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Warmth spreads through me. Not from the fire but from surety I am on the path to find what Martha O’Dwyer, my Máthair, wanted me to.
Olk’s fervor competes with the rising bonfire for intensity. He leans conspiratorially toward his audience and pitches his voice lower. “Stay within the stones. Don’t let the keen of a Banshee lure you to the woods.”
From the shadow between the stones farthest from our storyteller’s pulpit, Sion’s grunt leaks into the night. Luckily Jeremy misses it, or Sion might be bidding his tenuous spot as the local talent goodbye.
Farmer McKean joins Olk to point out the mound of sleeping bags and pads for our use under the stars. “Watch for foxes. They’ll bark and nip at ya but not cause harm unless you’re mallet-headed enough to corner ‘em. Never forget their red coats are the color of the devil hisself.” There’s a girly squeal from someone not too keen on foxes or devils. “The fiends sneak out of the woods to steal any food ya got stashed in your packs.” He sweeps an arm at the road. “We’ve got safe boxes in the back of the truck to stow your goodies for the night.” My stash of peanut power bars doesn’t seem likely fox fare, so I keep them in my pack.
Charlie and Colleen settle sleeping bags at the edge of the general throng. Loneliness prickles my insides. I’m happy for Colleen. By all appearances and compatible hyperactivity, Charlie could very well be her soulmate.
“Here La,” calls Colleen and motions to an empty space between her and the next closest camper. My brief pity party escapes with the embers leaping out of the now substantial bonfire. Máthair would say the tiny bursts are souls on their way to the afterlife. I watch one cinder fighting to stay lit as it climbs as high as the treetops. Sadness hits me when it loses its battle and turns to ash.
I grab a sleeping bag and pad from the pile and give both a discreet sniff, hoping Farmer McKean is conscientious about his laundering between tour groups. Thank goodness, I catch a whiff of flowers instead of the previous occupant’s sweat. Laying my bag in the vicinity of Colleen’s, I feel like an intruder being this close to where my best friend will likely be doing more than sleeping tonight. Maybe I should find a spot closer to Jeremy.
Once the outdoor dorm is established a safe distance from the bonfire, frenzy ensues as the group digs into the boxes of decorations. I hang back to bear witness to the melee. The poor unenchanted stones take on the guise of a post-holiday sale aisle at Gerald’s Hardware in Hell’s Kitchen, Máthair’s favorite place to buy gardening supplies.
Next to foxproof boxes in the bed of the truck, a boom box held together with silver duct tape comes alive with Irish folk music. Really awful attempts at step dancing break out around the bonfire while others writhe and circle in the American version of druid partying. Firelight and smoke add surreal brushstrokes to the dancers.
I glance around for Sion to enjoy his inevitable disgust for this sham of a Beltane soiree. Maybe he’s using the frivolity as an opportunity to clock behind-the-stones time with Daisy Kelly. I spot her weaving through the crowd on the hunt too, but neither of us achieves success. Sion’s probably slipped back to The Sheehogue to replenish his supply of whisky-soaked twigs.
“I’m glad you ditched the creeper,” says Colleen as she squeezes my shoulders. “Dance with me, La.” She drags me into the circle of bodies worshipping the fire.
I indulge her by busting out a few steps of the jig Máthair and I used to do in silly moments. “No, Colleen. Heel, cross in front, toe.” I demonstrate and soon we’re jigging so fine, the Faeries could learn a thing or two from a pair of Irish American women.
It’s fun until too many people take notice. I ease away from the main circle and let Colleen, our fearless trip planner, take center stage. The fire sets her auburn streaks ablaze as she laughs and dances. My friend is the May Queen, a Beltane princess who showers her audience with pure delight. A Faerie spirit indeed.
In my PhD dissertation, I’d mentioned myths are truths subjugated to untruths to keep people from being scared to death of what their world is truly made of. Do I believe myths and stories are constructs of reality or reality itself? I convinced Sion easily enough that I thought the supernatural was a load of dung, but St. Augustine and his unseen also tug at my heart. Layers of real and unreal, myth and truth, seen and unseen, dance through my head.
The surreal sense of a dream flash weaves its cocoon around me. The night is coated with the sheen of my imagination. A Pooka, the coal black demon horse with eyes of burning sulphur, rips the fence apart with its teeth to burst into the stone circle. Instead of bewitching a victim to ride upon its back only to be thrown to a neck-breaking end, the Pooka bows before Colleen. She caresses its tangled mane into a sleek wave and gallops her conquest into the clouds, their shadow crossing a full moon.
Realization that the true waxing moon in the sky no more than three quarters full coupled with fatigue from the jam-packed day chases away my vision of myth personified. This phase of nature’s night light is calming. Máthair always credited waxing in a moon cycle with clarity of intention or goals.
Find me.
I’m looking, Grandmother.
My body shivers as I slip away to the sleeping bags outside the reach of the bonfire. No one calls me back. It’s so strange a thing as mighty as a bonfire has a finite end to its influence. Two steps closer and I’d return to its warmth, but here, beyond the sphere of illumination, chill is master. With distance, the dancers’ silhouettes are primal spirits. I understand how a real Beltane bonfire inspires prophecy and convinces even the greatest skeptic Cluricaunes, Pookas, and Banshees do lurk in shadows.
At the moment, if a Banshee felt inclined to lend me her wool cape, I’d take it as long as she kept her wailing to herself. I wish I had a thermos of hot tea inside my pack instead of a half-drunk water bottle, but it’ll do. Jigging works up a thirst. My eyes adjust from blazing firelight to darkness, and I find my nest.
When I reach for my backpack, it appears to wiggle away. I’m about to chalk up the phenomenon to the wavering of distant fire when the cutest little fox pokes its head over the top of my pack. Every ounce of its preciousness disappears when the damn beast digs back in and comes out with my cloth bag of peanut bars in its mouth.
“Hey, you. Drop it.” There are long stretches between meals on this trip, and damn if I’ll surrender my snacks without a fight. I probably shouldn’t confront a wild animal, but it’s not any bigger than a poodle. The critter’s face wears neither fear nor shock but satisfaction. The red-coated fiend turns tail and trots toward the woods. Damn fox isn’t afraid. It could be one of the squirrels in Central Park who’ve figured the cuter they are, the more goodies they score.
I’m not sacrificing my peanut bars to an oversized cat. If I can spook it before it gets too far, hopefully it’ll drop my bag. I kick at the ground around my sleeping bag, hoping to find a rock or clump of sod to throw at it. Nothing. I grab a flashlight from the outside pocket of my pack. As long as I avoid getting close enough for the wee bastard to bite me, game on. With the mighty beacon from my double A battery flashlight and a war cry, I take off at a run after the furry nuisance.
Chapter 8
The Fox
I pursue the bugger through the small field beyond the stones. Thin trees pop up on either side of a path more fit for cows than hikers as we near the forest proper. The knuckle oak I noticed earlier squats next to a pair of rowan trees whose high branches touch, framing an entrance to the woods. The fox slows, twisting a pointy muzzle in my direction to check if I’m still following.
“Oh, I’m coming for you, devil!” I call out and fly forward in an attempt to spook it into dropping my peanut bars.
No such luck. It flicks a fluffy tail until it stands straight and then lopes between the rowan trees.
I skid to a stop at the threshold of the forest. My panting has more to do with nerves at the thought of going into the woods than being winded. Not far off, the bonfire blazes. This is a risk. The very thing I spend my life avoiding.
The first star pierces the mist above me. These woods are on Farmer McKean’s land. They must be safe, or fear of liability would keep him from encouraging campers near its borders.
