion but he suddenly found himself able to scramble away far enough to be out of her grasp and able to look at her in the dim light that was left of the day.
His jaw dropped and he gasped. She was beautiful. A beauty like a storm, skin like snow clouds, eyes like lightning, lips like roses, dark hair like clouds on the horizon. She was tiny. She pulled the hood of her cloak back to swipe hair out of her eyes and … were her ears pointed?
Padraig made the sign of the cross. “Mother Mary and Joseph!”
“You know of Joseph?” she demanded, suddenly lunging toward him again.
Padraig scuttled to his feet and discovered that he had the reach on her. Grabbing her by the elbow, he turned toward the house, dragging her behind him. “We’ve got to get you out of the weather and let your mama know where to find you!”
The small woman dug in her heels and batted at him with her free hand. “Are you in the pay of the Queen?” Her voice rose to a shriek, desperate, angry, tearful, “Let me go! Let
me go!”
Padraig did not.
Inside, as he turned on the lights, the girl started. “Those are not torches,” she said, eyeing the bulbs suspiciously. She turned back accusingly to him. “Have you captured Pixies to do your bidding?”
She seemed to rise in height but as she’d no more than four feet to start with, it was not enough to deter him.
“Where do you live, then?” Padraig said, moving to bar the door and pulling off his soaked jacket. “I’ll give your mam a call. In the meantime, I’ll get you some tea.” He nodded toward her cloak. “You should get out of that or you’ll catch your death.”
“My death?” the little girl laughed bitterly. “My death is tied to the rose.”
“What?” Padraig said, turning back to her. “What are you on about, girl?”
“The rose,” the girl said, reaching into her cloak and pulling it out, “when it withers, I die. My brother, the prince, made it so.” Her haughty expression faded, and she seemed to collapse on herself. “I must find him, he was the only one that ever loved me.”
“Who?”
“Gran,” the little one said. She saw the confused look on his face and added, “In your world he would have been Joseph.”
“Joseph Murray?”
Her eyes lit and her face beamed. “You know him? Oh, take me to him, I beg you!”
“Who are you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you hope to ensnare me by my true name, it will win you little.”
“I just want to get you home,” Padraig said, now certain the girl was touched.
“I will not go home, nor can I,” the girl replied. She looked up at him, drew a breath, and became a thing of indescribable beauty, of regal bearing, something unreal, unearthly, and beyond mortal ken. “I am Eilin, princess of the most royal house in the Elvenworld, and I have pledged my blood on this quest.”
Perhaps, Padraig thought hopelessly, she was one of those—what did they call them? LARP people?—the city yahoos who played all sorts of games dressed in costume and pretending to be elves and whatnot.
“Joseph Murray was born over a hundred years ago,” Padraig said.
“Aye, and he was pucked away to Faerie not long after to become my Gran,” Eilin said. “He had the raising of me from a baby, and I knew him as his ginger hair turned to white.” She faltered then, like a candle in a stiff breeze. When she continued, her eyes were pained and tears dripped down them. “This is what it is like to be mortal?” she said, her hand going to her heart. “The beats, they skip and start.”
And then she collapsed. Padraig was on her in an instant, scooping her up and racing up the stairs with her in his arms. She weighed nothing. As he elbowed on the bedroom light, he caught sight of one of her ears. It was pointed. And it wasn’t makeup or, if it was, it was better than any he’d ever seen.
He placed her on the bed and leaned over her, listening for breath. There was none. He’d been trained, he was a farmer, he knew that doctors were distant, so he quickly put her on the floor and began breathing for her in a desperate kiss that was more air than passion.
Four breaths, pause, listen, check for pulse. None. He gave her a quick chest compression, worried that he’d crush her tininess, then back to her lips for another breath.
He was near the end of his endurance when she gasped and her eyes fluttered open.
“Think you to take liberties!” she hissed.
“Your heart had stopped, you weren’t breathing,” he told her. “I gave you the kiss of life.”
Her fingers went to her lips and her eyes were wide with amazement. “You kissed me and I did not feel it?”
Padraig’s expression must have been answer enough.
“Kiss me again,” she demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Padraig said, “but you’re just a little girl.”
“Kiss me,” she responded in a voice that could not be denied.
He leaned down and pecked her lips, thinking to humor her.
When he tried to draw back, she hissed at him, “I am no child, kiss me proper.”
And from that moment on, Padraig was in thrall. Oh, as a young man he had had his share of kisses—and more—but there had never been a lasting spark, a love strong enough to marry a farmer tied to a doomed land. This girl—this elf—this was his life.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Eilin said when they finally broke for air. “I am so, so sorry. I never knew.”
“Knew what?”
“I never knew how beautiful it would be to take a mortal’s kiss, how much you would lose in it,” she told him. She pursed her lips inwards for a moment, then said, “But please, oh please, kiss me again!”
“I will kiss you forever,” Padraig promised when again they finally broke.
“No,” Eilin said, “we have only until the rose withers.”
* * *
The rose withered in ten days. Eilin smiled at him on the dawn of that last day, and they kissed again—a kiss that seemed to last forever but, at the end of it, Padraig realized that she would kiss him no more.
And so now, the last of the dirt.
There. It was done. She was with her Gran again. The man who’d raised her from infancy, in whose lap she’d slept so peacefully, never realizing the depth of their love.
Above the earth there was only Padraig and the rain.
But not for long. He’d bought rhubarb and beets—she’d told him all about them—and he’d made a promise in the deep quiet parts of his heart. He would never love a mortal again.
He would chase the rainbows. Rhubarb and beets would bring him to the land of his love.
***
About the Authors
Todd J. McCaffrey
Todd J. McCaffrey is an Irish-American author of science fiction best known for continuing the bestselling Dragonriders of Pern series in collaboration with his mother, Anne McCaffrey.
Jody Lynn Nye
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats.” She lives near Chicago with her current cat, Jeremy, and her husband, Bill. She has published more than 40 books, including The Ship Who Won with Anne McCaffrey, and more than 115 short stories. Her latest books are Fortunes of the Imperium (Baen Books) and Dragons Run (Ace Books).
Mary Pletsch
Mary Pletsch attended Superstars Writing Seminars in 2010 and has since published multiple short stories in a variety of genres, including science fiction, fantasy, and horror. As a collector of vintage My Little Pony and FashionStar Fillies, she takes her unicorns (purple and otherwise) seriously! Mary is also a glider pilot, Transformers enthusiast, and graduate of the Royal Military College of Canada. She lives in New Brunswick with Dylan Blacquiere and their four cats. Visit her online at www.fictorians.com.
John D. Payne
John D. Payne is a Houston-based writer of fantasy, sci-fi, and literary fiction. His debut novel is The Crown and the Dragon, now a major motion picture from Arrowstorm Entertainment.
Jeanette Gonzalez
Jeanette Gonzalez lives on the California coast with a slew of imaginary people who run her life when she's not eating or sleeping. She writes short fiction as well as novels, and she is currently working on an urban fantasy series set in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Sharon Dodge
Sharon Dodge has been a teacher, editor, and captioner, and is currently working on five different novels when not supervising or toddler juggling.
Quincy J. Allen
Quincy J. Allen, is a self-proclaimed cross-genre author. He has been published in multiple anthologies, magazines, and one omnibus. He’s written for the Internet show RadioSteam, and has three novels releasing in 2014: a finalist in the RMFW Colorado Gold Contest, Chemical Burn, Jake Lasater: Blood Curse, and a military sci-fi novel. Out Through the Attic, his first short story collection, is available now. He works part-time as a tech-writer by day, does book design and eBook conversions for WordFire Press by night, and he lives in a lovely house that he considers his very own sanctu
ary.
Megan Grey
Megan Grey lives in Utah with her husband, two kids, and two dogs (who bark at nothing often enough that she assumes they’re talking to their own faerie friends). Her fiction has appeared in Fireside magazine and Sybil's Scriptorium, and she has a story in an upcoming anthology for the Animism: The Gods’ Lake animated TV series. Visit Megan at www.megangrey.com.
Kristin Luna
Kristin Luna has been making up stories and getting in trouble for them since elementary school. This is her first publication, and she’s working hard on a number of additional stories. Kristin currently lives in San Diego, California, with her husband and three adorable, manipulative pets.
Colette Black
When Colette Black isn’t caring for her family, dogs, and a mischievous cat, she spends her time writing. She also loves to travel. Born and raised in the United States, she has also lived in the Philippines and Switzerland. Currently, she resides in the far outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, where she loves the warm weather and the cotton fields. Her novel, Noble Ark, released April 2014, to rave reviews. The sequel, Desolation, will be released in October 2014. You can find other short stories in The Black Side. Find out more at www.coletteblack.net.
Gama Ray Martinez
Gama Martinez lives near Dallas, Texas, and collects weapons in case he ever needs to supply a medieval battalion. He greatly resents when work and real life gets in the way of writing. Aside from writing, he does normal things like run from bulls and attempt to leave the Earth to be a Martian colonist.
Nathan Barra
Though Nathan Barra is an engineer by profession, training, and temperament, he is a storyteller by nature and at heart. He is drawn to urban fantasy and soft science fiction in both his reading and writing. He is an active blogger, not only on his own site, NathanBarra.com, but also with a group blog, The Fictorians (www.Fictorians.com). Nathan is always up for a good conversation, so please drop him a line through his contact page, or write on his Facebook wall www.facebook.com/WriterNathanBarra.
Robert J. McCarter
Robert J. McCarter lives in the mountains of Arizona with his beautiful wife and his ridiculously adorable dog, pounding away at the keyboard producing software (to make a living) and stories (to fill his soul). He has written several ghost-oriented novels: Shuffled Off, Drawing the Dead, and To Be a Fool. His short stories have appeared in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Every Day Fiction, New Sun Rising: Stories for Japan, and others. Visit him at RobertJMcCarter.com.