ong were the seasons of their love in the green and gold regions of the world. Little did they dream of the blood-dimmed tide of Fate that would loose itself upon them. For who can plumb the river where flows the waters of existence? Who can glimpse the shadow behind the sunshine of the day? All things contain their opposite. Eloquence is born of dumbness, blindness of vision, and darkness may lie hidden inside that which shines. It is said the Singer of Tales and the Lord of Misrule are one and the same.
One day she vanished.
Without sign or word or warning, the Sky Bride vanished!
At first some thought it a game of hide-and-seek, as the Queen was merry and loved to play tricks. But the King knew by the stillness of his heart that she was gone. Stern and silent, he set out to search the heavens for her. Through zaarahs of darkness and deserts of light he journeyed, under the architraves of immense constellations, past rushing planets and the blazing of suns. Across black starry seas and eternities of twilight he voyaged into realms still unrevealed and newly quickening to the Voice that was older than all. Out beyond height and width and depth, he plunged over the abyss, into brighter boroughs even more mysterious which swam in dark oceans like glittering sea serpents swallowing their own tails.
Tá an oíche seo dubh is dorcha,
Tá an spéir ag sileadh deor’,
Tá néal ar aghaidh na gréine,
Ó d’imigh tú, a stór.
This night is cold and dark now;
The sky is weeping tears;
The sun is eclipsed in shadow,
Since you departed.
He did not find her.
Each time he returned from his journeying, more wretched than a starving crow in winter, the nobles of his Court would plead with him.
“Be at ease, O King. Be at rest. Let her go. She has returned to the sky from whence she came. She heard the cries of her sisters on the lunar winds, calling her home to the Lands of Light. You must let her go.”
Deaf to their entreaties, he would set out again, for bitter were his days without her, and he would not abandon hope.
Love is as strong as death.
Passion as fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame.
Many waters cannot quench it.
Neither can floods drown it.
Then came the day when all could see that he had gone mad with sorrow. He lay down among the mountains, his face to the sky, and raged against the firmament. So great was his anguish that his tears flooded the countryside: rills turned to rivers, rivers were in spate, trees toppled, fields drowned. Day after day and night after night, his grief was a monster that ravaged the land.
The King’s people were at a loss, for he was beyond all aid and reason. Wherever they gathered to shelter from the storms, they spoke of his plight and of their dilemma. The mountain bogs were sodden. If the downpours continued, they were likely to explode. A bog-burst could only mean catastrophe: a deluge of mud and liquid peat gushing down like molten lava, swamping everything in its path. They would all perish in the King of the Hill’s sorrow.
Something had to be done.
• • •
And as is the way within the worlds, when the powerful bring all to the edge of doom, the small and humble rose to save the day. It was the little boggles who came to the mountain to see what they might do.
It has been told in many a tale that there are three great gifts to fairy songs: some make you laugh, some make you weep, and some bring the sweet comfort of sleep.
And it is known throughout the Realm that the girls of the boggle family possess the third gift. In the olden days, when human babies were stolen by the fairies, it was the girl boggles who sang to them so they wouldn’t cry for their mothers.
Now the girls gathered around their fallen king, where he lay weeping below the cairn of Lugnaquillia. They kissed his brow and closed his eyes and hushed and shushed him with a fairy lullaby.
Soon his head nodded upon his great chest. Then, with an exhalation like the breath of the wind, he turned his back to the sky and plunged his face into the earth. Sinking deeply into the warm embrace, the deep womb of sleep, he was freed of all memory, of all grief, of all pain.
Then it was the turn of the boy boggles to work their magic. Their power over stone. They rolled the weight of a mountain onto the King’s back, to pin him down that he may not rise up again. And they placed markers all along the Wicklow borders to keep outsiders away who might disturb the sleeping giant. For there was no guarantee that if Lugh woke, they would be able to put him to sleep again.
With these tasks accomplished, the boys returned to the Boglands alone and sorrowful. For it was their duty to keep watch on the borders, even as the girls remained with the King to keep him asleep.
Thus was their family sundered for the good of all.
rs. Woodhouse and Ivy took turns telling the tragic tale, for the former knew more of the beginning, and the latter, the end. As the story unfolded, the three made their way through the souterrain under Lugduff. At first it was a long narrow corridor, snug and dry and smelling faintly of small animals; but soon it widened into a breathtaking cavern scooped out of the immense ridge. Dim alcoves and recesses arched on every side; a cathedral of stone with glistening pillars of feldspar and quartz. It would have taken hours to cross, but Dana’s companions moved faster than humans and the silver nails in her shoes helped her keep apace.
Even as Dana listened to the fairy tale, she stared around her agog. Strange marvels were to be seen on every side, some of which she could barely comprehend. At one point they passed a dark cave where a single shaft of light fell from miles above. There in the shadows, a lone figure sat cross-legged, head bowed toward the light as if in prayer. Then came a field of white columns that rose to the dome above. Each pillar was topped with a crescent-shaped helmet that opened like a mouth. All issued in unison notes of such beauty that the three travelers walked below in silent awe.
By the time they had reached the far side of the cavern, the story of the Mountain King and the Sky Bride was finished.
“So he never found his queen,” Dana said sadly. “What could’ve happened to her? Does anyone know?”
Ivy piped up. “I heards a demon stoles her.”
“I heard this rumor too,” Mrs. Woodhouse agreed. “And Lugh fought the demon but was defeated. They say it was this failure that drove him mad. Whatever the truth,” and she let out a sigh, “we all know the outcome. His grief nearly destroyed him and us as well.”
They entered a tunnel through which a train could fit. It was very dark, with only faint glimmers of light from streaks of mica in the walls. The other two took Dana’s hands to guide her. Mrs. Woodhouse explained that the passage ran under Conavalla and on to Table Mountain where the underground artery forked out in all directions. They would journey south from Table to Camenabologue and then onward to Lugnaquillia.
Dana was glad she wasn’t alone. From time to time she saw wraithlike creatures slipping through the shadows, blind-eyed and albescent. From Ivy, she understood that these were the denizens of that mazy underworld; and while they didn’t stop travelers from using their highways, they were a reclusive and xenophobic race.
“I don’t likes to come here without Mrs. Woodhouse,” Ivy murmured.
“Me neither,” Dana whispered back.
Table Mountain was, indeed, a grand central station with tunnels branching off into a vast network. The colossal walls swirled like terra-cotta meringue, dwarfing the three of them. Dana was staring curiously at the fossils that stippled the rock, when she let out a gasp. In the shadows towered the gigantic skeleton of an embedded dinosaur.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. “Those were the days of the great dragons.”
“You were there?” Dana asked, amazed.
“Not at’all,” came the reply, with a little laugh. “Tales have come down through the generations.”
They took a passageway traveling southwa
rd. It was lined with white gravel where the quartz had crumbled into cave pearls. They were still deep in the granite spine of the mountains, far below the surface; but now they could hear the distant roar of the storm, like rumors of war. The tunnel felt damp. Water trickled down the walls. They were nearing Lugnaquillia, the heart of the tempest.
“Why is the king waking up?” Dana asked Ivy. “Did the girls stop singing?”
“We’s still singing,” the little boggle answered. “We don’ts know why he wakes. Could be’s a bad dream. He gets them lots. And we hast to sing more and more to puts him deeper in the spell. But it be’s harder this time.”
“He gets nightmares?” Dana shuddered, remembering her own. She grew pensive. “Could it be something else? A shadow of the Destroyer has entered the land. That’s part of my message. Maybe he’s trying to wake so he can fight it?”
“He was the best of kings before tragedy struck,” Mrs. Woodhouse said, nodding. “He cared for his people.”
“So we want him awake,” Dana concluded. “The Lady who sent me says he’ll know what to do.”
That was the moment when Ivy let out a cry, as if she had been hit.
“What hast I done? Stupid stupid boggle! He can’ts do anything if he wakes! He be’s under stone! Bog magic binds even the King!”
Dana stopped in her tracks. She was trying not to panic, but her mind was reeling. This was disastrous. What use was her message if the King was trapped? She had assumed he would be free once he woke. There wasn’t enough time to go all the way back to the Sally Gap to fetch the boys. A good part of the day had already been spent in the caverns. Even with the silver nails, she couldn’t possibly reach the Boglands and get back to Lugnaquillia before midnight.
Ivy’s golden eyes welled with tears.
“When I mets you I’s going to the boys. To makes a plan! Now I’s done it all wrong! I be’s a bad leader. All be’s lost because of me!”
Her small body shook with sobs. For the first time since Dana had met her, the girl boggle looked lost and helpless. Dana thought of the boy boggles crying for their girls. How much these little people had suffered!
“There, there, sweetling,” said Mrs. Woodhouse, patting Ivy on the shoulder.
But Dana saw that the old lady was also upset as her nose twitched anxiously.
“We’ll have to split up,” Dana decided suddenly. “It’s the only thing to do. It’s hopeless, but we’ve got to try anyway.”
Mrs. Woodhouse nodded and looked at her proudly. “I had hoped to guide you, my dear, to the end of your quest, but it seems that cannot be. We each have our part to play, whether big or small. Ivy will bring you to the King. No matter what happens, you must give him the message. I will go to the Boglands to collect the boys. If Lugh cannot free himself, they are our only hope.”
“The bogs are miles away,” Dana said worriedly. “Can you—?”
She was stopped in mid-sentence by the old lady’s chuckle. The black beaded eyes gleamed.
“Do you not know yet? After all the good care you gave my kinfolk? Your hamsters. Sure, I can run like the wind!”
As soon as Mrs. Woodhouse darted away, Dana understood. Bonnet, cape, and skirts were shed like leaves from a tree as the old woman shriveled and shrank. A whip of tail flounced in the air. A squeak of laughter echoed after. Then the gray fairy mouse disappeared down the tunnel.
Dana and Ivy looked at each other. They were like two children suddenly separated from their mother.
“We can do it,” Dana assured her companion.
“We be’s fine,” Ivy agreed.
They hurried down the passageway, glancing behind them.
And, just as they had secretly feared, things soon got worse.
The roof of the tunnel grew steadily lower until Dana had to stoop. Eventually they were pinched into a crawl-way. Scrambling on hands and knees, round twists and turns, they wondered if the burrow would ever widen again.
Then Dana heard a noise behind them. She grabbed Ivy’s arm.
“Did you hear that?” she hissed.
They both stayed still, holding their breaths.
“I only hears my heart,” Ivy whispered.
Dana knew what she meant. Her own chest pounded. But there was no other sound. They continued on.
When a circle of light appeared ahead of them, they both quickened their pace, delighted.
And when they reached it, they both cried out in dismay.
There was just enough room for the two of them to stare downward over the lip of the tunnel: into a dark sinkhole. Directly opposite, as if just across the road, was a wall of sheer rock.
“A dead end!” said Dana, stunned. “But how—?”
Ivy dropped a stone over the edge.
It was some time before they heard it land. The plop was unmistakable.
Water!
“But Mrs. Woodhouse was bringing us this way,” Dana said, baffled.
“And it be’s the only road to Lugnaquillia,” Ivy pointed out. “There be’s no other tunnel from Table to the south.” She stopped to think a moment. “Holds my feet, so’s I can look.”
As the little boggle leaned further and further over the edge, Dana gripped the webbed feet. She had expected them to feel cold or slippery, but they were soft and warm as if covered with down.
“I see’s it!” Ivy cried, excited. “It be’s there! A shelf! And steps! We’s got to jump to it!”
The boggle went first, confident of her agility. She arrived safely, landing like a frog.
For Dana, it was a frightening prospect. The lower ledge wasn’t directly under them, but slightly over to the left.
“You cans do it!” Ivy called up to her.
“Sure I can,” Dana muttered, dangling her legs over the side.
And down she dropped.
There was a terrifying moment when she felt solid ground under one foot and nothing but air under the other. She teetered over the abyss.
Then Ivy grabbed her.
“Thanks!” Dana choked.
“You be’s welcome,” said her friend, grinning.
In that short distance, the view had changed completely. Carved into the rock was a great stairway that ran downward for hundreds of steps, arching under the tunnel they had left. Carefully making their way down it, they were ushered from darkness into a dusky glow. At the bottom, they discovered the source of the brightness.
They stood on a shore of sand that glistened with its own light, like stars ground to dust. But it was the river that truly sparkled, as its waters flowed with the same scintillating crystals.
Several wooden skiffs lay upturned on the beach. Dana looked around for their owners, but Ivy was already pushing one into the water. They both clambered aboard. Too small to row, Ivy sat in the stern to give directions while Dana struggled with the oars. As it turned out, her job wasn’t difficult, for the current carried them like a leaf; she had only to keep the boat in midstream.
The voyage was thrilling, despite all their worries about the mission and the passage of time. With breathtaking speed, they raced past walls of white granite and quartz that towered on each side. It wasn’t long before they reached the river’s own destination: a subterranean sea.
The surface lay still and dark like black ice, as the shining crystals sank to the depths below. Overhead, a vast rocky vault disappeared into shadow. The air was dim and heavy. Silence hung like a shroud over all, broken only by the splash of the oars in the water as Dana began to row. She was barely breathing. Ivy’s eyes shone gold in the gloom.
They both heard it.
The sound of other oars dipping into the sea.
Peering through the murk, they saw nothing. Was it an echo of their own oars?
Dana stopped rowing. There it was! A dip and a splash! Then silence.
Another boat was following them.
Too terrified to even think of bluffing, Dana began to row frantically. The paddles smacked the water. The other boat increased its speed
also. That their pursuer no longer tried to mask the sound was even more ominous. Yet they could see nothing in the deep shadows.
Dana felt the sweat break out on her body. Her hands were raw. The sea felt as if it had turned to mud and she was dragging the oars through it. She kept straining to peer through the dimness, both wanting and dreading to know what was there. Her stomach churned. It was like one of her nightmares; where she couldn’t flee fast enough from the thing that chased her.
At last, the pale glimmer of a shore in the distance! Despite her exhaustion, Dana doubled her efforts. Soon they were moving through the shallows and onto the beach.
Now Dana’s heart leaped into her mouth. The glowing light of the sand allowed her to see the other boat as it approached. There was no doubt about the figure who rowed furiously toward them.
Murta!
wo petrified children, the girls held hands as they raced across the sand and into another tunnel. It was dim and narrow but had a high roof overhead. They knew they were nearing Lugnaquillia. Rain streamed down the walls from the storm above. Their feet splashed through puddles and flooded gullies. Fear drove them on. Behind came the sounds of pursuit: a heavy body displacing water.
“Do you … know … where to go?”
Dana panted as she ran. As always the silver nails gave her speed, but she had a stitch in her side and was gulping air. She felt faint with terror. What would they do if Murta caught up with them? There was only one solution: stay ahead.
Ivy’s breathing was also labored.
“Om … phalos,” she gasped. “The … center.”
It was only when they arrived at the core of Lugnaquillia that Dana had any understanding of what Ivy meant.
White and gold were the colors of the immense circular chamber. The walls sheered for miles above, pale granite streaked with veins of golden ore. At the heart of the cavern was a great white saucer of burnished stone. Was it some kind of altar? Covering the vast floor was a luminous layer of gold and white sand that swirled in patterns like a giant mandala. The designs were in a state of constant flux: spirals, fractals, and figures of eight forming and re-forming before their eyes. Who changed them? Whose breath blew over them? For a moment Dana stood enthralled; then she heard the footsteps in the tunnel behind her.
The Light-Bearer's Daughter Page 15