Wolf Notes and Other Musical Mishaps (14 page)

“No, ever since the scare with the candle, he doesn’t like performing at night.”

Sapphire growled a suggestion, which made Sylvie laugh cynically.

Then they had run out of ideas. Helen
wondered
if she was going to have to play her fiddle tomorrow after all. She pictured her fiddle, an old instrument in a modern case, and remembered the story her grandfather had told about it.

“What about Ossian? One of his descendants made my fiddle … or so my grandpa says. Ossian was a bard in stories, wasn’t he? Is he real?”

Lee leapt up, his cloak bright with excitement. “Ossian! Brilliant idea! He is a true Celtic hero and bard. His poetry and music were so wonderful that Scottish songbirds still sing his songs. And he escaped from my people once before, from a mound in Speyside. He escaped unharmed with his harp still in his hand. He’d be perfect if we could find him!”

Helen sighed, realizing her own idea was no better than the others. “It will be impossible to find any of them! I was hoping for more modern bards. Someone playing in Glasgow or Manchester or Ibiza. All these names are from myths and legends. All these bards must be dead by now. Even Ossian must have played his harp hundreds of years ago.”

Lee nodded. “He played his first song, to warn his mother that his father’s hounds were hunting her, more than a thousand years ago.”

“If he’s been dead for centuries, he can’t help us tomorrow night.”

“He might not be dead,” said Lee. “The Celtic heroes were always offered the chance of eternal youth, so if Ossian chose to pay the price, he’ll be with the rest of the Fianna in Tir nan Og.”

“Tir nan Og?” Helen stumbled over the name.

Yann laughed. “Now that truly is a mythical place.”

“Where is it?” Helen asked. “What price do you pay?”

“In stories it’s the land of the ever young, found westwards over the sea, straight into the setting sun. It’s not real,” said Yann.

Lee disagreed. “It is real and he might be there.”

“What’s the price?” Helen asked again.

Lee answered. “The price of dwelling in Tir nan Og, where the apple trees bear both blossom and fruit all year, is your memory. You stay forever young, but you can’t remember your life on this land.”

“He’ll not be much use to us if he can’t
remember
how to play his harp!”

“No, it’s just the memory of self that goes. The fingers will remember their skills. The warriors still fight, the bards still play. He may not
remember
the names of the tunes he plays, nor where he learnt them, but he will still play like the famous poet and bard that he is.”

“Then let’s go west and find him.” Helen stood up.

No one else did.

“Come on!” she urged, starting to cover the fire with cold earth.

“But how do we get there?” objected Yann. “We only have one night.”

“Yes,” said Helen, “so we need to hurry, because the sun is setting. And we have to fly straight towards it. Come on!”

This time, everyone got up.

“Where are we going, Helen?” Yann demanded.

“Tir nan Og.”

“But where is it?” he shouted after Helen as she ran to the forest edge.

“I don’t know, but if the Queen doesn’t want us to go, it must be possible to get there. So let’s find it.”

They all squashed onto the dragon’s back. Even Yann. “I’m not letting you lot go without me this time. Not when it’s always such a disaster.”

He kicked Sapphire’s wing joint with a back hoof as he clambered on. She growled a query.

“How long am I going to be up here?” Yann muttered. “How should I know? How far is it to somewhere that doesn’t exist? As far as we’re prepared to go before we turn back.”

“We’re not turning back,” said Helen. “This is one quest that’s going to succeed.”

Sapphire took off, so slow and low Helen was worried the dragon couldn’t fly with Yann’s weight. But as soon as Sapphire was out of sight of the lodge, she stopped scraping her scales along the top of the dark trees, swooped fast up into the air and headed west, towards the setting sun.

“Where are we going?” Yann yelled again.

Helen unfolded the tourist map of Skye and the other Hebrides, the edges flapping in the wind. “Which island is it? Will it be on the map?”

“Possibly,” Lee yelled back. “It won’t be called Tir nan Og though. Some stories say Rockall is the Land of the Ever Young. Can you find that on your chart?”

Sapphire grunted and Sylvie laughed. “Sapphire’s flown races to Rockall and back. It’s just a tiny rock out in the Atlantic. It’s not a magical
retirement
home for heroes.”

Lee tried again. “What about Holm or
Fladda-chuain
off Skye? Both of them are mentioned in Tir nan Og stories.”

Helen stared at the map, impaling the Western Isles on a silver spike to try to hold it steady. She shook her head.

“Holm is just a few hundred metres off the coast. Far too close to people and roads. Fladda’s a bit further out. Shall we try it first? Sapphire, please fly to Skye again, then find the northern tip of the main island!”

As Sapphire flew high above the mountains, Helen saw glens and lochs laid out below them, long deep lines scratched into Scotland like claw marks.

Sapphire had accelerated as soon as she had a destination, so Helen had to yell even louder. “We know where we’re going now, but what do we know about Ossian? How can we persuade him to help us?”

Lee yelled back, “He’s one of the Fianna, the ancient warrior band of Finn McCool. They
defended the kings of Scotland and Ireland thousands of years ago.”

Helen frowned. “I thought he was a musician, not a warrior.”

“To join the Fianna you had to defend yourself against nine spears with just a stick and a shield, but you also had to compose a song, memorise twelve books of poetry, sprint while taking a thorn from your foot, jump the height of your head, run through a wood without letting one hair be caught on a twig, and after being chased by all the Fianna and
escaping
unmarked, you had to hold your weapon without it trembling in your hand. Ossian could do all that, but he was the best of them at song.”

Now Sapphire was flying over the sea, over a narrow stretch of water tied down by the thin Skye bridge. Then she turned to her right, gently and slowly, so as not to dislodge Yann.

Helen asked, “Will the Fianna be the only people on Tir nan Og?”

Yann snorted. “We’ll never know. We’re never going to find Tir nan Og in the first place …”

Lavender murmured a more helpful answer in her ear. “There might be other, earlier, Celtic heroes there. Even more violent ones than the Fianna.” Helen felt the fairy tremble. “Look to your left. Do you see those spiky mountains?”

“Those are the Cuillins,” shouted Helen, glad to be able to answer a question rather than ask them all.

“The Cuillins are named after Cuchullin,” said Lavender. “A Celtic warrior who once fought for six whole days and nights in those mountains. I hope he won’t be there.”

Helen shook her head. “How on earth are we going to persuade these ancient heroes to help us?”

Sylvie growled, “Shouldn’t you have thought of that before we took off?”

Helen shrugged. “Let’s start by asking nicely. I’m sure a real hero will be delighted to rescue a wee boy from an evil queen.”

The Cuillins had vanished behind them into the fading light and they were now over the very north of Skye. Just a few miles out to sea, they found Fladda-chuain. The long thin island didn’t look at all magical, not even in the late evening sun.

Sapphire flew up the low spine of the island and back again. They saw a ruined chapel, but no other buildings. They saw a few scurrying black rabbits and some coarse grass, but no people and no apple trees.

“It’s not here,” grumbled Yann, trying to keep his balance as Sapphire swerved over the dark basalt at the north-west tip of the island.

“Obviously, it’s not here if you just arrive by sea or wings, otherwise anyone could find it,” said Lee. “But it might be possible to get to it from here.”

“How?” asked Helen.

“I don’t know. We faeries get our own kind of immortality. We don’t have to buy it with our memories. So I don’t know.”

Helen watched the sun settle onto the horizon. “We don’t have much time!” she yelled. “Any ideas?”

“Puffins!” Lavender pointed to a flock of puffins, their tiny wings flapping frantically as they flew along the rocky shore.

“I love watching puffins too,” Helen said
impatiently
, “but we need to concentrate on getting to Tir nan Og.”

“Watch the puffins,” insisted Lavender. “All Scotland’s birds originally came from Tir nan Og. Perhaps those puffins are going back.”

Sapphire hovered so her passengers could watch the dozen puffins fly sunwise round the island. As they reached the south-eastern corner for the second time, the birds vanished. The air their wings had been beating was suddenly empty.

“Fly sunwise,” shouted Helen. “Fly clockwise round the island. Fly round twice.”

Sapphire flew round twice, and as they reached the skerries of the south-eastern tip for the second time, Helen gripped the spike in front of her in expectation. Nothing happened. They were still flying round an empty grassy island. Sapphire slowed down.

“Don’t slow down,” yelled Yann. “Keep going. Lavender, were the puffins already flying when you spotted them?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep going round, Sapphire. As many times as you have the energy for.”

As the dragon rounded the south-eastern corner for the third time, turning to fly straight into the rays of the setting sun, she flinched from the light, misjudged the tight turn and dipped her wings sharply.

Yann, whose horse body wasn’t secure on the dragon’s back even when she was flying upright, started to slide off towards the dark rocks below.

Helen grabbed for his arm, Lee reached for his tail, but they both missed.

Yann fell off the speeding dragon. Helen closed her eyes and felt Sapphire dive after him.

Splash!

The spray of fresh water drops surprised Helen into opening her eyes.

Sapphire was clambering out of a shallow river onto the soft grass of its bank, where Yann was leaping uninjured to his hooves. Helen, Sylvie and Lee slid off.

They had been above the Minch a moment ago, but now there was no grey seawater to be seen.

Nor was the sun setting in the west. It was
overhead
, warming a bright afternoon.

Flowers were blooming by the water, daffodils and roses at the same time. Helen saw brambles, blossoming white and ripening purple on the same branch.

The friends stood together, backs to the
shallow
water, facing a wave of people moving slowly towards them.

All young, beautiful, glowing with health and
happiness
. Walking arm in arm, or in gently strolling groups. Looking with a complete lack of curiosity at the children who had fallen into their river.

When the first half dozen of them stopped nearby, Helen spoke politely. “We’re looking for Ossian.”

Lee shushed her and declaimed in a herald’s voice: “We seek the bard Ossian, to pay homage to his mastery of song and to ask a favour of one famed for his heroism and his compassion for those in need.”

“Okay,” nodded Helen. “We’re doing that too.”

“Welcome to our land,” said a woman in a cream dress. “Come with us, if you wish.”

The group of men and women wandered off along the river, as if they’d all the time in the world. Helen kept striding ahead and overtaking them. Yann grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t be so impatient.”

Soon they came to a gathering of men. Taller, stronger, hardier than the people strolling by the river. Dressed in leathers and checks, yellow and red cloaks held by large round pins at their
shoulders
. Sitting in a circle, chatting and laughing, petting huge hairy hounds, sharpening swords and spear heads.

“The Fianna,” said Lavender in Helen’s ear. “The warrior band of Finn McCool. All choosing to pay the price of eternal youth.”

Lee stepped forward and spoke:

“To the son of Finn McCool, we pay respect for your gift of music,

“To the father of Osgar, we pay respect for your prowess in battle,

“To the brother of Fergus, we pay respect for your skill in the hunt,

“To the friend of St Patrick, we pay respect …”

As Lee’s list got longer and more elaborate, Helen whispered to Yann, “What is he on about? Who are all these people?”

“All these people are Ossian, and Lee is
flattering
him. Let the faery use his fancy words. It is about all he can do.”

Then a tall man, fair-haired and full of smiles,
stood up. “I am Ossian. I forget my deeds, but those who arrive remind me of them occasionally. I will hear your tale, then you may ask your favour.”

So Lee and Yann between them, with their light and deep voices, told of the tragedy of the child James stolen away, the worried mother, the lonely sister. They told of the wicked ways of the Faery Queen, and the quests and courage of the child fiddler that she wanted. Helen realized they meant her and hid, red-cheeked, behind Sapphire for a minute.

Then Yann, as tall as Ossian, with his hair like copper in the sunlight, asked the favour. “To free the stolen child tomorrow night, we need to provide the Faery Queen with music. We know of no better music than yours, and we know of no one else who could play for her, then get away unharmed
afterwards
. You have done it before, we ask that you do it one more time, to free the child she has, and to protect the child she wants.”

Ossian laughed. “It sounds like good sport. But there will be a price to pay.

“We lack variety here, just as we lack bad weather. We never see rain and we rarely see new challenges either.

“I will come to your revels with my old harp and young fingers tomorrow. But only if you beat me and my companions in a few small contests first.”

He considered the men lounging on the ground at his feet, then grinned at the group of children in front of him.

“I will put forward Tir nan Og’s greatest hound and fastest runner. You must match them, to bring
down a deer and bring the deer back. The runner who brings the deer back first wins.

“I will put forward Tir nan Og’s greatest warrior and one of you must beat him in a duel.

“Finally, I myself will challenge you to a riddling contest.

“If you win all three contests, and brighten this long day for us, I will be your bard tomorrow night.”

Helen and her friends formed a smaller version of the Fianna’s circle.

“At least these aren’t quests set by someone trying to trick us, these are honest competitions,” urged Helen.

Lavender objected, “These men have hunted and fought their whole lives. How can we beat them?”

“I have hunted all my life,” said Sylvie.

“I have trained to fight duels since I could hold a sword,” said Lee.

Helen nodded. “What about the riddling?”

“You solved riddles for us last year,” said Yann. “You can do it again.”

So Helen turned to Ossian. “We accept your challenges.”

Ossian smiled, his golden moustache waggling. “Let’s go to the top of the hill and find the deer that graze on the moor. Then your hunter and your runner can compete against mine.”

Helen asked as they climbed, “Sylvie can hunt a deer, but she can’t carry one. Who will run the race?”

Yann laughed. “I will! Nothing on two legs can beat me.”

They reached a grassy ridge overlooking a heathery moor, which was many times wider than the island they had flown over just minutes ago. On the moor, to their left, they saw the rusty red dots of a herd of deer.

Ossian said, “My hunter is the greatest hound that ever was. Here girl. Bran!”

Over the ridge bounded a massive deerhound: long-legged, long-bodied, snake-skulled. Built for running and leaping, chasing and killing.

“Who is your hunter?” asked Ossian.

“I am,” said Sylvie. She flickered into a wolf more elegantly than Helen had ever seen. No
half-beast
girl in fur. Just a flurry of grey, then the wolf stood in front of them.

The dog Bran and the wolf Sylvie stared at each other.

Bran was taller in the shoulders, but skinnier, with a slight hunch to her lithe spine. Her sandy hair was wiry and coarse. Sylvie had a heavier jaw, bigger brighter eyes and her silver fur was longer and softer. They moved a step closer to each other. Sylvie’s fur bristled. Bran’s hackles rose. Ossian put his hand on Bran’s back. Helen stood close to Sylvie.

“Now my runner,” he said. “Caoilte, the fastest of the fleet Fianna, who can run from the north to the south to the east to the west so fast you are still speaking the words that sent him when he returns.”

A tall man, skinny and pale, stepped out of the gathering of the Fianna, unpinned his cloak and gave it to the man on his left, then took a spear from the man on his right.

He flexed his long wiry legs. “Who will race me?”

“I will,” said Yann.

Caoilte looked Yann up and down, examining his horse legs as if he was thinking of buying him. “I’ve never met a horse, not even a talking one, I couldn’t beat.”