Fairies who soured milk and stole babies from their cradles and danced their way through the soles of six pairs of slippers in just one night. Her mother's words echoed through Fallon's memory.Remember, treasure. Save up the legends like the pretty pebbles you find. Mama had spun out the stories time and again, as if she were stitching them into Fallon's mind, the way she embroidered silks of blue and red and green on bits of tapestry.
"Do you remember your favorite tale, love?" Mama's voice drew Fallon back from a whirl of fairies dancing in star-shine gowns. "Ciaran of the Mist." How could she forget, with his castle perched high on a sea cliff, near enough that she could walk there on a fine morning?Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo,The Castle of the Dancing Mist. Even its name breathed magic.
From the time she could first remember, Fallon had loved how the castle's walls and crumbling towers seemed to almost bend over the ledge, loved peering through arched window eyes down at the fingers of water scrabbling at the cliffs.
In the years since Mama had gotten sick, Fallon had run away to the castle often, making believe the towers were her very own.
"Do you remember what happened to Ciaran?" Mama asked.
Fallon nodded. "The fairies took Ciaran away," Fallon said.
Everyone in Ireland was afraid of the fairies taking someone away. Especially naughty children. But even though Nurse had threatened her again and again, the fairies had never come for Fallon, no matter how wicked she'd been.
Now Nurse said the saints were going to take Mama away because Mama was so good. It made Fallon's head ache, trying to sort it all out. But she thought it must be better to be bad and go where everyone lived forever and danced until their slippers wore through instead of being good and going to a place like church, quiet and cold, with painted faces always turned up to heaven.
"I remember the stories, Mama," Fallon admitted. "You used to feed me cherries until my mouth got all red 'cause that's what the fairies used to 'chant Ciaran away." If Fallon closed her eyes really tight, she could see what the garden had looked like, flowers spilling about as if someone had broken a rainbow and scattered the pieces all over the ground.
She could remember the sun sparkling in the blue glass bowl Mama held on her lap, and the cherries glowing so red they seemed magic. Maybe they were magic, because just thinking about them made The Room get blurry all around Fallon, until the medicine bottles melted away, and all she could see was Mama's eyes, the way they used to be—warm and bright and full of fairy dreams.
A little bubble of excitement pressed in Fallon's throat, and she burst out, "Tell me the story again, Mama."
"Wicked, thoughtless girl!" Nurse grabbed her by the arm so tight it pinched. "Can you not see my angel is worn to a thread?" Mama was Nurse's angel. Nobody ever called Fallon that. But before Nurse could pinch harder, Mama raised her head off the pillow.
"Nurse, please. Leave us alone. My daughter wishes me to tell her a story."
"I'm sorry, Mama." Fallon stuffed her hands behind her back. "You don't have to tell me Ciaran. You need to rest."
Mama's lips curved in a way so close to Mama's smile a hook seemed to tear inside Fallon's chest. "I'm going to have plenty of time to rest, soon, treasure. I'd much rather tell you a story, unless..." She hesitated, and looked as if unless would make her very sad. "Unless you want to leave. I'd not keep you inside if you're thirsty for the sunshine."
Fallon glanced at the window where a slice of blue sky peeked in. But suddenly, she didn't want to be outside so very much. She looked at Mama. "I'd like to stay."
Mama's eyes got all glisteny, like with tears, but she smiled even wider and patted the space next to her. Fallon started to bounce up on the feather tick then stopped, casting a nervous glance at Nurse. But even though Nurse's lips were pursed so hard all the wrinkles showed, she didn't say anything at all. She only grabbed up some crumpled cloths and half-filled glasses and slipped out of the room.
Glad she was gone, Fallon edged onto the bed as if it were made of spider's webs, careful not to so much as brush against her mother. But Mama reached across the space that separated them, urging her closer, her hand stroking back a lock of flyaway hair that tickled Fallon's forehead.
It felt so strange to have someone touch her softly now, or to want her to stay close by, instead of shooing her off somewhere. Fallon stretched up to try to hold on to the brush of Mama's fingers as long as she could.
"Once, long ago," Mama began, "when the standing stones were new, the magic in Erin was so strong that the hills grew more heroes than flowers. Heroes proved their valor in battle, and upon the hurling fields. The crack of ash-wood hurling sticks into the hard leather ball sounded like battle drums as teams of men fought to slam the sphere through the goals at opposite ends of the field. Men warred against each other, dodging, leaping, swinging with all the passion and power inside them, as if they were the old Druid gods locked in combat for the mist green isle St. Patrick and his angels had stolen away.
"Now, little did the heroes know that other games were being played beyond the veil of the mist at the very same time. For the fairy kings did battle upon the hurling fields with far more fury than even the warriors at the royal seats of Tara orEmain Macha. The fairies, who are ever-watching, loved to peer from their hiding places, to laugh at mortal men, and jeer at their clumsy efforts, until one day..."
Mama paused, waiting as she always had for Fallon's delighted shiver, and the words Fallon had always said.
"Hecame out of the mist." Fallon could picture it as clearly as her own snub nose in the nursery mirror—glittery mist fluttering over the green hilltops, billowing into the valleys, snagging on the twisted tree roots, and the earth that cradled them, the wind carrying the news to the sea,he comes... he comes.
And then, a man striding out onto the hurling field, white teeth flashing in the smile of one who could never even imagine being beaten in any contest one could name.
"Ciaran strode out of the mist," Mama continued. "And every man on the field fell silent. Never had they seen such a man before. Even the cunning fairy king, Jarlath's, face couldn't have looked more regal. Draped in great loops of heathery wool and creamy linen, Ciaran towered above the other warriors, lean and hard-bodied as a wolfhound run wild in the forests. His shoulders were nearly as wide as the hurling stick strapped to his back, his arms powerful from sword play and spear casting. Yet despite his fierceness, Ciaran carried the soul of a bard within his warrior body.
"He was brave as Cuchulain. Wise as Finn MacCool. And the greatest hurler ever to breathe. Yet within him beat the most noble of hearts. He believed the true measure of a man was defending those weaker, caring for the aged, the young, the helpless. He wanted nothing but to love Ireland and guard his people. Who could have guessed that his greatest battle wouldn't be with the High King's foes, but rather with the Fairy King?"
Fallon closed her eyes tight with imagining. The Room spun away.
"It is said Cuchulain's courage was never matched, nor the wisdom of Finn MacCool. But Ciaran MacCailte, Son of the Mist, surrendered nothing less than his heart to those who needed the strength of his body.
Scarce two cycles of the moon had passed before he became champion of the High King atEmain Macha.
Boldest of warriors, finest hurler ever to take the field in a contest, Ciaran's greatest battle would not be with enemies of his king, but rather, two more subtle foes. Jarlath, king of the fairies, and his own loneliness. For people wish to keep heroes high above them, never to be touched.
