Why I Let My Hair Grow Out (7 page)

“I'm fine,” I said. I started to pedal harder. “I've got the phone. I'm totally fine.”

Did I have my phone? Or had I left it on the ground with my helmet? I couldn't remember, and I didn't care.

There was a split in the road up ahead. Lucia was falling a bit behind me now. I picked up more speed.

“See you at dinner, then!” I heard her call. “Morgan, wait! The map says bear to the right!”

I barreled down the left-hand road, into parts unknown. I put my head down and my ass in the air and pedaled as hard as I could, just like I was Lance Armstrong in the Tour de fekkin France.

“Morgan!” I heard her call. “Morrrrrrrgannnnnnn!”

And then I couldn't hear her anymore. Just the wind rushing past my ears.

 
here be dragons. that's What it says When you fall off the edge of a map.

But I didn't see any dragons. Just green grass and rolling hills dotted with animatronic cows. The road went up and down like dunes at the beach but overall I seemed to be climbing in altitude, and the terrain was growing more rocky and less green. There was a strange hill in the distance with a pronounced bump on top, even and symmetrical in shape, almost as if it were man-made.

My veer into unmapped territory was not premeditated, but how else was I supposed to shake my sad, nosy buddy? At least this way I'd have some privacy. When I got tired or felt like I'd gone too far, I would just head back the way I came and then follow the map till I caught up with the group.

So what if I arrived at tonight's inn after dark? This wasn't Connecticut, where no one under the age of twenty-one is allowed outdoors unsupervised and there are photos of kidnapped children on the sides of milk cartons and Amber Alerts on the news at night. This was Ireland, where you could knock on strangers' doors to use the bathroom, and you could ride your bike down the middle of the road for hours without seeing a single Lexus, Hummer or SUV.

This is Ireland,
I thought as I pedaled. I'd crossed the ocean but I was still miserable and a loser. I still felt outclassed and outgunned by every random female who crossed my path, and I was still making up daydreams about happy romances with guys who clearly were
just not that into me
.

This was Ireland, and my family was glad to be rid of me and I didn't know where I was or in what direction I was heading. Worse, I had no idea where Raph was or what he was doing right this very minute. All I knew is that wherever the two of us were, I was the one thinking, missing, longing and wondering about him. No way was he thinking about me. Raph? Please. He'd have his brainiac-camp girlfriend all picked out by now.

This was Ireland, and my butt was starting to chafe and a cool wind was kicking up, and it was starting to look like it might rain. As much as I hated to admit it, I was stupid to have gone off on my own. It was time to turn back.

And I slowed and made a sharp U-turn, but I hadn't slowed enough and my bike started to skid out on the pebbled ground. I stretched one leg out for balance and the baggy fabric of my sweatpants got tangled in the chain.

And first I was flying and then I was falling, falling, falling.

 
i Was On the ground, but i Wasn't sure how long i'd been lying there. I opened my eyes.

The long gray muzzle of a horse was pushing gently against the side of my head. I felt its hot breath on my cheek.

“Fergus!” the horse cried. “Look who's come back!”

eight

Quick recap, here: there Was a horse talking to me. Strange, right?

And there was a young man—named Fergus, if you can believe what the horse was saying. I had never met anyone named Fergus in my life, and now it was the second time in a day I'd heard the name. This also struck me as strange.

The man was wearing some seriously punked-out clothing—made all of leather but not the glossy black biker kind, more the I-skinned-it-myself natural look, with bits of fur still stuck to the edges. His face was in need of a shave and his hands were rough and dirty, but this was in no way dimming Fergus's grubby warrior-dude sex appeal. This guy was a hottie, even if he did look like an exhibit from the Natural History Museum.

“Morganne!” was the first thing he said to me. He knelt beside me and cradled my throbbing head in his hands. “Morganne! You've come back!”

So he knew my name, sort of, and acted like we'd met before. There were a number of very strange events going on, no question, but at that particular moment, the thing that struck me as the strangest and most inexplicable of them all was—my hair.

My long, thick, strawberry-blond hair. It was spread out on the ground around me like silky gold ribbons. I only realized it was attached to my head when Fergus sat me up and the hair came along for the ride.

“Fek me!” I yelled. “Look at my hair!” And then I shut up, because now I
knew
I must be dreaming.

Fergus smiled, with dream dimples, no less. “Ah, Morganne. If I start looking at your hair now, where will it end? Soon I'll be looking at your eyes, and then your lips, and then all the rest of you—”

My Little Talking Pony stomped its feet with impatience. “We've no time for that now,” the horse said. “Let's get her somewhere safe, and quickly.”

“Samhain is right, as always.” Fergus looked into my eyes with a searching, serious expression. “Thank the goddess you're back, Morganne. There's much trouble brewing. We need you now, more than ever.”

Then Fergus picked me up and placed me on the horse's back like I was a toddler taking the five-dollar pony ride at Lucky Lou's. (It costs eight if you want a Polaroid at the end. Major ripoff, that.)

Some of the richer girls at school were way into the horse thing, but personally I found horses smelly, inscrutable and unnecessarily large. I was just about to ask Fergus how he expected me to stay on board when the beast started to move, but before I could freak out Fergus was sitting on the horse too, right behind me, and Samhain took off at a trot or a canter or one of those gears that a horse shifts into when it starts to run.

There was no seat belt in this vehicle but Fergus's strong legs were wrapped around mine, and I could lean back against his chest as we bounced up and down in rhythm with the hoofbeats. My fingers were clutching the horse's wavy silver-gray mane, and my long, long hair was whipping all around me.

I like this dream,
I thought.
I hope it lasts a little longer.

 
“We're taking you back to dun meara,” shouted Fergus, above all the noise and the wind. I didn't know what or where Dun Meara was—and since I'd never been there before how could I go back?—but hey, dreams aren't supposed to make sense. I was happy to play along, and what choice did I have, anyway?

Dun Meara turned out to be a small village of thatched-roof houses inside a large circular fort, ringed by a wall of mounded earth. There were people everywhere, women and men and children too, and many of them gathered to see who it was who'd come galloping up to the gate in a cloud of dust.

“Ahh, it's only Fergus!” I heard a child's voice cry. “I was hoping it would be Cúchulainn!”

Fergus slid off Samhain's back and landed lightly on his feet. “Not Cúchulainn, child, not yet!” he said, as he lifted me to the ground. “But one who can help us in his absence.”

“Morganne.”
It was as if the whole crowed started whispering my name, or some version of it.
“Morganne, Morganne.”

“Hey, people,” I said with a wave. “ 'Sup?” This was like being on the red carpet at the Grammys. I'd never had such a vivid and detailed dream before. I hoped I'd remember it later when I woke up, which I was in no rush to do since I vaguely recalled leaving a bit of unpleasantness behind me. Something about Colin and Heidi and Lucia and a camera and a map—

“Have you told her of our sufferings yet?” asked a thin, pale-haired woman. She was wincing as she spoke, her hand on her belly. “Does she know about the king? Can she lift the curses upon us?” The woman looked up at me. Her face seemed familiar—she looked a bit like Julie Andrews, in fact. “Will you help us, Morganne?”

“Patience, Lachama,” said Fergus, kindly. “I've told her nothing yet. She is newly arrived from the land of her own kind. First we offer our hospitality. Afterward,” he said, glancing my way, “after she is fed and rested, then we may ask for her aid.”

“Morganne, do you like wheat cakes?” said a young girl, tugging at the sleeves of the dress I was wearing. (All due props to the dream fashion designer for the dress, by the way. It was flowy and cream-colored and fit me perfectly.) “I made them myself and I want you to eat one because they are
so good
!”

Fergus grinned and cuffed the girl on the head. “My sister, Erin, was a baby at the breast the last time you saw her, Morganne, and look what a mayfly she has become! Impossible to ignore.”

The Billingsleys,
I realized. The little girl looked like Sophie and the woman with the bellyache looked like her mother.

“
You
ignore me all the time, Fergus. But Morganne won't,” Erin said, firmly taking my hand. “I will show you the finest hospitality in Dun Meara. Fergus, tend to your horse!”

Fergus grinned at me and did as he was told, and little Miss Feisty dragged me off to find the snacks.

 
 
i should have Woken up by now.

That's what I kept thinking, as Erin fed me wheat cakes and honey inside the primitive but comfortable house that she'd led me to.
It's a dream,
I kept telling myself, but the food tasted so real, and my stomach was actually getting full. Most dreams—my dreams, anyway—tended to be vague and blurry around the edges, but this one had way too much information. It was jam-packed with details that didn't seem lifted out of
Lord of the Rings
, so where the fek were they coming from?

I could never make all this up,
is what was starting to run through my mind. No way, not even in a dream, not even if I had Tammy's imagination (which no one does; that kid is always droning on about her imaginary friends and the strange adventures they have, and if you get sick of listening she'll just continue the conversation with her Beanie Babies).

These thoughts started to make me anxious. To calm myself, I started imagining ways for the whole experience to peter out, like a toy that needed new batteries. Maybe I'd look behind a wall and find it was a painted flat, like the ones they used in the drama club shows at school. Maybe I'd snap out of it suddenly and find myself waking up by the side of an Irish country lane after an unplanned but pleasant afternoon nap, my bike parked nearby under the watchful eye of a decorative animatronic cow.

In the meantime, though, I was there, tasting my food and feeling the warmth of a very real-looking fire, while Fergus explained about the suffering and curses the woman Lachama had been talking about.

“While Cúchulainn has been off studying the arts of war, the Good People have been at their mischief,” he said. “They've pockmarked the land with their enchantments and taboos, inscribed on every pillar and stone, carved in the trees and written in the dirt. Some of our folk refuse to leave their homes for fear of stumbling over one of these inscriptions and becoming accursed, but what can we do? The cattle must be tended. Water must be fetched. Every day some new soul falls under the Good People's spells.”

“Even Fergus!” Erin chirped. “He came upon one in the pasture one day, branded on the back of one of our best milch cows.”

“It cast a moon-spell over my heart,” said Fergus, glumly.

“Now once each month, on the night the moon is new, he is doomed to fall in love with whatever female creature he sees when the first star appears in the sky! And then fall out again when the moon is full,” explained Erin.

“That sounds exhausting,” I offered, trying to be sympathetic.

Fergus poked a stick into the fire. “Last month I pledged my troth to a she-goat in the hills,” he said, with a bitter smile. “At least she had no father to chase me with his axe when my affection cooled after a fortnight.”

“And poor Lachama!” said Erin, stamping out a stray spark. “Her taboo was carved in a stone by the Twisting Brook: ‘Whoseover jumps this stream on a horse black as night will suffer indigestion at every meal for seven years' time.' How she suffers! She's grown so thin this season, always wailing and clutching her guts. If only she were astride her chestnut pony that day, instead of the black!”

“Aye,” said Fergus. “And worst of all, King Conor himself.” Fergus looked down, in a dark mood.

“It wasn't your fault, Fergus!” exclaimed Erin. “It happened during a hunt. Fergus shot a bird and handed it to the king, as tribute. How was he to know the bird was enchanted? It spoke its curse as it died.”

“Since the king fell under the Good People's curse he cannot resist any invitation to a feast,” Fergus explained. “When our enemies wish to steal our cattle or plunder our stores of grain, they need only invite the king to dinner and there he will stay, drinking and eating until morning, leaving the land undefended.”

“And fouling the air with his belches and farts!” teased Erin. I could see she was trying to cheer her brother up.

“Hush, child! The kingly farts make a royal wind, and you must speak of them with respect!” He smiled and tossed the last wheat cake her way. She stuck out her tongue at him and popped the cake in her mouth.

“When Cúchulainn returns, perhaps he will know how to make peace with the Good People.” He refilled my cup with a strong, warm drink. “But we'll speak of that later, after you've rested.”