It was another kind of life. Folk thought, perhaps, that I would be ill at ease, and find it hard to settle in this harsh place with its biting winds, its perilous cliffs and its isolation, not to speak of the mysterious activities of its menfolk. But then, they knew little of my upbringing. Opposite corner of the land it might be, but in many ways Inis Eala was like home. Here no blanket of forest shut out the light. I awoke to the sound of the sea, in the little hut I shared with three other unwed girls. I had my own corner. They found out soon enough that I preferred to keep to myself. Anyway, there was always work to be done. One girl helped Biddy with the cooking; another seemed to turn her hand to anything, whether it be killing and cleaning chickens, or prising shellfish off the rocks with a big knife. The third girl, Brenna, was a fletcher. I must have raised my brows in surprise; she volunteered with quiet pride that it was her father’s trade, and when he died, she took it over, so to speak. Now she was one of the best in Ulster. If she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t be here. Only weapons of the very highest standard were used on the island.
Some of the business of Inis Eala was carried out quite openly. There was the bakery and the forge; there was the place down in the bay where they seemed to be building big curraghs, and cunning little ones as well; there was a shed where fish were dried and smoked. There was an infirmary, which was run by the man called Gull, the one with a feather in his hair and but five fingers on the two hands together. There was a Christian priest and also a druid. These two spent most of their time together in amicable debate. Both performed rituals: folk attended one or the other, or neither, as it suited them. There was a small tannery, and a place where they did spinning and weaving, and a sailmaker’s.
And then there was the other business, which was the reason they were here. One saw a hint of it at the forge, where two brawny individuals named Sam and Clem beat out not just pitchforks and shovels and implements for tilling the stony ground, but also a wide variety of weaponry: swords, spearheads, daggers, throwing-axes and numerous other items the uses of which one might only guess at. Sam and Clem were Biddy’s sons, but not Gull’s. Fair as milkmaids, the two of them, with rosy cheeks and hair sweet buttercup-yellow, and limbs like tree trunks. In the evenings after supper, Sam would play the bodhrán and Clem the whistle, and I marveled that such giants might possess such deftness of touch. There was a woman who played the knee-harp, but there was no piper. While the winter wind whistled outside, and the sea roared its hunger to the freezing air, folk clapped and sang, and even on occasion danced, in the shelter of that snug building and the warmth of its hearth fire. I did not dance. I watched. I observed, and thought how different things could be from what one had imagined. Take that man, the Chief. Bran, his name was, but the only one who used that was Liadan. Once, I had thought him a piece easily sacrificed in this game; I had thought I might let Eamonn destroy him, and break the alliance, and so lose the battle. I had told my grandmother I would do that very thing. For what had I heard of the man, until that point? I’d been told he was an outlaw, scum of the earth; that he had cruelly stolen Eamonn’s sweetheart, and ruined his life. He was considered, at the least, somewhat odd. He had made so many enemies over the years that he could never come to Sevenwaters. And even more strangely, he managed at the same time to be lord of a substantial holding in Britain. It was a position surely impossible for such a miscreant to sustain. I expected an enigma. But nobody had told me the man’s wife loved him more than life itself. I had not known his sons respected and admired him; that his men and women viewed him as something quite above ordinary folk. It became ever clearer to me the longer I dwelt on Inis Eala that although Johnny ran the place, the taciturn, grim-looking Chief was the cornerstone of the whole community, the unifying force of the entire enterprise. And enterprise it was; for all the inclement weather, men came and went by ship, and behind the high walls of the practice yard skills were endlessly perfected, and inside locked rooms another set of skills was taught: map reading, covert intelligence, poisons and antidotes, subterfuge and disguise. One could not remain there without knowing a little of it. Still, there were rules, and one of the main ones was secrecy. It was just as well I no longer needed to gather information for Eamonn, for I could not have done so without a total transformation. That I could not attempt without arousing Liadan’s suspicions. She watched me closely; another mysterious period of illness would certainly have given me away. I was immensely grateful to Johnny for bringing me to Inis Eala, where I need no longer think of Eamonn at all.
The Chief was nothing much to look at. There was that flamboyant body-marking, to be sure; the pattern was a work of art, and covered him all down the right side, from the top of his shaven head to the tips of his fingers and his toes. But apart from that, he was much like Johnny, a shortish, strongly built man with shrewd gray eyes. His mouth was hard; he had not his son’s charming smile. The only time I ever saw a softening of his features was when he looked at Liadan, and even then, I thought he did not wish others to see such a weakening of his stern image. But he revealed himself in little touches, in little glances. It was clear they could not bear to be long out of each other’s sight. Always, he sought her opinion gravely; always, he treated her as an equal, to be duly consulted and respected. I did not much care for him, but I liked that.
There was an inner circle here, a group of older men who seemed to play the major part in councils and decision making, and to have control of various aspects of the enterprise. The Chief’s visits were rare; his estate at Harrowfield needed his presence, and he and Liadan spent most of their time at home in Northumbria. It was these others, led by Johnny, who managed the work of Inis Eala. One thing this group shared was their odd names, which were not men’s names at all but those of wild creatures. As well as Gull, the healer, and Snake, who looked after matters of battlecraft, there were warriors called Spider or Rat or Wolf. The younger men had not such an affectation, though their names did speak of a variety of origins: Corentin, Sigurd and Waerfrith; Mikka, Gareth and Godric. After a time, Biddy explained to me kindly that in the old days, when the Chief first set up his fighting force, the men who joined him had shed their old names and taken a new identity. Their animal names told nothing of their origins or history; they spoke only of each man’s own qualities, a dog’s loyalty maybe, or a gull’s ability to travel far and see clear. With their names, they got their mark: that pattern graven on the skin which was at once a sign of belonging and of fierce individuality. Now that they were settled, so to speak, there was no need for the names; but even the young ones still had the mark. You’d know who’d been with the Chief since the beginning, by the names. You’d know who’d proved his worth, by the skin. All answered to Johnny; his youth was no impediment to his authority.
There was work for me. Scribing, for instance. I demonstrated my skills on request, and was allocated tasks. Nothing concerning strategies and dealings of war, of course; nothing touching on the summer campaign or other secret matters. The priest and the druid took care of those. Nor was I given maps to work on, though maps and sea charts were used aplenty by the inner circle. Still, there were books to be copied, and letters written of domestic import, and records to be kept of stock. There were household reckonings to perform, tedious work, but, for me, so easy I could do it without even thinking, and still receive praise for my accuracy. I was asked questions about who had taught me so well, and I told them a druid, and tried not to think about my father.
And because I had so foolishly mentioned children, I was put in charge of my cousin Coll. That had been Johnny’s idea, not his mother’s. Maybe, I thought grimly, it was a sort of test. I discovered soon enough that small boys are somewhat different from small girls. One could not expect them to listen enraptured to such tales as I had in my repertory, or bite their lips in concentration over sewing, or occupy themselves with dolls. Indeed, I had done none of these things myself as a child. Riona had always seemed less a plaything than a companion in adventures. It was winter
, and Coll was restless. He was too young to learn the arts of war; he did not concentrate long on practicing his letters with waxen tablet and stylus; he thought ringstones boring; he did not care to play the whistle. Instead, he would wander to the shuttered window and peer through the cracks at the sleeting storm outside, and sigh heavily. I saw in his eyes the longing for summer, and felt its echo in my own heart as so many times before.
I was trying to copy a book of herb lore. It was in Latin, and I was translating as I wrote, which required a deal of concentration. Coll kept interrupting. I could imagine him teamed up with Eilis very well. In the end I put my quill down and went to join him at the window.
“When the weather clears,” I said optimistically, looking out into the lowering gray of the storm, “maybe you’ll show me the rest of the island. I’ll wager there are caves there, and beaches the selkies visit. Do you go down to the far point?” In the gloom outside the whole of the landscape was veiled in slanting rain.
“Sometimes,” he said guardedly.
“Only sometimes? Is it too dangerous?” The cliffs were higher there, that was certain. The waves made an explosion of white as they lashed the rocks at the base. Still, it was no steeper than the Honeycomb.
“Of course not,” said Coll immediately, scowling. He was indeed very like Uncle Sean; long thin face, dark brows, black curling hair. I regarded him gravely. Another like Sibeal? Surely not. This one was—was—well, to put it frankly, he was too much of a boy. I remembered something my grandmother had said once, about what children might have been born if my father had chosen Liadan instead of her sister. If Liadan had had a daughter, I thought cautiously that I might have quite liked her.
“Where do you go, then?”
“There are little bays on the west side. There’s a cliff, with puffins. Caves. Tunnels. Selkies do come in sometimes. It’s good there.” He frowned. “Shouldn’t think you could manage, though. You have to climb down a long way.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said dourly. “Where I grew up, you had to climb cliffs like those every time you wanted fresh water. Nimble as a goat, that’s me.”
Coll looked unconvinced. “The only thing is, you’re a girl.”
“Mmm. Well, my best friend back home was a boy, and anything he could do, I could do.” This was so patently untrue I felt obliged to correct myself. “Except for swimming. And music. And horses.”
“And could he do everything you could do?”
I attempted a smile. “Not quite,” I told him.
After that, Coll and I became friends, and together we counted the days until the storms of winter should abate, and the sky open again to the pearly hues of Imbolc. We reached a sort of agreement. He would work on his letters for a time, while I labored with quill and ink. I would correct his work. Then we would take turns telling a tale we had invented, about a boy who sailed to strange lands in a little boat, and had all sorts of adventures. Coll was supremely confident, with the innocent assurance of a seven-year-old, that this was exactly what he would do himself in a few years’ time; not just the voyage itself, but the discovery of spice islands, and the vanquishing of sea monsters, and probably even marrying a princess, but not that part until he was really old, one and twenty at least, because he’d be having too much fun.
Time passed. The amulet remained cool to the touch, and I lost the constant fear that Grandmother might show herself unexpectedly, perhaps to berate me for delivering Johnny from her spell. Cautiously, I began to wonder if this place was safe. Perhaps that was why she had not wanted me to come here. She had said something about influences. But there had been no sign of Otherworld folk; neither the grand ones nor the smaller ones had manifested themselves since I rode away from Sevenwaters. There was merely a strong contingent of highly capable human folk, and rather a lot of dangerous-looking weapons, and the wind, and the sea. There were no horses on the island; these they kept at the settlement on the landward side. And there were no dogs, not even to help herd the sheep and goats. There was a cat, which lurked in the kitchen and got under Biddy’s feet. It was the oddest creature I had ever seen, with a little hollow on its rump where the tail should have been, and a hopping gait not unlike a rabbit’s. Coll told me it came from Manannán’s Isle, where all cats were tailless. When I raised my brows in disbelief, he said everyone knew the story. It was the doing of the Finn-ghaill, with their propensity for highly decorated headgear. They had developed a fashion for hanging a cat’s tail from their helms as a kind of plume, brindle or tabby or white. And the shores of Man were heavy with Viking settlements now. So, the mother cats would bite the wee tails off their own young, as soon as they were born, to prevent a cruelty befalling them later. It was an interesting story, and no less plausible than some of my own.
Apart from Coll, the family kept its distance. The Chief was not a man easily befriended, and I was glad he restricted his discourse with me to a greeting here and there, or a stiff nod as we passed. Still, I had learned enough of him to be aware that while he was on Inis Eala nothing at all could occur there without his knowing of it. Johnny was the friendliest. He always had a smile and a kind word for me, and would tease his little brother for monopolizing the prettiest girl on the island, which just went to show how few girls there were, really. Johnny had never once mentioned what happened between us on the journey north, and nor had I. There was no way of knowing whether he still believed that charm had been my own doing. The other brother, Cormack, was so heavily involved in the work of the practice yard and armory he had no time at all for talk. They said he was as good as his father in hand-to-hand combat, and him but fourteen years old.
And then there was Liadan. I had heard what she said about wanting a daughter, and I sensed she would have liked to talk to me, perhaps of my mother and the times of their girlhood. But Liadan was anxious. I thought she counted the days until summer in the same way I did, but her pale features were sober and her green eyes very solemn. Her menfolk looked ahead and saw only challenge, and conflict, and victory. Liadan, I thought, sensed a summer which would also bring blood and loss, as she had once been told. She feared for them all, but especially for Johnny. She watched him with shadowed eyes. My aunt did not ask me any awkward questions, perhaps knowing she would get no answers. Still, she let me befriend her small son. It was his presence, lively, questioning, uncomplicated, that allowed me to get through the winter in a reasonable state of mind. That, and Grandmother’s silence.
The season passed, with rain and gale and shivering nights, and the closer the spring came, the clearer the task appeared in my mind; the clearer and simpler. To satisfy my grandmother I must be there at the last, at the point when the allies were about to defeat their enemy. Once there, I was supposed to take whatever action was necessary to ensure the victory did not take place. One could turn an army into toads, I thought, though the use of that charm on such a massive scale was probably beyond my abilities. Or one could do it the simple way, as she had suggested. One could kill the child of the prophecy. There was no doubt whatever that without him the venture could not succeed, even if he were lost at the very point of victory. A prophecy was a prophecy, after all, and every one of them depended on it. Why else was it Johnny who would lead this venture, instead of Sean of Sevenwaters, or a chieftain of the Uí Néill, or indeed Bran of Harrowfield, who seemed the kind of man who had never lost a fight in his life? Why not that wealthy and influential leader, Eamonn of Glencarnagh? But this would be no ordinary campaign, no mere territorial dispute, swiftly settled. It was an old struggle, steeped in mystery, heavy with symbolism. They had failed against the Britons in the past because they had not had Johnny. They could conquer only when the child was there to lead. Everyone knew that. Lose the child, and they would lose their heart and their hope.
Very well, then. I must appear to go along with my grandmother’s plan until the last moment. I would wear the amulet until the very end; that way she would believe me still her creature. Then, when it came to it, ins
tead of doing her will I must defy her; I must stand between her and Johnny, so he could win his victory and save the Islands. I supposed she would punish me. If she killed me, perhaps it was no more than I deserved, for the bad things I had done.
I went over it in my head, my quill poised motionless above the parchment as I focused my mind on how it must be. The battle would be on the Islands; the Islands were near to that very land of Norsemen and tailless cats. A long journey. A long way from Kerry and from O’Flaherty’s farm in Ceann na Mara. So much the better. Ships must travel there. There must surely be some stopping place on the way, some safe harbor where the forces might join with those of Sean and Eamonn and the Uí Néill, and ready themselves for the final onslaught. Then there was a swim; a perilous swim from some place they called the Needle, to sink the Britons’ fleet. A masterstroke, if they managed it. All hinged on that. Then, I supposed, they would simply go across in their curraghs, and land, and slaughter the opposition. It was most certainly not the kind of venture on which men took a young female cousin. In order to be there, I would need another transformation. No moths. Not this time. No help, either; my Fomhóire friends appeared to have deserted me. Still, I could do it. I would choose another form for myself, and I would accompany the Chief’s mission, and then…and then I would have to change back again, and for a time I would be too weak to use the craft. That was the big flaw in my plan. I had no idea whatever how long such a battle might last; how well armed the Britons, how difficult the terrain, what effect the loss of their fleet might have on the enemy’s resolve. I did not know how long my grandmother would be prepared to watch, and wait for me to act. I would need to change back and then hide myself until I regained my strength. Johnny could win his battle by himself, I could see that in his eyes. But at the end my grandmother would come, and he would need me; and without the craft I was nothing.
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