The Hunter's Moon Read Free Page B

his head was a peaked cap, the same ruddy red color as his cheeks.
    He leaned over to open the passenger door. Without hesitation Findabhair got in, and unlocked the rear door for her cousin. Gwen had no choice but to follow or be left behind. Furious, she climbed in the back.
    “Now, where may I take you, my fine ladies?” asked the little man, craning his neck to look at Gwen, then squinting at Findabhair as she banged the door shut.
    “We’re off to Newgrange,” Findabhair said airily, “to give our regards to Aengus Óg.”
    The interior of the car was as dilapidated as its owner. Threadbare blankets covered rips in the upholstery. The teak dashboard was pockmarked with woodworm. Scattered over the floor and the backseat were heaps of old shoes and boots. Findabhair noted the moss on the carpet at her feet, and the pink bells of foxglove sprouting from the ashtray. She turned around to grin at Gwen. Isn’t this hilarious?
    Gwen glared back.
    “Sure what would ye want with the Brugh na Bóinne ,” the old man was saying. “There’s nothing there but foreigners. Wouldn’t ye druther go to Teamhair na Ríogh ? If it’s leprechauns and pots of gold ye want, Tara’s your only man.”
    His voice had a wheedling tone that made Gwen uneasy, but Findabhair was enjoying his eccentricity.
    “What do we look like, a pair of gobs?” she retorted. “We don’t believe in leprechauns with pots of gold.”
    “Then ye wouldn’t put any faith in the likes of the Good People?”
    His persistence reached a higher note. In the back, Gwen heard a warning in that quaver, but Findabhair continued indignantly.
    “If you mean wee things with wings and shoemakers with pointy ears— no . That’s a load of commercial rubbish exploiting the true heart of the legends.”
    As Findabhair warmed to her subject, exhorting on the abuses of Irish mythology, Gwen eyed the plethora of footwear around her. Buckled shoes and ladies’ slippers, high heels and working boots, some with worn-out soles and holes in the toes, others with tongues hanging out and their laces missing. Not one had a visible match. She found herself wondering about the shape of the little man’s ears hidden by his cap. Without thinking, she leaned forward to interrupt her cousin.
    “We do believe in something. The something that’s in the ancient tales and poetry. That’s why we’re traveling. It’s sort of a quest. To see if that something still exists.”
    A silence settled inside the car. Gwen’s words seemed to hang in the air, glittering with meaning, as if they were more important than she had intended them to be. She felt suddenly nervous.
    “Ah now.” The old man’s cackle broke the tension. “You’ve left me behind with your fanciful blather.”
    He stopped the car.
    “Out ye go, the pair of ye.”
    His dismissal was curt. They sat stunned for a minute. Then they spotted the signpost on the road in front of them.
    TEAMHAIR. TARA.
    “What?” Findabhair exclaimed.
    “H-h-how?” Gwen stammered.
    Caught up in the old man’s talk, neither had paid any attention to the route they were taking.
    “Up that boreen ye go, and what you’re looking for will find ye.”
    “Ta for the lift,” said Findabhair, disoriented.
    “Have a nice day,” Gwen added automatically.
    They were still standing, stupefied, when the little car drove off.
    Findabhair shrugged. “I guess we’re starting here after all.”
    They heaved their knapsacks onto their backs and walked down the lane that led to Tara. The way was lined with tall hawthorn trees laden with white blossoms like brides. Bees hummed in the dense greenery. Branches met overhead to form an arched roof, like a leafy hall leading to a throne room.
    “Did he give you the creeps?” Gwen asked her cousin.
    They stepped into the verge to let a tour bus crawl past.
    “What? Not at’all. He was good crack, odd as two left feet. I just don’t like all that shamrocks-and-leprechauns lark. He was treating