Yahoo!" said Gwen. "A restaurant! I'm starving!" The road had brought them to a souvenir shop and tea room. The smell of baked goods wafted through the air. The sounds of cutlery and conversation echoed from the lace-curtained windows. There were also tables and chairs outside, in a tidy garden with rosebushes and trimmed hedges. To the right was a parking lot and further beyond, the iron gates that led to the Hill of Tara.
"You told me to keep you from stuffing yourself," Findabhair reminded her.
"I meant soda bread and sausages, and fattening things like that. Something small will do. All this excitement makes me want to eat."
"First Tara, then food."
"Bossy-boots," muttered Gwen.
To the unknowing eye, Tara was no more than a rambling expanse of windy hilltop. Its name meant simply "a place from which there is a wide prospect." Indeed, to the unknowing eye, Tara held no other charm than the magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. In all directions, the fertile lands of the central plain of Meath stretched to distant borders of misty mountains and the blue rim of the sea.
For Gwen and Findabhair, there was so much more. This royal residence and center had been the pulse of Ireland for over two thousand years. Bright-surfaced Teamhair, the poets called her. Tara of Kings. The glory of the place was subtle and secret. It lingered in the shadows of the tall grasses that covered the mounds and earthworks. It whispered on the wind. Cnoc na mBan-Laoch. The Hill of the Women-Heroes. On this green knoll assembled the female warriors, golden torcs at their throats, slender spears in their hands. Not until the seventh century A.D. and the Christian laws of Cáin Adamnáin were women banned from warfare. Teach Míodchuarta. The Banquet Hall. A long sunken trench between two parallel banks, it was once a house of noble proportions. Fourteen doors graced its high walls: seven to face the golden sun, seven to face the silver moon. Ráth na Ríogh. The Royal Enclosure. In ages past, this broad circle housed a kingly fort crowned with a palisade of oak. Here was held the great Feis of Tara, the coronation ritual in which the King wed the Goddess of the land.
The girls left their knapsacks at the gate to roam freely over fosse and ridge. In a happy daze, they told themselves that they were treading in the footsteps of kings and queens, Druids and warriors. They imagined the gatherings for games and festivals, the making of laws, and the hosting of armies. They shivered at the thought of lunar feasts that saw mysterious rites and ritual sacrifices.
Gwen climbed onto the Grave Mound of the Hostages, a small green hill like an upturned bowl. A strange lassitude came over her. She lay down in the grass, which was warm from the sun. Overhead, the clouds moved across the blue plain of the sky. They were traveling swiftly, herded like sheep by the wind. At the corner of her eye, a black beetle scuttled over the ground. Nearby a snail clung to a green stalk, fast asleep, its shell a spiral of cream and brown. Gwen felt lost and glad, caught up in the flow of forever.
Ever restless and active, Findabhair was searching the site like a hunter's hound. Arriving at the mound from a different angle, she discovered the opening in the hill. It was barred by a metal gate with a padlock.
"It's a cairn!" she called up to Gwen, who didn't answer.
Findabhair pressed her face to the railings and peered into the dimness. Just as she had thought. Despite its appearance as a grassy hill, the mound was man-made with heavy slabs of stone. The interior was dark and hollow, like a cave. Or a tomb. She shivered. There were carvings on the great stone to her left. She could barely make out the circular designs, spiraling eyes and snakes swallowing their tails. She wished she knew what they meant. A yearning came over her. She wanted to get inside.
On top of the mound, Gwen had lapsed into a daydream. The clouds were falling out of the sky, descending upon her. The crest of the hill was a green island in a misty lake. Her ears began to throb with a low thrumming sound. Her blood thrilled in response, the way feet itch to dance. Under the hum—or was it beyond?—came the trace of music. It seemed to come from a great depth or distance, like the sigh of a conch. There was a rumbling like far-off drums or thunder, but also high reedy notes like a flute or a lark. She strained to listen but the throbbing interfered, as if her ears were not attuned to such sounds.
Below her, Findabhair leaned against the gate, eyes half-closed. She too was wrapped in a milky stillness, listening to the unearthly music. Then another sound reached her. The fierce gallop of a horse. As the hooves drew near, a voice called out through the mist.
Come to the Sídhe-mound under the hill.
On the hilltop, Gwen was suddenly awake. Storm clouds had moved across the sun like the dark swirl of a cape. The grass felt cold and damp at her back. She scrambled to her feet.
"Where are you?" she cried.
Findabhair jumped away from the gate as if it had burned her. Bewildered, she looked up at Gwen who stared wildly down.
Without a word they ran from the grave mound. Grabbing their knapsacks, they dashed to the tea room as if pursued by the hounds of hell. Only when they were safely inside, surrounded by people, did they meet each other's eyes. With cups of tea and buttered scones in front of them, they could acknowledge the truth.
"It's here," Gwen whispered.
"It still exists." Findabhair nodded.
Barely able to breathe, they grinned at each other.
"I feel like standing on the table and roaring it out at the top of my lungs."
Findabhair had lowered her voice so she wouldn't give in to the temptation.
"I know what you mean. I could run up a mountain or leap off a cliff!"
Gwen slurped her tea loudly. They burst into a fit of giggles. Both felt light-headed and giddy.
"Can you remember what happened?"
Findabhair frowned with the effort, but it was too like a dream. The kind that hinted with vague images but couldn't be recalled. She shook her head.
"Me neither," Gwen sighed. "It's gone. But there was something… like… an invitation?"
"Yes! Exactly! So how do we accept?"
Gwen was attacked by misgivings.
"Should we? Weren't you afraid?"
"Definitely! The unknown would scare the bejaysus out of anyone. But you wouldn't let that stop you, would you?"
"I suppose not," Gwen hedged.
She wasn't as headstrong as her cousin, but she didn't want to be left behind, either.
"We'll camp overnight in the mound," declared Findabhair.
"Omigod!" wailed Gwen.
The couple at the next table glanced over at them. Findabhair continued inexorably.
"I've always wanted to sleep in a mound or on top of a rath. You know that's the best way to enter Faerie. It's in all the old tales and the aislings, the vision-poems."
She closed her eyes a moment as a thought flitted through her mind. Something to do with a Sídhe-mound, and Tara as well. Something in a book? The memory teased her, but remained elusive. Nevertheless she had made her decision. But would her cousin agree?
Despite the self-confessed yellow stripe down her back, Gwen was seriously considering the proposition. By no coincidence was she facing this dilemma. Hadn't she traveled to Ireland in search of adventure? It was the kind of risk that suited a quest. Though a hundred doubts and fears assailed her, some queenly part inside was giving the royal nod.
"You realize we'll be breaking the law," she pointed out. "Trespassing and who knows what else."
"Forced entry. There's a padlock on the gate." Findabhair was jubilant. If her cousin was working on the details, she was obviously in for the count. "If we get nicked, you do the talking. When they hear the American accent, they'll go easy on us."
"Never mind the accent," Gwen said, swallowing her fear. "We won't get caught."