The Accidental Highwayman (37 page)

I wasn't worried, though. After what I'd been through, it seemed to me I could do anything. The trouble was, without Morgana beside me, nothing seemed worth doing.

I didn't much fear discovery. Ireland was a wild place, and the people were isolated and kept to their own folk, so no word of me reached the ears of anyone who might have caused difficulty—although it seemed that everyone for miles around knew me to be that same fellow they had heard was washed ashore.

“Tales,” as the fisherman's wife said, “travel swift and far, for they're light as a feather. It's truth goes slowly, heavy as 'tis.” She didn't know that the tale, in this case,
was
the truth. So it was that I became the “fellow swum ashore with his horse,” and wherever I rode, there was a different version of how it transpired. The Irish love a sad tale better than a happy one, so they dwelt mostly upon the loss of my fair lover to the waves.

So did I. Morgana had told me to get on with my life, but that was a thing easier said than done.

The Irish enjoy only one thing better than a sad story, and that's a sad song, so it wasn't long before I was sitting in a tavern in the company of a short brown ale and heard a lilting melody sung with the following words:

Farewell to thee, cried the maiden of springtime

Farewell to thee, then no more she spake

For the waves they rose up

And the sea overtook her

And over her head did the cold waters break.

Long did he seek with an eye to the ocean

Long did he seek on the stone of the shore

But the sea ne'er gave up

The maiden of springtime

And laughed for to tell him he'd see her no more.

I don't think the singer recognized me, but others must have done, for I hurried out and sorry eyes followed me.

But that very night, something occurred to remind me I hadn't died myself, and might have reason to hope after all. As I was returning to the cottage after a long aimless day, Midnight walking slowly in the gloaming, following his own path, I saw a single light dancing within the hedge beside me, like a spark that wouldn't burn up. There was a greenish cast to it, and a familiar look to the way it flitted about, and excitement was new-kindled in my bosom. I sprang from Midnight's back and bade him wait for me at the stile, then went through a gate. The wee light danced away, teasing me. I followed it, and crossed a dark field to the woods.

I'd hardly entered the deep darkness beneath the boughs when the glowing point of light winked out. It had been a Faerie. I was certain of it.

My heart leapt against my ribs—this was the first I'd seen of the magical people since coming ashore, and I hadn't dared to hope I might encounter them again in my lifetime. This was rather a change from when first I had met Willum and Gruntle and felt nothing but trepidation, for I had come to know the feyín for a fine, brave people, willing to risk everything if they thought it might help a just cause.

I stumbled through the darkness to the heart of the stand of trees, and heard a familiar snuffling sound, as of a hog seeking truffles in the loam. I stopped in my tracks, and ahead saw a shape I took at first to be a stone jutting out of the mossy ground.

“Don't stand there gaping nor a fool,” came a rusty old voice. “Come to me yarms, boyo!”

It was Magda, the old witch, with Demon the bulldog grunting at her side. I embraced her as I would have embraced my own mother, had I ever the opportunity. It was like hugging a handful of sticks, but I was grateful. Demon leapt up and down and yowled with delight, then capered in circles.

“Magda,” I gasped. I was overcome with emotion. “Everything you said—I was a fool not to trust you.”

“And a fool if you did, manling.”

As I clung to the ancient crone, she wept—wept until the scrying stone fell out of her eye socket. I was about to strike a lucifer match to find it when the very leaves seemed to light up around us, filling the trees with a glow like fireflies. But it wasn't fireflies, as those insects are unsuited to Ireland's climate. It was Faeries. A great shimmering song filled the air.

Through the shrubs and bushes wound a footpath, and along this walked a file of feyín, bearing lanterns on tall stalks. These were made from flowers, and gave off a most beautiful light. Behind them came a lean gray wolf, and on the shoulders of the wolf stood a tiny but proud figure, a red-haired feyín woman clad in silver, who reminded me in some way of Morgana.

“Bow to the turf, boyo,” Magda whispered. “'Tis Étain, the Queen of these parts. Cousin to your poor Morgana.”

Morgana! A thousand questions crowded my mind, but I spake none of them, for there was a deep solemnity to the moment.

After the queen upon the wolf there came a file of feyín warriors carrying spears about as long as goose quills, and after them a brace of small bearded gentlemen with goats' legs and sleeved weskits who must have been fawns.

There were some speeches made back and forth between Magda and the Queen, spoken in the Faerie language, which had a ceremonial sound to them; there was some bowing and saluting, which I imitated, to be polite. They had a different attitude toward the Eldritch Law here, and mingling with manlings was not entirely forbidden, so I was not regarded with any special concern. Then the Queen turned her face to me and spake at some length. She did not speak English, so Magda translated into her own manner of gibberish, which I could more or less understand.

The matter of it was this: The Free Faerie People thanked me for my assistance, which was of immense value in their defense of independence; I was to be celebrated this night.

“A shindig nor yer honor,” was how Magda expressed it.

The Faeries would have come to me sooner, she translated, but had lost track of me once I came ashore—although every bee in Ireland had borne a description of me far and wide. But as I was too near the sea for the feyín, and too far for the sea sprites, I'd gone undetected.

“What tole 'em where you was to be found?” Magda said. “A pixie o'erheard a terrible targic song nor the local pub, she did. What sounded a deal like yer own sad tale. Thus they found 'ee.”

I rushed through whatever words of thanks I could invent in my overexcited brains, then blurted to Magda: “Has anyone here heard what happened to Morgana—is she alive? Did she suffer and drown, or retreat to the Realm Between? I beg you, end my suffering ignorance!”

Magda shook her head.

“You manlings and your impatience! Ye lives so short a life, yet 'ee always be in a hurry ter get t' the end. Patience, young rake-hell.”

I wasn't at all reassured by that, but in one way Magda had reminded me of something important: There was no hurry. If Morgana had slipped away to another realm, or perished in the sea, what difference if I knew of it today, tomorrow, or threescore years hence? With a sort of weary resignation, I bent my attention to the magical doings before me and tried to make myself a gracious guest.

Beneath the trees that night the feyín held a great feast, a hundred times the revel I'd participated in with Willum and his associates back in England. There was a bonfire of green and blue and white flame, these being the fire-colors of the respective bloodlines present (or so I was told). There was a great circle of flat stones around the fire; upon them the guests dined, or sat, or danced. The male feyín's hats were decorated charmingly with knotted flowers and leaves; the females had flowers plaited in their hair.

There were other species besides. I saw fauns, pixies green and blue, stout little people I took for dwarfs or leprechauns, and others I knew not: Foxes that walked upon their hind legs, toads with side-whiskers and jeweled brows, and ant-size folk who rode about on the backs of beetles, among others. Strange eyes winked green and yellow and blue beyond the circle of the firelight; who looked through them, I do not know. Perhaps they were things unfit for human sight.

I ate from tiny dishes that overflowed with food no matter how much was consumed, and knew hardly anything I ate. The dishes obviously made from insects I politely declined, although I'm fairly certain I consumed a cunningly garnished dragonfly. A delicious drink, served in the cups of bluebell flowers—far more delicate than glump—was served in tremendous quantities.
*
Bluebells are poisonous, but the poison in these had been somehow enchanted so that it had a merry effect on the feyín. I did not feel it; still, it quenched my thirst nicely, if only a very little at a time.

There were orations in several tongues by the feyín chieftains present. Then Magda screeched out an emphatic speech (in Gaelic, I believe) that was met with ferocious yells of approval, distinctly warlike. Then Queen Étain bade silence, and stood before the fire and addressed the entire company. The roaring blaze died down to a flicker while she spoke, as if a lid had been placed over it, so that she could be seen by everyone around the circle.

What she said, I cannot tell, for only a few words in English met my ear, but I heard my own name repeated several times, and Morgana's, and Midnight's, and others who had been a part of the adventure. I thought as well that I heard a phrase once spoken by my dying master, which I had taken at the time for delirious nonsense. As she spoke, more and more pairs of eyes were turned my way, until I was dreadfully self-conscious. At last her tale was done, and three rousing cheers rang into the boughs.

I was instructed to advance and kneel before the tiny queen, straight through the fire.

“Garn wi' ye, boyo!” Magda cackled. “It ain't a mantigorn!”

I passed through the flames. The fire didn't burn, but crackled and pricked upon me like a very dry blanket will do when rubbed against itself. Upon the far side of the blaze, I bent on one knee. The Queen fluttered up higher than my head and delivered another speech, which sounded very formal. Thus was I awarded the Silver Bough and Acorns, apparently a mark of considerable distinction. It entitled feyín and other magical creatures to interact with me without restriction wherever I went, although I was but a manling. It also came with a sort of pension (paid all in silver on the full moon, naturally), and a pretty little pin of leaves and acorns to fix upon my lapel.

This last item was applied by a feyín girl, the first child I'd seen among them. She was the size of a chickadee and covered in downy fur. Her wings beat so fast I couldn't see them. I wondered if Morgana had been covered with fur when she was a child.

The ceremonial part of the evening had ended. I returned to my place, and the large, lean wolf sat down beside me; it seemed to be a friend of Demon, for they touched noses. Midnight was led into the circle of light by a couple of feyín who guided him by the ears; I have no idea what he made of the scene. His mane was braided through and through with wildflowers, and friendly pixies took turns alighting on his underlip to feed him bits of honeycomb.

There was much cheering and shouting and diving through the air. Then a command rang out and dozens of the flying sort took to the air at once. They commenced a Faerie dance that took place upon the wing, the dancers bowing and whirling in the air like cherry blossoms pinwheeling in a capricious breeze; the music was at once absurd and moving, played on strange instruments, tiny strings and woodwinds and silver horns.

The fire leapt up again, and daredevils took turns flying through the upper reaches of it, scorching their wings to uproarious applause. A flight of Faerie maidens draped garlands of flowers around my neck, and blew sparkling pink kisses at me from a modest distance (the acceptable form of kissing among their unmarried people). The revelry went on for hours, with Madga, the chieftains, and the Queen in long counsel together, and various dignitaries offering their regards to me. Songs were sung, including the sad song I'd heard in the tavern; it was rendered in English, and ran to many increasingly fantastical verses. It struck me with melancholy, which I did my best to conceal.

Demon had long since fallen asleep in my lap, snoring with tremendous force. Despite the wonders all around me, after countless rounds of bluebell liqueur, I joined him in slumber where I sat.

 

Chapter 38

WORD FROM ABROAD

M
Y LIFE
settled into a small routine. I once offered to help the fisherman, as much for something to do as to be useful to my kind host. I was useless—besides the seasickness that overcame me in the tossing boat, my eyes were bent continuously upon the waves, as if I might spy my love paddling about with the fishes. We were not even in the same part of the water where I'd lost her, but in a bay several miles distant. I may have reduced his catch by 20 per cent that day.

I also assisted his wife, with better results, for all she required was sweeping and scrubbing, at which activities I was adept due to cleaning up the Manse once or twice a month.