Ballad: A Gathering of Faerie

Nuala didn’t flinch. “Thanks.”

“And James?” Sullivan was staring past us; as he turned, I saw that he was wearing a long black coat that fluttered out behind him. For a second, I remembered Cernunnos and his long black shroud; then I was back in the present moment again. Sullivan finished, “Find Paul. He’s smarter than he looks.”

The bonfire went up behind Seward. First there was the reek of gasoline, some shouts, and then flames were clawing the sky. Students—at least I thought they were students—leaped around the base of the fire, black silhouettes against the brilliant white core.

I looked at Nuala, waiting for her to—I don’t know—scream or something, but she just made a strange little face. Screwed up her nose. I’d have been wigging out by then if I was her, but she just looked vaguely perplexed. Like she didn’t quite agree with their method of bonfire lighting, not like she was about to throw herself willingly into one.

I shivered, though I wasn’t cold. The bonfire was big enough for me to feel the heat of it from where we stood.

“Nervous?” Nuala asked ironically.

“Just wishing your name was shorter,” I said. “Saying it seven times is going to make my mouth tired.”

“You should shut up then and save your strength.” She reached for my hand, though, as she craned her neck, looking over the crowd. “Is it just me, or are there more people here than before?”

I frowned at the crowd on the sidewalk. Not just the sidewalk, now—they were in the parking lot, on the patio, around the fountain. They were better dancers, too. What word had Sullivan used? Invasion? I couldn’t remember, but “invasion” felt right. I showed Nuala the goose bumps on my arms before tugging down the sleeves of my sweatshirt—my body warning me of the faeries surrounding us.

“And these are just the ones I can see,” I said. “We need to find Paul.” I wanted to ask her when she had to burn, but I didn’t want her to feel like I was rushing her. And I kind of wanted to put it off for as long as possible. I didn’t care what kind of faerie she was—being burnt alive sounded risky to me. Especially if you were making the decision to be human partway through the burning. Faerie skin suddenly turning into human skin, suddenly feeling every bit of that scorching heat, peeling away at her flesh …

I felt like throwing up.

I was only spared from hurling by Paul, making his way toward us.

“Dude,” he said. “What the hell.”

I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That phrase applies to so many things at the moment that I’m not sure which you’re referring to in particular.”

“What are They trying to distract us from?” Paul said. “Hi Nuala. Are you privy to what’s going on here tonight? I learned that from James—do you like it? Are you privy?”

“It’s awesome,” Nuala replied. “I know that something is going on between Them and the dead, something to link them together. Some sort of ritual, maybe. We thought you might know something.”

I watched someone throw a chair on the bonfire. “Oh, that can’t be good. So yes, Paul, what do you know about tonight?”

Paul pointed. “Man, that guy just threw an end table on the bonfire. What the crap! I think that’s from the lobby!” He shook his head and pushed up his glasses. “I know that when we hear Cernunnos”—he said it very carefully, KER-NUNNNN-OHS, like it was an unfamiliar spice in a recipe—“sing tonight, it’s going to be bad. All the dead will come out. Well, the dead he rules.”

“The ones who aren’t in heaven and hell, yeah, we got that from his song,” Nuala said. She glanced around as a knot of students pushed past us, but no one was paying attention to us.

Paul scratched his head. “Well, I’ve discovered that these newly walking dead will be a bit—what was the word you said the other day, James? When we were talking about the Red Bull and the Doritos?”

“Peckish.”

“Yeah. That. Peckish. The dead are a bit peckish. Soooo. I guess they’re lighting all these bonfires to keep the dead out. As long as we stay in the light of one of the bonfires, we’re cool. If not, we’re snack.”

“Soul snack, sounds great,” I observed. “So a bunch of well-meaning adults built a school to protect the supernaturally aware right in the path of the walking dead. Brilliant plan. I understand the idea that those of us who hear him are bigger security risks, but seriously. The dead?”

“I know, dude, seriously,” Paul said. “But you know, I think that it used to be that the fey—whoops, I mean Them”—he corrected himself as some onlookers looked up at us—“I think They used to be afraid of the dead. So in the old days, you know, the ’70s, it was a protection against Them.”

There was another shout, across campus, as another bonfire was lit. Nuala narrowed her eyes.

“This is Patrick Sullivan, one of your friendly teachers and resident advisors!” Sullivan had availed himself of a microphone and was using the massive speakers for a public service announcement. “I’d like to interrupt the music to urge everyone to stay on campus grounds! Halloween is not a good time to wander off for a make-out session in the hills, boys and girls! Remember the horror movies? Something bad always happens to the couple making out! Stay within view of the bonfires and have a nice evening!”

Paul and I exchanged glances.

“What I want to know, dude,” Paul said thoughtfully, “is what They’re trying to hide. Don’t you? They’re keeping all the staff and students that know anything about anything running around making sure nobody gets pixy-led by all of Them that are here dancing with us.”

“It’s something about the ritual,” Nuala insisted. “Something about linking the dead to Them.”

“But you can’t just go out into a bunch of dead spirits with the munchies to try to find out what’s going on,” I said. My stomach twisted, sick with the idea of Nuala burning, sick with the idea of Dee with the faeries, sick with the premonition of loss.

And then I heard the first strains of Cernunnos’ song.

Paul winced. “Here he comes.”

And he wasn’t alone.

Nuala

When the end comes, dark and hungry

I’ll be alone, love

When the end comes, black and starving

I’ll say good-bye, love.

—from Golden Tongue: The Poems of Steven Slaughter