The Hunter's Moon (31 page)

Back home in Ireland, the grassroots phenomenon of
Gaelscoileanna
—primary and secondary schools teaching in Irish—is widespread and rapidly growing, despite tacit resistance from successive Irish governments. These schools guarantee new generations of Irish speakers whose second language is fluent Irish. The longstanding Irish-language radio station
Raidió na Gaeltachta
continues to broadcast from the viewpoint of native speakers, while the new television station
Teilifís na Gaeilge
(TG4) caters to both native and second-language speakers. Many institutions both private and public support the language, the most venerable being
Conradh na Gaeilge (
www.cnag.ie
)
.

There are several dialects within the Irish language which express regional differences among the provinces of Munster, Leinster, Connaught, and Ulster. Also extant is Shelta, the secret language of the Irish Travelers (nomadic people who live in caravan trailers), which weaves Romany words with Irish Gaelic.

In whatever form, long may the language survive.
Gaeilge abú!

O.R. Melling was born in Ireland and grew up in Canada with her seven sisters and two brothers. As an adolescent, she was a champion Irish dancer and competed in many American cities. At eighteen years old, she hitchhiked across Canada and down to California where she lived for several months. As an Officer Cadet in the Canadian Naval Reserve, she worked her way through university, achieving a B.A. in Celtic Studies and Philosophy and an M.A. in Medieval Irish History. “To travel hopefully” is her motto and she has visited such faraway places as Malaysia, Borneo, India, Denmark, Outer Hebrides, Alaska, and Canada’s Northwest Territories. To date, her books have been translated into Japanese, Chinese, Russian, Slovenian, and Czech. The next book in her
The Chronicles of Faerie
series is
The Summer King
. She lives in her hometown of Bray, County Wicklow, Ireland, with her teenage daughter, Findabhair. Visit her Web site at
www.ormelling.com
.

The print version of this book was designed by Jay Colvin and art directed by Becky Terhune. It is set in Horley Old Style MT, a Monotype font designed by the English type designer Robert Norton. The chapter heads are set in Mason, which was created by Jonathan Barnbrook based on ancient Greek and Roman stone carvings.

Enjoy this peek at the second book in O.R. Melling’s
The Chronicles of Faerie
,
The Summer King

That night, Laurel had a dream. She was standing on the dunes looking out over the sea. The silver stars were reflected in the water, which lay still as glass. A faint music rose in the east and lingered like sunrise in the dark shadows of Minaun, music so soft and plaintive it made her heart ache. The sweet cadence seemed to echo the sorrow of an exiled spirit, recalling vague memories of a hapless love, or the loss of a home so far away.

White lights like candles moved over the cliffs and across the pale strand of Trawmore. As they drew closer, she saw the cavalcade of bright lords and ladies, tall and shining and blindingly beautiful. Some rode on palfreys of white and gray. Others walked with such grace their feet barely touched the ground. Flags and gonfalons fluttered above their heads. Lanterns glittered with the light of the moon. Their names were whispered on the wind and over the water.
The Still Folk. The Noble Ones. The People of the Ever-Living Land. Na Daoine Maithe. Na Daoine Sídhe
. The music surrounded them as they went, and they sang together.

Níl sé ’na lá, níl a ghrá,
Níl sé ’na lá, na baol ar maidin,
Níl sé ’na lá, nil a ghrá,
Solas ard atá sa ghealaigh
.

It is not yet day, it is not, my love
It is not yet day, nor yet the morning,
It is not yet day, it is not, my love
For the moon is shining brightly
.

As she looked upon them, Laurel was overcome with a yearning that pierced her heart. Her eyes welled with tears. Here was a race that would never know the weight of human life. They seemed so slight and insubstantial, so fragile and precious. The dream at the end of life’s heartbreaking journey. She felt a great longing rise up inside her, the desire to protect them, to keep them safe.

At the head of the column strode a tall young man with a glittering star on his forehead. He was dressed in black like the night, and a silver mantle swirled behind him like mist. His red-gold hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were solemn and wise.

Laurel knew without being told that this was Midir, the new High King of Faerie. She bowed her head. When she looked up again, the cavalcade was gone and a young man stood before her in black jeans and T-shirt. His red-gold hair was tied back in a ponytail. The bright blue eyes were warm and friendly. Only the star on his forehead told of his kingship.

She thought of bowing again but changed her mind. He looked her own age. She was surprised, then, when he bowed to her.

“I wish to thank thee for what you are doing for my country and my beloved.”

“Your beloved,” she echoed, with a pang.

She knew immediately whom he meant. She was surprised but not surprised. Hadn’t Honor written that he was in love with her?

“I wished to undertake the mission myself,” he said, “but I could not abdicate my duties to the kingdom. This is a perilous time for Faerie. Since the death of the First King, we are embattled on many fronts. I have yet to come into full knowledge of myself as sovereign, and I am further weakened without my tánaiste, and because there is no queen in Faerie. Where the link between the worlds grows thin, dark things are slipping through the cracks and crevices. Yet we hold back the waves as best we can.

“If you succeed in forging the Ring of the Sun, you will have saved our cause. With the bond renewed, we may heal the land and keep out the darkness, and all will be well.”

“I’ll do it,” she promised, “for Honor
and
Faerie.” Her voice rang with determination. But then her throat tightened and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Do you know if she’s all right? Would it be possible … Can I see her?”

Midir waved his hand over the ground between them. A pool of silver light brimmed like water. There in the depths she lay, curled up and fast asleep.
Honor
. She was like a white flower, shining and innocent, a newborn soul.

“Oh,” said Laurel.

She stared at Midir with mute appeal, and saw her own pain and longing mirrored in his eyes.

“Your sister has slipped between the worlds, through one of the tears we hope to seal. When the Midsummer Fires are lit, she will awaken. Then you and I will be reunited with her.”

His declaration was clear and confident, his features serene. Laurel found herself wishing for the same conviction.

“How can you be so sure?”

The blue eyes glittered like the stars above. His smile dazzled.

“I believe in you,” he said, as he began to fade.

And even as Laurel surfaced from the depths of sleep, his last words dispersed like foam on the waves.

“I have always believed in humans.”