“Then I will not be able to see you again save in the company of others,” I said, finding the strength within me to keep my tears from falling.
He took a step toward me, and his face was chalk pale. “Don’t do this, Liadan.” It was as much a warning as a plea.
“Good night, Eamonn.” I turned and made for the stairs, and Johnny awoke and began to wail; and without looking behind me I fled to my bedchamber. There I lit my candle and changed my son’s damp wrappings. As I lay on my bed with the child at my breast, I let fall the tears I had held back; and as the candle with its whorls and spirals burned lower against the night sky, I saw again that image of the two of them locked together in some final struggle: Eamonn’s hands around Bran’s neck, gripping, squeezing out the last breath; Bran’s knife between Eamonn’s ribs, twisting ever deeper as the lifeblood flowed scarlet over the green tunic. How could I ever have thought that some day, despite all, Bran and I might be together? That he could ever be more than just a—a tool, the Fair Folk had called it, a passing mercenary who happened to father a child and then was discarded from the tale, his part in it over, his relevance ceased? He could not come back. To come close to me was death for him. Better that he had never met me for I brought him only danger and sorrow. And now the shadow stretched out, not just over him, but over my son as well. I had seen it in Eamonn’s eyes. I must do as the Fair Folk bid me, and stay in the forest. I must put Bran out of my mind. For all our sakes, I must do that.
I wept and wept until my head ached and my nose ran and my pillow was soaked. But Johnny sucked on, his tiny hand stroking my flesh, his body warm and relaxed against mine, the image of trust. And as I watched him, I knew that in every dark night there was, somewhere, a small light burning that could never be quenched.
Chapter Twelve
By morning my mother was slipping in and out of consciousness. The family gathered by her bedside; the folk of household and settlement clustered in the hall and the kitchens, talking together in low voices. No work was done, save in preparation for her farewell, and that went on quietly out of doors. From time to time Liam or Conor or Padriac would disappear for a while and return later as unobtrusively as they had left. Within her chamber the atmosphere was calm. A cool, westerly breeze came in the window, bringing the scent of lilac. I had placed a bowl on the small table, with fresh sprigs of basil and marjoram, for both of these herbs have the property of giving heart in times of sorrow.
“It’s as well she’s drifting into her last sleep,” said Janis quietly as we passed in the doorway. “The pain will be clutching hard; too hard to bear in silence. And him,” she nodded toward the still figure of my father, where he sat by the bedside, “he feels it with her, every spasm. It’s going to be hard for him.”
“She asked him to return to Harrowfield. To see his family. She made him promise.”
“Aye. She was always a wise girl, my Sorcha. She knows he’ll need a purpose when she’s gone. She’s been his purpose since first he set foot in this house long years ago. Her shoes’ll never be filled by another.” She looked at me closely, her gaze sharpening. “Hurt your lip, lass? Best, put a touch of salve on that; thyme’s good to bring down the swelling. But I don’t need to tell you.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, and went past her into the room.
I will not dwell on that last time. My mother was unaware of much that passed, for already she had one foot on her new pathway. So she did not see the frozen look on my father’s face, as if, even now, he could not believe he was going to lose her. She did not hear how Conor chanted quietly at the foot of her bed, or see how Finbar stared out the window in silence, his face as pale as the wing he bore in place of his left arm. She did not see the lines of grief on Liam’s strong features or the tears in Padriac’s eyes. Janis came in and out, and so did the lithe, dark-skinned woman, Samara. She was as silent and graceful as a deer, and her hands were gentle as she helped with pillows, basins, and cloths, as she lit candles and sprinkled herbs.
Sean sat opposite my father, with Mother’s hand in his. And Aisling was there, her wild curls held back in a neat ribbon, her small, freckled features very solemn. From time to time she would put a reassuring hand on Sean’s shoulder, and he would glance up at her with a little smile.
But Eamonn was not there. Eamonn was no longer at Sevenwaters. So much for paying his respects and making some gesture of apology to my parents for what had happened to Niamh. He had remained only long enough to rest briefly and to obtain a fresh mount, they said, and then he had ridden out again, straight back to Sídhe Dubh, leaving his men behind. Uncharacteristic, folk said. Discourteous, almost. Must have had bad news. I refrained from comment. My lip ached, and the swelling was plain to see, and my main feeling was intense relief that I need not see him again.
When the sun was high in the sky, my mother came back to herself. There was a brief, cruel time of coughing and choking and fighting for breath, and she battled to hold back her gasps of pain. It was Finbar who soothed her then, not touching, but letting his thoughts flow into hers, blanketing her suffering with memories of good things, the innocent, shining things of childhood and with fair visions of what was to come. It was no accident that he left his mind open to me, enough for me to witness again how he used this skill to salve and heal. He could not ease the pain of her body, but he could give her the means to withstand it. It was the same skill I had employed to help Niamh, but Finbar was a master, and I sat in awe as he wove a bright tapestry of images for her, as he made a pattern of his love to celebrate his sister’s life and herald her passing.
At length she was quiet, lying back on the pillows, her breathing easier.
“Is everything ready?” she whispered. “Have you done it all as we planned?”
“All is prepared,” said Conor gravely.
“Good. It’s important. People need to say farewell. That’s one thing the Britons don’t always understand.” She looked up at my father. “Red?”
He cleared his throat, unable to find his voice.
“Tell me a story,” she said, soft as a little spring breeze.
My father gave one agonized look around the room, at the silent uncles, at the hovering Janis, and Samara quietly tending the fire, at me and Sean and Aisling. “I—I don’t think—”
“Come,” said Sorcha, and there might have been only the two of them in the quiet, herb-scented room, “sit here on the bed. Put your arms around me. That’s good, dear heart. Remember that day we shared, alone on a wild shore, alone save for the gulls and the seals, the waves and the west wind? You told me a beautiful story that day. That is the tale I love best of all.”
I realized then, as never before, how strong a man my father was. He knew, as he sat there with Sorcha in his arms and told his tale with tears streaming down his face, that with each word he spoke she slipped a little farther away; that by the time his story was finished, she would be gone. He knew that he must share this most private of farewells with all of us. But his quiet voice, telling the tale, was as strong and firm as the great oaks of the forest; and his hand, stroking my mother’s hair back from her temple, moved as steadily as the sun moves across the arch of the sky.
It was indeed a beautiful tale. It was the story of a lonely man who takes a mermaid for his wife; how he charms her with the music of his whistle so that she forsakes the ocean to follow him. For three years he keeps her, and she bears him two little daughters. But her longing for the world beneath the waves is too strong, and in the end he gives her up because he loves her.
There came a point in the tale when my father’s voice faltered. Sorcha had given a little sigh, and her eyes had closed, and her fingers, which had clutched a fold of my father’s tunic as he held her against his breast, let go their grip as her hand fell to rest against his knee. There was complete silence. It was as if the whole room, and the household, and the wild things of lake and forest all held their breath for that instant in time. Then my father took up the tale again.
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“Toby’s little daughters grew into fine women, and in time they took husbands for themselves; and today there are many folk in those parts with dark, tangled hair like seaweed and far-seeing eyes and a talent for swimming. But that is another story.”
He hesitated again, his eyes staring straight ahead, unfocused; and I saw his hand tighten on my mother’s shoulder.
“As for Toby himself,” I said, knowing others must finish this tale for him, “he had thought his life would be over when he lost her. He had thought that an ending. And so it was, in its way. But as the wheel turns and returns, every ending is at the same time a beginning. So it was with him.”
“Every day he would go down to sit on the rocks and gaze out westward over the water,” Conor took up the narrative in his soft, expressive voice, “and sometimes, just sometimes, he would get out his little whistle and play a few notes, a fragment of a reel or the refrain from some old ballad he remembered.”
Padriac was standing beside his brother; he had his arm around Samara. “He watched and watched for her,” said Padriac, “but the sea folk seldom show themselves to humankind. And yet, sometimes at dusk, out in the water, he thought he could see graceful forms swimming in the half light; white arms, long, drifting hair, and splashing tails bright with jewel-like scales. He fancied he saw them gazing at him with plaintive, liquid eyes like those of his daughters, eyes with a look of the wild ocean in them.”
“Then he would make his way homeward,” said Liam, who had moved up on the other side, next to Sean, “and when he went indoors, instead of lighting his small lantern, he would leave his door open and let the moonlight flood into the little hut where he lived on the rocky headland. And sometimes he would sit on the steps below the door and gaze across the shining pathway, wondering how it would be to live there in the depths of the great ocean, a child of Manannán mac Lir.”
“Nobody quite knew what happened to him in the end.” I could hear from Sean’s voice that he had been crying; but like the rest of them, he kept his tone as steady as he could. It seemed to me he had grown up quickly this last season. “Folk said he’d been seen wandering on the shore in the darkness late at night. Others told of seeing him swimming out to sea, far, far beyond the farthest stretch of safe water, and heading steadily westward. His daughters were at their grandmother’s. The cottage was tidy and everything as it should be. But one day he simply wasn’t there anymore.”
“And they say, if you visit those parts,” Finbar spoke from where he still stood by the window with his back to us, “that you’ll see him, close to midnight, when the moon is full. If you go down quietly to the shore and sit very still on the tumbled boulders there, there’ll be a splashing and a turmoil out in the water, and you’ll see the forms of the sea people, swimming and playing close to the margin of ocean and land. Folk say Toby will be there among them, his white body touched to silver in the moonlight, and the water slipping by him as easily as it caresses the fine scales of a fish. But whether he be man or creature of the deep, nobody knows.”
She was gone. We all knew it. But nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Still my father held her tight in his arms, as if he might preserve that last moment of life, as long as he stayed completely still. His lips were against her hair, and his eyes were closed.
Outside, the breeze came up, sending a gust of cool air in through the window, lifting Finbar’s dark curls off his brow, stirring the snowy expanse of fine feathers at his side. And then, out in the trees, the birds began to sing again, their calls rising and blending, greeting and farewell, celebration and mourning, the voice of the forest itself as it saluted the moment of Sorcha’s passing.
She had not held on until dusk. Maybe that was deliberate, for when we were able to move, when we could make ourselves move, each of us went in turn to kiss her cheek, to touch her hair, and then we went silently from the room in ones and twos and left my father alone with her. There was time for that before the sun slipped below the horizon. Time for me to reclaim Johnny from the nursemaid and feed him once more, wondering how many tears I could shed before there would be no more left. Time for Sean and Aisling to slip away quietly, and maybe seek comfort in each other’s arms. Time for the uncles to retreat to the family’s private chamber, share a jug or two of strong ale and exchange tales of the childhood they had shared in the forest of Sevenwaters, the six brothers and their one small sister. Now only the four of them were left.
It was as she had requested. At dusk we gathered on the lake shore in a place where a beautiful birch tree grew. There were flaming torches placed around on poles, casting a glowing light on the faces of my uncles as they stood in a circle about the tree. Liam gave a nod to Sean, and my brother went in his turn to join them.
Come, Liadan. Two silent voices summoned me, Conor’s, Finbar’s. I went to stand between them. The circle was almost complete.
Down by the water, where the lake laid gentle fingers on the shore, a small boat was drawn up. My Uncle Padriac, who was expert in these things, had constructed this craft with meticulous care. It was just long enough to serve its purpose. At the prow was a torch waiting to be lit, and all along the length of the boat were festooned flowers, and leaves, and feathers, and many small offerings from the forest, to see her on her way. My mother lay ready in the boat, pale and still in her white gown, on a bed of soft cushions. Samara had woven a little wreath of heather and hawthorn, of clover and marigold, and this Sorcha wore on her dark, curling hair. She looked no more than sixteen years old.
My father stood on the shore alone, gazing out over the darkening waters of the lake.
“Iubdan.” Liam spoke quietly.
There was no response.
“Iubdan, it is time.” Padriac’s voice was louder. “You are needed here.”
But my father ignored them, and the set of his shoulders was forbidding. Still, Liam was not lord of Sevenwaters for nothing. Now he stepped out of the solemn circle and walked over to the Big Man, putting a hand on his shoulder. Father moved slightly, and the hand fell away.
“Come, Iubdan, it’s time to let her go. Already the sun sinks below the trees.”
Father turned then, his eyes full of anguish. Gone was the control he had showed, telling her that last story. “Do it without me,” he said, with a bitterness I had never heard in his voice before. “There is no place for me here. It’s finished. I am not one of you, and I never will be.”
Then Liam put out his hand again, very deliberately, and clasped my father by the shoulder; and this time he did not allow himself to be shaken off.
“You are our brother,” he said quietly. “We need your help. Come.”
So the circle was complete, and we made our farewells according to the old tradition. In an outer ring stood the druids and the men and women of the household, and from time to time they echoed Conor’s solemn words. Sometimes other voices could be heard, stranger voices that whispered in the wind from the trees, and murmured in the ripples of the lake, and sang deep from the rocks and hollows of the land itself. And once, when I looked toward the place where the green sward ended and the great mysterious forms of oak and ash and beech began, complex and shadowy in the velvet twilight, I saw figures standing there, half concealed under the spreading branches. A tall woman, white faced, with a cloak of blue and a curtain of dark hair. A man crowned with bright flames, taller than any mortal. And others, jeweled, winged, half seen amid the dark tracery of leaf and twig.
The ritual completed, Conor led the way down to the water’s edge; and there he cupped his hands and blew into them, quite gently, and a little flame glowed sudden and golden between his curving fingers. He walked into the water, heedless of his long robe, and put his hands to the torch that was fixed in the prow of Sorcha’s little boat. The torch flared, and a bright pathway appeared before the small craft, gleaming on the inky surface of the lake. Farther up the sward, a lone piper stood ready. My spine tingled as the voice of the pipes reached out over the silent trees, the still water,
on and upward into the night.
“It is time,” Conor said quietly. Then each of us put a hand to the stern of the little curragh, and my father was between Liam and Conor. We gave the craft the gentlest of pushes, but it was hardly necessary, for already the water was rippling by the prow, as if the boat were anxious to be on its journey; and as it swung out from the bank and the current took it, I could see long, pale hands reaching up from beneath, guiding my mother’s vessel on its way, and I could hear liquid voices, singing her name, Sorcha, Sorcha.
“Go safe, little owl,” said Conor, in a voice I hardly recognized. And Finbar pushed back his dark cloak and spread his single wing so that the glorious expanse of shining feathers glowed rose and orange and gold in the torchlight, a brave banner of farewell. But my father stood motionless and silent, frozen by his loss as the piper’s lament sang on across the forest.
I strained my eyes to keep her in sight as far as I could, for I, too, grieved, though I understood my mother was not gone, only moved on to another life, another turn of the wheel. She had wanted it thus. Why not lie at rest in the heart of the forest where you belong? Conor had asked. Why not remain here at Sevenwaters, Liam had said, for you are the daughter of the forest? But Padriac had said, Let Sorcha choose. And what she wanted most of all was to take the path of that river, to be borne along on its current, away from the lake, as she had once done long ago. For, she had said, smiling, that very waterway had deposited her, quite by chance, in the hands of a red-haired Briton, and had not he become her true love and her heart’s delight? So she would choose that path again and see where it took her. I stood and stared into the darkness as the music wept and an owl cried in the night.
Folk began to disperse, heading back to the house. My father, his head bowed, shepherded by the uncles. Sean hand in hand with Aisling. Janis and her assistants hastening to make the final preparations for the feast, since a good feast, with music, is an essential part of such a farewell. I went to thank the piper. He was surely a man of near-magical skills, for that lament had echoed my innermost thoughts; its lilting melody had conjured up Sorcha’s courage, her strength of spirit, and her deep love for the forest and its people.