The Hunter's Moon (29 page)

t was a year later when they all met again on Inch Island, a year and a day since Finvarra died. The reunion was loud and lively at times. Katie arrived with Mattie since her motorbike had broken down and she was saving to buy a new one. She admitted to luxuriating in the big Mercedes.

“It was like sitting on a sofa! I kept looking for the telly!”

Dara drove the length of Ireland to pick up Gwen and Findabhair in Bray. Gwen wore the golden heart that he had sent her for Christmas. When she first opened the door to greet him, she was so overwhelmed that she was about to act shy. He didn’t give her the chance. With a great cry, he caught her into his arms.

Findabhair had come of age in the passing year. There was a depth and grace to her slender beauty. She had learned to live with the death of a loved one.

When all were gathered in the Wise Woman’s cottage, they sat down together to a funereal feast.

“Granny and I have been cooking day and night for weeks,” Dara declared.

He spoke with pride, and rightly so. Only in Faerie had they ever dined so sumptuously. The dinner was served in the old style of Irish feasting, with three courses or “removes” that were each a meal in itself. The first course started with a homemade soup of carrots, leeks, and fresh peas from the garden, followed by artichoke pie, buttered dulse and pickled samphire, sugared beetroots, broad beans in butter, and various salads of sorrel and herbs. These were accompanied by an assortment of breads including raisin scones, farls of wheaten, little soft white rolls, and the potato-cake dishes renowned in the region—fadge, boxty, and champ.

The second remove featured a great platter of grilled salmon and trout, eggs roasted in the turf ashes, onions baked in their jackets, fresh mountainy mushrooms fried in butter and garlic, carrageen moss as light as a sponge, and a great hill of potatoes, all white and floury, sprinkled with chopped parsley and chives.

The third course was a delight to charm any sweet tooth: almond cream pudding that melted in the mouth, an apple barley flummery, hazelnut and honey biscuits, butter sticks with orange butter, tea brack thick with sultanas and fruit, and a great bowl of gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, and black currants in a swirl of golden cream.

To wash it all down, there were bottles of elderflower and blackberry wine, a jug of frothing buttermilk, and pots of brown tea.

“I’ll have a bit of everything,” said Gwen.

They ate at a leisurely pace for hours, talking and laughing. At the head of the table a chair was left empty and a place setting unused. Throughout the meal, they raised their glasses and toasted Finvarra, speaking of him as if he were there. This was the Irish way, not to deny death but to acknowledge it, and to celebrate in the name of the one who had gone.

Shortly before twilight, they set out in procession down to Inch Fort. Dressed in their best clothes, solemn and silent, each carried a candle and a death gift to honor him.

The dusky light of evening fell like a mist on the fields. The road was a gray ribbon wound around the island. In the distance, the dark mountains stood watch on the landscape.

When they reached the stony shore of Lough Swilly, they lit their candles. One by one they offered their gifts to the deep of the lough.

“Not all that is gone is gone forever,” said Granny, as she slipped the silver ring from her finger and dropped it into the water.

“All kings and princes bow to the High King,” were Dara’s words, as he watched the crown of oak leaves float away.

From her knapsack, Katie took out a bow and arrow. As soon as she lit the kerosened point, she stepped back to aim.

“You were a wonderful dream,” she whispered.

The fiery arrow arched over the dark lough, then plummeted into the water like a falling star.

“My king, my king,” said Mattie.

There was a flash of gold as the coin spun against the sky before diving down.

“You were an enemy, and then a friend,” Gwen said quietly. “Thanks to you, I learned to be strong.”

The bouquet of buttercups was twined with the briar of a wild Irish rose.

It was Findabhair’s turn. The others watched sadly as she walked to the edge of the drear lake.

“I return the gift you gave to me,” she said softly.

As she reached out to the waters, they saw her hands were empty. Then she began to sing.

’gCluin tú mo ghlór ’tá ag cur thuairisc

Ó mhaidin go nóin is as sin go deireadh lae?

Éist, a stór, tá ceol ar an ngaoth

Is casfar le chéile sinn roimh dhul faoi don ghrian
.

Do you hear my voice that’s asking for you

From dawn till noon and then to day’s end?

Listen, my love, music is on the wind

And we will meet before the sun goes down
.

Tears sprang to their eyes. As soon as they heard the beautiful song, they knew. Findabhair had not left Faerie empty-handed. She had been given the gift of
ceol-sídhe
, the power of fairy music.

Shiúlas i bhfad is do shamhail ní fhaca

Ba mhór e mo bhrón is ba mhinic mé faoi néal

Éist, a stór, tá ceol ar an ngaoth

Is casfar le chéile sinn roimh dhul faoi don ghrian
.

Long I walked and saw not your image
,

My sorrow was great and my sky often dark
,

Listen, my love, music is on the wind

And we will meet before the sun goes down
.

There was an awkward moment, just before they left, when everyone paused, as if something were still to be said or done. No one expressed it, but the shadow of disappointment cast a gloom over all. They had half-expected the fairies to come. Hadn’t Midir promised that the fallen King would not be forgotten?

Gwen put her arm around her cousin in silent support.

“They are not like us,” Findabhair murmured.

It was on their way back to Granny’s, as they approached the crossroads, that they heard the music. High notes quivering on a current of wind. Skipping over field and mountain. A dancer leaping!

An impossible tune by a master fiddler.

And when they all raced breathlessly toward its source, there he was, standing tall in the grasses at the side of the road. Dressed in faded jeans and a white shirt that glowed in the dimness, he played his fiddle like a man without a care in the world. His skin was nut-brown, his feet were bare. He had the same features, finely chiseled and exquisite, but he looked younger somehow and more approachable. The sloe-black eyes shone with a genial light.

It was Finvarra, they had no doubt, yet he looked at them without recognition.

Findabhair drew near, staring at him with disbelief, too overwhelmed to speak.

He put down his instrument, and smiled at her.

Granny stepped forward.

“Dear King, are you well?”

He seemed bemused by her greeting.

“I think he has lost his memory,” Findabhair managed to say at last.

“I know you are my friends,” he said. Then he added playfully to her, “And
you
are special to me. Are you not, Beloved?”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Will you come with us?” Granny asked gently.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

The others exchanged glances at this remark.

“I beg your patience, friends,” he said, “but this is all so new and strange to me. The first day of my life that I hold in my memory. Who I am or where I come from, I do not know.

“Like a newborn babe I awoke in the gloaming, on a high hill, under a hawthorn tree. I was not alone, but surrounded by many creatures—birds, field mice, foxes, and hares. There were people, too, but not like yourselves. A little man with pointed ears, an old woman in a black shawl, and a tall red-haired lad with a star on his brow accompanied by many beautiful women. They were all weeping and lamenting. It was their cries that woke me.

“‘Why do you mourn on such a fair evening?’ I asked them. ‘Have the stars fallen? Does the moon hide her face?’

“Though none would answer my questions, they led me here. I was told to stay here till six would come. You were my friends, they said, who would help me begin my new life. Then all wept again as they took their leave of me.

“I pitied them greatly, to be so burdened with grief. I kissed each warmly and bade them be glad. For even as day must follow night, sorrow will ever give way to happiness. Is this not the truth?”

But now Finvarra saw that they, too, had tears in their eyes.

“Crom Cruac took his immortality,” Gwen murmured to Katie.

“He’s one of us now,” her friend nodded back.

Though each was aware of the great loss that had befallen the King, they could not help but be overjoyed that he was alive and returned to them. Findabhair’s heart overflowed just looking at him, her beloved whom she thought she would never see again.

“You will explain this mystery to me, I hope?” Finvarra asked, regarding each in turn.

Six smiles shone through the tears as they agreed.

“A bit at a time, I think,” said Granny. “For your own sake and the adjustments you will have to make.”

“You’re beginning the adventure of life as a man,” Mattie told him.

“It’s not so bad,” Dara added with a grin.

“Do you remember anything?” Gwen asked him.

She was holding Dara’s hand. Finvarra frowned.

“I think of you with some affection. Are you my love also?”

“NO!”
came the answer from three at once—Gwen, Dara, and Findabhair.

With peals of laughter and lighter step, the Company of Seven strolled down the road on their way back to Granny’s. Findabhair and Finvarra drew closer together until they walked with their arms around each other. They looked no different a young couple than Gwen and Dara, who were linked the same way. Though they eventually discussed their plans to go home, all knew they would meet again and again. For the six “older” humans were well aware that a new life had been entrusted to their care.

And when the Company passed the Fargan Knowe, a wind suddenly gusted through the stand of trees. Leaves and small stones eddied in circles, rattling over the ground like the scamper of feet. A whisper sighed on the air.

The King passed by. Long live the King
.

Aengus Óg
(en-gus ogue)—Aengus the Young, the Celtic God of Love, son of the Dagda, “the Good God” (so called not because he was good, but because he was good at everything).

aisling
(ash-ling)—vision, vision poem

amadán
(om-ah-dawn)—fool

An Craoibhín
(awn cree-veen)—little branch, twig

An Óige
(on oy-ga)—
Óige
means “youth” (plural).
An Óige
is the Irish Youth Hostel Association founded in 1932, with thirty-four hostels around Ireland available to individuals, families, and groups.

Áras an Uachtaráin
(ar-uss awn ukk-ta-rawn)—abode or habitation of the President of Ireland, situated in the Phoenix Park, Dublin.

a stór
(ah store)—My darling (literally “my treasure”)

Banshee
(baan-shee)—Anglicized version of
Bean Sídhe
(baan-shee), literally “fairy woman.” In Irish folklore, the banshee is a specific kind of female spirit, usually green with long hair. She follows certain families, and will howl at night outside the door (while combing her hair) if someone in the family is about to die. Though terrifying, the warning is considered a favor as it gives everyone a chance to prepare for death. However, they don’t know who will die …

Bí ar shiúl!
(bee err shool)—Begone!

bodhrán
(b’ow-rawn)—hand-held drum, usually made of goatskin and wood, beaten with a small wooden stick. “The heartbeat of traditional Irish music.”