The Hidden World

Chapter 8

"Got something for you," said Great-gran. She fumbled in an ancient battered handbag and drew out a silver chain and locket. "For you," she repeated, holding it out.

. Maeve could see the relief in her aunt's eyes. So the old lady wasn't confused; she had merely wanted to bring a gift for her great-granddaughter.

"Thank you," said Maeve awkwardly, taking the necklace.

"It were Jeanie's," said Great-gran. "Long ago."

"It's Mum's locket," declared her uncle, stooping to study it with interest. "It's got her picture and Dad's inside." Maeve handed it to him, and he opened the locket to show her the tiny photographs: Jean, her straight hair touching her shoulders; Granddad as a handsome young man.

"Oh, let me see," said Aunt Ellen.

While Uncle Roy, Aunt Ellen and Great-aunt Fiona were admiring the locket and reminiscing about Grandma and Granddad, the old woman motioned to Maeve to sit closer. She reached into her handbag again and took out something else: a small object wrapped in what looked like a paper napkin. "Fairy bread," she whispered hoarsely into Maeve's ear. "It wards 'em off. I gave it to Jeanie, to keep her safe."

A fragment of dry crust lay inside the paper. Maeve's heart raced; it seemed to shake her entire body with each beat. "Safe from what?" she rasped.

"From them. She were crossing over, into their place. Same as you." The pale green eyes held her own. "My grannie told me, my grannie from Ireland, but I never believed in it—not till Jeanie. Then I wondered. So I gives her bread, same as Grannie used to give me. The Good People lets you alone then."

The Good People.

Maeve shivered violently, and the ancient woman reached out and laid a hand on hers. It was as cold as a bird's foot, but its grip was surprisingly strong. The girl looked down at the aged, rheumatic claw—the large, knobbed knuckles, the pallid skin, the raised veins that were like blue cords binding the bones—and then at her own smooth young hand beneath, its veins only blue shadows as yet under the smooth, firm skin. Yet she felt the kinship of the hands, the intimate, invisible bond of their flesh and bones and the blood in their branching veins. They were like one hand seen at different times: past and future commingled. Her trembling eased.

She knows... she understands. She can help. This was why Great-gran had come, Maeve realized. The locket had been only a pretext for the visit, and a diversion: it took the other adults' attention off her while she spoke with her great- granddaughter.

"She were gone a whole day once. Jeanie. We looked for her everywhere. Found her out on the barrens at dusk. But she couldn't have been there, not all that time. We'd looked." She leaned close again. "Fairies got her, took her to where they live. And she went back again. They gave her something after that, some magic thing what always brought her home on time so no one'd ever notice she'd been gone. But I always knew. I could tell when she'd been there. It were somethin' in her eyes, her voice. Once I overheard her singin' a song that I'd never heard in me life. Words and tune were strange, not like anything she'd ever pick up in the outport. It were a fairy song—she learned it there. And so I gave her the fairy bread, to keep 'em away from her, keep her safe."

"Just bread?" asked Maeve in a low voice, turning the little package over and over in her hands.

"Just bread, you say. Tell me, when the priest lifts the holy wafer at Mass, is that just bread?" The faded green eyes were steady. "There's a strength in plain and simple things, my grannie always said. Here it's just bread, but there—in that place—it's power."'

Strength in simple things. The walls, reforming before her terrified eyes; old walls raised and mortared with strength, with suffering, with endurance. A barrier against the dark.