Cloncarrig has a way of hearing news in a day or two. Just under nine hundred people, after all. However friendly the Cliffs of Moher are, they're just not as sociable as rivers or lakes. Alima can sympathize, since Oakland is by the sea.

"I see you've met Malachy Bray," says Ogma O'Luain at breakfast. He is gray like the cliffs by now, but his keen eyes and straight back are the same as the long-haired soldier in the yellowing photos on the front desk. "Yeah, he's a good boy. Stupid, but good."

"Don't say that," Alima protests, and he dismisses her with a wave.

"He electrocuted his laptop once." The latest washed mug clinks onto the rack.

Her bite of eggs jerks to a stop halfway to her mouth. "Wait, what?"

"One for me." He smiles at her. She doesn't know how to respond, so she finishes her eggs and brings the plate up to him, even though he's just a few steps over. "Ah, lass, you don't have to."

"Sorry, it's a habit." She refills her mug from the coffee-pot at the front, then sits back down. "Were you raised in England or something? You have a British accent."

"Went to school in London. Needed to stop sounding Irish." It is blunt as usual, but lacks emotion--a sudden thing after his normal friendliness.

She picks at her shirt to get her thoughts in order. "Oh."

"Don't worry. It was before you were born." He heads to the left-side table for another guest's plate, then gives one of her braids a playful tug on the way back.

"Hey!" She smooths it out.

"Ha! So you're in the touchy group."

"What group?"

"Most girls either laugh or they get annoyed when someone grabs their hair." He sorts out the silverware into a corner of the sink.

"Ugh." Alima conceals her sulk by looking out the window, where birds drip from the hazel outside. "How would you like it if I grabbed your hair?"

"That's my wife's job," he tells her. She chokes mid-swallow, and he cackles. "Two for me."

---
Alima cannot take Ogma in excessively high doses, and she considers herself at least a little smarter than usual. Maybe this is why the Miller's Mount only has three out of five rooms rented, even considering the tourist season is tapering off.

She takes a walk around the park, climbs a forked oak tree, and settles down to check house and job listings on her phone. "Overpriced apartment in the next town over... wait-staff job in a faaaaancy restaurant..."

Ten minutes later, she sighs and puts it back in her holster. "Pointless." She watches the clouds drift by.

"Hey there, new girl!" A woman with a chestnut bob waves up to Alima. "Were you rescued by Malachy Bray last night?"

"I suppose?" She inches down and brushes her jeans off. "Do you know him?"

"I do, I went to school with him. My name's Mag Geraldson." Mag extends a hand, and winces as Alima shakes it. "Good god, your handshake!"

"Oh, sorry." She scuffs at a leaf. "Anyway, my name's Alima Song. Malachy mentioned you went to school with him?"

They begin to walk as Mag nods, picking through the leaves and rent branches on the grass. "We did. Of course, half of Cloncarrig went to school with each other until university, so that's not saying much. So what are you up to? It's two weeks to the end of tourist season."

"I'm planning for living here, really." She scrapes some mud off her boot. "So I figured I shouldn't fly over when it's packed."

"Ooh, an expatriate!" Mag peers down at her. "So why Ireland?"

"Because I wanted a fresh start. And English is the dominant language," she adds ruefully.

"Why wouldn't you just drive to Canada instead of flying all the way here?" Mag asks, and Alima shudders.

"You have no idea how long that takes, does it?"

"What? Why?"

"It's nearly two days from San Francisco to Canada, and that's without California traffic."

A chill runs down Mag's spine, as much from the wind as from the thought of a two-day car trip. "Well, barring the whole 'English' business, why Ireland?"

"Because it isn't home."

"Oh." Mag knows better than to ask more about it.

The leaves crunch under their feet, and Alima accidentally goes ankle-deep in mud before Mag catches her arm. "Fuck it, I thought there wouldn't be tiny sinkholes here!"

"There are sinkholes every five minutes after a good storm," Mag tells her wisely. "Just don't tell the tourists." Then she winks. "More fun that way."

---
Alima finds a nice, solid car from a man in Mary's Cape. It's all but given away, seeing as he's getting married and moving to Cork. She doesn't want to go far below nineteen hundred euros, but he's so relieved that he takes seventeen.

The next Tuesday, she's out running errands and spots a familiar honey-blond head. She pulls over and rolls the window down. "Hello!"

"Oh, hey!" He waves. "Did you give in and rent a car? Told you Cloncarrig is too small."

"Actually, I bought it last week." She shuts off the ignition smugly. "How are things with you?"

"Same as usual. You still staying at the Mount?"

"Next week I'm extending my stay," she replies.

"You don't know Ogma well enough yet, do you?" He asks with a shudder. "After your stay's up, you can come to my place if you want."

Between his question and her undecided shrug, she sees a man with a deer's skull strapped to his head. Just past the corner of the street, the skull’s sockets burn red. He is tall and broad-shouldered, but casts no shadow, and his tattered cloak is not of a modern man.

"No." She grips the wheel.

"What was that?" Mal does not see the man; he only leans in to check on her. "You okay? Alima?"

"No." She turns the engine on, makes a U-turn, and takes the long way back.

---
Ogma does not ask why she took half an hour too long to get extra tomatoes and basil. Nor why she drops the bag off mutely, swallows some salt, and turns her room’s TV on full blast. He must know that she wants to drown out something, even if she hasn’t told him that the stranger’s eyes are burning her skin.

He gives her until lunch to calm down, stepping inside on pretense of leaving the menu. He checks his phone when he gets a text, then asks: “What did you see?”

“A... a man in rags. He didn’t have a shadow.” She’s still too cold. She huddles into her blanket.

“Did he look human?”

“He wore a skull. A deer’s skull.”

“The Hunter,” he tells her, and opens the closet to pack her clothes into her suitcase. He’s probably done this for other people. “You’ll stay at my house.”

“Malachy offered after my stay was over,” she remembers, but Ogma shakes his head.

“Not enough. Mal will sleep on the couch, unbar his door to you, give you the first cut of bread--but the Hunter will eat that protection like paper. Kindness is nothing to him.”

She unwinds enough blanket to swipe all her things into her canvas bag. Even that leaves her worried that the Hunter will see her. “Is he the only one?”

“The only one who can pass the town walls,” Ogma tells her.

His son Oscar arrives shortly after; he must have stopped somewhere for the sandwich he’s cramming down his throat, but he nods the minute he sees Alima frozen to her bed. “Don’t worry, love. The Folk can’t do much with Dad keeping an eye on you.”

Oscar picks through the blanket and helps her stagger to the car.

Ogma's home is a small cottage with a front yard and spreading back garden; not the pretty romantic kind, just bricks and mortar and wood. He unlocks the door and steps inside, holding both hands out to her.

"They call me Cloncarrig's cunning-man, for my path was seen long before I walked it. You are in my protection."

She stumbles towards him, reaches out with shaking pale fingers.

The cold breaks off like caked mud.

Next Chapter: III: yes