October, Captain Magenta believed, was an ideal season for a cycling holiday in Ireland. The weather was dry — most of the time — and the temperatures were just comfortable enough to make the nights tolerable for camping out when he wasn’t near a village and pleasant for riding all day without much risk of overheating. Best of all, most of the other tourists had left with the summer, leaving the roads and byways free for him to explore in peace.

The day was drawing to its end when Magenta stopped at the village pub. He unlatched his helmet and tucked it under his arm as stepped inside. “A pint of stout, please,” he called to the publican, returning the cheery wave and big smile. “Whatever’s brewed locally.” Drink in hand, he settled himself at a table by the window and opened his touring guide to double check his route.

“Padraig?”

Magenta didn’t react. His name was a common one in Ireland; anytime it was called, several men turned, as they did now. He smiled and took another swallow of his drink.

“Padraig? Padraig Donaghue?” He looked up into a pair of sparkling green eyes. “As I live and breathe, I never dreamed I’d meet you in a village like Bunclody!”

Magenta frowned and furrowed his brow, trying to recall where he’d met this woman before. It bothered him that a beautiful red-haired woman should know his name when he couldn’t recall hers. “Um, you’ll have to forgive me, I, uh —”

The woman pouted but the corners of her lips twitched as she straightened and planted her hands on her hips, a comic picture of outrage. “Tcha! It’s only been twenty years since we last met! Surely you remember your cousin Nuala? I certainly remember you, Padraig!” She freed the smile. “And your mother and mine recently swapped family photos.”

“Nuala!” Magenta laughed. “Good lord, you were just a plain little girl way back when. How could I be expected to recognise you disguised as a beautiful colleen?”

“Same charming lad you always were,” said Nuala as she slid into the seat across from him. “Now tell me how I found you here! The last I heard of ye, you were some kind of computer expert living in New York City?”

Unable to tell her about Spectrum and unwilling to share anything about his criminal past, Magenta limited his answers. He told her about his college days and early career in a firm, then invented a tale of upward mobility as an in-demand computer consultant. “But I needed a break, so I’m here on a cycling holiday. I started in Sligo, and my goal is to reach Bantry by the end of the week. Bunclody is on my route. I don’t like to ride too far after it gets dark, and the guide book says this pub is also a B&B, so,” he threw his arms wide in a theatrical gesture, “here I am! Now what about yourself? Why on earth are you here? And why now?”

Nuala smiled and sipped her lager. “I’m an ollamh, a professor, at Trinity College. Among other things, I teach about Irish legends and lore and their place in our culture and history. Right now I’m on sabbatical, doing field research to track down and record stories. Pubs like this one are often one of the best places to either hear the local legends and tales or find out who knows them. When I return to the school next term, I’ll share some of my discoveries with my students.”

Magenta was amused. “You mean Trinity pays you to be a storyteller?”

“A storyteller?” Nuala snorted and looked offended. “Certainly not! I’m paid to be a bard!” She grinned over her mug. “It’s a more respectable title.”

They talked for awhile the last time they’d met as children, other family members, Nuala’s work, and about Magenta’s recent cycling adventures.

“So where will you be bound for in the mornin’, Padraig?”

“I’m heading for Graiguenamanagh tomorrow, so the next leg of my tour takes me up into the Blackstairs Mountains.” Magenta was quietly proud of his hard-won ability to correctly pronounce the name of his destination. Although his parents had often spoken Irish while he was growing up, he’d rebelled in his teens and distanced himself from it. He’d had plenty of cause to repent his actions. Recently.

Nuala raised an eyebrow and straightened as she put her glass down hard enough to slop her beer. “The Blackstairs? How late in the day do you usually ride?”

“Until sunset or a little beyond usually. Then I stop at a B&B or set up a camp in a field if I’m not near a village.”

Nuala’s eyes had widened. “You’d be wise to always stop in a village even if you have to lose a few hours of daylight riding. Unless you’re not afraid to meet a pooka.”

Magenta laughed. “Meet a what?”

Magenta’s cousin leaned back, the solemn look on her face spoiled by the impish gleam in her eye. “Your cultural education has been sadly neglected, if you have to ask what a pooka is! What kind of an Irishman be ye?”

Nettled, Magenta mumbled something about there being a lack of pookas in New York City.

“Ah, well, no doubt you could tell me tales of the things I need to be wary of there, the things that come out after dark.”

“All right, I know you’re just waiting for me to ask!” Magenta, certain he was being lead somewhere, leaned back with a grin. “So what is a poo-kah? What does it look like?”

Nuala looked thoughtful and tapped one finger against her lips before she spoke again. “There’s no simple answer to that. It’s certainly a creature of Faerie. It appears near or after nightfall and can take many terrible forms. In some parts of County Down, it’s a deformed goblin. In parts of County Laois, it’s a gigantic, hairy bogeyman.”

“Sounds like what my mother told me waited outside my room if I got out of bed during the night,” commented Magenta.

“In Waterford and Wexford, the pooka sometimes takes the form of an eagle with a wingspan like a small aircraft, and in Roscommon, you’d want to beware of a black goat with curling horns. The pooka quite often appears in human form; then it seems to be a real person, usually an attractive one. Like yerself. Or like me. How do you know I’m really your cousin and not a pooka?” Her face split in a grin and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she drank in his expression. “But most often the pooka appears in the form of a horse lurking on high mountain tops or among old ruins. In fact, there’s a legend that a pooka appears in horse form on a mountain somewhere in Leinster Province on All Hallows Eve or All Souls Day.” She swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Tomorrow is Halloween, Padraig. And the Blackstairs Mountains are in Leinster.”

“So somewhere in Leinster’s twelve counties, there’s a pooka that might or might not put in an appearance tomorrow or the day after.” Captain Magenta shrugged. “I don’t think I have much to worry about. But tell me anyway, what does it do to anyone it meets?”

By now, Nuala’s voice was taking on the cadences of the experienced storyteller. “It lures them onto its back, then tosses them into a ditch or bog, or more often it carries them into deep water, like a pond or a loch, and drowns them. No one who rides the pooka can dismount unless it allows them to or they’re lucky enough to get scraped off somehow. Once, that meant grabbing onto a low branch when the pooka carried you beneath a tree, but that’s not so easy now. There aren’t many modern tales of people who’ve met the pooka and survived unharmed. In fact, it’s said that only one man has ever successfully ridden a pooka without being tossed or drowned, and that was Brian Boru, the Ard Righ, High King of Ireland.”

“Really?” said Magenta, interested in spite of himself. “And how did he manage it?”

“He took three hairs from the pooka’s tail and wove them into a bridle. When he encountered the pooka in its horse form, he threw the bridle over its head. It couldn’t fight the magic in the bridle and King Brian was able to control it until it was exhausted. He made it promise never to attack an Irishman unless the man was drunk or intended to do some sort of harm. But there are so many stories about the pooka after King Brian’s time, I’d say it forgot its promises as soon as King Brian removed the bridle.”

“Pretty neat thing King Brian did. But how could he even tell that the horse was a pooka?”

“Perhaps because,” Nuala continued, drawing pictures with her words and hands as she spoke, “perhaps because it was not an ordinary-looking black horse, but one that was huge and sleek, and breathing blue flames, with eyes of yellow fire, a snort like thunder, a smell like sulphur, and a human voice deep as a cave. So beware if you are thinking of going night riding, Padraig Donaghue! Beware!”

Magenta laughed. “Unless the pooka can transform itself into a bicycle, I should be perfectly fine. Besides, it’s impossible to meet a legend these days.”

Nuala shook her head as she rose to her feet. “I’ll have to say good night to you, cousin. I have an invitation for dinner and stories.” She raised a finger before his face. “But don’t forget what I’ve told you, Padraig. Ireland is a land where the improbable rarely happens.” She paused a moment before adding, “and the impossible always does.”

Magenta got a late start the next day. Somehow, he’d punctured a tire and not noticed the leak before he stopped for the night. It had taken him a while to find and fix the problem, and get on his way again.

He’d grumbled over the delay, but it hadn’t been a taxing ride up into the Blackstairs, and it had been pleasantly lonely. As he’d hoped, the road was not well travelled. He could still make it to Graiguenamanagh and claim his room in the cyclist’s hostel by sundown, if the weather held long enough. It had been a fine sunny day when he awoke, but Captain Magenta had already experienced the notorious vagaries of Irish weather. Looking up at the sky, he could tell it was going to be a race between himself and the raindrops. He glanced at his watch and cursed silently — it was late, much later than he’d hoped.

The clouds became thicker and blotted out the sun. Magenta began to think he’d better turn on his lights and fumbled with the badly designed switches. A rumble of distant thunder covered the sound of the small lorry coming up quickly behind him. Magenta, riding beside the left shoulder of the narrow road, never heard it; he only felt something hit him hard in the back. As the bike skidded out from under him, he flew sideways, rolled and bounced several times, then lay still, unconscious.

The lorry’s driver, preoccupied with looking at his map and cursing his aching back, realised he’d hit something he hadn’t seen. Guessing what it was, he didn’t stop to look at it. Sheep were plentiful, but also damned expensive; he’d already learned that the hard way. All the same, curiosity got to him. He decided to glance at what was behind him in the lorry’s left-hand mirror, then swore a blue streak. The mirror was gone. Whatever he’d hit, it had been much larger than a sheep. He swore again and accelerated. The sooner he got away from there, the better.

When Magenta opened his eyes, he saw that the sky was free of clouds but streaked with the orange rays of sunset.

“I must have been out for hours,” Magenta groaned as he gingerly raised himself from the ground. He looked at his watch; it was broken. At least none of his bones seemed to be and he was fortunate not to have any abrasions, but he was undoubtedly going to have some huge and painful bruises. He got to his feet with another groan and glanced up at the sky again. “There’s no way I’m going to make it to the hostel before dinner; it must be close to six o’clock already. I’d better stir my stumps and hope I can make it before they lock the doors for the night.”

His bicycle was lying some twenty feet away in the roadway. His saddlebags had broken away and landed a few feet further; one side had broken latches and looked as if a tire had rolled over it, but fortunately the contents hadn’t spilled. Magenta retrieved the saddlebags and dropped his broken watch inside, before bending over the bike.

“Shite!”

The bike’s rear wheel was crushed and the frame was bent. Magenta guessed that when he’d been knocked out of the saddle, the bicycle must have skidded sideways and gone beneath whatever had hit him. The driver must have noticed he’d run over something, but kept on going anyhow. Magenta cursed again. He could make a report to the Garda, but he couldn’t begin to describe the car or lorry or whatever it had been. But the Garda would at least give him a ride to town. Not that he fancied the experience, although he’d never ridden in an Irish police car before. He dug into his saddlebag again, looking for his mobile phone.

“Shite!” the Irish captain yelled again, pulling out the mangled remains of the phone. First his watch, now this. “Can this day get any better?” he muttered angrily. The sky was darkening and Magenta began to feel a chill. His cycling clothes were close-fitting and thin, made to draw the heat away from his body rather than keep it in. He dug into his saddlebags again, hunting for his fleece-lined nylon jacket.

“Have ye had an accident?” The voice was deep yet unmistakeably feminine.

Magenta had not heard anyone approach and looked up sharply at the woman. He noted appreciatively that although her features were classically Celtic, her large doe-like gold eyes and mass of black hair spoke of Mediterranean ancestry. Her loose black jacket and trousers encased rather than concealed her shapely figure. She held a mass of leather straps resting over one shoulder; her free hand rested on her hip, a stance that gave her an oddly commanding air.

The woman seemed accustomed to such scrutiny, or perhaps she thought Magenta’s wits were addled. “’Tis an odd place to meet a stranger, and so late in the day. Are ye hurt? Or lost? Do ye need help?”

“Yes, no, no, and yes, to answer your questions in order.” Magenta smiled, turning on all his charm. “Something knocked me off my bike, but I seem to be okay, just a bit cold.” He shrugged on his jacket. “My bike, however,” he gestured to the twisted metal still lying in the road, “is in pretty bad shape. I was riding to Graiguenamanagh, and I’d hoped to arrive before the town rolls up the sidewalks and find a place to spend the night. I’m thinking now I’ll just have to set up my tent along here somewhere and spend the night.”

“Well, ye canna spend it here. This is my faither’s property, and he doesn’t allow campers.” The woman’s tone was final and defiant.

“Well, do you live near here? Could I use your phone and call for roadside assistance or at least a taxi?”

The woman snorted and shook her head briskly. “My faither is not a kindly man, and hasn’t an ounce of charity in him. He’d turn ye away without a thought, and maybe some buckshot.”

Magenta looked up at the darkening sky and heaved a sigh. “I’ll just have to leg it then and hope something’s open by the time I reach the village.”

“There won’t be,” the woman told him with assurance. “This time of year, in these parts, we retire early. Even the pub will be closed by the time ye could walk there. Yer best chance is to ride.”

“Ride what?” asked Magenta, gesturing to the crushed machine. “My bike is totalled.”

The woman removed the bridle draped over her shoulder and held it out to Magenta. “Ye can take my horse, if you can catch her. I rode her lightly today, so she won’t be too tired to take ye to the next town. The pub is also the hotel and the publican’s lad runs a local taxi service. Ye can get a car there to bring you back to fetch your bicycle and gear.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, Miss, umm…”

“Mairi. Mairi O’Tara.”

“How do you do. I’m Patrick Donaghue, from New York,” Magenta introduced himself, and started to offer his hand, but withdrew with a small smile that matched Mairi’s as she shook the bridle in her right hand.

“Ye needna worry about the horse. Just turn her loose when you get to the pub. She can fend for herself. My mare knows the land well and always returns to her own fields.”

Magenta was sceptical. “But isn’t it dangerous? She could be struck by a car or a lorry.”

Mairi laughed. “No, my Eochbhean is too fast and too canny for that!”

Magenta tried again. “I appreciate the offer; I just don’t feel comfortable borrowing a valuable horse and not being able to return it safely. Look, if you take me to your house and let me talk to your father, I’m sure I can persuade him to let use the phone and stay until help arrives.”

Mairi grimaced. “If you were not a stranger here, you would know why I canna do that.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you…” Magenta began but stopped as the woman waved off his apology.

“Many years ago, my family was well-off and my faither was a generous man. He welcomed strangers gladly and gave them help, especially foreigners. But an American came who claimed to be a man of law and convinced my faither that he was the sole remaining kin of a wealthy American cousin who had died intestate, and he would inherit the fortune under American law, if he made certain ‘arrangements’ before pressing his claim.” Mairi pursed her lips and frowned. “The man persuaded my faither to move most of our assets into a trust. It was some time before we learned that the trust was a fraud.” She gazed away over the darkening fields and sighed. “We still have land to support us. But we’re cash poor. Faither doesn’t trust anyone, not anyone, now. Especially not Americans. He’s forbidden all of us in the family to deal with them in any way. So you see,” she finished with a small smile, “you’re best off catching my mare and riding her to the town. I can give you that much help and he won’t know.”

Magenta nodded. He didn’t want to add to Mairi’s troubles, not when she was generously offering him an alternative to walking. He accepted the bridle.

“I was riding her this afternoon, but not hard. She’ll be fresh enough to get you where you’re going. Ye can ride bareback, I trust?”

Magenta had just been opening his mouth to ask about a saddle. “I’ll manage,” he said instead. Well, how hard could it be? He’d just keep the horse to a walk. He’d reach the village quicker at a trot, but it wouldn’t do him any good to arrive sounding like Mickey Mouse.

“Good luck to you then, Padraig. Now the light’s getting bad and my mare is dark-coloured, without any white, so ye’d better go after her. Ye’ll find her somewhere up there,” she told him, pointing back up the hill she’d come down from. He turned to look, searching the hillside for some sign, some horse-shaped shadow. When he turned back, Mairi was gone. He looked around but couldn’t see where she’d gone. Surely she couldn’t have disappeared across the road and out of sight so quickly? But the gloom was deepening and her hair and clothing were so dark, perhaps she could. It wasn’t important anyway. He had a horse to catch.

There were plenty of boulders around, some suitable as hiding places, so he stashed his bicycle and gear behind one and set off up the hill. The day’s rain had made the turf softer and springier than usual. With each step, his foot sank slightly. He hadn’t been trudging long when he stubbed his toe painfully on something hard, yet yielding, something that came up out of the ground with his foot as he stumbled.

“Great. Just great! All I need is to round out this trip is to break an ankle,” Magenta hissed through gritted teeth as he sat down to rub his foot and ankle. He reached for the thing that had tripped him. It was an old, rusty horseshoe. Magenta slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I can use all the luck I can get, he thought wryly, “even from a superstition. At this point, I’d pluck a four-leaf clover if I could spot one.” The light was now fading rapidly, so he got to his feet and began scanning for the horse again.

“Maybe that horseshoe did bring me some luck,” thought Magenta some minutes later, as he topped a plateau and spotted a horse. He approached it slowly while making what he hoped were reassuring noises. Apparently they were, for the horse looked up from its grazing without any sign of alarm. It stood its ground until he came near, then stretched out its neck and nuzzled the bridle. Gently, Magenta stroked the horse’s head with his free hand. Its eyes were half shut and its body completely relaxed.

Magenta looked up at the sky. Stars were beginning to appear. “I hope you’re sure-footed in the dark. I’m trusting you to find your way down the mountain to the road.” The horse’s only reply was a gentle nicker that he took for asset. Magenta fumbled with the bridle; only now did he see that it had no buckles anywhere; it was all of a piece, except for a loop where he could tie the throat latch. He wished that Mairi had told him that it was a bitless hackamore bridle. He wasn’t sure it would give him the kind of control a bit did, but he reckoned the horse was used to it. At least he wouldn’t have to stick a thumb in its mouth to get it to take the bit.

The horse accepted the bridle without fuss and let itself be led to a large rock Magenta could use as a mounting block. It stood quietly, only turning its head to watch his inexpert attempt to mount. Magenta swung his leg over as far as he could and leapt off the rock to get his seat onto the centre of the horse’s back. Settling himself along its spine, he quickly decided to avoid trotting if at all possible. As he took up the reins in both hands, the horse began walking forward. He tried to turn the horse’s head downhill, but the horse flung its head high and made a noise suspiciously like a laugh before starting up the hillside.

“Hey! That’s the wrong way you—” Magenta bit off what he was about to say. The horse had spoken back.

“I know where I’m going, man!” Its voice was deep and rumbling. A hint of blue steam played about its muzzle, and the odour of sulphur wafted back to its rider.

Oh my God, thought Magenta, as the pooka began to trot. Nuala told me about this. She warned me! Would she be laughing if she could see me now?

He considered jumping off the pooka. His Spectrum training had involved a lot of jumping from moving vehicles and rolling to reduce the possibility of injury. It was risky at the best of times, and he couldn’t be sure of missing any rocks or prickly plants that might choose to place themselves in his landing path. But, Magenta had no doubt, it’s better than staying aboard this thing! Gripping a handful of mane to steady himself, he tried to swing his off leg up. To his dismay, he couldn’t move it more than a few inches forward or back, just enough to keep his balance on the now cantering horse’s back. He wasn’t bouncing either, Magenta realised, and he was no horseman.

An evil-smelling cloud of blue vapour swept over as the Pooka snorted with laughter. “Did ye ne’er wonder why others before ye didn’t just leap off?” It snorted again; Magenta’s eyes watered. “By my magic, I can keep ye on my back until I throw you or ye pull yersel’ off with something!” Another, stronger, blast of vapour. Magenta shut his itching eyes tightly. “And I’m careful never to go near a tree!”

The Pooka was galloping now, straight towards the mountain. It looked solid to Magenta. What next? he wondered. A high-speed crash? Do we go straight up the mountain? A portion of the mountain wall seemed to turn hazy, then dissolve completely to reveal a low, black passageway. Captain Magenta flattened himself against the beast’s neck and hung on as tight as he could.

Once inside the gateway, the Pooka slowed its pace, but continued at a canter, swerving then straightening out, taking sharp turns, then straightening again, for what seemed to be a long time. It was dark, but as his eyes began to adjust, Magenta realised the passage was very softly lit. He could make out shadowy walls but no details until the Pooka dropped to a walk and the passage opened out into a chamber with rough-hewn grey rock walls. The Pooka stopped. “Get off,” it rumbled.

Magenta obliged, with difficulty. He’d instinctively squeezed his legs tightly against the Pooka’s sides to keep from being thrown, even after discovering that he couldn’t dismount voluntarily, and his muscles protested as he swung down to the ground. He looked around him and saw, to his dismay, that the chamber was now completely sealed; there was no sign of an entry or exit. If he was going to get out of here, it was going to have to be with the Pooka.

Warily he asked it, “Where are we? What did you bring me here for?”

“We’re inside the rath, halfway along the road to Faerie,” the Pooka replied. “But we’re not going there. Not yet. First, I need your help.”

That wasn’t one of the possible answers that Magenta had expected. No matter, he didn’t believe it any more than he’d have believed any other. “Why would be going there at all? And what could you need me for? You’re the one with magic!”

The Pooka folded its ears back at his tone, then flicked them forward again. “The Queen of Faerie set me a mission long ago. I have tried for centuries to carry it out. I am a magic creature, as you say, but magic is not enough, and no denizen of Faerie can help me. I need a human’s assistance. Tonight, with your help, I will complete my mission. I must. The Queen grows impatient with me.”

“So you got a problem,” Magenta huffed. “What’s this mission of yours got to do with kidnapping me? What are you after?”

“I am ordered to retrieve my Queen’s consort. He had no right to leave her.” The Pooka’s huge gold eyes blazed and it snorted a sulphurous cloud. “Perhaps she should have expected it, given his history,” it snarled, a sound like a temple bell cracking. “But no matter. He had no right to leave!”

Magenta was puzzled. “So you want me to help you retrieve a, um, an elfin prince or fairy prince?”

“No. One who was once human, a man like yourself, until he forfeited his rights to live among you.” The Pooka blew a thick cloud of blue smoke that made Magenta cough and retch. “Cairpre was of the clan Tuatha dé Danann, his clan’s bard and also a wizard; the spells he wove with his songs protected his people. Warriors and even kings feared his tongue and the music of his harp. His people elected him Tanist, heir to the chieftain. That’s how highly they regarded him and how much they trusted him. But he chose to leave them and came to Faerie. He swore he loved our Queen and promised to stay forever. He contrived to make people think he’d died on his travels far from home. But then he broke his word and left her weeping without consolation. She charged me to find him and bring him back to her. I have watched him for many of your years. But I can enter your world only on certain days, and he knows when they are. I know where he is now, tonight! He remains inside a dwelling, where I cannot enter, until I must leave the world again. So tonight, you will go inside that house for me and bring him out.”

“Forget it. I’m not helping you kidnap somebody else!” Magenta replied forcefully. He folded his arms and glared at the Pooka.

It returned his glare, its great yellow eyes flashing. It drew back its lips in a ghastly grin. “Then I will leave you here in this chamber. I will not return. Someone else may come here eventually. But not soon. You will not age or die, but you will not be immune to hunger, thirst, or boredom. Do you still refuse me?”

Magenta considered the Pooka’s threat carefully. He did not want to help it but he would have no chance of escape as long as was in this sealed chamber. If he pretended to cooperate for awhile, he’d at least get out of here, and hopefully out of the mountain. He let his shoulders slump as if he was totally defeated. “All right,” he said at last. “What do you want me to do?”

The Pooka pointed at the wall behind Magenta with its muzzle. “Put that on.”

Magenta turned around. Hanging on the wall was an enormous saddle and bridle, and pieces of elaborate gold-coloured armour. It all looked like something he’d seen at a fantasy convention he’d once been persuaded to attend with Rhapsody Angel. There seemed to be a lot more armour than one person could wear. Magenta shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding! I don’t have the first idea where to start. I can recognise the helmet and I know where it goes, but that’s it.”

“You’ll have assistance. Just pick up the pieces. No, that one’s mine,” snorted the Pooka as Magenta picked up a long, many scaled piece of armour. He put it back and took another, noting with gratitude that it was padded inside, and tried fitting it to his forearm. The Pooka snorted again, a sound of disdain, impatience, and amusement. “We’d be here forever if I let you continue to be such a fool. I’ve summoned helpers. They are coming.”

Magenta wondered if he might be able to bolt through the door when the helpers arrived. He tried to surreptitiously look around the chamber again and watch for the opening.

“They’re here.”

Something unseen tugged at the armour Magenta was holding. Startled, he let go of it and watched with amazement as it soared into the air, revolved several times, then swooped downwards. He jumped as it touched his leg. Other pieces of armour flew off the wall and began fitting themselves to his body. Invisible hands fastened straps, adjusted sets, and hung a sword at his waist. In no time, he was fully suited up, except for the helmet that hung, seemingly weightless, in the air before him.

Invisible helpers had worked on the Pooka as well. It now wore a massive saddle of black leather worked in gold with ancient Celtic designs, a matching bitless bridle, plates of golden armour over its rump, across its chest, and along its mane. Over its face, the Pooka wore a shield of gold set with a luminescent pearl horn, giving it the look of a unicorn. Magenta had though the Pooka was a big horse when he first saw it. Now it looked bigger than a draft horse.

“Pooka, what’s with all this tin-plate? Is this Tanist guy going to put up a huge fight?” Not that I’d blame him.

“Even though you are a mere mortal, you must be a worthy representative of my Queen. So you appear before him as a Sidhe knight.”

“A ‘she’ knight?” Although the golden armour was fabulously decorated with elaborate, intricate patterns, there was nothing effeminate about it.

The Pooka snorted with exasperation. “A Sidhe knight, a warrior of Faerie. Now take the helmet. You can hang it from the saddle if you don’t want to wear it yet. Get on,” the Pooka ordered.

“How?” Magenta asked, reasonably he thought, as he donned the helmet. Although the suit of armour was nowhere near as heavy as he’d expected and surprisingly flexible, he couldn’t possibly mount the enormous horse.

With its tail, the Pooka delivered a staggering blow to his side. “Idjut! Step up on a rock, as you did before. There’s nae shortage of them here.”

They rode back along the twisting passages, out of the mountain and into the light of a full moon. Magenta’s eyes quickly adjusted from the tunnel’s gloom. “Where are we going?”

“To the house where I know the Tanist is staying tonight.”

The Pooka was moving cautiously, picking its way down the mountainside in the darkness. Now was the ideal time to dismount and run for it. Magenta stood in the saddle and slipped his right foot out of the stirrup. “You’ll have to go without me. I’m getting off here!” And with that, he swung his right leg over the Pooka’s back. Rather, he tried to. To his chagrin, he could not move.

“Stay still, man. I told you before that you cannot dismount until I allow you to. But I will let you choose how you wish to dismount. I can carry you to the centre of a deep lake right now and throw you off and let your armour carry you to the bottom, or I can carry you to where the Tanist is and let you down to stand on dry ground. Which do you want?”

Magenta ground his teeth. “The house.”

The Pooka reach the bottom of the mountain and picked up speed as it raced over the rolling landscape, before it deigned to speak again. “Don’t even imagine you can escape from me,” rumbled the Pooka.

They rode on for some time. Magenta was just about to risk annoying the Pooka by asking, “Are we there yet?” when the Pooka slowed to a trot.

“Prepare yerself,” said the Pooka. Their destination proved to be a huge country house; its architecture suggested it had been built no later than the eighteenth century. Bright light poured out of the windows. They turned off the road and began trotting up the long drive.

“Hey, I just thought. What are these people going to think of us riding up late at night with all this armour and stuff? There’s no way they’ll let me in. I look like a madman!”

“You look like a party guest,” replied the Pooka, with a breath of blue smoke. “It’s Samhain, and the people are celebrating with a fancy-dress ball. You’ll fit right in.”

In front of the house, a group of young men in dark trousers, white long-sleeved shirts, and red bow ties stood clapping their hands rhythmically and chanting as a little girl, perhaps ten years old and dressed as a fairy princess, danced a lively Irish jig for them. The men laughed and applauded when the little dancer finished her performance with a deep curtsey. She rose up again like she was on springs and did a little caper. It was she who first saw the horse and rider approaching. She ran up to them, clapping her hands with excitement.

The Pooka turned its head and spoke softly. “Watch your words, man. Play your role.”

Magenta pulled back on the reins and the Pooka halted as the girl stopped at its side. She looked up at him in awe.

“Are you the Ard Ri’, Brian Boru?”

Smiling, Magenta pushed up his visor and theatrically bowed in the saddle. “No, my Lady, I am not a king at all, let alone the high king! I am but a simple knight, come to join in the festivities.” He gave her another sweeping bow, gratified to hear the child’s appreciative giggles, as she dropped another deep curtsey then sprang back up again.

“Then thou art welcome, good sir knight! And thou art in time because Daddy wants me to dance for everybody but not yet.” She beamed up at him. “We have a stable. Can I pet your horse before I have to dance?”

Magenta wasn’t sure what to answer, so he bought a little time by attempting to dismount again. This time, his leg swung easily and he was able to ungracefully slide down off the huge horse, which snorted its disgust. At least he landed on his feet.

“May I pet your horse?” the girl repeatedly longingly.

Magenta wanted to say no. But as he opened his mouth, he realised the child had become unnaturally still. The Pooka spoke instead. “I’ve suspended time briefly. She cannot hear us speaking. Let the child have her wish. She may take me to the stable. You will meet me there with the Tanist.”

“Right. Anything you want. The girl will tell me the way to the stable.” Once I’m in the house myself, he thought, there’s no way I’m coming out again. I’ll be safe there once the sun rises.

“The child will remain with me until you return.” The Pooka turned one burning yellow eye to Magenta’s face. “I do not trust you, mortal, so I place you under a geis. If you do not come back with the man, I will destroy the child. More, your home in the clouds will be destroyed, and all who live there will be doomed.”

Magenta was shocked speechless; he could actually feel the geis hanging like a millstone. As a child, he’d heard stories of heroes who’d been weighed down by dire supernatural obligations, but he’d never imagined it would happen to him. He didn’t doubt that the Pooka would carry out its threat. Weighed against the Pooka’s desire to carry out its mission, the lives of a mortal little girl and of hundreds of other people were worth nothing. Magenta knew when to admit defeat. Even without the burden of the geis, he could not have sacrificed the child to save himself.

He clenched his fists and refused to cower under the Pooka’s glare. “All right, I’ll do what you say. How will I recognise the man I’m supposed to bring you?”

“He wears an earring made of Faerie gold that the Queen gave him. It’s unique. The design is the same as the one of the back of your left gauntlet.” Magenta looked at it. The design resembled a swirling labyrinth, endlessly twisting yet never ending. It seemed to flow into different patterns as he watched. “When you show it to him, he will know who you are and why you are there. Now go!”

Time began moving forward again. The girl shifted her weight on her feet, anticipating Magenta’s answer to her question, her eyes filled with hope. “Oh, uh, aye, my lady. I would be most grateful if you would stable my, um, horse, and look after him.” With that, he pulled the reins over the Pooka’s head and handed them to the girl.

Despite her youth, she seized the reins with the confidence of one who has had much experience of ponies and horses. Magenta watched with trepidation as the two began to walk away, expecting the Pooka to do something as a final warning to him. But it behaved meekly, head low, neck relaxed, and let itself be led.

Magenta grimaced as he turned to the entry. It was time he began the hunt.

The house seemed to be full of people in fancy dress, talking, laughing, eating, and circulating through the rooms. Magenta drew many admiring glances and comments on the spectacular originality of his costume. No one asked who he was or if he had an invitation.

Looking at the crowd flowing around him, Magenta realised he should have asked the Pooka for more particulars about the Tanist. What does a fairy queen’s lover look like? Young, handsome, well-built, I’d guess. And a gold earring. That much I’m sure of.

Unfortunately, that general description seemed to fit half the party guests. He found it awkward to get a good look at each man’s earring. Many of them were etched in one way or another, particularly with Celtic designs, forcing him to take a close look at each and every one he could get near. It was becoming an ordeal to find one that matched the pattern on his gauntlet. He couldn’t do it discreetly, and he didn’t want to get himself thrown out of the party if too many guests objected to his close scrutiny of their jewellery. And he didn’t half like the cheeky “come hither” grins he’d got from a few men who’d noticed him staring in their direction. This task, Magenta realised, was going to be a lot harder than he’d expected. He needed to pause and think out a better plan.

He found a place where he had a good view of the whole room and the doorway, and backed up towards the wall. Encountering something soft, he immediately leaped away again. “I’m so sorry!” Magenta exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“You weren’t even looking,” replied the white-haired man, who was dressed in an ancient Irish costume consisting of a saffron-coloured leine or long plain tunic, a wrap-belt knotted around a copper ring, a brat or cloak fastened with an ornate copper brooch, a small marsupium, and a gold torque, and laced-up leather shoes. His voice, deep and musical, suggested he was younger than he looked despite the crags in his face and wrinkles on his hands. “But there’s a lot to distract even the most cautious person, so I’ll forgive you.” He grinned to take the sting out of his words. “Speaking of distractions, that’s an elaborate costume! Something straight out of fantasy.”

Magenta chuckled. “I have a friend who loves things like medieval fantasy and Renaissance fairs. She talked me into looking at the armour last time we went to one.”

The old man nodded. “That explains why your armour is gold rather than white metal. Forgive an old man’s ignorance, but what exactly are you?”

“I’m a Sidhe knight.”

The old man was silent for a moment. “Are ye? I didn’t recognise the armour; it’s been a long time since I last saw one.” His voice had lost most of its warmth and humour.

Magenta noticed the change but shrugged. “I really don’t know what the significance is supposed to be; it just seemed like a good costume.”

The old man smiled again. “That it is. I’ve noticed many of the bonniest colleens here are looking you over with interest. For all their modern ways, modern girls still fancy a knight in shining armour!” He offered a hand. “My name is Cairpre Mac Oghma.”

“Patrick Donaghue.” The men shook hands. Shortly they found themselves chatting like long acquaintances. In answer to Cairpre’s questioning, Magenta admitted he was Irish-born but American-raised, and told him about his life in the new world.

Cairpre shook his head. “I ken understand why yer pairents emigrated, and I’ve heard many good things about yer country, but I’ve ne’er wanted to see it fer mesel’. My heart’s always been in Ireland. I spent some years away from her once, and when I returned, I promised I would ne’er leave again. I’ve no reason to. Before I left, I was acclaimed for my music and wisdom, and had loving kinfolk. And since returning, I’ve enjoyed new renown fer my songs and enjoyed family life even more.”

The two chatted on comfortably although Magenta didn’t stop scanning the room and wondering how he was ever going to identify the Tanist. “It’s quite a party,” commented Magenta. “I’m surprised there are so many people here, especially since it must be getting late.”

“Ah, you don’t need to coddle an old man, lad. You young folk have the energy to enjoy yersel’s all night. The only reason I’m still here mysel’ is that my granddaughter, Fiona, will be dancing later. She’s a gifted child, and that’s no’ just an old man’s pride.”

Magenta tensed. “Your granddaughter, is she a little girl, dressed as a fairy princess?” Cairpre nodded. “I think I met her when I arrived. She was entertaining the parking valets with a lively jig.”

Cairpre chuckled. “She loves an audience, wherever she can find one. Just like her Grand-da.” He turned, grinning, to look Magenta full in the face.

It was then that Magenta saw the glint of gold in the man’s left ear. He thought it had a pattern on it, one that was already becoming familiar to him. An icicle ran down his spine as he thought over what the old man had told him, about being away from Ireland once, and his fame as a songwriter. A bard. The Tanist was also a bard, he remembered. “Your earring, it’s most unusual. May I take a closer look at it?” Cairpre raised an eyebrow but consented.

“It was a gift from a lady,” he told Magenta. “I haven’t seen her in many years now and I don’t wish to again, but I still wear it to remember her by.”

There was no doubt whatsoever, Magenta realised. The design on the earring was a match. Slowly, he raised his gauntlet and showed it to the old man, who caught his breath, then let it out slowly.

“So,” he growled softly. “You really are what you appear to be. One of her knights. She sent you, didn’t she?” His clear blue eyes flashed with anger. “Well you can go back to Faerie and tell her I’m not going back to her, not tonight, not ever!”

“Believe me, I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t have any choice! I’m under a geis,” Magenta hissed. Before he could say more, another man dressed as a pirate captain approached.

“Cairpre, have you seen Fiona anywhere?”

“No, Ian, but I’m told she was outside a while ago, practising her dance.”

“She hasn’t come back to the party. And she isn’t in her room.” Ian sighed. “I shouldn’t have agreed to let her attend. She’s much too young for all this excitement, but she was so eager to show off her dancing.” He beamed with an indulgent father’s pride. “I could hardly refuse her, could I? She’s born to be a performer. I hope she hasn’t got an attack of shyness and hidden herself somewhere. If you see her, tell me, okay?”

Oh God, thought Magenta. The little girl dancing in the drive must be his daughter. And I let her go with that monster!

As Fiona’s father moved away, Magenta turned his head and whispered, “Cairpre, she’s with the Pooka! She met us in the driveway and asked if she could take it to the stables. I wanted to say no, but… I couldn’t. It’s threatened to kill her if I don’t bring you out there.”

The Tanist turned pale.

“I’m sorry,” Magenta said sincerely. “If was just me, I’d let the Pooka take me to Hell before I’d —”

“I’ll let it take me to Hell first,” murmured the Tanist. “Ian!” he called. The girl’s father turned. “I think I might know where the little scamp is. I’ll go look for her.” Ian grinned and waved his assent before turning back to speak with a woman costumed as Marilyn Monroe.

“This way,” said Cairpre, the Tanist, with a smile as he put his arm around Magenta’s shoulder. He guided him out of the crowded rooms and into an empty corridor before releasing him and dropping the smile. “We’ll avoid the kitchens and go round the old barracks to get to the stables.” The two men hugged the shadows as they made their way to where the Pooka waited with its innocent hostage.

They heard voices coming from the stable, a child’s piping lilt and the Pooka’s deep rumble. Then the little girl shrieked.

“Come on!” shouted Magenta. Both men broke into a run and burst through the stable doors. The child had both hands over her face.

“Fiona! What’s happened! Are you all right?” The old man swept the girl into his arms.

“Grand-da! Of course I’m all right!” The girl wriggled to free herself.

The old man looked both confused and relieved. Then he detected the faint odour of sulphur, and turned to see the Pooka gazing down at him.

“Why have you come to the stables, Grand-da? Oh!” she cried, seeing Magenta. She dropped a pretty curtsey. “Good morrow again, Sir Knight!”

“Uh, good morrow, Lady, uh, Lady Fiona,” Magenta replied, trying to smile.

“Sir Padraig has invited me to go for a ride on his horse.” Cairpre’s voice reflected no trace of the apprehension he must surely be feeling.

“May I go with you? I don’t weigh too much, I’m sure Eochbhean can carry me!” piped the child, bouncing with excitement.

“No, Lady,” Magenta said quickly, then tried to soothe her obvious disappointment. “Your Grand-da and I are, uh, going on a quest for something that only men can find. Otherwise, we’d bring you along.”

“Oh.” Fiona was clearly disappointed, but accepted Magenta’s explanation without question. “Will you be back in time to see me dance?”

Magenta and Cairpre exchanged a look, then both looked at the Pooka. It narrowed its glowing yellow eyes.

Cairpre straightened the child’s fairy tiara and patted her head. “We’ll try not to be late. Now run inside, your faither is looking for you.” Fiona didn’t move. Her smile froze on her face. “Fiona?”

Magenta shouted at the Pooka. “I’ve done what you told me to do! Leave the girl alone!” He raised his gauntled fist and strode toward it.

“The girl is in my power. I will release her when you both leave with me. Not a moment before!” thundered the great horse. “And if you strike me, man, the child will feel the blow.”

Furious, Magenta drew back his fist, then faltered. He felt the Pooka might be lying. But if it wasn’t… Magenta lowered his arm but he was still angry. The Pooka had defeated him again.

Cairpre put a hand on Magenta’s arm. “The sooner we go, the sooner he’ll release Fiona,” he said quietly. “Pooka!” he continued in a stronger voice. “I’m ready. Let’s be away!”

The Pooka jerked its head high and stepped back. “Bard!” it boomed. “You have steel in your costume!”

“Do I?” replied Cairpre, in a voice of injured innocence. “I know better than to bear iron or steel into Faerie!”

The Pooka laid back its ears and stretched forth its muzzle to point to the brooch on Cairpre’s cloak. “I can see it on you. The clasp pin is steel. You will remove that and also that thing around your wrist.”

Scowling, Cairpre removed his watch and set it on the edge of the stall. He took hold of his brooch and endeavoured to unfasten it. But the pin would not come loose; he’d worked it through too much fabric, and it had twisted. Try as he would, it refused to open. The old man frowned. “I’ll have to cut it off. And I didn’t bring a daigér tonight. Sir Padraig, you must have a dagger I could borrow?”

“My name’s just Patrick. I’m afraid all I have with a cutting edge is a sword.”