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

offered him another samosa. Perhaps if she kept him in good humor, he might be persuaded to use another dandelion.
    Gnawing away on the second pastry, Yallery stretched out his legs.
    Dana noted the two left feet but didn’t comment. It was time for dessert. She doled out three chocolates each, mindful that reserves must be kept for the road ahead.
    Yallery licked the edges of a coffee cream with his pale pink tongue.
    “Give us an oul scéal ,” he said. “I haven’t heard a human tale in ages.”
    She looked confused.
    “You mean like a fairy tale?”
    “Nah, sure they’re old hat and a load of blatherumskite. Too much use of the imagination. Ye always have to guess what’s really goin’ on. Give me a human tale any day. All facts and feelings. Will I tell ye a story about Johnny Magorey?”
    She nodded, chewing on a toffee.
    “Shall I begin it?”
    She nodded again.
    “That’s all that’s in it!”
    His cackles ended in a fit of coughing.
    Dana laughed too.
    “Good one. I’ll tell it to me Da when I get home.”
    The sudden thought of Gabe brought a sharp pang and her mood changed.
    Yallery gave her a thoughtful look. He began to chant in a singsong voice.
Skinnymalink melodeon legs ,
Big banana feet ,
Went to the pictures
And couldn’t get a seat .
    She was laughing again.
    “Your turn,” he said. “A poem or a song or a tale.”
    “I can’t,” she pleaded. “Da’s the storyteller in the family. How about a joke?”
    Before he could object, she launched into one.
    “A grasshopper goes into a bar and the barman says, ‘Do ye know there’s a drink named after ye?’ ‘Really?’ says the grasshopper. ‘There’s a drink named Bob?’”
    Yallery Brown blinked, perplexed.
    “There’s a drink called a grasshopper,” she explained.
    “What? Are ye tellin’ me yer kind drink grasshoppers’ blood? The poor wee craters!”
    “No, no,” she said, and tried to explain again, but it was no longer funny.
    “Asha, that won’t do at’all at’all,” he said, relentless.
    “What about yer own tale? Isn’t everyone the grand hero in his own life story?”
    “There’s not much to mine,” Dana said. She thought a moment. “Well, to start off. My name’s Dana Faolan. I belong to the Faolans of Wicklow, that’s me Da’s people. His mum, my gran, is a Gowan from Wexford. She lives in Canada. I don’t know anything about my own mum’s family. She left before I could ask her about them.” Dana was quiet a minute. “She left before I could ask her about anything.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I’ve only got half a story I guess.”
    Yallery Brown patted her hand.
    “No matter, a leanbh . Sure, yer still inside your tale. And what is it that yer kind do be sayin’? It ain’t over till the fat lady sings .”
    The latter was said with such an awful attempt at an American accent that Dana couldn’t help but laugh.
    Satisfied, Yallery brushed the samosa crumbs out of his beard and produced another dandelion from inside his clothing.
    Dana scrambled to gather up her things.
    As the little man blew on the downy clock, his last words sailed through the air.
    “Fare ye well on the journey, girl. Follow the greenway .”
    And then with a whoosh , like water sucked down a drain, he disappeared.
    Dana looked around her. Yallery Brown was gone and she was still on top of Duff Hill.
    “Damn!”

 
    f Dana hadn’t been so cheered by Yallery Brown’s company, she would have been devastated. All around her ranged a wilderness of rock and damp grass under endless sky. She was on the northern flank of the Wicklow Mountains, on a long ridge that wound through windswept bog. She was nowhere near the trail that would take her to Lugnaquillia.
    Glumly she stared at the map. She would have to stay on the ridge, of which Duff Hill was a part, and continue westward to Mullaghcleevaun. From there she could head south for the Wicklow Gap and west again to her destination. Just looking at the route, she knew