Faerie Tale. Raymond E. Feist

the house empty for almost a year, but I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me how to reach him. Perhaps he was visiting relatives, or friends of his father. That’s where he died, you know.’

      Phil nodded. ‘That was mentioned. Why’d you want to rent the farm?’

      Mark smiled. ‘There’s a lot of history about that place.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’m working on a new book myself, and while I’m reluctant to discuss it, let’s say that the history of the Kessler family has no small bearing upon the subject matter. Herman’s father, Fredrick Kessler, was something of a mystery man. He arrived from somewhere in the south of Germany, or perhaps Austria, in 1905, with a lot of money. It appears that when the First World War broke out there was some minor problem with his citizenship, but other than that he was a model member of the community. He married a girl named Helga Dorfmann and had one son. He built a furniture factory, competing with the larger manufacturers over in Jamestown. His furniture was sturdy and cheap, and he made a lot of money. One of the more interesting stories is that he had a fortune in gold buried somewhere on the property.’

      Gloria laughed in delight. ‘Buried treasure! Let’s start digging!’

      Gary grinned his toothy grin. ‘You’ve a lot of property. It could take some time. Besides, it’s only a story.’

      ‘My interest,’ commented Blackman, ‘was in the Kessler library and any other oddities lying about, the ephemerides of the days of Fredrick Kessler’s youth, so to speak.’

      Gloria glanced at Phil, who said, ‘I’ve only glanced at the books in the library. The broker had no idea what was in the house. When Kessler died, he owed a lot of back taxes, and the state was in a hurry to sell it. The court appointed Kessler’s bank executor. I got the impression things were left a little informal. The loan officer I dealt with was pretty obviously in a rush to unload it; they’d halted the foreclosure and hurried the sale. Anyway, he said there was no family, so he tossed everything into the deal, including old clothes, dishes, the furniture and books. I don’t know a tenth of what’s there. You’re welcome to drop in and borrow anything you’d like.’

      ‘I was hoping you’d invite me. Perhaps in a few days. I’ll tell you what: if you don’t mind Gary and me prowling about for a while, we’ll catalogue the library as we go, so you’ll have a full inventory when we’re through. And if anything strikes my fancy, give me first chance to buy.’

      ‘You’ve got it.’

      Gloria said, ‘There’s a bunch of old trunks in the attic and basement, too.’

      Gary’s eyes almost lit up. ‘Wonderful. Who knows what odd bits of treasure lurk in the dark!’

      Gabbie laughed. ‘Jack said the woods are haunted; now buried treasure. You sure know how to pick ’em, Dad.’

      Agatha reappeared and demanded assistance, so Jack drafted Gabbie and the two went off to set the table. Gary mentioned a film of Phil’s and the talk turned to stories of Hollywood and the frustrations of filmmaking. Gloria settled back, letting the conversation slip by her. For some reason the talk of buried treasure and haunted woods had made her uncomfortable. And for some unexplained reason she wondered how the boys were.

       • Chapter Twelve •

      Dinner was superb. True to Jack’s promise, Agatha Grant was an exceptional cook. She produced an elegant meal, each dish prepared with an attention to detail guaranteed to make it a treat. Even the twins, who tended to be fussy eaters, finished their food with no complaint.

      Gloria had noticed they seemed somewhere else, and occasionally caught them glancing at each other, as if sharing something between themselves. She inquired if they had enjoyed themselves, and they agreed Aggie’s farm was pretty neat. ‘Barney showed us the lambs,’ ventured Sean.

      Phil said, ‘Who’s Barney?’

      ‘He’s a man,’ said Sean. ‘He was fixing the plumbing.’

      ‘Ya, and he smells like Uncle Steve,’ said Patrick as he impaled a broccoli spear with his fork. ‘Uncle’ Steve Owinski was another screenwriter and a close friend of Phil’s, and he was a chronic drinker.

      Jack rose and quickly cleared away the dinner plates, carrying them into the kitchen. Agatha said, ‘Barney Doyle. He’s the local handyman.’ Seeing a small look of concern on Gloria’s face, she added, ‘He’s a bit of a tippler, but completely harmless. From what I hear, he was a ripsnorter as a young man, but swore off drinking years ago. Suddenly he’s drinking again. I can’t imagine why.’

      Gary said, ‘Well, you know what they say about alcoholics never being truly recovered.’ Gloria nodded.

      ‘Anyway,’ said Agatha, ‘he’s a fine fix-it man, and if you have any problems, give him a call. The service men from the mall stores take forever, want to take everything back to the shop, then keep whatever for months. Barney’s reliable and cheap. He has a work shed, little more than a shack, on the other side of my property, right at the end of Williams Avenue. You can cut through the woods from your home.’ Agatha smiled fondly. ‘Barney fits my longing for simpler times, when all you had was the local fix-it shop. He’s a living American artefact. Besides, I have him around as much for research as the need for repairs. The man was born in Ireland and has an astonishing wealth of Irish oral tradition. In comparing what he knows with what the second-, third-, and fourth-generation Irish here know, I can begin to gauge how much change the myths have undergone in Ireland and America.’

      Jack stuck his head through the door. ‘Coffee?’ He took stock of who indicated yes, and vanished back into the kitchen.

      Gabbie rose. ‘I think I’ll give Jack a hand.’

      Mark said, ‘Aggie’s picked a tough one. Irish lore, like most in Europe, has been “frozen” by the printing press. Children now read faerie tales rather than listen at their mother’s knee – if they read them at all.’

      ‘So you don’t think she’ll find much variation?’ asked Phil.

      Mark shook his head in the negative, while Agatha smiled indulgently. ‘We’ve had this argument before,’ she ventured. ‘Mark is something of a homegrown social anthropologist and claims there is no true oral tradition in Europe or America any more.’

      ‘Well, maybe among the older American Indians and rural folk up in the Appalachians, but nowhere else. Not when you can pick up a book and read the same story in England and America. No, if you’re researching myths about cluricaunes, you’ll find the same story in William Pitt County as you would in County Cork.

      ‘What are cluricaunes?’ asked Phil.

      Agatha said, ‘Leprechauns. They’re called lurikeen, lurigandaun, and luricans in different parts of Ireland.’

      Gloria sat back. There was something passing between the boys, she could sense it. And it worried her. She silently wondered why the talk was making her tense.

      Agatha glanced at the boys and asked, ‘Do you boys know what a leprechaun is?’

      ‘Little men in green coats?’ said Patrick, an odd expression on his face.

      Sean’s eyes widened at Patrick’s answer, then suddenly his face became animated as he blurted, ‘Darby O’Gill!’

      Phil laughed. ‘Just so.’

      Mark said, ‘Who’s Darby O’Gill?’

      ‘It’s a Disney film, Darby O’Gill and the Little People. The boys saw it before we left California.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Sean with a pout. ‘We had the Disney channel on cable.’

      ‘I rest my case,’ offered Mark. ‘The boys are getting their folk myths from television.’

      Gloria said, ‘They’ve