The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  At first the weapons of the human hunters were crude, made of stone, wood, and bone. But in time new technologies developed and with them, greater skill and accuracy. Spears and darts turned to bows and arrows, then increasingly more complicated and deadly guns. With growing horror, Laurel watched as the men shot, trapped, and poisoned eagles all over Ireland. There was no doubt that both hunter and farmer were bent on eradicating the great bird. And though she turned away from the sight of hatchlings poisoned in their nests, she could not shut out the cries of all the eagles on their way to extinction.

  The slaughter of the eagles in Ireland weakened Clan Egli, for the fates of Faerie and the Earthworld were now entwined and what happened in one world could affect the other. The Summer King knew the days of waiting were over. His time had come.

  Bonfires burned on every hilltop. The Fáinne na Gréine had been forged once again. Now the Summer King stepped into the Midsummer Fire and did not step out again. There was a single fiery moment in which he contained all the power that surged through the Ring of the Sun. Then, like a volcano erupting, like a mushroom cloud rising, he unleashed its force upon Eagle Mountain.

  It was like watching the fall of Atlantis.

  The first blast shook the foundations of the Temple. Ledges cracked and broke. Pillars toppled into the sea. Streams of fire reddened the air. Hot winds gusted. Everywhere Laurel looked, birds and winged beings were set ablaze. The second blast hit the mountain itself. With a mighty crack like thunder, the rock face severed to create a deep gorge. Chunks of cliff slid into the ocean. Too late, screeching hosts of the Fir-Fia-Caw swarmed in dark clouds to attack Hy Brasil. But their valor was hopeless, and they were seared to ashes as they crossed the water.

  Laurel couldn’t watch any longer. She turned away.

  I sing of the ruined nest on Eagle Mountain.

  And she was back in the eyrie overlooking the Atlantic.

  Laheen’s golden voice rang with a sorrow beyond measure.

  “Many millions of years did not spoil it, but the Summer King did. So much was lost: the Temple broken, the Fir-Fia-Caw massacred, Clan Egli dispersed.”

  Laurel’s mind was reeling. She could barely grasp what she had seen and heard.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, barely audible. “My mission is to find this king. To light the fire again!”

  The old eagle inclined his tawny head toward her.

  “The Summer King is not lost. He is here on Achill, imprisoned in Slievemore, the Great Mountain. The last of the Fir-Fia-Caw are his guards and jailers. For though the Summer King won the battle that day, he did not win the war. The Sídhe-Folk themselves rose up against him and he was captured and bound. In keeping with the covenant between the two worlds, a mortal was called to do the deed.”

  Darkness was descending over Laurel’s thoughts. The full import of Laheen’s words threatened to unhinge her. She was on the wrong side. She was doing the wrong thing. She had been sent to free an ancient evil. Her quest, her mission, was all wrong.

  She felt as if the eagle hadn’t saved her, that she was still falling downward into the cold sea. She choked on the taste of bitter salt tears. The treachery of the fairies! They had sent her to do what they could not or would not do themselves. Their dirty work. A crime against justice. And the reward, oh God, the reward they offered, something for which she would sell her very soul.

  “The fire must be lit!” came her strangled cry.

  In a flow of hoarse words broken by sobs, she confessed to Laheen why she had taken the mission. My sister, my twin, is dead. It was the first time she spoke the unspeakable words. The first time she said them aloud to herself and another. She is gone. I’ll never see her again. She is gone.

  Now the grief tore through her like a jagged knife. And there in the eagle’s nest, beyond the world, above the sea, that part of her in chains was finally set free. She broke down and wept.

  The great eagle did not move at first. Then something floated through the air and down toward Laurel. A golden plume. As the feather sailed past, it stroked her cheek with the gentle touch of an angel. Warmth and light and sweet scent soothed her. She caught the feather, held it against her heart.

  “Dear child, I know your pain.”

  Laheen’s golden gaze shimmered with tears.

  “In the hour before he destroyed the Temple, the Summer King slew my mate.”

  aurel had not recovered from Laheen’s new revelation when he surprised her again.

  “Despite these dark truths, mo chara, I do not stand against you or your mission. You were well chosen for the task as you act out of love.”

  “But … if the king is evil …”

  “It is not a question of good or evil. The Ring of the Sun must be forged. If it is not, two worlds will suffer: Faerie, which needs the power to heal itself, and the Earth, whose soul is nourished by the land of hopes and dreams.”

  The golden eagle looked out from his nest and across the ocean enameled with the hues of sunset.

  “The Sídhe-Folk are caught in their dilemma. They acknowledge Clan Egli’s right to the prisoner, yet they need the Summer King to light the fire. But as long as he is bound, he cannot do so. As it has always been since the two races met, a human must act to save the day.”

  Laurel nodded. The Rescue of Fairyland. Like so many of the stories in Granda’s books.

  “But how can I do it?” she asked in a small voice. “I don’t have any special powers.”

  “Seek help amongst your own kind,” the eagle told her. Then he let out a short squawk that she guessed was a laugh. “What is the saying amongst your people? ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ There is a great human spirit that haunts this coast. The Sea Queen of the West. Win her as your ally and you will need no other.”

  The last rays of sunset dispersed over the sea. Dusk settled on the mountain. Before they parted, Laheen gave her final words of advice that sent a shiver through her.

  “The golden feather will loose the chains of the Summer King, but you must beware. Though you free him he will see you as foe, for it was one of your kindred who defeated him. Work your will upon the king and use the feather to help you bind him. It is a truth in all the worlds: by that which you kill are you bound.”

  It was only after the eagle set her down on the mountain path that Laurel thought of Ian. She was hurrying back toward the gorge when she heard a shout above her. He stood on the ridge, waving down.

  By the time he reached her, she could see the huge relief in his features.

  “Thank God you’re all right!” he cried, his voice hoarse. “I thought you were dead!”

  He crushed her against him.

  She let him hold her for a while, glad of the solid feel of his arms. Then she sensed he might kiss her and she stepped back. Now she noticed the slashes in his anorak and the cuts on his hands.

  “You’re hurt! What happened?”

  He, in turn, was inspecting her and only when he was convinced that she was unharmed did he answer.

  “They caught me off guard. The three ravens. My own bloody fault. I didn’t see them. But I got out my knife. I’m not sure what happened next. They must’ve knocked me out. When I came to, I was lying on the ground and there was blood and feathers nearby, but they were gone. I ran to the edge of the gorge. The ropes were hanging loose. I pulled on them …” She could hear the horror in his voice. “They came up so easily, sheared clean away. I kept shouting, but you didn’t answer. I nearly went mad. I didn’t know what to do. What happened to you?”

  “I met Laheen,” she said quietly. “The Old Eagle of Achill.”

  A gray mist was moving over the mountain. It began to drizzle. They headed back to the car in silence. Laurel wasn’t ready to say more, and he didn’t press her. When they reached the Triumph, Ian opened the passenger door to usher her in. She was happy that he drove. All the way home, she stared out the window at the darkness beyond. The world had changed. She felt utterly different. It was n
ot only that she had narrowly escaped death, but she had seen things she could never have imagined. She felt lost, but not in a bad way.

  Back at the cottage, the rooms were cold. Despite the slack, the fire in the stove was nearly out. Ian raked the coals and added more fuel, but it would take time to burn. A wave of melancholy washed over Laurel. She collapsed on the sofa. Without thinking, she drew the feather from her pocket and brushed it against her cheek. It was like a touch of sunshine. She smiled to herself.

  When Ian saw what she had, he started. He went to his knapsack and took out a similar plume.

  “I found it,” he said softly, “and knew somehow that I had to keep it with me.”

  Even as he placed the feather to his lips, she saw the change in his features. It was as if a light suddenly shone on his face. The troubled look went out of his eyes. She knew how he felt.

  “Laheen must have stopped the Fir-Fia-Caw attacking you, before he saved me.” She paused a moment. “He’s their king.”

  “What?”

  The time had come to tell her story. Ian’s eyes widened with astonishment as she spoke of her fall from the precipice and her rescue by the eagle. They grew wider still as she described her vision of the Temple of the Birds and Hy Brasil. But when she told him of the Summer King’s war on Clan Egli and the murder of their queen, he swore under his breath.

  “That changes everything.”

  “It changes nothing,” she retorted, “except how I feel about it.”

  He couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ve got to free him. What choice do I have?”

  Laurel got up from the couch to pace the floor. Restless and uneasy, she needed something to do. The room was still cold; the stove slow to heat up. She could feel the damp creeping into her bones, like despair. She decided to light a fire in the hearth. As she stuffed old newspapers and twigs into the grate, she argued her case as much to herself as to him.

  “This is bigger than all of us. Laheen himself has agreed to it. He’s even suggested an ally—the ‘Sea Queen of the West.’”

  She struck match after match to light the kindling, but with little effect. A thin trail of smoke spiraled into the room.

  “Once the Midsummer Fire is lit,” she said, “and the Ring of the Sun is up and working, then Faerie can deal with the King. Put him back in prison or whatever. He’s their bogeyman, not mine.”

  Now she added a few sticks and threw lumps of coal on top of them. More smoke straggled into the room, but still no flame. Her frustration was peaking. She fought back the tears.

  Ian came to help.

  “I’ll do it myself!” she snapped.

  “You can’t do everything yourself!” he snapped back. Then he added quietly, “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  Something in his tone calmed her. She moved aside to let him work.

  First he opened the flue. Then he searched through the kindling for the driest sticks and cracked them over his thigh. These he fed into the smoldering fire before adding more coal. Finally, he held a page of newspaper against the mouth of the fireplace to create a draft. The reaction was instant. With a roar, the flames leaped into life. As the paper itself caught fire, he tossed it into the grate.

  “An Irish solution to an Irish problem,” he said, with a satisfied grin.

  By the time the fire was burning brightly, Laurel had made a pot of tea and set out a plate of ginger cookies.

  “Biscuit?” she offered, mirroring his grin.

  Both were more cheerful now, and they settled on the sofa with their mugs of tea. Laurel tucked her feet under her.

  “You’re not happy about freeing him,” Ian said quietly, after a companionable silence.

  “That’s partly it.” She shrugged, stared into her cup. “But to be brutally honest, right or wrong, I’d do it anyway.”

  “For your sister?”

  She shook her head. Her time in the eagle’s nest had changed everything.

  “For me. I can’t lie to myself anymore. This whole thing is about me. I need to do this for my sake. Everyone keeps telling me I can’t blame myself for her death, but that doesn’t change how I feel. If I had been there, things would have been different. I wouldn’t have let her go out on that ledge. I would have gone myself if she insisted. Either way, if I had been there, she wouldn’t have died.”

  Ian’s tone was ironic.

  “I thought I had self-torment down to an art. How can you be responsible for someone’s life or death?”

  “I was always the strongest. It was my job to protect her.”

  “Your sister was quiet, that doesn’t mean she was weak.” He let out a snort. “Remember when we were kids, I pulled her hair and you thrashed me?”

  She managed a smile.

  “I was only getting her back. She kept pinching me all morning when no one was looking.”

  Laurel was stunned for a minute.

  “You’re joking!”

  “I was so glad when Nannaflor took the two of you home. The twins from hell.”

  She laughed along with him, and somewhere in that laughter felt lighter at heart. She laid her hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry for how I acted … the day she died. For the things I said.”

  He put his hand over hers.

  “You don’t need to apologize for anything that day.”

  They gazed at each other. Regardless of their experiences on the mountain, they were none the worse for wear. Both glowed with health from the sun and wind, and their eyes were shining. The injuries they had sustained were superficial, already healing.

  She touched the scar above his eye.

  “So, was it the bird on Bray Head or did I give you this? When I pushed you off the bike?”

  His grin was wicked.

  “Nah. You knocked me on my ass, not my face. I just let you think that, to guilt you out.”

  “Brat.”

  There was a moment when she was sure he would kiss her, but he seemed to change his mind. She was both relieved and disappointed. Were his feelings as mixed as hers? Here was another complication in a day as complex as a Celtic knot.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, standing up quickly.

  He looked surprised, but she was already hurrying to the door of her room. Then she paused, and turned around.

  “I just want you to know. I’m really glad you’re here.”

  She saw the flush of pleasure before she left him.

  That night, Laurel had a dream. She was standing on the dunes overlooking the sea. The water lay as still as glass, reflecting the dark sky and the silver stars. A faint music came out of the East and trailed over the shadows of Minaun mountain. The sweet sounds made her heart ache. They echoed the sorrow of an exiled spirit, calling up vague longings for a Home faraway.

  Lights flickered over the cliffs, moving down to the pale strand and across Trawmore. As they drew closer, she saw the cavalcade of lords and ladies, tall and shining and blindingly beautiful. Some rode on palfreys of white and gray. Others walked with such grace their feet barely touched the ground. Flags and gonfalons fluttered above them. Lanterns glittered with moonlight. Their names were whispered on the wind and over the sea. The Still Folk. The Noble Ones. The People of the Ever-Living Land. Na Daoine Maithe. Na Daoine Sídhe. Music surrounded them as they went, and they sang together.

  Níl sé ’na lá, níl a ghrá,

  Níl sé ’na lá, na baol ar maidin,

  Níl sé ’na lá, nil a ghrá,

  Solas ard atá sa ghealaigh.

  It is not yet day, it is not, my love,

  It is not yet day, nor yet the morning,

  It is not yet day, it is not, my love,

  For the moon is shining brightly.

  As she looked upon them, Laurel’s eyes welled with tears. Here was a race that would never know the weight of human existence. They seemed so slight and insubstantial, so fragile and precious. A dream at the end of life’s heartbreak
ing journey. She felt a great yearning pierce her; a desire to protect them, to keep them safe.

  At the head of the column rode a tall shining man with a star on his forehead. He was dressed in black like the night, and a silver mantle swirled around him. His red-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were solemn and wise.

  Laurel knew he was Midir, High King of Faerie. She bowed her head. When she looked up again, the cavalcade was gone and a young man stood before her in dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was tied back in a ponytail. His smile was friendly. Only the star on his forehead told of his kingship.

  She thought of bowing again but changed her mind. It seemed ridiculous as he looked her own age. But then he surprised her by bowing himself.

  “I want to thank thee for what you are doing for my country and my beloved.”

  “Your beloved,” she repeated softly, with a pang.

  She knew immediately whom he meant. She was surprised but not surprised. Hadn’t Honor suspected that he was in love with her?

  “I wished to undertake the mission myself,” he said, “but I cannot abdicate my duties. The death of the First King was a shock to the Realm. There are tears and cracks throughout the Kingdom. And the harm may go deeper than I can know, for I have yet to come into full knowledge of myself as Sovereign. I am further weakened without a Tánaiste, for no one has risen to be second-in-command; nor is there a Queen in Faerie to be my helpmeet. If you succeed in forging the Fáinne na Gréine, you will have saved our cause. By the power of the circle, I will be made whole and the land will be healed. All will be well.”

  “I’ll do it,” she promised, “for Honor and Faerie.” Her voice rang with determination. Then her throat tightened and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Do you know where she is? Would it be possible … to see her?”

  Midir waved his hand over the ground between them. A pool of blue light brimmed up like water. And there in the depths she lay, fast asleep. Honor. She was like a pale flower, shining and innocent, a newborn soul.

  “Oh,” said Laurel.

  She stared at Midir with mute appeal, and saw her own pain and longing mirrored in his eyes.