Daughter of the Forest

  The blankets were the best discovery, for it was close to midwinter, and I did not feel safe enough to light more than the smallest fire, lest my presence be detected. I was always cold, chill to the bone during the long nights, aching and slow on frosty mornings. I wrapped the blankets around myself and tried not to feel it.

  Perhaps I was stupid to believe I could lift the spell. Too many stories, you might say, a head too full of old tales, where it’s just a matter of completing the tasks, and then the hero wins his heart’s desire. But I was not so foolish, even then. I had once told Simon he could make his tale end any way he liked. But this was not strictly true. I set my path straight ahead; but there were others that influenced its course, that diverted and changed and confused it. And as the Forest Lady had warned me, even at the start it would be very hard. Far harder than I had believed it could be when I had first listened white-faced to her description of my task.

  Perhaps you have tried spinning or weaving, with flax maybe, or fine wool. It takes a toll on the hands, as the combing and twisting rubs and blisters the fingers, as the movement of the spindle starts to wear a deep aching into the joints. You can tell a spinner by her hands. As they give beauty to their work, the hands grow gnarled and twisted and old. The noble ladies of the ancient tales, Etain, and Sadb, who became a deer, and Niamh of the golden hair, whose name my mother had shared, they cannot have been spinners and weavers, for their hands are described as white and fair, decorated with silver rings, hands for a brave warrior to kiss when he returns victorious from battle. Hands suited to fine embroidery, or playing the harp. Slender fingers for masking a delicate yawn, or touching a lover’s cheek. The ladies in the old tales had never heard of starwort.

  I have told of this plant before, how it seems soft like a pigeon’s feathers, with its gray-green foliage and delicate, starlike flowers. How it buries its tiny needles deep in the flesh, to burn and burrow and torture like fire. How the flesh swells and reddens and throbs, how the pain remains until every trace of the poison is removed. I barely knew where to start, for there was no way to protect my hands and still do it. I could use a knife to cut the stems, and I could catch them in a cloth. That was one thing. But I could not shred the stems and leaves and twist them into thread with my hands in gauntlets. Besides, I knew enough of magic to recognize there was no cheating allowed. To save my brothers, I would have to suffer as they were suffering. As my father no doubt was suffering in his own way, for even he could scarcely be untouched by the sudden disappearance of all his sons in one cruel stroke. I wondered what explanation the lady Oonagh had given him. No, I was meant to grasp this plant and to make these shirts with my bare, bleeding hands and do it I would, for I knew that only this way could the spell be broken.

  I had no tools, and little skill. I had some idea of how it was done for I had watched the women in the settlement as they sat on their high stools drawing out the fibers of wool, feeding them across from distaff to spindle, letting the thread twist and grow while the spindle spun its way slowly down to the ground. Then the length of thread would be wound onto the shaft, and they would set the whorl turning, and the whole thing would start again. There was a rhythm to it, and often they sang at their work. It had looked simple enough. But this was not wool. A fibrous plant like starwort would have to be soaked, and beaten, and dried before I could even think of forming a thread from it. Well, I would have to start somewhere.

  I made the spindle first. There were pines further up the hill, and an even length of narrow branch, stripped of its twigs, would furnish me well enough as a spindle shaft. As I used the hatchet I did not forget a silent greeting to the tree spirits. If I were to live out here alone, their good will would be essential. Linn solved the next part of the problem for me, as she snuffled about in the undergrowth, tracking interesting smells. She had learned a game of fetch, and now she brought a green pinecone which had fallen from the tree before it could ripen, and dropped it expectantly at my feet, hoping I would throw it for her. The cone was well shaped, symmetrical, and a good weight. So there was my spindle whorl. I gave Linn a pat and threw another cone for her to bound after. When I returned to my cave, I used my little knife to make a hole in the base of the cone, and into this I wedged the end of the shaft. I cut a notch in the other end, where the thread would be hooked around. So far, so good. Then I took my knife and went to gather starwort.

  I will not dwell too long on that process. I cut the stems and caught them in a piece of sacking, and that spared my hands a little, but still the spines lodged themselves in my flesh and my hands hurt more than I could have believed possible. Despite the abundant supply of the plant, the task was slow. When I had a bundle of stems ready, I went down to the lakeshore, hunting for a place where they might be soaked. I was lucky. The spring flowed down between large mossy rocks, and here and there little pools had formed. Just above the pebbly shore there was a place where I could move a stone or two so there was only the gentlest flow through one shallow pool. Here I placed my spiny armful. With some plants, ash was used to hasten the preparation for spinning. I knew that from my study of herb lore.

  Deciding it could not hurt to try, I waited until my tiny fire had cooled in the morning, then scooped up a handful of the soft ash and took it with me to the water’s edge. I sprinkled the ash onto the stems, and used a round stone to pound and break the tough fibers apart, until they had more the look of single threads. I twisted each of these rough hanks around a stick, which could be wedged between the stones in the pool so that the water flowed all around it. Then I waited. Three days’ respite, I had, time to pluck the starwort spines from my hands and to apply a soothing salve, time to do an inventory of my meager stores and to realize that without foraging or stealing I would not last beyond the spring. Long enough to practice boiling oats in water over the fire to make a simple porridge, and to explore my new home a little. I was taken aback to discover that it was not so very far to the top of the western hill, and that from here I could see an area of cleared land, carved out of the forest for grazing. There were small farmhouses there, one or two. They were close enough to provide supplies, maybe. And they were close enough to be a threat to my safety.

  On the fourth day I took the starwort from the water, and pounded the fibers again, and hung them up inside the cave until they were almost dry. On the next day I began to spin.

  Poor Linn. She was well attuned to my moods, and was simple and faithful as only a good hound can be. It was beyond her understanding why I wept, and why my whole body was tense with pain, and why she could not make it better by licking me and whining and sitting as close by me as she could. Her distress bothered me, and I tried to work while she was away hunting; but the task was slow, so slow, strand by creeping strand of brittle thread that broke and unraveled and would not twist, and try as I might to keep going, the pain would soon be too much to bear and I would drop the spindle and run to plunge my poor hands in the stream to soothe them.

  They were dark times, and in the depths of them I would hear an inner voice that said, this task is impossible. Why not give up now? Look, your hands are swollen and ruined, you weep day in and day out, and what have you to show for it? A little spool of ill-spun thread, lumpy and fragile, scarce enough to hem a jacket for a butterfly, let alone a shirt for a man. Surely this task cannot be completed. Besides, how can you be sure the Lady of the Forest did not lie to you? Perhaps this is all some cruel trick, and your labors are for nothing.

  It was hard to ignore this voice. More than once I took out the small, smooth piece of wood, and looked at the little tree carved there, and imagined myself talking to Simon, talking and talking through his despair and self-hatred and wretchedness. And I began to tell myself stories, not out aloud, but in my mind; and I practiced focusing all my attention on the tale, whether it was of a hero or a giant or three brothers setting off to seek their fortune. If I could not remember a story, I invented one, or elaborated on what I knew.

  All day my hands
went about their terrible work, and the pain was still there, as was the swelling that made it so hard to control spindle and thread. But my mind went beyond the pain and dwelled with lovely lady or noble warrior or lucky traveler, and with dragon, serpent, and magic wish.

  When dusk made work impossible, I would put away what I had done, trying hard not to see how meager the length of thread my long labor had produced. There was no brother to pull the needles of starwort from my flesh, no singer of songs to comfort me, no friend to bind up my hands with healing ointments. The barbs had to stay in the skin, for my swollen, numbed fingers had not the fine control needed to extract them. From time to time the flesh began to weep, and ill humors rose beneath and oozed from the lesions. Then I would grow feverish and dizzy. But I had chosen wisely from Father Brien’s store of remedies, and so I had brought a salve of self-heal and comfrey, and I made an infusion of dried willow bark and herb of grace in spring water which I used for both washing and drinking. After a while I would be well enough to begin again, though weaker. Eventually it seemed my body accepted the inevitable, and my hands grew scarred and hard in defense at their ill treatment. The pain still remained, but I could go on.

  Winter slipped into spring, and I grew thinner. I could count my ribs and felt the chill at night even though Linn slept beside me. And I was hungry. For a bag of meal lasts only so long, even for one girl, and then unless you can beg or steal, you have to rely on what can be found. I had not eaten flesh or fish since I was a small child, for I had always felt a closeness with other creatures that made my senses revolt at the very idea. Linn had learned to hunt in the forest; and to dispose of her prey neatly and out of sight of her human companion. For me it was harder. There was food to be found now the weather was warmer, a good supply of mushrooms, cresses in the streams, wild onions. It was too early in the season for much more, and I rationed the last of my barley meal, my dwindling supply of beans, against the time when berries and nuts would ripen. Despite my hunger, I grudged every minute wasted in foraging.

  The horse had grown gaunt and wild eyed, and I could no longer keep him. One day when the sun was out and the first real warmth of spring was in the air, I took him up through the woods to the place where the land had been cleared for grazing, where you could see green fields and stone walls and a cow or two in the distance and a plume of smoke from a little cottage. I rested my forehead against his neck for a while, trying to let him know that Father Brien would want him to be safe and useful and well-fed. Then I slapped his flank and pointed ahead. He set out cautiously across the field, and I slipped back under the trees and left him. I hope he found kindness and a warm stable.

  Early in spring there was a great storm that lashed the forest for a day and a night, whipping tree tops into a frenzied dance, driving needles of icy rain deep inside my shelter, so that every blanket, every piece of clothing, every corner of dry flooring was saturated. My firewood was useless, and I sat and shivered helplessly while the dog did her best to keep me warm. By the second morning, as the storm slowly abated, I was convulsed with shaking, and could think only of the big fireplace in the hall at home with its crackling pine logs, and the little fire in my bedroom which had cast its glow on tapestried owl and unicorn. Half dreaming, I imagined strong arms wrapping me in a blanket and cradling me safely until I believed I slept warm and secure. To wake from this dream drenched and trembling with cold was cruel indeed. After a while Linn grew tired of me and went out into the morning, while I sat silently weeping, thinking I would give it all up, almost, if only someone would bring me a bowl of Fat Janis’s barley broth.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually my trance of self pity was interrupted by Linn’s barking, and I hobbled outside, cramped limbs protesting all the way, to find one of the great ash trees had fallen in the night, bringing down many smaller sisters in her path, and now lay not far from my doorway. Linn was further up the hill, chasing something in the undergrowth.

  The death of this great tree had opened up the dense woodland around my cave, and I could see the glint of the lake between the close-spaced ranks of young elm and willow. I stood by the fallen giant, resting my scarred hands on her smooth gray bark, and spoke inwardly to the spirit that had dwelt there, for the storm had taken her home in one violent gesture. I thanked her for the years of shelter the tree had given to small creatures, the nourishment she had shed for the forest soil, for her deep and abiding peace and understanding. I told her I would use the wood well, to make new tools for my work, and to fuel my fire, and I reassured her that the light which now bathed the hillside in its white, cold after-storm brightness would draw up new life from the soil. In time, another great ash would grow here. I told her this, and the cool smoothness of the bark soothed my injured fingers. I felt the knowledge and mystery of the great tree absorbed into my spirit, so that I knew her oneness, her aloneness, the dignity of her life and of her passing. I would not cut the wood yet. I would wait for the spirit to move on, and then at the right time, I would chop and dry and fashion new distaff and spindle, and I would try my hand at making a weaving frame, for I judged that I might have spun enough thread by now to start on the first shirt. My strength was not such that I could use the massive trunk or major limbs of such a giant, but my small hatchet could tackle the lesser branches. I looked at my damaged hands and flexed my aching fingers. It was going to get harder.

  Meanwhile, the great ash would rest where she lay, and mosses would creep over her trunk, and tiny creatures make their homes in her dim hollows. Even in death she was a link in the great chain of the forest’s being.

  The season moved on. Bees clustered heavy on the sweet florets of lavender and the woods were carpeted with jewel-bright flowers. Day and night were in balance, and birds were busy with wisps of straw and twig, readying havens for a new brood. Venturing to the lakeshore early one morning, I saw flocks of waterbirds far out toward the small islands, drifting on the silver expanse of water, rising to the sky in great clouds of beating wings or stooping for fish. I could not tell, at such a distance, if any of them were swans.

  The water was warmer and I steeled myself to strip and wash, and to clean my mud-covered garments. In this time I had seen no sign of human life on this shore. It was as if this corner of the wilderness were somehow protected from mortal interference, and indeed perhaps this was true, for a time at least. The forest will hide you, the Lady had said. Who could say how much her influence was at work here?

  Time passed, and the forest burst forth with new life. I played out my small domestic round day after day. I would rise at dawn to wash in lake water, and I would blow the embers of my tiny fire back to life, and boil water with maybe a handful of cress and wild onions for a meager breakfast. After this, Linn would set out along the shore or into the woods, hunting, and I would go out to search for food. As spring moved into summer this task grew easier. Blackberries ripened, gooseberries and red currants were here and there for the taking. Elder trees were crowned with clusters of white. Wild herbs were abundant, parsley and sage, marjoram and figwort. I noted where apples grew, and hazel trees, for these would provide a good harvest later, in the autumn. I knew by now I must live here at least one more winter, for my progress with the task was wretchedly slow. I had barely enough thread for one shirt, and it was already close to summer.

  When I returned from my foraging, I would fetch distaff and spindle, and the unforgiving bundle of fibers, and I would spin and spin, and feel the barbs piercing my skin, and I would tell tales in silence with my eyes fixed on nothing. From time to time I would get up to walk out under the trees, and I would rest my aching back and shoulders against a strong oak or sturdy elm. Then my mind would reach out for them, out across the lake, into the sky, anywhere my brothers might be.

  Where are you, Finbar?

  But there was nothing. For all I knew they might be dead, brought down by some hunter’s arrow or prey to wolf or wild boar.

  Where are you?

  I d
id not allow myself to do this for long. Linn would come back, licking her lips, and settle by me companionably, and I would spin again. Later in the day I would take the thread I had made in the morning, and add it to my weaving. It was beyond my ability to make a loom such as I had seen the women use at home. But I had found a flat piece of bark, two hand spans in length, a little less in breadth, and I had notched the edges and tried the warp threads around. The weft I wove in by hand, with a needle of bone taken from Father Brien’s. Under and over, under and over. The fabric was lumpy and uneven, but it held together. Time enough later to think about how such work might be sewn into a shirt.

  Midsummer took me almost by surprise. I was working as steadily as I could, and began to search further afield for starwort, for I had almost exhausted the supply near my cave, and must now leave it to recover. One day I ventured back along the old path where I had taken the horse, up the hill between vines and creepers, ferns and mosses, in the dark green filtered light of ancient forest, until I was close to the place I had left him. There was a strange feeling in me, as if I must make sure the rest of the world had not gone away while I hid solitary in my cave spinning. For what about the tales of lad and lass taken by the Folk under the hill? They might spend but one night with the fair ones, singing and dancing, and come home to find a hundred years had passed and their people all dead and gone. Who was to say the same might not happen to me?

  I came as close to the forest’s edge as I dared, and then I climbed quietly up into the spreading arms of a walnut tree. Linn guarded my bundle, happy enough to rest among the ferns and bracken, for the sun was hot and there was a still heaviness that presaged summer storms. From my vantage point I looked out over a stand of young elder trees, down to a cart track bordered by hawthorn bushes, and beyond this to stone-walled fields, some planted with barley or rye, others left for grazing. There was a cottage or two, far enough away. Here and there the land rose to small conical hills, some crested with pines or oaks. And beyond the farmlands, the forest began again. I sat quiet amid the stillness, scarcely thinking of anything. The sweet smell of hawthorn blossom drifted in the air, and I sensed the movement of small creatures about their business, insects sluggish in summer’s heat, rustling of rabbit and squirrel in the undergrowth, and the lesser-seen, mysterious dwellers of the trees, whose voices floated in the air like fragile, whispering music.