The Light-Bearer's Daughter by O.R. Melling Page A

an instant that she was in danger.
    Dana stood transfixed, unsure what to do. At the corner of her eye, she searched for the stones she had dropped. She needed weapons.
    Murta licked his lips as he bore down on her.
    The little man had stopped yelling to stare at Murta, and now turned to Dana.
    “Are ye with the likes of that, girsearch ?” he asked her.
    “No.”
    She had meant the word to be emphatic, but it was more like a whimper.
    Murta was almost upon them. His eyes were burning. Dana tried to force her feet to run but she was paralyzed with fear.
    “I thought not,” said the little man.
    Rooting in his clothing, he pulled out a dandelion with its thistledown still intact.
    “Hold on to yer britches,” he said, catching hold of Dana’s hand. “We’ll be away in a hack.”
    He puffed on the weed.
    And blew the two of them away. Right off the mountain!
    It was the oddest sensation, like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner. With a whoosh the landscape blurred around Dana in streaks of green and brown with a blue blotch of sky.
    Then she found herself on another mountain peak entirely, dizzy but relieved.
    “Thanks!” she said fervently. “That man scares me to death!”
    “Man?” said her companion, blinking through the tangle of hair that fell over his eyes.
    Dana regarded him curiously. Was he some kind of leprechaun? And had he helped her because she set him free?
    “Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you imprisoned in that rock or did it fall on top of you?”
    “Are ye a complete eejit or what?” he said. “I was having a lovely kip when ye rousted me out of it.”
    “But I thought …”
    Dana stopped. He was having a nap? She felt a little light-headed. Between the huge relief at escaping Murta and the antics of this funny little man, she couldn’t help but giggle.
    “Are you a fairy?” she asked him.
    “Do I look like one?” he said testily.
    Her giggles died.
    “Sorry,” she said quickly. “The Lady told me—”
    He raised a grubby hand and his voice softened.
    “Stop the lights! I have ye now. Yer the Lady’s messenger.She sent word to watch out for ye. Is that why yer able to see me when none of yer kind do? They’re always passin’ me by with their big banjaxed feet and bags o’ grub. They all sit down on Yallery Brown’s bed—the Traveler’s Rock, they call it—and divil a one of them offers me a bite to eat. You’d think I didn’t have a mouth on me.”
    He eyed her knapsack hopefully.
    “I was just about to have my tea,” she told him.
    Yallery surveyed the peak around them and pointed to a large flat stone nearby.
    “There’s a handsome piece of furniture,” he said. “’Twill do for our table.”
    They settled down on the stone and Dana laid out her fare—a chunk of cheddar cheese, a leftover salad roll, four samosas, some pickles, several apples, and a little heap of chocolates.
    Yallery eyed the samosas.
    “I never seen the like o’ dat before.”
    He picked one up and held it to his nose. His whiskers trembled. Holding the pastry with both hands, he began to nibble it daintily, starting at the corners.
    Dana had to fight back another bout of giggles. He ate like her hamsters. She herself wolfed down the sandwich of lettuce, tomato, red onion, and chopped peppers. She was starving. It was hours since the picnic at the Powerscourt Waterfall. After all that had happened, it seemed like days. She stared up at the sky. The sun was lower. Evening was coming. Rummaging in her knapsack, she pulled out her map and spread it on her lap.
    “Can you tell me where we are?” she asked him, her mouth full.
    Yallery Brown peered down at the map. It was a three-dimensional image of the Wicklow Mountains, showing peaks and valleys, lakes and rivers.
    “There,” he said, placing a grubby finger on Duff Hill.
    “Oh,” she said, dismayed.
    He had blown her north, way off course, adding at least another day to her journey. Doing her best to hide her disappointment, she