“Did you make a wish then?” Harriet asked.
“No. Should I?” Wishes were for birthday candles and shooting stars. Not for contraband bottles of minibar alcohol.
“Of course. Ireland is a land of magic. You never know when your fondest dream will come true.”
Mary was about to add a sarcastic remark when she suddenly glanced at Harriet’s face. The stubborn glint in the older woman’s eye suggested that she wasn’t going to let this one go. “Don’t scoff. You can’t say you don’t believe in something, just because you’ve never seen it. Even scientists know there are some things which can’t be explained.”
True enough. “It doesn’t mean I expect to see leprechauns hiding in the break room.”
“The bastards are more likely to be raiding the Coke machines,” Harriet retorted. She took another sip of her whiskey. “I’m speaking of the fairies. You’ve heard of the Irish superstitions, haven’t you?”
“A little.” She’d heard tales of babies snatched at birth, changeling tales. Myths of selkies and other fey creatures. “I know you’re not supposed to offend them.”
The old woman’s expression turned darker. “No. You’re not.” She stared out of the window at the road, which had grown narrower. Hedges lined the left side of the road and, below it, the sea roiled with grey waves and white foam. Harriet rested her chin on her palm, eyeing the wild landscape. Gorse and heather bloomed on the sides of the cliffs while sheep grazed in the grass.
When they reached a series of stone huts on the side of the mountain, the tour bus rolled to a stop. Mary wasn’t exactly in the mood to view prehistoric beehive huts, but perhaps the sea air would clear her head.
Harriet stopped her before they got off the bus. “I’ll tell you this, Mary Samson. Make a wish, when the time is right. It might come true.”
Not wanting to offend her seatmate, Mary nodded. “All right.” She didn’t know what Harriet was talking about, but if it made the woman feel good to give advice, there wasn’t any harm in smiling and going along with it.
The grey skies rolled a fog off the sea, cloaking the Dingle Peninsula in a low mist. It was cooler outside, and Mary buttoned up the pullover sweater she’d bought at the last tour stop. As she trudged up the path, following the guide, Harriet’s words came back.Make a wish, when the time is right.
Some people would wish for a winning lottery ticket. Maybe a house in Bermuda or a job promotion.
I want a family, she thought. Her parents had been dead for ten years, and there was no one left. No aunts, no uncles. Not even a grandmother. It was loneliness that had made her register for an online dating service. And though her gut had warned her that Garrett wasn’t Mr Right, she’d hoped he could be Mr Almost-Right. She had been willing to settle, to mould herself into the woman he wanted. And how pitiful was that?
Stepping into the grass, she sat on a large limestone boulder, watching the sea from her vantage point. The tour group continued on without her, and she rested her hands on the rock, letting her thoughts drift. At her feet, the grass swayed with the gusts of wind.She realized her tennis shoes were squarely in the middle of a circle of mushrooms. A fairy circle, so the legend went.
Funny. Perhaps that was what Harriet had meant. All right, she was game for anything. Superstitions didn’t mean a thing, but why not make that wish?
I wish a man would love the woman I am, not the woman he wants me to be. And I want to have a family.
She looked up and saw the old woman rushing towards her. “No!” Harriet cried out. “What have you done?”
Mary frowned, not understanding. It was just a circle of mushrooms. A common gardening problem, nothing more. But her heart began to quicken with an unnamed fear. “What is it?”
The old woman reached her side. “Get out. Get out, before it’s too late.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just—”
A blinding migraine seemed to strike out of nowhere. A pulsing, swollen pressure that pressed against her brain.
“Those who step into an empty fairy ring die at a young age,” Harriet breathed. “It’s forbidden, didn’t you know that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness seemed to pull her down. “It’s just a bunch of mushrooms.” Probably the amaretto, coming back to haunt her.
Harriet grabbed her hand and pressed something soft into it. “Take this. And whatever you do, don’t let go.”
It was a piece of brown bread, left over from breakfast. What on earth?
“It’s an offering. It might pacify the fey.”
A strange music seemed to emanate from the ground, the faint sounds of harp strings. “Do you hear that?” Mary leaned forwards, trying to make sense of it.
Harriet was mumbling under her breath, her hands working upon a strand of rosary beads. Prayers. Mary wanted to smile and tell her not to be silly. It was going to be OK.
But before she could speak, her knees buckled beneath her. She stumbled on to her hands and knees inside the circle. Grass tickled her face, and pressure rose up inside her skull to an unbearable pitch. She gripped her head, but the agony kept building and rising.
