The Hunter's Moon Read online

  Come away, O human child!

  To the waters and the wild

  With a faery, hand in hand,

  For the world’s more full of weeping

  than you can understand

  “The Stolen Child”

  W. B. Yeats

  Also by O.R. Melling

  The Druid’s Tune

  The Singing Stone

  My Blue Country

  In The Chronicles of Faerie

  The Hunter’s Moon

  The Summer King

  The Light-Bearer’s Daughter

  The Book of Dreams

  Adult Fiction

  Falling Out of Time

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Melling, O. R.

  The Hunter’s Moon / O.R. Melling.

  p. cm.—(The chronicles of Faerie)

  Summary: Two teenage cousins, one Irish, the other from the United States, set out to find a magic doorway to the Faraway Country, where humans must bow to the little people.

  ISBN 978-0-8109-5857-0

  [1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Fairies—Fiction. 3. Leprechauns—Fiction. 4. Witches—Fiction. 5. Cousins—Fiction 6. Ireland—Fiction.] I. Title II. Series: Melling, O. R. Chronicles of Faerie. PZ7.M51625Hu 2005

  [Fic]—dc22

  2004022216

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-8109-9214-6

  First published by Amulet Books in hardcover, 2005

  Copyright © 2006 O.R. Melling

  Permissions

  Quotation on page 36 is from Lady Wilde’s Ancient Legends of Ireland, first published in 1888, reprinted in 1971 by O’Gorman Ltd. Galway, Ireland, and used with the kind permission of the publisher. Various verses appear in the book. Any not listed below were written by the author: Pages 16 and 123-124: “The Gypsy Rover,” traditional (with variations by the author)

  Page 44: “The Rocky Road to Dublin,” traditional

  Page 46: “Molly Malone,” traditional

  Pages 257-258 and 270-271: “Éist, A Stór,” by Máire Breatnach, from the CD Coinnle na nAingeal/Angels’ Candles, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.

  There are quotes in the book from the King James version of the Bible. These are in italics.

  Designed by Jay Colvin

  Map illustration by Rick Britton

  Published in 2009 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  In memory of Bernie Morris, me oul flower,

  wish you could be here for this.

  Many thanks to so many for their support: my daughter Findabhair; my mother Georgie and the Whelan family; John Duff and Brian Levy (dear friends in New York); Rachel Gallagher (fellow ambler and writer); Michael Scott; Joe Murray; Dr. Nena Hardie; Frank Golden and Eve Golden-Woods; Charles de Lint; Breege and Paddy McCrory of Inch Island; the Arbuckle-Brady clan (formerly of Meitheal); Sheila Delaney-Herceg; Maureen Galligan, Professor Dáibhí O’Cróinín and clan; Piers Dillon-Scott (webmaster); agents Lynn and David Bennett of Transatlantic Literary Inc.; the Tyrone Guthrie Center at Annaghmakerrig; all at Abrams, especially my editor Susan Van Metre; and last but not least, Na Daoine Maithe for their permission and assistance. Go raibh míle maith agaibh.

  he muddy waters of the Liffey flowed sluggishly along the stone-walled quays. Like a weary old man in a dirty brown coat, the river wended its way through the noise and grime of Dublin City.

  “Have you forgotten how to sing?” whispered the dark-eyed young man who leaned over the railings of the Ha’penny Bridge. His sloe-black eyes went darker still as he pondered the ancient river. “When we called you Rurthach you purled like a young stream. What have they done to you?”

  A shudder passed through him as he regarded his surroundings. Concrete walls and the glare of glass towered over busy streets and traffic. In the crowds, dirty-faced children and the ragged homeless begged for money.

  How could they live this way?

  He turned to leave, eager to complete his mission and be gone from there, when he took pity on the river. A ray of gold flashed from his fingers to strike the turbid waters like a shaft of light. It was only for a second, the blink of an eye, but in that moment the river ran free. The young man was already hurrying from the bridge when the clear rushing waters sang their brief song.

  The King passed by. Long live the King.

  He came to a secondhand bookshop and café. The Winding Stair Bookroom was a Victorian brick building with a wooden front painted green and mustard-yellow. High arched windows overlooked the river. He hesitated before entering. Human meeting places made him uneasy. Once inside, the scent of old books soothed him. The musty solitude was reminiscent of a forest glade. Narrow winding stairs led upward through rooms filled with books. The upper stories had booths and tables where tea and cakes were served.

  He found her on the third floor, seated by the window. She was reading a letter. Lit up by sunlight, the golden-brown hair fell over her face like a veil. A young girl, almost a woman, she was dressed in the fashion of urban youth—black sweater, black skirt, black stockings and boots. Silver earrings dangled to her shoulders.

  Having found her through dreams, he was caught off guard by her reality. Mortal beauty always surprised him. While it wouldn’t change his plans, he brooded a moment upon what must be done.

  Unaware that she was being observed, the young woman smiled to herself as she read.

  Dear Findabhair,

  Gawd, your name is impossible to spell. I have to look at it twice every time I write it. You’re a witch for not letting me call you Finn any more. But hey, forget the complaints, I’m coming over at last! YAHOO! Mom and Dad are forking out the fare (I’m not proud) and I’ve saved every dollar I could.

  We’re still traveling around Ireland, right? You haven’t changed your mind? Don’t fall in love with anyone before I get there or something stupid like that. I don’t want any third parties tagging along.

  Ignore that last part. Insecurity attack. Can’t wait to see you. I’m packing already. Tell Aunt Pat to get in some skim milk. I’m on a diet again. (It’s a losing battle. Wait till you see me, I’m a real porker.) And no hairy bacon, please! See you soon.

  Luv’n’stuff,

  Your cuz,

  Gwen xxx

  “May I sit down?”

  Findabhair was about to point out archly that there were plenty of empty tables, when she looked up. The words died in her throat. He was exactly her idea of a stunning young man. His jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accenting sharp elegant features that made her think of a hawk. His eyes were dark and keen. Like her, he favored black clothes, and she admired the quirkiness of the silken jacket with jeans. He seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t think where she might have seen him before.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Perhaps.
Or you may be remembering the future. That’s possible, you know. Déjà vu.”

  It was a fascinating idea, as well as a good line. She beamed a smile as he sat down.

  “I brought you a gift.”

  The slim volume of poetry was bound in green leather, its title stamped with gold lettering.

  The Wyrd of the White Lady.

  Findabhair’s eyes widened.

  “That’s my name! Well, a translation of it. Fionnabhair. ‘Fair spirit.’ ‘White lady.’ What a brilliant coincidence!”

  “There is no such thing as coincidence.”

  She was already turning the pages. Crisp and browned with age, each leaf contained a poem. When she came to one entitled “Fionavar,” she let out a cry.

  “There it is again! I prefer the Old Irish spelling and I pronounce it ‘finn-ah-veer’ but it’s the same name. Where did you—?”

  “There’s no time.”

  An urgency had crept into his voice that made her look around for some hidden danger. He pointed to the poem.

  “Read.”

  Enjoying the odd encounter, she didn’t stop to question him but read out loud.

  Be fleet of foot,

  O fair Hunted One,

  From the dark of the shadow

  Across the clear sun.

  Like a deer on the plain,

  Like a trout in the stream,

  Take flight from life’s bane,

  To the Land of the Dream.

  Come to the Sídhe-mound under the hill,

  Come to the Country ruled by my will.

  Caught up in the words, she didn’t notice his interest in her cousin’s letter that lay on the table between them. Nor did she see the hungry look enter his eyes as he read it.

  “Another one?” he murmured.

  “It’s lovely,” Findabhair said when she had finished the poem. “A bit like Yeats’ ‘Stolen Child.’”

  “Do you know what a Sídhe-mound is?”

  “Of course. I speak Irish. It’s a fairy hill.”

  “Will you meet me there?”

  He stood up to leave.

  “What! Meet you where?”

  The edge in her voice surprised her. She didn’t want him to go.

  He leaned toward her. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he brushed his lips against her ear.

  “Tara,” he whispered. “Come to Tara.”

  Then he was gone.

  A strange gloom settled over Findabhair. She rubbed her forehead and looked around her. What was she doing? She stared out the window, across the river. A dark figure stood on the Ha’penny Bridge. He suddenly looked up at her and his glance struck her like an arrow. She shivered. Who was he? And why was he staring at her? As he disappeared into the crowd, she returned to her cousin’s letter. Then she realized she had already finished reading it.

  “Lost in a daydream,” she muttered to herself.

  She spotted the little book on the table. Caught by the title, she opened it pensively. The poems were the sort she liked, about magic and romance and the Celtic Twilight. One was entitled with a version of her name! Though she hadn’t intended to buy anything, she brought the book up to the counter.

  “How much is this?”

  The young man at the register had bright red hair shaved on both sides of his head. His ears, nose, and eyebrow were pierced with tiny silver rings.

  “It’s not ours. Didn’t you bring it in with you? A nice antique.”

  Confused by a vague memory of someone giving it to her, Findabhair laughed with embarrassment.

  “Oh yeah, it is mine. Sorry, I’m feeling kind of weird today.”

  “You too?” The redhead grinned. “Do you know, I’ve had two people try to tell me they saw the Liffey running wild and clear. What do you make of that?”

  “Too much sun?”

  “That’s what it is. And we’re going to have a fantastic summer by the looks of things.”

  “Yes, I think we will,” she agreed softly.

  Tucking the book into her handbag, she left the shop.

  wen Woods stood shyly in the doorway of her cousin’s bedroom. It was like peering into Aladdin’s cave. The walls and windows were draped with gauzy veils that cast dappled color into the room. Posters of The Lord of the Rings shared space with dreamlike landscapes of other worlds. Shelves were crowded with books, dragon figurines, seashells, crystals, and jeweled photographs of friends and family. Gwen had to grin. The clutter of curios and fantasy was like her own room back home.

  “Finn? I mean, Findabhair?” she called. “It’s me. Gwen. I’m here.”

  At first there was no response from the humped shape in the bed. Then came a grumble followed by a groan. Suddenly the duvet flew into the air.

  “What’s this?” cried Findabhair. “What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be at the airport meeting you!”

  They screeched and hugged and laughed, talking at the same time, exclaiming over each other’s appearance. Three years had passed since they were last together, and both were now sixteen.

  “Your dad said he gave up calling. I’ve unpacked and everything.”

  Findabhair looked ashamed for almost a second, then hurried to get dressed.

  Though they were first cousins there was little resemblance between them, except for the golden-brown color of their hair. While Findabhair was tall and slender with a long mane that flowed over her shoulders, Gwen was short and plump with a head of cropped curls.

  “You look amazing,” Gwen said enviously. She flung herself on the bed. “And here’s me. Blimp City.”

  Findabhair frowned as she pulled on black jeans, black T-shirt, and heavy black boots.

  “Everyone in America wants to be skinny, don’t they? It’s daft. You shouldn’t knock yourself so much. You look brilliant.”

  “Thanks.” Gwen grinned at her cousin’s clothes. “Do you work in a funeral home or what?”

  Findabhair surveyed the loud pink shirt Gwen was wearing over denims and running shoes. “Does that top come with a battery?”

  “I promised my mom we wouldn’t fight.”

  “Me too.”

  They snickered.

  It was easy to slip into their old banter. Despite living on opposite sides of the Atlantic, they had been best friends since they could walk and talk. As well as holidays spent together, they did their best to stay in touch through letters and e-mails.

  “Don’t you just love The Return of the King?” said Gwen. “I watch it constantly.”

  She was rummaging through her cousin’s books, CDs, and DVDs. So many were identical to her own.

  “To die for!” Findabhair agreed. She sat at her dressing table and put on her makeup. “I can’t believe I’m in love with a man over forty. When he sang at the end, I nearly swooned. My king, my king.”

  “I thought you preferred Legolas?”

  “I did at first. The elves are fabulous, so like my idea of the fairy folk. But doesn’t he seem kind of sexless to you?”

  Gwen didn’t answer. There were many ways she was not like her cousin.

  “I brought you an album of the Dropkick Murphys,” she said instead. “I think you’ll like them, especially their cover of ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin.’”

  “Great name, shame about the music. You know I hate folk.”

  “It’s not. They’re Irish-American punk-trad-grunge.”

  Gwen moved to the window to gaze out at the Irish Sea. She loved this old house in Bray that overlooked the seafront, sheltered by the Wicklow Mountains. Below her was the garden with its lilac and apple trees, enclosed by a stone wall. Past the wall was the road and a stretch of green lawn that lay before the promenade and the beach. Some things had changed since her last visit. The old-style lampposts were gone, replaced with wooden fixtures like the masts of tall sailing ships. The wrought-iron railings had been painted dark-blue. Beyond the promenade was the seashore, with a spread of gray-blue stones, patches of wet sand, and tangles of seaweed like knotted hair
. The sea itself shone in the sunlight, with summery waves charging to the strand like white horses. So many childhood memories belonged to this place. So many secret hopes and dreams.

  “Right, I’m human,” Findabhair declared.

  She admired herself in the mirror, pleased with the contrast of black kohl and pale powder.

  Gwen looked worried.

  “Have you changed utterly?” she blurted out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you crazy about boys, shopping, makeup?”

  Findabhair nodded. “Yes, to all of the above.”

  Gwen’s heart sank. Then she caught the mischief in her cousin’s eyes, followed by a wicked grin.

  “Don’t panic, I haven’t gone shallow altogether. I still seek the Faraway Country.”

  Findabhair spoke the last sentence grandly. It was a password between them, referring to their love of fantasy in every form—books, music, movies, art. Even the last time they had met, though both were almost thirteen, they had resumed their search for a door or passageway that might lead to other worlds.

  The two stared at each other now without speaking. Gwen’s silhouette glowed in the window, haloed by the light behind her. Findabhair was a double image, reflected in her looking glass like a shadowy Alice.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” Findabhair said. “Aren’t we heading off on a magical mystery tour?”

  Gwen felt as if she might burst with happiness. Despite outward appearances, it seemed nothing had really changed. She had been so careful in her correspondence, afraid that Findabhair would think her childish. They had talked about traveling and various places to visit, but never about the true heart of their journey. Yet here, all along, her cousin had taken for granted what Gwen had been nursing as a secret dream.

  Findabhair spread a map of Ireland over the floor.

  “Listen, we’ve got to get our story down pat. I’ve promised the parents we’re taking bus tours all the way and staying in An Óige youth hostels. But no way are we doing this. We haven’t the hope of an adventure if we stick to the straight and narrow. We’ve got to go the road less traveled.”