Now, beyond the mist of enchantment, the fairy folk played at hurling with even more passion than men did. Once Jarlath saw Ciaran's skill, he had to have the hero as his own champion upon the fairy fields.
One morning, as Ciaran wandered the sea cliffs alone, Jarlath appeared in all his mystic glory. "Come to my kingdom. Be my champion. You shall live for eternity," proclaimed Jarlath. Ciaran refused. He knew every man should have only so many days to love and laugh, or he might forget what a miracle life is.
Jarlath waved his hand. Enchanted weapons glittered in the air, magnificent as Cuchulain's spear, theGae Bulga, and Finn MacCool's sword, Son of the Wind. "Come with me and I promise you will become a legend. People will sing your praises in bard song for a thousand years." Still Ciaran refused. He would earn that honor with his own strength or not at all.
Scarce believing his own ears, Jarlath made one final offer. "Be a prince in my land, take my most beautiful daughter as your wife and possess riches beyond the imaginings of your mortal mind."
But Ciaran wanted none of the fairy king's gifts. He knew that if he accepted anything from the fairy king, he would be his slave. Besides, he wanted a wife who came to him with nothing but the passion in her heart, and the only riches he craved were nets full of salmon and fields of red deer to fill the cooking pots of those who were hungry.
"I shall take you, then," Jarlath threatened, but Ciaran only laughed.
"You can steal me away to the land of the fairies, but you cannot force me to play. I will die before I step onto your hurling field."
In a fit of rage, Jarlath vanished. He offered rewards to any fairy that could bring Ciaran toTir na nOg, and through the winter Ciaran was plagued with fairy tricks, but he was too wise to be bewitched. He showed no weakness until one day, walking in a grove of trees near the cliffs, he glanced up. Dangling above his head were cherries, green and sour. He sighed, his fingers reaching up to touch the fruit with longing.
Little did the hero know a kelpie watched him from the shadows. When next he returned to the grove, the cherries had ripened into the most glorious fruit he had ever seen. He filled his tunic with them, ate of their sweetness until his mouth was stained red and his eyes drooped into sleep.
He awoke in the land of the fairies. Furious, Ciaran claimed he would never touch a hurling stick, but the fairy king set forth a challenge. If Ciaran could beat Ronan, his champion, in one game, he could return to the people he loved.
The battle waged three days and three nights, brutal enough to break twenty men. But the fairy king had tricked Ciaran again. Ronan was a shape-shifter. He changed into showers of gold and soaring hawks, monsters with claws sharp enough to cleave a man in two.
Despite the wicked enchantments, Ciaran scored three times. Still, Ronan won. Ciaran despaired. He did not care that the fairies chanted his name to honor his courage. He had lost everything he loved. Moved by his bravery, Jarlath offered him one boon. If Ciaran played as his champion, he could return once every three hundred years—for each of the three goals he'd scored—to the people he loved. He could not change the course of their history, but he could help them in their direst need.
Ciaran accepted. Jarlath unfastened the jeweled brooch that held his cloak. He summoned up the winds, and they carried the brooch to the sea cliffs Ciaran had wandered. There a girl found it, and Ciaran whispered the legend to her fairy-kissed heart, putting into her hands the power to summon Ciaran of the Mist.
Quiet fell for a heartbeat, and Fallon opened her eyes, astonished to find that it was Mama's voice story-spinning and that medicine bottles and sickness still crowded round her. But Fallon didn't mind The Room so much. Shimmery shadows seemed to dance on the walls.
The cunning fairy king draped in robes of purple mist. Ronan, the shape-shifter, deliciously fierce and frightening. And Ciaran of the Mist, bold and strong and alone, missing the world he'd left behind just as Fallon missed days in the garden with Mama, a bowl of cherries on her lap.
Mama's thin hand curved over hers, squeezing ever so gently, as if she understood the sad places in Ciaran's heart and in Fallon's own.
"The girl Ciaran entrusted with his magic gave life to all our family, Fallon. Generation after generation, Ciaran of the Mist's brooch has been passed from mother to daughter. Generation after generation, the legend of Ciaran has burned brighter.
"And now..." Mama paused a moment, trailing her fingertips down Fallon's cheek. Fallon suddenly became aware of just how fragile those fingertips were. The land ofTir na nOgshivered and wavered like candle flame, rainbows and shape-shifters, fairy kings and heroes flickering, then sputtering out, leaving only the four walls of the room, and Mama's face, her eyes pleading.
"Do you believe in magic, Fallon-my-heart?"
Fallon nibbled at her lip. Shewantedto believe. Oh, how she wanted to. If you believed in magic, anything could happen. If you believed in magic, Mama could even get well. "Sometimes. I-I think I believe," Fallon breathed.
Slowly, mama drew something from beneath her pillow—a handkerchief, wrapped around something else. She placed the bundle in Fallon's hand.
It was heavy, hard. Fallon folded back the corners of cloth. A gasp caught in her throat, and she forgot all about medicine smells and shadow creatures and any other jewels she'd ever seen.
Pillowed on the square of cloth was a gold circle with just a little piece missing at the bottom. It was bigger than Mama's palm. A long pin, with a blue stone at the top, pierced through the open space in the circle's center. Red stones glittered on the gold. It felt warm, and Fallon could feel the specialness of it seeping through the cloth into her hand.
She wanted to trace her finger around the sparkling jewels, but did magic go away when little girls' hands touched it? She didn't let even her littlest finger smudge the shine, just in case.
"Fallon, can you guess what this is?"
She hardly dared think, hardly dared hope. It's his, her heart whispered, magic and mist seeming to swirl in her blood.It's his...
"This is the pin the fairy king gave to Ciaran of the Mist. Every generation, it's given to the girl with the most fairy-kissed heart. My grandmother entrusted it to me. Now, my little one, I'm giving it to you."
Fallon could hardly breathe. "But Mama, Nurse wouldn't let me keep it. She doesn't b'lieve in jewels for little girls."
"I don't care what Nurse believes, Fallon. It's what you believe that matters." Mama said, tightly. "As long as you have this you'll never have to be afraid, sweetheart. Ciaran will always be there to protect you, even when I can't." Mama's voice cracked a little, the sadness slipping through.
The shadow creatures in the corners woke up again, pressing against Fallon's chest. Something stuck in the back of her throat, bitter as green cherries. "You don't have to take care of me, Mama. Not until you get better."
