The Hunter's Moon (15 page)

Bernie wore the dark suit favored by Irish farmers, with his trousers tucked into wellington boots. His hands were gnarled, the fingers yellowed by tobacco stains. Watery eyes peered out from a face lined like a dried riverbed. When he spied the drink, he pushed back his cap and nodded to her.

Gwen sat down.

“Sheegara,” he said, with maddening slowness. His hand shook a little as he poured the black stout into the glass. Bubbles frothed to the rim. “It’s the anglified pronouncement for the townland of
Sídhe Gáire
, meaning ‘the laughing fairies.’”

“Can you tell me where it is?” she asked eagerly.

“I can. Go out the town apace, past the old abbey, and on up the Sligo Road. Take the first turn to your right and you’re heading straight for it. Where is it in the townland you might be going?”

“A forest or wood?”

The old man took a long gulp of his drink. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. When he slammed the glass back onto the table, Gwen jumped.

“There’s new trees up there planted by the Forestry and making a ruination of the land. Is it them you’re after?”

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t think so. Are there other woods?”

“There be old ones that are a thing of beauty, a home for wild creatures, and a joy to walk in. Then there be new ones grown for money in thin straight lines, ready for the chop. It’s blood money, I tell ye, that turns good pasture into a wasteland.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t approve of that,” she said. “Definitely an old one.”

The barman had come over to wipe the table. He threw Gwen an odd look, but Bernie was now regarding her as a kindred soul and smiled benevolently.

“Long before your time, girleen, there was talk of an ancient grove up there. The Forest of the Red Fairies it was called, and they say it was an enchanted place. You’d want to put your best foot forward if you’re looking for it. It’d be twilight before ye find it, I’m thinking.”

“The right time for the right place,” she murmured.

She stood up to leave, thanking the old man profusely. His eyes twinkled.

“Good luck and God bless.”

As Gwen left the town, following Bernie’s directions, she wondered briefly if his gray hair had been red when he was young.

Ahead of her rose the ruined walls of Boyle Abbey. Shuddering at the sight, she hurried past. Once she reached the Sligo Road, her step grew more confident. She congratulated herself. Despite their tricks, she was still hot on the heels of the fairy court. Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Fairies.

Her good humor helped to offset the fact that she felt physically weak and sometimes groggy. She hadn’t eaten a meal since the fairy banquet. The idea of food was revolting. Somewhere in the back of her mind this worried her, but she told herself she had a stomach bug.

Though the Sligo road was busy with traffic, she decided not to hitchhike. She didn’t want to miss the turn that Bernie had mentioned. It wasn’t long before she reached it. Soon she found herself walking a lonely byway into the hills. There were no houses or cars in sight. The lane twisted and turned like a snake in the grass. Dense hedgerows of hawthorn shaded her path. Fields of purple heather rolled away below her. Slowly a breathtaking view unfurled: a silver chain of lakes at the throat of blue mountains.

Except for the occasional sheep or cattle, Gwen was utterly alone. At one point she passed a little cottage half-buried in a ditch. The once whitewashed walls were gray with neglect. Tattered lace curtains hung limp and dusty. A vase of dead flowers stood in the front window. She sensed some meaning to the place, but she wasn’t sure what. The old man’s words echoed through her mind.
Gone with the rest of old Ireland
. How much had been lost? And why?

Though there were no signposts she sensed she was in the right place, even as she had known it in the Burren. The fairies seemed to favor forsaken regions. Were they a beleaguered race holding out in the last patches of countryside? Would the spread of towns eventually push them out altogether? Were they doomed, like so many other wild creatures, before the onslaught of man?

A strange melancholy settled over her. She felt bowed down, as if a heavy mantle had settled on her shoulders. The evening breeze was now a wind that cried desolately over the fields.

Ochón! Ochón ó!

She could barely put one foot in front of the other. Why was she so burdened with grief? Whose feelings were these? With relief, she spotted a figure on the road ahead. Though her feet felt leaden she forced herself onward, anxious to meet another soul.

The old woman stood in the shadow of the hedgerow, leaning on a blackthorn stick. She was small and stooped. A dark shawl draped her head and shoulders, with wisps of gray hair trailing out like smoke. The hem of her skirt fell to heavy laced boots caked with mud. Her face was brown and crumpled but it was her eyes that caught Gwen, two black beads bright with laughter.

“
Nach breá an tráthnóna é, a chailín,
” she said in Irish. When Gwen stared at her blankly, she spoke again. “Isn’t it a fine evening, my girl?”

Happy to have company, Gwen stopped to chat. After pleasantries about the weather, she asked for directions to Sheegara.

“Oh aye. You be in the realm of
Sídhe Gáire
. The laughing fairies are just beyant. This sweet road and your two fine feet will soon take you there.”

“Thank you,” said Gwen.

She was reluctant to leave. There was something about the old woman that fascinated her. Was she a fairy? Or was she like the others Gwen had met in her travels, those Irish in tune with a different world? The mingling of the races was complex and puzzling. How could she know for certain who belonged to which?

“Will ye bide here with me awhile?” the old woman pleaded. “I’ve no one about me these long days. They’ve all left for the town or Amerikay.”

Gwen knew what it was like to be left behind. She felt sorry for her.

The evening had turned soft and hazy. A slow sunset was suffusing the sky. The clouds glowed burnt orange and red. The necklace of lakes reflected the sky’s colors like glimmering gems. Brooding over them, the Curlew Mountains were awash with pale purple.

The old woman began to speak in a singsong voice that rose and fell with the wind.

“
I have seen a land where summer dwells, a faraway country. There stands a fair bright wood of branching oak, full of red sap, where sweet birds nest. At eventide cools the sun-steeped earth in a shower of dew, like dark drops of
honey. Acorns fall from the trees and into a stream, foam-flecked and murmuring.
”

Gwen felt her limbs relax. What was the hurry? Where was she going? Why not stay and enjoy the scenery and listen to the story the old woman was telling? Time enough to chase after phantoms and fairies. Here was true beauty spread at her feet, like embroidered cloths. Why not stay and enjoy it?

“
In that most delightful country, they dwell in palaces of precious stones and radiant summer houses surrounded by lemon trees. See you now the little hostel thatched with bird wings? Inside is a table set with dishes of blue crystal. There sits a slender woman, perfect as a pearl, playing the harp. She wears a gown of dark-green satin and a mantle fringed with gold.
”

A drowsy feeling came over Gwen. The jeweled words hovered in the air like hummingbirds. Her eyelids grew heavy and fluttered closed. She didn’t see the changes overtaking the old woman. How the creased face grew longer, the small body thinner. Nor did Gwen notice the briars that reached out from the hedgerow to clutch at her legs. With each gust of wind, the tendrils moved closer, clinging to her clothes and twining like ivy. Only when the brambles crawled up her arms did the prick of a thorn break the spell. With horror, Gwen saw that she was bound fast.

Trapped again! And so quickly! She had been caught unawares, not expecting another attempt so soon. Hadn’t Findabhair warned her not to underestimate the King?
He’s a tricky divil
. Furious at herself as well as the fairies, Gwen struggled against her bonds.

The moment she moved, the brambles tightened their grip. Tiny barbs pricked her like pins and needles. She cried out in pain. The threat was clear.
If you fight us, it will get worse
. The briars continued to weave their web, enclosing her in a dark cocoon. The green smell of vegetation was thick and suffocating. The world outside began to fade.

A cold whisper shivered through the leafage.

You are the Hunted and the Sacrifice
.

“Let go of me!” she screamed in terror, looking for the old woman.

But the decoy herself had been drawn into the hedge. The wrinkled brown skin was the knotted bark of branches. The skirt and shawl were a mass of leaves. The black beady eyes were two ripened berries.

Gwen was shouting at a bush.

That was the last straw. Her fury exploded and overcame her fear. With their pranks and their magic, the fairies were literally driving her insane.

“That’s it! I’ve had it!” she roared again.

Now she wrestled the hawthorn with the strength of rage. Leaves flew in the air. Brambles cracked as she elbowed them back. Though the thorns bit and scratched, she flailed and clawed till her arms were clear, and then her legs. Once she could kick, the fight was won. With a yell of triumph, she stomped her way out.

Free at last, she ran up the road.

But though she had won the battle, Gwen had paid a price. As she raced away, her sight blurred with tears. She was scratched and bleeding, and her clothes were torn. The hedge had also taken her knapsack. And what of the threat it had whispered to her? Were they hoping to scare her away, so she would give up on Findabhair?

“Not likely,” she muttered.

She was angry now. No more Ms. Nice Guy. It was time to fight back.

he didn’t stop running till the road itself came to an end. In front of her was a wooden gate locked with a chain. Beyond it ranged a plantation of young pine. The rows of trees stood to attention, just as Bernie had described, like soldiers about to be hewn down. Gwen didn’t think twice, but climbed over the gate and plunged into the forest. Evening was closing fast. Dusk muted the sky. Somewhere inside this new growth was the ancient wood of Sheegara, and she had to find it before darkness fell.

The scent of pine sharpened the air. Dried needles and cones crunched underfoot. Some of the trees were so thin they leaned against each other like wounded comrades. Always new and never allowed to mature, they couldn’t nourish a healthy understory. The earth was gashed from successive cuttings, and worn out from overwork. A weariness hung in the air. No birds sang. Gwen felt oppressed by the silence. She knew she wouldn’t find fairies here.

Further she went, seeking the heart of the woods. Her steps began to falter. The thrust of her anger was petering away into the deepening shadows. This forest wasn’t friendly. Did it harbor danger? The dark thing of Faerie that seemed to haunt her? Her thoughts turned to Little Red Riding Hood and ravening wolves. She picked up her pace, glancing about nervously.

At last the man-made lines of trees gave way to a natural disorder and beauty. The delicate greens of birch and willow mingled with white poplar and the old gold of oak. A silvery green lichen frosted branch and twig. The ground was springy with a mat of moss. As the sky darkened and the pale moon came out, threads of light quivered through the forest. Gwen tread with lighter steps. This wood instilled peace. Though night was falling like a starry cloak, she wasn’t afraid. They were near, she could sense them.

Then she heard the music. High notes piping like a silver flute. Dancing in the air. Tempting and teasing. They beckoned to her.

Her pulse raced. Excitement pressed against her till she could hardly breathe. She crept through the underbrush. Ahead shone a fiery light, as if the sun had set in the forest and was burning there. Closer she drew, crouching in the greenery. As she peeped out from the shelter of the leaves, her eyes grew big. For only now, when she saw them again, did Gwen admit that she had been longing for them.