I sat there awhile, watching. I sat there long enough to become calm, to slow my breathing, to tell myself I could manage, I would manage. Perhaps, when they gathered around the fire in the evening, they would not think it amiss if I retired early to sleep. Maybe, when they went up to join the great throng at the horse fair, I might remain behind here and walk alone on the shore, or sit and watch the slow pattern, always changing, always still the same. Perhaps that might be possible. If it were not, I would have to use the Glamour. Indeed, Grandmother would think it foolish that I had not done so by now, to cover my awkwardness, to mask my fear of strangers. I thought it foolish myself, really. But there was something held me back. I remembered Darragh’s frown, and Darragh’s words. I don’t like it when you do that. I thought of the little girl’s voice. You look pretty. I had decided, almost, that she was joking. But for a moment her words had warmed me. If I used the Glamour, everyone would think I was pretty. But it was not the same.
In the event, there was no escaping the evening’s festivities. My half-framed excuse was brushed aside by Peg, who bustled me out into the circle of folk seated on rugs and old boxes and bits and pieces around the fire. She sat me down between Molly and herself, put a cup of something steaming and fragrant into my hands, then settled herself down for the fun, all, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye. There was simply no chance to object.
Around the fire were many faces, old and new. The smaller children sat drowsing on parents’ knees, or slept curled in blankets close by a watchful sister or brother. The older folk were given pride of place, the most comfortable seats, the nearest proximity to the fire’s warmth. Everyone was there: Dan Walker with his little dark beard and the gold ring in his ear; the group of youths I had encountered on my visit to the camp, back home; Darragh himself, talking to a couple of brightly clad girls I had not seen before. There were other folk I did not know, though clearly they were invited guests. The two girls seemed to have brothers, or cousins, and there was an older, grey-haired man sitting by Dan and sharing the hot drink from a great kettle set by the fire. I sipped cautiously. It was good, but strong, something like a cider with spices and honey.
‘What about a tale or two?’ somebody asked. ‘Who’s got a good story? Brian? Diarmuid?’
‘Not me,’ said the grey-haired man, shaking his head. ‘Got a toothache. Can’t talk.’
‘Huh!’ scoffed another. ‘Have some more to drink, that’ll soon cure it.’
‘Fellow at the fair, pulls teeth neat and quick,’ Molly suggested. ‘You need to visit him, he’d have it out for you before you could so much as squeal.’
‘That butcher?’ The man paled visibly. ‘I’d as soon get my old woman to lay hold of it with a pair of fire tongs.’
There were several suggestions as to what other remedies he might have recourse to, none of them very practical. Then Dan Walker spoke up.
‘I’ll tell a tale,’ he said. There was a chorus of approval, then silence. ‘It’s about a man called Daithi, Daithi O’Flaherty. No relation, you understand, of the distinguished family of that name that lives in these parts.’ There was a roar of appreciative laughter. ‘A farmer, he was. Well, this Daithi got an idea he might go and see his sweetheart, just to pass the time of day, you understand. He was making his way along the road when he heard a little noise, tap tappity tap, from down under the bushes by the track. Daithi was a sharp fellow. He didn’t make a sound, but crouched down quiet-like, and peered under the twigs to see what it was. And bless me if he didn’t spot a tiny wee fellow, all dressed in a pointed hat and a fine small apron of leather, and by him a pitcher with a little dipper laid by it. The small one was tapping away at a boot he was making, a boot the length of one part of your finger, fit only for a clurichaun such as himself. As Daithi watched, holding his breath, the wee fellow put down his cobbler’s tool, and went to the pitcher, and he dipped the ladle in and got himself a drink of the liquor; and then he went back to his work, tap tappity tap.
‘Best handle this careful, said Daithi to himself. So he kept his voice soft, not to startle the little man.
‘“Good day to you, fine sir,” he spoke up, as polite as can be.
‘“And you, sir,” replied the small one, still tapping away.
‘“And what might it be that you’re a-fashioning there?” asked Daithi.
‘“’Tis a shoe, to be sure,” said the clurichaun, with a touch of scorn. “And what might you be doing, wandering the track instead of doing your day’s work?”
‘“I’ll be back to it soon enough,” replied Daithi, thinking, unless I catch you first. “Now tell me, what is it you have in your fine wee pot there?”
‘“Beer,” said the little man. “The tastiest ever brewed. Made it meself.” He licked his lips.
‘“Indeed?” said Daithi. “And what might you use, for such a brew? Malt, would it be?”
‘The clurichaun rolled his eyes in disdain. “Malt? Malt’s for babies. This drink’s brewed from heather. None better.”
‘“Heather?” exclaimed Daithi. “You can’t brew beer from heather.”
‘“Ah,” said the wee fellow. “’Twas the Dubh-ghaill showed me. Secret recipe. ’Tis me own family makes it, and no other.”
‘“Can I taste it then?”
‘“Surely,” said the clurichaun. “But it’s shocked I am, that a fine farmer such as yourself would be thinking to pass the time of day drinking by the road, when it’s his own geese are out of the yard and running riot all over his neighbour’s garden.”
‘Daithi was shocked, and nearly turned away to run back down to the cottage and see if the wee man was right. But at the last instant he remembered, and instead his hand shot out to grab the clurichaun by one leg. The jug went over, and all the beer spilt out on the ground.
‘“Now,” said Daithi as sternly as he could, “show me where you keep your store of gold, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
‘Well, the clurichaun was rightly trapped, for as we all know, you need only hold on to such a one and keep him in your sight, and he has to show you his treasure. So on they went down to Daithi’s own fields, and into a place with many rocks still to be shifted before it would be good for planting. The clurichaun pointed to one of these big stones towards the south end of the field.
‘“There,” said the little fellow. “Under that, there’s me crock of gold, and bad cess to you.”
‘Well, Daithi tried and he tried to shift the rock, pushing and heaving, and all the while holding on to the clurichaun, and eventually he knew he’d not get it out without his spade. But there were so many stones there, a whole field of stones. He’d need to mark it somehow, before he went for the spade. Daithi felt in his pocket. There was a bit of red ribbon there that he’d got from a travelling man, and planned to give to his sweetheart for a surprise. He fished it out, and tied it round the rock where the gold lay buried.
‘“There,” he said. He frowned at the wee man. “Now, before I let you free,” he said, knowing well the trickery of such folk, “I want your word. You’re not to move the treasure before I come back with the spade. And you’re not to take the ribbon off this rock. Give me your promise.”
‘“I promise, sure and I do,” said the clurichaun with absolute sincerity.’
There was a ripple of laughter from those in Dan’s audience who knew the end of this story.
‘“All right then,” said Daithi.