though we were poor as mice.’ His eyes, watery and bloodshot, seemed to be seeing something far off. ‘One fine day in May I was out looking for a bull calf my Uncle Liam had given my father. It was a grand calf, but had a decided tendency to go adventuring. Which was fine for the calf, for he’d see many new sights and make interesting acquaintances, but was a trial for me, for I’d be the one to go and fetch him home – much to the hilarity of my brothers and sisters. Well, that one May day the little bull had wandered halfway to Wellington Bridge – which, for your enlightenment, is a distant town and not a bridge close at hand – and it was until late after dark I was bringing him home. The night was warm and smelled of flowers and clover, and the wind was fair from the channel, and it was altogether a grand night to be abroad. Being no more than a few years older than you boys now, I was cautious being alone with the calf, but not fearful, for the troublemakers were all in their pubs and banditry had fallen off of late. Then I heard the music and saw the lights.’
The boys glanced at each other, and it was Patrick who said, ‘Leprechauns?’
Barney nodded solemnly. ‘The whole of the Daonie Sidhe,’ he whispered. ‘In every shape and size that they come, they were dancing atop a hill, and ’twas a majestic and fearful sight.’ He slowly rose. ‘I’d not seen it again since, until this spring.’
‘The danny she? Are they bad?’ asked Sean, his voice betraying concern. Patrick looked at him with a mixture of disdain and relief that the question was voiced.
‘It’s Daonie Sidhe, though “danny she” is close enough. Bad?’ repeated Barney, rubbing his chin. ‘Well now, there’s a topic. ’Twould be hard to put a good or bad to them, as they are. They can be either, or neither, depending upon whim. It is said they reward the virtuous and punish the wicked, but mostly they leave us alone. Wait here a minute.’
Barney stuck a hand deep into one of the pockets of his bib overalls and seemed to feel around for something. Finding what he sought, he withdrew his hand and held something out for the boys’ inspection. It was a smooth stone, with a hole in the middle, hanging from a thong of leather. ‘What is it?’ asked Patrick.
‘’Tis a faerie stone.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Sean.
Patrick looked unconvinced. ‘It’s just a rock.’
‘Which is true, to a point. But then, a magic wand is also just a stick, if you look at it that way.’
‘Is it magic?’ asked Sean.
‘In its way, lad, in its way. It has the power to keep the Good People from harming you, so then it must be magic.’
‘How can it?’ asked Patrick, still unconvinced.
‘As to how, I cannot tell you, save that it does. And not just any stone with a hole will do. You can’t grab a pebble and drill through it, you know. It must be a stone washed in a stream, with a natural hole, that is found upon the bank dry. It must be magic, or else why would there be so many rules?’
That made sense to the boys. Patrick showed no great interest, but Sean fingered the smooth stone. Something caused Barney to look about. ‘I judge the afternoon’s ending and you late for dinner. Your mother will be fretting. Now,’ he said to Sean, ‘keep the stone, so the Good People cause you no discomfort on your way home, and I’ll find another.’
‘I can keep it?’ said Sean in delight.
‘Aye, lad, but hurry off now. And don’t forget that the Good People will think kindly of you if you leave a bit of milk or bread out for them.’
Sean put the thong round his neck, so the stone hung almost to his navel. He’d shorten it when he got home. ‘Thanks, Mr Doyle,’ said Sean.
‘’Bye,’ said Patrick.
The boys scampered off without further word, Bad Luck loping alongside, and when they entered the woods, began to run. They ran with a delicious sense of danger, as the shadows lengthened and deepened, casting a decidedly menacing aspect to the woods.
They ran and shouted and revelled in the fact of being eight years old with a yet endless summer stretching away before the harsh reality of school intruded. At first they had missed the Valley and friends, but the kids in Pittsville seemed okay and they played ball all the time, which was great. They all missed Little League, but the kids said there’d be a new one next year. It was shaping up to be a wonderful summer.
Then, before they knew where they were, they found themselves crossing the bald hill, the one Jack called Erl King Hill. Both boys grinned nervously and shared a secret thrill at the idea of mystery and things of magic. A sudden, wordless communication passed, and an impromptu game of follow-the-leader commenced. Patrick ran in circles around the top of the hill, while Sean duplicated his movements. Bad Luck tried to play, but couldn’t resist running alongside first one brother, then the other. They yelled for the joy of it. Then they were running back into the trees. They dashed through the woods with the endless supply of energy given to children, laughing at the simple pleasure of being alive. Then they reached the bridge.
Both boys halted. Bad Luck stood with hackles rising, a low growl issuing from his throat. Panting, the twins silently understood that the bridge was once again a scary place. Many times since they had first met Jack they had crossed the Troll Bridge, and while it was never a comfortable experience, the bridge had lacked the solid sense of menace they had felt upon first viewing it. But now the feeling of danger had returned, if anything stronger than ever. Patrick rolled the Louisville Slugger off his shoulder and held it before him as if it were a club. Fingering the stone Barney had given him, Sean softly said, ‘It’s back.’
Neither knew what it was, but both knew there was a malignant presence hiding in the dark place beneath the bridge. Bad Luck snarled and began to move forward. Sean snapped, ‘Heel!’ and the canine reluctantly fell in at Sean’s side. He whimpered and growled, but seemed willing to obey. Patrick nodded and they stepped forward, putting foot upon the stones of the Troll Bridge.
Suddenly evil swept up from below, swirling around them like a fetid wind. Both boys moved quickly, eyes wide with fright as they walked purposefully across the bridge. They instinctively knew the rules of crossing. They couldn’t look down or back. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t run. And they couldn’t stop. To do any of those things would allow the thing below the bridge to come rushing up, to grab the boys and drag them back to its lair. The boys didn’t make the rules, they just knew them and abided by them.
At the midpoint of the bridge, Sean felt an overwhelming urge to run and shot a glance at Patrick. Patrick returned the glance with one of dark warning. To run was to be lost. With steady steps, he led his more timid brother across the bridge, until they were free of the confines of the ancient dark arch. Bad Luck hesitated, and Sean’s hand shot down to grab his collar, forcing the dog to come along at the proper pace. As soon as their feet were off the stones and back on the path, the boys leaped forward as one and were off at a dead run. Bad Luck hesitated an instant, indulging in a defiant bark at the bridge, before he dashed after the boys.
Sean shot a glance rearward, not sure if the rule about looking back held now they were finished with the bridge. As the bridge vanished behind the trees they fled through, he glimpsed the dark presence. It had seen him! Fighting down panic, Sean overtook his brother. Patrick saw Sean pass him, and the race was on.
By the time they reached home, all thoughts of the black presence under the Troll Bridge were forgotten and the only concern was who would be first to reach the screen door. As usual, it was Patrick
