The Hunter's Moon (12 page)

wen rushed to the table before she could change her mind. In a matter of seconds her plate was heaped high. A hush fell over the assembly. All eyes watched.

She savored her first bite.

Heaven. Ambrosia. Food of the gods
.

The moment she swallowed, the company burst into riotous applause. Findabhair sank back, dismayed. The King leaped to his feet. His black cloak swirled behind him as he raised his arms in triumph. The silver star on his forehead blazed.

“The lady hath failed her trial! She is ours!”

The proclamation was met with a roar of approval, but it seemed the judgment was not unanimous. Ever mercurial and capricious in their humors, the fairy folk began to argue among themselves. As the feast got under way, voices of dissent were heard amid the revelry.

“She was the victor in the first test,” Midir called out. “She tamed her night mare. Our claim is not pure.”

Cheers and “Hear! Hear!” echoed from various quarters. Piqued by the challenge of one so high as the
Tánaiste
, those loyal to the King responded with catcalls. The bright lords and ladies were now seriously at odds.

Some cried “Unfair!” and “Poor sport, this!” while others, equally vehement, chanted “She is ours! She is ours!” Many were genuinely upset. Many more were convulsed with laughter. One portly red-cheeked fellow was holding his sides as if they might split with his guffaws. A twinkling sprite stood on her chair to make herself heard. A leprechaun removed one of his buckled shoes and began banging it on the table. Two pixies resorted to fisticuffs. The more serene of the elfin folk shook their golden locks and tapped cutlery against crystal to signal their annoyance.

As the company grew more agitated, their disharmony spilled over and into their surroundings. All the jellies began to quiver. Ice cubes rattled in the punch bowls. Dishes hopped on the table. Stoppers popped from the decanters of wine. When the chandeliers began to sway, a thousand candles flickered and spat. Thoroughly disgruntled by the whole affair, the roast pig stood up on its haunches, got down from the table, and marched out of the hall. Now the furniture began to twitch as if it, too, wished to depart. The very structure of the hall turned this way and that, shaken by the volatility of its occupants.

Pandemonium reigned.

Only two people seemed unaffected by the chaos: Findabhair, who was still trying to catch her cousin’s attention, and Gwen herself, the cause of the controversy, eating away in a state of bliss.

Finvarra and Midir were now arguing vociferously, each backed by the shouts of their factions. Lightning crackled in the air around them. The center couldn’t hold. Too much power and intensity was being unleashed. The great hall began to pitch and toss like a ship at sea. Everything went flying through the air—furniture, feast, and the fairies themselves.

The last thing Gwen remembered was the dish of chocolate mousse sailing past her. As she strained for a scoop she, too, was hurled upward.

Then she awoke.

On top of the Burren’s Glen of Clab.

In the middle of the worst storm imaginable.

The night was black and raging. Rain poured in a relentless downfall. Wind and water lashed the hilltop. Whips of forked lightning streaked overhead, chased by deafening claps of thunder. It was as if the elemental hounds of hell had been loosed upon the land.

Reeling, Gwen struggled to her feet. She could barely see through the curtain of rain. The landscape was lost in gray sheets of water. The slope below her was a ragged shadow. Groping blindly, she began her descent. The dark rock was wet and slippery. She moved slowly, cautiously. Despite her care, she couldn’t keep her footing. She started to slide down the scree in a shower of loose stones. There was nothing to grab on to. Her arms flailed in the air. As she gathered speed, she lost her balance and tumbled into a spill. She rolled uncontrollably, crying out with pain and fear. By the time she crashed to a halt at the bottom, she was cut and battered and dazed with shock.

Gwen lay on the ground, drenched and aching. Could her life get any worse? Weeping with sheer misery, she hauled herself up. She had to find shelter.
Where was she?
Nothing looked familiar in the dark. There were no streetlights or houses to show the way, only sodden fields and the ubiquitous stone walls that went on forever. Lowering her head against the wind and the rain, she picked a direction and trudged down the road. She needed to find the Quirkes. She had nowhere else to go.

Only when she spotted the sign for the
Fulacht Fia
did Gwen realize she had taken the wrong road. She was walking away from the Quirkes’! More tears joined the rainwater trickling down her face. She wanted to howl. Numb with defeat, she stared into the field where she had first met the fairies. If only Midir were there. But though there was no sign of her fairy champion, she spotted a bulky shape near the ring of pale stones. Her heart lifted. It was her knapsack, in the spot where she had left it when she mounted her horse!

With a cry of joy, she ran to retrieve her possessions. Zipping up her anorak, she felt instantly better. A little dryer, a little warmer, and her optimism returned. She had her bearings. She knew the way to the Quirke house from there.

Bundled up and with her hood pulled low, Gwen set out once more.

At last she spied the big house in the distance, a dark silhouette against the shadow of the mountain. But there were no warm yellow lights to hearten the traveler. With a pang of concern, she picked up her pace. As she turned a corner in the road, she was met by mayhem.

Cattle charged toward her, wild-eyed with panic. Beams of light shone from the car that crawled behind them. Running alongside the car were Katie and two younger girls, all in weatherproof macks. With shouts and long sticks, they struggled to herd the cattle.

Katie ran up to Gwen.

“Ho girl! This is no night to be out!”

Beneath the hood of her mack, Katie’s face was aglow with excitement. She was obviously taking the storm in her stride.

“I don’t suppose I could help?” Gwen offered half-heartedly.

“We’re putting these lads with the others in the
Maher Buídhe
. They’ll be more sheltered there, poor things. They want to hide under the trees, the most dangerous spot with the lightning. I don’t think you could handle them, Gwen. They’re pure wild with fright. Go up to the house. The electricity’s knocked off, but there’s a fire in the grate. If you’d like to help, make us something hot for when we get back.”

“I will,” Gwen promised.

Katie gave her a hard look, and was about to say something when thunder pealed overhead. The cows bellowed in terror and bolted down the road. Katie raced after them.

When Gwen reached the house, she found it blacked out except for the living room where the hearth fire was lit. The thatched roof was raining in spots. Buckets and pots had been set out to catch the drips. In the kitchen, more basins plonked to the tune of falling water. A big Stanley range heated the room, with a black kettle simmering on the hob. There was a wooden dresser stacked with blue china and a painting of the Sacred Heart on the wall. Under the table, the dog cowered from the thunder like a frightened child.

“It’s okay, Bran,” she said soothingly, but he stared back at her with the dumb terror of beasts.

Gwen dried herself and changed her clothes. She was shocked by the number of cuts and bruises she had, but nothing looked serious. Rummaging around the kitchen, she tried to keep busy. She needed to do something, anything, to keep her mind off her disastrous visit to Faerie. Homemade soup would be good. Chopping carrots, celery, onions, and potatoes, she added them to a chicken stock with handfuls of barley. Then she sliced bread for ham and cheese sandwiches. When the soup began to bubble, the homely smell of simple fare was a damning reminder. Only a short while ago she had gorged herself on food far richer. Her stomach felt queasy, as if she had devoured a whole box of chocolates in one go.

She pushed the memory away. Instead, she thought of the Quirke women out battling the elements.

When the sandwiches were ready, she set the table in the living room. The hearth fire was dying down, so she added more turf. Then she found candles to place in saucers around the room. Having done all she could, she sank into a big chair and dozed fitfully.

The evening’s events were taking their toll. She felt drained and feverish. The candlelight confused her, harking back to the fairy hall. Outside the window, the Burren mountains were blue-black and shining, like whales sailing through a storm-driven sea. The wind howled above the house like the wails of a banshee. Everything seemed formless and chaotic.

Only when she heard the sound of a car in the driveway was she able to rouse herself to put out the food.

The Quirkes bustled into the house, shaking out wet macks and pulling off boots. Their worn faces brightened at the scene before them. Bowls of piping-hot soup had been set on the table, with plates of sandwiches and a big pot of tea.

Katie introduced Gwen to her mother and sisters.

“The fire blazing and all,” Mrs. Quirke said warmly. “You’re a most welcome guest, my dear.”

While the family enjoyed their supper, Gwen sipped a cup of weak tea.

“Not eating?” Katie asked, with a deliberate stare.

Gwen looked away.

“I’ve had too much tonight already.”

The older girl frowned but said nothing, while the others chatted around the table.

“I’ve seen many a bad storm in my day,” Mrs. Quirke stated, “but this beats all. You brought the bad weather, Gwen.”

Though she knew it was a figure of speech, Gwen winced. Not for the first time that night she wondered if the storm was fairy fury.
Did
she cause it?

It was later, when the spare bed was made up in Katie’s room and Gwen was almost asleep, that the other girl questioned her. Katie’s face looked grave in the candlelight.

“I don’t want to offend you, Gwen, and maybe it’s none of my business, but I’m going to ask you anyway. Are you on something? Were you meeting a drug pusher tonight?”

A strange lassitude had overcome Gwen. Her thoughts were soft and white like puffs of cotton wool. Had Katie asked for her name, she would have hesitated. But the question was more serious, though utterly absurd. While one part of Gwen wanted to laugh, she also felt like crying. Katie was acting like a big sister. She obviously cared about Gwen.

“They don’t deal in drugs,” Gwen answered slowly. “They deal in dreams. Maybe it has the same effect?”

Katie was about to demand an explanation, when Gwen ended their talk by falling asleep.

he next morning Gwen woke to find Katie in a chair by her bedside.

“This must be what a hangover feels like,” Gwen groaned.

Her throat was parched, she felt hot and achy, and her head throbbed as if it housed an orchestra of hammers and tongs.

“You mean you don’t know?” the older girl asked. Her look of concern changed to a grin.

“Nope. I’ve never taken drugs, to answer your question, and that includes alcohol. Boy, do I feel awful.”

Gwen sat up shakily.