Faery Tale (26 page)

That's how we found ourselves on a bus to the tiny town of Ros a' Mhíl and from there on a ferry to the Aran Islands. I rode out on the upper deck with Peter in the biting wind as the boat slammed up and down against huge swells in the Irish Sea.

“You've heard of the Tuatha Dé Danann?” Peter asked over the crashing of boat against water.

“Yes, absolutely.” I shouted to be heard over the wind and waves.

“Well, there's a middle Irish text called
The Book of Invasions
, that was recorded first in the eleventh century, but its origins are thought to be oral, and far earlier.”

I nodded enthusiastically. It was so exciting to meet somebody on the same page.

“In
Leabhar Gabhála Éireann
, as we call it in Irish, it recounts the five conquerings of Ireland.”

“Yes,” I said. “As I understand it, the first four of these conquerings technically would have occurred in prehistory, is that right? The only timeline, as far as I can figure, is that of the Milesians. That was the fifth and final conquering, and it must have taken place, since they are said to be the ancestors of the modern-day Celts, well, that must have taken place around the Bronze Age, if not far, far earlier.”

“Perhaps. It's important to remember,” Peter said, gripping the railing of the boat as it pitched through the turbulent water, “that
The Book of Invasions
, no matter how seriously some take it, is in fact considered to be a fictional text.” I felt like Peter and I had suddenly landed in
The Da Vinci Code
of the ancient Celts, figuring out a history that had been so long forgotten.

“Right,” I said. “Okay.”

“So the fourth conquering of Ireland occurred in what you would call prehistory, and it can't really be dated. During that invasion, the Tuatha Dé Danann over took Ireland from the monstrous Fir Bolgs. The Tuatha had magical powers, and they pushed the evil Fir Bolgs out of Ireland, all the way out to the Aran Islands. Their final battle, it is said, was at Dún Aonghasa. At Dún Aengus, as we call it in English, the Tuatha battled the Fir Bolgs to the edge of the cliffs where they were forced to choose: they could turn and fight the Tuatha, or leap to their certain deaths in the sea, hundreds of feet below.”

“And that's where you're taking us?”

“Yes.” He smiled shyly. “That's where I'm taking you.”

I'd done some research on Dún Aengus the night before we left.The name meant “Fort of Aonghas” and referred to the Celtic god Aengus, yet another member of the Tuatha Dé Danann—he was the son of the major deity Dagda. Built on a towering cliff that overlooked the sea, the date of the fort has been largely contested. It was the first fort I'd see, and I didn't really know what to expect. Inishmore, the home of Dún Aengus, was the biggest of the three Aran Islands, laid out in the Irish Sea like a short strand of pearls. The islands, I'd read, were isolated enough that they remained untouched by tourism for longer than one would have expected. At the turn of the twentieth century, few of the inhabitants even troubled with English at all. Tourism had since crept in, and the islands had been overtaken by the rest of the world. Peter warned me that I wasn't likely to get much from these folks about the faeries. He'd spent long winter weeks here, nearly months, on the smaller islands, and even then the locals had parted with very little folklore. But I didn't mind the challenge.

The island was a mass of green, cut only by gray stone and sandy beach. White cottages with thatched roofs stood stark against the clean landscape. After a short van ride, we walked a gently sloping path uphill and found ourselves suddenly at the foot of the fort. The ancient stone towered above our heads, monstrous, imposing, impenetrable from the outside, bolstered by thick stone buttresses. It was protected by four rings of what must have been, in ancient times, towering walls of stone. To conquer one would be to greet another. There would have been lethal, jagged stones set between the third and fourth walls, an excellent way to slow the enemy before they'd even reached the third line of defense.

On the interior of the fort a huge rectangular slab had been found, larger than any of its kind found in prehistoric ruins. This led some scholars to believe that Dún Aengus had a particular sacred, ceremonial use. With its breathtaking views, it wasn't hard to believe. I walked to the edge of the cliff as if pulled. Could this have been where the Fir Bolgs and the Tuatha truly had their last stand? I leaned over the edge to see the writhing waters of the sea nearly three hundred fifty feet below. It was captivating, the power thrumming there—the sun, the height, the Irish Sea expanding for eternity before me, the heavens crashing over the windswept fort. I felt . . . at home. And yet nothing here was familiar. I sat at the cliff's edge for what seemed like an eternity, dangling my feet over the edge of the chiseled rock. When it was built, the fort was several hundred meters from the cliff's edge, but since then, the frothing sea had swallowed nearly half of the original construction. All that history, reclaimed by nature.

We headed back down the hill to grab some lunch, and I noticed a miniature house, larger than a dollhouse, smaller than a playhouse, situated in the corner of a small field. “What the . . .”

“Maybe it's a faery house, Sig!” Liz called. “Want me to take your picture by it?”

“Sure!” I tossed her my camera.

Below the fort, cattle were grazing, and below the grazing fields, just above the museum, I spotted some moss-covered trees just over the stone wall. Stephanie and I peeked over the wall, looking down onto the wild grasses beneath the trees. Perfect territory for faeries. Under their tight canopy the sunlight filtered through in delicate patterns, and the leaves whispered in the wind.

Just as we were about to turn off the gravel path to head into the museum, a rounded stone ruin pulled me to it.

“Wonder what this was . . .” I murmured aloud, stepping into the high grass to investigate.

“It looks like a cattle well,” Peter said, coming up behind me.

“Sig, we're going to head inside,” Liz called.

“Okay. Coming.” I shook my head in confusion.

Inside we read up on Dún Aengus. My favorite museum board was a re-created drawing of the stone altar, with an image of gracefully robed figures standing on it, facing the sea, their arms raised to the sky above.
Druids
. On our way out the door I stopped in front of the admission desk.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked kindly.

“Yes, thanks. I just had a question, actually. I noticed that well outside. Do you know the story behind it?”

She smiled. “Yes, people do ask about that well from time to time. It's a very, very old well. I've always wondered if it didn't have a connection with the fort. Maybe some sort of old holy well. But now it's just used for the cows.”

“Thank you.” I smiled.That was weird. How had I known? I thought of Charlotte.
There's knowing something with your head, and knowing something with your heart.

We stopped into a tourist shop where they sold Leprechauns in a Can for six euro fifty, complete with a lock and key, and then spent the rest of the afternoon driving around the island in the van, visiting ruined churches that overlooked the sea. When I asked our tour guide about the wee house we saw, he informed me that it was a leprechaun house.

“Really?” I balked. He pointed out a few more as we were driving.

“And why do you think people put these out?”

“Oh, you know, for the tourists, mostly.”

Well, gee. That was disappointing. We stopped on the beach for a photo, and I stooped down to collect a few pretty shells. With that, our tour was over. The ocean swells had picked up while we were gallivanting so the ride back across to the mainland was rough. I'd gone to Inishmore looking for faeries, and I'd come back with a memorable visit to an ancient fort and a pocketful of shells.

One thing was certain. If the tour guide
had
known anything, he certainly wasn't going to share it with a day-tripper. I would have needed at
least
a week completely alone on Inishmore if I was going to have the slightest chance at cracking its code. Peter kindly assured me he didn't think I'd get anything at all, no matter how long I stayed. People didn't believe anymore. And if I was lucky enough to find someone who did, they'd never discuss such things with a tourist.

The girls and I had a fabulous time in Galway over those three days. We had lavish dinners out, went shopping, and spent the evenings laughing, dancing, and listening to music in the pubs. The problem was, even though Liz and Steph had paid for our hotel room, which was amazing, this lifestyle wasn't in my budget. I was running out of money, fast—damn exchange rate. Plus, everything in Ireland was twice as expensive as it had been on the Isle of Man. On the fourth day we were supposed to leave by train to Dublin, and then travel up north to Belfast and beyond.

Who could blame my New York girls for not wanting to stay in hostels on the remainder of the trip? Hostels weren't exactly luxury accommodation. But the morning we were supposed to leave, my stomach was in knots. We tried to figure out some way to compromise, we nickel-and-dimed the costs, again and again, adding them up. Just to travel another three days with them would mean parting with at least three hundred euro when all was said and done. That was four hundred fifty dollars. I couldn't go. I felt wretched having to abandon the rest of my time with them, but I had to get real. I had no job, no income. That was my choice. And now I had to deal with it.

The girls left, and I returned to the hostel, where cold pasta awaited me.

As I lay tucked in bed, listening to the peaceful breathing of my fellow bunkmates that night, I wondered if what Peter had said was true. Had the faery faith completely fled Ireland? Since my arrival here, I'd been “woman about town,” striking up conversations with pub goers, taxi drivers, hotel receptionists, waiters. And so far, at the mere mention of faeries, people in Ireland looked at me as if I were bat-shit crazy.

“Do I believe in faeries?” they'd echo. But the answer was definitive. “Ahh . . .
No
.”

Still, I refused to give up hope. The faeries would lead me in the right direction, help me find the right people to talk to.

All I had to do was believe.

I
HAD allowed a little over three weeks in Ireland, and my sister, Kirsten, was coming to keep me company for two. An experienced hiker, with her I could safely venture into the wilds of Ireland with no concerns for my safety.

We were raised by the same father, suffered just as much in the outdoors at his hands. There were the cross-country ski trips in the Adirondack Mountains on a six-inch-wide ski track, boulders and trees on one side of us, a five-hundred-foot drop on the other. There were the camping trips with nothing to eat but ramen noodles and rancid, freeze-dried beef stroganoff. Although, thinking back, she
had
missed the time Dad and I climbed the fourteen-thousand-foot Grand Teton in Wyoming, reaching the top only to discover Dad hadn't brought a long enough rope to get us back down. We had different reactions to our outdoor childhood traumas. In college, Kirsten dove into the outdoors with even more vigor—she became a Wilderness Reflections Guide at Cornell, taking groups of freshmen in the wilderness. She spent a summer in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. She joined the Peace Corps and roughed it in the Ivory Coast. It was during all these adventures in the outdoors that she became known simply as KP, and the name had stuck.

I graduated college and moved to Manhattan.

For our Irish faery-hunting adventure, we decided to wing it. Kirsten would drive, and I would navigate—wherever the faeries wanted to lead. KP, I should divulge, is not a believer in faeries. Or angels, or God, or life after death, or ghosts. But she wanted to be a supportive sister, and she was willing, for my benefit, to keep an open mind during our time together.

The morning of her arrival I was sick with excitement. I hadn't seen KP since Christmas, now that she and her husband were living across the country in Seattle. I waited inside, then outside. Inside, then outside. I checked my watch fifteen thousand times. Finally I spotted her turning the corner carrying a huge pack with a rolling duffel in tow. She'd brought a tent and an extra sleeping pad for me. Her ash blond hair pulled into two low pigtails, she was wearing her favorite jeans with a wide brown leather belt and a bright yellow cardigan. Our faces split into smiles at the same time and we ran to each other, nearly knocking each other over. People on the street stopped and stared. They could kiss my ass. KP was in Ireland!

There are three things about caring for the KP that must be done, or, I'd learned the hard way, I would be very, very sorry. I'd come to think of it as a survival manual of sorts.

1. You must always feed the KP
before
she got too hungry. Otherwise, it was bad.

2. You must always let the KP go to sleep when she was tired. Otherwise, she would fall asleep wherever she happened to be. Bartenders, particularly, tended not to like this.They just never understood that she could have zero drinks or five, and the result would be the same: a sleeping KP.

3. You must exercise the KP every single day. Do not miss taking your KP for at least one very long walk each day, or you will have a
very
grumpy KP on your hands. And the grumpy KP is no fun. No fun at all.