With that, Brighid handed the cloak to Eny. Then she turned and walked on towards the stony ridge on the far side of Mag Tuiread.

“But what am I supposed to do with it?” said Eny, running to catch up to her. “Why give it to me now?”

“That is for you to answer. But I know what is in your heart, and I believe the Feth Fiada can help you, whatever you choose to do. Do you wish to escape the Morrigu by returning to the Overworld? If so, the cloak will take you there.”

Eny looked away. “I don’t know. I’d say yes, but I can’t do that to Morgan. He’s been trying to find his dad for as long as I can remember. And now it turns out that his dad is here and the Morrigu is offering to set him free in exchange for me! I don’t think I really have a choice.”

Brighid looked at her intently. “I understand. But what about Lia Fail?”

“You told me yourself that the Morrigu can’t access the Stone’s power without ‘The Third Angle.’ Whatever that is. So I figure she’ll be no further ahead even if I do hand myself over to her.”

“Not quite. Your courage is admirable. But she will be one step closer to her goal.”

“Even if I did go home,” Eny pondered, sensing somehow that she was arguing with herself, “she’d probably catch me anyway. At least that’s what Eochy and Simon seem to think.”

“I believe they’re right. And so, if you do choose to remain—and to pursue your purpose—I think there is another way in which the Feth Fiada may be of use to you.”

“What’s that?”

“It will enable you to cross over to Tory and slip into the tower of Tur Morraigu unseen.”

“But why should I do that? My idea is to go there openly. To turn myself in. I have nothing to hide.”

“Of course. But you may not get that far unless you keep out of sight until the very last moment. The Fomorians will not expect you—the Maiden of Perfect Purity—to be wandering alone in this part of the Sidhe. Their heads are thick and their wits dull. If they mistake you for one of the Danaoi, they may strike first and ask questions later. And remember, my people are searching for you too. In their flying ships.”

“I forgot about that.” Eny stole a sidewise glance at her companion. “You still haven’t explained why you’re helping me instead of them.”

Brighid smiled. “Though we should move heaven and earth to stop it, yet the Stone must pass on to the place of its final destiny. And for that to happen, the Maiden must be present. Out of love for you I would hold you back—if I could—for I do not know what awaits you inside Tur Morraigu. Yet I dare not stand opposed to the prophecy. The Maid, the Stone, and the Third Angle—all three must join and be joined before the end.”

“But what does that mean? I’m supposed to be this ‘Maiden of Perfect Purity,’ but I don’t know how! I don’t understand the first thing about the ‘Third Angle!’ I’m only trying to help my friend find his dad! What if the Morrigu orders me to unlock the power of Lia Fail? What do I do then?”

“You don’t need to know that now.”

Eny looked up at the darkening sky. “And tonight?”

“Tonight we will lie concealed among the rocks,” said Brighid as they came to the edge of the plain and began to labor up the stony terraces at the foot of the upland. “In the morning we will turn and take a path around the forest. From there you must go straight north to the seashore, skirt the Strand of Eochaill, and cross over the water to Tory.”

“But I was thinking of going through the forest. To Rury’s old dun. That’s the road I followed with the Fir Bolg the first time I was in the Sidhe. Wouldn’t that be more direct?”

“No,” said Brighid. “That way is closed to you now. Eba Eochaid has fallen under the power of the Fomor and traitorous Fir Bolg. But here—this seems as good a place as any to make our camp.”

They had reached the summit of the ridge and were standing on a round open hilltop covered with broken boulders, patches of gorse and heather, and a few leafless lilac bushes. Over their heads brooded the bare autumn branches of Croc Cuille, the Wood-on-the-Hill. The wind had dropped to a whisper and the first stars were blinking tentatively through the dusky air above the black lacework of the forest’s lofty canopy.

Eny nodded. Unhitching her bolg from her belt, she unlaced its wide mouth, removed her gear and supplies, and laid everything carefully on the ground. This done, she began to unfold the bag itself. Layer after layer, the soft leather opened out and expanded, growing miraculously beneath her deftly working fingers until at last the bolg was no longer a bag at all but a tent large enough for two. Together they propped it up with a couple of dead branches from the forest, secured the edges with heavy stones, and spread two woolen blankets on the rocky floor. Then, after lighting a candle and inviting her companion to share in a supper of oatcakes and raisins, Eny took out her fiddle, rosined the bow, and stepped out under the blazing stars.

“Is it safe, do you think?” she said, looking back over her shoulder at Brighid, who sat hugging her knees just within the shelter of the tent.

“There is the risk of being heard,” smiled Brighid. “But risks must sometimes be taken. And they always have to be weighed against benefits. Music is power. A power for good. So play if your heart bids you.”

Eny touched bow to string. A moment later the wild, sad strains of The Dark Woman of the Glen were sailing up through the naked trees on the hill and out among the stars in the marbled sky.

A hush fell on the night and even the rocks seemed to hold their breath to listen.

Eny threw herself on her knees in the shallows of the stream and looked up into the big round eyes staring down at her from beneath the hat’s wide brim. Those eyes were not green and lurid, as she had expected, but dark and lovely. They glowed with quiet reassurance. The mouth, too, was supple, warm, and kind, and a sad smile sat lightly upon the lips as the light sits on a rippling stream. In the next instant the hat came off and an abundance of dusky hair flowed down over the soft, round shoulders. The figure threw its patchwork cloak aside, took Eny by the hand, and raised her to her feet.

“Brighid!” breathed Eny. “I thought you were—”

Brighid nodded. “I know what you thought.”

Eny frowned and cast an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. “Are Simon—I mean Ollamh Folla—and the others with you?”

Brighid shook her head. “I came alone. No one else knows. Ollamh has already set out in another direction. I knew I would find you here.”

“But how?”

“It matters not. What does matter is that I also know why you left the dun and what you mean to do.”

Eny pulled away and took a step back. “So you’ve come to take me back?”

“No.” Again the Danaan maiden extended her small white hand. “Walk with me now and let us talk. The sun is going and we must find a safe place to stop for the night.”

They set off across the level plain. To the north, beyond the russet waves of the undulating grassland, Eny could see the fading sunlight glinting like copper on the rocky ridge just below the steep Hill Forest. She remembered those heights well, for it was there that she and the Fir Bolg had paused in their desperate flight from the pursuing Fomorians.

It was with a bittersweet sense of longing mingled with revulsion that she recalled those early hours of her very first day in the Sidhe. Her mother had told her many tales of Faery over the years, but none of them, for all their thrills and delights, had prepared her for the joys and terrors of the thing itself.

Thinking of those stories, she couldn’t help wondering what her mom was doing now. She wondered whether her parents were together, whether her dad had called the FBI, whether Moira was desperate with worry, whether George would be tender and understanding or short-tempered and impatient with his wife. Despite her burning desire to help Morgan find his dad, Eny began to feel that she would give anything to go home and see her own mother and father again.

“I have something to say to you,” said Brighid as the sun dipped behind the hills and a chill breeze rose in the west, ruffling their hair and rustling the dry grasses at their feet. “The time has come, I think, to give you what is rightfully yours.”

Eny turned and studied the girl’s shining eyes and glowing cheek in the dim and fading light. And as she did, she was seized by a sudden inward vision of unsuspected glory. All at once she realized that her companion was something more than a simple Danaan servant—perhaps a person of even greater power and stature than Ollamh Folla himself.

“What do you mean?” said Eny—and her voice sounded small and thin in her own ears. “What could you possibly have that belongs to me?”

“Let me show you.” Brighid reached into the voluminous folds of her green robe and drew out something that looked like a bundle of shadow. She paused for a moment with the faint amber gleam of the west upon her smooth forehead. Then, holding a corner of the gray thing in each hand, she lifted it up and let it unfold. It dropped down before Eny’s eyes like a web of subtly shimmering dreams.

“You have heard the tale of Eithne, your precursor and forerunner?” asked Brighid.

“Yes. Long ago and far away,” Eny answered. “It was in the hut of Rury and Liber in Luimneach. I had been ill. It was a fuzzy, dreamy sort of time. Semeon told it to me.”

“Then you have heard of Eithne’s Feth Fiada?”

“It was a kind of cloak or robe, wasn’t it?”

“More than that. The Feth Fiada is a cloak of invisibility. It is the cloak the Tuatha De Danann wear when they wish to pass between the Sidhe and the Overworld.”

“I remember. Eithne lost hers, didn’t she?”

“She did. In Eire, beside the River Boyne, in the days of Saint Patrick. And the losing of it sealed her destiny, for it helped determine her decision to remain in your world and to embrace mortality. Thus it was that she became a saint among the people above ground.”

Eny nodded.  “Well?”

“This is that same Feth Fiada,” said Brighid. “The Feth Fiada of Eithne herself. The people of Brugh na Boyne found it and brought it back to the Sidhe where the De Danann have kept it as a priceless treasure. And now it belongs to you as her successor and rightful heir.”

(To be continued …)

Day 392

Dee has been aggravatingly taciturn since I asked him to tell me more about the sword Azoth. For more than three weeks he has spoken to me only to borrow a tool. Meanwhile, I have noticed that he neither eats nor sleeps. He staggers between his cell and mine like a wandering ghost. But today there came a change.

Today, as I sat crumbling bits of bread in a corner for the young rats, he stumbled through the breach in the wall, sat down in front of me, and said, “There was another.”

“Another?”

“Another like you. A prisoner who would plague me with questions about the sword. I told him next to nothing. But then he asked me something else.”

“And what was that?”

He did not answer directly. Instead, he said, “What dost thou know of the New Birth?”

“Is that what you want to know?” I replied. “It’s simple, really. ‘Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of heaven.’ Boehme writes that this is the true ‘Satisfaction of all desire.’”

“The kingdom of heaven,” he mumbled. “I told thee once that I had spoken with angels.”

“You did.”

“Words they gave me. Words to engrave upon the crossguard before I cast Azoth into Carbonek’s stream. That was a long time ago. But he—that other—he inquired of me concerning one of those words! I marveled at the question. Where, I wonder, could he have heard it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said. “Did you answer him?”

“Nay.” He shook his head and was silent for a while. At last he said, almost in a whisper, “I am unutterably old and weary. Like Paracelsus, I seek release. The angels spoke to me and I kept their command. Am I, then, of the kingdom of heaven?”

I did not reply.

“I have not sought the gold of the common crowd,” he went on. “Thou sayest that the true Philosopher’s Stone is the New Birth. Canst thou—or that other—give it to me?”

“I can give you nothing,” I answered. “Heaven must be as death in the soul. That, too, is the New Birth. Men are led to heaven by their loves, but these must first be sacrificed. Does this mean anything to you?”

He turned away. “I cast it into Carbonek,” he said.

* * * * *

Immediately the harper took hold of the ladder, heaved himself up, and began to climb.  Biting his lip, Morgan got to his feet, dashed out from behind the fence, and took a step forward.

“Hey, Izaak!” came a voice from over his left shoulder.  “Where have you been?  I thought you went to talk to the king or whatever.  I went to the hall, but nobody was there.”

Baxter.

Already the old minstrel was halfway to the top of the swaying rope ladder.  Morgan could hear the mariners cry, “Ready about!”  He could see the full-bellied sail come around in the wind as the yard-arm shifted on the mast.  It was now or never.  Gripping his gear tightly, he sprinted for the ladder, made a desperate leap, and grasped its lowest rung.

“Stop!” shouted the sentries as Morgan’s feet left the ground.

“Wait!” yelled Baxter as the rope swung sickeningly from side to side.

Grunting with the effort, Morgan yanked himself up to the third rung.  A quick glance overhead showed him the bard just disappearing over the side of the ship.  Then the ship heeled and plunged like a spirited horse, swinging its painted prow out over the palisade.

Morgan tightened his grip and the ship began to move.  A sharp jerk from above told him that the sailors were pulling in the ladder.  This was followed immediately by an equally forceful jolt from below—someone on the ground had seized the free end of the rope!

Morgan looked back over his shoulder.  He feared to find himself staring down at the deadly points of the guards’ brass-tipped spears, but it wasn’t the guards who had caught hold of the ladder.  It was Baxter.

“Baxter!  Let go!” he cried as the vessel creaked and rolled overhead.  But in the next instant came a blast of wind as keen as a knife and filled with stinging raindrops.  The ship lurched and shuddered, then rose sharply and steeply into the air.

The next thing Morgan knew, the lightly dancing craft was running rapidly before the gale, far out over the battlefield to the south of Baile Daoine Sidhe.  His heart pounding, he glanced down and saw the foaming brook and the rocky hillocks of the plain flowing away like a dream hundreds of feet below.  Ahead he saw the swiftly rising slope where he and Baxter had first stumbled into the Sidhe.  In a matter of seconds the green tops of the great redwood trees were directly beneath his feet.  Then the wind gusted again and sent the rope ladder flying back and forth like a pendulum.  The mariners were shouting angrily at him from over the railing.

“Jump, Baxter!” shouted Morgan above the howl of the wind and the rain.  “Jump now!  We may not get another chance!”

And then, without looking down, he let go of the rope and dropped with a crash through the bristling canopy of the forest below.

“Hold on!” cried Baxter, hurriedly gathering his own things and stumbling to his feet.  “I’m coming with you!  Just give me a minute to get something to eat!”

But Morgan had no intention of waiting for Baxter.  Nor was he really interested in conferring with Ollamh Folla.  As it happened, he had not been entirely truthful with the Fir Bolg.  In his own mind he was convinced that he knew exactly where Eny was going and what she was up to.

Gathering up the folds of his cloak, he ran all the way from the long house to the main gates of the dun.

“Do you know the way to Tory Island?” he said, boldly approaching one of the sentries on guard.  “How long will it take me to get there?”

The tall Danaan frowned at him from under the silver brim and brass nose-guard of his scarlet-plumed helmet.  “You speak like a fool.  No one goes to Tory Island.  And no one leaves the Baile without the permission of the Ard Fer.  Not in time of siege and crisis.”

“What’s the Ard Fer?” asked Morgan.

“The High Chieftain!  The King!”

“Well, that’s okay, then,” said Morgan, taking another step forward.  “He’s a personal friend of mine.”

The guard scowled and lowered his brazen-tipped spear threateningly.  “We are at war, my young friend.  Danger lurks outside these gates.  The Morrigu’s minions walk at large.  Trouble us no more!”

Morgan hadn’t been anticipating this kind of opposition.  “You don’t understand,” he said.  “I’m Morgan Izaak—the one they’ve been calling a hero.  I’m just trying to …”

“Go!” said the warrior, advancing with drawn blade.  “And do not dare to come again unless accompanied by the King himself.  I do not think you will succeed in gaining his escort today.”

“Okay, okay!” said Morgan, backing away.  “I get the message!”

He withdrew about fifty paces and ducked behind a wicker-work fence at the edge of the open square.  Sooner or later somebody’s going to come in or go out, he thought, peering through the gaps in the weaving.  And when the gate opens, I’ll be waiting. 

But a long time passed—at least it felt like a long time—and nothing of the sort happened.  Meanwhile, a chill wind began to blow and a few clouds straggled across the sky.  Morgan shivered and pulled his cloak closer.

Soon he began to fear that Baxter might come looking for him any minute.  He must have had time to finish a five-course meal by now! he thought.  He was just wondering whether it might be better to go away and come back after dark when he noticed the old white-haired bard, his harp on his back, a bag in his hand, and a great fur-lined cape over his shoulders, approaching the two sentries.

As Morgan watched, the three men bent their heads together and conferred earnestly for a few minutes.  At length the sentries bowed and stood aside.  The bard took a few steps backward, tied his bag to his belt, and tightened the strap that secured the harp to his back.

Looks like I’m about to get my chance, thought Morgan.  He had read enough about harpers and minstrels—mainly in tales about King Arthur—to know they were traveling folk who rarely stayed long in one place.  He felt certain that this one was getting ready to leave the dun, so he took a firm grip of his own gear and prepared to make a dash for the gate.  They’ll open it any minute now.

But they didn’t.  Instead, as the guards glanced up, a sudden shadow fell from the sky.  Morgan followed their upward gaze, thinking that another cloud had crossed the sun, and was surprised to see a bright, glittering shape come sweeping over the top of the wooden palisade.  It was one of the Danaans’ flying ships:  a long-stemmed, high-prowed, carved and gilded vessel with a red-and-whited-striped sail.

The ship pulled up, hove to, and hovered above the square, heaving and rocking in the turbulent air as the wind gusted and sent its blue and green pennants streaming sideways from the tip of the tall mast.  In the next moment faces leaned down over the shield-lined gunwales.  Voices cried out above the rush of the rising wind.  Then a shining rope-ladder of glittering golden strands fell over the side of the vessel and came tumbling down until it touched the ground below.

(To be continued …)

Morgan blinked in the mote-speckled sunshine that came pouring in through the dormer window high in the thatched roof of the lodge.  Sitting up, he stretched luxuriously and gazed stupidly at the scattered gear and empty sleeping-mats that lay strewn across the floor, wondering why he and Baxter were the only ones still in bed.

He had retired for the night under the assumption that Eny simply needed some time to herself.  She had slipped away from the banquet table, he thought, because she wanted to be alone.  He knew her well enough to know that she craved solitude at all times, but especially when there was serious thinking to be done.  And the dark and threatening words of the Morrigu’s envoy had given everyone plenty to think about.

It was a rude awakening for him, then, when Rury and some of the other Fir Bolg suddenly burst into the sleeping chamber with the news that Eny was nowhere to be found.

“She never came back to the long house,” Liber said.  “Not all the night through.”

“She’s taken her things with her, she has,” added Semeon.

“Some of mine as well,” put in Rury, shaking his head.

Baxter, who had been snoring beside Morgan, sat up and rubbed his eyes, his face red, his sweaty hair a rumpled heap atop his head.  “What’s all the fuss?” he said irritably.

“Eny’s gone,” said Morgan.

“Long gone, if the signs tell true,” observed old Genann sadly.

“Is that so?  Well, you better run after her, lover boy,” yawned Baxter.  “You can’t let her go now.  Things were just starting to get good!”

“But why?” asked Anust.  “Why has she done it? If you know the reason, we beg you to be at the telling of it.”

“Is it to spare us all the trial of the Morrigu’s wrath?” asked white-haired Crucha, motherly concern shadowing her matronly brow.  “Does she risk her own self for the sake of the rest?”

Morgan scanned their anxious faces.  “That’s just the kind of thing she would do,” he said thoughtfully.  “But honestly, I don’t have the slightest idea where she’s gone or why.  Do Ollamh Folla and the other Danaan chiefs know about this?”

“They were the first to be told,” said Rury.  “We have only just come from their council meeting.  We brought them word while yet the last stars hung fading in the sky.”

“Well,” said Morgan, standing up and putting on his cloak.  “I want to talk to Ollamh myself.”

“Na, na, man!” countered Rury.  “No chance of that now.  It’s gone away he has—under the guise of Simon Brach, mind you.  And Sengann and Slanga and Crimthann and Eochy with him.  They’re off to search for the missing girl!”

“Then I’ll catch up to them.”  Morgan took his bolg and backpack and turned to leave.

“Wait!” called Baxter, holding up Morgan’s silver-sheathed Danaan sword.  “Won’t you be needing this?”

Morgan glanced back over his shoulder.  It seemed to him that there was a strange glint in the other boy’s eye.  “Keep it yourself,” he said with a smirk.  “That way you’ll have two.”  Then he opened the door and stepped outside.

(To be continued …)

Day 367

By my reckoning, I have now been in the Morrigu’s dungeon over a year.  

As for John Dee, he has never spoken to me about the length of his own imprisonment.  But it is not difficult to guess.  He is supposed to have died soon after the year 1600.  And I seem to recall that there was never any official record of his death.  

For reasons that should be obvious, I cannot help being intensely curious about this odd companion of my captivity.     

 “You once called Edward Kelly a ‘gold-cook,’” I said to him today as we worked at the wall.  “What did you mean?”  

  “‘Aurum nostrum non est aurum vulgi,’” he said.     

“‘Our gold is not the gold of the common crowd,’” I translated, surprised to hear him quote from Jacob Boehme.  “But where did you hear that?  Boehme was not of your century.”

“Those are the words of Paracelsus.  Boehme I know not.”

“Well,” I observed, chipping away at the mortar, “you should.  Paracelsus had it right, of course.  The true gold is from above.  But it was Boehme who first taught me the secret of the Stone.”

He turned from his work and eyed me down the length of his crooked nose. “What secret?”

“‘One should not look upon the Stone and say, “I must by force set upon it.”  For the Stone is nothing but the gift of the New Birth.’”

He edged closer.  “New birth?”

“You have heard of it before, I think.  I suppose you are also familiar with the Emerald Tablet?”

“‘That which is above is as that which is below,’ he recited as if by rote, “‘and that which is below is as that which is above.’”

“Precisely,” I said.  “Or, to put it another way:  ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’”

He squinted at me in the dim light.  “And what of Azoth?”

I squinted back.  “I’ve been hoping you could tell me more about that.”         

*  *  *  *  *

The lower slopes were thickly covered with pine.  This suited Eny’s purposes precisely, for there was no doubt in her mind that Ollamh Folla and the Danaans would raise a search as soon as they found her missing.  How long it might be before they made that discovery she couldn’t tell.  But she was encouraged to think that the confusion in the Tellach was working to her advantage.

Eny had, of course, covered this stretch of ground once before, during her first visit to the Sidhe.  But she had been under enchantment and delirious with fever at the time, and so had no memory of the terrain this side of the steep pass of Na Cupla.  To make matters worse, the night was exceptionally dark.  Once among the trees she lost even the faint illumination of the stars.  She was traveling blind in the truest sense, with nothing to guide her but instinct and the gift of Second Sight.

Fortunately, both told her that she was headed the right way—due north.  She had made up her mind to go in this direction because she felt sure no one would expect it.  They would be far more likely to seek her to the south, she thought, in the caves above the ruins of Semeon’s Dun—or in the east, perhaps, where the bare red rocks of Tory Island and the black spire of the Morrigu’s tower rose stark above the waters of the strait of Camas Morraigu.  Setting her jaw and gritting her teeth, she trudged straight up the hillside, groping her way from branch to branch and bole to bole.

Long into the night she climbed, pausing from time to time as dim pricks of light, like the glint of amber eyes, or strangely fleeting threads of glimmering blue, like the tails of will-o’-the-wisps, went flitting among the trees or darted out at her from between the frosty pines.  Often she was aware of the softness of large moth-wings fluttering against her cheek.  Once she saw what looked like a pair of glowing red antlers go floating past her in the dark.  On another occasion she felt something sleek and furry brush against her leg.

After a while the rough pines gave way to what felt like smooth-skinned birches, all of them bare-limbed, their leaves having dropped to the ground in a rich and fragrant blanket.  As in Hollywood and Santa Piedra, it was autumn in the Sidhe—something Eny had not anticipated.

When she felt she could go no further she sat down under a tree to rest.  Though her sense of direction was still strong she had lost all track of time and had no idea how long she’d been traveling.  It seemed to her that a faint gray light, barely perceptible as yet, was filtering down through the tangled canopy of twigs above her head.  Trembling with exhaustion, she leaned back against the tree and shut her eyes.

When she awoke, broad daylight was exploding through the naked white branches in a profusion of glittering splinters and sparks.  Good, thought Eny, noting that the light was pouring in from the left.  She was indeed still facing north.  Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she undid the flap of her bolg andtook out an oatcake.  Then, pulling herself up by a tree branch, she set out again munching her breakfast as she went.  I’ve wasted enough time sleeping, she said to herself.  There simply isn’t a moment to lose.

By noon she stood in the shadow of the Twins, two rocky spires that rose up from a sharp ridge overhanging a tilted expanse of bronze tundra.  Gone were the tiny white blossoms that had covered these high slopes during her first visit to the mountains.  The long green grass had faded to purple and brown, and though the sun shone bravely, the bright air was sharp with the expectation of approaching winter storms.  Eny followed the narrow white road, which threaded its way between the two peaks, passed over the roof of Benn Mellain, and then wound its way down the other side through lofty redwood groves and ferny dells.

On and on she trekked, over rocks and roots and clumps of withered columbine and honeysuckle, past scattered dogwood and liquid amber trees luminous with leaves of flaming scarlet, down cathedral aisles overshadowed by the deeply fluted columns of towering redwoods.  All through the afternoon she pushed ahead, coming at length to the thickets of white-stemmed aspens that occupied the lower ranges of Benn Mellain’s northern slope, many of them still clothed in robes of rippling gold.

The sun was dipping low over a range of hills far to the west when at last she broke out from beneath the eaves of the forest and looked out across a yellow plain traversed by a winding thread of shimmering red-gold.  This was Mag Tuiread and the brook of Inber Duglaise, where once she had put the Fomorians to flight with a sling and a stone.

It’ll be dark soon, said Eny to herself, and it probably isn’t a good idea to spend the night in the open field.  Maybe I’ll camp here under the trees.

But even as the thought passed through her mind, while she was still gazing out over the flat terrain to the north, it seemed to her that she saw a figure standing beside the meandering stream.  Squinting against the glare, she looked again; and as she did, a vivid scene flashed across her memory.  The Fir Bolg running ahead of her.  Giants thundering after her.  Pebbles glistening in the shallows.  A sheen of enchantment descending through the air.  And in the midst of it all, a woman in a blue cloak washing a pile of rags in the clear purling water.

“It’s her!” breathed Eny.  “The Washer at the Ford!”

Those words brought another flood of images crowding into her mind—not only of her own nightmarish experience in this very place, but of her mother’s many stories about that dark, mysterious person, that weird, uncanny harbinger of doom.

“It’s the Morrigu herself in another form!”

Instantly she took off running.  Down the scrubby slope she plunged, the woods behind her, the level plain before her, the slanting rays of the setting sun throwing her long rippling shadow far out across the rustling brown stubble.  Faster and faster she ran.  As she drew nearer the bent figure dropped a bundle of rags in the water and straightened up.  At the sound of her approach it turned and peered sharply at her from under the brim of a large, floppy hat.

“It’s me!” Eny cried breathlessly.  “I got your message!  I’ve come of my own free will!  Go ahead and take me!  Do whatever you want with me!  I don’t care anymore!  Just let my friend’s father go!”

The stars were shining overhead when Eny slipped out the back door of the kitchen and began running up the gravel path towards the longhouse.  She was nearly halfway there when she remembered that her everyday clothes were still in the chamber where Brighid had dressed her for the feast.

I can’t go back now! she thought, slowing to a standstill.  And I can’t possibly go where I’m going in this frilly dress!  I’ll just have to borrow some of Rury’s things. 

The low-thatched, rough-timbered sleeping lodge was dark, empty, and still when she came bursting through the door—all the residents of the house, including the Fir Bolg, had gone to the great banquet hall.  Striking a light, she threaded her way among the sleeping mats, picked up her bolg, and began rummaging around the room for a few basic necessities.  Her fiddle, which lay beside her bed, she wrapped in a couple of blankets and stowed carefully inside the bag.  Then she packed her sling, a small pouch of smooth, round stones, a bundle of wax candles, a tinder box, a coil of rope, some oatcakes and raisins, and a good sharp knife.  Last of all she found the canvas sack where Rury kept a few spare items of clothing and took a pair of breeches, a tunic of homespun linen, a woolen jacket, a sheepskin belt, a cloak, a cap, and a pair of Fir Bolg boots.  Unlacing the white silk gown, she slipped out of it and quickly donned these rustic garments.  Then, hitching her bolg to her belt, she blew out the light and crept outside.

It was a cold and moonless night.  Nothing stirred among the wooden huts and houses of the dun except a few dry birch leaves that fluttered down from the trees beside the path and went skittering over the gravel in the chill evening breeze.  In the distance Eny could see the glow of the lights in the Tellach.  She could hear a faint rumor of the uproar inside the hall.  Tightening her belt, she ducked into a shadow and stole softly along the narrow lanes that wound between the buildings, heading for the wooden palisade at the rear of the dun.

Upon reaching the wall, she stopped and gazed up at the tips of its massive pointed timbers.  They’d have to be scaled, for there was no other way out of the Baile.  The front gate was guarded.  The watchtowers, too, would be manned.  So she’d have to keep her distance from the palisade’s fortified corners and try to stay out of sight.  It wouldn’t be easy, but her fertile brain was already hatching a plan.

Opening her bolg, she fished out the rope, the little bag of stones, and the knife.  First she tied the pouch firmly to one end of the rope.  Then, about a foot above it, she hitched the rope securely around the hilt of the knife.  Checking to see that the coil was free of entanglements, she took hold of the rope, whirled the pouch in a wide circle over her head, and flung it as high as she could towards the serried crest of the palisade.  It struck the wood about three feet short and crashed to the ground below.

Nothing dismayed, Eny gathered up the rope and tried again.  Then she tried a second time and a third.  On the fourth attempt both the bag of stones and the knife sailed cleanly over the palisade and fell back against the outer side, slapping the wood with a loud hollow thump.  I hope nobody heard that, she thought.

Pulling the rope taut, she drew it up until the knife caught and lodged itself solidly between two of the huge sharpened stakes.  Then, with a tug to make sure the line was secure, she took a firm grip, braced her feet against the wall, and started to climb.

Getting over the top of the wall was harder than she had expected.  It was a delicate business avoiding the treacherous tips of the sharpened stakes; but eventually she managed to slide into a sitting position between two of the pointed timbers as if she were mounting a saddle.  From this vantage point she could see that it would be impossible to descend by means of the rope unless she left the knife and some of the cord behind.  So after a few minutes of careful deliberation, she pulled the blade free of the wood, threw it to the ground, and let herself drop on the other side.

It was a long fall—so long that it might have ended in disaster except that the ground outside the dun angled away from the palisade in a gentle, grassy slope.  Eny hit this slope rolling and was little the worse for wear when she picked herself up at the bottom of the grade.  Retrieving her bolg, she made a quick inventory of its contents and re-attached it to her belt.  Then, humming herself a tune—a sprightly little march called Miss Elspeth Campbell—she turned her back on the town of Baile Daoine Sidhe and set off into the foothills of Beinn Meallain.

(To be continued …)

With a leer, Cundri turned on her heel, lifted the wilted lily in her hand, and began shuffling back up the aisle towards the door.

Instantly a tumult erupted in the Tellach.  Swords flashed from scabbards.  Spears rattled on shields.  Torches flared, cups pounded on tables, and angry voices were raised.  A few demanded the emissary’s death.  Some cursed the Morrigu while others blamed the Overlanders.  Still others wailed and cried aloud upon the name of Eithne.

In the midst of the confusion Morgan jumped up on the bench, vaulted over the table, and caught hold of the arm of Ollamh Folla, who was standing on the edge of the platform, watching the messenger exit the hall under the protection of two guards.

“Aren’t you going to stop her?” he shouted above the din.

The Danaan King regarded him solemnly.  “She came under sign of truce.  We owe her a safe conduct.”

“But the Morrigu wouldn’t play by those rules if she were in your place!”

“Probably not.  Are you suggesting I follow her example?”

“No, but—”  Morgan’s vision blurred as he groped for words.  For a moment he felt like he was choking.  At last he blurted out, “I wish I’d never come here!  I only did it because I wanted to find my dad!  I never meant to put Eny in danger!”

“You haven’t,” Ollamh said quietly.  “And you didn’t come.  You were brought.  Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, but … we have to do something!  There’s no way I’ll ever hand Eny over to that woman!”

“Fortunately,” observed Ollamh, “the decision isn’t yours to make.”

Morgan bit his lip and stared down at his toes.  “Still, we’ve got to get her away from here somehow,” he said.  “Why don’t you send both of us back where we came from?  Wouldn’t that be safer?”

“Not if Eochy’s right.  In any case, I can’t.  It’s not entirely up to me.  Besides, there’s your father to consider.  What do you want to do about him?”

Morgan didn’t know what to say.  Never in his life had he been faced with such a choice.  Eny or his dad?  It was impossible to answer.  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.  His head felt as if it were about to burst.

“And your friend?” the King continued.  “Where does he fit in?”

“Him!”  Morgan pursed his lips in exasperation and blew out a puff of air.  “I told you he wasn’t my idea!”

“Perhaps not.  But he was somebody’s.”

Morgan looked away and said nothing.

“I know much of the Morrigu and her schemes,” Ollamh went on after a pause, “but I must admit that I never expected her to come against us with something quite like this.”  He looked at the boy out of the corner of his eye.  “Do you have any counsel for me?”

“Me?”  Morgan considered.  “How about sending an army to rescue my dad?  I’ll go with them!  I’ve got—” he hesitated “—I’ve got courage and determination.”

Ollamh Folla smiled and shook his head.  “I know you do.  But Lugh fell in just such an assault.  Tur Morraigu is strong and closely guarded.  Tory Island is an impenetrable rock.  We can hope for nothing from a direct attack.  Not even from the air.  A more subtle approach, on the other hand …”

But Morgan was no longer listening.  His eager brain had seized upon on those two names—Tur Morraigu and Tory Island—and he was revolving them over and over in his mind.  In that instant he realized that they were what he’d been seeking all along.  Now he knew where to look for his father!

True, at that moment Tur Morraigu and Tory Island were only words to him.  For the time being, he had no idea in what direction they lay.  But he could find out.  And then he’d be able to rescue his dad and divert the Morrigu’s threat from Eny.  Both at the same time!

With a cautious sidelong glance at Ollamh Folla, who was saying something about the folly of rash decisions, Morgan felt for the pommel of the miraculous sword.  Yes—it was still there, safely tucked away inside the marvelous bag.  Then he turned, shoved past Baxter, who was just creeping out from under the table, and called to Eny:

“Don’t worry!” he said.  “I’ll keep you safe!  I’m working on a plan!”

But Eny was gone.

 *  *  *  *  *  *

(To be continued …)