into the storeroom showed it was empty. On the threshold stood the tabby, black feather in its mouth, eyes blinking with satisfaction.
Laurel was trembling all over, but fought to stay calm.
“Good boy,” she said, leaning down to scratch the tom’s head.
He purred like an engine.
Now she glanced at her watch. She had a short walk to catch the bus for Achill. Her grandfather had told her where and when it arrived. If she didn’t hurry she would miss it! Dashing through the passageway, she ran for the town center. Her knapsack felt like a bag of bricks, slowing her down. As she raced down the hill toward the bus stop, she caught sight of her bus up the road, disappearing around the corner.
She stood on the sidewalk, devastated. Things were going from bad to worse. Only now as she caught her breath did she face the horror of the attack at the station. Though the cluricaun had said nothing about an enemy, it was obvious that someone or something didn’t want her to find the king. Granny’s warnings of danger were true. Laurel braced herself against a wave of fear. She was stranded and defenseless in a foreign country.
The urge to return to her grandparents in Bray was overwhelming, but it wasn’t an option. To give up on the mission was to give up on her twin. As she debated what to do next, a different kind of bus pulled up in front of her.
A vintage vehicle, it was painted deep purple with the word WINGS emblazoned in gold on the side. Her first thought was that the cluricaun had come to her rescue. Then the doors hissed opened and a cloud of incense wafted toward her, followed by a blast of folk music and the driver’s greeting.
“Sawr ye miss yon bus. We’s gangin’ north if yer goin’ tha’ way. I’m Sandy. ’Op on if ye like.”
The hippie girl leaned on the big steering wheel of the bus. Pentangles dangled from her ears, half-hidden by a mane of dark hair. A necklace of crystals hung around her neck. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt over a patchwork skirt that fell to sandaled feet. Her toenails, like her fingernails, were painted in bright colors. Her arms were tattooed with zoomorphic designs.
After a moment’s hesitation, in which she reflected she had no alternative, Laurel climbed onboard.
There were at least fifteen people living on the bus, a jolly crew of young and old, including several toddlers and a baby. Most of the seats had been removed and replaced with rugs and cushions. There were built-in bunks and hammocks for sleeping, and a kitchen in the back. The windows were draped with beaded curtains. Glass chimes and mobiles dangled from the roof. Books, toys, and musical instruments were scattered everywhere.
When Laurel introduced herself, names like Pip, Lavender, and Sinbad were called out in turn, their accents echoing various parts of Britain. As she made her way to a seat by the window, a group of musicians struck up a song.
Oh fair-haired lady, will you go,
Beyond the land of mortal woe?
To the kingdom of the light,
Beyond the stars, beyond the night.
Taste the golden honeyed mead,
Eat the cakes of sweetened seed,
Life itself grows pale and sere,
After you have lingered there.
The sweet strains of the hammer dulcimer mingled with the mandolin. Against the lighter notes beat the understream of a bodhrán drum. Laurel rested her head against the window. The music and the steady pulse of the engine soothed her nerves. She rubbed her arms where the bird-man had clawed her. The dark side of Faerie. Would she meet it again? How would she protect herself? What should she do? What could she do?
Outside, the hills rose steeply like the great waves of a green ocean. As the road climbed higher, the way grew rougher. Sometimes the dips were so abrupt she felt her stomach drop. The mountains she had seen from the train were drawing closer.
A young man named Fionn came to sit beside her. His long fair hair fell in fine strands to his shoulders, his eyes were gray. Unlike the
Laurel was trembling all over, but fought to stay calm.
“Good boy,” she said, leaning down to scratch the tom’s head.
He purred like an engine.
Now she glanced at her watch. She had a short walk to catch the bus for Achill. Her grandfather had told her where and when it arrived. If she didn’t hurry she would miss it! Dashing through the passageway, she ran for the town center. Her knapsack felt like a bag of bricks, slowing her down. As she raced down the hill toward the bus stop, she caught sight of her bus up the road, disappearing around the corner.
She stood on the sidewalk, devastated. Things were going from bad to worse. Only now as she caught her breath did she face the horror of the attack at the station. Though the cluricaun had said nothing about an enemy, it was obvious that someone or something didn’t want her to find the king. Granny’s warnings of danger were true. Laurel braced herself against a wave of fear. She was stranded and defenseless in a foreign country.
The urge to return to her grandparents in Bray was overwhelming, but it wasn’t an option. To give up on the mission was to give up on her twin. As she debated what to do next, a different kind of bus pulled up in front of her.
A vintage vehicle, it was painted deep purple with the word WINGS emblazoned in gold on the side. Her first thought was that the cluricaun had come to her rescue. Then the doors hissed opened and a cloud of incense wafted toward her, followed by a blast of folk music and the driver’s greeting.
“Sawr ye miss yon bus. We’s gangin’ north if yer goin’ tha’ way. I’m Sandy. ’Op on if ye like.”
The hippie girl leaned on the big steering wheel of the bus. Pentangles dangled from her ears, half-hidden by a mane of dark hair. A necklace of crystals hung around her neck. She wore a tie-dyed T-shirt over a patchwork skirt that fell to sandaled feet. Her toenails, like her fingernails, were painted in bright colors. Her arms were tattooed with zoomorphic designs.
After a moment’s hesitation, in which she reflected she had no alternative, Laurel climbed onboard.
There were at least fifteen people living on the bus, a jolly crew of young and old, including several toddlers and a baby. Most of the seats had been removed and replaced with rugs and cushions. There were built-in bunks and hammocks for sleeping, and a kitchen in the back. The windows were draped with beaded curtains. Glass chimes and mobiles dangled from the roof. Books, toys, and musical instruments were scattered everywhere.
When Laurel introduced herself, names like Pip, Lavender, and Sinbad were called out in turn, their accents echoing various parts of Britain. As she made her way to a seat by the window, a group of musicians struck up a song.
Oh fair-haired lady, will you go,
Beyond the land of mortal woe?
To the kingdom of the light,
Beyond the stars, beyond the night.
Taste the golden honeyed mead,
Eat the cakes of sweetened seed,
Life itself grows pale and sere,
After you have lingered there.
The sweet strains of the hammer dulcimer mingled with the mandolin. Against the lighter notes beat the understream of a bodhrán drum. Laurel rested her head against the window. The music and the steady pulse of the engine soothed her nerves. She rubbed her arms where the bird-man had clawed her. The dark side of Faerie. Would she meet it again? How would she protect herself? What should she do? What could she do?
Outside, the hills rose steeply like the great waves of a green ocean. As the road climbed higher, the way grew rougher. Sometimes the dips were so abrupt she felt her stomach drop. The mountains she had seen from the train were drawing closer.
A young man named Fionn came to sit beside her. His long fair hair fell in fine strands to his shoulders, his eyes were gray. Unlike the
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