A flock of birds flies over, so high I cannot tell what kind they are. True steps out from the waterfall. His arms are stretched wide, his palms upward as if to catch the flow. As he comes down over the rocks toward the pool, I catch my breath. There are no wounds on his body. He is healed. I want to weep, to laugh, to sing a song of triumph. Instead, I kneel and bow my head. Something remarkable has been wrought here today, something beyond the understanding of the cleverest of bards, the most scholarly of druids. My friend is well, and I have seen an ancient power such as I had believed long gone from this green land. The only true response is deep silence. By my side Conmael, too, is kneeling.
Someone speaks. Not True, not Conmael, but a far deeper voice, surely that of the elder. I cannot look; this, surely, is for True alone.
“You are healed, friend, and we wish you well on your journey. Our gift is powerful. It is rarely bestowed. But you are the first of our own kind we have seen in many years and we know you to be wise and good.”
“Thank you,” says True, and his little ones chorus “Thank you!” in their high voices. How they hung on under the fearsome pelting of that water I do not know, but it seems they, too, are healed.
“There will be a price.” The old one’s tone is measured, calm. “Not for you, friend, and not in return for your healing. We are not merchants; we are guardians. But when you leave the Long Path, your friend will be asked for a payment. That is for passage along the path and out into your own realm.”
“I understand,” I say, still maintaining my bowed pose. It seems important not to look up.
“Good,” comes the deep response. “Walk out past the Cave of Dreams. It grows late; you may stay in shelter there until morning. Those who sleep in that place are visited only by good dreams.”
“Thank you,” says True. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
Then there is silence. I hear Conmael rising to his feet; I copy him, opening my eyes. The elder is still visible within the cliff face, and all around the falls I can see others: here a strong arm, here a pair of eyes fringed with ferns, there the hint of a jaw, a shoulder, a great bare foot. True’s people. His ancestors. How did he come to be with Eirne’s folk? Are there more of his kind out there somewhere in the Otherworld? Those are not my questions to ask.
“I will accompany you to that cave,” says Conmael quietly. “Are you ready to go, True?”
True turns around slowly. He nods but does not speak. His eyes are bright with wonder.
The Cave of Dreams is floored with soft earth. We settle there, the three of us, for Conmael has promised to take us to the spot where I summoned him, then set us safely on the path back toward the portal. We do not make a fire; shadowy trees stand tall beyond the cave mouth, and they are alive with birds returning to their roosts for the night. We do not want to frighten them.
True is very quiet. I think he is exhausted. His mind must be full to bursting with what he has seen. He closes his eyes and is soon asleep, lying against the cave wall. I sit awhile with Conmael, thinking of all the questions I want to ask him and unable to get even one of them out. Without him we would not have reached that place and my friend would not have been healed. What happened was remarkable. It was wonderful, and I am happy for True. At the same time I am full of misgivings. There is Eirne, who now seems to question my every decision. There are her people, who are also my people, needing my protection. And there are the Crow Folk, a puzzle, a problem, a threat. I have fought them. I have killed them. I have seen the vile work they can do; I know them to be prone to acts of unpredictable ferocity. And yet, and yet . . .
“You’re quiet,” says Conmael. “What is troubling you?”
“Questions of right and wrong. An enemy I believe might become less hostile, if only I could find a way to talk with them. If only I knew their story.”
“You speak of the so-called Crow Folk?”
I tell him something of my history with them. He seems to know a fair amount about my life without the need for more information. That is disconcerting. “We saved a young one whose parent had been cruelly killed,” I tell him. “That was how True got his injuries. I had the fledgling in safe confinement, with food and water, and it was eating well, though still distressed. I needed a little time to work out what I should do next. It was night. I fell asleep, and when I woke someone had entered my house and killed the creature. I do not know who it was; only that it must have been one of Eirne’s folk. But Eirne’s folk do not tell lies. They do not scheme and play power games as human folk do.”
Conmael takes his time in replying. “The Otherworld has more than its share of lies and games, Brocc,” he says. “You are a bard. Are not the old tales full of tricksters, jealous lovers, betrayals, feuds, and wars? Even clurichauns have wars, often quite fiercely fought. The killing of your creature—might not that have come about because of fear? Folk want to protect their own. If that leads to the death of the innocent, some would say that is simply the way of the world.”
“Then the world should be better. Gentler. More compassionate.”
“The world needs its bards and its philosophers. It also needs its warriors, its heroes, its bold voyagers. Like your sister.”
This silences me. It fills me with conflicting feelings: pride that he holds Liobhan high in his esteem; astonishment that he can know her so well when he has never met her; disquiet that he watches over us so closely. Sadness for opportunities lost. A small twinge of jealousy.
“Do you regret your choice?” Conmael asks quietly. “To quit the world in which you grew to manhood and cross over into the world in which you were born? If you had the opportunity, would you go back?”
“I have a wife. I have folk who depend on me. I cannot go back.”
“Some men would. But you, I think, must act in keeping with that world you described. A world where justice and peace prevail.”
There’s a lump in my throat. “If we do not strive for that, we are less than we should be,” I say.
“You are a fine young man, Brocc,” Conmael says. “I wish you well. And I hope your wish to help your friend there does not cost you too dearly. Over that, I have no influence at all. I cannot go all the way to the portal with you.”
“I would not expect that. But I thank you again for answering my call for help.” I wish I knew about his life. Whether he lives alone or within a clan; what role he plays; whether there are others he has saved as infants and watched over from far away. My mother said he is a lord, here in the Otherworld. Lord Conmael of Underhill. But she was never sure if that was only a name he gave himself for a short time and a particular purpose, and I will not ask him. “I hope that we will meet again.”
“I, too, Brocc. We should sleep now. A hard bed. But the dreams will be good.”
* * *
* * *
Next day, Conmael leads us to the spot where he first appeared to us and bids us both farewell. He puts a hand on True’s shoulder and speaks kind words. He gives me a brief, hard embrace. “Keep to your straight path, my boy,” he says. “There is darkness all about, in this world and the other. Your singing is remarkable. It is a powerful weapon for good. May your light shine bright, Brocc.”
“Farewell.” I fail to keep my voice steady. “Thank you again. I wish you a safe journey.”
And he is gone, vanishing under the trees as swiftly as a cloud shadow.
True is well and strong again, his old self. His small folk ride on his head in the soft moss and exchange excited squeaks when they see a pair of martens, a patch of bluebells, a cobweb catching the light. My mood brightens as we go. Soon we will be home, and perhaps Eirne will be feeling better. Maybe she will throw her arms around me, smiling. I will feel her soft body pressed against mine, and smell the sweet scent of her, and stroke her dark hair, so silken and shining. Perhaps she will welcome me back to her bed and to her heart.
We walk by day and camp by night, as before, but we are much quicker now, and in only three days we reach the lakeshore. No need to call for the ferryman. His boat is drawn up in readiness, and the wee man in green waits beside it. I have more verses ready to add to the song about the best ferryman in the land. I suspect that will not be enough.
“Ferry you over, friends?”
True takes a step forward, but I say, “Wait. Ferryman, what is the price?”
“For him”—the wee man jerks his head toward my companion—“the price is as agreed: three more verses to end the song. Get on, big fellow.”
I make to speak, then choke back the words. True must cross safely first; right now, that must be my priority.
True steps onto the raft-like boat and seats himself. The ferryman digs his pole in and they’re off to the far side of the lake. I’m shivering now; my gut clenches in unease. True disembarks. The ferry returns. The wee man holds it out on the water, two long strides from dry land.
I sing the three verses. In them, the man in green deals with a troublesome passenger who causes the vessel to capsize and tumble all on board into the water. Before they have time to drown, a magical fish appears and swallows them, only to vomit them up onto the shore a moment later, somewhat sickened by their experience but otherwise unharmed. A happy ending for all concerned, with a rousing refrain to finish.
The clurichaun is grinning; that is a good sign. But he does not bring the ferry in to shore. I have paid only for True’s safe passage.
“Coming across, bard?” he asks, brows up. The grin has become malign, with a display of many sharp teeth.
“First I would know the price, friend.”
“What do you love dearest in all the world? What is it you can’t do without? What is your most priceless treasure? What is your most powerful weapon?”
I am silent.
“What will you give me, bard? A finger off your harpist’s hand? That would look fine on my necklace, don’t you think? Shiny and white it would be in the moonlight, when the flesh is all rotted away.”
“No!” shouts True from across the water. “You can’t ask that!”
I signal to him: Quiet. He must stay safe or this venture will have been for nothing. If I do not survive this, or if I am trapped on the Long Path, he can still go home.
My heart is hammering. My skin is all cold sweat. Think, Brocc. Use your wits.
“You are wed, are you not, bard? Your firstborn child, then, to stay with me and keep me company, and to be ferryman after me.”
“I will not pay such a price. Passage across this lake is a matter of perhaps ten dips of the pole; it takes less time than it did to sing three verses of the song. The life of a child for that? It is a most uneven bargain.”
“Your singing voice, then.” His own voice has turned night-dark, iron-strong. If there was a playful note in it before, now it is entirely gone. The finger, the firstborn child, those were spoken in jest. But this is no joke.
In the space of three heartbeats, as my blood turns to ice, I consider my options. Jump in the water and swim across to True. No. I am still on the Long Path, and though he is so close, chances are I would swim and swim and never reach that shore. Wade two strides in, seize the ferryman, and wring his poxy neck. Or dunk him in the water, give him a good shake, and tell him not to be ridiculous. That’s what Liobhan would do, and he’d probably tip his hat to her and wish her a safe journey home. Say yes and lose my very soul. I can’t do it.
“Answer quickly, bard, or you will have no choice at all.”
“Brocc!” calls True, despite my warning. “Don’t do this!”
With an effort, I stave off blind panic and gather my wits. In the Otherworld, everything has its price. He has set the price too high. I have to haggle it down.
“That is extravagant, ferryman.” My voice comes out as a strangled croak. I clear my throat and continue. “Your assistance on our journey has been most welcome, but what you name is inappropriate for so short a passage. I offer you a more fitting payment. From today on, for one turning of the moon, I will give up my singing voice.”
For a moment he is completely silent. He has not expected me to fight back. Then he opens his mouth and roars with laughter, making the lake surface ripple and setting True’s small folk squeaking in fright. “Ten years,” the ferryman says, quick and sharp as if he’s an old hand at this sort of thing.
“Three turnings of the moon.” I can’t believe I’m doing this. My voice is my heart, it is my self, it is comfort and solace to my clan. It is our strongest weapon against the Crow Folk. Our only real weapon.
“A paltry offer, bard. Five years, no less.”
“Too long, ferryman. Too long for a tribe to go without music. Too long for them to miss the tune that lifts the spirits, the song that brings healing tears, the rallying march of courage. Two seasons, no more.”
“Three years.”
“Three seasons, then.”
“Two years, bard. My final offer.” The ferryman is enjoying himself; his eyes have a mischievous glint.
I want this to be over. I cannot bear it a moment longer. “One year,” I say. “One year without song. Please take me across the lake now.”
He poles the craft to shore. I step on. The boat crosses the lake in silence, and I step off on the far side, where True stands as solemn as if this were a deathbed.
“Farewell, bard,” says the wee man, and he does indeed take off his green hat and make a little bow in our direction. “Farewell, big fellow. I’ll be away now.”
I do not return the courtesy, though True gives the ferryman a nod. We turn and head for home. We walk in silence. There’s no need to try my singing voice. I know it is gone. A year. A whole year. What have I done?
25
DAU
A promise. She’s given me a promise. Foolish as I know it is to hope, I find myself doing just that.
The scratches on the wall change. Not in appearance but in meaning. I’m not counting the dark days until Liobhan’s departure, when I’m released from my earlier promise and can make an end of myself with whatever sharp implement first comes to hand. Now I’m counting the days until she takes me up into the forest and through that portal and maybe, just maybe, I open my eyes and see again. See Liobhan’s bright hair and her steadfast gaze and her smile full of courage and heart. See the pathway opening before me, once more full of possibilities.
A man does not so soon begin to believe in the uncanny. Not if he’s a man like me. But living at such close quarters with Liobhan, who finds hope even in the darkest places, seems to be brushing off on me, just a little. The stories are ridiculous. Clurichauns. Tiny staff-waving druids. Miracle cures. But I cannot dismiss them as I would once have done. I have heard Brocc sing to save our lives in battle, then sing to win another man a crown. Liobhan is right. If those things can happen, then perhaps, just perhaps, if a blind man tried hard enough, he might have his sight restored. I have done little to deserve such a gift, and Liobhan says all such favors must be paid for in some way. I wish I had been a kinder man. I wish I had been braver. I wish I had stood up for myself when my brothers tormented me. I wish I had made my case well enough to be believed.
I use the crutch. I thank Corb for taking the trouble to make it. It is remarkably comfortable, just the right height for me, and well crafted. I apologize to him for all the times I have cursed him and fought him and thrown things. I think he is embarrassed by this, for he says very little. Or is he troubled about something else? I am the last person he would want to confide in, I should think. But I am starting to wonder if there is something wrong. I choose a time when Liobhan is off doing her exercises—my ankle is mending, but I cannot join her yet—and Corb is clearing the ashes from the hearth.
“Corb? Could we go for a walk?”
I hear a clank as he drops the poker. He must have bee
n deep in thought. “I’ll just finish this,” Corb mumbles, and there’s more clanking.
“When you’re ready.”
Not long after this, we’re sitting on a low wall near the field where the horses are let out for exercise. It’s a sunny day. I like the warmth on my face.
“Anyone around?” I ask. With the visitors expected soon, the place is a hive of activity and it’s hard to have a private conversation. Corb says there are two grooms out with the horses but nobody close by. I’m not sure what to say next. Could be there’s nothing wrong at all.
Turns out I don’t need to ask. We haven’t been sitting here long when he says, “I heard something. Not sure if I should pass it on.”
“To me? Or to someone else?”
“To anyone. Could be only gossip. But I can’t help thinking about it.”
“Tell me, if you want.”
“It’s about Master Seanan. You may not like it.”
I wait. Corb is aware of the animosity between Seanan and me. He can’t imagine I would be upset, or even surprised, to hear something ill of my eldest brother.
“One of the lads from the kitchen heard him talking about the young lady, Lord Ross’s daughter. The one Master Seanan’s going to marry. What this lad heard was—it was vile, Master Dau. It was too shocking for me to repeat. About what he would do to her once they were wed; about how he would . . .” I can’t see Corb’s face, but I imagine it’s scarlet with embarrassment.
“How he would what, Corb? You’d better get it out. I doubt whatever it is will shock me. And call me Dau, please. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“That when he’d had her, lain with her, he’d share her around his men. Let them all have a turn. I suppose it was meant as a sort of joke—surely nobody would ever really do such a thing—but none of the folk in the kitchen laughed, they all just looked at him, and he got angry and lashed out, and a pot of hot soup got tipped over. One of the cooks was scalded all up his arm.” He falls silent for a while. “Dau, I know he’s your brother. But that was . . . it was just wrong. All of it was wrong.”
A Dance with Fate Page 24