Deaths Excellent Vacation

doesn’t mean you can go native.” She looked at the note cards in front of her. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, guarding against fluctuation in the price of gold.”
    Watching the audience intent on every word, Patrick was certain he had found the secret his parents had been hiding; he came from a family of lunatics. The sooner he was out of here, the better.
    He started out the open door, back into the sane sunshine, when he collided with something. He wasn’t much hurt, for it was soft.
    “We meet again,” a voice said in his ear. “Is this the American idea of courtship?”
    Very, very slowly, Pat turned his face in the direction of the sound.
    In the sunlight something was sparkling. The bits of light gradually coalesced into the form of a woman. When he could make out her face, Pat saw that she was straining in concentration, eyes squeezed shut and her mouth tight with effort. At last she came into focus. He saw that she was about his own age, with black curls, hazel eyes, and the sun-touched skin of the Australians. She laughed at his expression.
    “I know I’m not great at reappearing,” she said. “But that’s no reason to look like a dying mackerel.”
    Pat closed his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going back to my bed until I wake up.”
    It had to be something in the beer. There was no other explanation. Perhaps this was some sort of CIA experiment. He probably wasn’t in Ireland at all, but strapped into a chair with electrodes stuck in his brain. Although why the government would want him to believe that beautiful Irish-Australian women could appear out of thin air was more than he could imagine.
    Before he could make a move, the sound of applause signaled the end of the talks. The doors flew open and people came piling out. Patrick grabbed his father as soon as he appeared.
    “You have got to tell me what’s going on!” he demanded. “Am I hallucinating or crazy? Is any of this really happening?”
    Aunt Teresa appeared at his elbow. Had she been there a second before? She shook her head at Pat in disgust.
    “That’s what you get for being blind drunk last night and missing the breakfast meeting,” she told him. “Eileen, it’s time you told the boy the truth. I never agreed with the way you and Michael kept him so completely in the dark.”
    “Mind your own business,” Eileen shot back. “It’s not like you told your children the whole truth.”
    “Well, they at least know the five charms.” Teresa went nose to nose with her sister. “You just let Patrick stuff his head with all that Celtic nonsense.”
    “This is not the time,” Michael said, gently pushing the women apart. “Come along, Pat. Teresa is right for once. Your mother and I have some explaining to do.”
     
     
    THEY settled back into the trailer. Eileen fussed with the tea things for a bit, making such a clatter that conversation was impossible. At last she set mugs down for each of them. Michael cleared his throat.
    “You see, son,” he began. “You seemed so happy thinking you were a Celt that we didn’t want to—”
    “Oh my God!” Pat interrupted. “I’m adopted!”
    “Of course not,” Eileen laughed. “And you with your granddad’s nose and his mother’s own eyes. Don’t be silly.”
    “It’s the O’Reilly name, Pat,” Michael continued. “We took that when we came to America. We’re Irish, right enough, but not from the Celts. Our ancestors were the Fir Bolg , who were here before the Tuatha ever landed and long before the Celts appeared.”
    Patrick waited for the rest of the explanation. He knew the old stories. The Fir Bolg were the Irish defeated by the Tuatha de Danann at the first battle of Magh Tuiredh . They were relegated to the wilds of Connaught, and some were enslaved by the conquerors. Later, Celtic invaders defeated the Tuatha , who faded away under the hills and became the sidh , the fairies of Ireland. At least, that was the legend. His father had always stressed that the Fir Bolg were the first ones, the true Irish. But it was just a story.
    Pat searched his parents’ faces for signs of suppressed laughter or incipient madness.
    “All right,” he said carefully, in case they became violent. “Our family is descended from the oldest of the Irish. Interesting. Are you saying that we’re part of the sidh ? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd, seeing as they’re mythical?”
    “They’re not a myth,” Eileen stated. “A legend. There’s a big