Child of the Prophecy

  I did it gradually, as we threaded a way through the crowd. It was not so much of a change. The hair from tight-curled russet to smoother red-gold like fine clover honey. The eyes lighter, bluer, wider, the lashes long and dark. The brows delicately arched, the lips sweet and red. The figure not so very different: just a little curve here and a little curve there, and a change in the slope of the shoulders. Lastly, the feet. Straight, beautiful, perfect feet, in neat matching boots. Feet for dancing.

  We got roasted nuts to eat from a dark-skinned fellow with a little brazier. They were paid for with a kiss. Not by me; even the Glamour was not enough to make me so bold, so soon. It was Roisin pecked the man on one cheek and then the other, with a wicked little smile. Then there was cider, and that was free for all the folk who sold their wares at the fair. But we were lured by the sound of a whistle and a bodhrán and some expert on the spoons, and we were drawn into a great circling and weaving of folk that moved to the jigs and reels ringing out over the sward. The men were starting to return, their business done for the day, and Roisin and the others had an eye out for certain lads they fancied.

  Nobody noticed that I was different. After all, I had not become a farmer’s wife, or an old crone, or a water-dragon. All I had done was improve upon myself as subtly as I could. As Father had told me, it is not yourself you change with the Glamour. It is other folk’s perception. So, that afternoon, I did not adopt a disguise. I’d no wish to disappear and have Roisin and the others out looking for me. I simply wanted to be able to fit in, to join in, to be rid of the terror that came of being myself and always out of place. Besides, I told myself, it was good practice for Sevenwaters.

  Roisin had a sweetheart. He appeared on the edge of the crowd, and I saw him watching her, then making his way through to put his hands over her eyes from behind, laughing, and ask her to dance. He’d a very determined jaw on him, and strong shoulders. Not long after, a fellow asked me, and I said yes, and managed the sort of smile my grandmother had taught me.

  It was a strange feeling to be graceful. The music seemed to carry me along, and I was floating from one partner to another and smiling without even trying. It was hot, and I took off my kerchief. The blue ribbon was lost, and my hair came unplaited. I felt the long red-gold flow of it over my shoulders, and the striped skirt whirling around me, and saw the silken fringe of my beautiful shawl glittering in the afternoon sun. I felt the drumming of the bodhrán deep inside me, pushing me along. I sensed the eyes of folk on me, admiring, and I didn’t mind a bit. I danced with the freckled lad from our own camp, the one with a pony named Silver, and he grinned a lot and said nothing at all. On the other side of the circle, Roisin was still with the same young man; they’d eyes for no one but each other. I danced with an older man, a farmer with a fine, silver-buttoned coat and sharp eyes. He asked me my name, and I told him. He asked would he see me again tomorrow, and I said maybe. He held me closer than I liked, and I did some very fast thinking. The man went suddenly rather pale, and excused himself quickly. I hadn’t done any real harm. He’d retch up the food he had in him, and be better in the morning.

  The sun was near the tops of the great oaks and clouds were gathering. I was not ready to go. Here, I was the center of something. I was myself and not-myself, both at once. It was around me that it all moved, the men with their hungry eyes, the lilt and throb of the music, the bright flare and flash of scarf and shawl and flying hair, a circle of movement and laughter and light.

  A tall fellow was asking me to dance, urged on by his friends. In the distance, I could see Roisin bidding her young man farewell. And beyond them on the far side of the circle was Darragh, standing very still, watching me. His expression was not angry, not exactly. It went beyond that. It was the look of a man whose worst fears have been realized before his eyes. He gave a jerk of his head as if to say, come on, time to go. Then he moved away and was lost in the crowd. He wasn’t even going to wait for me.

  “Excuse me,” I whispered to my would-be partner, and I slipped away as quietly as I could, shedding the Glamour as I went, limping over to the place where Darragh had left me before, close by the great oaks.

  Aoife was standing under the trees in the shade. Darragh was by her, grim-faced and silent. He linked his hands to give me a lift up onto the pony’s back, and vaulted up behind me, and we were off at a very quick pace indeed. He didn’t say anything at all until we were well on the way, passing the little curraghs drawn up by the inlet, with the clouds growing dark in the sky above us. There was nobody else in sight.

  “Can’t take my eye off you for a moment, can I?” he remarked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I thought you promised to stay out of trouble. Now look at you.”

  “What do you mean, look at me?” I snapped, hating it that he was cross with me. “I went to the fair, I sold baskets, I went dancing with your sister, and now I’m going home. Just like everyone else. Isn’t that what you want?”

  There was a silence.

  “Well, isn’t it?” Even to me, my voice sounded shrill. He was making me quite uncomfortable.

  “What I want doesn’t seem to come into it,” said Darragh quietly.

  “That’s nonsense,” I retorted, not understanding what he meant. We rode on in silence as drops of rain began to fall. Aoife twitched her ears.

  “Of course it’s good to get out among folk and enjoy yourself,” he said eventually. “There’s nothing wrong with dancing. But not—not like that.”

  “Not like what?”

  “Not making an exhibition of yourself. Doing it for the attention. Making the fellows look at you as if they wanted a bit more than just a dance. Doing—doing whatever it is you do.”

  I bit my lip and said nothing.

  “Fainne?”

  “I didn’t cause any trouble,” I said, with what dignity I could summon, wondering why it was that he had the ability to upset me so much. “All I did was enjoy myself. And besides, it’s none of your business.”

  There was another awkward silence, punctuated by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. The freckled youth on his gray pony rode up behind us and came alongside, grinning at me. “Want company?” he asked, and then he glanced at Darragh. I saw his expression change, and then he touched his heels to the pony’s flanks and was off ahead at a sharp canter.

  “Anyway,” said Darragh as we turned to the right and away from the inlet, “what about before that? I heard a story about a wizard, and escaping animals, and a near-riot, and birds turning into snakes.”

  “I heard that too.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Come on, Fainne,” he said, exasperated, and he drew Aoife to a halt. “Don’t tell me that was nothing to do with you. Someone said a man was half-strangled. Now tell me the truth.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t have to, for at that moment a small, bedraggled form put its head out of my pocket, perhaps thinking the jostling and jolting was over at last. The tiny bird hopped out and settled on the back of Aoife’s neck, reaching its beak down in a vain attempt to preen its tattered plumage. Aoife stood steady as ever, a jewel among ponies.

  “What in the name of Brighid is that?”

  I cleared my throat. “I think it’s some kind of owl. It wouldn’t fly away, and I could hardly leave it. I had to make it smaller, so people wouldn’t notice.”

  “I see.”

  “The man was a fake, Darragh. He tried to make a girl do something horrible. By trickery. His potions are worthless. He cared nothing for these animals, they were cruelly caged, and—would you have me stand by, and not act when I can?”

  Darragh sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” Without any visible signal from her rider, Aoife began to walk again, and the tiny owl wobbled a little. I put my hand down to steady it. Grasshoppers, I thought vaguely. Worms. Small beetles.

  We were nearly back at the camp before he spoke again.

  “What yo
u need is a constant guard, night and day. I don’t know what your father was thinking of, sending you away on your own. It was like—like giving an infant a lighted torch and telling it to go out and play. You’re not only a danger to yourself, you’re a danger to everyone else as well. And the worst of it is, you don’t even know it.”

  “What would you know?” I muttered, thinking how happy I had been when we passed this spot in the morning, and how miserable I was now. He had taken all the joy out of the day.

  “I do know, Fainne,” he said quietly. “I know you better than anyone. I wish you would listen to me. What you do is—is not right. You’re blighting your own future. It’s not the right way for you. I wish you would heed me.”

  Part of me longed to tell him I was sorry; sorry our day was spoiled, sorry we had quarrelled, so sorry that next summer he would go back to Kerry and I would not be there. But I could not say those things, I could not afford to listen to him lest I lose the courage to go on; to do what my grandmother had said I must do. My father’s life depended on it. And Darragh had wounded me deeply, for his good opinion was everything to me. Words tumbled out of me before I could stop them, hateful, hurtful words. “You don’t know! How could you? How could you ever understand what I have to do, and why? It’s like—it’s like some stray dog trying to interpret the movement of the stars. Impossible, and ridiculous. I wish you would leave me alone! I can’t listen to you. And I can’t be your friend, not anymore. I don’t need you, Darragh. Not now, and not ever.”

  Once it was said, it could not be taken back. We finished the journey in stony silence. He dismounted without a word and helped me down politely, and I took the very small owl in my hand and slipped it back in my pocket. I looked at him, and he looked at me. Then he took Aoife’s bridle and led her away, and I was alone.

  Chapter Four

  The rain set in, and one of the children had a cough. I offered to stay behind and tend to her, and Peg accepted gratefully. But she left Roisin as well, for company, she said. Being nursemaid suited me. The little girl was no trouble. Besides, it was wet for walking, and I would not contemplate riding with Darragh again, let alone talking to him. The very thought of him made me wretched. I knew how badly I had hurt him. Funny, it seemed to be my own heart that was aching now.

  While the child rested, I occupied myself with my other small charge. It had spent the night perched on a side support of the tent, tiny, still and silent. Maybe it didn’t want me to know that it could fly. It did not sleep all day, as an ordinary owl should. Instead, it kept its eyes half-open watching me, and seemed happy to accept the small morsels I produced: grubs, beetles, and the like. In the quiet of the night, while the folk lay wrapped in sleep, I had seen it, twice, lift its ragged wings and swoop, deadly and noiseless, to seize some small wriggling creature from the earth, then return to the perch to eat its meal tidily with miniature beak and talons.

  “You’re a fraud,” I whispered as I sat by the child’s bedside with the owl perched on my finger, and dangled a freshly dug worm. The little bird stared intently, then opened its beak and gave a snap. The worm disappeared. “A complete fraud.” The bird closed its eyes to slits, ruffled its feathers, and appeared to go to sleep. Then I heard hoofbeats outside, and returned it hastily to its dark corner.

  Roisin’s voice could be heard, and a man’s. I glanced out of the tent, then retreated back inside. I imagined Roisin only saw her young man once a year. It was not the easiest way to conduct a courtship, if that was what it was. I sat quietly, hearing their voices, but not catching the words. My mind was far away. I was thinking of Father, and how he had lost both his sweetheart and his dreams. I was thinking it was just as well I was going to Sevenwaters now, and not later. Some things could hurt you. Some people could wound you. There was no room in my life for that. And there was no room in any other kind of life for me, or for my kind. I knew that already. I just had to keep telling myself, that was all, and the pain would go away in time.

  The rain had almost stopped. From out by the fire, Roisin called me.

  “Fainne?”

  I emerged from the tent. The young man was building up the fire, and Roisin was making tea.

  “Come and have a drink. It’s getting chilly. This is Aidan. Aidan, this is Fainne. Darragh’s friend.”

  Not anymore, I thought, forcing a smile.

  “Happy to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” said the young man, and I nodded.

  “Aidan’s got some news, Fainne.” Roisin sounded unusually hesitant. I stared at her. I could think of no news that might possibly be any concern of mine. “Sounds as if Darragh’s finally made up his mind,” she went on.

  “About what?” I asked, accepting a cup of her steaming chamomile brew.

  “Diarmuid O’Flaherty, and his horses,” said Aidan, who had settled on one of the benches with his arm around Roisin.

  “Didn’t he tell you?” queried Roisin, as I made no response.

  I shook my head.

  “Just that O’Flaherty’s been on at him, and on at Dad, these two years, to let Darragh stay up there at the farm and help train his horses. Ever since Darragh worked his magic on an animal none of O’Flaherty’s men could touch. That was a good while back. He’s got that way with them, Darragh, like nobody else. Some of the best stock comes out of O’Flaherty’s. It’d be a great chance for Darragh. But our kind doesn’t settle. He always said no. Rather be on the road or back in Kerry, horses or no horses.”

  “Looks like he’s settling now,” observed Aidan. “Maybe there’s a lass in it. O’Flaherty’s daughters are a bonny enough pair.”

  Roisin glared at him. As for me, I sat there with my cup in my hands and said not a word.

  “Bit of a surprise,” said Roisin. “Dad’s pleased, and sad too. He knows it’s a great opportunity. But we’ll all miss Darragh.”

  “Not so hard maybe,” said Aidan. “You’ll see him at fair time. That’s the pattern of it for us here in Ceann na Mara,” he explained, looking at me. “Summers in the hill country, winters on the coast. O’Flaherty’s got big holdings. Wed into that family and you’d be falling on your feet, that’s certain.”

  “Who said anything about wedding?” scoffed Roisin, digging him in the ribs.

  “Folk’ll be saying it.”

  “Folk can say what they want. That doesn’t make it true. I never thought Darragh would do it. Surprised us all.” She glanced at me. “Thought you’d have been the first to know.”

  After that things moved very quickly. O’Flaherty was to be off home the next day, and he was taking Darragh with him. Folk gathered in the evening around the fire, but the air was biting cold and nobody was in a festive mood. I said I was tired and stayed in the tent. People talked quietly and drank their ale. There were no tales, and not much laughter. Later someone asked Darragh to play his pipes; but it was Dan Walker who entertained them with a couple of tunes. I could not see, but I could tell from the sound of it. The playing was more expert than Darragh’s, but it had not the same heart.

  Much later, when all were asleep and a gentle rain had begun to fall again, I heard him, a long way off, down on the shore in the dark. He was playing alone; playing some kind of farewell, to his folk and his family, to the sort of life that was in his blood and in his being. I’m a traveling man, remember? he’d said. Always on the move, that’s me. The lament rang forth over the empty strand and the dark surging waters, piercing the very depths of my spirit. This would have been easy once. I would simply have got up and walked down to the shore to sit by Darragh as he played. There would have been no need for words between us, for my presence would have been enough to tell him I was sorry I had hurt him. He would have understood that he was still my friend. Things were different now. I had changed them, and now my friend was leaving me forever. It was better that way; better for me, far better for him. Why, then, did it hurt so much? I curled my hand around my grandmother’s amulet, feeling its warmth, feeling the reassurance it gave me that the
path I had chosen was the right one, the only one. I rolled the blanket around myself, and curled up tight, and put my hands over my ears. But the voice of the pipes cried out in my heart, and would not be silenced.

  A long time later I came to Sevenwaters. It was past Meán Fómhair and there was a misty stillness in the air. There had been many days on the road, too many to count. Our party had split in two, leaving one cart at a camp not far inland from the Cross with most of the folk. Without the old people and the children we moved more quickly, stopping only at night. Dan drove the cart, Peg sat by him, and Roisin kept me company. For all their kindness, my thoughts were on the task ahead of me; beyond that I could see nothing. I told myself sternly to forget Darragh. What was past was past. I tried very hard not to think about Father.

  We camped a night or two at a place called Glencarnagh where there was a great house and many armed men in green tunics going about their business with grim purpose. Already, there, I saw more trees than ever before, all kinds, tall pines dark-caped in fine needles, and lesser forms, hazel and elder, already drifting into winter’s sleep. But that was nothing to the forest. As we moved along a track with great heaps of tumbled stones to left and right, you could see the edge of it in the distance where it crept across the landscape, shrouding the hills, smothering the valleys. Above it the mist clung, damp and thick.

  “That’s it, lass,” announced Dan Walker. “The forest of Sevenwaters.”

  “Going right in, are we?” inquired Peg. Her tone was less than enthusiastic.

  “The old auntie’d kill me,” Dan said, “if I passed by these parts without a visit. Besides, I promised Ciarán I’d deliver the lass safe to her uncle’s door.”

  “If that’s the way of it, that’s the way of it,” said Peg.

  “You’ll get a good meal there, if nothing else,” Dan said, looking at her sideways. “Auntie’ll see to that.”