Faerie Tale (7 page)

“Well, the East isn’t new to me. I’m a California girl, but I lived in New York City for several years while I worked in theater. Still, this is my first stint as a farmer’s wife.”

“Hardly a farmer’s wife, my dear. Herman Kessler kept only enough livestock to qualify for federal tax exemptions: a dozen sheep and lots of ducks and chickens. That farm has never been worked. Herman’s father, Fredrick Kessler, never allowed it, nor did Herman. The meadows have not known the plow or the woodlands the ax for over a century. And this area was never as heavily harvested as others nearby to begin with. The woods behind your home may not be the forest primeval, but they are some of the densest in ten thousand square miles, perhaps the only such parcel of uncleared lowland woods in the entire state of New York.”

Phil said, “I was meaning to ask you: When we were at Cornell you were firmly established up in Ithaca. Now you show up in my old hometown. Why?”

She rose and went over to a sliding door. “A moment.” She moved the door aside and vanished from view, reappearing almost immediately with a large blue three-ring binder. She returned to the couch and handed the binder to Phil as she sat down.

He opened it and read the first page. “‘On the Migration of Irish Folk Myth and Legend to America in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. A critical study by Agatha Grant.’” He closed it. “I thought you’d retired.”

“I’m retired, not dead. This has been a hobby piece of mine for more years than I can recall.” She seemed to consider. “I began it shortly after my Henry died. I was
working on it when I was your adviser; I just never told you about it. Aarne and Thompson did some fine classification that came out in 1961. What I’m doing is using their motif index in following up on the work of Reidar Christiansen. He compared and studied Scandinavian and Irish folklore. Fm trying to do something like that with the older Celtic myths and the Irish folktales which have come to America.”

She addressed Gloria and Gabbie as well as Phil. “When I was a girl, growing up at East Hampton, we had a lovely governess, an Irish woman named Colleen O’Mara. Miss O’Mara would tell my brother and me the most wonderful tales of elves and fairies, leprechauns and brownies. All my life I’ve been fascinated by folk myth. My formal education was in classics and contemporary literature, but I read Yeats’s fairy tales as readily as his poetry—perhaps with more enthusiasm. In any event, that is my work now. There were many immigrations from Ireland—besides the famous ‘potato famine’ one—and thousands of poor, rural Irish came to America. Now, most of those who came settled in the big cities or went west to work the railroads. But Pittsville was one of the few rural communities to capture several waves of these Irish immigrants, many of whom remained farmers. This area is almost a ‘little Ireland.’ I’m no stranger to the area, having visited my darling Jane many times over the years.” She shared a fond look with Phil at the mention of his late aunt. “When I was offered the chair at Fredonia, I didn’t pause a moment in deciding where to live. I like Pittsville. We’re only a half hour from the campus here. And there were unexpected bonuses.”

Phil showed he didn’t understand, and Jack offered, “Marcus Blackman lives nearby.” He pointed absently toward the west.

“The occult guy?” asked Phil, with obvious interest.

Jack said, “That’s him.”

“Who’s Blackman?” asked Gabbie.

Jack said, “Blackman’s a writer, a scholar, a bit of everything. He’s something of a character and pretty controversial. He’s written a lot of odd books about magic
and the occult that have gotten the academic community upset. And he’s Aggie’s favorite debating opponent.”

Agatha said, “Mark Blackman’s a bit of a rogue in research and full of indefensible opinions, but he’s absolutely charming. You’ll meet him shortly. He’ll join us for dinner.”

“Wonderful,” said Phil.

“He’s also a fund of information on just the sort of things I’m digging into,” said Agatha. “In his library he has some very rare books—a first edition of Thomas Crofton Croker’s
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland
, if you can believe—and an amazing number of personal journals and diaries. His help has been invaluable.”

“What is Blackman doing in Pittsville?”

“You can ask him. I’ve gotten nothing like a reasonable answer, though he’s very amusing in his avoidance. He has ventured he is working on a new book, though the subject matter is unknown to me. That is all.” Agatha paused as she considered. “I find the man fascinating, but also a little irritating with his secrecy.”

Phil laughed. “Agatha believes in spreading ideas around.” He made the remark to the others over Agatha’s protests. “When I began writing fiction on the side, as a grad student, she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t show it to her until it was done.”

To Gabbie, Agatha said, “Child, your father doesn’t write. He brews magic in a cave and woe unto him who breaks the spell before it’s done.”

Phil joined in the general laughter, and the talk turned to old friends and colleagues from their days together at Cornell.

Patrick and Sean hovered over the box in the barn. The cat regarded the boys with indifference as they petted and played with her kittens. Her babies were at that awkward stage just after their eyes had opened, their clumsy antics provoking laughter from the boys.

Patrick picked up a kitten, who mewed slightly. He petted it and said, “Pretty neat, huh?”

Sean nodded as he reached out and stroked another. A scurrying in the hay near the darkest corner of the barn caught his attention. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“Over there—something moving in the hay.” He pointed. Patrick put down the kitten and rose. He walked purposefully toward the dark corner as Sean said, “Don’t!”

Patrick hesitated and turned to face his brother. “Why!” he demanded.

Sean reluctantly came over to stand by his brother. “Maybe it’s a rat or something.”

“Oh brother!” said Patrick. “You’re such a baby.” He glanced around and saw an old rusty pitchfork by the door. He fetched it from the wall, barely able to balance the long tool. Slowly he moved toward the corner and began poking at the old straw. For a long moment there was no hint that anything but straw rested beneath the rusty tines Patrick waved before him. Gingerly he poked the fork deeper into the straw, moving it aside.

Then something appeared from under the straw. It stood less than two feet tall, regarding the boys with large, blinking eyes. It was a little man. From head to foot it was dressed in odd-looking garments: a tall hat, a green coat, tightly cut breeches, and shoes with tiny golden buckles.

The boys stood motionless, as if unable even to
breathe. The little man tipped his hat and, with a wild, piercing laugh, leaped from the straw, jumping high between the boys and landing at a scampering run across the barn floor. Patrick echoed Sean’s yelp of fright as he dropped the pitchfork and spun around, his eyes never leaving the diminutive creature who leaped high up on the opposite wall, vanishing through a crack between loose boards.

The boys stood silently rooted, their eyes wide with wonder as they attempted to sort out the flashing kaleidoscope of images they had witnessed. Both were shaking, terrified by the vision. Slowly they turned to face one another and each saw mirrored in his twin his own fright. Wide blue eyes, frozen smiles, and rigid posture suddenly gave way to motion as they dashed for the door.

They sped outside, looking back into the barn. Then a shadow loomed before them and they were enfolded in a pair of powerful arms. The boys shrieked in terror as they were tightly held. An odd odor stung their noses and a deep, scratchy voice rumbled, “Here, then! What’s it all about, lads?”

The boys were let go and retreated a step; they saw the shadow take shape in the form of an old man. He was broad of shoulder and tall, his grey hair unkempt and his unshaven face seamed and leathery. Red-shot eyes regarded them, but he was smiling in a friendly way.

Patrick’s heart slowed its thundering beat and he cast a glance at Sean. A thought passed between them, for they recognized the odor that hovered about the man like a musky nimbus. The man smelled of whiskey.

“Easy, then, what is it?”

“Something back there,” ventured Patrick, pointing at the barn. “In the hay.”

The man passed the boys into the barn, then waited while they indicated the corner. He walked purposefully to where the pitchfork lay and made a display of poking about in the straw. “It’s gone now,” said Sean. The man knelt and moved some straw about, then stood and used the fork to put the straw back in a semblance of order.

He turned a smiling, good-humored face toward the boys. “What was it, then? A barn rat?”

Patrick glanced at Sean and gave him an almost imperceptible head shake, warning him to say nothing. “Maybe,” said Patrick. “But it was pretty big.” His voice was strident, and he fought to regain control of himself.

The man turned where he stood, looking down on the earnest little faces. “Big, you say? Well, if there were chickens or ducks here, which there aren’t, and if it were night, which it isn’t, I’d suspect a weasel or fox. Whatever it was, it’s vanished like yesterday’s promises.” The man returned the pitchfork to its place on the wall. He looked hard at the boys. “Now, lads, which one of you wants to be the first to tell me just what you saw?”

Patrick remained silent, but Sean finally said, “It was big and it had teeth.” His voice still shook, so he sounded convincing.

Instantly the man’s expression changed. In two strides he stood before them, hands upon knees as he lowered his face to the boys’ level. “How big?”

Patrick held his hands about two feet apart. “Like this.”

The man slowly stood up, rubbing at his whiskery chin. “By the saints. It could have been that big old bandit come looking for a kitten dinner,” he said quietly.

“What bandit?” asked Patrick, not understanding why anyone would wish to eat kittens.

The man’s attention returned from his musing. “Why, he’s a raccoon. An old tyrant of a coon who lives in the woods to the east of here. He’s been killing chickens and ducks for a month or so and occasionally chews up cats and dogs.” Almost to himself, he added, “Though if it were himself, mama cat here would have been raising a right royal fuss.”

Sean nodded, and Patrick said, “Jack said he lived under a bridge.”

“He did, did he now? Jack Cole is a fine enough lad, but he’s a foreigner, hailing from North Carolina as he does. Still, grown-ups always have to come up with an answer, even if they’re wrong.” The boys agreed to that.

“If the farmers knew where the bandit hid out, they’d have had him out weeks ago.

“Now, lads, I don’t think Miss Grant will take kindly to the news a bull coon’s poking about her barn and menacing her barn cat’s brood. Are we agreed?”

The boys shrugged and said yes. The man rubbed his chin again. “Well, we have your word. So there’s an end to it.” Changing the subject, he said, “Now, what are you boys doing in Miss Agatha’s barn?”

“She said we could play with the kittens.”

“Well then,” offered the man, “if she did, she did. But they’re tiny ones and like all babies need their rest. Why don’t we go outside and see the new lambs in the meadow.” He gently but firmly ushered them outside. “And who might you boys be?”

The boys offered their names, and the man said, “Patrick and Sean? Sure and those are fine Irish names.”

Patrick grinned. “Our mother’s Irish. Her name was O’Brien.”

“O’Brien!” the man exclaimed. “She wouldn’t be an O’Brien from Ballyhack, now would she?”

“She’s from Glendale,” observed Sean.

“Sure, there’s a fair number of O’Briens about and that’s a fact.” He halted outside the barn. “Well, Sean and Patrick, they call me Barney Doyle, which is as it should be, for that’s my name. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He shook hands solemnly with the boys. “Now let’s go look at lambs.”

As they made their way across the backyard, the screen door opened and Agatha Grant looked out. “Barney Doyle! Where are you going with those boys?”

“To show the lads the new lambs, Miss Agatha.”

“And what about my pump? I need water for dinner.”

“All fixed and working like new, which, had you turned the faucet, you would have known. I was, this very moment, going to stop off on our way and tell you just that.”

Her expression indicated a limited willingness for belief, but she only nodded. “Dinner will be in an hour, so have them back in time to clean up.”

“Yes, Miss Agatha.”

After she returned inside, Barney said, “A fine lady, even if she isn’t Irish. Come now and we can see the lambs.”

As they walked down the path toward the meadow south of the house, a car turned up the drive from the road and headed toward the house. The boys ran ahead and Barney reached up to scratch his head. That there was something in the barn two feet long and with big teeth he doubted, for the barn cat would have been hauling her kittens out if a predator had lurked nearby. But that something had frightened the boys there was no doubt. He offered a short prayer to St. Patrick and St. Jude that it was only noises and shadows that had frightened the boys and not what he feared, then hurried after the boys.

Two men got out of the car as Agatha watched from her porch. Philip stood beside her, observing the pair. The driver was a tall man, his stride quick and purposeful. His hair was black save for streaks of grey at the temples, combed straight back from a high forehead, but his close-cut beard was black. His age was indeterminate: somewhere between thirty and fifty. He wore a white turtleneck and brown corduroy jacket, despite the warm weather, above brown slacks. As he came up the steps, smiling in greeting at Agatha, Philip noted his eyes were so dark as to be close to black.

“Mark, this is Philip Hastings.”

The man shook hands and said, “I’ve read your books, Mr. Hastings. I’m something of a fan.”

“Phil, please.”

“And this is Gary Thieus,” said Agatha. Philip extended his hand.

“Call me Gary,” offered the man with a wide grin that
revealed an improbable amount of teeth. His hair was cut very short, nearly a crew cut, and his ears stuck out and were almost pointed.