Downtown Portland
Mill Ends Park was officially the smallest city park in the world, being nothing more than a small circle of shrubbery, only two feet in diameter, in the middle of a concrete traffic median on a public street. According to Jenkins, it was also the largest leprechaun colony west of Ireland and had been formally recognized as such ever since Saint Patrick’s Day, 1948, some seventy years ago. Tiny Irish flags and doll furniture, situated around the minuscule “park,” suggested that Portlanders were still going along with the gag—or what they thought was a gag.
“This is it?” Cassandra said, underwhelmed.
She and Jenkins loitered in the traffic median on SW Naito Parkway, not far from the riverfront. Fog and drizzle had chased any other pedestrians indoors, even as cars and trucks drove past the pair on both sides of the parkway. The fog helped conceal them from view, but they had to watch out for spray from vehicles driving through puddles and potholes. A dank chill penetrated Cassandra’s bones; she was having second thoughts about tagging along on this trip.
“Don’t be deceived by appearances,” Jenkins advised her. “This whimsical curiosity is merely the gateway to our ultimate destination: a faerie Otherworld that is home to a sizable contingent of expatriate leprechauns who emigrated to the Pacific Northwest decades ago, at least as time is reckoned on the mortal plane. Time tends to pass at a slower rate where the Fair Folk are concerned, so I suggest that we don’t linger any longer than necessary.”
Cassandra grasped the concept, but hoped their visit wouldn’t be too much of a rush trip. How often did you get to visit a whole tribe of leprechauns for real?
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“We need only pass through the portal,” he said confidently, “after properly requesting admission, naturally.”
Glancing around to make certain that they were unobserved, he produced a flask from beneath his jacket and spilled a splash of Irish whiskey onto the base of the park, accompanying the 80-proof libation with an incantation in what Cassandra assumed was flawless Gaelic:
“Deontas duinn bealach isteach le do thoi!”
She envied the ease with which the peculiar syllables rolled off his tongue. Why, he even managed a proper Irish brogue.
Is everyone better at being Irish than I am?
The ritual complete, Jenkins put away the flask and stepped toward the park expectantly.
Nothing happened.
Cassandra wasn’t quite sure what was supposed to occur, but nothing resembling a gateway appeared. The shrub remained a shrub, and she and Jenkins remained stuck in the median in the cold, clammy fog.
“Maybe they’re not home?” she suggested.
“Unlikely,” Jenkins said, frowning, “but they are showing a surprising lack of hospitality.” He heaved a weary sigh. “I would have preferred a less pushy approach, but if they insist.…”
He stamped on the concrete ring surrounding the bush, as though to demand the leprechauns’ attention. His voice took on a sterner tone, like a cop presenting a warrant.
“Attend to my words. By the authority invested in me as a duly recognized representative of the Library, per the Seelie Accords and the Investiture of Myrddin, I hereby demand admission to the realm beyond and below.”
Again, nothing happened.
“I think they’re closed for business,” Cassandra said, disappointed. “Maybe if we come back later?”
“By treaty, they cannot deny us access.” Concern furrowed Jenkins’s brow. “That they are continuing to do so is … disturbing.” He turned to Cassandra. “It is fortunate that you accompanied me on this mission.”
“Me?” she said. “Why is that?”
“Because you are a daughter of Eire and a Librarian, which carries more weight than you might imagine in this context.” He reached out and took her hand. “Kindly repeat after me: In the name of Danu, Lugh, and the High Kings of Tara…”
Cassandra trusted him enough to follow his instructions without asking for more information. “In the name of Danu, Lugh, and the High Kings of Tara…”
“… Open wide your gate.”
“… Open wide your gate. Yikes!”
She had barely finished reciting the words when a sudden wave of vertigo left her so light-headed that it took her a moment to realize that both she and Jenkins were shrinking at a precipitous rate. The dinky little cypress tree at the center of the park suddenly loomed as tall as a redwood, even as a hole opened in a knothole at its base, sucking them in like a whirlpool. She lost her grip on Jenkins’s hand as they plunged through the portal, sliding feetfirst down a long, winding tube worthy of an amusement park.
“That’s more like it,” Jenkins said.
The high-speed plunge lasted only a few seconds, but still left Cassandra breathless. To be honest, she had been expecting something more like the Magic Door.…
A golden glow appeared at the bottom of the slide. Cassandra braced herself for impact, but somehow ended up landing on her bottom onto something soft and spongy.
“Oof!”
Jenkins, on the other hand, landed nimbly on his feet, as though he’d done this many times before. He chivalrously offered her a hand up.
“Well done, Miss Cillian,” he said, which took some of the sting out of her awkward landing. “Your Irish blood tipped the scales, it seems.”
“Any time,” she said. “Although it would be nice if it stopped rushing through my veins quite so quickly!”
Back on her feet, she gaped at their new surroundings, which appeared to be some vast underground cavern or burrow. A gentle glow magically suffused the cave, bringing light and warmth to a large grotto at the base of the slide. Glittering veins of gold and crystal sparkled throughout the walls, while a high ceiling kept the burrow from feeling cramped. Archways and side corridors led off in all directions; lively fiddle music came from somewhere just around the corner. Mushrooms the size of furniture sprouted from the thick green moss carpeting the floor of the cavern. A rich, earthy smell like freshly turned soil permeated the air. All in all, the leprechaun colony felt cozier and toastier than the misty city street … directly above them.
“Are we actually under Portland?” she asked Jenkins.
“In a manner of speaking, but we have been translated to another realm as well.”
“Got it,” she said. “Kind of like the way the Library exists outside ordinary time and space.”
“Precisely. We are beneath the city, but just one step removed from the more prosaic version of reality.”
Which explains the notable absence of sewers and utility tunnels, she thought. Works for me.
Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. A crowd of people, clad in old-timey clothing in various shades of green, gawked back at Cassandra, who was puzzled, and a trifle disappointed, that the leprechauns—if indeed that was what they were—all seemed to be of more or less normal height. She had expected the Little People to be, well, littler.
“Galeas!”
A hearty voice greeted Jenkins as a single leprechaun approached them through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. He was a stocky, solidly built fellow, seemingly in his mid-thirties, with bushy red sideburns and a ruddy complexion. His right hand held a rustic clay pipe, while a golden torc upon his brow signaled his authority, as did the deference of the other onlookers. He wore a waistcoat over a vest that had decorative shamrocks printed on the fabric. Brass buttons and buckles shone as though newly polished. A broad smile put Cassandra at ease.
“A thousand and one welcomes, good knight!”
“Really?” Jenkins groused. “Our initial reception seemed rather less than welcoming.”
The other man’s smile grew more forced. “Ye must forgive us, sir knight. Alas, recent circumstances prevent us from being as hospitable as we would prefer.”
“What circumstances?” Jenkins pressed.
“All in good time,” the man promised. “But first I believe introductions are in order.” He smiled at Cassandra. “Who might this lovely colleen be?”
Ever the gentleman, Jenkins surrendered to etiquette.
“Allow me to introduce Miss Cassandra Cillian, a Librarian of some distinction.” He gestured at their beaming host. “Miss Cillian, please make the acquaintance of Connall MacDonagh, the high chieftain of Mill Ends.”
“A pleasure to meet ye, fair lady,” MacDonagh said, laying on the charm along with a lilting accent. “’Tis clear the beauty of our beloved Ireland has graced ye as well. Ye’re a veritable Rose of Tralee, ye are.”
“Thank you,” Cassandra said, wondering if she was supposed to curtsy or something. She was eye to eye with MacDonagh, for he was pretty much her height. “I have to admit, you’re taller than I expected … for a leprechaun, I mean.”
She hoped she hadn’t spoken out of turn, but MacDonagh merely laughed out loud before responding, “This is yer first visit to Otherworld, I take it?”
“Size, along with time, is variable between planes,” Jenkins explained. “Passing through the portal brought us into scale with the leprechauns, although they tend to lose some altitude going the other way.”
“The better to hide from avaricious humans,” MacDonagh said with a chuckle. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Your gold is safe from us,” Jenkins assured him, making Cassandra glad that Ezekiel hadn’t tagged along after all. “Nor are we in pursuit of wishes.”
“Glad I am to hear it,” MacDonagh said. “But what does bring ye here, Galeas?”
“I go by ‘Jenkins’ these days,” the former knight replied, “and I’m afraid that this is far from a social call. Miss Cillian and I are here on Library business, in hope that you and your people can assist us in a matter of some urgency.”
MacDonagh’s smile gave way to a more sober expression. “I feared as much. But perhaps this is a conversation to be had somewhere a tad more private?”
He tilted his head at the growing crowd of curious leprechauns come to inspect the new arrivals. Cassandra got the impression that the Mill Ends colony didn’t get a lot of visitors from the mortal world. Gazing back at them, she saw that some looked more human than others. Pointed ears gave a few of them a more elfin appearance, while gossamer-like wings fluttered from the shoulders of several of the female sprites, making them look more like storybook fairies than your traditional Irish leprechauns. Was there such a thing as female leprechauns? Cassandra assumed there was … although maybe they were more properly pixies or nixies or something? It dawned on Cassandra that she was a bit fuzzy when it came to faerie taxonomy.
“By all means,” Jenkins agreed. “We don’t need an audience.”
MacDonagh gestured toward a waiting tunnel. “This way then, if ye please.”
They followed him to a smaller grotto that appeared to serve as MacDonagh’s private study. Bookshelves shaped from the very walls of the cavern held an assortment of leather-bound tomes as well as a handful of parchment scrolls. A roaring fire in a sturdy stone hearth helped dispel the last trace of Portland’s dampness and chill from Cassandra’s person. MacDonagh took possession of a high-back wooden chair that looked distinctly thronelike, while Jenkins and Cassandra made themselves comfortable in smaller seats on the opposite side of an antique desk. A jug sat atop it, which MacDonagh uncorked and offered to his guests.
“Care for a nip of poteen? Ye’ll not taste finer anywhere this side of Dublin.”
“No, thank you.” Jenkins shot Cassandra a cautionary look. “I will abstain … and so will Miss Cillian.”
MacDonagh withdrew the jug. “You’ve gotten suspicious in your old age, sir knight.”
“Which is no doubt how I’ve survived so long,” Jenkins replied. “And let it be noted that my knightly days are far behind me.”
“Are they truly? I wonder,” MacDonagh said. “Ye still haven’t told me what quest brings youse to my door.”
“Nor have you explained,” Jenkins observed, “the difficulties we encountered gaining admission to your realm.”
“Ah, that,” MacDonagh said ruefully. “I suppose I do owe youse an explanation. The plain truth is that we are all a bit on edge due to some unpleasant goings-on back in the Auld Sod.”
“What sort of unpleasantness?” Cassandra asked.
“Murder, good lady, and robbery to boot,” he said gravely. “Word has reached us of our brothers across the sea being cruelly slain for their treasure troves. So youse can understand why our gates are more tightly barred than is customary.”
“Somebody is killing leprechauns?” Cassandra said, appalled. “For their pots of gold?”
“Just so.” MacDonagh held up four stubby fingers. “At least four of our brethren, from County Cork to Donegal, have been found murdered, their pots absconded with by parties unknown.”
Cassandra and Jenkins exchanged a look. She could tell that the parallels with that long-ago incident on Croagh Patrick were not lost on him either.
“That is troubling,” Jenkins said, “but I fear that these dire tidings may relate to the purpose of our own visit. We have reason to suspect that the Serpent Brotherhood has resurfaced, and that their current activities may be related to an occasion many centuries ago when the Brotherhood went to great lengths to obtain an unknown leprechaun’s pot of gold, only to be foiled by a Librarian and his allies.”
MacDonagh’s eyes widened at the mention of the Brotherhood, whom he was obviously familiar with. He listened attentively as Jenkins succinctly informed him of the events of 441 A.D., as well as of the far more recent disturbance at the monolith. He did not, Cassandra noted, mention Bridget O’Neill and her banshee problem, perhaps to avoid confusing matters.
Probably a good call, she thought.
“So ye think that the attacks today may trace back to that earlier deviltry, ages past?” MacDonagh asked finally, after Jenkins was finished. “And that the Serpents are behind it all?”
“We cannot rule out that possibility,” Jenkins stated, “which is why anything more we can learn about that past incident, and the individual leprechaun involved, may be of great help, not just to our own investigation but also perhaps to identifying and halting whoever is attacking your kinsmen back in Ireland.”
For herself, Cassandra felt certain that the Brotherhood were responsible. That leprechauns were being killed for their gold at the same time somebody was literally digging into that similar incident of fifteen hundred years ago felt like a pattern to her, even if she wasn’t quite sure where Bridget’s banshee fit in … yet.
“What can you tell us about the leprechauns who were murdered?” Cassandra asked, trying to think like a detective. “Did they have anything in common?”
“Mind you, this is all taking place back in the Old World,” MacDonagh said, “so I cannot claim to be intimately acquainted with the particulars or personages, but me understanding, from conferring with me counterparts overseas, is that the victims were all solitary sorts who dwelt by themselves and preferred their own company to that of others. I fear their unsociable habits and dispositions made them more tempting targets.”
Cassandra could see that. “Loners and hermits, in other words.”
“Indeed,” MacDonagh said, nodding. “As opposed to those of us who dwell together for both safety and the pleasure of good fellowship.”
Cassandra wondered if the unnamed leprechaun on Croagh Patrick had been a loner as well. “I don’t suppose you know who that leprechaun was, who ran afoul of the Brotherhood back in the fifth century?”
MacDonagh shook his head. “From what ye say, ’twas long ago and far away, and ’tis not a tale I have ever heard before. Whoever this fellow was, he must have kept his own counsel and never shared the story. His name may well be lost to memory.”
“Perhaps not,” Jenkins said. “With your permission, I would like to peruse your annals, particularly your global census records, going back to the fifth century at least. The Library’s records are comprehensive, but there are still holes that your archives may be able to fill in, to provide a more complete picture of that earlier incident.”
MacDonagh frowned. “Ye ask much. Our history is our own, and not always to be shared with outsiders.”
“Even if it means possibly catching the killer?” Cassandra asked. “And preventing the Serpent Brotherhood from stealing another leprechaun’s gold?”
“Ye make a good case,” MacDonagh conceded after a moment’s thought. “Very well. In the spirit of amity and for our mutual welfare, youse may consult our annals. And let us wish that yer studious efforts will be of benefit to all concerned.”
“Wishes are your province,” Jenkins said dryly, “but, on behalf of the Library, we appreciate your cooperation.”
“As well ye should,” MacDonagh said, his tone lighter now that the decision had been made. “And yet, I suspect ye have a long, dreary task before youse, poring through countless dry and brittle pages. Surely the young lady would prefer to enjoy our hospitality instead, to savor the music and merriment of the world below?”
Cassandra wasn’t sure how to respond. There was something distinctly patronizing about MacDonagh’s suggestion—she was a Librarian, not some flighty young thing—and she knew she ought to be irked by it, and yet … it would be a shame to spend her whole time in Otherworld chained to a desk, digging through lots of dusty old tomes. She could do that back at the Library.
“Jenkins?”
“Go,” he said generously. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Are you sure?” Cassandra asked, not wanting to stick him with all the work while she took in the sights.
“Unless you are fluent in ancient Gaelic and Brythonic, I am probably better suited to this task. You have already contributed significantly to this expedition; I will not begrudge you this opportunity … although if I may have a word first?”
He took her aside and lowered his voice so that only she could hear.
“By all means, indulge your curiosity, but the usual rules for visiting faerie realms apply: accept no gifts, food, or drink unless it is certain that there are no conditions attached. Many is the mortal who became a prisoner of faerie hospitality, so keep your wits about you.”
Cassandra appreciated his concern. She checked to make sure her protective four-leaf clover was still in place.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “This isn’t my first field trip to another dimension. I’ll be careful.”
“I know you will be.” Jenkins said. “Which is why I’m comfortable letting you out of my sight … unlike certain other Librarians I might name.”
Stepping away from Cassandra, he turned to address MacDonagh.
“Now then, about those census reports…”
While Jenkins got down to business, Cassandra took off to explore the burrow. Wandering wide-eyed through the seemingly endless caverns, while being gawked at in turn by passing leprechauns, she was struck again by how warm and cozy the underground dwelling was compared with most of the spooky caves and catacombs she’d visited as a Librarian. Mill Ends was more like an extended hobbit-hole than a mummy’s tomb.
The sound of music and laughter, echoing through the winding corridors, drew her onward until she reached the largest grotto she’d seen so far: an enormous chamber the size of a ballroom, where a raucous celebration was already under way. Scores of leprechauns filled the chamber, dancing a jig to the lively fiddle music Cassandra had been hearing ever since she’d first arrived in Otherworld. A red-capped fiddler, poised atop a towering toadstool, provided the music as the other leprechauns hopped and stepped with abandon, so light on their feet that they often seemed to defy gravity. Winged fairies whirled through the air overhead, faster and faster as the tempo kept increasing. Cassandra clapped in delight, her feet tapping along with the music as though literally enchanted. She had no idea what the occasion was and didn’t really care. For all she knew, this was just an ordinary night at Mill Ends.
That’s it, she thought. I’m definitely signing up for an Irish dancing class once this case is over.
The music somehow grew louder and even more enticing. She was just about to join in the festivities when one particular dancer, who was maybe a wee bit taller than the others, made eye contact with her. Curly red hair, tumbling down past the dancer’s shoulders, framed a familiar, freckled face that Cassandra suddenly recognized.
“Bridget?”