Daughter of the Forest

  The sewing session was short that day; by midmorning the women repaired to the kitchens, where all hands joined in preparation of the evening’s feast. There would be roast meats and cider and plum cakes. The men played their games of combat, or went about the work of the farm. The best stock were housed in barns for the winter, and the cattle must be grain-fed daily. It was a busy day, so busy that nobody had time to notice me, so I stayed where I was, relishing the solitude, and I sewed the second sleeve into the shirt. It was all but finished. As I worked my mind drifted away from the empty room and the dwindling fire. I drew the image of my brother Conor into my thoughts: wise, kind eyes; narrow, fine-boned face, long hair glossy as a ripe chestnut; a strong young man with an old spirit. I saw him in our kitchen counting stores; I saw him by candlelight surrounded by strange shadows. I saw him as he stood on the shore and invoked the spirits of fire. I watched him swim away across the lake, great white wings folded by his side. Conor. I am here. Where are you? I sat there a long time, my fingers busy with needle and thread, my mind far away. I reached out with all the power I could summon, to call him. But there was no reply, or none I could hear. They may be flying toward me even now, I told myself. They may be over the great water, or sheltering from the cold in some desolate place between there and here. I will wait; there will come a time when I will call, and he will answer.

  Dimly, my ears were picking up an increase in activity outside the room, the sound of raised voices and hastening steps. The light was too poor for working, and my mind was numb and exhausted with my efforts. I went to the door and looked out just as Megan hurried by, her arms full of linen. I caught her sleeve, raising my brows in question.

  “It’s Mistress Margery,” she said breathlessly. “Been having her pains all afternoon, very strong they are, but the midwife says there’s something wrong. Babe’s the wrong way round, she says, and you know what that means. Poor Mistress Margery. Her first babe died, you know. Looks like it might be the same again.”

  Her words shocked me back into this world. Margery’s child, which was so precious to her. She and John had lost one, they must not lose another. I could help. I had done this before, I knew just what to do. I could not tell them this, but I could show them. I followed the bustling Megan to Margery’s quarters, where there were women clustered around the door, and light within. Megan vanished inside with her clean cloths. But my way was barred by one of Lady Anne’s waiting women.

  “Not you,” she said firmly. I hesitated only a moment, then tried to make my way past her. This was ridiculous. If Margery was in trouble, she needed me. Surely she wanted me. And I knew what to do, at least I thought I did. The woman’s arm shot out to block my way.

  “You can’t go in there,” she said. “You’ll not be allowed to set your curse on a woman in childbirth, nor lay your filthy hands on her unborn babe. Be off with you. Your kind are not welcome here.” I would have slapped her face, if I hadn’t known it would only make things worse. I drew a deep breath.

  “What’s the matter?” came a voice from within the room. It was the lady Anne, who now came to the door, hearing her women’s raised voices. “Jenny. What are you doing here?” She looked tired and sad, and not at all pleased to see me. I used my hands to speak to her. I can help. I know these things. Let me help. Let me in.

  Lady Anne looked at me wearily. “I don’t think so, Jenny,” she said, and she was already turning away. “We have our own midwife here. She has skills enough; if she cannot save this babe then I fear nobody can.” And she was gone.

  “You heard my lady,” said another woman. “Be off with you. We don’t need your kind. It’s a healer that’s wanted here, not a killer. Why don’t you go back where you came from, witch?”

  I left. What was the point? But I could have wept, thinking of Margery who had become my friend, and who now risked losing what she had waited for so lovingly. I went back to my room, made sure my preparations for the night were complete, then paced up and down the garden as Alys sniffed around under the lavender bushes. I felt the chill deepen as the sky grew darker, and nightfall closer. My heart grew heavy with foreboding. Death was very close that day; I felt her in my bones. No warm hearth nor guardian holly branch could keep her out, where she chose to enter. I wished I could don cloak and boots and go to the river now, could be there at the moment when the sun dropped below the horizon and the land grew gray and purple and black. But I knew Red. I must appear at the table or a search would be mounted. There was no escape until full dark. He needed neither lock nor key to keep me prisoner.

  It was to have been a festive meal, but there was little joy among those of the household that gathered in the hall that evening. It was already dark. I watched the blackness outside the windows, and my spirit called out again. Conor! Finbar! Where are you? Wait for me. I pictured my brothers in the cold under the willows, not knowing if I was near or no. Alone, and in the heart of their enemy’s lands. Exhausted in the dark. A corner of my mind registered the sight of a distraught John being given a goblet of wine and draining it in one gulp, scarcely aware of what he did or where he was. Of Red, with a tight mouth and cold eyes, speaking to his mother in a furious undertone. I thought I could guess why he was angry. He knew I was a healer. He was John’s friend, and Margery’s. He realized I might be able to help them. But Lady Anne did not want me at Margery’s bedside, with my sorceress’s hands delivering the babe. She looked uncomfortable in the face of Red’s anger, but there was a stubborn set about her soft features. Ben sat by me and said little. Nobody had much appetite.

  As early as was polite, I left the table, going straight to my room. Lady Anne and her son were still arguing; I didn’t think either of them noticed me. There was still plenty of time. I thrust my feet into my outdoor boots and snatched up the cloak. Alys barely stirred, nestled cosily in the blankets. The candle burned steadily on the wooden chest. I’m coming. Wait just a little longer. I raised my hand to unbolt the outer door.

  At that moment there was a sharp knocking, and Megan’s voice at the other door. “Jenny! Jenny, are you there?” It was as if a cold hand clenched itself around my heart. No, not now. Don’t call me now. But it was for Margery, I knew it, and I had no choice but to open the door and to follow Megan back into the house. It had taken them long enough to realize they could not deliver this child without me. The lady Oonagh herself could not have chosen the moment better.

  Lady Anne had spoken to the women; or somebody had. Their eyes still followed me nervously as I moved about the room, and more than one of them made a furtive sign of the cross. But they said not a word. Margery was exhausted. She had great dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was cold and clammy.

  “Jenny! You’re here!” she said in a faint little voice. “Why didn’t you come? I wanted you. Why wouldn’t you come?”

  I glanced at Lady Anne, and she looked away, unable to meet my eyes. I think she realized, despite herself, that she had done the unforgivable.

  Midwinter is a long night, but this seemed the longest night of my life, as we battled to help this child make its way into the world. Margery tried and tried but grew more and more weak. And yet, it was a night that went fast, too fast as I worked on, and outside, above the tops of the winter trees, the stars brightened and steadied and then began to fade. And as my hands became wet with blood, and my body soaked with sweat, and as I worked to instruct the women and to reassure Margery without benefit of words, a part of my spirit was calling out to my brothers. Wait for me. Wait just a little longer. Before dawn I will be there.

  It was much too late to turn the child around, for it lay too low now to be moved. So it must be born breech first, if at all. Margery had little strength left. I could not make the women understand what I needed, and so at length I left the room, taking Megan with me, and went to their stillroom to find the ingredients myself. I must get this just right. Something to make her relax first, a short respite to gather her strength. And something to aid that strength, just l
ong enough for one, two, three short pushes. And pray to the goddess that the cord was not around the baby’s neck. I had no doubt who would be blamed, if this child never took its first breath. Besides, I did not think I could bear to see Margery’s face, or John’s, if I could not lay their infant safely in its mother’s arms.

  Megan held the lamp as I worked. The house was well stocked, but whoever had stored away these herbs so neatly cannot have known their efficacy in aiding childbirth, or how to mix them precisely. There was still some time until dawn, but not much. Wait for me. I scooped the dry mixture I had prepared into a small beaker and headed for the kitchen fires. These herbs must be steeped in hot water. It should be much longer, but time was running short for Margery. The child, too, would be weakening by now, worn out by the struggle. As I crossed to the stairs, I saw the three men grouped in semidarkness by the hall fire. John had his head in his hands, and Ben was talking softly, a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Red stood by the hearth, and he was the only one who saw me. His eyes asked a question. Mine could not lie. I will save them both, if I can. I will do my best. I think he understood me, but he said nothing, for John’s sake. He gave a nod of acknowledgment, and I went on up the stairs and out of sight, Megan bobbing ahead with the lamp.

  The fire was glowing warm in Margery’s room. At my bidding, Megan untied the bundle of dried lavender she had brought from downstairs and cast the silvery stems and faded blooms onto the coals, and a sweet healing scent rose in the air. The infusion had cooled enough; I lifted Margery to sit and watched while she drank it obediently. There was thyme and calamint. And brooklime, a herb of last resort. There had been no time to sweeten the mixture, to render it more palatable with honey or spices. But she took it all, her shadowed eyes looking into mine with an expression of such trust that it terrified me. Then for a short time she rested.

  As the sky outside turned to violet blue and then to soft gray, the child was finally born. The infusion had given Margery just enough strength for the last wrenching push. My hands, rough as they were, knew their job, and I eased her son out into the world. He was limp and silent.

  “What’s wrong?” said Margery in a small voice. “Why is it so quiet?” And the women muttered among themselves. Lady Anne was wiping Margery’s brow, and she had tears in her eyes. As the light in the room grew ever brighter, I put my mouth over the babe’s tiny face, and blew gently into his body. And again. And once more.

  The midwife clawed at my arm, trying to stop me, but Lady Anne said, “No, leave her be.” One more breath. Just one more. And at last the infant gave a gasp, and a small delicate cough, and then he let out a yell of outrage. Then there were many voices exclaiming, and many hands to wrap the babe and lay him on his mother’s breast as the joyful tears flowed. There were many helpers to deal with the afterbirth and make up the fire and run to let the men know the good news. Nobody noticed me as I fled soft-footed down the stairs in my bloodstained gown, and slipped the great bolt on the front door, and ran, ran, down the avenue between the tall poplars, past the neat walls and the sheep huddling for shelter, down toward the gleaming curve of the river where the first light of dawn turned the water to liquid silver under the leaning willows. But before I reached the water’s edge the sun pierced the canopy of naked trees and burst over the valley and the world was filled with light. Many creatures left their tracks on these soft river banks, ducks and geese, fox and otter. But it was early; the ducks were still asleep. And there were no swans on the rippling water. There were no human footprints save my own. If they had been here, they were here no more.

  My heart was cold with grief and rage. Why didn’t you wait for me? I did the best I could. Why didn’t you leave me a sign? I cannot tell if you have even come here at all! I found the tears pouring down my cheeks, all the tears I had not shed before, a flood of weeping that racked my whole body, and I stood with my head against the trunk of a willow and beat my fists against its bark until my hands bled. If I could have screamed my anguish I would have done, until the whole valley echoed with my pain. I stood there a long time. At last I sank to the ground by the great willow and covered my face with my hands. My shoulders were shaking, and my nose was running, and the tears would not stop. If I sat there long enough, perhaps I would become part of this tree, a weeping tree-girl that cried each night by the water. Perhaps I would vanish into the soft earth of the riverbank, and in my place reeds would grow, slender and silver-gray, and if a man fashioned a pipe from these reeds, it would sing too late, too late.

  “These are not tears of one night’s making.”

  Perhaps, without thinking, I had known he would come. There was the crunch of boots on the frozen grass as he moved closer. Then I felt the warmth of his cloak as he laid it around my shoulders, very carefully so his hands scarcely touched me. It felt good, very good. I had not realized how cold I was, out in the morning frost in my gown and indoor slippers. It was as if the cloak passed the warmth of his body into mine.

  “I would know the reason for these tears,” said Red quietly, and he sat down near me, but not too near. “One day I will know. For now, I bring you John’s thanks, and my own, for what you have done. We owe you a great debt. Will you come back home?”

  I sniffed, and opened my eyes, but he was not looking at me. His fingers were twisting a length of grass, and he was gazing out over the water. A mallard drake and his mate were swimming by the rushes, leisurely in the first clear light of day. The feathers of his head shone glossy green above his snowy collar. The female moved in his wake, demure in her speckled brown.

  The silence stretched out, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. After a while, Red took the little knife from his boot, and an even smaller piece of wood out of his pocket, and began to carve, narrowing his eyes against the sun in intense concentration. I could not see what he was working on. I wondered who had taught them this skill, the lord Hugh and his brother. The day grew ever brighter and the gleaming expanse of water was soon broken by busy duck and goose and moorhen. My thoughts became gradually calmer. Half a year. Two seasons more, before I would see them again. Yesterday had been my fifteenth birthday, and I had not even thought of it until now. Somehow it no longer seemed important. Back home, I might have been married by this time. I wondered who my father would have chosen for me. A strategic alliance, no doubt. But that was a path become so distant now that it seemed like something from a story, the tale of some other girl. Not my story. I was here, and my brothers were not here, and once again but a single choice presented itself. I could go on spinning and weaving and sewing; I could go on waiting. Perhaps, if I worked very hard, if I got quicker, by midsummer my task would be almost complete. Then I would come to the river again, on the eve of Meán Samhraidh. But would they be here? Could they be here? It was such a long flight. How would they know, before the sun dipped below the horizon and they became men again, that they must make this journey? For while they were in that enchanted state, they had no human awareness.

  Except for Conor. How strong was Conor’s skill? Could it be that, to command the will of wild creatures thus, even a druid’s craft was not enough? All might be in vain. Why then should I remain here and toil, and endure the bitter stares of the household, and hear the evil names they called me? Why tear my hands to shreds on the starwort plant, until even I started to believe I was crazy, why spend my days indoors longing for the forest? For deep in my heart I recognized this headlong flight to the river had been for nothing. They had not been here. They would not come, and leave, without a message for me, Ogham signs carved on a willow trunk, a pattern of stones on the riverbank, or a white feather. If they had been here I would have heard the inner voices of Conor and of Finbar. Sorcha, Sorcha, I am here. It had been a long time. But I was their sister, and the seven of us were of one flesh and one spirit as surely as the seven streams of our childhood flowed and mingled in the great shining heart of the lake. They had not come. And it was a long time, such a long time, until midsummer.

&
nbsp; “Do you want to go back so very much?” asked Red quietly, still intent on his work, “Is it so hard for you here?”

  I was surprised. He’d been silent for a long while. Another man would have told me what I should be feeling; that I should be glad Margery and her child had survived. Would have bid me cease weeping and dry my eyes. Another man would have told me to stop sitting on the frosty ground on midwinter’s day and go back to the house at once. Would have told me to stop wasting his time. I had no reply to Red’s questions. Of course I wanted to go home. My heart yearned for the forest, and my spirit longed to be close to my brothers, whether they could see me or no. But I was not stupid. Common sense told me that staying here was my best chance of finishing the task. I had a roof over my head, good food, and more protection than I wanted or needed. I had the tools of my trade, I even had a couple of people who might be called friends. And I had endured far worse than the sharp tongues and sideways glances of Lady Anne’s women. So, the spirit said go. The mind said stay, for now. If your brothers do not come, next time, then go and find them. You would not get far in midwinter. Besides, he would follow you and bring you back. Always.

  I got up rather stiffly, and limped down to the river’s edge. There I knelt to cup clear water in my hands, first to drink and then to splash my face. As it settled I saw myself reflected on its surface, red-eyed, tear-stained, and pallid with exhaustion. The water was freezing.

  “I’ll make you a promise,” said Red, and when I turned to look at him he had put away his work and was watching me. I wondered why I had thought his eyes were blue. Today they seemed to match the river water, a light, shifting color between gray and green. “I promise I will take you back, no matter what happens. I promise I will see you safe home when it’s time. As soon as I learn the truth about my brother, I will take you there. I never break my promises, Jenny. I know it’s hard for you to trust me. If ever I find the man who did this to you, who made you so frightened, I’ll kill him with my bare hands. But you can trust me.”