The Hunter's Moon (19 page)

The witches intoned, one after the other, a ghastly dialogue of ill intent.

“She was born into this world.”

“She is called to another.”

“Split the thread between the two.”

“It is too thin.”

“It will break.”

“Then cut it short.”

“And let her be forfeit.”

“To the one who claims her.”

At that very moment, Granny signaled to Dara and they rushed to the fire. Before the witches could move, both had joined the circle and caught onto the thread.

On the daybed, Gwen felt a brief respite, a slackening of the tension that was wrenching her apart.

In a calm high voice, Granny called out:

“I, Grania Harte, Wise Woman of Inch, claim this thread for my house and hearth.”

Dara spoke next, clear and forceful.

“I, Dara McCrory, King of Inch, claim this thread for my land and territories.”

Now the battle was joined, a war of will, the old woman and young man versus the three witches. Caught in between, Gwen’s life was the thread that was held in the balance.

The contest was harrowing. Even as they struggled, Gwen’s torment worsened, but it seemed the pain was now being shared. Granny’s features turned a sickly gray. Dara’s eyes were wild and a muscle worked in his jaw, clenched with effort. Then came the moment when Gwen realized the truth. They were losing the battle. She could sense her defenders weakening under the strain. They couldn’t hold on. The thread was being slowly torn from their fingers.

She felt the anguish of their defeat, their despair. Then, to her surprise, she sensed something else. Their ferocious resolve to fight on. They wouldn’t back down, not even if it killed them. They were willing to sacrifice their lives for hers.

Inspired by their heroics, Gwen found her own courage. Even as she urged them to let go, to save themselves, another truth struck her. Dara and Granny were losing because they were outnumbered. Two battled three. But a third might level the playing field. If she could join the struggle, they had a chance.

Now Gwen delved deep inside herself for that last ounce of strength only the brave can muster. This was not just for her, but for her champions as well.
I can do it
, she swore. For a moment, it seemed, she no longer lay in bed but stood at the heart of a raging battlefield. Her will-to-power roused, she lifted her sword.

No sooner had the other two sensed her presence in the fight than they rallied anew. Three wills now fought against the three witches. The tide had turned. Slowly but surely the dreadful sisters backed down. Now Granny and Dara freed the thread from their horns. Now the witches let out an abominable shriek. A chorus of howls echoed outside. Still shrieking and keening, the three fled from the house till their wails dwindled on the wind, far in the distance.

Dara and Granny stood by the fire, the skein of life still entwined in their hands. With infinite care they bore it over to Gwen, who was in the final throes of her fever. As they gently laid the thread upon her, it dispelled like mist and her fever broke. Flooded with peace, she drifted into a merciful sleep.

Later that night, Gwen’s eyes fluttered open to see dark figures in front of the fire. After a pang of fright, she realized that they were Dara and Granny. The two sat together with cups of tea, talking in low voices.

“What will we say to her? She can’t possibly understand these matters.”

“She knows something, Dara. She has gone among them, of that I am certain. But the true question remains: why were the Horned Ones called to claim her? No matter what, we must speak truthfully to her, for she deserves our respect. Few are those who could have survived this night. We will not pretend it didn’t occur.”

Gwen tried to wake. She wanted to join them, to talk about what had happened. She knew she was finally free of the fairies and in a safe house. Too weak and worn-out from her ordeal, she fell back asleep even as a last thought niggled in her mind.

What about Findabhair?

he smell of sausages frying in the pan woke Gwen up, along with the rumblings of an appetite she hadn’t felt for ages. The kitchen seemed to dazzle, with fresh air and sunshine streaming through the windows. Granny Harte stood at the stove, a flowered apron around her waist.

The scene was so cozy and normal that Gwen wondered a moment if the night’s horrors hadn’t been a dream, a fevered nightmare caused by illness. She shook her head. She knew too much about that other reality to dismiss it so easily.

When Granny turned to check on her, Gwen spoke directly.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

The old woman blinked at her frankness, then smiled broadly.

“You’re very welcome, my dear. I was just doing my job. If you’d like to wash before breakfast, the bathroom is down the hall to your left. Your clothes are in the airing cupboard. I took them out of your haversack.”

In the washroom, Gwen was surprised by the bright yellow fittings and fluffy towels. She giggled to herself. What had she expected from a fairy doctress? Slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails? After her shower, she dressed in clean jeans and a pink T-shirt. Combing her hair, she hummed beneath her breath. She felt wonderfully well.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she told her mirrored image.

When she returned to the kitchen, Granny set a big plate in front of her heaped with rashers, sausages, egg, and fried mushrooms. There was also homemade soda bread and a pot of strong tea. Gwen tucked into the feast with gusto.

“My name is Gwen Woods,” she said, between mouthfuls. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Eat first, then we can chat. Dara is gathering seaweed for my garden and will join us soon.”

When Dara came in, Gwen went suddenly shy. The young man leaned against the door frame as he removed his wellingtons. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves to wash his hands at the sink. He was very good-looking. She hadn’t imagined
that
. His brown hair fell loosely around finely honed features. The sea-green eyes had an open friendly gaze.

“You’re looking well,” he said with a slightly crooked grin, as he sat down at the table.

Granny handed him his breakfast. Gwen was glad she had finished hers. She would have been too self-conscious to eat in front of him.

“Now, pet,” said Granny, as she sat down at the table and poured fresh tea, “are you ready to tell us how you came to be fairy-struck on Inch Island?”

After everything they had done for her, Gwen felt compelled to tell her story from beginning to end. Despite her embarrassment at parts, she left nothing out: the bus accident and the leprechaun; the abduction of Findabhair from Tara; her own lonely travels around Ireland; the tests and trials she had endured; the many traps and close escapes; the moment of her great failure when she ate fairy food …

Even as she told her tale, Gwen’s discomfiture grew. She had been so careless and stupid, broken so many rules, made so many mistakes. In the end she had brought her problems into their house and endangered their lives. What could they think of her?

Granny nodded thoughtfully.

“Just as I suspected. There was a fairy dart in the apple the little boy gave you. Finvarra was taking no chances you’d be strong enough to fight him. You were holding your own quite nicely till then.”

Her tone of approval was unmistakable. The same admiration shone in Dara’s eyes, with an added hint of envy.

“What adventures you’ve been having! And well met, despite the hardship. You’re a great girl altogether.”

As she blushed at his praise, a stray thought crossed her mind. She was glad Findabhair wasn’t there.

“Has your cousin chosen to stay in Faerie?”

Something behind Granny’s question put Gwen on guard.

“She loves it there, but that isn’t the point. She can’t stay. She’s human, not fairy. I intend to drag her out whether she likes it or not.”

Dara and Granny exchanged glances.

“It’s not as simple as that,” Dara said. “There are rules and customs that govern what goes on between us and the Good Folk. You can’t come and go as you please with them. “

“You mean she’s a prisoner? They won’t let her out?!”

Granny sighed. “As Dara says, it’s not that simple. There are protocols concerning visits to Faerie, regardless of whether you go by choice or not. The most common period is seven years. For those who are stolen, the minimum is a year and a day, the traditional length of time for lifting a curse or a spell. Many of our kind have entered Faerie of their own free will, but even more have been abducted—young men to take part in their sports, new mothers to wet-nurse their babies, beautiful girls to be the King’s bride …”

The old woman’s sight clouded a moment, then she continued.

“The fairies bless whomever goes among them with special gifts. Many a famous Irish musician has ‘gone abroad’ to return with the plaintive airs of Faerie. Other visitors are given wonder tales to delight this world, or the lore of healing with herbs and plants. If a visit goes badly, if a human tries to trick the fairies or steal their riches, he or she can suffer ill health and bad luck, even sickness unto death.”

The more she heard, the more anxious Gwen grew.

“Are you saying Findabhair will be there for
at least
a year and a day?”

“It’s not such a terrible thing,” Granny said quietly. “I myself lived in Faerie for a spell of time. That is how I acquired my knowledge and arts and my title of ‘Wise Woman.’”

Gwen mulled over her words, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more, something the old lady was keeping from her.

“My cousin is changing,” she said slowly. “Each time I see her, she seems more like them. Less human.”

Now she remembered what nagged at the back of her mind, an image that embodied her greatest concern. The black coach with Findabhair silent inside, cloaked in veils, pale as moonlight.

As she described the vision to Granny and Dara, she studied their faces. What she saw there confirmed her suspicion. They couldn’t hide the truth. She had read too many tales.

“It was the Death Coach, wasn’t it?”

Gwen’s tone was level, more a statement than a question.

Dara looked sad and couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Some choose to stay in Faerie forever,” the Wise Woman said softly. She paused before she finished. “To live in one world, one must die in the other.”

Gwen’s face went white. She felt the shock threatening to undermine her resolve, but she pushed it aside.

“I’m not going to let her die! I’m sticking to my original plan. I’m going in for her.”

“And we’ll go with you!” Dara pledged. He grinned at Granny. “Won’t we?”

When the old woman didn’t respond immediately, Gwen spoke up.

“There’s no need to. Honestly, I can do this myself. You’ve done so much—”

Granny raised her hand before Gwen could say more.

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I do not take these decisions lightly. But I would not let you go without my aid.” She frowned at Dara. “We will have to outwit the masters of trickery.”

He nodded. “You haven’t said anything about the Hunter’s—?”

“No need to speak of it,” Granny broke in, “unless it’s necessary. We have our hands full as it is. We won’t add to our worries if it isn’t the time. I will cast a fairy calendar today. Why don’t the two of you take a picnic and go for a dander around the island? I need to be alone. Show Gwen the shelly beach, Dara, and the old fort and the Cairn. Keep clear of the fairy fort at Dunfinn. If Finvarra is on Inch, that’s where he’ll be.

“Enjoy yourselves, now, before we face what we must. Something tells me our troubles have only begun.”