Deaths Excellent Vacation

taken. As he left the encampment, the fiddle music stopped as if cut off with a knife. Probably taking a whisky break, he thought. If he had turned to look, Pat would have seen the circles of trailers shimmer and slowly vanish in the slanted sunlight.
    He hiked about a mile to a paved road. It wasn’t long before a car came along, with a middle-aged couple in it. The driver slowed and then stopped. The woman gave him an appraising look.
    “You’re young to be out on your own,” she decided.
    “I’m older than I look,” Pat smiled.
    The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, an American!” She nudged her husband. “Roddy, the lad’s come from America. Are you home to see the family?”
    “That I am.” Pat climbed into the backseat. He felt oddly crowded, as if there were someone beside him. He must still be affected by invisibility classes and peat fumes. Deliberately, he spread out his arms and announced to the world at large, “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”
     
     
    IN the camp, Eileen and Michael had just found their son’s note.
    “Heaven preserve him!” Eileen exclaimed. “Whatever made him do a crazy thing like that? Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is?”
    “The poor boy.” Michael shook his head. “His head’s been so stuffed with fairy tales that he couldn’t cope with real fairies. I have to go after him.”
    “You’ll never find him in the dark,” Eileen clutched her husband’s arm. “Especially since he doesn’t want to be found. He’ll be heading for civilization, anyway. In the city he’ll only run into muggers and wanton women. If he can get there, he should be all right until morning.”
    Her words sounded hollow to Michael, but he saw the sense in them. “We should talk to the organizers,” he said. “This must have happened before. They’ll have a plan.”
    “Yes, of course, helicopters or BOLOs or something,” Eileen agreed, wringing her hands. “My poor, foolish boy!”
     
     
    PAT was having the time of his life. The couple, Roddy and Mary O’Connor, had taken him to a pub in Ballyveane for dinner and had invited him to stay the night on their farm. They were full of ideas for places he should visit.
    “You should climb the Rock of Cashel and see the Ring of Kerry and of course, Newgrange, where your people buried their dead,” Roddy told him.
    “Don’t you mean our people?” Pat asked, as the car turned onto a dark country lane.
    “Oh, that was long before our time,” Mary laughed as she put on the brake. “Grab him, Roddy, and don’t take your eyes off him!”
    Before Pat knew what was happening, Roddy had twisted around in the front seat and taken hold of his leg.
    “Did you think you’d fool us with that cinema accent?” he crowed. “We knew what you were the minute we laid eyes on you. Now, take us to your pot of gold, or we’ll tip you headfirst off the cliffs and into the sea.”
    “I can’t believe this.” Pat was more angry than concerned. “Did my cousin Jerry put you up to this? Or those fruitcakes at the fairy ring? You can’t believe I’m a leprechaun.”
    “You won’t get us that way, either.” Mary said. “You’re one of the Little People all right. Who else would wear fine leather shoes to thumb a ride?”
    Pat’s hand went to the door handle. Mary had started driving again, but they were going slowly enough for him to leap out and not be much hurt. Roddy didn’t seem to have a good grip on him, but Pat found it hard to move his legs to break free. It was as if someone else were holding him. Suddenly, he was overcome by a primal panic.
    “Look out!” he screamed. “You’ll hit that sheep.”
    For a split second, Roddy let go. Pat took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes shut, and, without even trying, vanished.
    He pushed the car door open and rolled out, crawling and then running to get away. Roddy and Mary shouted and stomped after him a few feet before giving up. They were still blaming each other at the top of their lungs when Pat reached a grove of trees and relaxed enough that his body reappeared.
    “Damn.” He realized. “I left my backpack in the car.”
    He still had his wallet and passport, though, and the town couldn’t be that far away. If he could get his bearings, he should have only a mile or two to walk. Pat sighed. He supposed it was time that he accepted the truth, however nonsensical it seemed. He wasn’t the reincarnation of Brian Boru, but of silly little men with stubby pipes and