Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “It’s his own fault,” I said in a whisper.

  She nodded. “Perhaps you are right. These men, they have a habit of putting themselves into the tale, where they’ve no right to be, and making themselves a part of it. It is pointless, maybe, for me to try to change the course of things, but I have never been able to—just to sit back and let it unfold, as my uncle Conor usually advises. It seems to me one must seize hold, and move ahead, and make the tale bright and true, if one can. Darragh does so; he has great strength of will.”

  “He has no understanding of this,” I said flatly.

  “And you do?” Her voice was very quiet. It sounded almost as if she were sorry for me.

  “At least,” I whispered, “at least I know what must be done.”

  “And you will be there at the end,” Liadan said in a tone that frightened me; a tone that spoke some sort of incontrovertible truth. “How, I cannot imagine, but Johnny will be there, and you will be there. I’ve seen it.”

  I turned cold all over. “What did you see? What of Darragh?”

  “I do not tell of these things. It is too easy to misunderstand.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything? Anything at all?”

  “My son faced death. You wept. You wept as one weeps who has cast away her only treasure. Never have I seen such grief.”

  I swallowed. “I’ve seen that part too. If it’s to come, it will come, I suppose.”

  Liadan nodded. “You should ask Coll to take you down to the north point some time,” she said in quite a different tone. Our conversation was over, and I had lost my last chance to send Darragh away safe. “The season’s turning; there will be clear days. You need time away from your tasks, fresh air and exercise. It’ll do you good.” She sounded quite ordinary, like someone’s mother. Somewhere beneath the jumble of fears that crowded my mind, I thought that it might be quite good to have a mother who fussed about whether you were getting fresh air and exercise. Perhaps, if my mother had not died, she would have been like that. Perhaps, if the Chief was right, she had never meant to leave us; maybe she had loved us and had hopes of a future. One day, if I were granted time, I would find out the truth about her death. I owed that to her. Meanwhile I would remember her, and I would remember Liadan’s words. I imagine he feels great pride in you, my dear. I would keep these things in my heart, and I would make the tale as bright and true as I could; and never mind the tears. There was simply nothing else to be done.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over and over they practiced the thing with the boat in the current and the swimmers. And now Darragh was among them as they slipped over the side of the curragh and into the freezing grip of the tide. They did it by day. They did it by night, with lanterns on the prow. They took to doing it with the masks over their faces, and dark clothing close-fitting from neck to wrist to ankle, so that they did indeed resemble creatures of the ocean, some strange children of Manannán himself. They did it by moonlight and left the lanterns behind; I heard them as they came up the steps from the cove afterward, laughing. It seemed to me they were quite fearless, a band of comrades bound together by their unshakable belief in themselves and in each other. It worried me that Darragh had so soon become one of them. And it was not only my fear for his safety that gave me sleepless nights. It was something I was ashamed to admit even to myself. He was mine, and I did not want to share him. I did not want him to change, and become hard-jawed and ruthless like the rest of these warriors. Sometimes, it had only been the little image of Darragh, riding quietly along some sunlit pathway between rowans on his lovely white pony, and smiling his crooked smile, that had kept me going at all. Once that was gone, what had I left?

  Then Coll fell sick. One day he had a slight headache, nothing much, just enough to make him grumble a little more than usual over his work. The next day he had a fever and could not get out of his bed. I did not go to see him. I stayed at my table, busy with quill and ink, recording the medicinal uses of a herb named scrophularia, commonly known as figwort. I spoke to nobody.

  Liadan was not present at supper, and neither was Gull. The Chief was very quiet, but that was nothing unusual. Johnny wasn’t saying much either, and I thought he was watching me.

  “Boy’s been taken real bad,” Biddy muttered to me. “Hot as a blacksmith’s fire, and babbling nonsense.”

  I retired early to my sleeping hut, thinking, But for me this child would be well. This is my fault. How could I forget? How could I let myself make another friend? How could I be foolish enough to believe Grandmother would let me be, even for a moment? I had only just lit the lamp when they sent for me. In the infirmary they were waiting, Liadan sitting by her son’s bedside as he lay sweating and mumbling and turning his small head restlessly from side to side, and both the Chief and Johnny standing grim-faced and silent behind her.

  I am a, sorcerer’s daughter, I reminded myself as I stepped forward to face them. It didn’t seem to help much.

  “I’m sorry Coll is sick,” I said as calmly as I could. “I hope it is only a spring chill, and that he’ll be better soon.” I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them still.

  “Sit down, Fainne.” Liadan’s voice had lost the warmth of our last encounter. When I had seated myself on the other side of the boy’s bed as indicated, I saw that her eyes were red and swollen, and her mouth tight. The Chief’s expression was alarmingly fierce, Johnny’s cautious, as if he were weighing a dilemma.

  “I suppose you know why we have called you here,” said Liadan as she wrung out a small cloth and used it to sponge Coll’s burning brow.

  “Perhaps you had best tell me.” I managed to keep my voice under control, despite my thumping heart.

  It was the Chief who spoke then, in a very soft voice, a voice designed to put fear into men. “My wife tells me such a fever, burning so hot in so short a time, is unlikely to have come about without some—intervention.” There was a question in his tone, but I did not reply. “If my son dies, those responsible will not escape punishment.”

  “Coll was well yesterday,” Liadan said, and now her voice shook. “He was running around and getting in everyone’s way and he was quite well. There is no reason for him to be stricken thus. This fever does not respond as it should to the herbal drafts; he burns as if gripped in a fire-dragon’s jaws. If this does not break soon, I do not know if he can withstand it. Fainne, have you done this?”

  I flinched. Although I had been expecting blame, I had not thought she would confront me so directly.

  “No, Aunt Liadan.” Was it my imagination, or did my voice sound less than certain? Indeed, I had not done it; I had laid no spell on the child, nor would I ever have considered such a thing, even if Grandmother had bid me; even if she had threatened direst punishment. Coll was only little. I would never have hurt Coll. But I was guilty all the same. If not for me, my grandmother would never have noticed the lad. She would never have taken it into her head to hurt him. This was as much my doing as if I had indeed used the craft.

  “I have not used any magic since I came to Inis Eala,” I said as steadily as I could. “It’s the truth. I would not hurt Coll. He’s my friend.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a greater test of will?” asked Johnny carefully. “A demonstration of strength? To hurt a friend, rather than a foe?”

  I stared at him. “There’s nothing wrong with my will,” I whispered, shocked that he came so close to the truth. “I’ve no need to demonstrate it by hurting children.” And then I felt a cold horror come over me, because of course there was Maeve, and the fire. Hurting children was something a sorceress could do with no hesitation at all; and I was a sorceress. I put my head in my hands, so they could not see my face.

  “Look at us, Fainne.”

  The Chief must be obeyed. I looked up. It was like facing a brithem who has already decided you are guilty, without hearing the evidence. And it hurt. I did not want to be judged thus by these good people; my own people.

  “I did not do this,”
I said in a small voice, rising to my feet. “That is the truth. Maybe—maybe it is just a spring fever. Maybe Coll will be better soon. I would help nurse him, if you wish. I would—”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near my son.” Liadan’s voice was harsh with feeling. “I saw what happened at Sevenwaters; I did not want to believe you responsible, but I know you can make fire when you choose. I know Ciarán allowed his mother to—to influence you. No wonder Eamonn was unformed clay in your hands. No wonder your young man is so desperate to get you away. He recognizes the evil that you can do.”

  Her words turned me cold with anguish. Not so long ago, I had heard her speak with affection, as a mother would. So soon, my grandmother had turned that to bitter enmity.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said again, feeling my head swim and my eyes tingle with tears that could not be shed. “That’s the truth! I swear it!”

  “You’d best go to your quarters, until we see what’s to be done.” The Chief spoke calmly, but I had seen the look in his eyes as he glanced at his small son. “Perhaps, after all, we must allow Darragh to take you home. You cannot remain among us, after this.”

  “But you’ve no proof! It’s not fair! You can’t send me away, you can’t! Johnny? Surely you don’t believe I would do such a thing?”

  Johnny looked at me with a strange little smile, but he said nothing at all. The goddess aid me, it was all collapsing around me, every bit of it. A total failure; could my grandmother’s wrath be far behind? “Oh, please,” I breathed. “Oh, please. I swear I had no part in this. I didn’t do it this time.”

  There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Liadan said, “What do you mean, this time?”

  I made some sort of sound, halfway between a sob and a scream, and then I was bolting for the doorway, and I was out in the night, in the dark, and I was running, running as fast as my limping foot would carry me, away from the feverish child and the judging eyes of my family, away from the settlement of good folk with one bright purpose and one straight path before them, away from my friend who was caught up in something he could never be part of, away across the sheep fields and over the wall and beyond. I ran until my head throbbed and my heart pounded and my breath came in great agonizing gasps. The moon lit my path; my boots crunched on small stones and slid on great, wet rocks and sank in patches of soft sand. I ran up little hills and crashed down small valleys, I blundered into bushes and came mind-numbingly close to launching myself off a cliff into white water far below. An accident; still, as I teetered there I thought that would be one way out. But I fought for my balance and regained it. That was a weakling’s solution, and, frightened and hurt and confused as I was, I would not take it. There was one good thing I could do, and whatever stood in my way I was going to do it. I would make my father proud of me, despite all.

  I ran on. Under the spring moon the landscape took on a silver shine, glittering rocks, pearly sand, gleaming bushes as if I fled through some realm beyond the mortal one. And there were strange sounds: above the roaring of the ocean came low, sad cries, like those of some great creature of the deep, mournfully singing of something lost, some treasure never to be regained. There was an anguish in it, a sorrow that was beyond comforting.

  I ran as far as I could go, all the way to the rocky headland at the north of the island. I never looked behind me for folk following with lanterns or torches. What would they care if I fell off a cliff and broke my neck? Why would they bother if I blundered into the sea and let the inky waters swallow me? They would think themselves well rid of me. Darragh was wrong about family, and Liadan was wrong about love. Both brought nothing but unnecessary complications. I was better off with neither.

  Now I was at the rock face, and there was an entrance, a little tunnel with a sandy floor, perhaps leading to a place of shelter, and it was quite like home. Still panting hard, with my hair tumbled over my eyes and both hands stretched out in front of me to find the way, I stepped inside. I thought I would go in far enough to be out of the wind, and then I would curl myself up into a ball, and shut my eyes tight, and pretend, until morning, that there was nobody else in the world. No Coll, no Liadan, no Johnny, no Darragh. Especially, no Grandmother. I would lie down on the sand and will them all away until the sun rose. Then I would get up and go back, and be strong again.

  I edged forward in the dark, fingers touching the rock walls on either side, feet moving cautiously. I made no sound. Some way in, the tunnel seemed to open out; I could see little, but there was a movement of air and a sense of space, and a little ripple of water which was not the sea. I glimpsed something white ahead of me amid the shadows, like a fold of cloth, or a swathe of feathers. I reached out my hand in front of me and instead of hard rock or empty space, my fingers touched something that was soft and warm and unmistakably alive. I gave a yelp of fright, stepped back, trod on my gown and sat down painfully on the ground. There was an answering exclamation of alarm in the darkness, and a sound of soft footsteps retreating. I sat there, working on my breathing. In, out. Calm. Discipline. Some way off light flared, and then there was the steady glow of a lantern coming closer. I got slowly to my feet, staring at the man who bore it, and blinking in disbelief. He stared back at me. No doubt the expression of shock on his pale features mirrored my own. But it was not the sudden fright of the encounter that made my heart thump now. It was not the similarity this man bore to my uncle Sean, and to Liadan, with his long pale face and shock of wild dark hair, his slender, upright form and neat, clever features. Nor was it his ragged robe, his tattered cloak, his unshod feet that shocked me. It was the wing he bore in place of his left arm; a great shining thing, a gleaming swath of gold and pink and cream in the lantern light. My grandmother had said, You’ll need to watch out for that fellow with the swan’s wing.

  “You ran away,” the man observed as he stood there looking at me.

  “Who are you?” I managed, still somewhat short of breath. His voice was very odd; unaccented, but still with the hesitancy of one who speaks a tongue not his own.

  “It seems my tale has not yet spread as far as Kerry,” he observed dryly. “Come. You’ve run a long way. You’ll want to rest, and maybe drink something. I don’t have a fire here, but I can provide fresh water and a place to sit in comfort. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

  “It’s not those sort of hurts that are the problem,” I said grimly, following him as he walked ahead into the cave. There seemed no alternative, really. I could hardly sit down and refuse to budge.

  We reached a place where there were rock shelves against the cavern walls, and a still pool gleaming before us. Above it the chamber was open to the sky; in the dark waters stars gleamed remote and mysterious. The man set his lantern down and fetched a little cup of dark metal. He bent and filled it from the pool, and I heard him mutter words, familiar words. He passed me the cup with his right hand. I was trying not to stare at the feathers, only part-concealed by the ancient, raggedy cloak.

  “Thank you,” I said, and drank, feeling the cold and purity of his offering flow into my being. My breathing slowed; I became calm. “You honor the earth as you take from her,” I observed.

  “I am no druid, child. My mother taught us early to respect that which gives us life. It is a lesson one does not forget.”

  “Us?” I delved into my memory. I knew the story, of course; but even though it was so close to home, perhaps I had not quite believed it. I should have done. This creature, part man, part swan, was of my grandmother’s making. “You, and Conor, and your other brothers, you mean?”

  He inclined his head. “And my sister. Why have you come here?”

  “By accident. I did not know there was anyone here. They never told me. I wanted—I just wanted a hiding place. Just for a bit.”

  “You have found one, then. Won’t they come looking for you?”

  “They don’t care,” I said miserably, so enmeshed in my woes I hardly thought how odd it was to be speaking thus to a stranger. “They said I
did something bad, and I didn’t, but they wouldn’t believe me. Nobody cares where I am.”

  “Still,” said the ragged man, “we’d best perhaps let them know. Then you can stay here undisturbed until you have regained yourself.”

  “Let them know?” I stared at him blankly. “How?” And then I saw his eyes; deep, colorless eyes like light on still water, eyes that were the image of my cousin Sibeal’s. There was no need for him to answer.

  For a time I sat there on the rocks, and sipped the water, and watched the shadows dance and sway around the cavern in the lantern light. The pool was very still now; the faint rippling I had heard before was quite gone. It was a place of great calm; of immense silence. It was like the little cave below the Honeycomb; a place of the margins. I breathed slower still; the throbbing in my head subsided.

  “This is a place where secrets are safe,” said the man in a soft voice. “It is protected by forces older and stronger than time. I am surprised they did not send you to me earlier, for I see you are deeply troubled.”

  “What are you offering? Good advice? A brisk talking to? I’ve a friend who’s all too ready to offer both, and won’t understand I don’t need them. I go my own way. Why should I tell you anything?”

  He waited before replying.

  “I do not offer advice. Sometimes I see things, and sometimes I speak of them. Sometimes I have visitors, and they talk to me. Liadan’s sons come here. She herself does not need to come.”

  “Because you talk mind to mind?”

  “You do not share that gift? That surprises me.”

  I frowned. “Why would it surprise you? You seem to know who I am. Doesn’t the Sight come from your Fomhóire ancestry? My mother had no such gifts, and even my father has not that particular ability. Our skill is limited; it was decreed thus by the Túatha Dé, long ago.”