Death's Excellent Vacation (Sookie Stackhouse 9.5)

"This will be the grandest vacation we've ever had. Won't it, son?" Pat didn't answer. He was staring out the window with the fervor of a pilgrim in sight of Jerusalem.

Chapter Thirty-nine

THERE was a bus waiting for them with O'Reilly painted in big black letters on the side. The clan piled in, exhausted and eager at the same time. Pat realized that he had no idea what kind of place they were going to. He had imagined some sort of manor house, with polished wood wainscoting and stone fireplaces. Or perhaps a nice resort hotel with a golf course. Instead the bus drove for what seemed like hours into a countryside where there seemed to be nothing but windswept fields and hundreds of sheep wandering freely. Finally, they pulled in to a sort of trailer park, with old-fashioned silver caravans arranged in concentric circles around a couple of large, whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs. There was smoke coming from the chimney of one of them, and Pat got his first whiff of the heady and slightly intoxicating scent of burning peat. Then they were surrounded by a sea of people, all of them small, with dark hair and skin ranging from deeply tanned to the shade of pale milk. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Pat thought. There really are more of us in the world. The babble of accents was surprising, especially coming from such familiar faces. The English assaulting his ears was broad Australian, British, and Anglo-Indian. He even thought he heard cadences of Spanish and French. How far had the O'Reillys emigrated? Pat and his family were shown to one of the caravans, which turned out to be nicely appointed in a three-quarter size that was perfect for them, with a small kitchen and a shower in its own stall next to the bathroom. Eileen was delighted. "My grandmother told me about these, from when she was a little girl, " she told Pat. "Isn't it cozy? Just like the ones the Travelers have, although not so colorful. " She seemed disappointed about that, but, for once, Pat was too tired to try to get more information. He wanted a shower and a sleep. Then, he promised himself, he'd rent a car or a bike and strike out on his own. It was the singing that woke him. Dusk had fallen and the bar must have opened. Pat now saw the sense in having this reunion far away from other people. He pulled on some clean clothes and ventured out. A huge bonfire had been built in a hollow in front of one of the buildings. Long trestle tables and benches were ranged around it. Lamplight gushed from the open door and all the windows. The tables were full of people happily tucking into shepherd's pie. Every hand held a glass. The smell of the lamb and potatoes was enticing. Pat picked up a plate and a glass. Perhaps he'd wait until tomorrow to make his getaway.  The fire grew higher, sending out sparks in bursts of blue, red, gold, and green. In a haze of alcohol and peat smoke, Pat thought what a neat trick it was to make it seem as if the fireworks were coming out of the center of the blaze. There was singing and drinking and dancing and drinking and wrestling matches far into the night. Pat soon realized that he had imbibed more than he could stand. He knew this because he tried to stand and failed. He began to crawl back to the trailer, blaming his lack of stamina on the jet lag. His eyes must be going, too. He'd hardly gone ten yards when he felt someone fall on top of him. "Oops-a-daisy!" a lilting feminine voice giggled. "Sorry, mate! I didn't see you down there. " Pat muzzily looked around for the source of the body and the voice, but didn't see anyone. Jerry must have been right. The porter in Ireland was much stronger than the kind they drank in the States. He continued on to the trailer and fell into bed.

HE awoke the next morning feeling completely disoriented. The silver curve of the ceiling gave him the impression that he was lying inside a metal ball that was rolling uphill. After several moments spent clutching the edge of his bunk to avoid falling out, he realized that it was only the wind sweeping from the ocean across the treeless land that was rocking the trailer. The door to his parents' cubicle was ajar. Pat peeked in and found they were gone. The clock on the wall said half past ten.  As Pat dressed and boiled water for coffee, he read the program that he found on the table. "Welcome!!! Welcome!!! Welcome Home!!!" it began. Pat liked their enthusiasm. He skimmed down the page. It seemed that he had already missed the full Irish breakfast. The morning seemed to be taken up with seminars, not what he had expected. However, if everyone was inside listening to edifying talks, he should have no trouble creeping off. The kettle whistled and Pat sat down again with his mug. He looked over the program more carefully. "What the hell . . . ?" he said, reading the titles of the seminars. " 'How to keep your pot of gold in trying times. ' 'Invisibility, the best defense. ' 'Which end of the rainbow?' 'To jig or not to jig: fighting the stereotypes. ' 'Making shoes that last. ' What kind of nonsense is this?" Burning with curiosity and no little annoyance, Pat gulped down his coffee and set out in search of someone who could tell him what this was all about.

THE sun was beginning to burn off the morning fog as he crossed the field to the central buildings. Wisps of smoke still rose from the coals of the bonfire. Pat saw no one, although he could hear music coming from the far building. A banner above the door proclaimed this the meeting hall. Inside, the building was a typical Irish shotgun house, if much larger than most. A long hallway stretched from front to back, with rooms branching out on either side. The subjects of the talks were posted on the doors. Pat first looked into the one on invisibility, but it was empty. The next room was the talk on keeping a pot of gold. This one was packed. He edged into a space near the door. No one noticed him as they were all intent on the speaker, a solemn woman with thick spectacles and a mound of white hair pulled into a bun. "Of course, " she was saying, "apartment living makes subterranean deposits difficult. However, a well-constructed space beneath the floor-boards, preferably in a bedroom, can be used in a pinch. " "But what about fire and thieves?" a man in the front row asked. "We always have to worry about thieves, " the speaker told him. "As for fire, don't they teach the protection charms anymore? Really, that should have been explained to you about the time you were weaned, young man. What is this race coming to?" She gestured to the audience. "How many here never learned the five essential charms?" Over half of the group raised their hands. The woman sighed. "Eithne, add that to the seminars for tomorrow. Just because you're living away from home 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. "