The Light-Bearer's Daughter (12 page)

The wait was harrowing. She was cramped and wet, shivering with cold and fear. Breath held, stomach knotted, she peered through the greenery, dreading what might come. Footsteps approached. Slow and heavy. Loose stones were kicked out of the way. Instinctively she cringed, as if to make herself smaller. Then a figure came into view. She nearly gasped out loud.

Murta!

In the first moment of relief, so glad to see a familiar face, she almost scrambled from her hiding place. Something stopped her. She remembered the creepy feeling she got whenever he was near. What was he doing there? And wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that he had been at the waterfall too? A sick feeling came over her. What could this mean?

Murta sniffed the air as he looked around. Was he searching for her? Her mind insisted on a reasonable explanation. She had been missing for almost half a day. Search parties would be combing the mountains. But if he was part of one, why was he alone? And he didn’t look like he was on a rescue mission. He didn’t even have a rucksack.

Murta’s cell phone rang out, piercing the quiet. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at it a while. Slowly he raised it to his ear.

“Yeah?… No … I’m … I’ve … got business.”

Dana shuddered to hear his voice. It sounded strange and sluggish. Now he put away the phone and with a last glance around him, stalked away, disappearing down the western slope.

She didn’t come out till she was sure he was gone. Her mind was in turmoil. What was going on? Nothing made sense. And what should she do now? She needed to go west, but didn’t want to be seen by him. She would have to take another route. Detour around Scarr. She had just decided to have something to eat and consult her map, when she froze in new horror. There, near the cleft where she had been hiding, something protruded from under a big rock.

Two legs and feet!

She screamed.

A male voice croaked in response from beneath the stone.

Someone trapped!

“Are you all right?” she cried. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”

She started to push frantically against the rock, shouting encouragement. The person underneath had begun to move, twitching his feet and yelling also. She worked all the harder, thinking he was in pain; but when the stone finally rolled over, she discovered he was shouting at
her
.

“What in the name of all that’s holly and ivy are ye kickin’ up such a racket for?” he roared.

Speechless, Dana gaped at the little man. He was yellowy-brown and as wrinkled as an autumn leaf. Both his hair and beard fell in thick knotted strands that curled around his feet like a bird’s nest. His shirt and trousers appeared to be made of brown paper tied with twine, making him look like an abandoned parcel.

Now footsteps sounded on the western ridge and Murta came into sight. He was breathing heavily, eyes darting around. He seemed bigger, darker, red-faced, and terrifying. His glance passed over the little man, but he jerked back in surprise when he saw Dana. Then a ghastly grimace distorted his features. She knew in an instant that she was in danger.

Dana stood transfixed, unsure what to do. At the corner of her eye, she searched for the stones she had dropped. She needed weapons.

Murta licked his lips as he bore down on her.

The little man had stopped yelling to stare at Murta, and now turned to Dana.

“Are ye with the likes of that,
girsearch
?” he asked her.

“No.”

She had meant the word to be emphatic, but it was more like a whimper.

Murta was almost upon them. His eyes were burning. Dana tried to force her feet to run but she was paralyzed with fear.

“I thought not,” said the little man.

Rooting in his clothing, he pulled out a dandelion with its thistledown still intact.

“Hold on to yer britches,” he said, catching hold of Dana’s hand. “We’ll be away in a hack.”

He puffed on the weed.

And blew the two of them away. Right off the mountain!

It was the oddest sensation, like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. With a
whoosh
the landscape blurred around Dana in streaks of green and brown with a blue blotch of sky.

Then she found herself on another mountain peak entirely, dizzy but relieved.

“Thanks!” she said fervently. “That man scares me to death!”

“Man?” said her companion, blinking through the tangle of hair that fell over his eyes.

Dana regarded him curiously. Was he some kind of leprechaun? And had he helped her because she set him free?

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you imprisoned in that rock or did it fall on top of you?”

“Are ye a complete eejit or what?” he said. “I was having a lovely kip when ye rousted me out of it.”

“But I thought …”

Dana stopped. He was having a nap? She felt a little light-headed. Between the huge relief at escaping Murta and the antics of this funny little man, she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Are you a fairy?” she asked him.

“Do I look like one?” he said testily.

Her giggles died.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “The Lady told me—”

He raised a grubby hand and his voice softened.

“Stop the lights! I have ye now. Yer the Lady’s messenger.She sent word to watch out for ye. Is that why yer able to see me when none of yer kind do? They’re always passin’ me by with their big banjaxed feet and bags o’ grub. They all sit down on Yallery Brown’s bed—the Traveler’s Rock, they call it—and divil a one of them offers me a bite to eat. You’d think I didn’t have a mouth on me.”

He eyed her knapsack hopefully.

“I was just about to have my tea,” she told him.

Yallery surveyed the peak around them and pointed to a large flat stone nearby.

“There’s a handsome piece of furniture,” he said. “’Twill do for our table.”

They settled down on the stone and Dana laid out her fare—a chunk of cheddar cheese, a leftover salad roll, four samosas, some pickles, several apples, and a little heap of chocolates.

Yallery eyed the samosas.

“I never seen the like o’ dat before.”

He picked one up and held it to his nose. His whiskers trembled. Holding the pastry with both hands, he began to nibble it daintily, starting at the corners.

Dana had to fight back another bout of giggles. He ate like her hamsters. She herself wolfed down the sandwich of lettuce, tomato, red onion, and chopped peppers. She was starving. It was hours since the picnic at the Powerscourt Waterfall. After all that had happened, it seemed like days. She stared up at the sky. The sun was lower. Evening was coming. Rummaging in her knapsack, she pulled out her map and spread it on her lap.

“Can you tell me where we are?” she asked him, her mouth full.

Yallery Brown peered down at the map. It was a three-dimensional image of the Wicklow Mountains, showing peaks and valleys, lakes and rivers.

“There,” he said, placing a grubby finger on Duff Hill.

“Oh,” she said, dismayed.

He had blown her north, way off course, adding at least another day to her journey. Doing her best to hide her disappointment, she offered him another samosa. Perhaps if she kept him in good humor, he might be persuaded to use another dandelion.

Gnawing away on the second pastry, Yallery stretched out his legs.

Dana noted the two left feet but didn’t comment. It was time for dessert. She doled out three chocolates each, mindful that reserves must be kept for the road ahead.

Yallery licked the edges of a coffee cream with his pale pink tongue.

“Give us an oul
scéal
,” he said. “I haven’t heard a human tale in ages.”

She looked confused.

“You mean like a fairy tale?”

“Nah, sure they’re old hat and a load of blatherumskite. Too much use of the imagination. Ye always have to guess what’s really goin’ on. Give me a human tale any day. All facts and feelings. Will I tell ye a story about Johnny Magorey?”

She nodded, chewing on a toffee.

“Shall I begin it?”

She nodded again.

“That’s all that’s in it!”

His cackles ended in a fit of coughing.

Dana laughed too.

“Good one. I’ll tell it to me Da when I get home.”

The sudden thought of Gabe brought a sharp pang and her mood changed.

Yallery gave her a thoughtful look. He began to chant in a singsong voice.

Skinnymalink melodeon legs
,

Big banana feet
,

Went to the pictures

And couldn’t get a seat
.

She was laughing again.

“Your turn,” he said. “A poem or a song or a tale.”

“I can’t,” she pleaded. “Da’s the storyteller in the family. How about a joke?”

Before he could object, she launched into one.

“A grasshopper goes into a bar and the barman says, ‘Do ye know there’s a drink named after ye?’ ‘Really?’ says the grasshopper. ‘There’s a drink named Bob?’”

Yallery Brown blinked, perplexed.

“There’s a drink called a grasshopper,” she explained.

“What? Are ye tellin’ me yer kind drink grasshoppers’ blood? The poor wee craters!”

“No, no,” she said, and tried to explain again, but it was no longer funny.

“Asha, that won’t do at’all at’all,” he said, relentless.

“What about yer own tale? Isn’t everyone the grand hero in his own life story?”

“There’s not much to mine,” Dana said. She thought a moment. “Well, to start off. My name’s Dana Faolan. I belong to the Faolans of Wicklow, that’s me Da’s people. His mum, my gran, is a Gowan from Wexford. She lives in Canada. I don’t know anything about my own mum’s family. She left before I could ask her about them.” Dana was quiet a minute. “She left before I could ask her about anything.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ve only got half a story I guess.”

Yallery Brown patted her hand.

“No matter,
a leanbh
. Sure, yer still inside your tale. And what is it that yer kind do be sayin’?
It ain’t over till the fat lady sings
.”

The latter was said with such an awful attempt at an American accent that Dana couldn’t help but laugh.

Satisfied, Yallery brushed the samosa crumbs out of his beard and produced another dandelion from inside his clothing.

Dana scrambled to gather up her things.

As the little man blew on the downy clock, his last words sailed through the air.

“Fare ye well on the journey, girl.
Follow the greenway
.”

And then with a
whoosh
, like water sucked down a drain, he disappeared.

Dana looked around her. Yallery Brown was gone and she was still on top of Duff Hill.

“Damn!”

f Dana hadn’t been so cheered by Yallery Brown’s company, she would have been devastated. All around her ranged a wilderness of rock and damp grass under endless sky. She was on the northern flank of the Wicklow Mountains, on a long ridge that wound through windswept bog. She was nowhere near the trail that would take her to Lugnaquillia.

Glumly she stared at the map. She would have to stay on the ridge, of which Duff Hill was a part, and continue westward to Mullaghcleevaun. From there she could head south for the Wicklow Gap and west again to her destination. Just looking at the route, she knew it would take days. Her only choice was to hike as far as she could before it got dark, then camp out for the night. Perhaps in the forest below Stoney Top.

With that decision, Dana heaved her knapsack over her shoulders and set out. Westerly winds blew down the exposed corridor. She wished she had brought her wooly hat and gloves; neither hood nor pockets could fend off the cold that gnawed at her ears and hands. The landscape itself was bleak and miserable. Though a few sheep straggled over the lower fields, there was no sign of a house or farm. No evidence of humanity. Yallery’s retreat had taken her far off the beaten track. Faerie appeared to favor the more forsaken regions. Were its people hiding out in the last scraps of countryside? Were they doomed, like the wilderness itself, before the march of man?