Faerie Tale Read online

  Then something appeared from under the straw. It stood less than two feet tall, regarding the boys with large, blinking eyes. It was a little man. From head to foot it was dressed in odd-looking garments: a tall hat, a green coat, tightly cut breeches, and shoes with tiny golden buckles.

  The boys stood motionless, as if unable even to breathe. The little man tipped his hat and, with a wild, piercing laugh, leaped from the straw, jumping high between the boys and landing at a scampering run across the barn floor. Patrick echoed Sean’s yelp of fright as he dropped the pitchfork and spun around, his eyes never leaving the diminutive creature who leaped high up on the opposite wall, vanishing through a crack between loose boards.

  The boys stood silently rooted, their eyes wide with wonder as they attempted to sort out the flashing kaleidoscope of images they had witnessed. Both were shaking, terrified by the vision. Slowly they turned to face one another and each saw mirrored in his twin his own fright. Wide blue eyes, frozen smiles, and rigid posture suddenly gave way to motion as they dashed for the door.

  They sped outside, looking back into the barn. Then a shadow loomed before them and they were enfolded in a pair of powerful arms. The boys shrieked in terror as they were tightly held. An odd odor stung their noses and a deep, scratchy voice rumbled, “Here, then! What’s it all about, lads?”

  The boys were let go and retreated a step; they saw the shadow take shape in the form of an old man. He was broad of shoulder and tall, his grey hair unkempt and his unshaven face seamed and leathery. Red-shot eyes regarded them, but he was smiling in a friendly way.

  Patrick’s heart slowed its thundering beat and he cast a glance at Sean. A thought passed between them, for they recognized the odor that hovered about the man like a musky nimbus. The man smelled of whiskey.

  “Easy, then, what is it?”

  “Something back there,” ventured Patrick, pointing at the barn. “In the hay.”

  The man passed the boys into the barn, then waited while they indicated the corner. He walked purposefully to where the pitchfork lay and made a display of poking about in the straw. “It’s gone now,” said Sean. The man knelt and moved some straw about, then stood and used the fork to put the straw back in a semblance of order.

  He turned a smiling, good-humored face toward the boys. “What was it, then? A barn rat?”

  Patrick glanced at Sean and gave him an almost imperceptible head shake, warning him to say nothing. “Maybe,” said Patrick. “But it was pretty big.” His voice was strident, and he fought to regain control of himself.

  The man turned where he stood, looking down on the earnest little faces. “Big, you say? Well, if there were chickens or ducks here, which there aren’t, and if it were night, which it isn’t, I’d suspect a weasel or fox. Whatever it was, it’s vanished like yesterday’s promises.” The man returned the pitchfork to its place on the wall. He looked hard at the boys. “Now, lads, which one of you wants to be the first to tell me just what you saw?”

  Patrick remained silent, but Sean finally said, “It was big and it had teeth.” His voice still shook, so he sounded convincing.

  Instantly the man’s expression changed. In two strides he stood before them, hands upon knees as he lowered his face to the boys’ level. “How big?”

  Patrick held his hands about two feet apart. “Like this.”

  The man slowly stood up, rubbing at his whiskery chin. “By the saints. It could have been that big old bandit come looking for a kitten dinner,” he said quietly.

  “What bandit?” asked Patrick, not understanding why anyone would wish to eat kittens.

  The man’s attention returned from his musing. “Why, he’s a raccoon. An old tyrant of a coon who lives in the woods to the east of here. He’s been killing chickens and ducks for a month or so and occasionally chews up cats and dogs.” Almost to himself, he added, “Though if it were himself, mama cat here would have been raising a right royal fuss.”

  Sean nodded, and Patrick said, “Jack said he lived under a bridge.”

  “He did, did he now? Jack Cole is a fine enough lad, but he’s a foreigner, hailing from North Carolina as he does. Still, grown-ups always have to come up with an answer, even if they’re wrong.” The boys agreed to that.

  “If the farmers knew where the bandit hid out, they’d have had him out weeks ago.

  “Now, lads, I don’t think Miss Grant will take kindly to the news a bull coon’s poking about her barn and menacing her barn cat’s brood. Are we agreed?”

  The boys shrugged and said yes. The man rubbed his chin again. “Well, we have your word. So there’s an end to it.” Changing the subject, he said, “Now, what are you boys doing in Miss Agatha’s barn?”

  “She said we could play with the kittens.”

  “Well then,” offered the man, “if she did, she did. But they’re tiny ones and like all babies need their rest. Why don’t we go outside and see the new lambs in the meadow.” He gently but firmly ushered them outside. “And who might you boys be?”

  The boys offered their names, and the man said, “Patrick and Sean? Sure and those are fine Irish names.”

  Patrick grinned. “Our mother’s Irish. Her name was O’Brien.”

  “O’Brien!” the man exclaimed. “She wouldn’t be an O’Brien from Ballyhack, now would she?”

  “She’s from Glendale,” observed Sean.

  “Sure, there’s a fair number of O’Briens about and that’s a fact.” He halted outside the barn. “Well, Sean and Patrick, they call me Barney Doyle, which is as it should be, for that’s my name. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He shook hands solemnly with the boys. “Now let’s go look at lambs.”

  As they made their way across the backyard, the screen door opened and Agatha Grant looked out. “Barney Doyle! Where are you going with those boys?”

  “To show the lads the new lambs, Miss Agatha.”

  “And what about my pump? I need water for dinner.”

  “All fixed and working like new, which, had you turned the faucet, you would have known. I was, this very moment, going to stop off on our way and tell you just that.”

  Her expression indicated a limited willingness for belief, but she only nodded. “Dinner will be in an hour, so have them back in time to clean up.”

  “Yes, Miss Agatha.”

  After she returned inside, Barney said, “A fine lady, even if she isn’t Irish. Come now and we can see the lambs.”

  As they walked down the path toward the meadow south of the house, a car turned up the drive from the road and headed toward the house. The boys ran ahead and Barney reached up to scratch his head. That there was something in the barn two feet long and with big teeth he doubted, for the barn cat would have been hauling her kittens out if a predator had lurked nearby. But that something had frightened the boys there was no doubt. He offered a short prayer to St. Patrick and St. Jude that it was only noises and shadows that had frightened the boys and not what he feared, then hurried after the boys.

  11

  Two men got out of the car as Agatha watched from her porch. Philip stood beside her, observing the pair. The driver was a tall man, his stride quick and purposeful. His hair was black save for streaks of grey at the temples, combed straight back from a high forehead, but his close-cut beard was black. His age was indeterminate: somewhere between thirty and fifty. He wore a white turtleneck and brown corduroy jacket, despite the warm weather, above brown slacks. As he came up the steps, smiling in greeting at Agatha, Philip noted his eyes were so dark as to be close to black.

  “Mark, this is Philip Hastings.”

  The man shook hands and said, “I’ve read your books, Mr. Hastings. I’m something of a fan.”

  “Phil, please.”

  “And this is Gary Thieus,” said Agatha. Philip extended his hand.

  “Call me Gary,” offered the man with a wide grin that revealed an improbable amount of teeth. His hair was cut very short, nearly a crew cut, and his ears stuck out and were alm
ost pointed.

  Mark said, “He’s my assistant and is the best cook around—present company excluded.”

  “Come inside and have a drink. Dinner is cooking and we can all get acquainted.” Agatha allowed Philip to hold open the door as she led the others inside.

  Philip followed last, behind Gary. Blackman’s assistant moved with a loose-gaited walk that suggested a basketball player to Philip, or at least some sort of athletic background.

  Jack offered drinks to Mark and Gary, while Agatha removed herself to the kitchen to finish dinner. Jack returned to Gabbie’s side; Gloria was smiling at Mark’s comment that he had seen her once in a play. When he commented upon a small problem during the second act, she grinned. “You did see the play!” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “In my former calling, you hear a lot of empty flattery.”

  “No, I did see the play and remember your performance quite well.”

  Gary said, “Jack, how about a game of tennis tomorrow?”

  Jack groaned. “You mean how about you administering another thrashing?” He said to Gabbie, “He knows I’ve a gimpy leg and delights in embarrassing me.”

  “Do you play?” Gary inquired of Gabbie.

  “A little,” the girl answered.

  “Good, I’ll call Ellen and we can play some doubles.”

  Gabbie shrugged. Jack said, “At least we’ll go down together. Gary’s girlfriend is as good a tennis player as he is—which is very good. I hope you can cover a lot of court.”

  Gabbie smiled slightly, and Gloria grinned behind her glass as she sipped her drink. Mark leaned close and said, “She plays well?”

  “Gabbie plays tennis like it’s war,” whispered Gloria.

  “Gary’s pretty good; so is Ellen.”

  “It should be a good match,” offered Phil, coming over to sit beside his wife.

  “You’ve purchased the Old Kessler Place,” commented Mark. “That’s one of the most interesting pieces of land around here. I tried to rent it myself when I first moved here.”

  Gloria and Phil exchanged glances and Phil said, “It was just a matter of luck I inquired the week it came on the market. It was a steal at the price. But Kessler died only a month before I called the broker. So you must have tried to rent it from the old man himself.”

  “Not really. When I came to this area, Kessler was in Germany and the house empty for almost a year, but I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me how to reach him. Perhaps he was visiting relatives, or friends of his father. That’s where he died, you know.”

  Phil nodded. “That was mentioned. Why’d you want to rent the farm?”

  Mark smiled. “There’s a lot of history about that place.” He paused, then said, “I’m working on a new book myself, and while I’m reluctant to discuss it, let’s say that the history of the Kessler family has no small bearing upon the subject matter. Herman’s father, Fredrick Kessler, was something of a mystery man. He arrived from somewhere in the south of Germany, or perhaps Austria, in 1905, with a lot of money. It appears that when the First World War broke out there was some minor problem with his citizenship, but other than that he was a model member of the community. He married a girl named Helga Dorfmann and had one son. He built a furniture factory, competing with the larger manufacturers over in Jamestown. His furniture was sturdy and cheap, and he made a lot of money. One of the more interesting stories is that he had a fortune in gold buried somewhere on the property.”

  Gloria laughed in delight. “Buried treasure! Let’s start digging!”

  Gary grinned his toothy grin. “You’ve a lot of property. It could take some time. Besides, it’s only a story.”

  “My interest,” commented Blackman, “was in the Kessler library and any other oddities lying about, the ephemerides of the days of Fredrick Kessler’s youth, so to speak.”

  Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, “I’ve only glanced at the books in the library. The broker had no idea what was in the house. When Kessler died, he owed a lot of back taxes, and the state was in a hurry to sell it. The court appointed Kessler’s bank executor. I got the impression things were left a little informal. The loan officer I dealt with was pretty obviously in a rush to unload it; they’d halted the foreclosure and hurried the sale. Anyway, he said there was no family, so he tossed everything into the deal, including old clothes, dishes, the furniture and books. I don’t know a tenth of what’s there. You’re welcome to drop in and borrow anything you’d like.”

  “I was hoping you’d invite me. Perhaps in a few days. I’ll tell you what: If you don’t mind Gary and me prowling about for a while, we’ll catalog the library as we go, so you’ll have a full inventory when we’re through. And if anything strikes my fancy, give me first chance to buy.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Gloria said, “There’s a bunch of old trunks in the attic and basement, too.”

  Gary’s eyes almost lit up. “Wonderful. Who knows what odd bits of treasure lurk in the dark!”

  Gabbie laughed. “Jack said the woods are haunted; now buried treasure. You sure know how to pick ’em, Dad.”

  Agatha reappeared and demanded assistance, so Jack drafted Gabbie and the two went off to set the table. Gary mentioned a film of Phil’s and the talk turned to stories of Hollywood and the frustrations of filmmaking. Gloria settled back, letting the conversation slip by her. For some reason the talk of buried treasure and haunted woods had made her uncomfortable. And for some unexplained reason she wondered how the boys were.

  12

  Dinner was superb. True to Jack’s promise, Agatha Grant was an exceptional cook. She produced an elegant meal, each dish prepared with an attention to detail guaranteed to make it a treat. Even the twins, who tended to be fussy eaters, finished their food with no complaint.

  Gloria had noticed they seemed somewhere else, and occasionally caught them glancing at each other, as if sharing something between themselves. She inquired if they had enjoyed themselves, and they agreed Aggie’s farm was pretty neat. “Barney showed us the lambs,” ventured Sean.

  Phil said, “Who’s Barney?”

  “He’s a man,” said Sean. “He was fixing the plumbing.”

  “Ya, and he smells like Uncle Steve,” said Patrick as he impaled a broccoli spear with his fork. “Uncle” Steve Owinski was another screenwriter and a close friend of Phil’s, and he was a chronic drinker.

  Jack rose and quickly cleared away the dinner plates, carrying them to the kitchen. Agatha said, “Barney Doyle. He’s the local handyman.” Seeing a small look of concern on Gloria’s face, she added, “He’s a bit of a tippler, but completely harmless. From what I hear, he was a ripsnorter as a young man, but swore off drinking years ago. Suddenly he’s drinking again. I can’t imagine why.”

  Gary said, “Well, you know what they say about alcoholics never being truly recovered.” Gloria nodded.

  “Anyway,” said Agatha, “he’s a fine fix-it man, and if you have any problems, give him a call. The service men from the mall stores take forever, want to take everything back to the shop, then keep whatever for months. Barney’s reliable and cheap. He has a work shed, little more than a shack, on the other side of my property, right at the end of Williams Avenue. You can cut through the woods from your home.” Agatha smiled fondly. “Barney fits my longing for simpler times, when all you had was the local fix-it shop. He’s a living American artifact. Besides, I have him around as much for research as the need for repairs. The man was born in Ireland and has an astonishing wealth of Irish oral tradition. In comparing what he knows with what the second-, third-, and fourth-generation Irish here know, I can begin to gauge how much change the myths have undergone in Ireland and America.”

  Jack stuck his head through the door. “Coffee?” He took stock of who indicated yes, and vanished back into the kitchen.

  Gabbie rose. “I think I’ll give Jack a hand.”

  Mark said, “Aggie’s picked a tough one. Irish lore, like most in Europe, has been ‘frozen’
by the printing press. Children now read fairy tales rather than listen at their mother’s knee—if they read them at all.”

  “So you don’t think she’ll find much variation?” asked Phil.

  Mark shook his head in the negative, while Agatha smiled indulgently. “We’ve had this argument before,” she ventured. “Mark is something of a homegrown social anthropologist and claims there is no true oral tradition in Europe or America anymore.”

  “Well, maybe among the older American Indians and rural folk up in the Appalachians, but nowhere else. Not when you can pick up a book and read the same story in England and America. No, if you’re researching myths about cluricaunes, you’ll find the same story in William Pitt County as you would in County Cork.”

  “What are cluricaunes?” asked Phil.

  Agatha said, “Leprechauns. They’re called lurikeen, lurigandaun, and luricans in different parts of Ireland.”

  Gloria sat back. There was something passing between the boys, she could sense it. And it worried her. She silently wondered why the talk was making her tense.

  Agatha glanced at the boys and asked, “Do you boys know what a leprechaun is?”

  “Little men in green coats?” said Patrick, an odd expression on his face.

  Sean’s eyes widened at Patrick’s answer, then suddenly his face became animated as he blurted, “Darby O’Gill!”

  Phil laughed. “Just so.”

  Mark said, “Who’s Darby O’Gill?”

  “It’s a Disney film, Darby O’Gill and the Little People. The boys saw it before we left California.”

  “Yeah,” said Sean with a pout. “We had the Disney Channel on cable.”

  “I rest my case,” offered Mark. “The boys are getting their folk myths from television.”

  Gloria said, “They’ve been disconsolate there’s no cable available out at the farm.” She roughed Sean’s hair. “Now you’ll just have to make do with three channels, like normal people.”

  Phil said, “I was saving it as a surprise, boys, but I’ve ordered a satellite dish installed next week.”