by Jim Ware
There was nothing under the altar. Nothing but a hole. A smooth-sided rectangular hole in the stone pavement. A hole about four feet long and two feet wide.
Morgan vaulted over the railing and ran straight out the back door of the church.
“Come back when you have more time,” smiled the clerk at the counter as he rushed breathlessly through the Mission gift shop and out into the street.
Though the gray sky was far from dark, it seemed to Morgan that the shadows had deepened during his time inside the Mission. They looked especially dense just below a large elm that stood opposite the Mission on the far side of the road. With one eye on this strange patch of blackness, he grabbed his bike and pulled it away from the wall.
“Hsst! Young mister!”
Morgan started violently and nearly dropped the bike. “You again!” he cried, his heart thumping as Eochy, eyes shining and hands twitching nervously, emerged from the gloom beneath the vine-covered porch. “Why are you stalking me?”
“It is what I’ve been waiting to tell you,” said the little man. “Are you not noticing that great clumpish creature over there”—he pointed to the shadow across the street—“and you all alone, and the night coming on?”
Morgan peered closely at the dark spot beneath the tree. As he did, he had the impression that it was slowly taking on a more definite shape: a massive body with powerful arms and legs and a small round head set low between wide, bulky shoulders.
“Is that Falor?” he asked. “Your friend from Madame Medea’s?”
“Falor it is but no friend of mine. He is not sent on friendly business.”
Morgan swung onto his bike. “What do you mean? Didn’t he come with you?”
“That he did not. And a sorry thing it would be, him to see me here and speaking with you like this. True it is we serve the same mistress. But then some serve willingly and others not. Others only seem to serve—for reasons of their own.”
“Well, that’s interesting, but I have to go now. So please stop bothering me. When I have some information for your boss I’ll let her know.”
He put his foot to the pedal and prepared to push off. But Eochy reached out and took hold of his arm.
“That you must not do,” he said. “Twice have I said it, you not heeding at all. Now I say it again: You’re best out of this altogether.”
Morgan shook him off. “When I want your advice I’ll ask for it,” he said.
With that, he rode off into the gathering twilight, laughing under his breath at the little man’s wheezy voice and comical warnings. He couldn’t help laughing right out loud when he imagined the bent and balding figure tracking him through the streets of Santa Piedra, chasing him across the Mission courtyard, and following him into the basilica. He must be crazy.
He was about to laugh again when a curiously cold and knife-edged wind ruffled his hair and made him tremble. A great black bird swept over his shoulder and went soaring on ahead like the vanguard and herald of the coming night. An inexplicable chill fell over him, a nameless dread like an all-engulfing cloud, and he found himself shivering uncontrollably. Leaning forward on the handlebars, he shifted gears and began to pedal faster.
As he rode on, he was increasingly possessed by the feeling that he was being followed. When he reached the corner of Compostela and Mission he twisted in his seat and looked back. There, not a hundred feet away, was the gigantic form of Falor, pounding down the road after him like a pile driver with great wide-flung, ground-devouring strides of his immense tree-trunklike legs. Morgan felt as if an icy lump of lead had dropped into his heart. He bit his lip and bent into the wind, racing downhill with all his might toward the distant shining sea.
At Front Street he swung to the right and put on a burst of speed. After making the turn, he glanced back over his shoulder. Falor appeared to be gaining on him—either that, or the big man was actually growing larger at every step. That’s impossible! he thought as he zipped past Alta Drive and Vista Del Mar, the shops and house-fronts swirling by in a multicolored blur. His legs were aching and his lungs burning, but he could not stop and dared not take the direct route home. He had to find some way to evade this relentless pursuer!
Beyond the business district, Front Street curved westward and veered closer to the pebble-strewn, wave-swept beach. On the left hand heaved the long gray swells of the Inlet. On the right glittered the windows of the houses on Vizcaino Hill above Iglesia Street. Through the mist and the sweat in his eyes he could just make out, at the far end of the crescent shoreline, the whirling lights of the Fun Zone Ferris wheel and the warm glow of the restaurants on Fisherman’s Wharf. One more time he turned in the saddle. Falor was even closer now—or bigger—looming like a thundercloud just above Morgan’s head. He could see the ugly grimace on his heavy face and the red gleam in his burning left eye. He could hear the shattering thuds of his jackhammer feet upon the quaking asphalt. He almost fancied he could feel his hot breath on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and shifted into high gear.
With the scent of sand and brine and kelp in his nostrils, Morgan flew like the wind past clanging bells and private docks, past rocking boats and swinging masts, past rocks and gulls and rusted huts, past sea lions barking in the darkness under the barnacle-encrusted pier. At last he came to the Fun Zone Midway, where the air was redolent with funnel cakes and kettle corn and cotton candy. Ditching his bike alongside the railing, he dived into a crowd of children who were waiting in line to ride the Ferris wheel. Without ceremony or apology he ducked down behind a couple of little girls who were busy slurping snow cones.
Looking up from this place of refuge, he could just see Falor hunkering down in the shadows beyond the carousel and the bumper cars, cowering before the light and the probing eyes of the children. As he watched, hardly daring to breathe, the great shape shuddered and shook itself. Then it got up and began moving away, diminishing in size as it went. In a few moments it was gone. Though he strained his eyes, Morgan could see nothing but the vague outline of something like a small black cat disappearing into the distance or sinking into the ground. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and collapsed in a heap.
“No cuts in line,” said one of the snow-cone girls.
It was beginning to get dark when Morgan finally reached the duplex. Weary and shaken, he walked his bicycle up the steep sidewalk and leaned it against the side of the house. Then, with a bleary-eyed glance at the lighted tower of St. Halistan’s, he shouldered his backpack and stumbled up the steps. Fumbling in his pocket for the key, he stepped forward into the shadows, groping for the door. Then he stopped and stared, stunned by what he saw.
There on the doorstep in front of him stood Eny, dressed in rags and dripping from head to toe.
Chapter Twenty
Oisin
Before Morgan could think of anything to say, the left-hand door opened, and Moira peered out.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed, squinting at them through the screen. “Where in the world have you two been? Your supper will be ice cold by now! I could have kept it hot on the stove, but how was I supposed to know when you might show up? I didn’t want it to burn to a crisp!”
“Sorry, Mrs. A,” Morgan said sheepishly. “I guess I lost track of the time.”
“I guess so! And look at you! You’re an absolute mess. Covered with grime and grease and sweat—like you’ve been in a fight or a football game or a high-speed chase or something! What would your mother say? And you, Eny! Did you decide to go for an after-school swim? In a burlap sack? What happened to your clothes?”
Eny shook her head wearily and ran her fingers through her streaming hair. There was a haggard look on her face, and she stumbled slightly when she took a step toward the door. “I can explain, Mom,” she said in a small, quavering voice. “But you’ve got to promise to believe me.”
Morgan gl
anced at Moira. He saw her forehead pucker as the expression on her face shifted suddenly from one of irritation to alarm. When he looked back at Eny, his heart was struck with something like a shock of cold dread. Never had his friend appeared so thin and worn and sad. Even in the half-light he could tell that her olive-brown face was colorless and wan, as if all the blood had been drained out of it. Except for her one blue eye, which gleamed like the evening star in a winter sky, all the fire had gone out of her normally radiant countenance. She took another step, then stopped and lightly touched her forehead, swaying uncertainly. Morgan put out a hand to steady her. Moira banged the screen door open and rushed out onto the porch.
“Help me get her inside, Morgan,” she said, catching Eny before she could fall, and supporting her on her arm. “Over there, on the couch. I’ll have George call the police!”
“No!” protested Eny. “Please don’t do that! All I need is a blanket and something to eat and drink. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Moira hustled out to the kitchen and put their dinners into the oven to warm. Then she came back and carried Eny straight to the bathroom for a hot shower and a change of clothes. Within half an hour they were all three together again in the living room, Morgan wolfing down macaroni and cheese at the coffee table, Eny sipping chamomile tea on the sofa, Moira hovering over them like an agitated mother hen. Moira came and laid a hand on her daughter’s forehead.
“You don’t feel feverish,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Thank heaven for that! I was worried when you didn’t show up for supper, but when I saw you looking like that on the doorstep—! Well, that really gave me a scare! You kids just don’t know what you put your moms through sometimes! Can you tell me yet what happened?”
Eny put down her cup and looked straight into her mother’s eyes. Morgan saw her bottom lip began to quiver. But instead of crying, she sat up straight, lifted her chin, and spoke in a strong, steady voice. “Mom,” she said, “I know it’s going to sound crazy. And I know you must have been worried sick, and I’m really, really sorry about that. I was afraid you might have given up on me by now, but there was nothing I could do! I was in the Sidhe!”
What happened next was like nothing Morgan had ever witnessed between parent and child before. Moira didn’t become angry. She didn’t shout at Eny or tell her to stop lying. She didn’t demand a serious explanation. She didn’t even appear to be anxious about the girl’s sanity or health. Instead, a strange sort of light dawned in her hazel eyes, and a faint smile played around the corners of her mouth. She smoothed back her wild auburn hair and laid her glasses on the coffee table. Then she drew a footstool up to the couch and sat down facing her daughter.
“The Sidhe,” she said. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes,” said Eny. “That’s what you call the Irish fairyland, isn’t it? In your stories, I mean?”
“Of course. But you’re telling me that you went there?”
“Yes. That’s why I was gone so long. For weeks and weeks!”
Morgan gaped at Eny in surprise. He’d seen her just yesterday playing fiddle with Simon Brach in the church. But Moira merely leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands. “What was it like?” she said.
“Lovely in most ways. Absolutely beautiful! I heard music, and that led me down to the Cave of the Hands. Then I found a tunnel and followed it a long way into the earth. After that I fell into a sea of light and woke up on the shore of a green ocean. I learned a lot about the people you call Danaans—”
“You did?” breathed Moira.
“Yes, and I met some other people, too, people you never told me about. The Fir Bolg. They rescued me and helped me. They gave me the clothes I was wearing. They took care of me and protected me.”
“Protected you? From what?”
“That’s the most important part!” said Eny, shaking with excitement. “I was chased by giants!”
Morgan froze in the middle of a bite and dropped his fork.
“There was this terrible, evil woman called the Morrigu, and she wanted to get her hands on me, so she sent the Fomorians—that’s what the giants are called—to hunt me down. Sometimes she’s young and slender and dark and beautiful, but other times she looks like an ugly old hag. She has this crow, and the crow goes out on all her errands—”
Morgan swallowed hard, almost choking on his food.
“—and she keeps prisoners—people from the world aboveground—in a tower on an island. She seems to think I’m somebody called Eithne.”
Moira’s smile faded, and a cloud darkened her face. “I named you after her,” she said softly. “It just so happens that I know a bit about the Morrigu too. ‘The Battle Crow’ she’s called in some of the tales. Very subtle and very dangerous. She can assume many different guises.”
“I know! I know!” cried Eny. “It was horrible what she did! Gann and Erc were drowned, and the village was destroyed, and I’m not sure what happened to Rury!” Again her lip trembled, and she slumped down into the cushions of the couch, pulling the blanket up under her chin. Morgan could see tears welling up at the corners of her eyes. “I would have given anything to get home if only I’d known how,” she went on after a moment, “but there was nothing I could do. Then one day I was out on the ocean and I fell down into a huge whirlpool and … and … well, I can’t explain how, but here I am! And I’m so, so sorry for being gone such a long, long time!”
Moira bent forward and kissed Eny on the forehead. “The important thing is that you’re home,” she said, stroking her hair. “That’s all that matters now. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the most marvelous and miraculous thing of all!”
Morgan’s mind was reeling. Crazy as Eny’s narrative sounded, it had undeniable affinities with some of his own experiences of late. What’s more, Moira seemed to believe it. To a certain extent, he could understand her reaction. Eny was no liar. During all the years of their lifelong friendship he had never known her to tell so much as a little white fib. She was as faithful as the day was long: honest, pure-hearted, and trustworthy in everything she said or did. She could be dreamy and imaginative, it was true, but never once had she tried to deceive him. In fact, she came as close to being the perfect friend as anybody he’d ever known or even heard of. Why wouldn’t a mother believe a daughter like that?
He had doubted her, of course, when she told him about the giant in the mist and the old woman down by the tide pools. But that was only reasonable. At the time, anyway. Since then, things had happened that cast a whole new light on certain details of her story. He shivered as he thought about Falor and the frantic chase down Front Street. Maybe there was something in what she was saying after all. But fairyland? That part he couldn’t believe. He didn’t want to believe it.
He had his reasons.
“Excuse me, Mrs. A,” he said, tapping Moira on the shoulder, “but nobody’s been gone for weeks and weeks. Eny just missed dinner—that’s all. Like me! She’s probably been playing around down at La Punta Lira, right? She’s always playing around down there.”
Moira regarded him solemnly. “The time element is the very thing that makes Eny’s story so believable.”
Morgan felt as if his head was about to explode. “What are you talking about?”
“Eny says she’s been in the Sidhe,” Moira explained. “In Faery. Now in all the tales I’ve ever heard, time in Faery is completely different from time in our world. That’s one of the reasons it’s so perilous to go there. You never know how the air of that land will affect you. A thousand years on one side of the divide can be like a single day on the other, and a single day like a thousand years. It works both ways, and there isn’t any rhyme or reason to it. That’s why people who stumble into the Sidhe from the land aboveground hardly ever return. If they do come back, there’s no telling when they’ll come back or what they’ll find when they arrive. You rem
ember Rip Van Winkle? Well, there have been others like him. I’m thinking of one very famous case in particular. An Irish hero named Oisin.”
Morgan saw Eny sit up straight on the sofa. He himself had an idea what was coming, so he pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. Moira folded her hands in her lap, as she often did when preparing to tell a story.
“Oisin was the son of the chieftain Fionn MacCumhail,” she began. “His birth and lineage were uncanny and miraculous, for his mother was one of the people of the Sidhe. But that’s a subject for another time. My tale begins when he was a young man still in the bloom of youth—a warrior and poet of great renown in Ireland.
“One summer morning Oisin went hunting by the shores of Lough Lena with his father, Fionn, and his father’s men, a band of bold heroes known as the Fianna. Searching about for game, Fionn became aware of a dark spot in the fog. As he watched, this shadow came closer and took on the form of an approaching rider. Then a window opened in the haze and a bright figure emerged: a lovely golden-haired maiden on a tall white horse. Her dress was white and her belt green. Her four-folded cloak was dark brown, fastened at the shoulder with a gem-studded brooch, and embroidered from top to bottom with silver stars. On her head she wore a circlet of gleaming gold, and in her hand she held a blossoming hawthorn branch. Straight up to the Fianna she rode without flinching or blinking an eye. She stopped in front of Fionn and bowed her head in greeting.
“‘Do you know who I am, Fionn son of Cumhail?’ she asked.
“‘And how should I be knowing that?’ answered Fionn.
“‘I am Niamh of the Golden Hair, daughter of the king of Tir-Na-nOg, the Land of Youth which is in the Green Isle of the West. I have come a long way to find you.’