The Light-Bearer's Daughter Read Free Page A

tree.”
    “The song of a lark breaking suddenly over a field.”
    “The belling of a stag across the water of a lake.”
    “The laughter of a lovely girl.”
    “The whisper on a beloved’s lips.”
    “What do you think is the most beautiful sound in the world?” they asked him in turn .
    He let out a great roar.
    “The music of what happens. That is the finest sound you will ever hear.”
    Their merriment was painful to endure, but the demon felt drawn to the circle. For there was one in the company who was not unlike itself. Yet it had to be careful. Already the leader suspected its presence and was peering around the campsite with a frown. One of the women shivered. The chieftain stood up, signaling to his lieutenant to scout the area .
    Too late .
    It was already moving among them, hiding in the shadows they cast themselves .

 
    sea breeze blew through the open windows to cool the stuffy interior of the old Triumph Herald. Air conditioning could not be expected in a car built in the 1960s. The leather upholstery was sweaty and Dana’s legs kept sticking to the seat. She didn’t complain. She had grown up in that old car: naps in the backseat during long drives through the country, picnics on the side of the road in the rain, journeys by ferry to Brittany and the Outer Hebrides when Gabriel played in Celtic music festivals.
    She threw a furious glance at her father. All that would go too! As the first shock of his announcement wore off, she faced the magnitude of what lay ahead. How much she would lose. Her best friend. Her soccer gang. Her street. Her life.
    “Once you start school, you’ll make new friends,” Gabriel had said that morning, in an effort to cheer her up.
    “It won’t fix what’s gone! Nothing can. You know that!”
    As soon as the words were uttered, she was sorry. He looked as if she had hit him.
    “Oh Gabe … Da … I didn’t mean …”
    He stood up to put the kettle on for tea. She flinched when she saw the slump of his shoulders. He was more sensitive than she, more easily hurt.
    They continued their breakfast in silence. The toast felt dry in her throat and she started to choke. He handed her a glass of orange juice and rubbed her back. She smiled apologetically through the tears caused by her coughs. He smiled back.
    “Let’s go to the glen today,” he suggested. “I need to talk to the lads. Maybe you could see a tree house?”
    It was a peace offering, almost a bribe. He had refused to let her near the tree houses built by the eco-warriors in the Glen of the Downs. She had been begging to climb up to one since the environmental protest began earlier that summer.
    It was an old story befalling an old country that had suddenly found itself new and rich. Economic progress was rampaging across the land. Green fields were being smothered in concrete and tarmac, small villages swallowed by urban sprawl. Winding roads lined with hedge-rows were disappearing into webs of roundabouts and motorways. Though the Glen of the Downs was a Nature Reserve protected by law, the government had approved the widening of the road that ran through its heart. Great tracts of trees were marked for felling in order to accommodate a four-lane highway. Eco-warriors had arrived from around the world to join the protests of Irish environmentalists. Setting up camp in the endangered woods, they halted all work at the site by living in tents on the ground and tree houses in the branches.
    Gabriel slowed the car as the speckled peak of the Sugar Loaf Mountain loomed ahead. Past the mountain, the road wound like a snake through the Glen of the Downs, a deep gorge torqued by the tidal forces of an ancient glacier. On either side of the road, the slopes rose skyward for over three hundred feet, cloaked with forest. To the right, above the tree line, an old famine wall crested the ridge like a broken crown. Painted crudely on the stone in great white letters was the cry: WHO WILL FIGHT FOR THE GLEN?
    Turning