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When he moves next to me, I lower my voice. “I don’t appreciate you spinning crap about what happened to me at Charleville Castle.” His loose lips especially stung since Sion was the one who sat next to me on the steps, listening to me babble about the kid and the broken doll until Jeremy came looking for me.
He lays a hand on my sleeve. “I’d not do such a thing to you.”
There’s an earnestness in his expression that makes me want to believe him. “Who’s doing it then?”
He nods up the hill. “The one feeking your friend every chance he gets.”
“Whoa. They’re not—” I stop abruptly and have to grab his arm to keep from tripping.
His other arm slips around my back, and I appreciate the firmness of his grip steadying me. “Feeking…kissing.”
I relax. “It sounded a bit too close to…never mind.” A bit too close to what they’ll probably be doing before the end of the trip. I don’t pull away. “So Charlie’s the blabber?”
“None other.”
We linger in the half embrace. I lift my chin, willing him to raise his sunglasses so I can get another glimpse of those captivating eyes. Sadly, those eyes are trained on the hilltop.
“Sorry to say there’s no magic, ley line, or Faerie path in these parts. Bobby Corrigan and good Farmer McKean hauled those stones here for tourist groups. That’s the truth of it.” He chuckles as my eyes widen. “Did I smash your plan of passin’ through a stone to fall into the burly arms of a kilted medieval Irish clansman?”
I snort and ease away from him. “Yes. Exactly what I planned, right after I pop a Faerie shilling into my pocket and tuck the ghost girl in with a bedtime story.”
Stripes of persimmon and flame from the dying daylight reflect off Sion’s sunglasses. It reminds me of an abstract painting at the Met. He’s alone. No Daisy Kelly attached to his hip. He limps past me but stops, turning back when I don’t follow.
“Is this where I leave you?” The corners of his lips sneak up. The resulting dimples distract me from answering as he backtracks to where I stand. “Corrigan and McKean started a right lucrative tour group racket,” he says, scratching his neck where the bottom of his floppy curls swish against skin. Sion spreads his arms wide. “Authentic Irish Breakfast, pub storytelling, and a bonfire night in a magic stone circle. Och, don’t get more Irish than that.” He checks to make sure his hair is covering the tips of his ears as he gazes at the stones. “Brilliant.”
One of Máthair’s stories pops into my head. A farmer insisted on building his house on a path used by the Faeries. Nearby neighbors warned him not to build there, but he ignored them. The first night in the new house, he woke to a hundred tiny teeth gnawing at the wooden frame holding up the roof. Before the moon rose, the farmer was buried under the shambles of thatch and splinters from his chewed-down house. He took the hint and skedaddled. The next morning, a circle of sunbeams broke through the clouds to land on a nearby hill. The farmer followed the light and built his new farmhouse in that very spot, this time off the Faerie path. The Good People, or Fair Folk as Máthair called the Faeries, never bothered him again.
“To the stones with you, Eala,” says Sion and sets off again. “I’ll shoo off any Cluricaunes lurking here abouts.”
The vision of him in a slap fight with the icky version of a leprechaun almost makes me laugh. I fight the urge to run ahead and adjust my pace to his limp. He’s being pleasant, so I return the favor. I prefer this Sion. “If a stumpy little tree man with a bad attitude jumps out at me, I’ll let you play hero.”
Like I’ve flipped a switch, Sion’s sharp edges reappear. “If it’s a hero you’re looking for, best adjust your expectations.” With a grumble, he stuffs hands in pockets and walks away.
I frown, watching him practically stomp off and wonder what the hell I said this time to curdle his mood.
Our group gathers at the far end of the stone circle. Not far beyond the flat ground of our campsite is another rise with a line of trees broken by a trailhead leading into the woods. In the distance, a haunted tree if ever I saw one marks the edge of the forest. Its trunk looks like a collection of knuckle bones glued onto a cylinder. There’s a human-sized triangle crevice at its base plugged with a boulder.
The sky shifts to slate gray, holding off night a few moments longer. At the bottom of the hill, the lights of Rowan Bend glow liquid amber.
Jeremy Olk stands in front of the tallest stone addressing the group. The low crackle of the fake Beltane bonfire sends his shadow flickering across the granite surface. His features soften into the boyish contours I glimpsed on the plane. It’s nice to have this version of him back instead of the grouch from Charleville Castle.
I join Colleen and Charlie, but Sion hangs at the outskirts of the group, scratching his neck as he listens to the presentation.
“Beltane means bright fire,” says Olk to the group. “It heralds the onset of the light half of the Celtic year.” He gestures to a pile of cardboard boxes next to the base of a rock shaped like an oversized gravestone. “We’ve got hawthorn, garlands, berries, and—” He reaches into the closest open box to pull out a strand of Christmas lights. “Illumination.”
Coils of orange extension cords lay on the ground beside the boxes. I didn’t expect living rough to include a power source.
The stone decorating contest confirms Sion’s point about this venue catering to tourists. Real standing stones don’t need twinkle lights. Early Beltane and fru fru as Máthair calls gaudy décor, on a Faerie ring, fake or not, could be asking for trouble.
The scholar’s eyes sparkle. “We’ll dance like druids in the firelight.” His excitement would be contagious if the specter of my grandmother shaking her head over the potential irreverence of this situation didn’t hound me. “The Veil is thin near Beltane, my friends.” Olk’s voice gets very quiet. “Who knows what might pass through the barrier between worlds to join our festivities?”
He believes. I see it in his eyes. The thought is as potent as a slap in the face. Like Máthair, this man’s life is devoted to the past. He accepts the truth hidden in the stories, darkness, the power of the unseen, and the fantastic. Jeremy may put a nonchalant spin on it, but such beliefs are the foundation of one’s being. It certainly was for my grandmother. I imagine invisible tendrils of Olk essence reaching down through moss to nest within the soul of the land. It’s land that makes the people. This land produced Jeremy Olk’s kin, Máthair, and possibly me.
I imagine sitting in front of a cozier fire with him, his voice sliding over my skin to leave a trail of goosebumps for him to kiss away.
A memory of Máthair’s voice floats over me. “Faith is to believe what we do not see, and the reward of this faith is to see what we believe.”
“Saint Augustine,” I whisper in the direction of the forest and bow my head for a moment, giving quiet thanks to the man and his words that meant so much to my grandmother.
