The Hunter's Moon Page 2

  Gwen did her best to hide her anxiety. She was not at all happy about lying to her aunt and uncle. She was also wondering just how far from the path they would have to go. The map of the Thirty-Two Counties shimmered before her like the green-and-gold flag of an enchanted land. A thrill ran through her. What her cousin said was true. If they played it safe, how could they possibly find what they were looking for?

  “Our first stop is Tara,” Findabhair announced. “Loads of buses go there. Da will be happy to put us on one. After that, we can thumb our way around.”

  Gwen was dumbfounded. “I thought we were going to start at Newgrange? Didn’t we agree to leave Tara till the end? Save the best for the last?”

  “I know what’s best, I’m the one who lives here,” her cousin stated. “All roads lead to Tara, the royal center of Ireland. The sooner we get there, the better.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” Gwen spluttered. “It’s not fair. The trip belongs to both of us. You’re not the boss of it!”

  A major fight seemed inevitable, with every possibility that the journey might end before it began. Though Gwen rarely stood up to her strong-willed cousin, she could stand her ground when pushed too far.

  Suddenly confused and uncertain, Findabhair relented. Something nagged at the back of her mind, something she needed to tell Gwen if only she could remember. Her cousin was right. It was unfair to change their plans and insist on her own way. And yet …

  She rubbed her forehead.

  “Sorry,” she conceded at last. “I’m being Ms. Bossy-Boots. Fine, then, no need to come to blows. We’ll leave Tara to the last. But we’re not doing the tourist trail. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Gwen with relief.

  They bent over the map once more.

  “Newgrange it is,” Findabhair said, tapping the ancient site on the River Boyne. “The Brugh na Bóinne.”

  “The fairy palace of Aengus Óg,” Gwen said dreamily.

  “The young god of love,” her cousin sighed.

  They both giggled.

  “We’re hopeless romantics,” said Findabhair.

  “Hopeful,” Gwen corrected her.

  he summer sun warmed the gray highway that traversed the Plain of Meath. Gwen pressed her face to the bus window as the countryside flew past her like wings. Despite the occasional spire of a town or village, the land had risen to claim its ascendancy. This was the Ireland she dreamed of: silence falling over sage-green fields, hedgerows scarved with mist, clouds rising behind the hills like pale hills themselves.

  Beside her, Findabhair was less enchanted with the journey. On a coach filled with tourists from America, Japan, Germany, and France, they were the youngest passengers.

  “By decades, if not centuries,” Findabhair had muttered when they climbed aboard. “We’ve joined the Blue Rinse Brigade.”

  Their fellow travelers were chiefly pensioners laden down with food parcels, cameras, maps, money belts, and guidebooks. Most wore big woolen sweaters to ward off the damp Irish air.

  “They’re very nice,” Gwen had countered, delighted with the amount of sweets and treats that kept coming her way. “We’re on a granny bus!”

  Unlike her cousin, she was also enjoying the singalong orchestrated by the driver with the help of his microphone.

  A gypsy rover came o’er the hill,

  And down to the valley so shady,

  He whistled and he sang,

  Till the green woods rang,

  And he won the heart of a la-a-a-dy.

  “I hate folk music,” Findabhair groaned.

  She snorted impatiently as Gwen inspected yet another box of chocolates offered over the seat in front of them.

  Then the bus swerved.

  The movement was so violent, the chocolates flew into the air.

  “Hey!”

  Gwen scrambled to retrieve what she could, but most went rolling down the aisle.

  The bus swerved again. Some of the passengers cried out in alarm. The microphone was still on, and they could hear the driver swearing.

  Findabhair climbed over Gwen to look out the window.

  “We’re being rammed!” she yelled, excited.

  Though she couldn’t see clearly, a car appeared to be cramming their lane and sideswiping the coach.

  They swerved again.

  Gwen choked back her fear. There were no seat belts. What if they crashed? I’m too young to die. Why didn’t the driver slow down! Was he trying to kill them? She fought the urge to cling onto Findabhair. Her cousin didn’t look frightened. In fact, she looked exhilarated.

  Now the bus careened off the road and into a field. Everyone was screaming. A series of bumps followed as they hit rough ground. Luggage spilled from the overhead racks. People ducked to avoid being struck by flying objects. Gwen gripped the armrests till her knuckles went white. Would the bus topple over? She was sick with terror.

  At last, the coach jerked to a halt in the middle of the field.

  Silence.

  Followed by a burst of glossolalic babble as everyone began talking at once in their various languages. Some wept quietly.

  “Order, please, order,” the driver called out. He stood in the aisle, white-faced and shaken. “Is everyone all right? Anyone injured? Help is on the way. I’ve put in a call. Could everyone please stay calm.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Findabhair said to Gwen.

  She had retrieved their knapsacks and sleeping bags from the floor. Face flushed, eyes bright, she dragged Gwen behind her.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

  “Are you mad? We’ll be stuck here all day. This is our chance to scarper. We’ve got places to go, things to do.”

  Gwen didn’t resist. The other passengers were disembarking too. Everyone wanted to feel firm ground underfoot. No one was badly hurt but all were in shock, and they huddled together in little groups to comfort one another.

  Standing alone in the meadow, the bus looked like a big lumbering animal that had lost its way. Beyond it, the highway rolled on into the distance. Cars and trucks sped past, oblivious to their plight. They were caught between two towns, in the middle of nowhere.

  Ignoring Gwen’s protests, Findabhair walked determinedly to the edge of the road and stuck out her thumb.

  “Don’t worry, it’s broad daylight. We won’t get in if anyone looks like an ax murderer.”

  “Like we could tell!”

  Gwen was about to say more when they both spotted the battered little car heading their way. It was already slowing down as it approached them.

  “What a dote!” cried Findabhair.

  Though it had seen better days, the Triumph Herald retained a dignity of its own. The rounded body and humped roof gave it a homely, friendly look. The rusted chrome on the headlights looked like bushy eyebrows. The forest-green paint was mottled and chipped like a freckled face.

  When the car drew up beside them, they peered inside to scrutinize the driver.

  He suited his vehicle. A wizened little man, he had a face like a dried apple and two bright beads for eyes. His suit was worn and frayed, of green tweed with brown stitching, and the jacket was closed with a big safety pin. On his head was a peaked cap, the same ruddy red color as his cheeks.

  He leaned over to open the passenger door. Without hesitation Findabhair got in, and unlocked the rear door for her cousin. Gwen had no choice but to follow or be left behind. Furious, she climbed in the back.

  “Now, where may I take you, my fine ladies?” asked the little man, craning his neck to look at Gwen, then squinting at Findabhair as she banged the door shut.

  “We’re off to Newgrange,” Findabhair said airily, “to give our regards to Aengus Óg.”

  The interior of the car was as dilapidated as its owner. Threadbare blankets covered rips in the upholstery. The teak dashboard was pockmarked with woodworm. Scattered over the floor and the backseat were heaps of old shoes and boots. Findabhair noted the moss on
the carpet at her feet, and the pink bells of foxglove sprouting from the ashtray. She turned around to grin at Gwen. Isn’t this hilarious?

  Gwen glared back.

  “Sure what would ye want with the Brugh na Bóinne,” the old man was saying. “There’s nothing there but foreigners. Wouldn’t ye druther go to Teamhair na Ríogh? If it’s leprechauns and pots of gold ye want, Tara’s your only man.”

  His voice had a wheedling tone that made Gwen uneasy, but Findabhair was enjoying his eccentricity.

  “What do we look like, a pair of gobs?” she retorted. “We don’t believe in leprechauns with pots of gold.”

  “Then ye wouldn’t put any faith in the likes of the Good People?”

  His persistence reached a higher note. In the back, Gwen heard a warning in that quaver, but Findabhair continued indignantly.

  “If you mean wee things with wings and shoemakers with pointy ears—no. That’s a load of commercial rubbish exploiting the true heart of the legends.”

  As Findabhair warmed to her subject, exhorting on the abuses of Irish mythology, Gwen eyed the plethora of footwear around her. Buckled shoes and ladies’ slippers, high heels and working boots, some with worn-out soles and holes in the toes, others with tongues hanging out and their laces missing. Not one had a visible match. She found herself wondering about the shape of the little man’s ears hidden by his cap. Without thinking, she leaned forward to interrupt her cousin.

  “We do believe in something. The something that’s in the ancient tales and poetry. That’s why we’re traveling. It’s sort of a quest. To see if that something still exists.”

  A silence settled inside the car. Gwen’s words seemed to hang in the air, glittering with meaning, as if they were more important than she had intended them to be. She felt suddenly nervous.

  “Ah now.” The old man’s cackle broke the tension. “You’ve left me behind with your fanciful blather.”

  He stopped the car.

  “Out ye go, the pair of ye.”

  His dismissal was curt. They sat stunned for a minute. Then they spotted the signpost on the road in front of them.

  TEAMHAIR. TARA.

  “What?” Findabhair exclaimed.

  “H-h-how?” Gwen stammered.

  Caught up in the old man’s talk, neither had paid any attention to the route they were taking.

  “Up that boreen ye go, and what you’re looking for will find ye.”

  “Ta for the lift,” said Findabhair, disoriented.

  “Have a nice day,” Gwen added automatically.

  They were still standing, stupefied, when the little car drove off.

  Findabhair shrugged. “I guess we’re starting here after all.”

  They heaved their knapsacks onto their backs and walked down the lane that led to Tara. The way was lined with tall hawthorn trees laden with white blossoms like brides. Bees hummed in the dense greenery. Branches met overhead to form an arched roof, like a leafy hall leading to a throne room.

  “Did he give you the creeps?” Gwen asked her cousin.

  They stepped into the verge to let a tour bus crawl past.

  “What? Not at’all. He was good crack, odd as two left feet. I just don’t like all that shamrocks-and-leprechauns lark. He was treating us like tourists.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gwen said, troubled. “He was testing us somehow, trying to find out something. And I think he succeeded. I should have kept my big yap shut.”

  “I’m sure he hadn’t a bog’s notion what you were on about. Daft as a brush.”

  Gwen was not reassured. In fact, she suspected the opposite was true. Though she couldn’t explain how or why, she felt that the little man understood her words even more than she did. The disquieting feeling would have continued to nag at her if Tara itself hadn’t presented a distraction.

  ahoo!” said Gwen. “A restaurant! I’m starving!” The road had brought them to a souvenir shop and tea room. The smell of baked goods wafted through the air. The sounds of cutlery and conversation echoed from the lace-curtained windows. There were also tables and chairs outside, in a tidy garden with rosebushes and trimmed hedges. To the right was a parking lot and further beyond, the iron gates that led to the Hill of Tara.

  “You told me to keep you from stuffing yourself,” Findabhair reminded her.

  “I meant soda bread and sausages, and fattening things like that. Something small will do. All this excitement makes me want to eat.”

  “First Tara, then food.”

  “Bossy-boots,” muttered Gwen.

  To the unknowing eye, Tara was no more than a rambling expanse of windy hilltop. Its name meant simply “a place from which there is a wide prospect.” Indeed, to the unknowing eye, Tara held no other charm than the magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. In all directions, the fertile lands of the central plain of Meath stretched to distant borders of misty mountains and the blue rim of the sea.

  For Gwen and Findabhair, there was so much more. This royal residence and center had been the pulse of Ireland for over two thousand years. Bright-surfaced Teamhair, the poets called her. Tara of Kings. The glory of the place was subtle and secret. It lingered in the shadows of the tall grasses that covered the mounds and earthworks. It whispered on the wind. Cnoc na mBan-Laoch. The Hill of the Women-Heroes. On this green knoll assembled the female warriors, golden torcs at their throats, slender spears in their hands. Not until the seventh century A.D. and the Christian laws of Cáin Adamnáin were women banned from warfare. Teach Míodchuarta. The Banquet Hall. A long sunken trench between two parallel banks, it was once a house of noble proportions. Fourteen doors graced its high walls: seven to face the golden sun, seven to face the silver moon. Ráth na Ríogh. The Royal Enclosure. In ages past, this broad circle housed a kingly fort crowned with a palisade of oak. Here was held the great Feis of Tara, the coronation ritual in which the King wed the Goddess of the land.

  The girls left their knapsacks at the gate to roam freely over fosse and ridge. In a happy daze, they told themselves that they were treading in the footsteps of kings and queens, Druids and warriors. They imagined the gatherings for games and festivals, the making of laws, and the hosting of armies. They shivered at the thought of lunar feasts that saw mysterious rites and ritual sacrifices.

  Gwen climbed onto the Grave Mound of the Hostages, a small green hill like an upturned bowl. A strange lassitude came over her. She lay down in the grass, which was warm from the sun. Overhead, the clouds moved across the blue plain of the sky. They were traveling swiftly, herded like sheep by the wind. At the corner of her eye, a black beetle scuttled over the ground. Nearby a snail clung to a green stalk, fast asleep, its shell a spiral of cream and brown. Gwen felt lost and glad, caught up in the flow of forever.

  Ever restless and active, Findabhair was searching the site like a hunter’s hound. Arriving at the mound from a different angle, she discovered the opening in the hill. It was barred by a metal gate with a padlock.

  “It’s a cairn!” she called up to Gwen, who didn’t answer.

  Findabhair pressed her face to the railings and peered into the dimness. Just as she had thought. Despite its appearance as a grassy hill, the mound was man-made with heavy slabs of stone. The interior was dark and hollow, like a cave. Or a tomb. She shivered. There were carvings on the great stone to her left. She could barely make out the circular designs, spiraling eyes and snakes swallowing their tails. She wished she knew what they meant. A yearning came over her. She wanted to get inside.

  On top of the mound, Gwen had lapsed into a daydream. The clouds were falling out of the sky, descending upon her. The crest of the hill was a green island in a misty lake. Her ears began to throb with a low thrumming sound. Her blood thrilled in response, the way feet itch to dance. Under the hum—or was it beyond?—came the trace of music. It seemed to come from a great depth or distance, like the sigh of a conch. There was a rumbling like far-off drums or thunder, but also high reedy notes like a flute or a lark. Sh
e strained to listen but the throbbing interfered, as if her ears were not attuned to such sounds.

  Below her, Findabhair leaned against the gate, eyes half-closed. She too was wrapped in a milky stillness, listening to the unearthly music. Then another sound reached her. The fierce gallop of a horse. As the hooves drew near, a voice called out through the mist.

  Come to the Sídhe-mound under the hill.

  On the hilltop, Gwen was suddenly awake. Storm clouds had moved across the sun like the dark swirl of a cape. The grass felt cold and damp at her back. She scrambled to her feet.

  “Where are you?” she cried.

  Findabhair jumped away from the gate as if it had burned her. Bewildered, she looked up at Gwen who stared wildly down.

  Without a word they ran from the grave mound. Grabbing their knapsacks, they dashed to the tea room as if pursued by the hounds of hell. Only when they were safely inside, surrounded by people, did they meet each other’s eyes. With cups of tea and buttered scones in front of them, they could acknowledge the truth.

  “It’s here,” Gwen whispered.

  “It still exists.” Findabhair nodded.

  Barely able to breathe, they grinned at each other.

  “I feel like standing on the table and roaring it out at the top of my lungs.”

  Findabhair had lowered her voice so she wouldn’t give in to the temptation.

  “I know what you mean. I could run up a mountain or leap off a cliff!”

  Gwen slurped her tea loudly. They burst into a fit of giggles. Both felt light-headed and giddy.

  “Can you remember what happened?”

  Findabhair frowned with the effort, but it was too like a dream. The kind that hinted with vague images but couldn’t be recalled. She shook her head.

  “Me neither,” Gwen sighed. “It’s gone. But there was something … like … an invitation?”

  “Yes! Exactly! So how do we accept?”

  Gwen was attacked by misgivings.

  “Should we? Weren’t you afraid?”

  “Definitely! The unknown would scare the bejaysus out of anyone. But you wouldn’t let that stop you, would you?”