“Pardon, King,” said the sentry, bowing his head.  “An emissary stands at the door craving a hearing.”

“What emissary?” asked Ollamh.  Morgan could see that, for all his poise and grace, the King was not quite sure what to make of this unexpected interruption.

“From the enemy.  Bearing a token of truce.  She claims protection.  She also insists that she must not be kept waiting.”

“She?” said Ollamh, raising an eyebrow.

Morgan turned and looked at Eny.  Eny looked back, and he knew that her idea was the same as his own.  Surely this she could not be the Morrigu herself?  Surely she would not be so bold as to walk straight into the Danaan fortress?

Forgetful of the unshakeable optimism that had so lately swelled his brain, Morgan suddenly found himself trembling like a dry leaf.  He was afraid for Eny—afraid of what might follow if the enchantress should somehow snatch her away.  But he was also thinking of himself—wondering what he would say if this were his one and only chance to confront the woman with a demand for his father’s release.

“Yes,” he heard the guard say.  “The messenger is a she; though—if I may speak freely—hardly recognizable as such.”

The King nodded.  “Send her in.”

The sentry withdrew; and before Morgan and Eny had a chance to exchange so much as one hastily whispered word, they saw a small, dark, misshapen figure appear in the wide doorway at the further end of the Tellach.  Slowly this shadowy shape advanced through the confused buzz and hum that went up from the benches as it passed by, drawing ever nearer to the platform where Ollamh stood waiting with crossed arms.

As it came into view, they saw clearly that it must be of a race or kindred closely related to that of the Fir Bolg:  a dwarfish creature with bandy legs and a large head that wobbled from side to side as it walked.  In its spidery hands it carried a drooping lily, the symbol of truce.  Its long black gown, which seemed woven of raven-feathers, trailed behind it in a ragged train.  Its unruly hair spilled out from under a shapeless red cap like a mass of frizzled and knotted black wool.  Its appearance was altogether uncouth, uncanny, and repulsive.  But when the face came into view Morgan caught his breath and Eny jumped as if stung by a wasp.  Never in their lives had they seen anything half so ugly.

The eyes were two dark hollows overshadowed by bushy black brows.  At the center of each was spark that glowed like a distant star through a pestilent green mist.  The forehead was low and broad and almost completely overgrown by the encroaching black roots of the hair.  The nose was bulbous and irregular, the cheek-bones protuberant, the mouth unnaturally wide, the lower lip thick and pendulous.  Most disturbing of all were two long teeth that protruded upward over the thin upper lip like the fangs of a serpent.

As the she-thing moved forward, sweeping the crowd with a chilling glance, Morgan saw Rury bend and hiss something into the ear of his shrinking wife:  “Cundri.”  At the sound of that name, the other Fir Bolg shook their heads and curled their lips in disgust.  Sengann spat on the floor.

“A message I bring, Ollamh Folla,” said Cundri when at last she stood facing the King.

Ollamh nodded, eyeing her grimly.

“A message from the Queen it is,” the emissary continued.

The King said nothing.

“To the boy she would have me bring it.”

An audible gasp went up from the assembly.  Every head turned.  Every eye fixed itself upon Morgan’s face.  He felt the blood rush up his neck and into his cheeks.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Baxter slip from his chair and duck underneath the table.

“Speak,” prompted Ollamh Folla, his brow darkening.

“To the boy, then,” Cundri proceeded, regarding Morgan with a toothy grin.  “A greeting from his Mistress.  She knows that he is here, and she bids me speak this word in his ear:  ‘I have your father.  Bring me the girl if you wish to see him alive.’”

 

“Another song?” moaned Baxter as the bard returned to his harp.

“Quiet!” hissed Morgan.  “The food isn’t ready yet.  Besides, you can’t just order these people around like the waiters in your dad’s restaurant!  They have their own way of doing things!”

Baxter scowled.  “My dad’s got nothing to do with it.  I’m hungry, and I’m sick and tired of all this singing!”

“Well, I want to listen!”

And as Morgan spoke, the white-haired bard began to chant once more:

 

In that hall there standeth a bed

With silken sheets of red;

And in that bed there lieth a knight

Bleeding day and night.

And by that bed there standeth a Maid,

Weeping night and day;

And by that Maid there standeth a Stone …  

 

All at once the singer lifted his fingers from the harp-strings.  For a moment he sat motionless with his hands poised in the air, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on a point at the rear of the Tellach.  Every eye in the hall followed his gaze.  A muffled cry of surprise went up from every throat.  And then, with a great rustling and scuffling, the people stood apart, creating an aisle in the midst of the pressing throng.

As Morgan watched, Ollamh Folla threw back his purple cloak and strode down this open space to where two young maidens—one clad in green, the other in purest white—stood side by side beneath the flickering torches.  Upon reaching them he bowed, took the hand of the maiden in white, and kissed it.  Then he turned and, with slow and stately step, led her back up the aisle as the harper played a strong and solemn march.

Baxter’s eyes were bugging from his head.  “What in the—?”

But Morgan wasn’t listening.  All in an instant the stunning truth had hit him:  the girl in the white dress was Eny!  His very own Eny—his mystic sister and closest childhood companion!  He had known her all his life, and he had always considered her his best and dearest friend.  But never before had he seen her looking quite like this!

On she came, half-concealed in a halo of unearthly luminescence.  The reddish tint in her hair flashed like fire in the dancing torchlight.  Her cheeks were ruddy.  Her skin glowed like the skin of a summer peach.  The sky blue iris of her left eye shone with all the living brilliance of an opal.  Yes, it was Eny without a doubt.  But in this magic moment she had become something more than his friend and next-door neighbor.  She was a princess, a bride, a marvel past all description.  Morgan was completely overwhelmed at the sight of her.  And to make his confusion complete, Ollamh Folla was leading her straight towards him and offering him her hand!

Drops of cold perspiration broke out on his hot forehead.  His head began to swim and an uncontrollable flutter arose in his stomach as she drew near.  Glancing in Baxter’s direction, he saw that the other boy’s jaw had dropped to the level of his collar.  In a desperate quest for reassurance he turned and sought the faces of the Fir Bolg.  All of them were smiling and nodding in the most unsettling way.

“My friends,” cried Ollamh Folla when he and Eny had reached the foot of the platform.  “Here is the other hero of the Battle for the Stone!  The girl with Eithne’s eyes!  The Maiden foretold in the songs of our poets and prophets!”

A roar of acclamation went up from the crowd.  It shook the beams of the ceiling and rattled the shields and weapons along the walls.  “Eithne!  Eithne!” shouted the people.  Those sitting on the benches pounded the tables with their cups.  Those standing along the aisle clapped their hands and stamped their feet.

“You look amazing!” Morgan stammered in her ear as he took her hand.

“Thanks,” she said, blushing amid the clamor.  “But the Stone was lost.”

“Don’t worry,” he whispered earnestly, pressing her hand in his.  “We’re together again.  That’s what counts.  We’re in the Sidhe, and we are going to get the Stone back!  I just know it!”

“And now to meat!” shouted Ollamh Folla over the cheers of the gathered Danaans.  And with that scores of serving-men in red-and-white striped tunics emerged from beneath the kitchen’s deep stone archway bearing steaming tureens and silver platters heaped high with fish and fowl.  Girls followed with baskets of bread and flagons of mead and ale.  The bard stepped aside as a troop of blue-clad pipers bounded to the top of the platform.  Immediately they launched into a set of dance tunes as lively as a bubbling brook in spring.

And so the merry feast began.  An hour it continued, then two, then three, while torches flared and pitchers were passed and foaming cups went up and down the board.  Far into the night the people ate and drank and laughed while the rich voices of the singers echoed off the paneled walls and splintered like shards of gold among the smoky rafters.  From time to time the musicians and minstrels took up their instruments and played yet another round of tunes.  Then the children danced in long lines, weaving deftly in and out amongst the attendants with their heavy trenchers and bowls.

Through all of this Morgan sat like one who sits in a golden dream.  He was wrapped in a cloud of love and warmth and hopes of sure success.  Though he did not fully understand his own feelings, he knew that they were strong and heady and intensely pleasant.

His place was at the head of the table—right between Ollamh Folla and Eny.  He ate but sparingly, for never once during the meal did he let go of Eny’s hand.  Only dimly and in the most marginal way was he aware of the dark glances that Baxter, between mouthfuls of pork pasty and roast fowl, kept darting at him from across the board.  He never noticed that the other boy’s eyes were drawn constantly and incessantly to the rumpled, bulging bag that hung at his waist beside the jeweled and gilded Danaan sword.

At last Ollamh Folla rose to the platform and signaled for silence.  A hush descended upon the hall as the golden-haired King stood there before the people, hands at his sides, eyes half-closed, face tipped up towards the starlight that glimmered through the smoke holes in the ceiling.

At last he opened his mouth to speak; but before he could draw breath or utter a sound, there arose a din at the rear of the hall that caused every head to turn.  The doors of the Tellach crashed open.  A sentry with a long red spear in his hand came clattering down the center aisle at a full run.  He did not stop until he stood directly in front of Ollamh Folla.  There he dropped to one knee, pounded the butt of his lance three times upon the floor, and looked up into the King’s face.

(To be continued …)

Even as Morgan and Baxter were entering the hall with Ollamh Folla, Eny was bearing up bravely under the fawning ministrations of the women:  of Liber, who washed her; of Crucha, who rubbed her dry and wrapped her in soft linen; and of Anust, her special friend, who anointed her with scented oils and combed out her coppery hair.  But when it came time to dress for the feast, the female Fir Bolg stood demurely aside and left her in the care of a slender, dark-haired maid of the Tuatha De Danann.

“I’m afraid we haven’t met,” said Eny as the Danaan girl glided into the chamber with a gown of snow-white silk rustling on her arm.  “My name’s Eny.”

“Eithne,” smiled the maiden, her black eyes flashing under long, dark lashes.  “I know who you are.  I am called Brighid.”

Eny watched her closely.  Her movements were like those of a shadow as she swept noiselessly across the floor, her hair falling over her shoulders and the back-lacings of her green kirtle in a rich mahogany cascade.  Though she seemed no more than a year or two her senior, Eny knew that Brighid might easily be centuries old in the reckoning of the Sidhe.  The age of the Danaan folk shows itself mainly in their eyes, and hers were as deep as ancient wells.

“Brighid,” murmured Eny.  “It’s a pretty name.”

“I’m glad you think so.  Now, on your feet and hands in the air.”

Eny obeyed.

“Brighid,” she said as the shimmery white gown slipped over her head like a spring shower, “do you know what a tomboy is?”

The girl bent over her shoulder and smiled into her face.  “No.  Will you tell me?”

“It’s me.  Whatever else I may be, ‘tomboy’ is a big part of who I am.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Partly I that like fiddling and fishing and slinging stones better than playing with dolls.  But mostly it means that I really, really don’t like dressing up in frilly stuff like this.”

“I see.  Stand straight, please.”  Gently Brighid drew her up by the shoulders and began lacing the dress tightly behind her back.

“Isn’t there anything else I can wear?”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because tonight you are being presented before the King.”

“King Lugh of the Long Hand?”  Eny grunted as the girl pulled the lacings tight.

“I am afraid not,” sighed Brighid.

Eny turned to look at her.  “But what other king is there?”

“Ollamh Folla.  You know him—do you not?”

“Simon!” gasped Eny.  “Simon’s the king?”

“He did not know it himself until he arrived in the Baile.  He has only just come from the Morrigu’s dungeons.”

So that’s why the Stone roared! thought Eny.  “But what happened to King Lugh?”

“He fell in the last fight but one.  On Tory’s shore, near Dun Bhabir.  Ollamh has pledged himself to serve the people until he can be healed.”

“Then he isn’t dead?”

“He lives yet, but his wounds still bleed.  They will until the Maiden, the Stone, and the Key are reunited.  That is one reason you are here.”

“Eochy didn’t tell me that!”  Eny peered deep into Brighid’s dark eyes.  “You’re talking about the ‘Maiden of Perfect Purity,’ aren’t you?”

“Yes.  About Eithne.  About you.”

“But doesn’t anybody understand?” said Eny.  “Don’t they realize what they’re doing?  The Morrigu is already winning, and this will only help her!”

Brighid shook her head.  “Her power is great, yet not as great as it might become.”

“But that’s just it!  Can’t you see?  I don’t really know what it means to be the ‘Maiden of Perfect Purity.’  But I do know that the Morrigu thinks I’m her!  And once she catches me we’ll all be in big trouble!  She’ll be holding all the cards!  She’ll use me somehow to tap into the power of Lia Fail.  And that will be the end!”

Brighid smiled and smoothed Eny’s hair.  “You are mistaken.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Then let me tell you.  In the first place, while the Sidhe endures, Ollamh Folla and the people of Danu will never let the Morrigu catch you.  You are safe here—provided, of course, that you remain within the palisade of the Baile.

“In the second place, even if she were to possess both the Maiden and the Stone, still the Morrigu could not prevail:  for the Maiden and the Stone are only two corners of the Triad.  There is a Third Angle—a missing Key that she cannot possess.  It was lost long ago and she does not know where to find it.”

“A Third Angle?” said Eny, twisting her head around as Brighid tied the laces at the nape of her neck.

“No more time for talk.  We are expected.  Come.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

(To be continued …)

The harper let his hands drop to his sides. He swung around to face Morgan. “Thus ends the Song of Lia Fail and Fragarach, the fabled Sword of Lugh.”

Morgan was confused. Fragarach? he thought. His hand crept towards the shapeless bolg dangling at his waist. He touched it, ran his fingers over it, and felt for the smooth roundness of the golden pommel lying just beneath the softness of the leather. I thought it was called Azoth.

He glanced up hesitantly at the singer. “Can I ask you something?”

The old bard seemed taken aback. He arched his bushy eyebrows. “And what is that?”

“Your song was definitely about a sword in a stone,” said Morgan. “But it doesn’t seem to be the same ‘Sword in the Stone’ I had in mind.”

Ollamh Folla gave the boy a sidewise glance. “You might be surprised,” he said.

Morgan blinked and swallowed. “Really? In that case, I’m curious. What were the precise words that Lugh engraved upon the sword?”

“The song uses poetic language,” Ollamh explained. “The actual inscription, in the Danaan tongue, was Fragarach: i loingseach: rannaid ocus cenglaid. ‘Fragarach. In exile. To divide and to bind.’”

There was a lump at the back of Morgan’s throat. “And exactly how—if you don’t mind my asking—was it written? I mean, was it spelled out in letters that I could understand?”

The harper looked amused. “Hardly! Ollamh Folla knows as well as I do that the Sword of Lugh was inscribed with the ancient script of Ogma, first scribe and poet of the Danaans. Let me show you.” And kneeling, he traced with his finger in the dust two long, straight lines crossed at intervals by a series of vertical and diagonal hatch-marks.

Morgan leaned forward and put his nose over the edge of the platform. For a long moment he stared hard at the strange markings.

He could have drawn them himself from memory.

They were the same cross-hatched lines he had puzzled over night after night in his dungeon study while staring bleary-eyed at the Sword of Paracelsus.

Without another word the old man seated himself at his harp. Then he tucked back his flowing sleeves, touched the silver strings, and lifted his voice:

 

A riddle in a song I sing:

One in two and two in one;

The tie that cuts, the edge that binds;

A severing that in union finds

A narrow bed where parting rivers run.

 

I sing the circle of the earth;

Within its girth, of corners three,

Three points upon the outer rim

Scattered wide and shadowed dim

Where grasping hands reach not, nor eyes may see.

 

The Satisfaction of the world;

The Maiden pure with piercing eye;

The Key that in the lock she turns;

The Triangle that yet returns

Ere Lia Fail sets out beneath the sky.

 

Lia Fail? thought Morgan as Baxter groaned and heaved a weary sigh. But the song was flowing on and gaining speed:

 

From Falias came Lia Fail;

The Cauldron Black from Murias;

And Joseph’s Spear that dripped with blood

From Finias over the heaving flood;

But Goban forged Lugh’s Sword in Gorias.

 

And Lugh, himself of doleful fate,

By Goban fostered in the West,

A craftsman of great skill was found,

A King beloved and renowned,

When o’er the roaring Stone he came to rest.

 

King Lugh! Morgan said to himself. Lugh of the Long Hand! I’ve heard that name before! 

   

Then Ollamh, seer wise and grim,

Darkened picture-dreams with speech:

Fleets and armies thick as rain;

The sons of Miled out from Spain;

Hungry birds upon the barren beach.

 

Seven days in council hall

He swayed them all with uttered thunder:

“The Stone of Destiny,” he said,

“The pillow stone of Jacob’s head

We dare not leave to roving thieves as plunder.”

 

I remember this, too. Morgan glanced up at Ollamh Folla. It was Simon—I mean Ollamh—who told the others to send Lia Fail away.

 

But Morrigu, in cunning shrewd,

Resisted Ollamh’s counsel keen

And, leagued with giants, swore to fight

The Danaoi by day and night

That, seizing Lia Fail, she might be queen.

 

Thus, when the Stone was set adrift  

To keep it from the invading horde,

Then Lugh invented artifices

To save it from Anand’s devices:

A plan he forged around his flashing sword.

 

“Stone of stone and steel of steel,

Flesh of flesh and bone of bone—,”

So spoke the King, “—thus Fragarach,

My answering blade, give and take back:

The Stone in thee, and thou within the Stone.

 

“Divide thy powers unto her;

Let her virtue live in thee:

One in two and two in one

While unending ages run,

Ever bound across the sundering sea.”

 

Then, having spoken, Lugh unsheathed

The blue-edged sword that Goban made:

He heaved it up above the Stone;

He thrust it down and drove it home:

No seam could they discern twixt face and blade.

 

Lugh’s sword ? thought Morgan. That’s the Sword in the Stone?  But the bard’s song was drawing swiftly to a close.

 

Then Sword in Stone and Stone in Sword

They set afloat upon the deep

To seek the Isle of utter peace,

Where ends the world, where strivings cease,

Where suns go down at end of day to sleep.

  

But ere he let them drift abroad

Lugh graved the riddle of his mind

Into the steel: “Here Fragarach,

The deathless blade of Ildanach

Goes forth in exile to divide and bind”—

 

Thus reads the riddle that I sing

Of one in two and two in one;

Of three together intertwined,

Of Sword and Stone and Maid combined

Beyond the sun while endless ages run.

 

(To be continued …)

With a loud huzzah, Rury, Eochy and the rest of the Fir Bolg followed Ollamh down the steps to the main floor. Morgan gathered up his things and dashed after them.

“Finally!” he heard Baxter whispering in his ear. “Some real food at last!”

The light outside was fading fast. As they moved through the hall, long-haired girls in white dresses came alongside to light the way with flaming torches. Already the long tables were filling with noble guests: men dressed in bright tunics with white-banded swords at their belts; women in flowing robes, their bare arms flashing with gold rings; little children with garlands of fall flowers in their hair—purple asters, rust-hued chrysanthemums, red amaryllis.

And now the broken strains of a mournful melody came wafting over their heads. Looking up, Morgan caught sight of a thin, white-haired man in a voluminous black cloak playing a golden harp on a raised wooden platform. As the band approached, the music ceased and the old bard stood up beside his instrument.

“Greetings, Ollamh Folla!” he said in a soft, melodious voice. “Long live the King!”

King? thought Morgan as the cheers of the guests thundered through the hall.

“I thank you, Corpre,” responded Ollamh. “And I call upon you all to welcome to my esteemed guest”—here he took Morgan’s hand and raised it in his own—“Morgan Izaak, companion of Eithne, hero of the Battle for the Stone!”

At this another deafening roar shook the rafters. Morgan trembled at the sound of it. His cheeks burned and his mind reeled at the thought that Ollamh Folla, newly made King of the Tuatha De Danann—or so it seemed—was calling him, Morgan Izaak, a hero.

“Failte, Morgan Izaak,” said the old harper, bowing low. “May I honor you with a song?”

Morgan was struggling to find his tongue. “Can you sing one about the Sword in the Stone?” he squeaked, hardly knowing what he said.

A hush fell on the hall.

“The Sword in the Stone?”

Morgan nodded. “You know,” he stammered. “Like the one in the story of King Arthur. You don’t know any of those songs, do you?”

The old man straightened up and peered down at the boy from beneath a pair of unruly white eyebrows. “Strangely enough,” he said, “I do.”

(To be continued …)

Simon’s narrative at an end, everyone got up and hurried off to make preparations for the great feast. Rury took the two boys aside and explained that they were to accompany Simon and the Fir Bolg men to a spot set aside for their use on the upper level. Liber, meanwhile, guided Eny and the women to a private chamber towards the rear of the Tellach.

Just before the two groups parted company, Eny managed to nab a spare bolg from Rury and slipped it into Morgan’s hands. Nodding his thanks, Morgan reached under the table, retrieved the concealed sword, and discreetly thrust it into the mouth of the floppy bag. To his surprise and pleasure, it disappeared completely inside—blade, hilt, and pommel. Securing the flap with a thong, he tied the bolg to his belt and followed Simon and Rury up the steps to the raised gallery on the other side of the scarlet pillars.

Five tall Danaans were waiting for them there. Each of them had curled yellow hair hanging down to the shoulders. Each wore a flowing shirt of red, blue, or green silk and had a speckled cloak about his shoulders. They all had towels draped over their arms, and before them stood a big wooden vat banded with thick hoops of iron and filled to the brim with steaming water.

“Now off with those filthy things and into the tub,” said Simon. “There’s a time and a place for everything, and a high feast in the Great Hall is neither the time nor the place for dirty boys in ragged clothes.”

“Me? Take a bath with him?” Morgan blushed and looked around for a way of escape.

“Ragged?” protested Baxter. “These pants came from Saks!”

But the attendants were swift and efficient, and in the blink of an eye both boys were splashing in the water.

Once thoroughly soused, scrubbed, and dried, they were dressed in fresh suits of clothes: purple cloaks, white tunics, red waistcoats, and shoes of soft leather. To complete their outfits, each received a silver belt with a gold-hilted sword in a silver scabbard.

Baxter stood admiring his reflection in the surface of a polished bronze shield. First he turned this way, then that. Then he fluffed his hair, smoothed his coat, and preened like a peacock. At last he drew the sword, sheathed it, drew it again, and brandished it in the air.

Oh, brother! thought Morgan. But in his heart of hearts he had to admit that he understood what the other boy was feeling. He was, in fact, nearly bursting with the expectation of good things to come. A day or two ago (as he measured time) his cause had appeared hopeless. Yet now, in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. Here he was in the Sidhe, armed and decked out like hero! He was close—very close indeed—to the place where the enchantress was holding his father. It was only a matter of time now. He felt sure of it.

Catching a glimpse of his own reflection, he struck a pose and smiled. Like Baxter, he smoothed the folds of his rich cloak. Like Baxter, he readjusted his belt and ran his fingertips over the snowy sheen of his silken shirt. But unlike his companion, he did not complete the ritual by reaching for the hilt of the Danaan sword. Instead, he patted the lumpy leather satchel hanging at his belt. Nothing can stop me now, he thought.

Meanwhile, Baxter was still twirling the glittering sword above his head.  Twice he whirled it, then a third time. But his face changed as he lowered the blade and stooped to examine it in the light of a torch.

“I don’t get it,” he scowled, a cloud of disappointment shadowing his forehead. He turned and fixed his gaze upon the Danaan blade hanging at Morgan’s side. All at once a cold light dawned in his eyes. “Hey—,” he said slowly. “Whatever happened to—?”

“This way to the banquet!” interrupted a bold, cheery voice. And there before them stood Simon Brach, no longer a grizzled janitor but a resplendent Danaan Chief—the dashing, golden-haired, scarlet-cloaked Ollamh Folla.

(To be continued …)

Dee!  Morgan had to grip the bench with both hands to keep from falling over.

“That’s when it all came back to me,” Simon went on.  “Dr. John Dee.  English mathematician, inventor, scholar, alchemist.  Lived a long while ago, as you people reckon it.  I had never known him personally, but I was quite familiar with his work.  In fact, there was a time when I used to keep pretty close tabs on him.  He was considered a ‘person of interest’ in the circles I moved in.  So I said to him, ‘You don’t mean the same John Dee who inherited the famous sword of Paracelsus, do you?’”

Morgan gulped and swallowed.  He could feel the blood draining away from his face.  But he kept his mouth closed.

“Well, that seemed to get his goat,” said Simon.  “He straightened up to his full six feet—the man was as tall and thin as a beanpole—and said, ‘What dost thou know of a sword, knave?’  To which I answered, ‘Not much.  What can you tell me?’”

“And what did he say?” blurted Morgan.

Simon eyed the boy closely.  “That’s the odd thing, Mr. Izaak.  Odd as far as I was concerned.  Because he seemed to be saying that the sword had been lost.  In his words, ‘It passed beyond my ken long years before I came to be imprisoned in this pit.’  After he said that, I couldn’t get him to say another word about it.

“Did the two of you ever make it through the wall?” Eny wanted to know.  “Is that how you got out of the dungeon?”

Simon shook his head.  “No, missy.  To the best of my knowledge, Dee is still there.  As for me, I got out in another way altogether.  Do you want to hear about it?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, then.  Day after day we chopped and hacked away at the mortar and the blocks, but our progress was tedious and slow.  The wall was many courses thick, and we could only move forward one brick at a time.  After a while we started hearing sounds of tapping and chipping on the other side. That gave us hope for a while.  But nothing came of it.  Then one night, when we were both of us about as low as we could get, I had a dream.  Out of that dream I conceived a desperate plan.

“In my dream, I saw the stones of our prison wall dissolve like ice before a flame.  They melted away, leaving a hole the size of a church door.  On the other side I saw the solitary figure of a man.  There was a bright light behind him, so I couldn’t see his face.  He was nothing but a black silhouette against the glare.  He cried out in a loud voice, begging us to come over and help him.  But though he called again and again, I never moved an inch in his direction.  Dee, on the other hand, responded at once.  As I watched, he got up, walked through the hole, and stood beside the man.  Then I awoke.

“Now I remembered that John Dee was a great believer in visions and that sort of thing.  So I knew he’d listen to what I had to say about this dream.

“‘You will break through the wall,’ I told him.  ‘And when you do, someone will be waiting for you on the other side.  I don’t know who he is, but he needs you and you need him.  So you’ve got to finish what we’ve begun, and you’ve got do it alone, because I won’t be with you.  As I understand it, I’m not supposed to be with you.  I’m going away and you’re staying behind—that’s what the dream means.  But I can’t manage it without your help.  So here’s what I think we should do.’  He heard me out and agreed to do as I asked.

“That evening when the guard came with our food I wasn’t sitting by the wall pretending to be shackled as was my usual practice.  I was hiding behind the door with a length of broken chain in my hands.  Dee, meanwhile, was lurking in the shadows on the other side of the cell with his sharpened chisel.  We overcame the brute without much trouble—Fomorians, as Eochy can tell you, are none too smart.

“In the guard’s clothes and with his ring of keys I managed to make my escape.  That’s another long story.  At first Dee insisted on coming with me, but I reminded him of the message of the dream.  Then I promised that if I got safely away I’d come back and set him free.  We had a pretty stiff argument, but eventually I gained my point.

“Just as I was leaving a thought struck me.  I turned to him and said, ‘I seem to recall that the famous Dr. John Dee understood the speech of angels.’

“He said nothing, but merely gave me a sly look.  So I asked, ‘Can you tell me what deh-veev means?’

“At that a bitter smile—the only one I ever saw cross his features—raised the corners of his thin, dry mouth.  ‘Mayhap,’ he said.  ‘But since, as thou sayest, we are like to meet again, I will withhold my answer until thy return.’

“‘Fair enough,’ I replied.  And with that, I stepped into the passage, locked the door behind me, and slipped away.”

Simon fell silent.

“But why didn’t you just knock the guard over the head in the first place?” asked Morgan.

“Two reasons,” Simon answered.  “First, as I’ve already said, I knew the plan was desperate.  I was taking a big risk.  Getting out of the cell was pretty easy.  Getting out of the Morrigu’s Tower—well, that’s another matter.

“The other reason,” he went on, “is harder to explain, but far more important.  What it boils down to is this:  I’ve learned not to make a move until I get a word.  I’m always listening for it, but on this occasion I didn’t hear it until the dream came.  That’s when I knew what I had to do.”

As Simon concluded, Morgan saw Baxter approaching from the other end of the hall, a big wooden cup in his hand and a dazed expression on his pudgy round face.

“What’s going on?” he said, slurping his drink and gaping at the Fir Bolg.  “Who are the munchkins?”

“They’re not munchkins,” said Eny.  “They’re Bag People.  You’d better get used to them if you’re going to spend any time in this world.”

“Bag People?  Like ‘Bag Ladies?’”  Baxter laughed.  “Look, I just came over to tell you that the kitchen help”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder—“are making a big dinner.  They’re taking their sweet time about it, but the food looks good.  They said you guys should get ready.”

Eochy glared at him.  “A ‘dinner’ says he!  A grand Danaan banquet, say I!  A feast, by the beard of Erc!  To celebrate the return of Ollamh Folla!”

“Hush, man,” said Simon.  “The feast will be to honor another.”

“Whatever,” said Baxter.  “I think they’re going to start serving in about half an hour.  At least I hope so.”  He took another long pull at the cup and sauntered off again.

Morgan watched him go with a frown.

“If we’re here on your say-so,” he said to Simon, “how do you explain him?”

“I thought he was your guest!” Simon answered with a twinkle in his eye.

“Him?” said Morgan.  “No way!”

“In that case I can’t help you.  Haven’t had a word on that yet!”

 

“You’ll remember that it all happened in a flash,” said Simon. “—quick as fire, quick as thought, quick as one of the lightning bolts that were falling so thick and fast.  The Morrigu disarmed me, caught me up, and threw me down, just like that.  In an instant I was hurtling through the storm with the iron sky above me, the wind and rain around me, and not a thing in the world to break my fall.  But I never hit the ground.”

“Why not?” said Morgan.

A slow smile crept across Simon’s face.  “I was caught.”  And then, almost in a whisper, he added, “By an angel.  One of those bright and terrible creatures who had been going up and down on Jacob’s Ladder all through that fearful night!”

Eny regarded him with wonder.  “Were you scared?” she asked.

“Indeed I was.  That seraph was more like a firestorm than any living thing I ever knew of.  I couldn’t see its face clearly because it shone like the sun.  It seized me in mid-air, engulfed me in a whirlwind of brilliance, and set me down on the ground so soft and gentle that I hardly felt a thing.  If you can believe it, I didn’t even strike my foot against a stone!  And just before it left me, it bent down and spoke something close in my ear.  “Deh-veev,” it said.  At least that’s what I thought it said.  Then it went spinning away in a pinwheel of red and yellow sparks.

“I don’t know how long I sat there in a daze.  I could see the silver thread of the heavenly ladder, strung like a strand of pearls against the sky between the tower and the upper atmosphere.  I could see the angel-shapes upon it, and the Danaan ships in the air, and the dark hulking shapes of the Fomorians on the ground.  After a while I got up and shook the rain from my hair.  ‘Time to get back into the fight,’ I told myself.

“I had no weapon, so I started looking around for a cast-off sword or spear.  But no sooner had I begun than the earth shuddered and shook beneath me.  The rocks crumbled and a great crack opened at my feet.  Out of the crack boiled a thick shadow like a plume of black smoke.

“This shadow swirled itself up into a tornado of darkness.  Then the darkness congealed and became a huge black snake.  Round and round my body it swirled its glossy coils.  As it squeezed the breath from my lungs I realized that I was in the clutches of one of the Fomorian shape-changers.  Caught by the enemy!  My eyes went dark, and the serpent, with me in its grasp, slid through the crack in the ground and slipped silently into the viewless paths that connect your world with the world of the Sidhe.

“I was taken to Tur Morraigu on Tory Island and ‘questioned’ by the Fomor.  I’ll spare you the details.  After that I was thrown into the dungeon and chained at the base of a rock where the walls ooze seawater and the floor is all slippery with slime and filth.  There was another man in that cell, but he never spoke to me until I’d been there for about a year.”

“Wait a minute!” cried Morgan.  “Time out!  You said a year?  I don’t get that.  The Battle for the Stone took place at the beginning of summer!  That’s just three months ago!  And another thing:  Eny says she’s been in the Sidhe for two months, when I know for a fact that it’s only been two weeks since she disappeared from her apartment in Hollywood!  What gives?”

“Don’t be silly, Morgan!” said Eny.  “Don’t you remember what my mother told us?  Time is different in the Sidhe!  Go on with your story, Simon!”

“Well,” resumed Simon, “as I say, that other prisoner was a strange bird.  Never said a word, though I tried my best to draw him out.  I couldn’t get a good look at him either.  He wasn’t chained like I was, so he moved freely about the cell and kept his distance.  Stuck to the shadows and spent most of his time chipping away at the wall with some sort of tool he’d fashioned out of a bit of metal.  He’d hide the tool and cover his work whenever the guard came in with our rations.

“This went on for a long time.  Then one day I said to him, ‘Break my bonds with that chisel of yours and I’ll help you dig.’  That’s when he came over and looked at me for the very first time.  He was wrinkled and worn and had dingy white hair and a scraggly beard.  Right away I said to myself, ‘I’ve seen this old buzzard before.’  But it wasn’t until he told me his name that I realized who he was.

“I guess my relentless questioning finally wore him down.  We must have been digging away together side by side for over a month when he finally turned to me and said, ‘I am called Dee.  John Dee.  So cease thy prating and trouble me no more.’”

(To be continued …)

Morgan’s jaw fell open and his mouth went dry.  When he tried to speak, the words stuck in his throat.  He shot a helpless glance at Eny, but she paid no attention to his mute appeal.  Her eyes were fixed on Simon.

“Don’t be afraid!” laughed the old man as she dropped to her knees.  “I’m not a ghost!”

Morgan stared.  “How can you not be?” he stammered.  “You died!”

With a wink, Simon reached down and helped Eny to her feet.  “I’m glad to see you again, missy!” he said.  “It’s a long time since we rosined the bow together.”

“But Madame Medea—the Morrigu,” pressed Morgan.  “She picked you up and threw you off the tower!  I saw it happen!”

Even as he said this, Morgan became aware that Baxter ’s eyes were on him.  The other boy had roused himself from his nap and was sitting up on the bench, yawning and stretching.  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stared dully at the three figures in front of him and frowned.

“What’s the janitor doing here?” he mumbled.

“He’s not a janitor!” said Morgan.

“Not just a janitor,” corrected Eny, her blue eye twinkling.

“Well, he looks like that old janitor to me,” observed Baxter, glancing over his shoulder at the empty table.  “The one from your church.  What happened to the food?”

“His name is Simon Brach,” Eny persisted, grasping Simon’s waist.  “In this world they call him Ollamh Folla.  He’s a Danaan prince of great power and majesty.”

Baxter regarded her with a look of bored distaste.  “I’m going to see if I can find something to drink,” he said, getting up and scanning the hall.  “The service isn’t very good around here.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Morgan as Baxter shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen.  “Power and majesty or not, I saw you fall.  It was horrible.  It’s burned into my memory!”

“Really?” said Simon, peering into his eyes.  “And why is that?”

Morgan’s neck and ears grew suddenly hot.  For some reason, the sword at his side seemed to be burning his skin through its flannel wrappings.  With a discreet motion he loosened his belt and let it drop to the floor.

“Because I’ve always felt as if I was to blame,” he answered in a low voice.  “At least partly.  I distracted you—just at the moment when she was trying to catch you off guard.”  He swallowed hard and looked away.

“Is that all?” said Simon, “Because if that’s the case you can rest easy.  This isn’t all about you.”

Eny turned to Morgan with a smirk.  He answered with a scowl.  Then he reached back with his toe and shoved the sword a little further under the table.

“You were the one, weren’t you?” said Eny looking up at Simon.  “The man on the bus?”

“Ah!” he laughed.  “I thought you knew!  Yes, I was that man indeed—and a score of others as well.  I’ve been watching you a long time, missy.  Wasn’t about to let you out of my sight.”

“Nor mine!”

They all turned at the sound of this new voice—a raspy, reedy voice—and saw the whole tribe of the Fir Bolg come trooping into the hall with Eochy at their head.

“Me it was that served as his eyes and hands and feet,” the little man added, stepping up to the table.  “The legwork, as some might be saying, was mainly mine.”

Simon laughed and clapped Eochy on the shoulder.  “And an excellent pair of eyes and hands you were!” he exclaimed.  “Congratulations, my friend, on your fine work in keeping the crow at bay!”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” said Morgan.  “What about that fall from the tower?”

Simon sat down beside him on the bench.  “A fall is nothing in itself,” he said.  “Getting up is what counts.  Have you forgotten what I told you?  I’ve been in your world times unnumbered.  I’ve played my part on a hundred stages and under as many different names.  The Morrigu has cast me down again and again, but she can’t destroy me.  I’ve been beaten, baffled, cornered, caught, and stymied, but I always manage to get back in the game somehow.  My destiny is tied up with the Stone’s, you see.”

“But how is that possible?”

“It’s the how that interests you, is it?  Should I tell you the way it was this time around?”

“You must!” said Eny

“All right, then,” said Simon, as Eny squeezed in beside him and the Fir Bolg made themselves comfortable on the rush-strewn floor.  “Near as I can recall, it went something like this …

(To be continued …)

Trembling with the emotion of her narrative, Eny fell silent and passed a hand across her brow.  By this time people were slowly filtering back into the Tellach.  On every side, the Great Hall was beginning to hum with the sound of voices and the bustle of activity.  Cooking smells emanated from the kitchen.  The bronze grate clattered in the fire pit as a couple of attendants added logs and peat to the flames.  Several others occupied themselves with the long ropes that adjusted the smoke-vents in the ceiling.  A group of Danaan warriors seated themselves on the raised dais in one of the upper galleries and began conferring with heads bent close together.  Pots, cups, and bowls clattered.  Stewards and servants hurried to and fro with bundles under their arms or bunches of keys at their belts.  Then a pretty young maiden with long dark braids came and cleared away the fragments and empty platters at the other end of the table.  Glancing up at her, Morgan caught sight of Baxter sprawled out along the bench and snoring like a bullfrog.

“So,” he said when Eny seemed ready to go on, “how did Eochy respond to your outburst?”

Eny grinned.  “He just laughed!  And then he said, ‘Mind your tongue, young miss!  She has not won, and it’s me you can thank for that!  She knew where you were, and no mistake.  Her eye was on you.  Another hour and she would have had you in her grip.  But I was quicker.  It was to protect you that I lured you away and brought you here.’”

“Well,” said Morgan, “that puts a different face on things.”

“No joke.  It sure stuck a stopper in my mouth.  For a long time I just looked around the circle, blinking through my tears, thinking about the horrible risk they were taking for my sake.  Finally I said, ‘So what do we do now?’

“They all looked at Semeon.  Semeon nodded at Rury.  Rury said that they had decided to take me with them to Baile Daoine Sidhe.  Then, without another word, they all started packing their bolgs.

“I wish you could have seen it, Morgan.  It was like magic.  Those little bags are bottomless!  You can cram incredible amounts of stuff into them.  Eochy gave me one of my own, and I put my fiddle into it along with some dried figs and nuts, a sling, a pouch of stones, a sheepskin jacket, a bow, and a quiver of arrows.”

“Really?” said Morgan, fingering the long blue bundle at his side.  “Do you think you could get me one?”

“I don’t see why not.  We’ve got plenty of them.  Eochy and the rest of the Fir Bolg are here in the dun now—we’ve been staying together over in one of the longhouse lodges for the past couple of months.  Anyway, as I was saying, we packed up all of our gear and got ready to leave.  But as I was tying my bag around my waist, a thought occurred to me.  I turned to Rury and said, ‘Will the Danaans take us in?  You told me once that the Fir Bolg aren’t always welcome at the Baile.’”

“Is that true?” Morgan wanted to know.

“It was true in the past, but not anymore.  Things used to be kind of touchy between the Bag People and the Tuatha De Danann.  But all that’s changed since the Battle for the Stone.  As Rury told me, ‘the Danaans know better now.’”

“They certainly do,” said a deep voice from somewhere above Morgan’s right ear—a voice that sent shivers of recognition down his spine.  “But it wouldn’t matter much if they didn’t.  Because you’re here on my say so.  Both of you.”

As this voice spoke, Morgan saw Eny’s mouth drop open and her eyes grow wide as saucers.  From where he sat, she seemed to be staring at something just above the level of his head.  Crooking his neck to follow her gaze, he found himself looking up into the face of a tall man with a long nose, a grizzled jaw, and a pair of bright blue eyes.

“A pleasure to see you again, young Mr. Izaak,” said the man.

It was Simon Brach.

 

 

 

She paused and took another deep breath.

“Heard what?” said Morgan.

“The same sound I had heard outside my bedroom window.  The sound of somebody hissing at me.  ‘Hsst!  Young Miss!” it said, and “Psst!  Over here!’”

“Eochy again?”

Eny nodded.  “Somehow or other he had got there ahead of me!  He was leaning out from behind a big round boulder, holding my fiddle in one hand and beckoning to me with the other.  I knew him at once, so I didn’t stop to ask questions.  I ran up the slope, and he led me behind the rock and into a cave in the cliffside.

“Nothing could have prepared me for what I found there.  The door was small, but the cavern into which it opened was deep and roomy and filled with all kinds of Fir Bolgian implements and supplies.  There were flint-tipped spears and bows and arrows, copper knives and daggers, bell-shaped pots and urns, and lots of the miraculous leather bags the little people carry at their waists.  There were blankets and fleeces and skeins of wool, spindles and looms and coils of rope, barrels of wine, sheaves of grain, and baskets of dried fruit.  From spikes driven into the stone walls dangled bundles of the slings I had taught them to use, and next to the slings hung leather pouches bulging with smooth, round sling-stones.  It was an incredible hoard, and I wondered how it had ended up there.  But amazed as I was to see it, the most amazing part was yet to come.

“As soon as my eyes adjusted to the light I saw that there were people in the cave.  The Fir Bolg!  Anust and Liber, Rury and Semeon, Crucha and Genann, and a handful of others.  They were squatting in the shadows behind that big pile of stuff, back against the rear wall of the cave.  When I recognized them I cried out for joy, because I had never expected to see their dear faces again.

“Liber came over to me and hugged my neck.  I buried my face in her hair and held her tightly.  She stroked my forehead and said, ‘It’s safe you are now, child.’  It was so good to hear her voice again!”

“Did you feel safe?” asked Morgan.

“It’s hard to say exactly what I felt.  I was confused.  I didn’t know what was happening or why I was there.  For a minute it was like I couldn’t breathe.  I pulled away from Liber and stood in the middle of the cave with the Fir Bolg all around me.  I said, ‘What do you mean, ‘safe’?  What are you all hiding from?  What’s become of the dun?’”

“And what did they say?”

“Can’t you guess?  Somehow I knew the answer before I even asked.”

“The Morrigu!” breathed Morgan.

“Yes.  They told me they’d been expecting her to attack ever since the night of the Battle for the Stone.  That’s why they had stocked the cave with food and supplies.  They had barely finished when the Fomorians arrived.  The giants burned their huts and fields, destroyed their flocks, and killed many of their people.  While they told me about it, the women wept and wailed.  It was awful, Morgan.  Really awful.”

“But why them?  They’re no big threat to her!”

“It was payback.  The Fir Bolg had sided with us and the Danaans.  They tried to stop her from getting Lia Fail.  And she’s not one to let her enemies go unpunished.  No matter who they are.”

Morgan shivered at the thought, but held his tongue.

“But that wasn’t even the worst of it.  Not for me.  Because in the next minute it dawned on me that this was all my fault!  I was under geis!  Rury had made me promise that I’d do everything I could to keep the Stone of Destiny from falling into the Morrigu’s hands!  And I failed!”

A tear slid down her cheek as she said this.  Seeing it, Morgan reached over and touched her hand.  “Don’t say that, Eny!” he said.  “There was nothing you could do to stop her.  Not even Simon Brach could.  We all did our best.  Nobody can do more.”

“I know that now,” she said, wiping her cheek.  “Most of the Fir Bolg told me the same thing.  But Semeon said something more.  He said that the geis was null and void because the promise should never have been made.  He said Lia Fail travels the path foretold, no matter what we say or do:  the Stone takes the road of its own choosing.  Then he reminded me that the Morrigu can’t access its power anyway.  She has it locked up in her tower, he said, but it’s of no use to her—at least for the time being.  I guess he thought that would make me feel better.”

“Did it?”

Her eyes flashed fiercely.  “Of course not!  Don’t you see, Morgan?  That’s the whole point!  That’s what makes this situation as bad as it can possibly be!  I’m the only thing she lacks now!  I’m the ‘maiden of perfect purity’—or at least that’s what she thinks!  That’s why my mom took me away from Santa Piedra in the first place—to keep her from finding me!  That’s why I told you that I would never ever come back to the Sidhe!  Not as long as I lived!  And now—here I am!”

Morgan could think of nothing to say.

“No,” she continued.  “Semeon’s words did not make me feel better.  They made me angry.  They made me afraid.  As I stood there in front of the Fir Bolg, I started shaking from head to toe.  The next thing I knew, I was yelling at poor Eochy.  I turned on him and said, ‘Why in the world did you bring me here, you foolish little man?  Don’t you see what a terrible mistake you’ve made?  You might as well drop me off right on her doorstep!  It’s all over, and she’s won!’”

(To be continued …)

Eny continued:

“I took one small step, then another.  My feet didn’t stumble or bump into anything, so I kept going.  I stretched out my left hand and felt nothing but air.  I reached out with my right hand and touched something rough and solid.  ‘That’s good,’ I thought.  ‘If I stay close to the wall, it will guide me.’  So, running my fingers along that cold, stony surface, I pushed ahead slowly, taking one hesitant step at a time.

“After a while, I came to a place where I stepped off a short ledge and lost my balance.  Luckily, I fell sideways against the wall—otherwise I would have pitched forward and tumbled down a long flight of stairs in the darkness.  Far, far away, about a mile below me—at least that’s how it appeared—was a faint pinpoint of light.  Keeping my right hand braced against the wall, I began to descend the stairs, inching my way closer and closer to that tiny dim star in the distance.

“Down, down I went, lower and lower, deeper and deeper.  And all the while the point of light kept growing.  Soon it got so big that it looked more like a hole than a pinpoint, and then the light shining through it grew brighter and began to glimmer along the rough surface of the rock.

“By the time I reached the bottom, I could see that I was inside a large, narrow cavern with a high ceiling and steep dripping walls.  Straight in front of me was an oval-shaped opening with broad daylight beyond.  I jumped down off the last stair and stepped outside.

“I was standing half in water, half in damp sand at the top of a wide strip of pebble-strewn beach.  The air was pungent with the smell of sea salt.  Behind me was a tall cliff of weathered brown stone, riddled with holes and grottos.  The whole place looked so much like the western shore of La Punta Lira that I thought I was in Santa Piedra.

“‘I’m home!’ I laughed as I went skipping down towards the water’s edge.  ‘Eochy has sent me home!’  But I hadn’t gone far before I began to notice that something was terribly wrong.

“As I went along, I realized that the pebbles on the ground didn’t glitter and shine in the sunlight the way I thought they should.  They were all dull and dingy and gray; and when I bent down to touch one of them, my fingers came away black with soot.  It was like there had been a huge fire, or maybe an explosion of some kind, along that stretch of the shore.  I looked up and down the beach, trying to figure out what it meant.

“That’s when it hit me that I wasn’t in Santa Piedra at all.  Out beyond the surf I could see a big hump of rock sticking up out of the ocean.  You know as well as I do that there isn’t any rock like that off the coast of La Punta Lira.  It only took me a moment to realize what I was looking at:  Rachra, the island that stands about a mile out to sea off the strand of Luimneach.  I was in the Sidhe again.

“I turned back up the beach, rounded the foot of the cliff, and trudged inland over the blackened stones.  I walked in what I thought was the direction of Semeon’s Dun, the village where I had once lived with Rury and Liber and Anust.  But there was no sign of my friends.  Everywhere I looked the land was desolate.  Every inch of ground was trampled and torn and charred.  The farther I went, the stronger grew my conviction that something horrible had happened to the Fir Bolg.

“My head was dizzy and I had a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach by the time I reached the spot where the dun used to stand.  There was nothing there—just a huge pit filled with slag and black clods and lumps of rock and charcoal.  The hills all around were scorched and bare.  The green meadows had been reduced to a crackling gray stubble.  In place of the sweet fruit orchards and fragrant pine forests where Anust and I used to walk in the afternoons stood endless columns of blackened sticks, bare against the sky.  I covered my face and turned away.

“Without knowing where I was going or why, I headed into the foothills of Benn Mellain, up towards the place where the stream of Inber Colpa flows through an upland valley just below the highest heights.  On every side the parched and shriveled highlands were covered with the bloated and stinking corpses of half-burnt sheep and goats.  All the folds and sheepcotes of the Fir Bolg herdsmen were gone, their huts burnt to the ground, their hedges and drystone walls demolished.  Every last vestige of their way of life had been scoured from the face of the land.  I was crying by the time I came among the shadows of the steep dells and rocky clefts of the mountains.  That’s when I heard it again …”

(To be continued …)

Eny drew a long breath.  “It’s like this,” she said.

And then, without omitting a single detail, she proceeded to fill him in on all the strange things that had been happening to her since she’d moved to Hollywood.

She told him about the lanky homeless man on the bus and the quirky little pianist at the Lord’s Lighthouse.  She recounted her conversation with the mysterious pawn shop proprietor and described her amazement at seeing Simon Brach’s fiddle in the window.  She spoke of her frightening encounter with the crow and her discovery of the little square hole high up in the wall under the freeway overpass.

At last she came to the events of that sultry October night when her mother went out to pick up Aunt Grania and there came an unexpected knock at the apartment door.

“That was the best evening I’d had in a long time,” she said.  “I spent it writing poetry and getting reacquainted with my fiddle.  I rediscovered my music.  I felt happy and confident and really, really good inside for the first time in months.  So when that knock came—well, it’s hard to explain, but somehow opening the door seemed like the right thing to do.  It just felt right.  Even though my mom had warned me so many times not to do it.”

“Who did you expect to see on the doorstep?” asked Morgan.

She tucked a strand of coppery hair behind her ear and looked thoughtful.  “I’m not sure.  I had been hearing a voice that night.  A voice from the past.  Don’t look at me like that—I’m not crazy!  It was a good voice.  A safe voice.  It called to me from outside my window.  Maybe I thought my dad would be standing at the door.  Maybe I was hoping you might be with him.  I don’t really know.  Perhaps I wasn’t thinking anything.  Maybe it was intuition.”

“So you opened the door.  What then?”

“Nobody was there.  At least I didn’t see anybody.  But then, as I was looking around, I felt someone grab me from behind.  I tried to scream but couldn’t because there was a hand over my mouth.  After that I must have fainted because I don’t remember anything at all except blackness until I woke up and saw who it was that had grabbed me.”

Morgan was on the edge of his seat.  “And?”

“You’re not going to believe this, Morgan.  Then again, maybe you will.  After all, we’re in the Sidhe.”

“Go on.”

“Well—” she bent close to him—“it was Eochy!  Eochy of the Fir Bolg!  He was the little piano player I’d seen at the soup kitchen and in the pawn shop!”

“Him!”

“Yes.  And boy was I glad to see him!  I wanted to ask him where he was taking me, but he frowned and put a finger to his lips.  So I kept quiet and let him lead the way.

“The next thing I knew, we were underneath that big, dirty, echoey freeway overpass.  Quick as a cat, Eochy scrambled up onto the ledge.  Then he reached down, pulled me up beside him, and led me to the little square door in the wall.  I knew then that I hadn’t been mistaken:  he had disappeared inside that hole the day I followed him from the pawn shop.  But I didn’t have time to think about it just then, because as soon as we reached the door, he gripped me by the shoulders and pushed me through.

“It was very dark inside—darker than I would have believed possible.  I looked back to see if the little man was following me, but everything was pitch black.  I couldn’t even see the square opening I’d just stepped through.  It was gone—completely gone.  I was surrounded by thick gloom.  But when I turned around and faced forward again, I heard a voice at my ear saying, ‘This is the way.  Walk in it.’  So that’s what I did.

(To be continued …)

 

Never in his life had Morgan seen anything quite like the Tellach or Great Hall of Baile Daoine Sidhe.  From where he sat—on a bench at one of the trestle tables beside the fire-pit in the middle of the hall—the building seemed a veritable world within a world:  as long as a river, high as a mountain, wide as the boundless sea.

Wonder swelled his senses as he gazed at the noble fittings and furnishings of the hall:  the hearth of burnished bronze, the interminable rows of carved pillars, the shadowy galleries; the posts and beams hung with shields and spears, the harps and timbrels along the paneled walls, the lofty intertwining rafters painted every color of the rainbow.  From the open smoke holes in the high ceiling fell slanting shafts of smoky sunlight, while the ruddy glow of the fire and the torches in the wall-sconces cast long leaping shadows over the fragrant rush-strewn floor.

The place was empty when they arrived.  At one end of a long row of gleaming tables they found the ample leftovers of a generous meal:  wooden platters of roasted fowl, bowls of fruit, baskets of bread, silver pitchers of golden wine.  Without a word Baxter vaulted over a bench, shoved up to a table, and began stuffing himself as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.  But Morgan took Eny by the arm and drew her down to the far end of the board.

“You have no idea what it’s like for me to see you again,” he said.

She responded with a smirk.  “Do you suppose I don’t have any feelings?”

“That’s not what I meant.  It’s just that—”

“Morgan,” she interrupted, bending forward and peering straight into his face, “what in the world are you doing here?”  Her blue eye gleamed brightly as she said it.

He glared back.  “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?”

“This isn’t my first time in the Sidhe.”

“So?  Do you realize your mom and dad are frantic?  The whole LAPD is looking for you!”

She looked down at the bench.  “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Do you think it was mine?”

“All I know is that you’ve been trying for weeks to find a way into the Otherworld!  You wrote letters begging me to help you.”

“You’re right,” Morgan nodded.  “But when it happened, it wasn’t because I made it happen.  It just did.  And it’s a good thing.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I know why you think so.  But this isn’t all about you, Eny.”

She looked offended.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stealing a glance at Baxter, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.  “My dad’s here.  I’m certain of it!”

“What?  Where did you get such a crazy idea?”

“It’s not crazy.  My mom told me once that he was taken.  Just like you.”

“So?”

“So who do you think took him?”

Eny didn’t answer.

“You know as well as I do,” pressed Morgan.  “Madame Medea.  The Morrigu.  After everything that’s happened, how could you not know?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.  Your dad disappeared a long time ago.”

“What difference does that make?  He’s here and I know it!  My Grandma told me.  She said she’d seen him ‘under the ground.’  Those were her very words.  She said he’s been calling for me.”

“What does your Grandma know about it?”

“Don’t ask me to explain.  Grandma may be weird and spacey, but she knows.  She sees things.  Like you.”

Her cheeks colored.  Taking this as a hopeful sign, he plunged ahead.

“I didn’t believe it at first, but now I do.  And the more I think about it, the more it all adds up.  The Morrigu had good reasons for taking my dad.”  He dropped his voice again.  “He had information about the Stone of Destiny.”

Eny stared.  “Who told you that?”

“Rev. Alcuin.  That’s the short answer, anyway.  My dad was working on a theory that the Philosopher’s Stone and Lia Fail and the Holy Grail are all just different names for the same thing.”

Her eyes glittered.  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“For one thing, I never got the chance.  For another, I wasn’t sure.  It was all hypothetical at first.  Just ideas based on my dad’s notes.  Stuff written in old books.  But now I’ve got some real hard evidence.  And that’s why I had to get to the Sidhe somehow!  To find him!”  He paused.  “And you too.”

From the other end of the table came the chomping and slurping sounds of Baxter’s enthusiastic repast.

“What’s wrong with you two?” he said, looking up from a plate of roast duck and wiping his greasy chin on his sleeve.  “Cut the sweet talk and dig in!”  He winked, grinned, and went back to eating.  Morgan scowled.

“So what about him?” said Eny, inclining her head in Baxter’s direction.

“You know I didn’t plan that part!” Morgan answered.  “It was an accident.  Like I said, we were out on La Punta Lira, at the old hotel, and—”

“But why?  And since when did you start hanging around with Baxter?”

“I don’t hang around with Baxter.  I was looking for something.  I can’t go into it right now.  He followed me without being invited.  He seems to pop up everywhere lately.”

Eny frowned.  “Weird.”

“Tell me about it!  Anyway, I was minding my own business when he came along.  Then the elevator cable broke and I had to try to fish him out of the shaft.  After that it got really strange.  Webs and strings of light.  Clouds and birds and ships and a long, long fall.  Don’t ask me to explain.”

“You don’t have to,” she murmured.

“Next thing I knew, we were out there!  In the middle of that mess!  You know the rest.”

For several moments Eny was silent.  Then, glancing down at his waist, she asked, “What’s in the long blue bundle?”

Morgan felt the blood rush into his face.  “Blue bundle?”

“The one under your belt!” she laughed.  “Kind of hard to miss, isn’t it?”

All at once Morgan became aware that Baxter’s keen eye was upon him.  “It’s a tool,” he whispered, shifting uneasily in his seat.  “A sort of crow-bar.  I needed it for my investigation.  At the old hotel.  I’ll tell you later.”

She glared at him.

“And now that I’ve told you how I got here,” he continued before she could get a word in edgewise, “what about you?  What’s your story?”

Eny sighed and shook her head.  “I’m sorry, Morgan.  I’m not trying to be contrary.  But this is a dangerous place.  Dangerous for all of us.  Still—”  She paused.  “Much as I hate to admit it, somehow I do get the feeling that you’re meant to be here.  So I suppose I ought to tell you what’s been going on.  But you better get comfortable.  It could take a while.”

He leaned back against the table and grinned at her.

“I’m ready,” he said.  “And it looks like Baxter’s just getting started on dessert.”