The Hunter's Moon (14 page)

She looked back through the gatehouse at the silhouette of Boyle. The town was veiled as if by heat waves. The brick buildings kept fading in and out, to be replaced by huts of wattle and daub. Carts pulled by donkeys moved through the traffic, while people in rough homespun mingled with the present-day crowds.

“What’s happening to me?”

Even the question wavered in her mind. She felt like a ghost herself, pale and insubstantial. Not quite there, not quite anywhere. The languor was difficult to fight, being strangely pleasant. Like the gentle persistence of much-needed sleep, it nudged her to surrender. She sat down beneath a yew tree at the heart of the cloister. Though she couldn’t recall seeing it when she first entered, the tree welcomed her into its shady embrace. The red bark was cool at her back, the scent of leaves was soothing, and the hum of bees in the warm foliage was like a lullaby. She was glad to be out of the sun. It was a good spot for a nap. Closing her eyes, she slumped into a doze.

Only to be roughly shaken awake.

“Get thee hence, maiden!” the young monk urged. “If one of the
Manaigh Liath
even touches thee, thou wilt be trapped in this time!”

“
What?
”

She was up in an instant. The warning was enough to galvanize her, but the shock of what she saw took a moment to sink in. Parts of the monastery were fully restored. The wooden beams of a slate-shingled roof covered nave and aisle. A choir of male voices echoed from the church. The scent of frankincense wafted from the chancel. The rest of the buildings were still in ruins. Gwen’s heart skipped a beat as she grasped the situation. Like a titanic ship sinking into the ocean, the monastery was slipping back through time. If she didn’t escape, she would slip back with it!

Now the abbot himself stepped out of the rectory and spied her. He started to shout and gesticulate.

From every quarter Gray Monks came running. They, too, were shouting and pointing at her. Terrified, Gwen looked for an exit. The gatehouse was halfway into the past. A group of monks stood near it. She ran instead to a large walled area that was still in her own time. Used for storing broken pieces of stone—arches, cornices, tombstones, and baptismal fonts—it was like a hall of bleached bones. She crouched behind a slab of granite.
What to do? What to do?

She didn’t want to be trapped in the past! Living out her life in the wrong time and place. Though she didn’t know much about the Middle Ages, she suspected it wasn’t the best time to be female. Getting caught in a monastery could only make matters worse. She’d be in terrible trouble. What if they put her in prison? Would she be flogged? Wasn’t this the time they burned women as witches?

The dark thoughts scurried through her mind like rats, even as warning bells tolled throughout the cloister. Everywhere she looked, monks were scouring the buildings, searching for her. A few ran past, but they couldn’t see her. Not yet. But it wouldn’t be long before they did. The past was seeping closer, like waves lapping at the shore. Soon the tide would come in. Soon it would drown her.

Gwen kept an anguished watch on the gatehouse. Only a portion was left in the present. Barely enough for her to squeeze through. She would have to move soon before it was too late.

There was a moment when her will failed her. She dreaded leaving the safety of her hiding place. Her legs went weak.
I can’t do it, I can’t
. Then something caught her eye. A shattered tombstone. It had originally been engraved with a full-length figure but only a small piece remained, a section of torso along with the head. Though the relief was worn down, it was still discernible. A woman with curly hair like snakes. Medusa? Peering closer, Gwen’s blood ran cold. The carved face was a mirror of her own! She suddenly knew. If she didn’t go now she would die there, far away in the past.

Terror spurred her on.

So, too, the clamor that erupted as soon as she ran across the cloister. The gatehouse seemed miles away. Could she make it? She was no athlete and hardly fit. They were closing in on her. She could hear the thump of sandaled feet and the rasp of coarse breaths around her. She was almost there. She had reached the gatehouse. Only a few steps …

No!

The monk lurking in the shadows stepped out to confront her. He was like the Grim Reaper with his face lost in a gray cowl. Her heart sank. The others were shouting at him to grab her. She didn’t stop. Feinting to the right to throw him off guard, she made a dash to the left. It almost worked. But he recovered too fast. His hand shot out. She yelled as he gripped her. Despite her kicks and screams, he held on tight.

Then he hauled her through the gatehouse, across the threshold of the monastery.

As soon as they passed through the gates, the noise of pursuit ended. It was as if a door had slammed shut behind them. Now the monk released her. In their scuffle, his hood had fallen back. Sunlight glinted on the red-gold hair.

“Midir!”

Gasping with relief, she almost wept as she thanked him.

“Do not tarry here,” he said quickly, “lest the portal open again. Flee from this place, as far as you can.”

There was no need for urging. Though Boyle Abbey was an empty ruin once more, the air around it shimmered with menace. But she didn’t run away.

“Where’s Findabhair?” she demanded. “I’ve got to see her!”

Midir hesitated a moment.

“Can you not leave her to her fate?”

Gwen had barely caught her breath, now her heart beat wildly.

“What do you mean?”

A veiled look fell over Midir’s features, the same expression he had worn in the fairy hall when he spoke of the King’s schemes. His tone was evasive.

“It is either you or her, I see that now, and I would not have you harmed.”

Gwen felt the chill of foreboding. His words were ominous. She tried to question him further, but he refused to say more. She sensed the dark side of Faerie behind his silence.

“You promised to help me,” she reminded him. “If you know where she is, please tell me.”

“You will not turn from this path, despite my plea?”

“Not without her,” Gwen insisted.

“So be it,” he sighed. “Go into the town, to the House of the Little Branch. You will see the sign.”

She hurried away, shaken to the core. Things were getting worse. Finvarra had upped the stakes. If it weren’t for Gwen’s champion in the other world, who knew what had awaited her, trapped in the past? The King was playing a dangerous game. Might it prove fatal? With a shudder, she remembered her cousin’s words.
They can get away with murder without batting an eyelid
. And then there were Midir’s.
It is either you or her, I see that now, and I would not have you harmed
.

It was more important than ever that she reach Findabhair.

“The House of the Little Branch,” she repeated to herself, as she searched Boyle for anything resembling Midir’s instructions. “Doesn’t sound like a place in modern Ireland. And how will I recognize the sign he mentioned?”

At the top of the town, past the clock tower, Gwen found what she was looking for. An antique placard creaked gently in the breeze, over the door of a pub.
An Craoibhín
. Though she couldn’t translate the name, the picture was enough to convince her. It showed the branch of an oak tree dangling with mistletoe.

“It’s a public ‘house’ and he meant a real sign. Here I’m expecting something mystical. Will I ever figure these guys out?”

As the pub door swung open, she was greeted by a blast of music. A
seisiún
was in progress and the place was packed. Tourists and local people sat together at tables laden with whiskey and porter. In a half circle near the bar, as if onstage, were musicians playing traditional music.

Their virtuosity was dazzling. In a tumult of merry reels, jigs, and hornpipes, tune chased after tune without stopping for breath. The tin whistle trilled like birds scattered in flight. The
bodhrán
drum rumbled like peals of thunder. The elbow pipes were a skirl of sound, as if a hive of bees sang in tenor and bass. But it was the fiddler who was the most thrilling of all. His bow skipped over taut strings, a dancer leaping! As his listeners tried to follow the wild notes, he whipped them along at a frenzied pace—up mountains, down glens, and across rushing rivers—till they jiggled and jittered like puppets on a string.

When the madcap music ended with a flourish, they roared for more. Never had they heard the like!

Now the musicians started up a slow sweet air. The singer cleared her throat, and rested her hand on the knee of the fiddle-player.

A gypsy rover came o’er the hill
,

And down to the valley so shady
,

He whistled and he sang
,

Till the green woods rang
,

And he won the heart of a la-a-a-dy
.

Gwen struggled to get a grip on reality. Still reeling from her close escape at the monastery, she could hardly take in this cozy tableau. In jeans and T-shirts the musicians looked like any other group of young people, albeit extremely beautiful. Everyone in the pub accepted them as normal while wonderfully gifted. But Gwen knew the truth. There was only one human to be found among them.

For that was Findabhair blithely singing away, her hand on the denimed knee of the King of Faerie!

She left her home to seek her fate
,

And roam the land all over
,

For her kin she didn’t wait
,

But followed the gypsy rover
.

Gwen tried to approach the group, but couldn’t get near. A wall of bodies, as impenetrable as a rampart, barred her way. A young couple made room for her on a bench against the wall. She sat down, keeping her eyes on her cousin. Why was Findabhair acting as if she didn’t see her? She must have spotted Gwen coming into the pub. What was going on? And she was singing the ballad with surprising emotion for someone who always said she hated folk music.

Gwen straightened up. Was it a signal? Was Findabhair trying to tell her something?

You’ll find us there without a care

At the heart of the woods of Sheegar-ar-ar-a
.

The fiddler, who was Finvarra, suddenly raised his hand. The music screeched to a halt. With a sardonic glance at Findabhair, he declared the session over. Despite cries of dismay and calls for more, the musicians packed up their gear in a whirlwind of motion and exited the pub.

The audience sat stunned. They didn’t know what had hit them. The publican collapsed in a chair, mopping his brow. He rarely got a crowd at suppertime and had been caught off guard without his barman.

“The Irish are strange,
non
?” said a French tourist to Gwen.

“
Oui
,” she agreed. “But you gotta love them anyway.”

Unlike the others, Gwen wasn’t disturbed by the band’s departure. She had picked up her cousin’s message loud and clear. Now all she had to do was find “Sheegara.”

ooking for a tourist office, Gwen was directed to another pub in the town. It was dimly lit and cozy, with dark wooden furniture and a small fire in the grate. None of the scenic maps or pamphlets on display made any reference to a place called Sheegara. The proprietor behind the bar had never heard of it, nor had his wife who was working in the kitchen. The customers who sat drinking or reading their newspapers also shook their heads.

Gwen was beginning to wonder if she had heard Findabhair right, when an old man in the corner piped up querulously.

“Sure none of ye would know the old place names anymore. They’re all dead and buried with the rest of old Ireland. Gone with the black bicycles that used to lean against the hedgerows. Gone with the dancing at the crossroads and the bottled porter.”

“Never mind the sermon, Bernie,” the publican said. “Tell the girl where it is, if you know, and I’m sure that you do.” He winked at Gwen. “If it’s local history you want, he’s your man.”

Bernie scowled at the publican and hunched over his drink. It was evident that he would say no more. But there was too much at stake for Gwen to give up easily. She saw that the old man was drinking Guinness, and she ordered a bottle and brought it over to him.