The Summer King (7 page)

“I’ll try.” Her tongue felt thick and furry. She had to force the words out. “I’ll act … as if … I believe.”

She had no sooner uttered the words than she began to feel better. The room came back into focus. Energy returned to her limbs. The little man himself looked more solid and even normal, as he rubbed his hands gleefully.

Laurel sat up straight, her mind clear. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

“Was my sister stolen by the fairies?”

The cluricaun was quick to answer.

“No, she’s not with us, more’s the pity. She’s caught in a quare place.”

“What do you mean?!”

Laurel’s heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint.

The little man sighed, even as the turf ash sighed in the fire.

“Your sister’s fallen through a crack, a tear in the fabric of Faerie. It’s a story that belongs to a bigger tale, like most things.”

He drew on his pipe. Laurel held her breath.

“These are dark days for the Realm,” he declared momentously. “’Twas only a short while ago we lost our High King. Not the new one who sent me to ye, mind, but the old one. The First King.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, trying not to be impatient.

“’Twould take a book to tell ye. I could be here all night with tales about the fairies. The story in a nutshell? He lost his heart to a human girl and that was the end of him.”

“Dead?”

The cluricaun nodded.

“Dead to our world, alive in yours. But there’s no time to be talkin’ about metempsychosis. There’s too much to do and it should’ve been done yesterday.”

“It’s okay, I understand. My grandfather explained it earlier. But I didn’t realize it went both ways, that fairies could die and come here!”

“Well, they can,” he told her, “but it’s never happened to the High King before! The place is in rag order because of it. Ruptions and ructures and
ruaille-buaille.
Your sister’s not the only one missin’. But I’ll tell ye this. If things aren’t set right and soon, bedad, they’ll only get worse. And if Faerie is doomed, ye know what that means.”

After all she had read, Laurel did. Disaster for both worlds. As the two were linked, the existence of each depended on the other. Faerie needed humanity to protect and believe in it, while the Earthworld was nourished by the land of hopes and dreams. She recognized the chief theme in her grandfather’s books: the Rescue of Fairyland. And in all the tales, it was a mortal who did the job.

Outside, the wind whistled round the corners of the house. The ivy trailing over the window tapped against the panes. The cluricaun put more turf on the fire, and continued.

“Midsummer’s Eve is nearly upon us. It’s a high feast celebrated by the fairy folk and those of your kind who remember the old ways. ’Tis a special night, but all the more so in the seventh year. For every seven years, on the day that’s in it, the isle of Hy Brasil appears in the West.

“This magical island is the home of the Summer King who rules the fairies of the western seas. He’s the one who lights the Midsummer Fire on Purple Mountain. It’s the beacon that triggers the others to burn until the last, the heart-fire, is set ablaze on the Hill of Tara by the High King himself. Thus is forged the
Fáinne na Gréine,
the Ring of the Sun, a fiery chain that pours light and power into Faerie.”

The cluricaun stopped to catch his breath.

“Here’s where the plot thickens,” he warned.

Rummaging through his pockets, he produced his little bottle and took a slug.

“This is the seventh year, when Hy Brasil rises in the West and the Ring of the Sun must be forged. But there’s no Summer King to light the Midsummer Fire.”

“He’s one of the missing!”

The cluricaun blinked and a sly look crossed his face, but Laurel didn’t notice. She was feeling a bit dazed. After all the fairy tales she had read that evening, here was one just as weird and wonderful, and somehow it involved both her and her sister!

“The mission Honor wrote about in her journal …” she said slowly.

“Now you’re gettin’ it,” he said.

She could see he was waiting with bated breath. His pipe had gone out and though he clutched the bottle, he didn’t take a drink.

“You want me to light the fire?”

He shook his head. “Only the Summer King has the spark to do it.” He paused a moment. “We want ye to find him.”

A heavy silence fell over them. The ticking of the clock on the mantel sounded ominously loud, like the toll of a bell. The fire was a heap of gray ashes.

Laurel was thinking hard. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something wrong with the cluricaun’s story. Something didn’t add up. Still, though her instincts warred against her, it made no difference. There was only one thing she cared about.

“If the fire is lit and the Ring of the Sun is forged, will that save Honor?”

The little man nodded so vigorously his hat spun around.

“
Go cinnte!
Once Faerie is fixed and the cracks are mended, she’ll be right as rain.”

It was as if a sunburst exploded in Laurel’s brain. She felt giddy and lightheaded. Just like that, her deepest dream and greatest hope presented on a silver platter! She ignored the faint alarm at the back of her mind. There could only be one response to such an offer.

“I’ll do it!”

eaving Dublin behind, the train sped across the midlands on its way into the West. The landscape was flat, sprawling with the monotony of suburban estates and the rectangular boxes of factories and offices. Building cranes swayed on the horizon. Plastic bags flapped in the trees. From time to time a field peeped out through the urban blight, like green eyes wincing.

The train was sleek and shiny, with newly upholstered seats facing each other over narrow tables. The driver used the intercom with zeal, roaring out messages and announcing the stations in Irish and English.

Kildare.
Cill Dara.
The Church of the Oak Tree.

Laurel had placed her knapsack on the empty seat beside her. The car was not too crowded, a few families with children, some young people with backpacks, and several tourists with big suitcases blocking the aisle. People played cards, read newspapers, and to her surprise, drank. Beer cans and wine bottles were conspicuous on all sides. Cell phones were also an Irish custom apparently, as everyone was talking on them. Laurel reached for the one she had bought in Bray. Honor used to text her constantly, even if they were only in separate rooms. She put it back in her pocket and stared out the window.

The train was passing green fields hedged with bushes of yellow whin. She turned on her iPod and listened for a while to the Peatbog Faeries, then switched to Runrig, a group from the Outer Hebrides. Their sound was strange to her ears, wild and anarchic. The Scots Gaelic words and rhythms were like waves pounding cold shores. It was not her music, but Honor’s. She had replaced her own collection with her sister’s.

Togaidh sinn ar fonn an ard,
Togaidh sinn ar fonn an ard,
’S ged ‘tha mi fada bhuat,
Cha dhealaich sinn a’chaoidh.

Laurel was doing her best not to be overwhelmed by the task ahead.

“Ye must go to Achill Island on the western seaboard. ’Tis off the coast of Achill that the isle of Hy Brasil appears. Begin your search there. Be of good courage and keep your wits about ye. The fire must be lit by sunset on Midsummer’s Eve.” He cocked his head and blinked at her. “That’s Friday week.”

“What?” she had gasped. “So soon? There’s hardly any time!”

“Well didn’t ye waste most of it gettin’ here? Ye’ve only yourself to blame for the last-minute element.”

She would have argued with him, but she knew there was no point. Six days were all she had, and that was that.

One of those days was spent convincing Nannaflor to let her go.

“You want to travel around a strange country on your own?”

Her grandmother had tried to talk her out of it, but Granda was supportive.

“You were the same age, Florence, when you went off to England—a strange country—all on your own.”

“I went there to study, William. That’s hardly the same thing. And it was a safer world back then.”

It was Laurel’s destination that clinched the matter. As soon as she mentioned Achill, all protests ended. Her grandfather had grown up on the island and though the big family home was long gone, he and Nannaflor owned a little cottage by the sea where the two of them spent vacations. Their “love nest” they called it.

While she was surprised by the coincidence, Laurel was more than happy that it saved the day. She packed her bags that night.

The next morning, her grandfather drove her to Dublin to catch the train.

On their way into the city, Granda gave her final instructions for the cottage and the old car that went with it. He kept hesitating, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. When they reached the station he spoke up at last.

“Achill is like nowhere else on earth. A special place. Your grandmother and I would have liked to bring you there ourselves. Are you certain you want to go alone? Isn’t there any way I can help you?”

The look he gave her was so wise and kind, she almost told him of her mission. But it was all too fragile and illusory, like the stuff of dreams. She was afraid it would disappear if she expressed it out loud.

“I’ll be fine, Granda. I need to do this alone. You mustn’t worry about me. I promise to call.”

On the train, she battled with second thoughts and doubts. Was it a wild-goose chase? Another desperate way to hold on to her sister? Was she deluding herself? Going crazy? She had seen her face in the mirror that morning, pale and haunted. And yet, at the same time, she was feeling more alive than she had in ages. However faint, there was hope ahead.
Act as if you believe and see what happens.
She repeated the line like a mantra.

Even as Laurel whispered the words to herself, the train passed a field covered with dandelions. The downy tufts were dislodged by the draft and sucked into the open windows. The car was deluged with feathery seeds, floating and dancing and drifting like snow. Children clambered on the seats to catch them, crying out with delight. The passengers smiled at each other. Laurel, too, felt the thrill. Magic was alive in the world.

Tullamore.
Túlach Mhór.
The Great Hill.

Three men clambered onto the train, shabbily dressed in torn jeans and old sweaters. They were short and stocky, with bulbous noses and bulging eyes. After loading their table with cans of Guinness, they took out their instruments—a fiddle, a tin whistle, and a bodhrán drum—and played as if their lives depended upon it. When they lit up cigarettes, it wasn’t long before the driver yelled over the intercom.

“GET RID OF THEM SMOKES OR YOU’LL BE PUT OFF AT THE NEXT STOP!”

This was met with hoots and jeers as the cigarettes went flying out the window. Chastened, the three struck up a gentle ballad. A hush fell over the car as everyone listened.

There’s something sleeping in my breast,
That wakens only in the West,
There’s something in the core of me,
That needs the West to set it free.

Indeed the train was now traveling into the West. The passengers clapped as it crossed the Shannon River, a natural border recognized by all. The river was wide, cold, and dark blue. The countryside beyond it looked different. Stone walls replaced hedges in a lonely vista where towns were a rare sight. Horses, sheep, and cattle dotted the fields.

Castlerea.
Caisleán Riabhach.
The Brindled Castle

It was at Castlerea that an elderly lady got on and sat down opposite Laurel. She was tall and stately, dressed in an old-fashioned manner, with a trouser suit of forest-green and a white ruffled blouse. Her high-heeled boots had pointed toes that curled slightly at the tips. She wore gold jewelry, a big brooch shaped like a serpent swallowing its tail, and earrings to match. Her steely gray hair was pulled back in a bun, revealing a strong forehead, narrow cheekbones, and a sharp narrow nose. Her eyes were dark and dramatic.