Death's Excellent Vacation

Home from America SHARAN NEWMAN

Sharan Newman is a medieval historian. That is a constant in her life. As a writer, however, she has published fantasy (the Guinevere trilogy), eleven historical mysteries (the Catherine LeVendeur series), three nonfiction books, and a number of articles and short stories in several genres, including one in the Stephen King issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction. For her most recent book, The Real History of the End of the World (Berkley, 2010), she was able to use all of these genres to find how people through history have envisioned the end of time. She lives on a mountainside in Oregon.

PATRICK Anthony O’Reilly had dark curls, deep blue eyes, and a smile that could bewitch any woman from eight to eighty and beyond. He had the gift of gab, a hollow leg for porter and poteen, a fine tenor, and a cheerful readiness to join in any brawl going. Every St. Paddy’s Day he was sure to be found at Biddy McGraw’s pub, weeping in homesickness for Galway and cursing the English. In short, he was as fine an Irishman as ever came out of Cleveland.

When his friends pointed out to him that his family had come over to America in 1880, Patrick brushed the fact aside as unimportant.

“That doesn’t make me a whit less Irish,” he’d brag. “Four generations in America and not one of my family has ever married out.”

“Who else would have you?” his friend Kevin once countered. “Might have done you some good if they had. They breed runts in your clan.”

That was a low blow. Patrick hadn’t spoken to Kevin for a month after that. But what did you expect? Kevin was a typical American mongrel: Polish, Italian, and Irish. The best you could say about his family was that they were all Catholic. But it was the jab at his size that cut Pat so deeply. He was barely five foot two, with hair gel. His parents were even shorter; his mother not even five feet. Pat had had to develop a lot of charm to get himself noticed in a world of hulking football players and long-legged women.

His size and youthful looks also meant that he could never get a pint without his ID being scrutinized with a magnifying glass. And sometimes even then, nervous bartenders shooed him out.

At twenty-five he still lived with his parents and worked at the post office alongside his father, Michael, and his cousins, sorting mail from all over the world while never leaving his own neighborhood. The O’Reillys tended to stay close, enduring the teasing about their size as a unified and slightly daunting group. Over the generations, they had made the local post office their own, and it was rare that anyone over five and a half feet tall was given a job there.

Pat rebelled inwardly at this extreme clannishness, but his secret desire was not to escape to a more varied culture. What he dreamed of most, with all his heart, was to return to the old country, not the Ireland of industry and high tech, but the land it had once been. Patrick O’Reilly really lived in a world of Celtic glory, of valiant battles and ancient adventures. He saw himself as the heir to Cu Chulainn and Niall of the Silver Hand. He was the navigator for St. Brendan, sailing beyond the edge of the horizon. He was one of the Wild Geese, following his king into exile. He was Michael Collins and Charles Parnell and Eamon de Valera, fighting tyranny.

He was anyone but himself. Anywhere but the post office, watching stamps fly by from places he’d never see.

Since he paid little for his room and board, Pat had spent years squirreling away his paychecks until he had enough to finally make the trip to Ireland in style. But now that there was a tidy sum in his account, he still felt uncomfortable taking anything out, even for the trip of a lifetime. The whole family was like that, not exactly miserly, but reluctant to spend on anything but the necessaries. Pat thought he’d escaped the trait until the time came to make a withdrawal. The only thing any O’Reilly ever spent money on was shoes. Not one of them would dream of appearing in knockoffs. The finest leather and the best construction were essential. Most of the family spent more on shoes than food.

Perhaps he delayed the trip simply because he’d never gone anywhere without at least a few other O’Reillys. He’d tried to suggest to his parents that they make a family pilgrimage back to Ireland, but they always laughed and asked why he’d want to do that, when America had been so good to them all.

“We were driven out of Ireland,” his mother, Eileen, reminded him. “No one wanted us there. We were starving and forced to work for nothing.”

“That we were,” his father, Michael, nodded sagely over his briar pipe. “Here we’ve made our own Ireland, one that no one can invade. I wouldn’t go back there for all the gold in the world.”

Eileen gave him a sharp glance of warning that Pat didn’t notice.

“But you’ve never been there, either of you,” he whined. “Nor have your parents or anyone in the family. I just want to see the auld sod. I want to find my roots!”

“Don’t be a muggins!” His dad cuffed him gently. “You don’t need to look for your roots. The trees are all around you.”

Pat didn’t ask again, but he never stopped dreaming.

ONE day in spring, Pat came home from a late shift, eager for the porter stew his mother usually left for him to warm up. Instead of a solitary dinner and a beer, he found the house full to the rafters with cousins, uncles, aunts, and other assorted O’Reilly attachments. No one said a word, a miracle akin to the Second Coming. There was only one reason Pat could imagine for such solemnity.

“Who died?” he asked.

His mother stood slowly. In her hands she gripped a large, bright green envelope, edged with gold. Pat noticed right away that it hadn’t gone through the post. There was no stamp, only a pristine blob of sealing wax. It didn’t look like a death notice. The gold seemed to shimmer like the Cuyahoga River in flames.

Still no one spoke. This unnerved Patrick most. Normally a family gathering would have put a henhouse to shame, with all the squawks, shouts, bursts of laughter, wails of infants, and, of course, the firmly stated opinions that eventually would lead to blows.

“Mom?” he asked warily.

At last she broke the silence. “It’s come,” she quavered, clutching the envelope to her chest. “We haven’t been asked in fifty years, not since my granddad’s time. I thought they’d forgotten all about us.”

She searched in her pocket for a tissue, too overwhelmed to continue. Her sister, Teresa, took over.

“It’s the invitation to the summer gathering,” she told Patrick. “Only a thousand are so honored to be asked, and it happens only once every ten years.”

“Imagine that,” Pat’s father murmured. “Out of all those millions of O’Reillys. And, when you add us up, that’s sixty-odd people right here. I thought we were never invited because they wouldn’t ask so many of us. Who’d have ever thought it?”

Patrick was tired, hungry, and out of patience. “Will one of you either tell me what’s going on or else let me get to the kitchen for my stew?”

“It’s Ireland!” Aunt Teresa looked at Pat as if he were dense. “We’re all going to the Beltane Gathering, the O’Reilly fine reunion. Now, young man, you’ll finally see just how deep your roots go.”

Then the storm broke and everyone began to talk at once.

Patrick paid no attention to the babble around him. Ireland! He couldn’t take it in. After all the years of denying any interest in it, suddenly everyone was acting as if they’d been given the key to Heaven. Of course, that had always been Pat’s attitude, but he was astounded to find that others had been harboring the same longing.

The family immediately passed from chaos to high-gear efficiency. Dentist appointments were canceled, weddings postponed, mail stopped. The post office proved a problem, since their branch was almost totally staffed by O’Reillys or their in-laws. Pat was amazed that his father managed to get them all vacation time at once.

“How did you do it, Dad?”

Michael winked and tapped his nose. “I guess there’s a bit of the old craft still in me.” He gave Patrick a conspiratorial grin.

Pat had no idea what his dad meant. Many of the things going on in those weeks before the journey bewildered him. The clothes his mother and the other women were packing came from trunks in the back of their closets. The bright colors and wild patterns were startling to him. He’d never seen any of them in anything but jeans or tailored dresses for church and parties. The men were equally odd, packing briar pipes and gnarled walking sticks that had also appeared in the depths of the storerooms.

As the preparations grew more frantic, his confusion became tinged with a sense of dread that made no sense to him, either. He tried to shake it. This was his life’s dream. He didn’t want it spoiled by irrational worries. But the behavior of his elders gave him a sense that he was walking blindfolded on a staircase with no railing.

“There’s something off about this. They’re keeping secrets,” he complained to his cousin Jerry. “The aunts and uncles, my mom and dad. When I come in, they all stop talking. If the phone rings when I’m home, they ask the caller to ring them later. My parents argue in whispers after they go to bed.”

“Don’t be daft,” Jerry grinned. “You always did think the sun shone out your ass. They aren’t keeping anything from you. There hasn’t been a secret in this family since Aunt Kate ran off with the milkman. And we found that one out eventually.”

“I never believed she’d decided to join the Carmelites and take a vow of silence.” Pat was momentarily diverted from his worry. “Aunt Kate even talked in her sleep.”

“So, how do you think all of them together could be hiding some great, dark secret?” Jerry shook his head. “We need to celebrate, not mope about. After over a hundred years, we’re going home to Ireland! The first thing I’m going to do is have a proper draft Guinness. What about you?”

Pat allowed his cousin to ramble on but couldn’t escape the belief that his parents’ generation was in a turmoil about the upcoming trip. They were all thrilled and excited, definitely. But there was an undercurrent in their conversations that made him nervous. Something about the gathering, or Gathering, was putting them all on edge.

Eileen had no patience with his prodding.

“We told you,” she snapped when he’d been at her about it all during dinner. “It’s a sort of family reunion.”

“We have more family?” Patrick was aghast at the thought. “I suppose O’Reilly is a common name. So what could be so awful about that? Why are you all so jumpy? Is there something wrong with them?”

“Of course not!” She thumped another serving of potatoes onto his plate. “I’ve never met them, but I’ve never heard anything bad about them, either.”

“Then why haven’t I ever heard anything about them at all?” Patrick pushed the plate away. He knew that refusing food was guaranteed to get his mother’s attention, and her goat.

Eileen’s lips tightened to a thin line. She took a deep breath before answering.

“You’re hearing about them now,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. Then she softened. “I’d tell you more, my darling, but the others think it best if you wait until we get there. You’ll understand then.”

She got up and went to the kitchen for more gravy, but Patrick was sure he heard her mutter, “I hope.”

ON May twenty-fifth, the day of the flight, the O’Reillys met in the boarding area at the airport. Patrick had never seen his entire family all in one place outside someone’s home or in church. It mortified him to realize what a loud, uncouth bunch they were. The children were running around, squealing with excitement, and Cousin Jerry was egging them on. The others were all hugging and greeting as if they hadn’t all been seeing one another every day for most of their lives. His cousin Liz had dyed her black hair a neon green in honor of the occasion. Pat tried to edge away from them, to pretend he was just another businessman for whom a trip across the Atlantic was nothing special.

Of course they wouldn’t let him, but dragged him into the mob with jokes and claps on the back, all at eardrum-shattering decibels. Patrick felt the tips of his ears turning bright red. He vowed that as soon as they landed at Shannon, he was going to distance himself from these boorish tourists as soon as possible. They were going to Ireland to drink and party. He was on a sacred quest to find his heritage.

The flight was predictably rowdy. Pat couldn’t understand why the other passengers and the flight attendants were so tolerant. They even seemed to enjoy the impromptu rendition of “Galway Bay” from his father, Jerry, and the uncles.

In the gray light of morning the plane slid down through the cloud cover and the O’Reillys got their first glimpse of what for them was the Promised Land.

There was a whoosh as everyone let out their breath at once. Pat’s father put an arm around his mother.

“Look at it, my love,” he sighed. “Did you ever think there were that many shades of green in the world?”

Eileen smiled and caressed his hand. “I never thought I’d see them. Whatever happens, this is worth it.”

“Nothing will happen.” He cocked his head in Pat’s direction. “This will be the grandest vacation we’ve ever had. Won’t it, son?”

Pat didn’t answer. He was staring out the window with the fervor of a pilgrim in sight of Jerusalem.

THERE was a bus waiting for them with O’Reilly painted in big black letters on the side. The clan piled in, exhausted and eager at the same time. Pat realized that he had no idea what kind of place they were going to. He had imagined some sort of manor house, with polished wood wainscoting and stone fireplaces. Or perhaps a nice resort hotel with a golf course.

Instead the bus drove for what seemed like hours into a countryside where there seemed to be nothing but windswept fields and hundreds of sheep wandering freely. Finally, they pulled in to a sort of trailer park, with old-fashioned silver caravans arranged in concentric circles around a couple of large, whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs. There was smoke coming from the chimney of one of them, and Pat got his first whiff of the heady and slightly intoxicating scent of burning peat.

Then they were surrounded by a sea of people, all of them small, with dark hair and skin ranging from deeply tanned to the shade of pale milk. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Pat thought. There really are more of us in the world. The babble of accents was surprising, especially coming from such familiar faces. The English assaulting his ears was broad Australian, British, and Anglo-Indian. He even thought he heard cadences of Spanish and French. How far had the O’Reillys emigrated?

Pat and his family were shown to one of the caravans, which turned out to be nicely appointed in a three-quarter size that was perfect for them, with a small kitchen and a shower in its own stall next to the bathroom. Eileen was delighted.

“My grandmother told me about these, from when she was a little girl,” she told Pat. “Isn’t it cozy? Just like the ones the Travelers have, although not so colorful.”

She seemed disappointed about that, but, for once, Pat was too tired to try to get more information. He wanted a shower and a sleep. Then, he promised himself, he’d rent a car or a bike and strike out on his own.

It was the singing that woke him. Dusk had fallen and the bar must have opened. Pat now saw the sense in having this reunion far away from other people. He pulled on some clean clothes and ventured out.

A huge bonfire had been built in a hollow in front of one of the buildings. Long trestle tables and benches were ranged around it. Lamplight gushed from the open door and all the windows. The tables were full of people happily tucking into shepherd’s pie. Every hand held a glass. The smell of the lamb and potatoes was enticing.

Pat picked up a plate and a glass. Perhaps he’d wait until tomorrow to make his getaway.

The fire grew higher, sending out sparks in bursts of blue, red, gold, and green. In a haze of alcohol and peat smoke, Pat thought what a neat trick it was to make it seem as if the fireworks were coming out of the center of the blaze.

There was singing and drinking and dancing and drinking and wrestling matches far into the night. Pat soon realized that he had imbibed more than he could stand. He knew this because he tried to stand and failed. He began to crawl back to the trailer, blaming his lack of stamina on the jet lag.

His eyes must be going, too. He’d hardly gone ten yards when he felt someone fall on top of him.

“Oops-a-daisy!” a lilting feminine voice giggled. “Sorry, mate! I didn’t see you down there.”

Pat muzzily looked around for the source of the body and the voice, but didn’t see anyone. Jerry must have been right. The porter in Ireland was much stronger than the kind they drank in the States. He continued on to the trailer and fell into bed.

HE awoke the next morning feeling completely disoriented. The silver curve of the ceiling gave him the impression that he was lying inside a metal ball that was rolling uphill. After several moments spent clutching the edge of his bunk to avoid falling out, he realized that it was only the wind sweeping from the ocean across the treeless land that was rocking the trailer. The door to his parents’ cubicle was ajar. Pat peeked in and found they were gone. The clock on the wall said half past ten.

As Pat dressed and boiled water for coffee, he read the program that he found on the table.

“Welcome!!! Welcome!!! Welcome Home!!!” it began.

Pat liked their enthusiasm. He skimmed down the page. It seemed that he had already missed the full Irish breakfast. The morning seemed to be taken up with seminars, not what he had expected. However, if everyone was inside listening to edifying talks, he should have no trouble creeping off.

The kettle whistled and Pat sat down again with his mug. He looked over the program more carefully.

“What the hell . . . ?” he said, reading the titles of the seminars. “ ‘How to keep your pot of gold in trying times.’ ‘Invisibility, the best defense.’ ‘Which end of the rainbow?’ ‘To jig or not to jig: fighting the stereotypes.’ ‘Making shoes that last.’ What kind of nonsense is this?”

Burning with curiosity and no little annoyance, Pat gulped down his coffee and set out in search of someone who could tell him what this was all about.

THE sun was beginning to burn off the morning fog as he crossed the field to the central buildings. Wisps of smoke still rose from the coals of the bonfire. Pat saw no one, although he could hear music coming from the far building. A banner above the door proclaimed this the meeting hall.

Inside, the building was a typical Irish shotgun house, if much larger than most. A long hallway stretched from front to back, with rooms branching out on either side. The subjects of the talks were posted on the doors. Pat first looked into the one on invisibility, but it was empty. The next room was the talk on keeping a pot of gold. This one was packed. He edged into a space near the door. No one noticed him as they were all intent on the speaker, a solemn woman with thick spectacles and a mound of white hair pulled into a bun.

“Of course,” she was saying, “apartment living makes subterranean deposits difficult. However, a well-constructed space beneath the floor-boards, preferably in a bedroom, can be used in a pinch.”

“But what about fire and thieves?” a man in the front row asked.

“We always have to worry about thieves,” the speaker told him. “As for fire, don’t they teach the protection charms anymore? Really, that should have been explained to you about the time you were weaned, young man. What is this race coming to?”

She gestured to the audience. “How many here never learned the five essential charms?”

Over half of the group raised their hands. The woman sighed. “Eithne, add that to the seminars for tomorrow. Just because you’re living away from home doesn’t mean you can go native.” She looked at the note cards in front of her. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, guarding against fluctuation in the price of gold.”

Watching the audience intent on every word, Patrick was certain he had found the secret his parents had been hiding; he came from a family of lunatics. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

He started out the open door, back into the sane sunshine, when he collided with something. He wasn’t much hurt, for it was soft.

“We meet again,” a voice said in his ear. “Is this the American idea of courtship?”

Very, very slowly, Pat turned his face in the direction of the sound.

In the sunlight something was sparkling. The bits of light gradually coalesced into the form of a woman. When he could make out her face, Pat saw that she was straining in concentration, eyes squeezed shut and her mouth tight with effort. At last she came into focus. He saw that she was about his own age, with black curls, hazel eyes, and the sun-touched skin of the Australians. She laughed at his expression.

“I know I’m not great at reappearing,” she said. “But that’s no reason to look like a dying mackerel.”

Pat closed his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going back to my bed until I wake up.”

It had to be something in the beer. There was no other explanation. Perhaps this was some sort of CIA experiment. He probably wasn’t in Ireland at all, but strapped into a chair with electrodes stuck in his brain. Although why the government would want him to believe that beautiful Irish-Australian women could appear out of thin air was more than he could imagine.

Before he could make a move, the sound of applause signaled the end of the talks. The doors flew open and people came piling out. Patrick grabbed his father as soon as he appeared.

“You have got to tell me what’s going on!” he demanded. “Am I hallucinating or crazy? Is any of this really happening?”

Aunt Teresa appeared at his elbow. Had she been there a second before? She shook her head at Pat in disgust.

“That’s what you get for being blind drunk last night and missing the breakfast meeting,” she told him. “Eileen, it’s time you told the boy the truth. I never agreed with the way you and Michael kept him so completely in the dark.”

“Mind your own business,” Eileen shot back. “It’s not like you told your children the whole truth.”

“Well, they at least know the five charms.” Teresa went nose to nose with her sister. “You just let Patrick stuff his head with all that Celtic nonsense.”

“This is not the time,” Michael said, gently pushing the women apart. “Come along, Pat. Teresa is right for once. Your mother and I have some explaining to do.”

THEY settled back into the trailer. Eileen fussed with the tea things for a bit, making such a clatter that conversation was impossible. At last she set mugs down for each of them. Michael cleared his throat.

“You see, son,” he began. “You seemed so happy thinking you were a Celt that we didn’t want to—”

“Oh my God!” Pat interrupted. “I’m adopted!”

“Of course not,” Eileen laughed. “And you with your granddad’s nose and his mother’s own eyes. Don’t be silly.”

“It’s the O’Reilly name, Pat,” Michael continued. “We took that when we came to America. We’re Irish, right enough, but not from the Celts. Our ancestors were the Fir Bolg, who were here before the Tuatha ever landed and long before the Celts appeared.”

Patrick waited for the rest of the explanation. He knew the old stories. The Fir Bolg were the Irish defeated by the Tuatha de Danann at the first battle of Magh Tuiredh. They were relegated to the wilds of Connaught, and some were enslaved by the conquerors. Later, Celtic invaders defeated the Tuatha, who faded away under the hills and became the sidh, the fairies of Ireland. At least, that was the legend. His father had always stressed that the Fir Bolg were the first ones, the true Irish. But it was just a story.

Pat searched his parents’ faces for signs of suppressed laughter or incipient madness.

“All right,” he said carefully, in case they became violent. “Our family is descended from the oldest of the Irish. Interesting. Are you saying that we’re part of the sidh? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd, seeing as they’re mythical?”

“They’re not a myth,” Eileen stated. “A legend. There’s a big difference.”

Michael leaned over and put a hand on Pat’s arm. “We should have told you, son, but we’ve tried so hard to fit in. We put our money in banks, instead of burying it. No one in the family has soled a shoe in decades. America was a new start for us. It’s not as though it was easy for our kind here in Ireland, forced to work for the Tuatha, hunted by men for our gold, and,” he faltered, “and by other things.”

Something finally connected in Pat’s brain. He leaned back in the chair and started to laugh.

“You had me going there,” he told them. “You and that girl with the vanishing trick. You can’t be serious. You want me to believe we’re leprechauns?”

Michael drew himself up. “And why not?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“We taught you to be proud of your heritage,” Eileen added. “None of us married out for four generations in America and four hundred in Ireland. Teresa was right; we should have taught you the charms. But we thought you were charming enough on your own.”

She smiled fondly and stood up, brushing her hands on her swirling peasant skirt.

“Well, now that you know, shall we get back to the group? There’s a seminar on soda bread recipes that I want to go to this afternoon.”

“A few of us were going to go down and dig our own turf. It will be too damp for the fire tonight, but we wanted to see what it was like,” Michael said. “Want to come with us, son?” He got up, too.

“Whoa!” Pat caught them at the door. “You tell me a boatload of bilge like that and then expect me to just get on with the party?”

“Sure,” Michael answered. “You’ve got your explanation. Now that you know you’re not going mad, you can get on with enjoying yourself. Once you’ve learned the five charms for staying out of trouble, you can take the invisibility class.”

“But no cobbling shoes,” Eileen warned. “Some of these others have some idiotic idea about tradition and want to go back to the old ways, but I say that’s bringing back the bad old days. I’ll never be a cobbler to a bunch of airy-fairies who still live in earth mounds.”

Pat was too dumbfounded to resist as they took his arms and led him back to the reunion.

“The very first thing you do, my boy,” Michael said after lunch was done, “is get to the charm class. I always told your mother that you should have at least been taught that much.”

“Right, Dad.” Pat could think of nothing to do but go along for now. There were too many of them to fight, and they all seemed to share the same delusion.

He hesitated before going to the charm session, not because he thought it was silly, which he did, but because that Australian girl might be there. And he wanted to find her again. Not because she was attractive, not at all. He was determined to get her to tell him how she had made him think she could turn invisible. Pat grinned to himself. He was sure he already had enough charm to talk that one around. A woman didn’t bump against him twice unless she was interested.

Pat did a circle of the camp and the session rooms, but didn’t see his quarry. It occurred to him that she might still be invisible, and then he shook himself for even considering such an absurdity.

The charm class had barely started when he arrived. The teacher, a slim man even shorter than Patrick, spoke with a lilt that seemed more Spanish than Irish. Pat wondered how many O’Reillys there were in the Mexico City phone book.

“The five charms—pay attention now.” He glared directly at Pat. “These can save your life and your gold.” He held up his hand and counted them off. “You must learn to ward off fire, flood, cave-in, wicked tongues, and most of all, the envy of the ones who stayed behind.”

Someone in the front raised a hand.

“Why should we care about the Old Ones?” a boy asked. “They didn’t have the courage to get on the boats with the rest of the Fir Bolg. There are hardly any left here, my mother says, and they have no power.”

“No power?” The teacher made a complicated gesture with his left hand. “You take a dozen steps outside the rings here and see what happens. No power! Do you know how much force there is in a grudge held for two hundred years? They hate us all for escaping while those cowards stayed behind. Now I want you all to know these inside out before you leave this room. No power,” he muttered again. “What are they teaching them these days?”

Pat did his best to pick up the chants and gestures, mostly because he knew his parents would grill him. The rest of the people in the room were practicing as if their lives depended on it. Once again, Pat longed to get out and find the Ireland of his dreams. He wondered if that was the reason this remote site had been chosen. Out in the wilds of Connemara, surrounded by treacherous bog, with no car and a cell phone that only worked in the States, the only way to leave was to walk and hope to find some sort of habitation that would let him call for a taxi.

He was getting close to risking it. Looking around him at all the idiots solemnly waving their hands about while reciting words in a language a thousand years dead, if not entirely made up, Pat felt like a duck in a flock of loons.

That afternoon he spotted his cousin Jerry sitting at a table with a bunch of people from the invisibility seminar. They were on the other side of the bonfire, so Pat was sure that it was a trick of the light that made them fade in and out. Just to be sure, he took his glass and went over to join them.

“Hey, Patrick!” Jerry greeted him heartily. “Isn’t this the most amazing holiday ever? Who’d have thought we were magical? Won’t they get a laugh out of this at Biddy’s when we get back?”

“You aren’t going to let our friends know we’re leprechauns!” Patrick was aghast. “Don’t we get enough guff about our size as it is?”

“But look what I can do.” Jerry concentrated on his arm and it slowly vanished, leaving a pint mug floating in midair. “They’ll be buying me drinks all night, just to watch.”

“And none of this seems strange to you?” Pat asked, gesturing at the happy commotion around them.

Jerry scratched his nose with his perceptible hand. “Not really,” he decided. “It feels like family, only with a few twists. I mean, when you think about it, this answers a lot of questions about us. Like why we’re so short and can still drink everyone else flat. And why my dad won’t even polish his own shoes. If that was your slave job, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of it. Although,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Sheila told me that Ferragamo’s real name is Fergus. What do you think?”

“I think you’re all barking mad,” Pat thumped his glass down. “Or I am. Either way, I’ve had enough.”

“Pat, what’s wrong with you?” Jerry asked. “This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? We’re back in our homeland, among our people, and learning really cool tricks. Not to mention really hot cousins distant enough to date. Loosen up!”

“This isn’t what I dreamed of.” Pat was nearly in tears. “I’m trapped inside a double circle in the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen nothing of the country. Some old fart tells me my ancestors were shoemaking slaves instead of heroes. I don’t know how you do that disappearing thing, and I don’t care. I came here to soak up the real Ireland, to come home at last. And you all seem happy to camp out for a while, learn some parlor tricks, and go back home.”

“Well, yes, that sums it up,” Jerry grinned. “Haven’t you been listening? We’re proud of what we came from. Real leprechauns, who’d have thought it? But our family had the gumption to get on the boats and get out. We all went places where we could be free, even marry out, like Kate and the milkman. I want to be back in Cleveland in time for baseball season. I love it here, but it’s not my home.”

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 Shannon to catch the plane. Then he tossed some clothes into his backpack along with a toothbrush and razor. He’d hitch a ride to the nearest town and take a bus from there. Maybe he’d even find some real O’Reillys who’d take him in.

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 announced to the world at large, “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”

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’Connor, had taken him to a pub in Ballyveane for dinner and had invited him to stay the night on their farm. They were full of ideas for places he should visit.

“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 running to get away. Roddy and Mary shouted and stomped after him a few feet before giving up. They were still blaming each other at the top of their lungs when Pat reached a grove of trees and relaxed enough that his body reappeared.

“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 grinned. “I’ve lost my way. May I come in?”

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.

“Home from America, the renegade bastard,” Seamus said, as he raised his knife. “And just in time for supper.”