Chapter 16
The words carved into the wooden oval sign read: BEWARE OF FAIRIES AND 100 STEPS! Siobhán wasn’t sure about the fairies, but there were indeed one hundred stone steps that led to the fairy village on top of the hill at Lough Gur. It was lovely to hear Ann and Ciarán giggle as they read the sign, then sprinted for the top as only children would do. Lough Gur not only boasted the proximity of Grange Stone Circle (Ireland’s largest stone circle, three hundred meters west of the park), it was also considered one of the most magical places in Ireland. At least according to their website. And although it was in County Limerick, Siobhán counted herself as a local supporter of the nearby historical park. How could she not? Framed by a horseshoe-shaped lake with Knockadoon Hill on one side and Knockfennel Lake on the other, it packed a six-thousand-year-history into its rugged and magical land.
The Iron Age, the Bronze Age, Stone-Aged houses, ring-forts, hillforts, megalithic remains, and if those archaeological treasures weren’t enough, legend had it the park was home to Fer Fí, the King of the Fairies. The Red Cellar Cave high up on the steep side of Knockfennel Hill was where he dwelled. Not to be outdone, where there is a king, there is a queen, and her name was Áine. She lived in the hill of Knockainey, the Goddess of Summer, Wealth, and Sovereignty, aka Queen of the Fairies. She spent most of her time in the lake, fed from underground springs, beneath which dwelled a realm to the other world. She was not a queen to be messed with. As one of the myths went, the King of Munster forced himself on her, resulting in her biting off his ear, therefore rendering him “blemished” and unfit to be king. That was Siobhán’s definition of a queen, leading her own #MeToo movement way ahead of her time.
Every civilization was represented here. There was no shortage of stories, and variations of the stories. Regardless, one could not argue that it was a mystical place, and Siobhán was not surprised that Dylan Kelly chose this location for a tour and a talk. Siobhán loved killing two proverbial birds with one magical stone.
They had already strolled around the horseshoe-shaped lake, joined hands inside the stone circle, then slipped into the Heritage Center for Dylan’s tour. Now they were out in the fresh air finishing up the Fairy and Tricky Tree Trail where stone fairy houses were built into the path, delighting children as they stumbled upon each one. Ireland was home to twenty-two native species of trees and every single one of them was planted within these special grounds.
When the official tour ended, Ciarán and Ann were filled with questions, and Siobhán was happy to let them kick off the interrogation of Dylan Kelly.
“What exactly is a fairy?” Ciarán asked, his voice laced with doubt.
“ ‘Fairy’ is a broad term for an array of creatures,” Dylan said. “It started with the Tuatha Dé Danann. When mankind arrived, the fairies agreed to go underground and let the mortals live above-ground among them. When the sun is up they stick to their hiding places. But when darkness falls and the moon rises, that’s when they come out to play.”
“Play?” Ciarán said. “So they’re playful?”
“Of course, lad. They’re tricksters.”
“That’s good. I’d probably like them then. Don’t you think?”
Dylan Kelly leaned in. “If you’re picturing the Disney fairies with glitter and wings, you’d be best heading off to America, for the Irish fairies are no such thing. Fairies are independent of religion and you’ll find them in all cultures. We’ve got two types here in Ireland. The trooping fairies and the solitary fairies. The trooping fairies are social. You’ll find them dancing around the hawthorn trees. The solitary fairies are like they sound. They just want to be left well enough alone.” Ciarán had begun to zone out, and Siobhán could tell he was done with the lecture. “Sounds a bit like human beings, does it not? That’s the thing about fairies, they can change shapes.”
“Change shapes?” And just like that, his interest was back. Ciarán’s voice seemed to be going through the change, hitting a high octave and cracking low in the same breath.
“Ah, sure. A fire-breathing horse with a dragon tail and eagle wings, if you like.”
“I would not like,” Ann said. “Not at all.”
“Why do they change shapes?” Ciarán asked.
“So that one could be sitting next to you and you’d never know it.”
Ciarán turned and stared at Siobhán intently.
“I’m not a fairy, luv. Neither are you.”
“The fairy world and the human world overlap, you see. The fairies are going about their life doing as they please, and all they ask of us is a bit of respect.”
“He believes it,” Ciarán said as he openly pointed at Dylan Kelly. “And he’s wearing a suit.”
A wolf in sheep’s clothing? “He’s part entertainer, luv,” Siobhán whispered into Ciarán’s ear. “And the suit doesn’t look very dear.” She probably shouldn’t have added that bit, but she didn’t like how the professor seemed to enjoy getting children riled up. As if to prove her point, Dylan Kelly continued.
“The problem is us human beings have a habit of walking into their realm and disturbing them. That’s when you’d best watch your back, or your head before it gets lopped off.”
Ciarán did a double-take. “They chop off heads?” He patted his own head, as if trying to assure himself it was still firmly attached.
“They’d rip your throat out if you crossed them.”
“Professor, please. These are children.”
“I’m not a child.” Ciarán reached up and rubbed his throat. “Where can I see a fairy?”
“Look for the hawthorn tree. The sacred tree of the sidhe.”
“She?” Ciarán scrunched up his nose. “All fairies are girls? Is that why they’re so browned off?”
Siobhán inwardly groaned. She was going to have to spend more time at home.
“Not ‘she.’ The Irish word s-i-d-h-e. Its meaning is a hillside. It’s come to mean the fairies.”
“Why would a hillside mean the fairies?” Ciarán rolled his eyes.
“Where there is nature, there are fairies. Look for hill mounds, hillocks, or raths surrounded by a ring of stones, or wild mushrooms.” Dylan leaned down and peered into Ciarán’s face. “Do you like to read, lad?” Ciarán simply blinked, no doubt wondering if the fairies would punish him for lying.
“I like to read,” Ann said.
Dylan straightened as he lifted his finger in the air. “Carolyn White in A History of Irish Fairies says that there are three types of humans most likely to interact with the fairies. The poor. The simple. And the sincere.”
“You’d better watch out,” Gráinne said, leaning into Siobhán. “You’re three for three.”
“Not believing in them is the worst offense of all,” Professor Kelly continued.
“Well done, Professor,” Siobhán said, clapping. She gently shoved Ciarán and Ann out of his path. “Have a look around; we’re leaving in ten minutes.” They raced off, presumably in search of fairies. Siobhán turned to the professor. “I’d love to hear more about this book you’re writing.”
He straightened up, like a peacock offering his feathers. “I’m researching remote villages, getting to know the people, visiting the fairy rings, and fairy forts, documenting the stories.”
“Then Ballysiogdun must be a dream come true. For your book that is.”
He pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned. “I never expected such an explosive turn.”
“The murder?”
“Yes. I intend to follow it closely. As it seems will you.”
“I’m trying to catch a killer.”
“Don’t be surprised if you never do.”
“Pardon?”
“Strange things tend to happen when it involves the Good People.”
“Drop the act. It’s just us. You can’t really believe in them. Can you?”
“I’ve heard stories. Most I don’t believe. But there have been a handful that I couldn’t disprove. I went to the places, you know? I talked to the people. I’ve stood by fairy forts, and fairy rings, and fairy trees. But never has it felt so powerful as the energy in Ballysiogdun. And that cottage! Tell me, how do you explain all those mysterious deaths? Sent shivers up me spine. I may not entirely believe, but I certainly wouldn’t chance it. Tell me. Would you ever disturb a fairy ring?”
Siobhán felt like a butterfly that had just been pinned to a board. She wanted to lie—after all she was needling him about his beliefs—but the truth was of course she wouldn’t disturb a fairy ring. And if it had been her, she would have moved out of the cottage. Better safe than sorry. “Normally? No.”
“What do you mean—normally?”
“To catch a killer, I might disturb a lot of things. If it was necessary.” She probably wouldn’t. She would try really hard not to.
“You’d best think on it carefully. Or you, or the ones you love, may never have a bit of peace again.”
“Are you threatening me, Professor?”
“Threatening you?” He stepped back as if to distance himself from her. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“You tell me.”
“My dear. I’m trying to save you.”
“I wish you luck there. I hear I’m a handful.”
He blinked rather than laugh, as if her humor was beneath him. “I too bore witness that night. I wrote about it. I’ll show you me pages.” He leaned in even though no one was listening. “You cannot tell anyone else. I have a photo.”
Now he had her attention. “A photo?”
“Quite possibly the only photo that exists of that night.”
He was going to tease her to death. She wanted to frisk him immediately, see if the photo was hidden in one of his suit pockets, turn him upside down and shake him like a rug. “What is it of?”
“The hawthorn tree under the full moon. And there, right next to it, I swear on me father’s grave, you can see an ethereal figure.”
“An ethereal figure.”
“I believe I captured a fairy. It’s remarkable.”
“May I see it?” She held out her hand. He stared at it as if he was expecting her to produce something.
“I’m afraid it’s not quite ready to show to the public.”
That was an abrupt turnaround. “You just said I could see it.”
“Patience, my dear.”
“It’s Garda O’Sullivan.”
His blink was back. “I’ll put you down for an advanced reading copy, Garda.”
“How advanced?”
“Closer to the publication date, I’m afraid.” He didn’t seem afraid. He seemed quite proud of himself.
“And when is that?”
“Eager for it, are you?” He grinned.
“I’d like to see that photo now.”
“I’m going to have it authenticated first.”
“You should at least show it to the guards.” If he was telling the truth. If Dylan Kelly was the killer, his motive was practically written in swooping letters over his big head: “best seller.” He was hyping his book, using the tragedy to wind people up. Shameful. “Who is your publisher?”
“Why?”
“I looked you up. I didn’t see any mention of the book.”
He stood straighter. “They’re a small press.”
“They still have a name, don’t they?”
“You seem unaware of the dangers of sharing too much information,” he lectured. “It puts my idea at risk.”
“I think a murder investigation trumps protecting your ideas, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “Believe me, there’s no clue to a murder in the photo.”
“You don’t know that. If the photo shows a figure— hours before a murder occurred—it could either be our victim, or her killer.”
“No, no, it’s not human, it’s ethereal.”
“So, you say. Why don’t you hold it up for me to have a little peek? I won’t even touch it.” She eyed his pockets again.
“I’m sure skeptics will try and rip it apart, but this is the proof that’s going to rocket the book to fame.”
“That’s a high bar.”
“I was called here. Destiny, Garda, it’s destiny that I happened to be there researching fairies when the terrible event occurred.”
“A human being killed Ellen Delaney, Professor, and you’re one of the few people in the village who can help spread that truth instead of riling them up with these stories.”
“I believe now.”
“You only believe in selling your book.”
“You must watch your step.”
She could not believe a professor was speaking like this, but he had best-selling book on the brain and he was sticking to his part like glue. “Has anyone had an early read?”
“Of course not.” He tilted his head away from her and looked at her sideways as if he was a parrot instead of a man.
“Are you sure?” With his ego, he’d definitely shown someone, or several someone’s early drafts of his book.
“I’m quite sure.”
She wasn’t. He was lying about it, that’s what she was sure of. The question was . . . why?
The professor pushed his glasses up yet again, making Siobhán want to tape them to his head. “I see that you’re determined,” he said. “So if I mention something to you, something that is most likely quite innocent, I trust you’d treat it with the discretion it requires?”
“You have my word.”
He sighed. “The last time I remember seeing Ellen Delaney was after a council meeting.” He paused. “She was in a heated argument. I couldn’t make out the words, but she was quite irate, reading someone the riot act as it were.”
Siobhán stepped closer. “Reading who the riot act?”
The professor lifted his head. “The councilman. The subject of Ellen Delaney’s rage was Aiden Cunningham.”