Page 32 of An Irish Summer

“Very funny.”

“So, it is?”

“It’s not a diary,” he said. “It’s just, it’s a... a place where I write things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Does it matter?”

“I thought we were getting to know each other,” I said.

He sighed. “Just stories, that’s all. It’s nothing, like.”

“What stories?”

“The fairy stories,” he said, waving his hand like it didn’t matter. “The Irish folklore. The yokes my family tells.”

I was looking at him, but he was staring straight out at the road.

“Collin, that’s—”

“It’s just so no one forgets them,” he said. “It’s not a thing. And my family don’t even think they should be written down in the first place, so it’s not like I’m to do anything with them.”

“You could let me read them,” I said.

“They’re much better out loud,” he said.

“So tell me one.”

He glanced in my direction and I offered a soft smile, hoping to encourage him without looking too eager.

“You can’t be cynical about them, you know. There’s no sense in telling a fairy story to someone who doesn’t want to believe it.” I nodded. I couldn’t promise I would believe it, but I could promise I wanted to.

“Right, then,” he said through a soft smile of his own. “Okay, Chelsea. Here’s yer first fairy story.”

I leaned my head against the back of the seat and kicked my shoes off, propping my feet up on the dashboard. And I listened.

The story rolled off Collin’s tongue in a way that was comfortable without sounding rehearsed. Like he’d listened to it and repeated it a thousand times. Like he’d come from a long line of others who’d listened to it and repeated it a thousand times. His voice was just loud enough to be heard over the rain but with the softness you’d use to tell a story to a child. And as always, his accent was music.

In this story, a man passed a fairy hurling match on the way home from the pub one night. The fairies asked the man to be the referee, and since he feared what would happen to him if he declined their request, he obliged. They seemed happy enough that he was willing to referee, but as the game became more competitive, he began to worry what would happen if hedeclared a winner. Would he face consequences from the losing team? Is there a chance they could take him away?

He decided to take a risk, fudging the time and calling a draw with a minute left on the clock before anyone could score again. To his delight, the fairies were none the wiser. They thanked him profusely and invited him back, and while he agreed to return, he knew better than to follow through. If he was lucky enough to encounter the fairies and come out unscathed, there was hardly a chance he’d be so lucky a second time.

“Do you have a fairy story for every occasion?” I asked, silently wishing this story had been longer.

“Just about,” he said. His smile was one of contentment, or maybe pride, even, and I had to force myself to look away.

“Why couldn’t one of the fairies be the referee?”

“Aye, some say the fairies can’t go about their business without someone from this side of the world.”

“And what would have happened to him if he’d gone back?” I hadn’t expected to become so invested, but couldn’t help myself.

“Well,” Collin said, “while it’s possible he would have been so jammy a second time, it’s more likely they would have done him some harm. Taken him in, made him ill, damaged his crops, like.”

“Why?”

“Lots of theories about that one. The fairies just haven’t always had an easy go of it, I suppose. They’ve a dark side. So it’s good the lad kept a level head.”

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