The Light-Bearer's Daughter

by O. R. Melling

  Mist and wind in the Valley of Tears.

  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.6

  (taw awn ee-huh shaw duv iss durra-kah

  taw awn spare egg shee-laah jore

  taw ny’aal air aye naw grane-ah

  Oh jimmy too aah store)

  This night is cold and dark now;

  The sky is weeping tears;

  The sun is eclipsed in shadow,

  Since you departed.

  Tá fáilte roimhe do cine anseo. (taw fawl-chuh riiv doe kinnah awn-shaw)—Your people are welcome here.

  Tá grian gheal an tsamhraidh ag damhsa ar mo theach. (taw gree-on gyal an sour-oo egg dow-soo air mo heeach)—The summer sun is dancing on the roof of my house.

  Táimse a foghlaim gaeilge. (Taw-iim-shuh aah foe-lumm gwayle-guh)—I am learning Irish.

  Tánaiste (tawn-ish-tuh)—Tanist, second-in-command, heir presumptive; in modern Ireland this is the title of the Deputy Prime Minister, second in line to An Taoiseach (awn tee-shawk), the Prime Minister.

  Tá tú ag imeacht ar shlí na fírinne. (taw too egg immawk’t air shlee naah fear-nuh)—You are going on the way of truth. This is a literal translation of the phrase Irish-speakers use to refer to the dead. They will say Tá sí ag imithe ar shlí na fírinne (taw shee ag immuh-heh air shlee naah fear-nuh)—“She is gone on the way of truth”—to say “She is dead.”

  Note on the Battle for the Glen of the Downs: In 1997, the Irish government approved the widening of an existing road that ran through the Glen of the Downs. To allow greater speed for a three-minute journey, it was decided that a four-lane highway would be built through the Nature Reserve, with more than two thousand hardwoods cut. The tree-house protest undertaken by Irish and international eco-warriors covered a three-year period of court battles and campaigns. The incident described in the book—wherein members of the public helped to stop an early cull—did occur. But though the battle was won, the war itself was lost. In 2000, the protestors were forcibly removed from the site. Thirteen were imprisoned without charge, some for up to two months. The cost of upgrading the small stretch of road was a staggering 85 million euro.7

  The historical speech of the Irish people is a Goidelic Celtic language variously called Gaelic, Irish Gaelic (as opposed to Scots Gaelic), and Erse. In Ireland, it is simply called the Irish language or “Irish.” For over two thousand years, Irish—Old, Middle, and Modern—was the language of Ireland, until the English conquest enforced its near eradication. Today it is the official first language of Eire, the Irish Republic. Recently it has been awarded official status in the Six Counties of Northern Ireland through the Good Friday Agreement.

  As a native language or mother tongue, Irish is found only in a number of small communities called Gaeltachtaí, located chiefly on the west coast of Ireland. Sadly, these communities are declining due to economic factors, reduced rural population, social disintegration, intermarriage with non-native speakers, attrition, and the settling of non-native speakers in the areas. Some estimates put the demise of the Gaeltachtaí within the next few generations, a loss that would be of incalculable magnitude to Irish culture and society. It must be said, however, that native speakers ignore these rumors of their death with characteristic forbearance.

  Meanwhile, the knowledge and use of the Irish language is increasing among the English-speaking population of the island. In the most recent census of 2002 (preliminary results), over a million people in the Republic and 140,000 in Northern Ireland reported having a reasonable proficiency in the language. Census figures for the use of Irish continually increase. Globally, study groups and language classes are popular not only among the Diaspora—those Irish and their descendants who have emigrated throughout the world—but also among non-Irish peoples such as the Japanese, Danish, French, and Germans. In the United States (Na Stáit Aontaithe), Irish language classes are available throughout the country, while the Internet lists countless sites that teach and encourage Irish.

  Back home in Ireland, the grassroots phenomenon of Gaelscoileanna —primary and secondary schools teaching in Irish—is widespread and rapidly growing, despite tacit resistance from successive Irish governments. These schools guarantee new generations of Irish speakers whose second language is fluent Irish. The longstanding Irish-language radio station Raidió na Gaeltachta continues to broadcast from the viewpoint of native speakers, while the new television station Teilifís na Gaeilge (TG4) caters to both native and second-language speakers. Many institutions both private and public support the language, the most venerable being Conradh na Gaeilge (www.cnag.ie).

  There are several dialects within the Irish language which express regional differences among the provinces of Munster, Leinster, Connaught, and Ulster. Also extant is Shelta, the secret language of the Irish Travellers (nomadic people who live in caravan trailers) which weaves Romany words with Irish Gaelic.

  In whatever form, long may the language survive. Gaeilge abú!

  O.R. Melling was born in Ireland and grew up in Toronto with her seven sisters and two brothers. At eighteen, she hitchhiked across Canada to California, seeking adventure. A year later, she was off to Malaysia and Borneo on a youth exchange program. That set her motto for life, “to travel hopefully.” She has a B.A. in Philosophy and Celtic Studies and an M.A. in Medieval Irish History. To date, her books have been translated into Japanese, Chinese, Russian, Czech, and Slovenian. The next book in her Chronicles of Faerie series is The Book of Dreams. She lives in her hometown of Bray, in Ireland, with her teenage daughter, Findabhair. Visit her Web site at www.ormelling.com.

  The print version of this book was designed by Vivian Cheng and Jay Colvin and art directed by Chad W. Beckerman and Becky Terhune. It is set in Horley Old Style MT, a Monotype font designed by the English type designer Robert Norton. The chapter heads are set in Mason, which was created by Jonathan Barnbrook based on ancient Greek and Roman stone carvings.

  ot long after Dana left Faerie, a young woman appeared beside Edane in a flash of light. Her skin was golden, her eyes sky-blue, and her fair hair was crowned with a wreath of red holly. Though she wore the shining raiment of Faerie, she seemed somehow a little more solid than Edane.

  “Your Majesty,” said Edane, greeting her with a slight bow.

  Though Dana’s mother was a queen in her own right and formal courteisie was usually reserved for the Court, still this was Honor, the High Queen of all Faerie.

  “Hi,” said Honor. “At ease or whatever.”

  The two giggled. Honor was not long the High Queen and rarely said or did things properly. This made her very popular with her subjects.

  “So, your daughter was here again? And she still won’t visit me?”

  Edane shrugged. “We spend our days in revelry, then she takes her leave. Her humanity pulls her back to the Earthworld. If I mention going to the Court she always suggests some other diversion. I tried to speak of the matters you mentioned, but it was of no use. I do not fathom her at times and when this happens I think to myself, ‘This must be her mortal side.’”

  “Thirteen is a difficult age,” Honor observed.

  Edane looked perplexed a moment, then her features cleared.

  “Ah, you would know this, being once mortal yourself.”

  Honor sighed. “Puberty. I’m beginning to forget things, but I do remember that. What a nightmare.”

  “She is happy when she is here,” Edane pointed out.

  A slight frown crossed Honor’s face. “That’s what we need to talk about, dear heart. I fear Dana is using Faerie to escape reality.”

  “And what better place to do it!” Edane agreed. “How fortunate she is that she may claim her inheritance.”

  Honor hesitated. She would have to tread carefully. She knew that what she had to say went against the grain, the fairy perspective.

  “I’m worried, Edane,
that coming here so often is not good for Dana. It makes it hard for her to live in the world where she was born.”

  “She is of my blood and my world too,” the other responded. “She is doubly in exile now that she lives i n-ailithre. She longs to return home. Both to Ireland and Faerie.”

  “Life is a journey through a foreign land,” Honor said softly. Like a shining mantle, the wisdom that came with her sovereignty settled over her. “All are exiled from their true Home and ever travel towards it.”

  In the sky, the fairy constellations had begun their evening dance, pirouetting across the heavens in a grand ballet.

  The High Queen linked arms with Edane as they crossed a wide sea, treading the path of moonlight that bridged the water.

  Honor’s voice was low and musical. “Because you are spéirbhean, full silver-blooded, you cannot know how these visits weaken your daughter. The High King and I are very concerned. She comes here to avoid her troubles. She is running away. And even as each act of bravery builds our store of courage, so too does each act of cowardice diminish us. It is important that Dana be strong in both worlds.”

  Edane was trying to listen, but the sky distracted her. A spiral galaxy had wheeled into view, trailing lines of stars behind it. Holding onto the stars, as if onto reins, were two of her sisters. Sky-women also, they rode the lunar wind across the dark sward of night.

  As soon as they spied Edane, the sisters waved wildly.

  Honor could see that she had lost her companion’s attention. A frustrating part of dealing with the Fey Folk! Notoriously flighty, they couldn’t hold the moment, especially if it were a serious one. Only the High King could maintain any gravity for long. Edane was worse than most as she was not of the earth but a Light-Bearer, who fell from the sky. Totally airy-fairy.

  Yet Honor had to get her message through. Someone had to influence Dana, to make her see sense. Honor herself had once been a good friend to the girl, but Dana avoided her now. The one time the High Queen had approached her directly, Dana turned sullen, as only a teenager can. She was obviously angry about something. The trials of growing up? The move to Canada which Honor had endorsed? Somehow, somewhere, Dana had taken a wrong turn, gone down the wrong road, and it was not good, not good at all. Her time was coming and she wasn’t ready.

  “All the portents are strong,” Honor said to Edane, her voice more insistent now. “Soon a great blow will be struck against Faerie. Worse than any in the past. We are unable to see how or from where it will come, but we do know this: Dana is the key to our salvation. Her destiny calls.”

  Honor was wasting her time.

  Steering their starry chariot downward, the sky-women reached out for their sister with elegant arms.

  “I must away!” cried Edane.

  Corybantic laughter filled the air. The sky-women reached out for Honor, too, but she shook her head. However tempting, she didn’t need a mad dash through the cosmos right now. Ruefully she watched as Edane disappeared into the folds of night, along with any hope of convincing her to guide Dana. The High Queen was running out of options.

  Stepping off the moonlit path, Honor headed west across the waters of the fairy sea. She walked through the night and the next day and the next, toward the land where the sun never set. It was an arduous journey because of the doubt that weighed upon her. A threat shadowed the Realm, nameless and terrible. She had to do something. A course of action had suggested itself to her, but was it the right one? How could she know?

  As the light grew brighter, the sea grew warmer. Soft winds breathed the sweet scent of lotus. On the edge of the horizon hung the great golden orb of Faerie’s sun. Honor could see the fiery plains where drakes and salamanders basked like red jewels. Golden peaks spilled hot lava. Solar winds ruffled her hair. She did not have to journey to that burning country, but the place she sought was near.

  The small island floated on the waves, no more than a grassy hillock with a single tall tree. The tree appeared to be in blossom, with a profusion of white flowers, but as Honor drew near she saw the truth. The branches bore neither fruit nor flower, but a great flock of birds. Heads tucked under their wings, fast asleep, they were hushed and pure white like a fall of new snow.

  The soul-birds of Faerie.

  Honor knew that what she was contemplating was an unimaginable risk. To waken the soul-birds was to waken Old Magic, an ancient and mysterious force that existed before the worlds came into being, before the great divide of good and evil. There was no telling what might happen if she woke that power. It was unpredictable. It could not be controlled. The only thing she knew for certain was that it guaranteed change.

  And things had to change. So much was wrong and bound to get worse. All the prophecies and predictions were clear: Faerie’s doom was upon them. It was Dana’s destiny to counter this doom, but she was too weak for the mission. Honor could see that even if her beloved husband, the High King, could not.

  “The rescue of Fairyland is a mortal task,” he kept assuring his wife. “Since the two worlds met, it has always been this way. It is humanity’s charge to fight our battles. They have never let us down.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” she had argued.

  And that was another exasperating thing about the fairies. Their absolute faith in tradition. No one even considered the possibility that humans could fail and the unthinkable could happen: that the Earthworld could lose its hopes and dreams and Faerie, its very existence.

  Compounding Honor’s doubts and fears was the fact that her own twin sister had refused to help. Laurel’s rejection of Faerie was a wound that cut deep, further convincing Honor that the tide was against them.

  The High Queen of Faerie stood at the foot of the tree and gazed at the white birds above her. Having failed to sway Laurel or Dana or even her husband, she was compelled to act alone. A rustling in the branches overhead told her that the birds sensed her presence; but though the feathery bodies quivered, they remained asleep.

  Despite her determination, Honor felt the tremor in her soul. Did she dare such a thing? To tamper with Old Magic?

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she muttered to herself.

  Before she could change her mind, she raised her arms and cried out in full voice.

  “Sleepers awake!”

  Her cry had the same effect as the report of a shotgun. With an explosion of sound, the birds rose in a frenzy. The sky throbbed with the white swell that banked above her. An arabesque of sibilant flight. For one pure second of eternity, the birds hovered in the air, brooding over her with ah! bright wings. Then, in a whirr of wings and wind, they were gone.

  Honor stared at the empty tree, the barren branches, the sky without birds. The deed was done. Only time would tell if it had helped or harmed.

  1Note: this is Old Irish, older than Latin is to modern Italian. As the language has changed and developed over thousands of years, no one knows for certain how it was pronounced!

  2 Verse from “An Phóg” (“The Kiss”), Irish and English by Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin, from her CD Ailleacht (Beauty), Gael Linn CEFCD 187, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.

  3 From “Suantraí dá Mhac Tarbhartha,” by Eoghan Rua Ó Suileabháin, c. 1748—1784, An Leabhair Mór, (The Great Book of Gaelic) (Canongate Books, 2002). Translation by O.R. Melling.

  4 Verses from “Cara Caoin” (“Beloved Friend”), Irish and English by Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin, from her CD Ailleacht (Beauty), Gael Linn CEFCD 187, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.

  5 Verse from “Gleann na nDeor,” (“Valley of Tears”), Irish and English by Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin, from her CD Ailleacht (Beauty), Gael Linn CEFCD 187, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.

  6 Verse from “An Leannán” (“The Beloved”), Irish and English by Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin, from her CD Ailleacht (Beauty), Gael Linn CEFCD 187, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.


  7 Frank McDonald and James Nix, Chaos at the Crossroads, Gandon Press.

  Table of Contents

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