The Summer King (13 page)

othing could have prepared Laurel for the sight she now beheld. Not her grandfather’s books nor her talk with Granny, not even her encounters with the cluricaun and the Fir-Fia-Caw. Indeed, no feat of the imagination, either hers or anyone else’s could have been quite so fantastical, gorgeous, or extravagant. She was almost convinced she had walked into a dream.

The hall before her was as immense as a cathedral, carved out of the hollow of Minaun mountain itself. Walls of cream-colored rock met corbeled roof, all veined with glittering streaks of amethyst. Galleries a thousand feet up dripped with sea plants, while slides and waterfalls splashed down into blue pools. Flying fish leaped out of the water and through the air like silver birds. Every ledge and cranny was festooned with creatures twinkling like gems; sea urchins with ivory spines, pearled oysters and mother-of-pearled abalones, white stars of ascidian, red beadlets of anemone, blue-rayed limpets, spangled tompot blennies, and soft-bodied sea-lemons like yellow meringue.

But it was the fairies themselves who took her breath away, for these were also creatures of the sea but not as she knew them. And so different from familiar fairy images! They were not garden sprites nor winged woodland dwellers, but
boctogaí
, water fairies.
Bunadh na Farraige.
The Folk of the Sea. Amorphous and mercurial, like flowing water, they changed size and shape at will, one moment as small as a cowry shell, the next human height, and taller still. Their skin colors mirrored the waters of the world; sea-green, briny-blue, aquamarine, the deep brown of mountain rivers, the white of capped foam, the flecked gold of sunshine on the waves, the silver sheen of moonlight on the night surf. Some had webbed toes and scalloped ears, others feathery antennae and green hair like seaweed. Many had scales. They dressed in lurid hues of pink, lime-green, inky blue, and orange, and their jewelry was made of coral and shell.

The whole scene was a mad dream, luscious and bizarre. A party in a giant aquarium! Divers leaped from pool to pool, jackknifing and somersaulting in the air. Some arrowed across the cavern with the flying fish. Teams slid down slides, gripping whips of kelp. One group played with a freckled squid who kept squeezing off ink blots before disappearing underwater. The
boctogaí
squealed as they dodged the squirts, but there was always someone who got pelted with the dark sticky fluid. And behind all the laughter and chatter wound mellifluous music.

No one noticed Laurel at first, where she stood in the archway, utterly agog. Then one of the fairies spotted her and let out a cry. The music stopped. The revels ceased. A profound silence settled over the hall, broken only by the tintinnabulation of falling water. It was as if a thousandeyed sea beast had suddenly turned to gaze at her.

Fear and wonder surged through her. She was
fairy struck.
The collective stare only worsened the sensation that she was caught in a dream. Instinctively, she checked to see if she was dressed. When she looked up again, they were all around her. She stifled a scream. One of them reached out to touch her. A clammy stroke. Her body jolted from the shock. These were beings who lived in her world but were not of it. Yet those starry eyes regarded her as if
she
were the alien.

Laurel fought the urge to flee. She was there for a reason. She had a mission. It actually helped that some of the glances cast her way were unfriendly. Cold splashes of reality. She needed to keep her wits about her. This wasn’t a safe place.

An emerald-skinned lady draped in pearls addressed her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a melodious voice.

Laurel was about to answer when she remembered the cluricaun’s instructions.

“W-w-why do you ask?”

Her own words made her flinch, she could hear how rude they sounded, but she saw immediately that she had said the right thing.

The fairy faces lit up. Some let out little cries of pleasure. She knew the rules. The game was on.

“Have you lost your way?” asked a pixie with purple hair.

Laurel hesitated, still anxious not to offend.

“Have you found it?” she countered.

A titter echoed through the hall. Some applauded, clacking seashells together like castanets. There was a frenzy of whispers.
Good sport. Well played. A clever mortal. Send in the Master Riddler.
The crowd parted to make way for a young man of amber-brown color. He wore a tunic of shells that rattled like chain mail and a mantle of seaweed. His eyes flashed with mischief, but his smile was friendly.

“Why do you always answer a question with a question?”

His voice sounded vaguely familiar. She smiled back at him.

“Do I do that?”

The outburst of laughter was unnerving. Some even hooted and hollered, while a few capered about. Then, as if by some unspoken signal, they resumed their revels. A new tune rang through the hall. Trumpeted on conches, with clams clattering like bones, it was an air as wild as a storm at sea. Everyone began to dance.

Caught by the hand, Laurel was whirled between partners till her head spun. She tried to relax, to join in their antics, but the shock waves kept hitting her. Again and again the truth would present itself, like a pearl inside an oyster: she was dancing with fairies.
Fairies
!

They brought her to a banquet table laid out with a feast. The centerpiece was a fantasia of fruits and nuts glazed with honey. Silver platters held heaps of caviar, black and red. To her surprise, her favorite foods were also there: barbecued chicken with roast potatoes and crispy duck with fried rice. A golden cup was placed in her hand. It sparkled with something that looked like champagne. She was about to take a sip when the Master Riddler walked behind her and muttered quickly.

“Eat no food and drink no wine if you wish to see your world again.”

Trembling, she realized she had almost been trapped. Didn’t Granda’s books warn not to touch fairy food? The table wavered before her sight. A fishy whiff wafted from the dishes. For a moment she saw a very different meal. Great tureens spilled over with plankton, algae, and moss. The cup in her hand was a conch of sea water! Other warnings rang in her mind.
They are not like us. You are dealing with Faerie, the Perilous Realm. They’re a fishy folk, so be on your guard.

Stealthily, she placed her goblet aside but of course they noticed.

“Will you not accept our hospitality?” someone shouted.

There was an edge to the voice. She was about to apologize and make some excuse when she stopped herself in time.

“May I ask for something else instead?”

The music came to a halt, but this time with a discordant clang. Her suspicion was confirmed. The game was still on. Yet it seemed to have taken a darker turn. Many of the fairies appeared tense and uneasy. Some looked hostile.

Once again, the Master Riddler stepped to the fore. He no longer smiled.

“What is it you want?”

Laurel took a deep breath. The moment had come. It was now or never. She glanced upward into the recesses of the roof. She had spied it earlier when she was dancing. High on a rocky ledge it stood, glittering and abandoned: an amethyst throne.

“Will you help me find the Summer King?”

The hall erupted. As her words rebounded from the walls—
the Summer King? the Summer King?
—it was met with a cacophony of cries and conflicting emotions: outrage, terror, fury, dismay. Gathering momentum, the swells of feeling surged higher and higher, threatening to collapse and swamp them all. Some of the fairies began to fight among themselves. Others ran away screeching. Many fled to the craggy ledges above, to peer down fearfully at the pandemonium.

Laurel was growing more anxious by the minute. Things were seriously out of control. The crowd was near to rioting. Hemmed in against the banquet table, she was a long way from the arch on the other side of the hall. And she had to get past the fairies to reach it. Some were already throwing her sullen glances. A few huddled together, whispering furtively. The malice in their eyes was plain to see. A little mob began to move toward her.

Laurel looked around quickly for a weapon. She was about to grab her goblet when someone sidled up to her and caught her arm. The yell died in her throat as she saw who it was.

“Come with me,” said the Master Riddler, under his breath.

He led her around the perimeter of the crowd. She was grateful for his help. At the corner of her eye, she could see the other group shadowing their movements.

“Don’t look back,” he murmured.

She trusted him, for she had finally recognized his voice. He was her champion from the previous night, the one who had kissed her!

At last they reached the shelly archway. Clasping her hand, the Master Riddler pulled her up the stairwell. They moved impossibly fast, their feet barely touching the slippery steps.

“Why are they so angry?” she gasped as they went. “What have I done?”

“All is not as it seems,” he told her. “You have been schooled by the Gentry. We are spirits of another sort. We do not bow to the Court.”

They climbed so quickly, Laurel could see the top of the stairs and the green light of the passageway that led out of the cavern.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” she begged. “Do you know what’s happened to the Summer King? Do you know where he is?”

The Master Riddler didn’t answer. He either wouldn’t or couldn’t say more. Shouts rang out below them. Her enemies were in the stairwell and heading their way!

The Master Riddler let go of her hand.

“Make haste!” he urged. “I will try to hold them back.”

“Will you be all right?”

“It is not me they are after.”

She paused to kiss him on the cheek with a “thank you,” then she was off.

The stairs were no longer easy to manage. Without his help, she kept slipping and sliding on the moss. As she grabbed at the walls and the steps in front of her, the jagged rock cut her hands. She was moving too fast to be careful. The angry noises behind spurred her on.

Suddenly the Master Riddler called out.

“Seek the Old Eagle of Achill.”

His voice sounded strangled. Were they hurting him? His words triggered a furious howl from the mob. They sounded so near. Glancing over her shoulder, she yelped. Livid faces were charging at her!

Laurel bolted to the top step and down the passage. A sliver of light flickered ahead. She could hear the waterfall. But she could also hear the heavy breaths behind her as her enemies bore down. Heart pounding, she raced for the opening. With a triumphant cry she reached it and started to squeeze through.

The cry died in her throat.

Became a strangled screech.

Cold webbed hands had grabbed her like pincers. She screamed and struggled, but in vain. As they pulled her back into the passageway, more arrived to swell the assault.

“Won’t you let me go?” she cried.

It was too late to be clever. The game was over. She could sense their ill will, malevolent and merciless. They were all around her, pushing and pulling her back to the stairwell. The light of the fissure faded behind her. Weeping and pleading, she tried to resist, but their fingers dug cruelly into her skin. Some pinched and poked her. In her frantic struggles Laurel fell on the steps, banged her head, bit her tongue. The taste of blood was in her mouth. No matter how hard she fought, they drew her inexorably downward.

Now she realized the truth. She was about to disappear forever, into the underworld. That insight brought a surge of new strength. She had been a tomboy when she was little. She had tussled with the best, in the schoolyard, on the streets, and at the hockey rink. She was a girl who knew how to brawl. YES! Like a wild thing battling for its freedom, fighting for its life, she rose up with a roar. In a furious flurry of kicks and punches, she threw them off and sent them tumbling down the stairs.

Shrieking with rage, they rushed back.

She was waiting for them, sitting on the steps, fists up, eyes cold.

“I’m one of the fighting Irish too. Come on, I dare you.”

They came to a halt. She could see the doubt assail them, respect mingling with fear in their eyes. A few were nursing bruised limbs. Others whimpered. Some began to edge away, creeping back down the stairs. But the remainder obviously intended to fight.

As the first few charged, Laurel kicked them back with such force they bowled the others over. Their squeals were deafening. Another group set upon her. She sent them flying too. She had the advantage of the higher ground. Each time they came, she drove them back, and more would slip away and not return. In the end she was left with three, the ringleaders. They stood on the steps below her, glaring up. They were much bigger than the others. Her courage wavered.

“Okay,” she said, chest heaving, heart pounding, fists back in the air. “Winner goes free.”

True bullies, they rushed her together. Two pinned her legs, while the other scrambled ahead on the stairs and tried to choke her. With a last gasp of will, she twisted so violently that the ones holding her limbs crashed into each other. Then she reached up to grab the third and hauled him over her head. As she flung him at the others, she kicked out ferociously. They all went sprawling down the stairway.