Unable to contain my rage, I left for the sparring pit.
There was nobody there except Alpin, the cocky son of a stablehand who always hung around, watching the older boys fight. I grabbed two staves and threw one to him. He caught it and stared at the long wooden shaft as though I’d thrown him a live rat.
“Fight me,” I commanded.
He blinked, but did not back away.
“Fight me!” I roared.
My voice drew others to the pit. Boys I had fought and bested, a few who could hold their own for a time.
“Just run at him,” one of the lads shouted.
“Try to take his legs out,” another suggested. “He can’t hit as well on his back.”
Spurred on by their encouragement, Alpin tried to spin the stick in his hand but dropped it. Laughter rippled round the arena as he bent to pick it up. Looking a little less confident, but eager to prove his worth, he pointed the stick at my chest and ran.
I sidestepped and beat him on the buttocks as he sailed past.
After he picked himself up, he angled the stick once again towards me, but instead of running he tiptoed closer, testing the distance between us.
I played with him for a while, tapping his stick away with my own as though we were performing a dance. Tap, tap, tap, step, tap, tap, tap. Eventually, I lost patience. I swiped my stave below his and sent it twenty feet into the air. We both ducked for cover as it landed.
Once again, Alpin bent to retrieve his stick to the sound of laughter.
“Fucking fight me,” I screamed.
His lips pressed together in concentration. He came close again, both hands clutching the centre of the stave, stabbing the ends towards me, right, left, right, left. We engaged and he blocked well. Then, in a moment of luck or confidence, he swiped that stick gently below mine and caught me above my hip. I hardly felt it connect, yet in his surprise at having hit me, he took a step back.
I spun my weapon and retaliated with a blow to his shoulder. Only, he moved the wrong way.
Wood connected with bone. A smatter of bright red blemished the earth and my bare chest.
Alpin fell to the floor, his stick rolling away from him.
The crowd’s silence was absolute, perforated by Alpin’s squeals as he held his hands to his broken face.
“Help him,” I whispered, the fire of battle extinguished by my brutal act. “Don’t stand there, help him!”
As two of the onlookers came to carry him away, I looked up and caught my sister’s face among the spectators. She shook her head and moved away, her look of disappointment bruising worse than any blow.
Sorcha
“I am worried about my brother,” Fionnuala confided in me not long after the incident with the stablehand’s boy. “He is not happy, and his unhappiness acts upon him like poison, for no one can draw it out.”
“He does not talk to you?”
She gave one of her looks which told me I should know better.
“Sorcha, he has not spoken to me in so long. The day our mother sailed away from our shores, I often think she took his tongue with her. He used to be such a talkative child.”
“I remember well.”
“Yet this last year he has become worse, I swear.”
“He is a young stag. All boys go through it. Their minds are still those of children, yet their bodies grow strong like men. They test themselves, they make mistakes, they yearn for some imagined freedom they later relinquish for love or wealth.”
“How long does it last?”
“As long as it needs to.”
“What if he truly harms someone before then? What if he harms himself?”
“I don’t think you need worry on that score. What he did was brutish, but your brother is not a brutish man. He knew what he did was wrong straight away. He apologised to the boy and to his family. He made sure he had the best care and even picked the herbs for the healer himself. Alpin’s nose will heal, and so will your brother’s pride, given time.”
“I heard my father shouting at him from across the Blue Lake. ‘Men do not attack young boys,’ he said. ‘Is this what it means to be Fianna?’ What do you think he meant by that?”
“Your brother has a close friend who is of the Fianna.”
“Yes, but to be Fianna? Do you think that is what my brother desires?”
“I do not know,” I said, stroking her hair to sooth her. “That is a question you will have to ask him.”
My conversation with Fionnuala left me uneasy. She and Aodh had always had each other. Long before the twins were old enough to talk, and all those years their father shut himself away in his grief, they had always been together.
It hurt my heart to see such discord between them.
Without really thinking where my feet were taking me, I found myself on the path to Mother Moira’s. I did not particularly care for the woman, for I knew she performed spells the druids frowned upon. Old Fomorian magic they sometimes called it, conversing with the low spirits of the land rather than the high gods of light and wisdom. Her own history was unknown, for she was older than almost anyone living, except the Danann lords, who paid her scant attention.
I did not like her house, either. We all need furs to keep us warm over the winter nights, but Moira’s hut was a shrine to death. She kept the heads of boar and stag mounted on spikes, dead birds spread at her gate, their little wings pinned to the posts. There was always the scent of raw meat about that place, which would not leave you until you washed out your clothes.
Why I found myself there is a matter for the gods, but when I arrived I discovered the gate open and her broomstick resting with its brush upended, so I entered.
“Sorcha Shadowfingers,” her voice greeted me before she even turned. “What a pleasure to see you here.”
I seated myself on the floor by her fire and waited. After a moment she came to join me, passing a clay cup of mint tea and a plate of flower petals.
“Fresh, these are,” she told me. “Picked from the woods this morning. Plump with summer’s promise.” I nodded and took one to my lips. It was bitter and caused my mouth to fill with saliva. Perhaps her own tongue was too aged to taste that they were so unpleasant. “What may I do for you today?”
“I would like you to read for me. For those I love.”
“For the children of Lir?” she asked, a cunning smile twisting her gnarled lips.
“Yes. For Fionnuala and Aodh, and for the twins.”
“You are worried?”
“I would like to know whether I should be.”
Reaching into her cloak she drew two pouches, one green and one red. She passed the red one to me.
From the green one she drew a handful of delicate arrowheads formed from the finest slivers of a stag’s antler, etched with black symbols that meant nothing to me.
She cast the arrowheads on the floor between us. Some landed with the patterns face-up, others down, their translucent surface glinting like the melted sand you find after a lightning strike.
“Now you throw,” she explained.
The red pouch contained ten pig knuckles, different sizes and shapes. I held them in my hands, breathed upon them, and cast them over the arrowheads.
Moira was silent for a while, her eyes glazed as though gazing upon wild horses halfway across the valley. I took the cup to my lips, hoping the scent of mint might drown out the pungent stench of the skins on her walls.
“You fear that the children are growing apart? That the years will reduce their love for one another?”
“I do,” I replied, uncomfortable that she knew this without my saying. “What do your runes say?”
“That you must not worry,” she smiled. “The children of Lir are simply growing older, but their hearts will remain young until the day they die. Soon they will reconcile their differences. They will each hold to health and reason for the rest of their days. They shall outlive us all.”
Relief washed through me. I took a long sip of tea an
d sighed.
“Thank you,” I told her. “But what of Aodh? I know he has dreams of joining the Fianna.”
“Do not worry, my dear. Those dreams will not come to pass. He will remain with his brothers and sister, and shall never know the heat of battle.”
I reached out and held her hand in mine, grateful for her assurance.
“May I ask one more question?”
“Of course. I am here to offer guidance, my dear.”
“What of Aoife? Will Lir father children on her?”
A grin spread across her face, with something of the stoat about it. I removed my hand to take another sip of tea, for it unsettled me.
“Aoife shall bare no child by Lir. The twins are the last of his kind.”
“Will Aoife be content with that?”
“Aoife will find her place in this world.”
Aoife
My husband’s hair cascaded over the pillow like a dark waterfall as he slept. Here and there a strand of silver caught the light from the lamps, reminding me of the difference in our age, yet his face was free of concern and his skin taught as a child’s. These past moons since our marriage he appeared to grow younger.
I kissed him lightly on his brow as I stole a single hair from his head and wound it about a gold ring on my little finger. That afternoon I went to the store huts to fetch a cup of the whitest oats, which I mixed with salt and water. I added the strand of hair and stirred it with the tiny spoon the crone had gifted me, patting it into a cake and baking it in a clay pot suspended in a vat of boiling water. It was ready by sun-down. I poured myself a cup of wine and caught a moth above the door. Placing my hand over the cup, I held it there until I could no longer feel it fluttering against my skin. When I looked, it had drowned.
I chewed and swallowed the cake, catching the crumbs on my finger until every last one was gone. Then I drank down the wine, moth and all, and said a silent prayer to Bridey.
Those days whilst the moon continued to wax were interminable. Walking did not ease my restlessness and conversation could not distract me. The only entertainment I found was in visiting the crannóg, for Aodh was in disgrace and grateful for any company.
“Your father sent me to ask whether you have anything to tell him,” I lied, entering late of an evening whilst the other children were away at the fort.
“I have told him I’m sorry a hundred times, what more would he have me say?”
I walked about the room, trailing my fingers across its woven rugs and standing by the back door to look upon the lake. The stars reflected in the water like a cloth of infinite light.
“The boy was weak, and you are a warrior. He should not have taken up a stave against you.”
Aodh gave a bitter laugh. “That is your opinion, not my father’s.”
“Yes, it is my opinion,” I said, turning to him. “You cannot change what you are, and the boy should have been smart enough to know that.”
“I am not an oaf,” he replied, pulling himself up to look at me. “My father is right, men do not fight little boys. What I did was wrong, and I am sorry for it.”
“It was an accident. From what I hear, the boy misjudged his step.”
“Had I been thinking, I could have stayed my stick before it hit him.”
“Men do not think in battle, they act on instinct or they die.”
He smiled at that, as though he understood me.
“I did not know you were a warrior,” he said, lying back down.
I went to sit beside him on the floor.
“You forget where I come from.”
“Surely you were too young to remember that.”
“When someone takes your home, when they murder your father and lay claim to your mother, that is not something anyone forgets.”
He stared up at me, thoughtful. “Has he sent you to make me feel better?”
“I sent myself.”
“Why do you look at me like that?” he asked.
“How do I look at you?”
“The way you looked at me that day by the lake.”
I lowered my eyes, tracing my finger along the edge of the reed mat.
“You are a handsome man,” I said quietly. “A woman can no more hide her instincts than a warrior.”
“You are my father’s wife. My mother’s sister.”
“And I mean nothing by it.”
He raised up again, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“What would you have me do, kiss you?”
“If it please you.”
He considered me for a moment. Slowly, his mouth came towards mine until I could feel his breath against my lips.
He pulled back, laughing.
“You’re beautiful, I’ll give you that, but wicked.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to spit, for it was the second time he had denied me. Although, to me, it was simply a game, some small amusement to pass the time, I was not used to losing such wagers.
Smiling, I pressed my finger to the end of his nose and left him to his loneliness. Five days later, the moon shone full. In the depths of the night I slid from our bed and pulled a skirt and cloak over my tunic. I fastened the cloak with a belt and slid a knife into it, and another into the strap of my boot. I had walked many times in the valley by myself, but at night it became dangerous. Not so much for the wanderers who roamed there, but for the wolves and the wild beasts.
I slipped past the sleeping guards and made my way down the hill, past the crannóg and across the grassland to Anamcha’s tree. I followed the trail to Bear Rock and down from there to the Black Vale. The Widow’s Cave was a large shadow high in the rocks above a sacred spring. There was a rowan tree beside the spring, its branches drooped with the weight of rags and necklaces tied about. Some of the jewels were fine and expensive, though not a soul would think to steal them. Beneath the surface of the water, the mud shimmered silver with coins.
The light of the moon was so bright that I had not brought a torch, yet as I approached the foot of the climb, the shadow of the cliff blotted out her light and I found it hard to see. At first, I thought midges were rising from the soft soil beside the spring. I tried to swipe them away with my hand, but there were more than I could count.
The air was much cooler all of a sudden, causing my skin to prickle as the hairs on my arms rose. As I pulled my cloak tighter, I realised it was snowing. The flies I had been trying to brush away were flakes of snow. Confused, I looked behind me, out across the valley. It was covered in a fine dusting of powder, the stream below frosted over like a seam of quartz.
For a moment I was too afraid to move. I clung to the side of the cliff, unable to trust my own eyes. Above, I heard a crow cry. It caused me to look up, and I saw a dim glow from the entrance to the cave.
When I reached there, a fire burned brightly in the centre, sparks showering towards the ceiling each time the wood shifted. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. As they did, I realised the walls of the cave were home to a hundred black birds, their beady eyes watching me, their shiny talons gripping the rock as though they had grown out of it.
I was afraid then. What had possessed me to come to this place of magic alone at night? Was anything worth the danger of this place?
A gust of wind rose beyond the mouth of the cave, howling across its jagged surface and catching at the edge of my cloak. I took another step inside, closer to the fire. Its light seemed the only safety.
“Hello?” I called, my voice swallowed in that great cavern.
Only crows answered.
Before my eyes the flames began to burn blue, casting eerie shadows about the walls. The crows’ beaks snapped as they spread their wings and took flight, blinding me with a thousand beating wings. When I lowered my hands to look again, a falling storm of feathers and sparks swirled about me. In their midst a woman stood, unlike any I had seen before.
She was as tall as a tree and white as mist. Her red hair hung long, to her feet, raven feathers and carved twigs caught i
n its curls. Her eyes shone greener than the grasslands, as though lit by a flame from within. Her cloak of fawnskin was studded with wolf fangs and hemmed in dried blood. That same, sweet smell of sage, so powerful it was hard to breathe.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“She whose name must never be spoken,” came a voice as cold as ice.
“The Phantom Queen?”
Her blood-red lips parted, displaying teeth sharp as pins.
I tried to back away, yet turning I found the mouth of the cave to be closed, a wall of sheer rock my prison door.
“You have travelled so far to find me,” she said. “Why turn back now?”
“Please, don’t hurt me,” I pleaded, reaching for the dagger at my belt.
I let go with a shriek of pain, for the bone was so cold it burned.
“You would raise your blade to me, Aoife of Aran? I, who would grant you that which you most desire?”
“Forgive me, Great Queen.” I bent low to the ground, for I knew myself to be at her mercy.
She laughed, that harsh, terrible sound echoing between the rocks until I covered my ears to block it out.
“Rise,” she commanded. “It does not become a queen to kneel in the dirt. Stand before me, that we might meet as equals.”
As I rose, I saw within the sapphire flames a shape take form. It was as long as my forearm, twisted by the smoke into those endless shapes of the Ovates that tell of the everlasting relationship between life, death and rebirth. At its head formed a loop, through which I could see the goddess’s eyes upon me, looking to the very core of my want.
“Reach in and take it,” she smiled.
Whilst half my mind protested that the heat of the flames would strip me bare, the other was unable to resist. My hands plunged deep within the fire to pull the object forth. As I did, its form became solid, the glowing heat of it hardening to the white wood of the holly tree. I saw that the knots were formed of a coiled serpent, its parted jaws meeting again to form the loop at the top.
The Children of Lir Page 13