The Summer King (10 page)

The young woman stopped speaking. Pale and exhausted, she closed her eyes, absently rubbing the center of her forehead. When she opened them again, she smiled at Laurel, but there was confusion in her look. Even as she uttered the final prophecy, it was evident that she didn’t understand her own words.

“A bright thing may lie hidden inside the dark.”

Laurel shook her head, dazed. The phrase sounded vaguely familiar. Given her mission, some of the reading made sense, while other parts hinted of possibilities to come. She felt overwhelmed by the weight of mystery.

Sandy stood up and made a general announcement.

“Thar be great doin’s here, folks. We mun aid th’ queen. We mun bring ’er to ’er destination. We mun bring ’er to ’er destiny.”

Then she resumed her place at the wheel.

The bus moved swiftly through the dark landscape, over long winding roads dimly lit by the moon. When they crossed the Michael Davitt Bridge, they left the Irish mainland behind and arrived on Achill.

Even in the dark, Laurel could see this was different country from the Ireland she knew. Here was a place on the edge of the world. A great craggy island dropped into the ocean. Except for a few sheltered areas, the land was treeless, its vegetation stunted by harsh winds and salt air. Small white houses huddled on the hillsides like gulls come to land. The smell of turf smoke and wild thyme drifted through the windows. They were now in sight of the Atlantic, glimmering in the night. On their left rose the Cliffs of Minaun. On their right brooded Slievemore, the Great Mountain.

Laurel joined Sandy at the front of the bus to give her directions. She kept watch for the boreen that led to her grandparents’ seaside cottage. When they passed the village of Keel, she knew they were near.

“There it is, just ahead!”

Sandy drew up the bus near the verge. The air brakes hissed. Two stone pillars marked the little road that ran down to the dunes bordering the seashore.

“We canna go dahn thar,” she said. “We’d ne’er get aht agin. Hahsiver, we’ll bide an’ watch whar ye go till we see th’ lights go on in yer hahs.”

“How can I thank you?” Laurel said shyly, as everyone crowded around to say their good-byes.

Fionn kissed her hand in a courtly manner.

“Think of us when you enter the Kingdom.”

The moment she stepped into the cool night air, Laurel felt the loneliness settle over her. The hippie bus had been warm and homey. Trudging down the lane, with her knapsack on her back, she felt the shadows press against her. Fields of marram grass spread out on either side. Above glittered an immensity of stars undimmed by the spill of urban light. All around whispered the sound of the sea.

The lane ended at her grandparents’ cottage. Long and low, it stood pale in the moonlight, its curtains drawn like lidded eyes. The roof was thatched and there was a square front porch. A path lined with white pebbles led to the door where two stone vases stood guard. As she reached behind the left-hand vase to get the key, she wished that her grandparents were inside to greet her. Her Granda would be filling the kettle for tea as Nannaflor took fresh scones from the oven.

No key.

Had she got the instructions wrong? A search behind the vase on the right was also proving fruitless, when she heard the bus start up at the top of the road. She was surprised they were leaving before she got in the house. Then she saw the light spilling out the window. Her heart stopped. An intruder! The raven-man? Before she could move, the porch door jerked open and there he stood.

Laurel could only gape.

“I guess you’d better come in,” said Ian.

hat are you doing here?!”

Laurel followed him into the cottage and saw immediately that he was camping out in secret. The place was cold and damp. No fires had been lit, either in the fireplace or the solid-fuel stove that fed the central heating. He had just finished his meal. A teapot stood on the table beside a loaf of bread, cheese, and a jar of olives. There was also a book and a flashlight.

Ian didn’t answer her question. He cleared away his dishes and began to wash them at the sink, his back toward her. It was obvious he was thrown by her arrival. His movements were awkward and nervous.

She was unsettled herself, tired from traveling and still shaken from thinking he was the raven-man. Dropping her knapsack on the floor, she sank into the couch.

The cottage smelled faintly of turf smoke. The one big room was both living space and kitchen, with bedroom and bathroom off to the left. The walls were hung with water-color paintings, mostly scenes of Achill. The furnishings were antique; crowded bookshelves, an oak table with high-backed chairs, and a wooden dresser with china and crystal. The stuffed sofa and armchair were by the fireplace. The far wall was dominated by the solid-fuel stove with a black kettle on the hob. Next to the stove were the kitchen appliances, cupboards, counter, and sink. Nannaflor’s touches could be seen everywhere in the dried bunches of wildflowers, pieces of pottery, and lace antimacassars.

“Do my grandparents know you’re here?” she tried again, though she already knew the answer.

He froze at the sink. His shoulders clenched under his T-shirt. He dried his hands on a towel.

“Can I get you something?” he asked. “A cup of tea? Coffee?”

She was about to refuse his offer point blank when she changed her mind. Though he avoided her questions, he seemed anxious to please. His look was strained and unhappy. Her antipathy toward him eased a little. Aware of the dark night lurking outside, she admitted to herself she was glad of the company.

“A cup of coffee, thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

“Would you like a biscuit?”

“Do you mean a cookie?”

“
Cookie
? Is that a real word?”

His quick grin was disarming.

“You must be hungry after your trip,” he said. “I’ll fix you something.”

Though she hadn’t thought of eating, she found herself savoring the sandwich he made. The bread was thick and fresh, the cheddar tangy, and he had sprinkled a green herb onto the tomato.

“Thyme,” he told her, when she asked. “It’s growing wild in the garden.”

She ate at the table. He pulled up a chair beside her.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said quietly, “or I wouldn’t be here. I just needed to get away.”

His eyes finally met hers in a flash of startling blue. It was like a plunge into the sea. She looked away. Sipped on her coffee. This was a complication she wasn’t prepared for.

“How long were you planning to stay here?”

He shrugged.

“I have no plans. I’ve been wandering around on the bike. I thought of going to London, but I hate cities. Nannaflor often spoke of this place. She said I was welcome to stay whenever I wanted, and she told me where the key was.”

Laurel’s curiosity was piqued.

“Why did you leave like that?”

He flinched at the directness of her question.

“It was always on the cards. I … I couldn’t …” His voice sounded strangled. “The whole son-of-the-minister thing. The others always watching me, judging me. I’m not like them. I never have been.”

Though she didn’t say so, she could understand.

An awkward silence ensued. The ticking of the old clock on the mantel seemed uncommonly loud. Outside the cottage, the wind was rising to a high-pitched whine. A light rain began to fall, whispering in the thatch.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked tentatively. “I’m kipping on the sofa. That leaves you the bedroom. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

She had already decided he could. After her experience at the station, she was happy not to spend her first night there alone. Yet she couldn’t resist a throwaway remark.

“I’d hardly kick you out at this hour, even if I wanted to.”

He wasn’t able to hide his reaction. She caught the look of fury before he suppressed it. An image nagged at the back of her mind.

“On the cliff path in Bray, that bird … did you kill it?”

He was taken aback.

“No … no, that’s not … It came at me out of the blue.” He touched the cut on his face that was now a pale scar. “I didn’t know what was going on. There was kind of a flurry, I grabbed at it and then …”

His voice trailed off. He seemed genuinely unsure of what happened.

Great, a psycho in the house.
She made a mental note to put a chair against the door of her bedroom.

“I wouldn’t kill anything deliberately,” he insisted. “And I have a thing for birds. I would never hurt them.”

It sounded true. She was reminded of Fionn on the bus, and asked without thinking, “Can you read the patterns in their flight?”

He gave her a funny look and snorted derisively.

“I’d never’ve pegged you for the hippie-dippy type.”

“People change.”

Her tone was sharp, but she was more annoyed at herself. By giving him a hint of her secret world, she had allowed him to mock it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Wasn’t that what Honor once said when Laurel made fun of her beliefs?

Another silence fell between them, but this one was volatile. All that was needed was a spark to set them off.

Ian stood up.

“It’s bloody cold in here. I’ll get the stove going.”

She welcomed the distraction and offered to help.

“Roll up some newspaper,” he said, “and bung it in with the firelighters.”

He located the tongs for lifting the iron plates that lined the top of the stove. As he set the fire, he showed her what to do.

“Put small bits in at first, then when the flames get going, shovel in a load and keep feeding it. There’s more turf and coal in the shed outside. If you’re leaving the house for a while or going to bed, cover the fire with slack. That’s the bucket of crushed coal, there. It forms a kind of cave over the flames and keeps them on a slow burn. If the fire stays lit, you’ll always have hot water in the radiators, and for the sinks and bath. But there’s an electric shower, too, so no panic.”

Her grandfather had given her the same instructions, but she was glad to see them in action.

By the time the radiators were singing with heat and the cottage was cozy, they were both feeling friendlier toward each other.

“Cup of tea?” Ian suggested.

Laurel shook her head. She was collapsing with exhaustion.

“I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

It was only when she said good night that he asked the question she had hoped to avoid.

“Why are you here on your own?”

It was her turn to lower her eyes and struggle for explanations.

“I … it’s … private,” she mumbled, before hurrying to her room.

He would hear nothing from her about fairies and lost kings.

The bedroom was small and had an iron bed covered with a patchwork quilt. There was a dressing table with a round mirror and a washstand with porcelain jug and bowl. Pots of dried lavender tinted the air. The bookcase was stacked with children’s books.
The Chronicles of Narnia. Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard. The Midnight Folk. The Enchanted Castle. The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey. The Blue Fairy Book
. The musty hardbacks had notes scrawled inside their jackets. With a mild shock, she discovered her father’s name. Of course. These would have been his as a child.

A wave of pain struck her as she thought of her dad and then her mom. She had shut them out the past year, living like a ghost in their home. It must have broken their hearts all over again, as if they had lost not one but two daughters.

Mustn’t think about that, Laurel told herself. Don’t look back, only forward.
Act as if you believe
and all will be well.

She dragged herself into bed. The mattress felt cold and damp. She cocooned herself in the quilt, glad of the flannel pajamas her grandmother had packed. The wind whistled in the eaves above her. Rain spattered the window panes. The susurrus of the sea sounded outside.

Closing her eyes, she tried to will herself to sleep. So far, so good. Whatever surprises the day had brought—Granny, the raven-man, the hippie bus, and Ian—she had arrived in one piece and would begin her quest tomorrow.