Magic and Myth Page 8

  With a heave of its shoulder muscles, the eagle threw him off. Rory landed with a thump in the soft ashen dust. The dust rose up in a slow, swirling cloud and then gently fell around him, covering him in gray. He looked up at the eagle in astonishment. “Where have you brought me—and why?”

  The eagle laughed its chuffing laugh. “The fairies asked me to do them a favor,” he said. “You shouldn’t have told that lie about them.” The bird turned its great head and looked at the desolate landscape. “These are the Mountains of the Moon,” he said.

  “But how am I going to get home?” Rory cried.

  The eagle shrugged. “I don’t know.” It pointed with one of its massive wings. “Don’t go over there, though, or you might just fall off the edge of the world.” It paused and then added, with a laugh, “It’s flat, you see.” The golden bird threw back its great head and laughed again. “It is always a mistake to lie about the fairy-folk.” Then the eagle rose up on its powerful wings, the pale dust rising and billowing around it. When the dust had cleared, the bird was gone.

  Rory sat on the ground and held his head. He felt like screaming and shouting and crying. But, after a while, he got up and made his way across the dusty ground toward a series of low jagged hills, to the spot where the eagle had told him not to go. Maybe the eagle had been lying to him, too, Rory thought. It was worth a try.

  He stopped when he reached the hills and looked down in amazement. There was nothing beyond the hills. The ground dropped down, down, down…It was an endless, sheer cliff face. And he couldn’t see the bottom.

  He heard a noise behind him and spun around. As he watched, the dust began to shift and rise, and then a square door in the side of one of the low hills opened. A small, gray-skinned, gray-haired, and gray-eyed man came out. He was wearing a long gray robe and carrying a tall stick of gray wood.

  “Go away,” he said, in a dry cracked voice.

  “But—” Rory began.

  “I don’t want to listen to any excuses,” the gray man said. “Go away.”

  “I need help!” Rory managed to say at last. “Where will I go?”

  The gray man suddenly smiled a gray, sinister smile. “Oh, I’ll help you,” he said, and took a step nearer Rory. “Go away!” he repeated forcefully, and struck him in the chest with his stick.

  Rory screamed and toppled backward, his arms twirling. The edge of the cliff crumbled away and he sailed out off the side of the Mountains of the Moon—and fell.

  “And don’t lie about the fairies again,” the gray man called after him.

  Rory fell and fell and fell and fell, down, down, down, and down. He saw the stars go flashing by, and then a huge, blue-white ball came at him. He tried to duck—but suddenly he was inside the ball and still falling. It was hot and then cold, dry and then wet as he fell through a fluffy-white cloud. With a start, Rory realized that he was falling back to earth!

  Rory saw shapes moving beneath him, forming one long V shape. He was just beginning to wonder what it was when he crashed into it. It was a flock of geese.

  “Help!” he shouted as he landed with a thump on the back of a goose.

  “Why?” a honking voice asked.

  “Because I’m falling,” he screamed.

  “Then you shouldn’t have jumped,” the same honking voice said. Rory began to slip off its back, but something caught the neck of his shirt and he hung onto it, his legs dangling above the ground far, far below.

  Rory looked up at the long flat head of the wild goose he’d landed on. Its heavy black beak was holding on to the neck of his shirt. “I didn’t jump,” he said at last, and then he told the goose what had happened.

  The kindly creature nodded, and said in its honking voice (a bit muffled now, because it couldn’t open its beak), “The fairies don’t like to be lied about. This is their way of getting their back at you.”

  “Help me to get home, please,” Rory said, “and I promise that I’ll never tell another lie about the Sidhe.”

  The goose nodded. “Well, I’ll do the best I can, but you’re a long way from home. I might not be able to carry you all the way back.”

  The goose flew on, its wings beating slowly and powerfully on the cold air. Rory wrapped his arms around its neck and held tight. They flew through clouds that were thin and cold, and others that were warm and dry. Sometimes they even flew above the clouds, so that, looking down, they seemed like fluffy balls of wool.

  At last the goose said to Rory, “I can’t hold on to you any longer. I’ll have to let you go here, but you’re above water and not too far from the land of Erin.”

  “You can’t let me go!” Rory shouted, but it was too late. He fell again—down, down, and down. He fell through a cloud and just had time to shout with surprise when he saw something blue and white come rushing up to meet him.

  Rory splashed into the sea.

  He seemed to be plunging underwater for ages, when he struck something that was both warm and solid. The thump jarred every bone in his body, and he held on with all his might as the ground began to move up toward the surface.

  When it broke through the waves, he found he was lying on the back of a huge whale. Its tiny black eyes stared at him, and, Rory thought, if a whale were able to have an expression on its face, this one would have looked annoyed.

  “Here I was, having a snack,” the whale boomed suddenly, “minding my own business, not even chasing the fishes, when what happens? A boy comes crashing into me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rory said, “I didn’t mean…”

  “Oh, I know. I’ll bet you didn’t mean to tell lies about the fairies, but you did. Well, don’t think we don’t know about it.” The whale paused and seemed to take a deep breath. “Now, get off my back!”

  “I can’t,” Rory said. “I can’t swim.”

  “Of course you can,” the whale boomed. “Everyone can swim.”

  “But I can’t,” Rory said again. “I never learned!”

  “Well, it’s about time you did, then,” the whale said. A thin gush of water suddenly shot out of the blowhole on the top of his head. It caught Rory in the seat of his trousers and pushed him up into the air. He closed his eyes, feeling the rush of wind past his face…

  And when he opened them again, he was lying on his back on the beach with his mother standing over him. She had an empty bucket in one hand and a towel in the other, which she was shaking in his face. “And just where have you been?” she demanded.

  Rory caught his breath and then grinned. “Wait till I tell you…”

  Rory told his mother the story, and he tried to tell his friends, too—but no one believed him. They all said that he must have fallen asleep on the beach and dreamt it all.

  Rory himself might have agreed with them, except for two strange things: the gray dust in his pockets and the golden eagle’s feather that was stuck in his coat.

  The Crow Goddess Returns

  When St. Patrick brought the Christian faith to the land of Erin, the old Celtic gods disappeared. Humankind soon forgot about them. But the old gods did not die. Those immortal beings still exist, and sometimes they reappear when you least expect it…

  A sudden shower of rain sent ten-year-old Dermot running down the hill toward a cave for shelter. He should have brought his heavy oilskin with him. His grandfather, who always knew what weather was coming, had warned him that it would rain before evening, but Dermot, standing by the door of his house, had just laughed and run out into the sunshine.

  As usual, his grandfather had been right. Shortly after midday, when he had been sitting down to his lunch of bread and milk, he had seen the first of the gray clouds appear on top of the mountains. But it didn’t start to rain until it was almost time to head for home. The sky suddenly darkened—and then it poured down.

  Dermot dashed into the cave just as
the first heavy drops of water spattered onto the ground outside. He was a short, stout boy, with a wide smiling face and hair that was always falling into his eyes. He sat with his chin resting on his knees and watched the rain churn the earth outside the cave into mud. Farther on down the hill, he saw the sheep heading for the shelter of stones. The boy shivered; it looked like the rain would come down for a while. Well, he would sit it out for an hour or so, but if it showed no sign of easing up, he would have to make a run for home. Dermot sighed at the thought of getting drenched in the downpour.

  Instead of lessening like he hoped, the rain became even heavier. It drummed off the ground and stones, and the wind sent flurries of icy rain into the cave mouth. Leaves, twigs, pieces of branches, and even small stones were swept about in the storm.

  Dermot was freezing. It had grown cold, and he was only wearing short trousers and a light woolen jumper. He couldn’t leave now—he would be soaked in seconds and would probably catch a terrible cold. But he knew that if he didn’t appear at home for supper, then his father or older brother would be sure to come looking for him. And they wouldn’t be happy about it.

  A sudden gust of wind whipped dust and dirt into the cave, and then something small and black was thrown into one corner. For a moment Dermot thought it was just a leaf, but then he saw that it was moving feebly. He crept closer.

  It was a bird—a small, bedraggled crow.

  Dermot took the bird in the palm of his hand. It couldn’t have been more than a few days old. It was soaking wet; some of its feathers were ruffled and some were missing. It must have been caught in the open by the storm and tossed on the wind. He turned it over carefully in his hand, checking for any cuts or signs of broken bones. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be any blood. He was able to stretch its wings and rub its thin legs without any difficulty.

  “What are we going to do with you?” he asked softly, rubbing his fingers down its back. The crow’s hard black eyes watched him carefully, and its beak slowly opened and closed.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He crept back to the rear of the cave and huddled in close to the wall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the dark sky was lashed by bright lightning.

  The bird seemed to shiver in his hand, and Dermot once again realized how cold it was. He turned up the end of his jumper and carefully wrapped the small bird in it, and then held it close to his chest.

  Thunder and lightning boomed and flashed again, closer this time, and he felt the bird’s tiny body twitch with fright. “Shhh, shhh now,” he said. It occurred to him that the baby bird might never have heard thunder before.

  As the late afternoon wore on into evening and the storm showed no sign of lessening, Dermot began to get very worried. What was going to happen if the storm continued on into the night? His father or brother wouldn’t be able to go out and look for him—and even if they could, they might walk right outside the cave and he wouldn’t even see them. Besides, he didn’t think the bird would last through the night without some food and heat.

  He began to cry, very softly.

  He might have fallen asleep—he wasn’t sure. He did remember resting his head on his knees and closing his eyes. When he raised his head from his knees, it was totally black outside the cave.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He could make out the walls of the cave, and the little lichens and rock plants that clung to the stone, and he could even see his own grubby knees. The bird! He reached for the tiny crow—but it had gone.

  “Do not worry. The winged one is safe!”

  The voice came out of nowhere and seemed to echo inside his head. “Do not be frightened, human. I will not harm you.”

  Dermot looked around, but he couldn’t see anyone.

  “Who…who are you?” he whispered, his voice sounding strained and cracked. “Where are you?”

  The air in front of the cave mouth seemed to shimmer, as if he were looking at it through a heat haze, and then he could make out the shape of a woman. The image was blurry and indistinct. He bit his lip and stayed silent, even though he wanted to scream.

  “I am the Morrigan,” the image said, and suddenly the shape crystalized. Dermot stared at the tall, thin-faced woman who was now standing in front of him. She was wearing ancient-looking black leather armor and holding a tall battle-axe.

  Dermot squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, she was still there. He looked closely at her narrow face, high cheekbones, and slanting eyes, and he thought he could make out pointed ears beneath her thick black hair. She was one of the Sidhe—the fairy-folk.

  “What…what do you want?” he managed to whisper.

  The terrifying woman smiled, and her dark eyes lit up as if from within. “I have come to help you,” she said.

  “To help me?”

  The Morrigan nodded. “I am—I was—the Goddess of War and Battles when the Tuatha De Danann ruled this land. But when the people no longer worshipped the old gods, we faded away. Still, we live.”

  “I’ve heard stories about you…”

  The Morrigan continued on. “I had another name,” she said. She held out her hand. In it, the small black crow nestled comfortably, looking plump and healthy. Dermot’s heart leaped with happiness. “I was called the Crow Goddess.”

  Dermot blinked. He had heard his grandfather tell some of the ancient legends about the terrible Crow Goddess. But the woman in front of him did not seem so terrible. He felt his throat tighten. “You said you wanted to help me…”

  Morrigan nodded. “You helped one of my creatures, so too will I help you. Close your eyes,” she commanded.

  Dermot squeezed his eyes shut. There was a rushing sound, like wind, and then he suddenly felt warmer. When he opened his eyes, he found he was in the barn behind his own house.

  Dermot’s family didn’t want to believe him when he told them about the Crow Goddess. He’d arrived home bone dry, and there was no other way that he could have been suddenly transported from the cold cave nearly five miles away to his own home except by magic…was there?

  The Legend of the Floating Island

  There are said to be floating islands off the west coast of Ireland. These are fairy, magical islands, which rise up out of the sea once in every seven years…

  Louisa loved to walk on the beach late in the evening when the sun was sinking down beneath the waves. She loved the colors of the sunset, the reds of the sea, the pinks of the sky, and the blues, greens, and purples of the clouds. And every sunset was different. The young girl would sit on the stony beach, with her chin resting on her knees and her arms wrapped around her legs, and watch the sun sink slowly into the wild western ocean.

  Autumn was the best time for sunsets. In summer the sun rarely went down until far too late in the evening, and the sunsets then were not even all that brilliant. And in winter the weather was often so bad that sometimes she didn’t see the sun all day. But autumn was special.

  Louisa lived on Ireland’s wild western coast, quite close to the huge, black Cliffs of Moher with her mother, father, older brothers, and grandfather. She could look out of her bedroom window onto the Atlantic Ocean. She would sometimes lie in bed and watch the birds flying past her window, coming in from the sea, and she often wondered whether they had flown all the way from America without stopping.

  One evening in late October, she was walking on the beach, waiting for the sun to set. It was already low over the sea. The sky had changed from a deep blue to a light, hazy purple color, and some of the clouds were tinged with pink. Louisa climbed up onto a large, flat stone and settled back against it. The stone was still warm from the day’s heat, and she closed her eyes and rested her head against the smooth rock. She was a tall, thin girl, with long, thick, black hair that fell down her back. Her face was round and her nose slightly turned up. Her eyes were the color of grass. />
  She opened her eyes and looked up into the darkening sky. Far, far above her head, a long V-shaped formation of birds flew slowly across the sky, little more than black dots in the distance. She turned back toward the sinking sun…and then she sat up suddenly. There was something else out there in the sea.

  Louisa stood up on the flat stone and shaded her green eyes. “What is it?” she wondered aloud.

  She could see a long low shape in the water, not big enough to be a ship and too long to be a fishing boat. Louisa didn’t think it was a whale. She stopped and shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut and then looking again. The shape was coming closer.

  “What is it?” she asked again. She climbed off the rock and hurried down the beach, the round stones rattling and clinking under her bare feet. Soon she was standing in the shallow water, her face screwed up tight and her hands shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. The shape was closer now…

  “An island!” she said in astonishment. But there was no island off the coast here. The next stretch of land after the Cliffs of Moher was the east coast of America, over three thousand miles away.

  As she watched, little lights began to glow on the island. There was an old-fashioned type of house on the island—and was it…? Yes, the island was floating!

  And it was coming closer.

  Suddenly the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. She had been so intent on watching the strange shape that she had missed the sunset, but even that couldn’t bother her today. Now, with the sun no longer blinding her eyes, she found she could see the island and the building quite clearly. The house was a long, low square with a sloping roof. It seemed to be made out of flat stones set one on top of the other, with huge stones at the bottom and smaller stones set on top. Louisa remembered her father building a wall like that only a few weeks ago; he had told her then that it was one of the oldest and safest ways to build a strong wall. He had also told her that some of the most ancient buildings had been made that way.