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Disheartened, Pat went back to the trailer. In the distance he could make out fiddle music that indicated that some people were sticking to the stereotype and dancing a jig.
He had another week before the flight back. If he left the group now, there was still time for him to do all the proper things that returning Irish did. He wanted to kiss the Blarney Stone and try the holy water at Knock and stop at every pub between Dublin and Galway. There was no reason why he shouldn’t. He still had a stack of euros in his wallet. Plenty to have fun on.
He scribbled a note to his parents, telling them he’d meet them at Sha
There were still a few hours of daylight left. Pat followed the dirt road the bus had taken. As he left the encampment, the fiddle music stopped as if cut off with a knife. Probably taking a whisky break, he thought. If he had turned to look, Pat would have seen the circles of trailers shimmer and slowly vanish in the slanted sunlight.
He hiked about a mile to a paved road. It wasn’t long before a car came along, with a middle-aged couple in it. The driver slowed and then stopped. The woman gave him an appraising look.
“You’re young to be out on your own,” she decided.
“I’m older than I look,” Pat smiled.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, an American!” She nudged her husband. “Roddy, the lad’s come from America. Are you home to see the family?”
“That I am.” Pat climbed into the backseat. He felt oddly crowded, as if there were someone beside him. He must still be affected by invisibility classes and peat fumes. Deliberately, he spread out his arms and a
IN the camp, Eileen and Michael had just found their son’s note.
“Heaven preserve him!” Eileen exclaimed. “Whatever made him do a crazy thing like that? Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is?”
“The poor boy.” Michael shook his head. “His head’s been so stuffed with fairy tales that he couldn’t cope with real fairies. I have to go after him.”
“You’ll never find him in the dark,” Eileen clutched her husband’s arm. “Especially since he doesn’t want to be found. He’ll be heading for civilization, anyway. In the city he’ll only run into muggers and wanton women. If he can get there, he should be all right until morning.”
Her words sounded hollow to Michael, but he saw the sense in them. “We should talk to the organizers,” he said. “This must have happened before. They’ll have a plan.”
“Yes, of course, helicopters or BOLOs or something,” Eileen agreed, wringing her hands. “My poor, foolish boy!”
PAT was having the time of his life. The couple, Roddy and Mary O’Co
“You should climb the Rock of Cashel and see the Ring of Kerry and of course, Newgrange, where your people buried their dead,” Roddy told him.
“Don’t you mean our people?” Pat asked, as the car turned onto a dark country lane.
“Oh, that was long before our time,” Mary laughed as she put on the brake. “Grab him, Roddy, and don’t take your eyes off him!”
Before Pat knew what was happening, Roddy had twisted around in the front seat and taken hold of his leg.
“Did you think you’d fool us with that cinema accent?” he crowed. “We knew what you were the minute we laid eyes on you. Now, take us to your pot of gold, or we’ll tip you headfirst off the cliffs and into the sea.”
“I can’t believe this.” Pat was more angry than concerned. “Did my cousin Jerry put you up to this? Or those fruitcakes at the fairy ring? You can’t believe I’m a leprechaun.”
“You won’t get us that way, either.” Mary said. “You’re one of the Little People all right. Who else would wear fine leather shoes to thumb a ride?”
Pat’s hand went to the door handle. Mary had started driving again, but they were going slowly enough for him to leap out and not be much hurt. Roddy didn’t seem to have a good grip on him, but Pat found it hard to move his legs to break free. It was as if someone else were holding him. Suddenly, he was overcome by a primal panic.
“Look out!” he screamed. “You’ll hit that sheep.”
For a split second, Roddy let go. Pat took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes shut, and, without even trying, vanished.
He pushed the car door open and rolled out, crawling and then ru
“Damn.” He realized. “I left my backpack in the car.”
He still had his wallet and passport, though, and the town couldn’t be that far away. If he could get his bearings, he should have only a mile or two to walk. Pat sighed. He supposed it was time that he accepted the truth, however nonsensical it seemed. He wasn’t the reincarnation of Brian Boru, but of silly little men with stubby pipes and green trousers who spent their lives making shoes.
His life in America was looking better and better.
The night was chilly, although the drink from the pub was still warming his veins. Pat struck out in the direction of the town. He hoped to bypass the dirt road and hit the main one, just in case Roddy and Mary were still hunting for him. The terrain was rough and pocked with mud puddles. He kept feeling that someone was at his elbow, guiding him. Nevertheless, Pat slipped time and again, falling into the bog and clambering up until he was soaked and filthy.
Just when he had decided to curl up in the first dry spot he came across, Pat caught a scent he recognized, a peat fire. He followed his nose.
In the middle of the gorse was a small house, covered in sod. It reminded Pat of a hobbit hole. The door was low enough that even he would have to stoop. He smiled to himself. Leprechauns. The real Fir Bolg must live here, not exiles spending their holiday role-playing. Maybe it was time he embraced his heritage. He knocked.
The door creaked open. A wizened face peered out. “Begorra! If it isn’t Cousin Patrick! We heard ye were in the land again.”
They knew his name! Now Pat understood the feeling he had had all evening of someone lurking next to him. He gri
The door opened wide and Patrick entered, feeling that he’d finally found the real Ireland. He couldn’t wait to rub Jerry’s nose in it.
The inhabitants of the hut were two little men, both looking older than time. They both seemed thrilled to see Patrick.
“You’ll be with the tour,” the first one assumed correctly. “You people hardly ever come out to find us. We’ve always been hurt by that. Such a long time for a family to be apart. It’s an honor to have you. Look, Seamus, it’s Patrick O’Reilly, home from America, and looking to find the family!”
“Is it now?” The other man had been sitting facing the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, but now he turned and smiled.
With a rush of horror, Patrick saw that the man’s teeth were shining copper, filed to razor-sharp points. His heart froze as he understood. These weren’t relics of mythology, nor were they modern, assimilated leprechauns. The little men were really the Oldest Ones. There was not even a veneer of civilization in them, only ancient, primal needs and hate.
Patrick rolled off his stool and tried to crawl for the door.
They were too quick for him. Each man took one of Pat’s arms. As they forced him to the floor, Pat marveled at the strength in their shriveled bodies. They bent over him, cackling in delight.