Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  But how might I rehearse this skill here at Sevenwaters? There was no solitude, no privacy save within the confines of my own chamber, and even there I was constantly interrupted. The house was full, the family busy, and my help in great demand for a variety of tasks, not all of which I was accustomed to. I learned things, but they were the wrong things: how to sew tucks into a bodice, how to preserve apples in honey and to make jellied pigs’ tongues, how to pluck a goose, the best way to doctor a sprained wrist.

  In the evenings it was difficult to escape unnoticed. With the coming of Johnny and his band of painted warriors, supper had become a more festive occasion, followed as often as not by the telling of tales and the singing of songs. One of the young men had a fine voice, and another was not at all bad on the whistle. There was a small, finely carved harp in the household, and both Deirdre and Clodagh could coax a voice of some sweetness from its delicate strings. In Dan Walker’s camp there had been something of the same sense of well being; the same joyful fellowship. Strange, though. These were my own kin, yet I felt less a part of this than I had of that simple, colorful family of traveling folk. I thought more kindly of Peg, who had given me a kerchief and her smile, than of Aunt Liadan with her searching eyes and her silences. I heard their music of celebration and longed for the solitary lament of the pipes.

  I considered the forest. Out there, surely many places were open, untenanted: clearings amid winter trees, deserted stretches of lake shore, great lichen-encrusted stones. Those were places well suited to the secret practice of the craft. But I had no druid to walk by me, and the guards were many. Besides, who knew what strange beings looked on in that dark wilderness, all too ready to spy out my secrets and anticipate my moves? I could not go there.

  I was beset by doubts and terrified by my own lack of progress. If I left it too long, if I let myself think too hard about what I intended to do and what it meant, then I knew I risked losing the will to act at all. Now, when I touched the cord around my neck it did not seem to focus my mind on the task ahead, but whispered a different message: You are a child of Sevenwaters, it told me. You are one of us. But I had not forgotten my grandmother’s warning. She wanted to see progress. If there was no progress, then she would come back, and she would make others pay the penalty for my disobedience. Yet, when I put my mind to it, it seemed to me that no matter what I chose to do, the folk of Sevenwaters were doomed. I might protect the innocent from my grandmother’s wrath by obeying her commands. If I did that, there would be no more fires or unexpected falls, or those other things she had listed such as poisonings or disappearances. Those I sought to protect would be safe, here at Sevenwaters and in Kerry and far west in Ceann na Mara. I might achieve that. But, in the long term, if I carried out her quest the battle would be lost, and the Islands as well, and this family would be plunged into chaos and despair. Was not that a catastrophe far greater than the personal losses I sought to prevent? Indeed, if I heeded the voices of those who called themselves Old Ones, the failure to win the Islands, this time, would signify no less than the passing of the great races of Erin: the Fair Folk, the older folk, the many and strange Otherworld dwellers beneath the surface of things. As for the human kind, they would lose forever the mysteries of the spirit. What sort of man or woman could you call yourself, without those? They would cease to be guardians of earth and ocean, and become no more than parasites living off them, with no heed for what it meant, with no regard for the sacred trust laid on them. Could it be true that this was my grandmother’s intention? The choice I faced was no choice at all; both ways ended in darkness. It was no more than I could expect, with the cursed blood that ran in my veins, and in my father’s; tainted blood which meant we could never walk the paths of light. I was no child of Sevenwaters. Whichever way I went, I could do no other than destroy my kinsfolk and what they sought so hard to keep safe.

  I practiced as well as I could within the confines of my chamber late at night. In the mornings I would emerge white-faced, yawning and ill-tempered. Aunt Liadan watched me, her small, sweet features giving away nothing at all. Aunt Aisling watched me too, frowning, and ordered me to rest in the afternoons, and her daughters to give me a little peace and quiet. I snatched the time gratefully and used it for more practice. I did not dare attempt the full transformation, not yet, but I grew ever closer. I warmed up with other things: the manipulation of objects, which had become easy for me, the dropping and catching, the subtle moving, the cunning adjustments of shape and size. I gave myself a fright once with a giant cockroach; fortunately I was able to reverse the charm with a click of the fingers. I lost one spider, making it so small I could not see it to turn it back. I had not yet mastered the knack of performing this trick blind. I rehearsed transformations before the mirror, easy ones at first, since time was always limited: the prettier, more graceful girl of the fair; a very plain version with a squint and sparse, frizzy hair; a matronly one with a child in her belly and wrinkles on her brow; an ancient crone who bore an uncanny resemblance to my grandmother. I did not keep that guise long, for it chilled me to think there might be a future in which I was just like her. Then, somewhat more difficult, a Fainne who was about eight years old, the same size as my cousin Sibeal. This child stared at me from the polished copper surface of the mirror, her features innocent, unformed; her hair flowing across her small shoulders like a cloak of fire. On her finger she wore a little ring made of wild grasses. And behind her, instead of the dark stone walls of my chamber, I saw the cliffs of the Honeycomb, and the waves of the southern ocean, and the cloud-tossed sky of Kerry. I thought I heard my father’s voice saying, Well done, daughter. You’ve an aptitude for this. I made the change back to myself abruptly, too abruptly, for I came close to fainting with the sudden loss of energy that accompanies such transitions, and when I looked back in the mirror, I saw myself wan and drained, like some shadow-girl. Day by day, night by night I polished these skills. Soon, very soon, I must take that last step, girl into wild creature, wild creature into girl.

  A letter came from Eamonn. Not to me; that would have been inappropriate, and Eamonn believed in abiding by the rules when he could. The letter was to my uncle Sean, and it was a formal request for my hand in marriage. Such a letter could not be ignored, nor might it be dismissed with a straight refusal, not if the writer were a kinsman and ally. It did not seem to make any difference that Eamonn had already been told such a match was out of the question. Indeed, the man did not appear to understand the word no. He made his request with courtesy, indicating that there was no expectation of a dowry, my circumstances being what they were; he added that, in view of the impending risks of the summer, it was his preference that the marriage take place in spring, at Imbolc maybe. There was another message to be read behind these words. I would be established at Glencarnagh before summer, and accepted as his wife. There was every likelihood he would get me with child before his departure on the great campaign. If he were slain, he would at least have left an heir behind him. This unwritten message would be clear enough to Sean. As for me, I could see Eamonn’s true intention. He wished to stamp the brand of ownership on me. Now that he knew what I could do, he wanted to be certain it was his will I worked, and not another’s. Information; secrets; intelligence. With me by his side, no opportunity would be closed to him. Best establish that before the campaign began. It had occurred to him, perhaps, that there were possibilities in our union that went far beyond the elimination of one particular enemy.

  Sean showed me the letter in private. That I appreciated, not wishing to have Aunt Liadan watching over such an encounter. I read the missive quickly and gave it back to him.

  “Very formal,” I commented.

  My uncle raised his brows. “You’re skilled at reading, I see,” he said.

  “My father taught me. Conor taught him. I suppose I might be called a scholar. Maybe, if you do not allow me to wed, I could seek employment as a household scribe.”

  Sean glanced at me quizzically. “I thi
nk not. Conor saw you as a druid. Would you consider such a calling?”

  “My kind cannot do so.” My tone was cold. “You should know that, Uncle. I am my father’s daughter, after all.”

  “And your mother’s, Fainne. She was my own sister. I owe it to her to make the right choices for you.”

  “You chose poorly for her,” I said bitterly.

  “Maybe; and maybe not. It is true that ill fortune befell her. Still, at the time the family did what seemed right. Nobody could have known how it would unfold. Don’t think me heartless, Fainne, but in a way, Niamh brought what happened on herself. She chose a man she could not have.”

  I glared at him. “But for that, I would not exist, Uncle. I am the child of a forbidden liaison. Don’t you think this marriage is my best chance to make something of myself?”

  Sean sighed, and went to sit by the small table. “You should talk to Liadan about this,” he said. “Some aspects of the matter are best discussed between women.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “That should not be necessary. Just give me one good reason why Eamonn and I should not wed; one reason beyond the difference in our ages, for that should be of no import provided I am willing.”

  I thought I had backed him into a corner, where he must reveal to me the truth about whatever it was between Eamonn and Liadan, some secret they both guarded tightly, from which great bitterness had come. But he was too good a strategist for that.

  “Very well,” he said. “We need your father’s permission. Liadan tells me she is certain he will not give it. But if you are set on this match, let us put it to the test. Tell me where Ciarán can be found, and I will send a messenger with this news, and ask for his blessing on the marriage.”

  “No!” I could not control my fear. “No, you can’t do that!” Once the words were out, they could not be taken back.

  Sean looked at me very shrewdly. “I see,” he said. “However, we must respond to this letter one way or another, or Eamonn will be on the doorstep demanding answers. You’ve put me in a very awkward situation, niece.”

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  “Never mind. Conor arrives in the morning to perform the solstice ritual; we’ll discuss it with him, and with Liadan, before we decide how to word our response. Brighid save us, I think sometimes I’ve slipped back to a time when such an offer came for your mother, and she refused so much as to listen. Already, then, the sorceress who was our family’s old enemy had her hand on us once more, moving us like pieces in some game of her own devising. Perhaps, when it came to it, poor Niamh didn’t have a chance.”

  I turned cold. I thought of my mother, stepping off a ledge into nothingness, and of Liadan’s words. That always seemed to me impossible. A terrible idea lodged itself in my mind and refused to go away. Perhaps Niamh had not given up. Perhaps her second chance had been snatched away from her.

  “You need not be afraid of Liadan,” Sean said with a little smile. “She loved her sister, and means you no harm.”

  “Afraid? Of course I’m not afraid.” Even to me this sounded unconvincing. I looked at my uncle again. He sat relaxed, his fingers stroking the head of the great dog that sat by his side. The hound’s eyes were half closed in sheer pleasure. At Sean’s feet the other dog lay sleeping. “It’s just—”

  “Tell me, Fainne.” His voice was kind. “I wish you to feel at home here, you know that. I want you to consider yourself no different from my own daughters, while you remain with us.”

  “It’s just—the—the power, the ability to speak without words, to look into people’s thoughts—she has that, I know. I am—I’m afraid of that, Uncle. Afraid that Aunt Liadan will look into my mind and see things that are—private.” Why had I said such a thing? It could do nothing but arouse his suspicions. “A girl of my age does have secrets,” I added hastily. “Things she might tell her best friend, maybe, but no one else.”

  “You should speak to her,” Sean said again. “It is true, there are those of the family with this ability. Its strength varies in us; Liadan has a powerful gift, shared by only one other that I know of. But she never uses it to spy, or intrude where she is unwanted, Fainne. Such a gift brings with it great responsibility. It cannot be used lightly. It would, perhaps, be only at a time when she believed those she loved to be in mortal danger that she would be tempted to use it thus.”

  His words did nothing to reassure me. “I see. Perhaps I will talk to her. Must this be discussed in some—family forum, aired in front of all, Conor, and the others?”

  My uncle nodded gravely. “I believe so, Fainne. We must choose our words with care when we frame a reply to Eamonn. He’s an influential man; we cannot afford to anger him.”

  I had not seen Conor since the time of the fire. He had not seen me since he bore the ancient druid home to rest in the deep quiet under the great oaks. I did not know what I would say to Conor. It seemed to me my guilt must show plain on my features to one who knew how to read such things. It seemed to me the evil spirit I had inherited from my grandmother must show stark in my eyes to one as skilled as an archdruid.

  I was sitting by Maeve, telling a story. Despite my best efforts to say no, I found I could not deny her repeated requests for me to visit her, and that once seated by her side, I was unable to refuse her a tale. This time I had begun a story of two small friends and how they nearly got trapped by the tide. Maeve and I were not alone; Muirrin was busy with a mortar and pestle, and the dark-skinned young man, Evan, was in the next room tending to a fellow with a nasty gash on the buttock. Wild pigs roamed the forest, and in his efforts to spear a fine specimen for the midwinter feast, this man had got more than he’d bargained for. The tusk had gone in and out cleanly enough; Evan was talking reassuringly as he stitched the wound. Before the small fire stood Johnny. He’d come in after I started, and I had thought to cease the tale, being unwilling to reveal myself thus before him. But Maeve said, “Go on, please, Fainne,” in her polite little voice, and Johnny gave his wide, disarming grin, and I continued.

  “Well, what were they to do? The waves were getting higher, and the day was growing darker, and all that was left of the beach was a tiny little strip of sand scarce wide enough for Fainne’s two feet to stand on. She was scared, but she wouldn’t let on to Darragh, so she didn’t say a thing, just clutched Riona tight and looked at the water coming closer, and felt the rock wall steep behind her; too steep to climb up.”

  Maeve watched me solemnly. Her head was still bandaged; the eye, at least, had healed, the swelling gone down, the vision still intact. Her hands were swathed. I knew Muirrin took off the linen strips twice a day, and made Maeve move and bend her fingers. I had heard the child weeping with pain as she stretched the damaged skin. Muirrin herself tended to emerge from these sessions red-eyed.

  “Then Darragh said, ‘We’ll have to swim. It’s not so far—just to those rocks there, and then we can scramble to the jetty. Give Riona to me, I’ll carry her.’ And Fainne said in a little wee voice, ‘I can’t swim.’ Darragh stared at her, with the water coming up around his ankles, and then he said, ‘Don’t suppose I can leave you to drown, can I? Think you can float on your back, and not panic? I’ll swim for the two of us. Have to go out a way; the waves come up quick.’ As he spoke, he was fastening Riona into his belt and wading into the sea. The waves were splashing onto the base of the cliff now; Fainne felt the water up to her knees, dragging at her skirt. The very thought of going in deeper made her tremble all over. But she would not show Darragh she was frightened. So she did as he bid: moved out into the frothing sea, and let it come all around her so she was chilled through; felt Darragh’s arms under her own and across her chest, holding her safe, and then they were moving through the water, letting it carry them. Fainne had never been so scared. Sometimes the water splashed over her, into her mouth and up her nose, and once Darragh’s grip slackened and she nearly went right under. It was cold as ice, and she felt the power of the ocean as it bore them up and down, up and dow
n. Once, she dared to open her eyes and look back; but she closed them again quickly, for they were far, far out from shore, so far it seemed impossible that Darragh could ever swim back in again, not with her weighing him down. She screwed her eyes tight shut.

  “‘Look, Fainne,’ said Darragh. ‘We’ve got company. Now that’s a rare sight, that is.’ He sounded quite like himself; not at all like a boy who was in danger of drowning. He was hardly even out of breath. Cautiously, she opened one eye just a bit. And there beside them, to right and to left, swam great sleek creatures of the deep, keeping pace like graceful guardians. Selkies they were, children of Manannán mac Lir, come to see them safe to shore. All the way across the bay they played, diving and circling, dancing in the water, and Fainne stared spellbound, quite forgetting to be afraid. And at length, there were the smooth rocks at the end of the bay, and Darragh and Fainne scrambled out of the water, shivering with cold and grinning from ear to ear. The two selkies swam away with never a look back, but for a while they could be seen playing a game of chase out beyond the waves.

  “‘They do say,’ said Darragh, watching, ‘that the selkies are part human. Did you know that? Sometimes they come ashore and take off their skins, and become men and women again, for a while. But they have to go back. The sea calls them. It’s an enchantment laid on them. That’s what they say.’

  “Fainne nodded, and the two of them walked home, cold, wet and tired, but not unhappy. As for Riona, she’d had a bath she didn’t want, but she dried out soon enough before the hearth fire, and what she thought of the whole thing, nobody knew, for she wasn’t saying.”

  Maeve gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and I looked up, and there in the doorway from the next room was Conor.

  “A true story, no doubt,” he observed gravely, coming forward to greet Muirrin and Johnny, and to touch the child’s head with a gentle hand.