Fireshaper's Doom (13 page)

David looked impressed. “How long’ve they been here, anyway?”

Liz’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure—week today, I think. Weren’t here one evening, were the next morning. Town policeman came by to see what was up, called the mayor. Money supposedly changed hands and suddenly everything’s hunky-dory. Paid in gold, so I hear.”

“Well,” Alec said decisively, “shall we go see what’s happening?” David nodded and flopped his arms across both sets of shoulders, suddenly acutely aware of the contrast between Alec’s firm muscles and the delicate bones he felt beneath Liz’s scarlet T-shirt.

“We’re off to see the wizard,” Alec began.

“Not funny.”

“No.”

There was no clearly defined entrance to the Traders’ encampment. A chain-link fence that remained from the glory days of the MacTyrie softball team more or less encircled the area, weaving in and out among the pines, but it had been torn down, or had fallen down, at many points. Those parts that remained upright were shrouded in kudzu, particularly on the nearer side. The old concession stand/ticket office looked like the most promising way in. They pushed past the recalcitrant turnstile and entered the enclosure.

It was like stepping into another world: The sky above was the rich, clear blue of late afternoon, the air felt strangely damp
and…
green,
somehow. Foliage framed the clearing on every side, almost masking any view of the rest of the town. The wagons were ahead, maybe twenty of them, drawn up in a three-quarter circle with what looked like a camp fire/cook fire in the center. Each of them was a delight to behold, painted as they were in bright primary colors with elaborate scrollwork ornaments that were either gilded or lacquered in contrasting shades. Mirrors flashed from their sides, and long, multicolored fringes decorated the canvas roofs. A closer inspection showed that every surface bore some carved or painted embellishment, and the designs themselves were disquietingly familiar.

“Celtic knotwork,” David whispered aloud after a moment’s concentration. “Of course. Just like on those T-shirts you sent us. Why fool with baroque froufrou when you’ve got the
Book of Kells
to steal designs from?”

Liz looked at him skeptically. “Oh, so we’re an art critic now?”

David flicked her a sideways glance. “Hardly. But it’s kind of in my best interest to know as much about Celtic stuff as I can, don’t you think? And that includes their art. I mean, if I hadn’t read
Gods and Fighting Men,
I’d have been in deep shit last year.”

He continued his survey of the camp, noting a larger semicircle of square green lurking beyond the cluster of wagons. Very few people were visible, and those he could see seemed to take no notice of them. The few he could make out looked normal enough, though both sexes tended toward stockiness and red hair. The only thing at all remarkable was that every one of the women wore a skirt or dress. There wasn’t a woman in pants in sight.

“I wonder where the horses are,” Liz said. “I want to come by sometime and photograph them—if they’ll let me. I haven’t had a
good
horse to shoot in ages. One problem with living in town.”

Alec gestured toward a large open area enclosed by a high fence of bolted-together planks that butted against a part of the wire fence about fifty yards away to their right. “Over there, maybe?”

David squinted in the indicated direction. “See anybody you know?”

Liz shook her head. “Negative. Not native types.”

Alec wagged a discreet thumb at a particular rotund figure who stood by the enclosure gate. “Not Traders, either, I bet. I don’t know much, but I’ll wager no self-respecting vagabond of the road would be caught dead in flowered Bermuda shorts.”

David chuckled loudly as they drew nearer.

“No, but I bet
that’s
one,” he replied, as he indicated a tall, fair-haired man who was leaning against the fence with one black-booted foot resting atop the lowest plank. The man was remarkably tall, in fact, and very slender; though when viewed from the rear he seemed to evoke the same sense of latent power as a rangy cat. His long golden hair was tied in a ponytail, and blinding white Levis rode low on his narrow hips. He wore a matching white denim vest over a long-sleeved plaid shirt. The right sleeve was pinned up at the shoulder.

As the group drew nearer the man turned and stared at them. David almost froze in his steps, suddenly aware of a tingling in his eyes. His mouth gaped open. He had seen that face before, though there were subtle differences.

“Nuada!” His lips shaped the words, but his throat gave them no voice.

The tall man raised an expressive dark eyebrow and inclined his head imperceptibly, then shifted his gaze to the right as if indicating the presence of the obvious tourist. “Just a moment,” he said to the gaudily dressed man beside him. “I must point these young folk in the proper direction.”

“Sho ’nuff,” the chubby man replied in an affable (and patently phony) Southern accent.

Nuada casually placed his single hand on David’s shoulder and drew him away from the paddock with Alec and Liz in tow. He bent his head close and David heard him speak. But even as he did so, other words shaped themselves in David’s brain, and it was those unheard sounds which came to him most clearly:
I
see questions, David Sullivan, but this is not a good time for their answering. Come tonight, after sunset. Bring your friends and join us.

And with that, Nuada dropped the hand and turned his back on them. An instant later he had rejoined the tourist.

David glanced nervously at his companions. “You guys catch that?” he asked, as they headed away from the camp without further investigation.

Alec nodded. “Imagine finding Nuada here with a bunch of Irish tinkers.”

“I certainly never expected to see him in white Levis, that’s for sure,” Liz put in.

“Wonder what’s up—something serious, I bet.”

“Hope it doesn’t involve us. I’ve had enough adventures.”

“Shouldn’t,” David said, though he did not quite feel convinced. “If they’d wanted us, they knew where to find us.”

Alec frowned uncertainly. “Yeah, well, that
is
a point.”

David glanced at his watch and grimaced sourly. “Crap! I’ve got to get home!”

Alec confirmed David’s statement with a glance at his own timepiece. “Right you are. Papa Sullivan won’t be satisfied with one cheek now, he’ll want to wallop both of ’em.”

“Alec!”

“Hope that new car of yours has got soft seats, Liz,” Alec went on mercilessly. “Next time you see him, David may need ’em. You see him standing up a lot, you’ll know what happened.”

Liz pursed her lips and looked askance at David. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

David sighed. “Well,
I
certainly think so. But Pa says that until I’m eighteen I’m still technically a child.”

“‘And,’” quoted Alec, “‘a good whuppin’ never done nobody no harm.’”

“Got any liniment?” David asked, cocking a mischievous eyebrow at Liz. “I may need somebody to help rub the pain away.”

Liz’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m gonna beat Papa Sullivan to the punch if you don’t hush up!”

“Sure.” David grinned as he unlocked the LTD.

Liz got out her own keys. “Eight o’clock okay for me to pick you up?”

David looked up. “I’ve got Mom’s car, I can use it.”

“I’d feel safer in this one,” Liz replied. “It’s got two things yours doesn’t.”

“Oh?”

Her face broke into a glorious smile. “Me as a driver—and no backseat.” She giggled, and slammed the door.

“No backseat.” Alec grinned as he aimed a blow at David’s shoulder. “But a hell of a lot of room behind the front ones!”

Chapter X: Froech
’s Discovery

(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer)

A slanted shaft of morning sunlight pierced a dome of frosted opals and stretched Froech’s shadow across the marble floor before him. Yet the darkness that pooled on the snowy tile was as nothing to the despair that burned in his heart. Dread was a fire within him: such dread as he had not felt in all his five hundred years. But there was no denying it.

He stared at the gated archway, at the black stone horses that flanked it, twin lines of ruby eagles sketched thin and glittering upon their incised bridles. At four medallions of gold-wound steel that now hung as broken and useless as the teeth of an ancient hag. And at a white marble stall in which no trace remained of a certain jet-black stallion.

I must go and tell Lugh
,
he realized
, even if it mean my death
.

Chapter XI: Discussions

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia)

“But you
said
you’d take me!” Little Billy insisted passionately from beside the refrigerator. He glared at his older brother, small hands fisted on his hips, red cheeks puffed in outraged indignation: the very image of six-year-old fury.

David glared back at him, aping his pose exactly. “I
know
I said I’d take you—but I was there this afternoon and it’s just not the kind of place you ought to go. You wouldn’t have any fun. Trust me.”

His voice rang harsh and loud against the kitchen walls. He continued to frown at the little boy. Things had been happening too quickly during the last few hours and he hadn’t quite got his bearings yet. It was making him irritable, he knew, and he was sorry about that, but there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation until he had some time alone to sort things out. The whole afternoon had been an insane series of crises and chance encounters. Coming home was like putting on clothes you hadn’t worn in a while: they didn’t always fit, and sometimes you found things in the pockets you’d forgotten.

“Okay?” David added hopefully.

Little Billy was adamant. “But why not?”

“Because there’s nothing there for a kid to do!”

“Then why are
you
going?” Little Billy countered.

David blinked back surprise. “Because I—”

“Because he ain’t got no sense,” Big Billy interrupted from the hallway door. “Always running after craziness.”

David’s fist slammed the enameled wall beside him. The telephone rattled.

“Better that than running after nothing at all!” he flared, feeling his eyes go wide as he realized what anger had betrayed him into saying.

Big Billy’s mouth snapped shut. He took a step into the kitchen, bare chest swelling like a sunburned sail as he sucked in air.

“Bill!” JoAnne warned from the shadows behind him. A slender hand brushed her husband’s departing shoulder as he strode to the refrigerator and wrenched the door open.

Little Billy looked smug and danced expertly sideways. “Whip ’im, Pa!”

“More craziness,” Big Billy muttered as he pulled out a can of Miller beer. “Craziness and shit! I thought we’d settled this at supper!”

David’s gaze flickered frantically from parent to brother to parent, but found no sympathy anywhere. He took a deep breath, forcing calm upon himself. Things were going badly—had been since the subject of the Traders had first arisen half an hour before. It had been like day and night: glad to see him that afternoon, but as soon as he introduced an alien element into the conversation, things had returned to normal—the same old contentious normal. It was too bad his folks hadn’t seen a few of the sights he’d seen.
That’d
give them a different outlook on a lot of things.

“Look, Pa,” David said carefully, hoping to defuse his father’s rising anger. “I never said I’d take Little Billy. I said I
might;
said I’d scope it out and see if he ought to go. And I did, and I don’t think he should. But Liz wants to do some photography, and the Traders told her she could. And there’s supposed to be a
ceili
later—that’s a sort of music festival. That’s mostly what I want to go for. And I don’t want to have to keep up with a fidgeting six-year-old.”

His mother took a swallow of tea and peered intently at David from beneath lowered brows. “I’ve heard some bad things about them Gypsies, David. Real bad things: thievin’, cheatin’,
dope…
whorin’.
Heard they beat up on some local boys.”

David stuffed his hands in his back pockets and flopped up against the doorjamb. “Yeah, well, it was Mike Wheeler and his gang that got into trouble, and you know how
they
are. Most likely Mike and company tried to cause a ruckus and got more than they bargained for. And for another thing, they’re not Gypsies, they’re Irish Traders. They don’t like being called Gypsies, in fact. They don’t read fortunes or anything.”

“And how do
you
know so much, Mr. Smarty Pants?”

Exasperation traced furrows on David’s forehead. “Look, Ma, I read a little about the Traders in the Sunday paper a couple of years ago. They’re not bad folks. Used to trade horses and mules, now mostly itinerant painters and rug layers.”