The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  His golden voice resounded once more.

  “Death is not the enemy. Light the fire!”

  With the eagle’s words ringing in her mind, Laurel was set down at the foot of Croaghaun beyond Keem Bay. She looked like someone who had been lost on the mountain for days. Her clothes were wet and dirty, she was covered in cuts and scrapes. Trudging down the road to Keel, she could only hope that a passing car might give her a ride.

  All her thoughts were of Ian. Was he okay? Was she abandoning him? Was she doing the right thing? It was all her fault. If they had gone with his plan, not hers. If only … if only … She stopped short when she realized what she was doing. Tormenting herself, as he would say. And it did her no good, only made her weaker. She needed to be strong, for his sake as well as Honor’s. Laurel closed her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She would not wallow in self-pity or blame. She would join up with Grace, raise an army, and return to the mountain to free the Summer King and Ian too. Then tomorrow they would set sail for Hy Brasil to light the Midsummer Fire and wake Honor from her sleep.

  “And we’ll all live happily ever after,” she said, through clenched teeth.

  Laurel was not long on the road when she heard a clopping noise behind her. She stepped into the verge as an old-fashioned jaunting car pulled up beside her. It had two wooden benches in the back, facing outward on each side, and a high seat in front for the driver. The donkey that pulled it was gray and round like a barrel. The driver was a big teddy bear of a man, almost too big for his old tweed suit. His face was covered with whiskers the same gray color as the donkey. His baggy trousers were tied with rope instead of a belt, and his jacket was closed with safety pins. A battered Walkman sat on his lap, while a pair of enormous headphones covered his ears. Lively music spilled out. His whole body twitched.

  “Would ye like a lift?” he roared over the Walkman. “Take the weight off your feet!”

  It was the Walkman that somehow reassured Laurel. She climbed up beside the stranger.

  “Janey Mack, would ye look at the state of ye,” he said. “You’re like the wreck of the Hesperus.”

  He reached back into his cart and hauled out a plaid blanket. As he tucked it around her, he passed her the headphones.

  “Éist nóiméad,” he said. “Have a listen to Altan. They’re only powerful, a fright to God and the world!”

  The wild-paced Donegal music clamored in her ears. Fiddles, pipes, flutes, and bodhráns played in a frenzy. Instinctively her feet began to tap.

  “Now list to this. It’d make the stones weep.”

  He fast-forwarded the tape. A sad tune keened in her ear with such yearning and loss that her eyes filled with tears. She thought of Honor and Ian.

  “The three great gifts of music,” he told her. “Songs that bring the comfort of sleep, songs that make ye dance, and songs that make ye weep.”

  He took up the reins and told the donkey to “gee-up.”

  When she told him she was heading for the Deserted Village to pick up her car, he let out a great laugh.

  “Amn’t I goin’ that way meself?” he said. “What a grand coincidence!”

  The donkey trotted along at a leisurely pace, but Laurel was happy enough not to walk the long road. She was happier still when he handed her a little straw basket. Under the clean cloth were buttered slices of soda bread and a small round apple cake, along with a flask of hot sweet tea.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, between bites. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was!”

  Her spirits were reviving.

  “Think nothing of it, girseach, don’t we owe you that much in the heel of the hunt?”

  Laurel turned to him, aghast. It was the cluricaun, and she had eaten his food! She was about to fling away the last of the cake, when he caught her arm.

  “Don’t be at that! ’Tis not from Faerie. I bought it in a shop. And, begob, the price of it! Cost me a bloomin’ fortune! That oul Celtic Tiger would devour your wallet, so it would.”

  “How can I believe you?” she demanded, trying not to panic.

  Her mind raced. What did fairy food do a person? It could trap you in Fairyland forever. But she was still on Achill. What else could it do? Put you under their control!

  “I can prove it,” the cluricaun assured her. “Look, I’ll give ye an order, and if ye don’t follie it, ye’ll know you’re not under me sway.”

  She waited for his command. He rolled his eyes sky-ward, thinking hard. Her fear dissipated as she grew impatient.

  “Well, do it,” she prodded him.

  “Don’t be rushin’ me. It’s not every day I get to be makin’ suggestions to a fine girl like yourself.”

  “You’re being creepy.”

  “Right then. Touch the tip of your nose with your tongue.”

  “What?”

  “Go’wan. Let me see ye do it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, the fact you’re arguin’ proves me point. The food’s the real Ally Daly.”

  Satisfied, Laurel finished off the cake, but now there were more serious matters to discuss.

  “You’ve been lying to me from the start,” she accused him. “You told me the Summer King was lost and it was my mission to find him. That’s a long way from the fact he’s in prison and for very good reasons. And what about the Fir-Fia-Caw who guard him? Who will kill anyone who tries to free him? You didn’t think I needed a heads-up on that? Oh, and let’s not forget that the Summer King is the bad guy and doesn’t deserve to be set free! Or was that just another ‘slight oversight’ on your part?”

  Her voice grew louder and higher as she warmed to her tirade. Here was a fitting scapegoat for all her worry about Ian.

  “It’s been lies, deceit, and betrayal from the very beginning. And why? Because Faerie wants me to do something none of you would dream of doing yourselves!”

  He hung his head as she berated him and didn’t once interrupt or make excuses. By the time she was finished, he was no longer the burly jarvey who had driven up to her, but was now his own diminutive size. His legs swung over the seat and he was barely able to manage the reins.

  “Are you shrinking again?!”

  “Forgive me quick!” he urged her. “Or I might disappear altogether!” Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe a word he said, but at the same time she didn’t want him to go just yet.

  “I forgive you,” she said.

  His features collapsed with relief.

  Then she added immediately, “If you promise me something.”

  He looked alarmed again.

  “Not my store of poitín!”

  “Of course not,” she said impatiently. “I don’t even know what that is. I’ll forgive you if you promise to tell me the truth.”

  “I’ll do me best,” he swore fulsomely. “Swelpmegod.”

  “Do you know anything about Ian?” was her first question.

  “Who?”

  His eyes squinted in a shifty manner.

  “My … my friend who’s been with me on the mission. Dark-haired guy, motorbike. Do you know what’s happened to him?”

  The cluricaun smacked his lips.

  “Can’t say that I do,” he declared, “and that’s the truth of the matter.”

  It sounded true. But whether it was or not, there was nothing she could do about it.

  They were approaching the village of Dooagh. Though they passed cars and a few pedestrians, no one seemed to find the cluricaun or his cart out of the ordinary. Whenever he nodded hello, they always greeted him back. “As for me not tellin’ ye the whole shebang,” he said, “Ye hardly believed in us at’all at’all. How was I supposed to be recitatin’ the Doom of Clan Egli, one of the Twelve Tragic Tales of Faerie? Sure ’twould take days to tell it, and that’s only the fairy half. The human tale is another story, but none of us knows it or what happened to that gobshite of a king once he got his comeuppance, the curse of Cromwell upon him.”

  He spat into the di
tch beyond the jaunting car.

  “His fate was kept on the QT. All hush hush. A matter of national insecurity, as your kind do be callin’ it. The only one who knew the ending was the First King, for wasn’t he the headbuckcat and Boss of the business? But that knowledge was lost along with himself.” The cluricaun heaved a huge sigh. “So much was lost. I’ve a terrible drooth just thinkin’ about it.”

  Gripping the reins with one hand, he reached under the seat to grab a big earthenware jug. Unstoppering the cork with his teeth, he took a long swig.

  When he offered the jug to Laurel she declined, but she was less angry now. Though she hated to admit it, she was beginning to see his side of the story.

  “But how could you expect me to carry out the mission with the wrong information?”

  “All the better,” he said. “It made you an innocent. Humans can boldly go where fairies can’t, and innocent humans can go even further. Doors unlock. Hearts open. And those who have stayed silent may find their tongue.”

  “Laheen,” she murmured.

  She saw him start.

  “Ah,” he said, and he sounded pleased. “I was thinkin’ of the boctogaí meself, but that’s even better. They say he has not come out of his eyrie since the day she died. We dared not hope. Has he told ye where the king is, then?”

  “Yes.”

  The cluricaun waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

  They had left Keel behind and were on the straight and narrow road that led to Slievemore. Though they appeared to be sauntering along, the donkey was covering the distance with incredible speed.

  Laurel tried to look nonchalant as they approached the Great Mountain. The cluricaun was watching her closely out of the corner of his eye.

  “The car’s up here, is it?” he said, slyly. “And what were ye doin’ at the Deserted Village, I’m wondrin’?”

  “Picking mushrooms,” she snapped.

  “Now, girseach, we’ve got to pull and pull together. Amn’t I here to help and not to hinder ye?”

  Laurel frowned. Did she trust the cluricaun? Not for a minute. There were only two people she was prepared to put her faith in—herself and Grace O’Malley. Between them they would get the job done.

  “I don’t need your help,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  The cluricaun was so surprised he nearly fell off the cart. He took another slug from the jug, a rather long guzzle, till his face grew red as a beetroot.

  “I’ll ask ye only one thing,” he said, when he finally put the jug down. “Do ye mean to do battle?”

  She didn’t want to say, but felt somehow she should.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  His red face darkened.

  “Then ye’ve agreed to the extinction of the Fir-Fia-Caw?”

  “What?”

  Her stomach churned.

  “Ye know the truth of it. They’ll fight to the bitter end and won’t yield up the king till every last one of them is dead.”

  His words stabbed at her heart. The one great flaw in her plan. She would have to kill an enemy who were not evil, who were simply doing their duty, and for the right reasons at that. She didn’t reply to his charge. How could she?

  “Well if it has to be, it has to be,” the little man said with a fatalistic nod. He reached again for the jug. “The end justifies the means, I suppose.”

  “It does not!” she retorted miserably. “It cannot! But what choice do I have?”

  “Ye can let me help.”

  By the time they drew up at the Deserted Village, Laurel had let the cluricaun into her confidence and changed her plans to include him. She felt that trusting him was the lesser of two evils.

  There was a moment before she got into her car, when she wavered. Her glance settled on Ian’s motorcycle. Tears pricked her eyes. She looked upward to the dark summit of Slievemore. Was he imprisoned there? Was she wrong to leave him? Then she forced herself into the Triumph and drove off.

  The sun had already set when she arrived at the cottage. The house was dark and cold. The stove had gone out. She didn’t try to light it. There were groceries on the kitchen counter, things Ian had bought. She put them away. She wouldn’t eat that night. The place was dreary without him. Her thoughts began to circle again. Was he still alive? Shouldn’t she go back and find him? Was she doing the right thing?

  She grabbed her cell phone and ran outside. The reception was bad, but she persisted. The moment her father came on the line, she gulped back her tears. Assured him she was fine. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said. Then her mother was there. It was the first time since Honor’s death that she had reached out to them.

  “I love you,” she said softly. “I love you.”

  “We love you,” they kept saying back.

  Then she phoned her grandparents.

  “Thank God, pet. Your Granda and I … every minute … all right? … home soon?”

  Nannaflor’s voice was as good as a hug.

  Then Granda came on the line. His anxiety was palpable.

  “Any trouble there? You’re not in danger, are you?”

  “Of course not,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “How could I be? Everything’s fine.”

  Back inside the house, she didn’t intend to go through his things but they were strewn over the couch. A leather bag contained his shaving gear. She inhaled the familiar scent. There were several shirts and T-shirts. She folded them neatly. Then she picked up his books one by one. The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. An odd blue-covered volume with an even odder title. The Time Falling Bodies Take to Light. She shook her head. He was such a strange boy, so different from any she had ever met.

  She got a jolt when she found it, the strip of photographs. They were from the previous year, in Dublin. The two them horsing around in a photo booth. As she looked at the pictures, she saw it so clearly. The first flush. How happy they were, laughing, sticking out their tongues, giving each other rabbit’s ears. There was even one of them kissing.

  In her bedroom, Laurel undressed and crawled under the quilt. She slipped the photo strip under her pillow, beside the picture of Honor. She felt as if she were drowning, falling through the darkness of a bottomless sea. Tomorrow was the last day. Her one and only chance to save Honor, Ian, and the land of Faerie. She folded her arms across her chest, holding herself tightly, and she fell asleep whispering.

  I believe.

  he next morning, Laurel woke with an overwhelming sense that something wonderful had happened. Birds were singing outside her window. She felt like singing herself. The air in her room seemed crisp and magical. Like a child waking to Christmas Day, she knew in her heart the world had changed.

  She threw on her clothes and ran out of the cottage. There it was. Out on the water, beyond Keel Strand, like a shining creature that had surfaced in the night. The enchanted isle of Hy Brasil.

  Though it seemed faraway, like a cloudbank on the ocean, all its features were visible. White cliffs rose above a silver strand. Hills and valleys were cloaked with green woods. Bright rivers splashed into fountains and waterfalls. Above elegant dwellings rose a palace of amethyst, its spires jutting upward like living crystals. And rising again, above the palace, the crown of the island. The radiant peak of Purple Mountain.

  The beauty of Hy Brasil was astonishing to see, yet Laurel’s view was shadowed. It was hard to believe such a glorious place belonged to someone like the Summer King. A thought whispered through her mind, though she couldn’t remember where it came from: a bright thing can nurse a dark heart, even as light may lie hidden inside a dark creature.

  Too nervous and excited to eat, she put a few things together before setting out. She pulled on the sweater that Ian bought her, as a kind of armor, then stuffed what charms she could in the pockets of her anorak, mainly white stones and the last of the salt. She had lost her knapsack and everything in it in the bog pool on Slievemore, but she still had th
e golden feather. She borrowed a brass compass and an old-fashioned flashlight from the dresser drawer. She was traveling light. Courage was the best shield for what lay ahead. Her time had come. For Honor. For Ian. For Faerie.

  Driving down the road to Keel, her anxiety increased when she saw the flocks of birds everywhere. Many were crowded onto telephone wires, walls, and the roofs of houses. Many more crossed the sky in squadrons. There were those she could name such as swans, mallards, hawks, crows, swifts, swallows, seagulls, ravens—a huge number of ravens—and others she couldn’t. It was as if all the birds of Ireland were descending on Achill. The more she saw, the more worried she grew. She wanted to believe they had come with Hy Brasil, but she knew that couldn’t be. No bird would sing in the realm of the king who killed their queen. They were obviously there for a more ominous reason: to swell the ranks of the Fir-Fia-Caw. Clan Egli was preparing for battle. She stopped at the shop in Keel to buy more salt. In the checkout line, she was surprised to hear an old man and a little girl chatting about the island.

  “It’s so pretty, Granddad. I wish we could go there for a visit! “

  “The time will come when we will, my pet. Did ye see the wee house up on the hill to the right? The one with daisies growing in the thatch and a súgán chair outside the door?”

  The child nodded eagerly. She was five or six years old, and clasped her grandfather’s hand as she gazed up at him.

  “Now listen to me, a leanbh. There’ll come a day when I am gone and they’ll tell ye I won’t be comin’ back. Well, that’s where I’ll be. Ye just look over when the island comes and I’ll wave to ye. Have ye got that now?”

  “Yes, Granddad.”

  The others in the queue laughed. The woman at the cash register chided him gently.

  “You and your stories, Michael Keane. Filling the child’s head with fancies.”

  The little girl looked surprised, then puzzled.

  “Can’t they see?” she asked her grandfather.

  “Not a bit of it,” he said, with a sigh. “They’ve gone all mod’rn.”

  When Laurel left the shop, she almost bumped into a blind woman who stood stock-still on the sidewalk, gripping her cane.