The Light-Bearer's Daughter (28 page)

She had seen from the start that all was not well with the King and his Court. The tension in the hall was unmistakable. It ran like a dark stream under the pleasantries. Furtive glances were being cast at both her and Lugh. The nobles appeared to be on tenterhooks, holding their breath. What were they afraid of? What could possibly happen? The King himself was silent and brooding. He didn’t eat, but sat with his head in his hand, pensive and preoccupied. Occasionally he would heave a sigh
.

Dana was somewhat wary of him herself. The memory of the raging giant was still fresh in her mind. The devastation he had inflicted upon the land. The madness in his eyes. She was both nervous and in awe of him
.

When the banquet was over, the King waved his hand dismissively and the table disappeared. Now Dana found herself enthroned on a dais at the head of the great hall. The chamber was suddenly thronged, not only with the Court but with countless creatures—birds and animals and other folk of the Mountain Kingdom. Surprised that she sat at Lugh’s right hand, Dana couldn’t meet the countless stares directed at her. What was happening?

A blast of trumpets rang out. The harper stepped to the fore
.

“It is the Feastday of
Lá Lughnasa.
Lugh of the Mountain, Lugh of the Wood, has returned to his people. Let those who will, step forth and request their boon!”

At first they came timidly, one by one, speaking in low voices to make their requests: a bigger sett in the lee of the mountain; a lost gift found; a betrothal blessed. But as Lugh dealt courteously and magnanimously with each, they grew more confident. He was indeed their beloved King! He had returned to them!

A tall lady glided into the hall. She had emerald skin and hair brown as bark. Her dress was of oak leaves; her crown, of red holly. A whisper rippled through the crowd
. Muinchillí Glasa.
Greensleeves
.

“I have come to speak for the Glen of the Downs,” she called out. Her voice was as mellifluous as a burbling brook. “Will you stop the humans from killing the trees?”

Dana suddenly remembered that this was the day the felling in the glen was to begin
.

“The storms have delayed the slaughter,” Greensleeves continued, “but they will surely strike tomorrow. Will you intervene?”

The King regarded her sadly
.

“I will aid those of you who must retreat, but I cannot save the trees. For this is a truth you already know, Muinchillí Glasa. Only humanity can fight human evil. It is not our place in the worlds to do so. If their race fails to stand against its own shadow, we of Faerie must withdraw before it.”

As Lugh spoke he glanced for a moment at Dana. She shifted uncomfortably. Did he mean her? Was there something she should do?

Greensleeves bowed her head to acknowledge his ruling. Her steps were slow and sorrowful as she withdrew, and the crowd murmured their sympathy
.

Many more suppliants came and went. The King dealt with each like Solomon on his throne. It was the final petitioner who created the greatest stir, for she was both beautiful and terrifying. With a shiver, Dana remembered her from the mountains: the tall dark woman who was also a giant raven
.

She was over seven feet tall, as straight and slender as a spear, with ebony skin and striking features. Dressed all in black, with leather jerkin, tight trousers, and knee-high boots, she wore a feathered cloak that flew behind her like wings. Her manner was proud and aloof
.

“I am Aróc. Captain of the Fir-Fia-Caw.” Her voice was harsh and guttural. “A boon I ask
. Awrrkk.
Sad our tale in the West. Pain and loss. We seek new life.”

Lugh listened to her solemnly and nodded when she was finished
.

“I grant you the crags of Cloghernagh,” was his pronouncement. “Build and nest as you will
. Tá failte roimhe do cine anseo.”

Captain Aróc bowed, but before she could turn on her heels and leave, Lugh signed to her to stay
.

“I am curious,” he said. “The marker stones around my borders barred all of Faerie until today. Yet I understand you have been here for some time, scouting the terrain?”

There was a trace of disdain in Aróc’s shrug. Her tone was cold
.

“No borders …
awrrkk
… in the plains of the sky.”

“And if there were?” the King persisted. “Would you respect them?”

She glared at him. Black were her eyes, glittering like obsidian and rimmed with gold
.

“Awrrkk!”
she spat out, with the fierce pride of her kind. “Fir-Fia-Caw go where they will!”

Like the rest of the Court, Dana held her breath, waiting for the King’s anger. Would he rescind the boon?

A sudden warmth lit up Lugh’s face. In that moment he shed the burden of rule and laughed like a carefree young man
.

“You will be at home in the Mountain Kingdom, O captain, my captain. For we are a solitary folk who live by our own governance. No one tells the other what he or she may do. For speaking your truth, I further grant you Corrigasleggan. May the Fir-Fia-Caw enjoy sanctuary as long as the hills stand.”

A tremor passed through Aróc, the only indication that she had been caught off guard. Reaching behind her cloak, she unsheathed two scimitars in a silvery flash. Then she knelt before the King and laid them at his feet
.

“My loyalty unto death, Liege-Lord.”

It was because of Aróc’s courage and the King’s response to it that Dana decided she would speak at last. It was now or never: she would ask for his help to find her mother. Taking a deep breath, she went to stand up
.

But before Dana could move, the King struck the arm of his throne with such force that the report rang through the hall like gunshot
.

“The truth! That is all we have when the darkness falls. My harper will make music and I will tell it!”

A ripple of unease raced through the assembly. Eyebrows were raised. Anxious looks exchanged
.

“What will you tell, my Lord?” his harper called out
.

All gasped in horror at the King’s reply:

“The tale of my woe.”

t happened in the early summer, when the hawthorn boughs were laden with white blossoms like brides, and the sun had melted the last snows in the lee of the mountains. On that soft bright morning, the fairy Queen of Wicklow went a-maying with her ladies. Eastward they journeyed, into the rising sun, tripping lightly over rust-colored bogs, down into leafy valleys, and up grassy hillsides. The Kingdom was an endless garden: beautiful were its trees and flowers, its lakes and streams, sweet the music of the birds on the branch and those in the clear air
.

When they reached the sugared peak of Little Giltspur, in sight of the blue sea, the Queen’s ladies chose a sheltered place to hold their picnic. They fashioned a bower with the mayflowers they had gathered as they went. On a cloth of white linen, they laid out seedcakes dripping with honey and crystal glasses of cool elder wine. Then they called to their mistress to join them
.

The Queen only laughed and waved them away as she ran down the hillside. For she was chasing two butterflies, a Holly Blue and a Clouded Yellow. Soon she had left her ladies behind, as southward she flew in pursuit of her quarry. After a time, she came to an old forest that crested a high ridge. Below her fell the steep slope of a glen cloaked with oak and ash. On the valley floor flowed a narrow stream and, bordering the stream, a stretch of gray road
.

The fairy Queen did not see the road where mortals drove their noisy vehicles. Having no interest in the other world, she had never paid heed to its denizens; for she lived between the layers of their days and behind the veil that they seldom pierced
.

She spied the little Blue hiding in a holly tree, and tagged him fair and square. When he flew off, she began her hunt for the Yellow. Then she heard the music. It drifted through the air toward her, high silvery notes, dipping and gliding like the very butterfly she sought. Head tilted on her shoulder, eyes closed, she listened. The tune was like nothing she had ever heard before, powerful and beguiling. Following the sound, she moved lithely through the trees, drawn downhill, irresistibly closer
.

When she came to a clearing halfway down the wooded slope, the Queen hid behind a bramble bush. Purple berries draped her ears and throat like jewels. Peering through the greenery, she gazed at the young man who commanded the glade
.

He was dark-haired, with long curls that framed his lean features. His eyes were hazel, the color of acorns; his skin, a golden tan. He bowed his slender body as he strained to make music, his red lips pressing against the silver flute. Serenading the trees around him, he delved deep into the roots of sound before surging upward into tremulous trills flickering like leaves in the sunlight
.

The Queen was enchanted by what she heard and what she saw. The Queen was enchanted by the music and the man
.

She began to sing
.

At first he couldn’t hear her. The sweet notes that issued from her throat like a siren’s song were so low that his ear could barely detect them. Yet his soul resonated as if it were being played upon, and he strove to mirror that secret sound in his music. Only after a while did he realize that the inspiration was coming from outside of him and not from within
.

He stopped playing
.

She continued to sing as he stood entranced, hardly daring to breathe, listening and looking and finally spying where she was
.

Behind a leafy bough was a pale and beautiful face with eyes like stars. His heart felt faint. A strange languor crept through his limbs. He felt his blood slow as if he were dying; but if this were death what bliss it was and he welcomed it gladly, surrendering to his doom. She stopped singing when she saw that he had found her. Like a bird startled on the branch, she went to flee
.

•  •  •

He called out to her in a voice filled with longing
.

She was doubly caught now
.

A faint motion shook the air, like a veil being drawn aside, as she stepped from the shadows and into the sunlight. She wore a gown of pearl-pale silk that swept the ground. White flowers crowned her red-gold hair that shone like fire
.

Enthralled by this vision of a glimmering girl, he ignored the trace of fear that tremored in his mind
.

They stared long at each other, fairy and mortal. Both did not really know what the other was. Both were caught in the mystery of being
.

He struggled to find speech
.

“Hi.”

She greeted him in her first tongue, the airy language of the sky
.

They looked at each other, baffled
.

“Did you say hello?” they asked together
.

“What?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Frowns of frustration
.

“Where are you from?” he tried again. “What language is that?”

With a sudden smile, she reached out to touch his forehead. A gentle caress
.

He shivered
.

“There,” she said, in English. “Is that better?”

“How did you do that?!”

Her dazzling smile again. All thought abandoned him
.

“Now that I know what you are,” she said, “I may speak with you. Yet this is not the language born of the land, which my people use also. Are you not of Ireland?”