“Dying,” Gull observed bleakly. “Blow to the head. Won’t wake. He’d call for the knife, if he could.”
“Well, he can’t,” I snapped, my tears forgotten. “It’s not his decision. He cannot die. I won’t allow it.”
The small shadow of a chuckle. “Broke the code, the two of you. Wait till I tell Snake …” His words trailed off in a gasp of pain.
“Gull, we’re going to have to try this.”
“Understand. Walk. Carry. I’m strong enough.”
“I don’t doubt it. And you know the way, for you led my sister across once. But you are hurt and exhausted, and he will not be able to help you.”
“Strong enough. Carry.”
“Then we must go now, as soon as the child is fed. Dusk is approaching fast, and it seems no help can reach us in time.”
Gull gave a sort of grunt and rolled Bran onto his side. “Ready,” he said. “You’ll need to help. Hands, no good. Not now.” For it is indeed not possible to grasp a man’s arm or a fold of his clothing and hoist him onto your back when your hands are as badly damaged as Gull’s were. The slightest touch made him wince with pain.
Step by step. That was the only way to do it. Take it in very small stages, and try not to think too far ahead, for to do that would make the heart fail and the last vestiges of courage die. Put Johnny in his binding and fasten him on my back, as tightly as I could. He was quiet for now. Then, bend to lift Bran’s shoulders from the ground; try to help Gull to get his own shoulder underneath and lever the helpless man up. Gull’s hands were quite useless. He could bend an arm around, and shove with his knees, but he could neither hold nor grip. I bit back my words. How can you carry him? What if he slips? Between us, we dropped him three times before, laboriously, Gull got to his knees, and then precariously to his feet, with his friend balanced across his shoulders, head on the left, legs on the right, arms dangling. Gull held his own arms hooked up behind, the mangled hands pointing stiffly skyward in their bloody wrappings. From the battlements above, there was a scatter of derisive applause.
“That’s good,” I said encouragingly. “That’s really good, Gull. We need to go now.”
Many birds were calling now, out over the wilderness; flocking to roost in whatever desolate corner of this inhospitable country they called their home. The setting sun turned the pools of open water as red as blood.
“Go now,” said Gull, and we looked at each other and looked away. I saw the truth in his fever-brightened eyes. This way was death.
“I think we might share a flask of very strong drink on the other side,” I said. My words were confident; it was the tremor in my voice that gave me away.
Then Gull stepped out onto the surface of the bog, very carefully, his bare feet moving from one clump of grass to the next, right, then right again, then left. And I followed in his wake, my skirts tucked up into my belt, the child still mercifully silent. I felt cold sweat break out all over my body; I heard the quick, uneven sound of my own breathing, sensed the thudding of my heart. One step; another. We moved forward slowly; so slowly I did not dare to look behind to gauge the distance an archer might shoot with accuracy to find his target by torchlight. And then we came to a place where the clumps of vegetation were farther apart, a stride for a man, or for a long-legged woman like my sister Niamh. For me, a jump. I hesitated, as Gull moved on ahead. I could not say, Wait, lest I startle him and he lose his footing. Quick, Liadan, I told myself, or he’ll be out of sight and then … I jumped, landing awkwardly, my boot sliding on the wet foliage. I put my arms out for balance and, teetering, regained my footing. Around me in the dark brown of the marsh mud, there were little sucking and plopping sounds, hungry sounds. Gull’s progress was steady enough, though still very slow. A step; a pause; another step. He was bent well forward under Bran’s dead weight; it must be difficult for him to see the way.
“Liadan?” His voice came back to me, strangely disembodied in the emptiness.
“I’m here.”
“Nearly dark.”
“I know.” Later, if the clouds held back, there would be a little light. But this would be a waning moon, too faint, and too late. “We must go on as best we can.”
He made no reply, but moved forward again, and I could see how his bare feet balanced on the unpredictable surface, the toes curling, the foot adjusting the set of the body’s weight. I could see how, even with his hands mangled and helpless, he still kept a careful control of the burden he bore, bending to left or to right, forward or more upright, to maintain a secure stance. After dark, he would no longer be able to find the way. Then it would hardly matter what strength he had, or what skills he employed.
As the light faded, I began to feel short, sharp stabs on my hands, and on my ankles, and on my face and neck. There was a little high-pitched droning sound that came and went. Swarms of biting insects were arising from the swampy land, no doubt overjoyed to discover a large and juicy meal. Johnny began suddenly to cry, a sharp wailing of distress. There was nothing I could do to help him, and his small, panicky voice rang out unanswered over the marshes. And in the distance, I thought I heard another cry, hollow, unearthly, halfway between a scream and a song. Perhaps this voice foretold another death, as a young man at arms had once said. I told myself not to be foolish. But the sound was still there, ringing in my head, vibrating in the sickly swamp air, howling in the purple light of the dusk all around me. The wail of the banshee. Johnny was screaming in protest now. It was the first time in his short life he had cried out, and nobody had come straight away to help him with whatever he needed: dry clothes, sheltering arms, kind words, a lotion of wormwood and chamomile to take away the small, buzzing creatures that were hurting him and hurting him and would not stop.
“It’s all right, Johnny,” I muttered as I wobbled for balance on a ridiculously small patch of dry ground. Surely Gull didn’t expect me to jump across to there? It was too far; it wasn’t fair. I could not leap so far, not with the child on my back. If only Johnny would stop crying; if he would just stop … I peered ahead in the half light. On the other side of the wide, unbroken expanse of black mud, Gull had stopped walking. He was standing very still, and I sensed that he had his eyes closed. He was saying something, but I could not hear the words. It was too far. I would land in the mud halfway across, and the swamp would swallow me and my child, and it would be over. My throat was dry, my body clammy with sweat. My head throbbed. I can’t do it … I can’t … Then Gull spoke again, and I heard him. “Liadan? Still there?”
“I’m here. But I don’t think I can …”
“Need help. Hands. Can’t hold.”
Dana give me strength. He must not let go; he must not. Surely we had not come so far for nothing.
“I’m coming,” I called, and jumped, willing my body across the impossible space. I landed a little short of the larger islet of dry ground where Gull stood, my feet sinking down into soft mud, my body sprawling forward on the grassy ground. I gripped the foliage hard as I felt the voracious clutch of the bog around my legs, tugging me down. Johnny was sobbing in shuddering gasps, telling me his small tale of woe, that the world was suddenly different, and that he wanted me to make it better, right now please. My face screwed up with effort as my hands grasped and clawed on the wet leaves, and then, with a decidedly unpleasant sound, the clinging mud released me. I crawled away from the edge and got to my feet beside Gull. The light was almost gone; I could barely see his face before me.
“Put your hands up,” he whispered, and his voice betrayed the pain I could no longer read on his features in the darkness. “Take the weight for me. Not long. Rest. Hands.”
I stood behind him and reached up to put my own hands against Bran’s limp form. Then Gull attempted to unhook his arms from where they were bent up to hold his friend secure on his shoulders, but the cramp was so bad, he was hard put to move them at all. Still stoical, he bit back a scream of pain as he brought his bandaged hands slowly down. Now that we were standing
still, Johnny seemed to anticipate a swift response to his protest, and his voice grew louder and more insistent.
Gull staggered sideways and regained his footing. All I could do to help him was make sure Bran did not fall from where he lay balanced; we would never get him up again, for one error on this small, safe patch of ground would send him rolling down into the sucking mud.
“We can’t go on, can we?” I asked Gull bluntly.
“Go on.” He tried to flex his fingers and sucked in his breath. Bent his elbows experimentally, with a groan. “Go on … no choice. What else?”
“We can’t see the way. And there’s a limit to how long you can hold him.”
“Can’t stay. Men. Torches. Go … other side.”
But it was dark, and we could not go.
“Perhaps you should put him down.” My heart was cold, but I forced myself to say it, although it seemed as good as admitting we had failed. Going on was pointless. If Gull collapsed, which appeared more likely by the moment, the men were both gone. And that would be the end for Johnny and me. Without Gull to guide us, we could go neither forward nor back.
“Can’t put down. Never … up again.”
“All right. Let me think for a little. Perhaps there is an answer.”
“Men … torches,” repeated Gull in a voice now barely audible.
“They would not cross in the dark to pursue us.” Eamonn had said only, We will light torches, and We will shoot. Nothing about coming after us. “Would they?”
“Listen,” said Gull. And now, between Johnny’s sobs, between the strange gurgling song of the swamp and the strident croaking of frogs and the endless buzzing of the bloodsucking insects, I could hear men’s voices, distant enough, but coming ever closer. Peering back in the darkness, I thought I could see lights, moving slowly toward us over the inky surface.
“Put him down,” I said heavily, “for we can go no farther.” At least, if we must die, I would do so with my arms around the two of them, Johnny and his father, and with the best of friends by me. There it was again, an eerie counterpoint to the little sounds of night: that distant, mourning wail that turned the spirit to ice.
“Strong,” Gull whispered. “Strong. Stand. Carry.” And he lifted his arms again, and stretched them up to support the other man’s body. On my back, Johnny fell suddenly silent.
“Sorry,” I choked. “Of course I will not give up. How could I think of such a thing? Our mission is but half completed.”
Then all at once there was another sound, a harsh cry, and this time it came from the other side, in front of us. A squawking, cawing sort of cry. The voice of a raven. My heart lurched.
“Maybe help has come,” I said through dry lips. “Maybe help has come at last.”
Now we could see, northward across the marshland, a small, dancing ball of light, an odd, flickering shape that seemed to be flying swift toward us and calling out in Fiacha’s voice as it came. Nearer and nearer, above the dark surface, this apparition moved, and as it came close I heard a rustling and creaking in its path, as if the very bog itself were changing as it passed. Gull stood beside me, mute. As for Johnny, he was quiet now, but his fists maintained a tight grip on my hair. There had been altogether too much jumping and bouncing around, those little hands told me, and I had better make sure there was no more.
Gull exclaimed softly in a foreign tongue, and I spoke under my breath. Dana, mother of the earth, hold us safe in your hand. For as we watched, we saw that the light was like a burning torch in the shape of a flying raven, not so much a bird as an Otherworld fire in the semblance of a bird. And as this light passed over the bog, strange plants rose out of the mud, long branched, strong tendriled, and wove themselves together with clinging fronds and tangling twigs to form a narrow pathway above the surface; a pathway that led ahead of us, straight to the north, straight to the low hills and to safety. The light, which might or might not have been Fiacha, hovered above, showing us the way.
I cleared my throat. “Just as well you didn’t put him down,” I said. “Come on.”
“On,” said Gull, and stepped onto the delicate-looking tangle of foliage, scarce two handspans wide. It creaked under his weight, but held firm. I moved after him, and Johnny made a sound of protest. I began to sing to him, quite softly, so as not to distract Gull, who must still move with great caution, for there was a considerable way to go, and he must support his burden and maintain a straight path. I sang the old lullaby, a song so ancient that nobody could remember what the words meant. This language might still be known somewhere: perhaps amidst the standing stones with their cryptic markings, that had looked on in silence as I lay with Bran in the rain and made this child. Perhaps in the hearts of the oldest oaks that grew in the deep, secret places of the forest of Sevenwaters. I sang, and Johnny was quiet, and we moved steadily on to the north. The ball of light flew from one side to the other, sometimes behind, sometimes in front, always keeping pace. It was Fiacha all right. Once, I looked back, for the voices of Eamonn’s men could still be heard somewhere in the darkness. And I saw that in our wake, where we had walked across a narrow, safe pathway of twisted growth, now there was no path, only a line of bubbles on the surface of the mud. And in time the voices behind us faded, and the lights disappeared, and we were alone in the night with our strange guide.
Aid had come, as I had been told it would, when we were at the extreme of need, when our own strength was all but exhausted and we had run out of solutions. I was bone weary and my head throbbed, but now I allowed my mind to consider, cautiously, what must be done when we reached dry land. Gull had said Bran was too far gone to wake. He had said the chief would ask for the knife if he could. If I were to refuse this, it must be with good reason. I had got it wrong with Evan and had prolonged his suffering. This time, if I said I could heal him, I must do it. I must bring him back.
“Other side,” said Gull, up ahead of me. The cawing, flapping ball of brightness that was Fiacha was in front of him, and Gull’s figure was silhouetted against the light, bent over, his poor hands still helplessly pointed upward, and the unconscious man held firm by his friend’s broad shoulders and supporting arms. These men had such strength, such powers of endurance, it was no wonder simple folk believed them to be something more than mortal. They shared a bond of brotherhood, a loyalty that meant your own life was of little consequence when your comrade was in trouble. This they had without ever acknowledging it, even to themselves.
“Yes,” I replied. “We must keep on until we reach the other side. And hope there will be help close at hand, for Eamonn’s men can still use the road, and may do so now.”
“No,” said Gull. “Other side. Look.”
Startled, I looked up and forward, and felt my parched lips stretch into a grin, and my eyes fill with tears. Not ten strides ahead of us there was a bank sloping upward, and at the top a line of scrubby bushes growing, and somebody was standing there with a lantern. We had reached the other side, the four of us. We had done it.
Chapter Fifteen
It was hard, at the last, to maintain the careful pace along the narrow, mysterious way; hard not to give in to the sudden tide of elation that swept through body and spirit and made one want to run forward, laughing with relief. But Gull walked steadily on, each pace calculated precisely, and I came after, step by step, for the burdens we bore were precious and must not be let go until we were sure, quite sure, that it was safe.
The figure with the lantern stood very still. A tall man robed and hooded in black. After what Gull had said, I had hoped some of them would be close by: Otter or Snake or Spider; with luck a few of them, and horses. We made our slow way across the last patch of swamp, and I could hear the woven pathway sinking back into the mud behind me as I went. None would use this way again. And at last I saw Gull step onto dry land and stagger a few paces up the bank. He bent to roll Bran off his shoulders onto the earth, and I walked forward until I was next to him and looked up.
Fiacha flew, a b
right ball of flames, to alight on the shoulder of the tall, hooded figure; and the moment he landed, the light was gone, and he was an ordinary raven again, if any raven can be considered ordinary.
“Well,” said Ciarán gravely. “You are here, and he still lives. This was bravely done.” He glanced at Gull and then back at me. “There’s help close at hand.”
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, my fingers touching Bran’s brow, feeling how cold he was, sensing how little time was left. “Fiacha found you then. I did not expect that you yourself would come. The four of us owe our lives to you.”
“Fiacha. That’s apt.”
“Why did you help us?” I asked him. “Why did you do this? Doesn’t it go against what she—what your mother would want?”
He regarded me levelly, with something of the look of my Uncle Conor. “We owe you a debt, Niamh and I. Now it is repaid in part, at least. As for the bird, I am his custodian; but he makes his own choices.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Let us call for help. This man is close to death. You must move him before it is too late.” He gave a short, piercing whistle, and Fiacha a croak. “You must work fast if you are to save him.”
“I know. How did you do this? How did you—?” I gestured back toward the swamp, where there was now no trace of any pathway.
“A druid’s skills lie in manipulating what is already there,” Ciarán said. “Wind, rain, earth, fire. They lie in understanding the margins between world and Otherworld; they lie in the wisdom of growing things. What I have done tonight is not so much. Tricks learned in the nemetons, no more. There has been no high magic here. But I am no longer a druid; and Conor will realize, one day, that his teaching was only the beginning for me. He will discover, in time, exactly what I can do.”
“You are his brother,” I whispered.