Outside, Linn began a terrible howling that went on and on, echoing through the woods, and over the water, and up into the wide pink and orange and dazzling blue of the sky as dawn turned to day.
Chapter Six
Living out there for so long, I began to feel as if I were part of the forest itself. It was like an old tale, perhaps the story of a young girl cruelly abandoned by her family, who grew up able to talk with the birds and fishes, with raven and salmon and deer. I’d have liked that; unfortunately the presence of a perpetually hungry Linn meant the wild creatures gave our small dwelling a wide berth. There was a family of hedgehogs who ventured close at dusk once it grew warmer and, whenever I had some morsel of food to spare, I put it out on a smooth stone under the bushes for them, and made Linn stay inside until they crept off again into the undergrowth.
The changing moods of the forest worked their way deep into my being. As nights became longer, as berries ripened on bramble and hawthorn and nuts hung heavy on hazel and chestnut, I too underwent some changes. I was always a small, skinny thing and my diet was frugal at best. Nonetheless, that autumn my body began to change from a child’s to a woman’s, and I began my bleeding. This should, I supposed, have been cause for some form of celebration, but it felt like no more than an inconvenience, for my whole will and energy was focused on the tasks of gathering starwort, and spinning and weaving my six shirts. Nonetheless, I took time that first night of bleeding to bathe myself by moonlight, and then I drank some rosemary tea for the cramps, and sat under the stars listening to the owls and the stillness. That night I felt that the Lady of the Forest was very close, and I sensed the movement around me of a great and deep magic, but I did not see her.
It became necessary to go further afield in search of starwort, for the supply of brittle, thorny thread was running short. Six squares of the woven fabric had been enough to make one rough shirt, and I had started the second, but had thread enough for a sleeve, maybe, but no more. I went out with a small sack and a sharp knife, looking for the patches of feathery gray that sprang up in forest clearings, where dappled sunlight could penetrate the autumn canopy. This plant liked the damp, and grew closely on the banks of little streams, crowding out the ferns and mosses. It was a plentiful time, and often I was lucky enough to bring back a bundle of hazelnuts and elderberries as well.
I began to understand, exploring the forgotten pathways and dim glades of the forest, where Finbar might have been, those times when he disappeared for days on end and returned with his gray eyes fixed on some distant vision no one else could see. I noticed the Ogham notches on tree trunks and here and there on mossy stone; and knew that the mysterious arts that Conor had begun to learn had their roots here in the ancient growth.
One day, by chance, I discovered one of the most secret places. I was clambering up a stream bed in search of the spiny plant, and Linn was ahead of me splashing enthusiastically about, slurping up mouthfuls of the clear water in passing. We rounded a curve and ducked under a boulder. Then she stopped. I stopped behind her. Across a round pool stood a huge and venerable oak, its roots stretching wide around the bole, knotted deep into the earth. Its canopy spread densely above, so that the light barely penetrated its lower branches. The leaves would fall soon enough though, for they were every shade of red and bronze. Goldenwood hung thick from its topmost limbs. And carved into its bark, looking straight at me across the dim water, was an ancient face, set there by some seeker of truth. It was neither male nor female, neither friendly nor forbidding. It was simply there.
Linn would go no closer, but settled down in the undergrowth to wait for me, ears alert for danger. I felt respect, but not awe. After all, the forest was my own place. So I made my way around the pool for a closer look. Before the face, on the water’s edge, lay a great stone, its surface worn gleaming smooth with time and touching.
Then I froze. Others had been here before me, and recently. For on this stone an offering was set out. A hunk of country bread. A wedge of cheese. I glanced back at the dog, motioning her to be still. There was no sound of human activity nearby, only the fluting of birds and the faint rustle of leaves far above us where the crisp autumn breeze stirred the canopy. I held my breath. Whoever had left these simple gifts may be gone, but Linn and I should leave, for these items bore no trace of ant or beetle; they had not been here long. Yet the food held my senses fast. Though it was the fruitful time of year, I had been frugal as a squirrel, storing nuts and drying berries for the winter, so I was hungry. The supplies my brothers had brought were dwindling fast. I was, after all, not yet fourteen years old and I could almost taste the chewy graininess of the barley loaf, the mellow bite of the soft cheese. Linn gave a little whine, and that decided me. I nodded respectfully to the old face in the oak, believing he would not object. Then I slipped the bread and cheese into my pocket, and we were away for home.
Hindsight is a fine thing. At the time, safe back by our little fire, sharing this wonderful, unexpected feast as dusk fell, I basked in the forest’s protection, and I never thought such a small act could herald such terrible consequences. Indeed, at the time I believed the windfall might have been meant for us, a bounty that had fallen into my hands through the good will of the forest spirits, or maybe the Lady herself. I did have some common sense, though, and so I did not go that way again for a long time. I was not foolish enough to court discovery.
Time passed, and I spun the thread for the second shirt. The first was a sorry-looking garment, the woven patches cobbled together, the sleeves strangely uneven. But it would serve its purpose. One morning there was crisp frost on the ground and the bushes bore robes of sparkling silver that melted into droplets with the sun’s hazy rising in a sky of lavender gray. Winter was coming and with it my brothers. I worked on as steadily as I could, always thankful for the dry wood heap my brothers had left, for my fingers ached with the chill. I took the risk of making a bigger fire, and roasted stolen turnips in the coals. Once or twice snow came down, gentle flakes escaping the net of bare branches to drift silently to the ground outside my doorway. Here, where the trees grew close by the water, it did not lie deep; and for that I was grateful. I wore my own old dress, and the red woollen one over that, and a blanket around my shoulders, and on my feet Padriac’s boots. And still I was cold.
By the time my brothers returned, I was weaving the back of the second shirt. It almost made me laugh, thinking back to the day I had set out from Father Brien’s. It seemed such a long time ago. A few moons, from winter to summer maybe, I had believed this task would take. Now here I was, nearly a year later, and I had scarcely begun. I had become a little quicker with practice, but my hands did not always obey me, so misshapen and abused were they from the treatment I gave them. Just as well, I told myself, that I did not care about marriage and all that went with it. What man would look at a girl with knobbled hands like an old crone’s? That sort of life, with weddings and banquets, with music and reading and fine embroidery, seemed so far away now that I could not imagine any of us would ever return to it. I never dwelled on what might happen afterward, when finally I would slip the sixth shirt over my last brother’s head and restore them to this world once more. I worked as fast as I could, and let my mind travel ahead only a certain distance, no further.
I do not remember their second visit as well as the first. It was on the eve of the winter solstice, Meán Geimhridh. It was my fourteenth birthday. Some of it, I suppose, was blotted out by the things that happened afterward. I remember that Finbar arrived a little later than the others, as on the first visit. I remember the look in his eyes, a hint of wildness that he could not quite keep hidden from me.
There was news. Conor could tell I craved it, but he passed it on with some reluctance.
“The child was born at Samhain,” he said. “A boy. They have called him Ciarán.”
Liam threw a stick on the fire. “It’s a good strong name,” he said grudgingly.
I held up my hands in the flickering l
ight. It was freezing cold, but still we sat outside, for the small blaze gave a warmth that was cheering to the heart as well as comforting to the bones. Here we could make some semblance of our old circle, pretend some likeness of our old unity.
I held up the five fingers of one hand, and two of the other. My brothers understood; their eyes also spoke their pain at the sight of my twisted hands.
“Yes, Sorcha,” said Conor. “He is the seventh son of a seventh son. That must be respected.”
“Respected?” spat Diarmid furiously. “Hardly. He is her child, the spawn of pure evil. He should be destroyed, along with the sorceress.”
The others looked at him, and there was a short silence.
“He’s our brother,” observed Padriac after a while.
“He is our father’s son,” said Liam, agreeing, “and he is innocent of the ill done to us. Cannot we hope that his birth may change things for the better?”
Nobody answered him. Father had always made it clear that he intended Liam, as his eldest son, to inherit Sevenwaters. Although any man of Colum’s line could challenge this decision and make a claim of his own, for that was the law, this had not seemed at all likely. Until now. And who was to say our father might not prefer the son his new wife had borne him?
It seemed Conor had worse news for Liam, for he took his elder brother away from our group. They stood talking earnestly for some time, just out of earshot. After a while Conor came back, but Liam remained staring out into the dark, and the bleak grayness of his expression reminded me of our father.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Cormack not very tactfully.
Conor gave his twin a sidelong glance. “Woman trouble.”
“You mean Eilis? She’s not dead?”
Conor shook his head. “Oh, no. She recovered well enough from the poisoning, and Seamus has guarded her fiercely since. He has taken care she makes no more visits to Sevenwaters. No need for it, really, since Colum’s marriageable sons have conveniently disappeared for parts unknown. No, Eilis is well. Blooming in fact, and ready for marriage. Her father has promised her to Eamonn of the Marshes. If he can’t secure his eastern border by wedding her to one of us, then he may as well go for the northern.”
Diarmid drew his breath in sharply. “That will be a formidable alliance. What if they should turn against Father? I hope he’s strengthening our defenses up beyond the river. Seamus was ally enough before, but this news makes me uneasy. We should be concentrating our joint forces against Northwoods, and to do that effectively we must be able to trust our neighbors.”
“I know little of his defenses,” said Conor wearily. “There’s no sign of a replacement for Donal, and not much activity around the place. But it is winter. Perhaps when the warm weather comes, Father will take heart and rally his men.”
“What about Eilis?” asked Padriac, his hands busy. He worked rapidly and precisely by the dim lantern light, fashioning a new weaving frame from ash wood bound with twine. “Does it suit her to wed this fellow? Isn’t he a bit old for her?”
“It will be against her wishes,” said Conor quietly, glancing over at our eldest brother, who still stood in the shadows, his head bowed. “But she is a good daughter and will do as she is told. She never understood how Liam could leave and not tell her why. Her heart is still sore for him, but she will be a faithful wife and a loving mother. It is better thus.”
“Better for whom?” asked Diarmid bitterly.
It was a bleak visit. I wanted so much to be able to speak, for I could see their grief, their anger, their guilt, and I could feel how it was tearing them apart, even turning them one against the other, but without words there was little I could do for them. I gave Liam a hug, but could not tell him I knew Eilis loved him, and would have waited for him if she could. I took Diarmid’s hands in mine and studied the bitterness in his face; I would have told him that we all forgave him for his indiscretion; that Oonagh could have picked on any of them; it was just his bad luck that she chose him for her plaything. I wanted to tell him not to hate so much. But I could not speak. As for Finbar, he sat alone, his arms around his knees, his long hair unkempt and blowing across his eyes as he stared out toward the dark water of the lake. He did not look at me, and he said nothing at all.
So the night wore on, and Padriac finished the weaving frame. Cormack mended my boots, closely watched by an edgy Linn. These two brothers had not changed so much, I thought. Padriac was always so clearly focused on some task or some problem, perhaps the terrible thing that had happened to them was merely another interesting challenge for him. Certainly, he seemed content enough to spend his one night of freedom building and fixing and throwing the odd word or two into the general conversation. He at least would survive, I thought. In Cormack’s case it was probably lack of imagination that helped him cope. This was not kind of me, I suppose; but Cormack tended to see the world in black and white, and in some ways this made life easier for him. His aggression was his point of weakness, as the lady Oonagh had deduced earlier than any of us. By turning that against his dearest and most trusting companion, she had made him doubt his own integrity, and that doubt would always be with him now.
Later, they spoke more of the islands, and what strategy might be used to win them back; and they drew maps in the sandy soil, replacing man and tree with leaf and twig. I half listened; well enough to hear Conor tell them the islands would never be taken back by force. Hadn’t they heard the tale, he said, that one would come that was neither of Erin nor of Britain, yet both; one that would bear the mark of the raven, and would restore the balance? Only then could the rift between our peoples be bridged.
“That’s just a story,” said Cormack dismissively. “We might wait a hundred years or more for such a one. We might wait forever. But the sacred trees cannot wait while the blows of the axe ring out across the water.”
“The spirits cannot bide their time while the foreigner’s boot defiles the caves of truth,” added Diarmid.
“Besides,” said Liam, “I’m not sure we’re interested in bridging the rift between our peoples. Taking back what is rightfully ours, and driving them from our soil forever, is closer to what we have in mind.”
“These old stories do often turn out to be true,” observed Padriac. “Sometimes they don’t mean precisely what they seem to mean. Maybe Conor’s right. Things are changing now; look what happened to us. Our story is as strange as any old tale.”
“Mmm,” said Diarmid doubtfully. “Faith is one thing. Me, I prefer mine backed up with a sharp sword and a troop of good men.”
“A little forward planning never did any harm,” said Cormack, in agreement with his brother. “When we return, we must be ready. Father may be in no fit state to command, and our old foe may have used his weakness to make a move. We must make sure our previous gains are not squandered.”
Conor talked sparingly that night. He had been strong; to hold the awareness of both worlds was a burden, and I thought the weight of it showed. But Finbar, his isolation was something else. I went to sit by him, when it was growing close to dawn, for I had waited for him to speak to me, and he had not. I sat down next to him. It was a new moon, and I could barely make out his features in the dim light. But I did not need my eyes to see him, for all my brothers’ faces were held in my heart. Long nose, wide mouth, a dusting of freckles on pale skin, a firmly set jaw, and under the dark hair tangling on his brow, eyes like clear water of an unfathomable depth. That was Finbar.
“I’m sorry to shut you out.” He spoke after long silence, startling me. “I cannot open my mind to you, not any longer.”
Why not? Don’t you trust me anymore?
“Dear Sorcha. I would trust you with my life. Are not all our lives in your hands? But I have seen—I have seen things I would give much to erase from my mind. Terrible things. I find myself hoping beyond hope that Conor was right—that these visions are not the Sight, but some evil planted in my head by our father’s wife for her own purposes. Perhaps
she thinks to drive me mad. These images are cruel indeed. It is better that I do not share them. Not with you, not with anyone.” His voice told me that, in his heart, he believed them to be true.
Why not? Sharing could lessen the burden.
He shifted slightly, hunching his shoulders, twisting a strand of hair in his fingers.
“Not this burden. Besides, if it is false, why give others pain? What troubles me most is not knowing what to do. If I do see things come, bad things, I should act to try to prevent them. But even if I had time to do anything, I would scarcely know where to start. Besides, perhaps that is exactly what the lady Oonagh wants. And perhaps, again, these things are intended; there may be no stopping them. Always, before, I knew which way was right. I have lost that certainty.”
You are still the same. Still strong.
“But will I be strong enough? And it grows harder, each time. Each time a little part of me changes, so the man becomes more like the swan; but the swan can never be the man. Oh, Sorcha, I have seen my own end; that is a weight of knowledge no man should bear. I have seen my brothers perish by the sword, and by water, and I have seen one go far, far away beyond the reach of furthest thought. And you—I have seen a great ill for you, and I do not know how to prevent it. If you can go away from here, you should do so, and as soon as you can.”
Tell me what it is. How can I do anything about it, if I don’t know?
“No. It may not be true.”
He was adamant, and I could get no more from him on the subject. We sat there quietly together, and after a while he took my hand in his, and for no reason at all I had a terrible feeling that this would be the last time he would ever touch me. The last of our precious time slipped away, and I fought back tears as the sky grew lighter with the approach of dawn. Weeping would not help anyone.