people say something about a fairy ring. Given they’d just listened to Christy Moore crooning about one, Siobhán couldn’t help but shake her head at the parallel.
Siobhán was familiar, of course, with fairy paths, and fairy rings, and fairy forts, and fairy trees. Fairies were a part of Irish folklore, and made for rich stories around the fireplace, mythical tales in books, and of course song lyrics. Some of the fairy forts were stunning archaeological sites and protected under Irish law. Most Irish didn’t believe in fairies, but a certain amount of respect was due. Why mess with a fairy ring or a fairy fort or a fairy tree? Wisdom said even if a fairy tree was in the middle of good grazing land and it would be easier if it was cut down, it was better to leave well enough alone. Even some roadways had been altered to go around fairy trees rather than take them out. Too many tales abounded of those who went on to disturb them and came into grave misfortunes, including death. Even bringing the branch of a fairy tree inside your home was considered bad luck by some, but she knew other families who always had hawthorn sticks in their home. There was no one-size-fits-all especially when it came to superstitions.
Siobhán exchanged a look with Macdara. “Did you hear them say something about a fairy ring?”
Macdara nodded. “I was afraid of this.”
“You were?”
“This is a small village. Some, according to the rumors, believe in . . . the Little People.”
“The Little People?” She’d heard all the terms, of course, the caution that fairies did not wish to be called fairies, and one should respectfully refer to them as the Little People, or the Hill People, or the Good People, or the Good Folk. She just never knew Macdara was in that camp. What else didn’t she know about the man she was supposed to marry? “Macdara Flannery. Do you believe in fairies?”
“Of course not.” He shifted his baby blues away from her.
“Sounds like it to me.” She was thrilled to have something to tease him over. Ammunition for the next time she was tasked to lighten one of his moods. The secret was never to push it too far.
“I believe in leaving well enough alone.”
As did she. And why shouldn’t they honor the tales of yore? People all over the world did all sorts of superstitious things. They avoided walking under ladders, feared black cats, tossed salt over their shoulders. Who’s to say it wasn’t doing something to balance your luck?
Macdara stepped out of the car, and Siobhán grabbed the sack she’d brought filled with a platter of brown bread and followed suit. In the crowd, she spotted a hefty woman holding up an even bigger sign: BULLDOZE THE COTTAGE.
“We’re just going to leave the car here?”
Macdara glanced at the tree in the road. “Would you prefer I drive into the meadow?” The meadow stretched forever and looked as if it held many hills, and dips, and rocks, and patches of mud.
“Is there another road?”
“The directions are to follow this road a little farther to the cottage. We’ll have to hoof it.”
“It must have rained hard last night.” The meadow glistened and Siobhán could smell the peat and imagine how soft the ground would be beneath their feet. The sun was out now, and just as Siobhán had the thought, she turned and saw it; just behind the largest hill arched a magnificent rainbow. The colors were so bright and clear, it didn’t look real. “Dara, look.” She pointed. It was such a gorgeous sight in front of her, the craggy hedges, the rolling hills, yellow wildflowers mixed with heather sprouting on the roadside, and the entire postcard-perfect scene topped off with the show-stopping rainbow. A much warmer welcome than the dilapidated wooden sign. She was suddenly sorry she had dismissed this village out of hand. From what little she’d seen, Ballysiogdun was gorgeous.
Macdara gave the rainbow an appreciative nod. “I told you to bring your Wellies, didn’t I?”
She wiggled her toes in her Wellies, relieved she had listened to him for once. “Are you sure it’s alright to park here?” She winced, hoping she didn’t sound like a nag. That wasn’t the kind of wife she was going to be, was it?
“No car is getting past this tree. By the time a tow truck makes its way out here we’ll be long gone.” They approached the crowd. One by one the members of the group noticed them and began to stare back.
“Let’s find out what’s going on,” Dara said.
“Maybe they gathered to see the rainbow.”
“Something tells me that isn’t the case.”
Siobhán agreed, but she held on to the positive thought. “Well, how do we find out?”
“Find the man in the center of the crowd,” Dara said.
“Or woman,” she called as they climbed over the felled tree and pushed farther into the thick of things.
Chapter 3
Up ahead, they spotted him, the man in the center of the mass. He was tall and slim, dressed in a tan suit (ill chosen for a summer day), with slicked-back hair and thick spectacles that kept sliding down his nose. He stammered as he tried to calm the crowd. “I beg of you. Disperse! We will discuss this at the town meeting.” Sweat trickled down his generous nose, causing his glasses to slide once more. “Let’s handle this with decorum.” He scanned the crowd. Nobody else seemed keen on decorum. “Please,” he croaked. “There’s nothing to see here.” He turned to a hefty man beside him, the only other one in the crowd wearing a suit, only his seemed more suited to a funeral than a protest. “Councilman, do you have anything to add?”
The councilman looked startled to be called upon, then cleared his throat. “As Professor Kelly stated, we’ll take this up at the town meeting.”
“We want it bulldozed now!” It was the hefty woman with the large sign. “Last night was the last straw.” In her other hand she held a large staff wrapped in colorful yarn. She pounded it on the ground causing her gray curls to bounce underneath a floppy yellow hat. “How many more people have to die?”
“Nana, please.” The plea came from a younger woman to the left of her, rubbing the end of her chestnut braid as if it were her rosary beads, occasionally stopping to pat the head of the wee child clinging onto her leg. The child began to wail.
“Sorry, luv.” Nana reached over and patted the small boy on the head. He buried his face into his mother’s hip.
“Die?” Siobhán said. “Did you say die?”
“We should burn it to the ground,” another voice rang out.
“Those were the strangest lights I’ve ever seen in me life,” another one crowed.
A dainty woman stepped forward. “My students were here before it all began. We were going to paint the sunset. That tree”—she turned and pointed to the one blocking the road—“fell just after we heard the scream. As God is my witness, there wasn’t even a breeze.” She lifted her delicate chin as if inviting the sun to set her blond bob aglow for an angelic effect.
“The Good People,” someone said. “They’re furious.”
“And
