“Do not make up your mind so quickly,” he said. “The offer remains open. The child should stay in the forest. Whatever you decide, do not forget that.”
A few days later, another uncle arrived, in a style all his own. Despite the talking bird on his shoulder, and the three seamen who accompanied him, and the comely young woman by his side, Padriac still managed to make his way right to the edge of the settlement without Liam’s sentries detecting his presence. Liam was quite put out, but the joy of reunion after so long soon wiped away any other feelings. Padriac’s weathered skin and twinkling blue eyes, his dimpled smile and long plait of sun-bleached, brown hair drew the women’s eyes, for all his six and thirty years. His female companion made brows rise and tongues wag, for she was much his junior, and her skin was the delicate golden brown of peppermint tea, and her black hair was fuzzy as sheep’s wool and braided in neat, tight rows. She wore colored glass beads, white and green and red, and her dark feet were bare under a striped robe. Padriac introduced her as Samara, but he did not clarify if she was his wife or his sweetheart or merely his shipmate. Samara did not talk. She flashed her white teeth in a grin that reminded me painfully of Gull’s. For still, even now, there had been no word. My sister had indeed vanished, and her rescuers with her, as surely as if they had walked off the edge of the world.
There was only one person I thought might help me, and that was the uncle who was not there. I did not know if he would come, not even to bid his sister a last farewell. Finbar was a creature of the margins, poised delicately between one world and the other. In all the long years since he had walked away from Sevenwaters into the night, not once had he come back. Not for the funeral rites of his two brothers, Diarmid and Cormack, both slain in the last great battle for the Islands. Not for my birth and Sean’s, not for Niamh’s. Not for the day his father died and Liam became lord of Sevenwaters. Probably he would not come now, for he could see Sorcha, and talk to her, with no need to be present by her. Such was his bond with his sister. But I wished that he would come, for I had many questions for him. If I could just know if Niamh and Bran were safe; then I might bid my mother farewell with a lighter burden on my conscience. For if my lies had not won freedom for my sister, if my silence had not protected the man who had risked his life to help me, then I might as well have told my family the truth all along and let that be an end of it.
The house was full, and yet there was a profound quiet over Sevenwaters, as if even the woodland creatures hushed their voices, awaiting my mother’s passing. At dinner, things were a little livelier. We were a strange, ill-assorted company, the druids calm and dignified, speaking quietly and eating sparingly; the seamen demonstrating a healthy capacity for our good food and, particularly, our fine ale, and keeping up a flow of banter that made the serving women blush and giggle at their work.
At the head of the table sat the uncles: Liam, serious as ever, with a weariness about his features that was something new; Conor on his right, thoughtful in his white robe; and on the left, the irrepressible Padriac and his lovely, silent companion. Padriac did most of the talking; he had many adventures to recount, and we listened appreciatively, for his stories of distant lands and the strange folk who dwelt in them took our minds off the sadness that had fallen over our household. Sean had not yet returned.
Father no longer sat with us for meals. I think he feared to lose even a moment of Mother’s remaining time. As for Sorcha herself, she had accepted long ago that this spring would be her last in this life. But I could see that she was not at ease; there was one burden that she was unable to put down. I wrestled with myself in silence, sitting by her bedside one afternoon with her delicate hand in mine and my father standing in the shadows watching her.
“Red.” Her voice was very soft; she was saving what strength she had, using her healer’s knowledge to buy her a little more precious time.
“I’m here, Jenny.”
“It won’t be very long now.” Her words were little more than a sigh. “Are they all here?”
My father was unable to speak.
“Sean is not yet returned, Mother.” My own voice wobbled dangerously. “All of your brothers are here, all but …”
“All but Finbar? He will come. Sean must be home by dusk tomorrow. Tell him, Liadan.”
There was a certainty in her words that silenced me. There was no point in saying, you may have longer than that. She knew. My father came to kneel by the bed, to place his big hand over hers. I had never seen him weep, but now there were traces of tears on his strong face.
“Dear heart,” Sorcha said, looking up at him, her green eyes huge in her tiny, shadowed face. “It is not forever. I will still be here, somewhere in the forest. And whatever my bodily form may be, I will always hold you close.”
I made to get up and leave them alone, but Mother said, “Not yet, Liadan. I must speak to you both together. It won’t take long.”
She was very tired; her skin had a pallid sheen, and her breathing was labored. Neither of us bid her save her breath and rest. None of the family ever told Sorcha what to do.
“There have been secrets,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “The old magic is at work here, the old sorcery that closed its evil hand on us once before. It tries to divide us, to destroy what has been so well guarded here at Sevenwaters. Perhaps not all secrets can be told. But I want to say to you, Daughter, that whatever happens, we trust you. You will always choose your own path, and to some your choices will seem wrong. But I know you will follow the way of the old truths wherever you go. I see this in you and in Sean. I have faith in you, Liadan.” She looked up at Father again. “We both have faith in you.”
Iubdan waited a moment before he spoke, and I wondered if, for the first time in her life, she had read him wrong. But what he said was, “Your mother’s right, sweetheart. Why else have I let you make your own choices all along?”
“Now go, Liadan,” Mother whispered. “Try to speak to your brother. He should hasten home.”
I went down across the fields to the margin of the forest, for the house was full of sorrow and I needed trees and open air. I wanted a clear head and an uncluttered mind, not only to try to reach my brother, but to make a difficult decision. Sorcha was dying. She deserved the truth. If I told her, I must tell my father as well. They had said they trusted my choices, but surely even they would recoil in horror at the thing I had done this time. If Father went to Liam with my story, then any good my lies had done would be instantly for nothing. If she still lived, my sister might be tracked down and brought home. Perhaps they would try to return her to her well-respected husband. Then the whole truth would come out, and the alliance would be shattered. As for the Painted Man, Eamonn would hunt him down and exterminate him like some feral creature in the night; and without him his men would go back to the dispossessed, fugitive lives they had known before he gave them names and a purpose and the gift of self-respect. My son would never know his father, save in tales as some kind of monster. Then our family would indeed be destroyed. The prospect chilled my blood. And there were the Fair Folk. You must not risk the alliance, the lady had told me. One could not lightly disregard such a warning. But my mother deserved the truth, and in her own way she had asked me for it. The question was not so much did they trust me, as did I trust them? Bran had dismissed trust once as a concept without meaning. But if you could not trust, you were indeed alone, for neither friendship nor partnership, neither family nor alliance could exist without it. Without trust, we were scattered far and wide, at the mercy of the four winds with nothing to cling to.
At the edge of the forest, I sat down on the stone wall that bordered the outermost grazing field and made my mind still. This was difficult, for my thoughts were filled with urgency. I need a sign, a clue. Why isn’t Finbar here? Him I could ask without fear.
I slowed my breathing, and let the small sounds of the forest and farm fill my mind. The rustle of spring leaves on beech and birch; the calling of birds; the c
reak of the mill wheel and the gentle splashing of the stream. The plaintive voices of sheep. A boy addressing his flock of geese: Get up there, stubborn creatures, or I’ll give you what for; the gander’s honking response. The sound of the lake water lapping the shore; the sigh of wind in the great oaks. Whispering voices high overhead that seemed to say, Sorcha, Sorcha. Oh, little sister.
When my mind was quite still, only then I reached out for my brother.
Sean?
I hear you, Liadan. I’m coming home. What of our mother?
Are you far away?
Not so far. Will I be too late?
You must be here before dusk tomorrow. Even the voice of the mind can weep. Can you be here by then?
We will be there. In his mind he put his arms around me and held me close, and I sent him back the same image. That was all.
Liadan?
This was not my brother’s voice.
Uncle? My heart thumped. Where was he?
I’m here, child. Turn around.
Slowly I got up from the wall and turned to look back down the path into the forest. He was hard to see; not so much a man as another part of the pattern of light and shadow, the gray and green and brown of trunk, leaf, moss, and stone. But he stood there, barefoot on the soft earth, still clad in his ragged robes and dark, enveloping cloak. His black curls tangled around a face white as chalk. His eyes were clear, colorless, full of light.
I’m glad you are here. She asked for you.
I know. And I have come. But I think I will need your help.
I felt his fear, and knew the courage it had taken to come this far.
I will take you in. What do you need?
I fear to be—touched. I fear to be—confined shut in. And there are dogs. If you can help with this, I can stay for long enough. Until dusk tomorrow.
“I am honored by your trust,” I said aloud. “This cannot be easy.”
My weakness shames me. It was indeed a long curse the Sorceress set on me. It has compensations of a sort. But I would not expose my frailties to my sister or to my brothers. It is not pity I seek, merely assistance, to be strong enough for her.
“You are very strong,” I said quietly. “Another man would not have survived so long, would not have endured it.”
You, too, are strong. Why do you not ask me what you wish to ask?
Because it seems—selfish.
We are all selfish. It is our nature. But you are a generous giver, Liadan. You hold those you love very safe, by any means you can. Later I will show you how to see what you long to see. Now I think we must go in.
“Uncle,” I said aloud, rather diffidently.
What is it?
“Why do you reveal your fears to me when you conceal them even from your brothers?”
No man wishes to be weak. Yet my weakness is also my gift. What is commonplace in one world may be a source of terror in the other. A closed door, the baying of a hound. And yet, what is a mystery in this place becomes clear and simple in that other. It is image and reflection, reality and vision, world and Otherworld. I show you my fears because you can understand them. You understand because you have the gift. You are not burdened as I am, but your spirit recognizes the pain and the strength such knowledge brings. You know the power of the Old Ones, how it works still in us.
“This gift—the Sight, the healing mind—it comes from them, from our first ancestors? It comes from the Fomhóire woman, Eithne?” I knew this thought for truth the instant it came into my mind.
It is very old. Very deep. As deep as a bottomless well, as deep as the darkest recesses of the ocean. Like them, it bides its time.
I shivered.
“Come,” said Finbar, trying out his voice, which was clearly seldom used. “Let us be brave, and make ourselves known.” And we set off across the field to the house.
There was an awkward moment when folk from kitchen and stables came out to stare, and a hound barked, and my uncle’s mind communicated to mine, without a sound, a state of heart-hammering, mind-numbing terror, a paralyzed instinct for flight. I sent out a swift, silent call.
Conor? Uncle, we need you.
Folk were muttering, whispering, as we approached. A man had his hand on the dog’s collar, but it was growling and snapping, as if some wild thing had come within reach of its jaws. I did not know how to quiet a hound with my mind. Beside me, Finbar froze where he stood.
“Look! That’s the man with a swan’s wing!” A child spoke out, clear and innocent. “The man in the story!”
“The very same, and my own brother.” A calm, authoritative voice spoke from the kitchen doorway and out stepped my Uncle Conor, looking as if this sort of thing were an everyday occurrence. “Away off to your work now. There will be more visitors here before tomorrow night; Lord Liam would be displeased to see you idle.”
The crowd dispersed; the dog was led away, straining against the hold on its collar. The moment was over. In my own breast, I could feel Finbar’s breathing as it quietened, his heartbeat as it slowed. The next night and day would indeed be an ordeal for him.
“Come,” said Conor quietly. “You’ll want to see her straightaway. I’ll take you.”
“I’ll talk to Liam,” I said. “There are arrangements to be made. Then I must go to my son. He’ll be hungry.” I will see about the dogs. Will you be all right?
Thank you, Liadan. Later, perhaps you will show me your son.
Liam was surprisingly understanding, especially since I interrupted a meeting with his captains to speak to him. Orders went out immediately that all dogs were to be confined to kennels or kept in the stable area for the next night and day at least, and that folk were to keep themselves to themselves and leave the family alone. Liam’s own wolfhounds were chained even as he spoke and led off to temporary captivity with reproachful looks on their long, whiskered faces.
“You’re a good girl, Liadan,” said Liam, as he returned to his meeting. From him, this was rare praise. He was not a man much given to expressions of approval. I wondered how good he would think me if I told him the truth.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
It was getting late, almost dusk. There was only one day left, and I longed to be by my mother’s side, sharing this last time with her. But as the wheel turns and life slips away, so also new life makes its clamoring presence known, reaching out, urgent for recognition, eager to move forward on its path. My son could not wait. He was awake and hungry, and I sent the nursemaid away to some supper and sat down to feed him. The copper bowl was ready, half filled with warm water, but the girl had not bathed him yet, knowing I loved to perform this task myself. I opened my dress and offered him the breast, and he latched on and sucked with vigor, one small fist beating gently against my flesh while his solemn, gray eyes watched me intently. I hummed under my breath, feeling that odd sense of quiet that comes with the letting down of the milk, as if some power inside bids you be still while the child drinks its fill. Later, I would take Johnny down to see my mother, if she were still awake. Now, it was her time with Finbar, and they were best left alone. She had many farewells to make, but that might be the hardest, save one.
After a while I moved Johnny across to the other side. He began a protest, then clamped his jaws on the nipple and commenced to drink again. For a small baby, he had a hearty appetite. I thought about Conor’s suggestion that I might go to the nemetons. That both I, and in time my son, might join the wise ones. I considered the instructions of the Fair Folk. No more going off on your own. The boy must stay in the forest. In neither vision of the future was there any place for my child’s father.
Johnny was asleep. There would be no bath tonight. Janis said I bathed him too much anyway; it was unnatural for a child to be so clean or spend so much time in the water. What was he, she joked, a son of Manannán mac Lir, the sea god? But I laughed off her comments. For Johnny loved the water so much, loved to float, to give himself into its warm supporting hold, to move his small limbs against its supple
, changing surfaces. I could not deny him this small pleasure, and I promised him that, in the summer, we would go swimming in the lake. When he was older, I would teach him how to jump off the rocks and swim to shore, as I had done long ago with Sean and Niamh. I would show him how you could lie there with the sun warming your back and the ancient stone holding you and trail your fingers in the clear water as the silvery fish swam by. You’ll like that.
I fastened my gown and got up, thinking to put the babe in his cradle. But as I passed the bowl of cooling water, something flashed across its surface, evanescent as a rainbow, quickly gone. Had I really seen it? I moved closer, Johnny warm and relaxed in my arms, and stared down into the still water. I made myself quiet as a standing stone, quieter than the deepest thought.
The water was moving, shifting, as if about to boil, but there was no heat in it. I sensed the door opening and closing silently behind me, but I did not turn.
Good. So you did not need me after all.
I knew Finbar was there, in the shadows, but still I remained motionless.
The water began to swirl deosil, sunwise, as if chasing itself in circles. I felt my head swimming. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the movement stopped. I gazed into the bowl.
The image was small, but clear. A child’s hands, making patterns in sand. The picture tilted, became wider. The child was in a cave, with light filtering through from above, painting the scene in many shades of gray and blue. A cave by the sea, a place where water washed gently in and out, and you could hear the far-off cries of gulls. This was a place where many margins came together, a secret place. Within the cavern, there was a tiny, soft beach where the child sat playing quietly as a woman watched. I could not tell if this child were boy or girl. It was maybe two years old, and had a cap of dark red curls, and milk pale skin. The woman said something, and when the child looked up, I saw its eyes, which were deep and dark as ripe mulberries. The woman was so thin her bones showed through her skin. She was slender and flail as a winter birch. Her hair was a faded red-gold, hanging loose down her back. She watched the child closely, that it should not venture too near the water. And after a while, she moved to sit on the sand close by the little one, and began to add her own patterns to those already inscribed with such care. Her blue eyes were shadowed; but as she watched her small charge, her wasted features bore an expression of such joy and pride that I felt tears running down my cheeks. The woman was my sister, Niamh.