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 TheGoodPeople.
ByGregg D’Albert
©2009
 
PROLOGUE
County Meath, IrelandMay, 1882
The small, white farmhouse stood on fertile land between two rises that were not hills asmuch as they were mounds. A stream, marked by a copse of low trees, ran just a few yards behindthe house, and hawthorn bushes dotted the landscape and occasionally broke the symmetry of thehills. Two such bushes also marked where the property began, one bush on each side of the
boreen,
or bridle path, that led up to the dwelling.A lone figure on horseback now passed these bushes on his way to the house. He was animposing man, tall and solidly built, with sandy brown hair and beard, and blue-green eyes. But asstrong as he looked, his demeanor and carriage also suggested a growing fatigue, a weariness thatwas as much mental as it was physical. John Crandall, it appeared, was growing very tired of Them.A crash sounded from inside the house just as he was pulling up to the stable, the sound of breaking glass echoing around the darkening hillsides. Suddenly the man changed his appearance,the look of fatigue falling away like a discarded overcoat, and rage filled out his features; now it waswar. He dismounted, leaving the horse standing outside of the stable, and burst into the house.His wife stood beside the dining table, a broken dish at her feet and a worriedlook on her face. He knew she hadn't broken the dish. “The
boggart?” 
he asked. She didn'tanswer, though her look of consternation deepened, and that was all the answer he needed. "Blastit!" he roared, "I'll – "He was interrupted as a wooden bowl flew off the table and hit him in the chest. He caughtit as it bounced off of him, and hurled it back at the table; this was answered by several morebowls, a pitcher, and most of the wooden flatware being tossed at him. He shrugged off the last of the spoons and, his eyes squeezed shut, rushed the table in a desperate attempt to grab theinvisible assailant.Miraculously, he caught it.A slick, wiry
something 
squirmed in his hands; it wasn't like anything he'd ever felt. Hestaggered back from the table, trying to maintain his grip.His wife gasped. "John Crandall, you'd best let go that thing, else it's likely to tear y' apart!"John didn't appear to be listening. His hands moved up-and-down and to-and-fro, as if thething were putting up quite a struggle. Finally, its motions were too much, and he was forced to letgo. The front door, at first slightly ajar, now crashed open, and sounds from outside indicated thething was beating a hasty retreat.John ran to the doorway. "That's right!" he yelled. “Cut, you
shingawn!" 
His horse, andthose in the stable, whinnied and shied-up as the thing passed by, headed for one of the hills. Johnlingered in the doorway a few more moments, glancing at the door itself, on which was carved thesymbol of the claddagh; then he turned around to face his wife – who, though a little agitated,seemed none the worse for wear – and sighed. "An' they say that the Good People are dead. Ha!"He hugged his wife. "That does it, Mary," he said into her ear. "We're movin'."Mary pulled away. "Oh, John, are y' sure? America's so…so
distant." 
 
He nodded. "That's right. Distant. The further 'way from here, th' better." He looked outthrough one of the windows towards the hill. "Dangerous things livin' in that
knock.
We're better off movin', and leavin' the place to the
Daoine Sidhe." 
“But maybe…maybe they're here because they want somethin' from us, John."John spun away from the window. "An' what could they want from the likes of us? Sure, thatain't the trouble. Nah, it's settled. We're movin'."Mary smiled a little. “I once heard that a
bauchan
followed Callum Mor McIntosh all th' wayto America, John! You know they can be persistent."“McIntosh was a Scotsman, an' therefore got whatever he deserved. For us, movin's thebest thing; even the horses think so."Mary laughed out loud, mirth shining in her dark eyes. "An' how would y' know a thing likethat, John Crandall?"Her raised spirits caught on, and John smiled back at her.He didn't, however, answer her question.
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