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the dirt. Some of our folk refuse to leave their homes for fear of stumbling over one of these inscriptions and becoming accursed, but what can we do? The cattle must be tended. Water must be fetched. Every day some new soul falls under the Good People’s spells.”
    â€œEven Fergus!” Erin chirped. “He came upon one in the pasture one day, branded on the back of one of our best milch cows.”
    â€œIt cast a moon-spell over my heart,” said Fergus, glumly.
    â€œNow once each month, on the night the moon is new, he is doomed to fall in love with whatever female creature he sees when the first star appears in the sky! And then fall out again when the moon is full,” explained Erin.
    â€œThat sounds exhausting,” I offered, trying to be sympathetic.
    Fergus poked a stick into the fire. “Last month I pledged my troth to a she-goat in the hills,” he said, with a bitter smile. “At least she had no father to chase me with his axe when my affection cooled after a fortnight.”
    â€œAnd poor Lachama!” said Erin, stamping out a stray spark. “Her taboo was carved in a stone by the Twisting Brook: ‘Whoseover jumps this stream on a horse black as night will suffer indigestion at every meal for seven years’ time.’ How she suffers! She’s grown so thin this season, always wailing and clutching her guts. If only she were astride her chestnut pony that day, instead of the black!”
    â€œAye,” said Fergus. “And worst of all, King Conor himself.” Fergus looked down, in a dark mood.
    â€œIt wasn’t your fault, Fergus!” exclaimed Erin. “It happened during a hunt. Fergus shot a bird and handed it to the king, as tribute. How was he to know the bird was enchanted? It spoke its curse as it died.”
    â€œSince the king fell under the Good People’s curse he cannot resist any invitation to a feast,” Fergus explained. “When our enemies wish to steal our cattle or plunder our stores of grain, they need only invite the king to dinner and there he will stay, drinking and eating until morning, leaving the land undefended.”
    â€œAnd fouling the air with his belches and farts!” teased Erin. I could see she was trying to cheer her brother up.
    â€œHush, child! The kingly farts make a royal wind, and you must speak of them with respect!” He smiled and tossed the last wheat cake her way. She stuck out her tongue at him and popped the cake in her mouth.
    â€œWhen Cúchulainn returns, perhaps he will know how to make peace with the Good People.” He refilled my cup with a strong, warm drink. “But we’ll speak of that later, after you’ve rested.”
    Erin was entertaining herself by trying to balance on one foot, something I’d seen Tammy do many times. “Fergus, you call them the Good People yet you tell me to shun them. Why shouldn’t I go when they invite me to play in the grassy meadow? Why must I always say no when they offer me their honeycombs and sweet buttered bread?”
    Fergus’s voice grew stern, almost angry. “Have you not heard a thing your elders have said to you? The Good People are part of the land, and we must abide with them, but their mischief knows no end, and they fill our lives with heart-break.” He caught his sister by the wrist. “Take one bite of their food and we’ve lost you forever.”
    â€œOuch,” she said, twisting herself free.
    â€œWho are these ‘Good People’?” I asked.
    My question seemed to surprise him. “It’s what we call the Ancient Ones. The Lordly Ones. The people of Tír na nÓg.” Fergus looked at me strangely. “The ones from your land, Morganne.”
    Which land did he mean? East Portwich? Old Greenchester? “You mean, from Connecticut?” I asked, dumbly.
    â€œ Your people,” he said. “The faery folk.”
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