Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “You know better than to ask me what. You are the only one who can discover what lesson this carries, for yourself. Perhaps it pertains to the question who am I, or what am I. One can spend a lifetime seeking answers to such questions. You are right, of course. It held all the symbols of a druid’s passage into the brotherhood; even thus do we give our kind a new birth, a new emergence into light, from the body of our mother the earth. Ask yourself why such an experience was bestowed on you.”

  “An error, surely. Perhaps they—whoever they were—mistook me for someone else.”

  Conor chuckled. “I doubt that very much. You are your father’s daughter. Now, I have something to ask you, Fainne. A favor. I’d like you to help me.”

  We had come to the path by the cottages.

  “If it’s anything to do with water, the answer’s no.”

  He grinned. “I’d like you to assist me with the celebration of Samhain. You have been taught the ritual, I assume?”

  “Yes, but—you must understand, my father and I, we are no druids. What has happened today changes nothing.”

  Conor looked at me gravely. “You doubt yourself. But this you could do with ease. This, and a great deal more, I think.”

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, finding it all too easy to convey confusion, for I felt a sudden longing to confess everything to this calm old man; to tell him the reason I was there, and what my grandmother had done, and my fear for my father. You loved him too. Help me. But I could not tell.

  “Think about it, Fainne. You’ll have choices to make while you’re here. Choices that will be far reaching, perhaps beyond what you imagine.”

  If you knew what I imagine you would tremble with fear. “I’ll consider it,” I said.

  Conor gave a nod, and we walked up to the keep in silence. When I got back to my chamber I took off the shawl, which was quite dry, and put it away in the chest. I hesitated before I took out Riona and set her back in the window. Then I built up the small fire to a rich, rosy glow of heat, and sat before it. It had been the strangest of days. In a way, I had achieved what I set out to do. I had confronted the forest and I had survived the experience. I had heard a voice from the Otherworld, perhaps not the one I had expected, but a voice nonetheless. But I had learned nothing. The message the owlish creature had given me had been no message. The words were meaningless. I had not asked Conor the questions I wanted answered. And yet I felt a warmth inside me, as if I had got something right at last. It didn’t make sense. A pox on all druids. They were just too confusing. Like owls that talked, and clothing that dried itself in a flash, and dolls that followed you with their eyes and spoke to you in your head. I gave a huge yawn, and another, and I curled up there before the fire, and slept.

  Quietly, unobtrusively, in the same way as a shadow moves under the winter sun, the druids came to Sevenwaters. They were not many: one old graybeard, a few much younger, men and women with plaited hair and pale, calm faces. Inscrutable, like their leader. They were housed in an annex near the stables, preferring to be outside the stone walls of the keep, and closer to the forest. They waited.

  Samhain is the darkest and most secret of the great festivals. In Kerry Father and I had performed our own ritual, just the two of us, and because of what we were, the form of it was subtly changed. Not as folk might think. We may be sorcerers, but we are no devil worshippers. We are not necromancers or practitioners of the black arts. We acknowledge the old deities. We salute the elements, fire, air, water and earth. The fifth, which is the pure essence of spirit, we cannot approach. We reverence the passing of the year and its turning points. But we use our abilities for our own ends; we do not adhere to the druid way. Still, what we do is in many aspects very close. I understood the ceremony and what my own role in it would be. Conor had shown insight, I was forced to concede. He had known my father well enough to be sure I would have learned the lore, and understood the meaning behind it. He was right; if all you looked at was education, I was well skilled to become a druid. Besides, what other prospects did I have? I was unlikely to snare a man of wealth or influence as a husband, whether or not the truth was told about my parentage. Either I was the bastard child of a forbidden coupling, or, possibly worse, I was uncharted waters, a girl whose paternity was unknown. Maybe the story was put about that I was a druid’s daughter, but who could be sure? I might have been fathered by a leper, or a petty thief, or some Otherworld creature, a clurichaun maybe. What chieftain with an eye on his bloodline would so much as look at me?

  That night it was especially hard to remember why I was at Sevenwaters. As I have said, the celebration of Samhain is secret. The druids had come forth, this year, only because all knew it would be the last time before the final battle. The festival marked the start of a new year, the year in which the Britons would be swept from the Islands, and the balance at last restored. Perhaps, Conor remarked, our very next Samhain would be celebrated as once before, under the sacred rowans that crowned the Needle, far out in the eastern sea. If he could witness that, he said, he would depart this life gladly. His words sent a shiver up my spine, but I said nothing.

  The ritual would still be observed deep in the heart of the forest, where the druids lived their solitary existence, watched over by those other inhabitants with their strange voices and half-glimpsed manifestations. Back in the nemetons there remained a number of Conor’s brethren to fulfill this purpose. Those who had come to Sevenwaters would perform a ceremony to which senior members of the family would be invited, and afterward they would emerge to acknowledge and greet the household at large, and share with them the ritual feast of Samhain. In this way, all would be included. But the sacred words themselves, and the manner of their saying, only an inner circle might witness that, and I may not tell it fully here. The smaller girls were excluded. Knowing their complete inability to be still for more than a few moments, I thought that a wise decision.

  Samhain is a dangerous time. For the three days that mark the turning of the year and its descent into darkness, barriers are put aside, and the margins between worlds become less clearly defined. It no longer becomes so difficult to see the manifestations of the Otherworld, for their shadows loom close in this time of chaos. Things seem other. In the light of the Samhain bonfire, you might look at your neighbor and see, suddenly, the face of a friend long dead. You might wake in the morning and find things disturbed. Stock wander, even when closely fenced. Strange lights can be seen in the darkness of the night, and snatches of an ancient music half-heard. If you wanted to practice scrying, this would be the time to try it. You’d almost certainly see something. You might then wish you’d left well alone.

  There was a part in the ritual for the youngest druid, and that part I fulfilled. It was no difficulty to speak the words with meaning and heart. Conor’s own voice had a solemn power that seemed to go straight to the spirit. I had agreed to help him. I reasoned that if I were to do my grandmother’s will, I must earn this man’s trust; I must find a place in this household. I told myself I was simply playing a part; that it meant little to me. But as the ceremony unfolded in the candlelit chamber which had been set aside for the purpose, it became impossible to ignore the presence of unseen others among us, somewhere in the shadowy corners, or in the flame of the ritual fire. Part of the ritual is the solemn repetition of names: the names of those who have departed this life and moved on; those who might, tonight, be able to hear our words, for at Samhain their spirits are no more than a breath away. Somehow this touched me more deeply than anything that had come before, and despite myself, for a time I did forget that I did not truly belong here, and never could. I forgot Grandmother. We stood together as a family, the living hand-fast in our circle, and the others threaded between and around us.

  There were many; so many, even in the time of those here present. So much sorrow. They lingered close, the lost folk of Sevenwaters, binding and strengthening the fabric of this family.

  “I speak to you, my brothers,” Conor
said quietly. “Diarmid, ever bold and headstrong. Cormack, twin and comrade, loyal and true. Liam, once master of this hall. You leave your legacy in the fine man your nephew has become, another such as yourself.”

  “Sorcha, daughter of the forest,” said Sean. “Healer unparalleled, and great in spirit. Iubdan, man of the earth, steadfast and wise. My hand is in yours; you guide my steps.”

  “Eilis, my mother,” Aisling said. “In my birth you gave your life. I never knew you, but I love and honor you.”

  And then they looked at me, and my words came unprepared.

  “Niamh,” I whispered. “You danced at Imbolc, and shone bright. You are my mother, and a daughter of Sevenwaters. We hold you close, as we hold all those departed.”

  “And also the sons of this household, my brothers who lived but a brief span in this world,” added Muirrin, taking her mother’s hand. “Small Liam and Seamus; precious as bright stars in the firmament; lovely as beads of dew on the hawthorn; you live as bright flames in our minds and in our hearts. Tonight we draw near and touch you, dear ones.”

  “Through the shadows we feel your presence beside us,” Conor said, raising his hands, “for on this night there is no barrier between us. Share our feast; be welcome and walk among us.”

  He proceeded with the ritual. In turn the salt, the bread, the wine and honey were shared among those present, and the spirits’ portion cast into the flames. I moved around the circle, playing my part as the druids did. I recognized that the terrible losses this family had sustained were my own losses, and theirs mine. I knew the dead were there still, within us. Their legacy was in the deeds and the choices of those who lived. Did my mother look through the veil between this world and the other, and smile at what she saw? What path would she have me tread?

  The circle was unwound, and the ritual complete.

  “Come,” said Conor. “The good folk of the household await our company. Let us feast together, and prepare ourselves for the time of shadows.”

  We made our way to the great hall, where all the folk of household and settlement were assembled. It was a big gathering. The numbers living at Sevenwaters had been augmented by many warriors, and others with a part to play in the preparation for war. Blacksmiths, armorers, men skilled with horses, and those who dealt with supplies and the movement of large numbers of folk at speed, and quietly. The old woman was there, Dan Walker’s aunt. I saw her watching me with her dark, penetrating eyes.

  Benches were set out, and some were left empty for what Otherworld visitors might care to join us. The doors stood open, for tonight no entry was barred, no passage refused. The hearth fires were cold. Outside, in the clear space between keep and stables, a great bonfire burned, sending its sparks dancing high. The moon was full, and small clouds moved across its pale, glowing surface.

  “Morrigan watches from behind her veil,” said Conor. “Come with me, Fainne. Let us rekindle these fires, and set our feet forward into the new year.”

  He had set the bonfire alight much earlier, using his hands and an incantation. Others had kept it going by more earthly means, with a regular supply of well-dried ash fagots. Now Conor took up an unlighted torch, and thrust it into the flames until it flared and caught and burned golden in the night.

  “This is the fire of the new year.” His voice was strong and clear, his eyes full of a serene hope. “This is the year of the reckoning. We measure the days of darkness, and take stock. We prepare for the time of sunlight and joy, and for the day of victory. I pledge to the folk of the forest, on both sides of the veil, that before Samhain next the Islands will be restored. The child of the prophecy will lead us, and we will fulfill our sacred trust. This I pledge.”

  Then he put the torch into my hand.

  “You know what to do?” he asked me softly.

  I nodded. I had the strangest feeling, as if somehow I had done this before; as if a scene from the past were being repeated, but with subtle differences. My feet moved of themselves. I bore the flaming torch into the great hall and, before the assembled folk, I reached out and touched it to the logs laid ready on the massive hearth. They flared and burned bright. Then I walked through the house, taking care to stay clear of the tapestries, until I had lit every single fire, even the small one in my own chamber. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I spotted a little smile on Riona’s embroidered mouth, but when I turned to look, she was gazing out the window as solemn as ever.

  My duty discharged, I returned to the hall. Tonight, suddenly, I did not fear the crowd of folk there, the talk and the brightness. There was wine and oaten bread, and some cold meats, and a little of the fine soft cheese made from ewes’ milk. Only a little, for there would be no fresh milk from now to springtime, and the bulk of our butter and cheese was laid away in the caves. The last of the surplus stock had been slaughtered and the late crops gathered in. Breeding animals, the best of flock and herd, were confined in the barns or in the walled fields close by the settlement. What little grain lay still in the fields would be left now, for the spirits. It was a time to exchange the light of the sun for the warmth of the hearth fire, the action of farm and forest and field of war for the smaller sphere of household and family, and to plan for what was to come.

  It was not exactly a celebration. Folk talked quietly among themselves. Even the little girls were more subdued than usual. It was well past their bedtime, and Eilis sat on Aunt Aisling’s knee with her thumb in her mouth like a baby. Maeve, who had followed my progress through the house step by step with round-eyed admiration, went to sit near the hearth, leaning drowsily against her big dog. Sibeal was next to the old woman, Janis, who seemed to be telling her a story. The older girls were moving about busily, making sure goblets were refilled and platters replenished.

  “You did very well tonight, Fainne.” It was Muirrin, coming up with a wine flask to refill my cup. “Almost as if you were called to it, I thought. It is quite an honor, to help with the ceremony itself. It is even more of an honor to light the fires. I have never seen Conor entrust it to other than a druid.”

  “Really?” I said, and took a sip of the wine.

  “He values you, Fainne. You should not take that lightly. Of all of them, of all the swan-brothers, Conor is the only one who remains here in the forest. He keeps the memory of the old times alive. He does not let us forget who we are, and what we must do. He sees a part for you in that, I have no doubt of it.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Muirrin, you said to me, your parents had daughters, and Aunt Liadan had sons. But—”

  She gave a half-smile. “There were twin boys. Between Maeve and Sibeal. They lived for less than a day. I was about seven when they were born. I held them for a while. They had such little hands.”

  “I’m sorry. I should not have spoken of it. You said your father was content that Johnny would inherit. But I did not know they had had sons and lost them.”

  “Their grief was terrible. Father has come to terms with it. He is very strong. He loves and respects Johnny. With Mother it is slightly different.” She hesitated.

  “She is not happy that a nephew should be the heir?” I asked.

  “She would never say so. She is a good wife, devoted to my father and dedicated to the seamless operation of his household. She would never say it outright, but she believes she has failed, in not giving him a healthy son. And there is a—a reservation, that is all I would call it. She likes Johnny. One cannot do otherwise. He will be an ideal ruler of Sevenwaters. But she also has some doubts.”

  “Doubts?” I asked her as we sat down together on a bench in the corner. “Why would she have doubts, if Johnny is the perfect creature everyone makes him out to be?”

  She grinned. “He is perfect. I’m sure you will agree when you meet him. Mother’s feelings have more to do with his parentage. He’s a cousin, of course, but—”

  “Is it Johnny’s father Aunt Aisling objects to?”

  “Not objects. I would not put it so strongly. My mother abides by m
y father’s decisions. It is just that—there is very ill feeling, between my uncle Eamonn and the Chief. Nobody ever says what it is, or was. My mother, I think, believes that her brother can never approve of Johnny as a future master of these lands. That makes her uneasy for the future. The Chief has never come here, not since he and Aunt Liadan went away. When he needs to see Father, they meet somewhere else; a different place every time. I’ve only met him once myself. And Uncle Eamonn does his best to stay away when Liadan is here. It’s as if they can only keep the peace if they never come face-to-face.”

  “How odd. How long has this been going on?”

  “Since Johnny was a baby. Nearly eighteen years, it would be.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t, really. There were indeed secrets here; interesting secrets. “I’m sorry, Muirrin. Sorry about your little brothers.” This was no more than the truth. I had seen the look of desolation on Aunt Aisling’s small, freckled features as their names had been spoken.

  “Thank you, Fainne. You’re such a kind girl. I’m glad you have come here. Sisters are all very well, but it’s wonderful to have a friend I can talk to. Mother will come to terms with my father’s plans for Sevenwaters in time. First the battle must be won. Then we work for the future.” Her face was alight with hope and purpose.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I feel suddenly quite weary. Do you think Uncle Sean would mind if I went to bed now?”

  “Oh, Fainne, you poor thing! I’m sorry, I forgot you worked so hard, helping Conor and carrying that big torch around—go on, off with you. I’ll make your excuses.”

  I fled to my chamber and bolted the door, and I shrugged off the Glamour, and changed my good gown for a plain, serviceable old night shift. I lifted Riona down from the window, and sat by the hearth with her beside me. My fingers touched the graven surface of the amulet strung around my neck, moving across its tiny inscriptions. Although the small fire burned bright, the room was cold: colder than the frost at dawn; colder than the touch of the sea spray at midwinter; but not as cold as the chill that seized my spirit and would not let go. It was the frozen grip of uncertainty. I took up the poker, thinking to stir the fire to greater warmth. I touched the iron to the coals, and instantly a great sheet of flame shot up, lighting the whole chamber a vivid orange-red, filling my nose and mouth with pungent, suffocating smoke. The very air seemed to spark and hiss around me, and my heart thumped with fright. The flame died down again, the fire glowed purple, dark as mulberries, and there within its depths was my grandmother’s wrinkled face, crowned with licking flames, her penetrating eyes starring out at me, and in the crackle of burning wood, I heard her mocking voice.