“Put on a mask and the gloves. Take a stick from the wood basket, but keep it down by your side and don’t use it unless you have to.”
“I can’t sing with this thing on.” It’s not just that; the touch of the mask brings back the hideous feeling of that gag over my mouth. There’s nothing more terrifying than not knowing how long you’ll be able to go on breathing. “I’m not wearing it. What next?”
“True, pass me the vial.”
True has come in behind us. “Here,” he says, handing over the vial with its precious contents. I wish it could bring Corb back to life. But no magic has the power to restore the dead. “One drop each, Brocc. No more. We do not know what it will do to them.”
“Leave the way clear to the outside, so they can fly straight out once I’ve done it.” Brocc is next to the main cage entry, a wire hatch like the one I found myself tied to last night. “Your cloak, Liobhan. Put it over my head and spread it out wide. You and True hold it there while you sing, so the wire door is blocked. Keep the cloak up over me while I open the door and lean in; don’t take it away until I say so.”
Danu’s mercy! He may have a mask and gloves on, but there’s plenty of him exposed. Beaks and claws will go right through that soft leaf-colored cloth. But he does have a leather jerkin on over his shirt, and he’s wearing armguards, too. Of us all, he’s the one best dressed for a fight. “Start singing now,” he says. “Something calm and soothing. No sudden high notes.”
True and I do as we’re told with the cloak, lifting it to cover both Brocc and the whole of the wire door. As we do this, I think about the Crow Folk, their fishy stink, their wildness, their moods that are as changeable as a great ocean, and I sing a song about islands, seals, birds flying to roost in the nooks and crannies of a sea stack, storms casting a tangle of shells and seaweed onto a pebbly shore, waves crashing against stark cliffs. It’s not calm and soothing, but it feels right. There are no sudden high notes. For the chorus I sing a gentle wordless melody, a calm sea lapping on a sandy beach. True anchors my voice with a single deep tone, and his tiny passengers squeak along, their voices almost too high to be heard.
As we sing Brocc speaks quietly, gently, with great respect. “Drink this, friends. It will heal you. Then you can fly free, away from this place of pain and grief. My people have hurt you; they have tried to destroy you. But you are proud. You are strong. One day you will find your way home. Know that I am a friend and that I will help you if I can. Those who stand beside me are my friends. I ask that you do not harm them.” Then he murmurs to me, “One more chorus, then we all step back and duck down with the cloak over us. Sing it now and at the end I’ll give you a one, two, three.” He opens the wire door and reaches into the cage. My view is obscured; I can’t see what he’s doing.
Without letting myself think too hard I sing the chorus again, with True and his tiny folk. Another voice joins in from the doorway of the hut, a man’s voice, untrained but strong and tuneful. The song ends. I have just long enough to say, “Dau! Get down!” before Brocc counts, “One, two, three,” and steps back from the wire, leaving the hatch-like door open. We crouch, pulling the cloak over us, and hear the scratch of claws, the ruffle of feathers as the birds step up onto the edge. Then there’s a whirr, a movement of the air above us, and in a moment they are gone. So fast. So final.
We lift the cloak and get to our feet. Dau is beside the main door, crouched down with his hands over his head. “Dagda’s bollocks,” he remarks in something like his old manner. “Just as well you warned me.”
“Are you all right, Liobhan?” Brocc is pale; I see he was less confident of success than he appeared. “True?”
I realize True could not possibly have been fully shielded by the cloak. He’s much too big. He has faced this with barely any protection. “I’m fine,” I say. “Not that I’d ever want to go through that again. True, are you unhurt? And your little ones?”
“You are a kind soul, Liobhan, like your brother. I am well, yes. Master Dau, did they harm you?”
“Not a scratch. That was . . . remarkable. What exactly were you doing?”
Brocc explains: the vial, given to True by ancients of his own kind; the contents which have just been proven to have remarkable healing power; his own deeply held belief that the Crow Folk, for all their violent and unpredictable actions, are victims rather than aggressors. He describes how he reached over to the perch and how the birds stayed still, opening their fearsome beaks as he administered one drop to each. How, after he withdrew his arm and opened the wire door, in the moment before he ducked down and under the cloak, he glimpsed a new look in their eyes. A look of hope.
44
DAU
A magical cure. The goal I have dreamed of, the prize on which I have fixed my impossible hope. It’s there right before me, and I cannot ask for it. Already we owe Brocc and True our lives. For us, they put themselves in peril. And Brocc has said he will come with us to Oakhill to bear witness. How can I ask more of them? Besides, it seems this cure is True’s to give, not Brocc’s. That makes it even more impossible to ask. Why would True squander the last few drops of so potent a draft for a man he barely knows? So I do not ask, though every part of me is tight with the longing to do so. And Liobhan does not ask, though I can guess what is in her thoughts. Instead, my companions get on with what must be done. They settle the prisoners beside the hut, in a spot where they cannot be seen from further than ten paces away. Liobhan tells the others how to place them so they will not choke or otherwise harm themselves. She says they will be safe for a few hours, long enough for us to return to the house, make our report, and send someone up to fetch them. My mind cannot quite take that in. I must arrange for Seanan, at least, to remain in custody until a hearing takes place. I hope my powers of persuasion are up to it. I hope people will be ready to listen.
Liobhan douses the fire. The dead birds are left where they lie in the cages; the hanging corpses continue to stir in the draft with macabre semblance of life. I take off my monk’s habit and give it to Liobhan. She orders us all out while she removes her soiled and tattered clothing and puts the habit on. Her own garments she makes into a bundle, at my request, to take back to the house. Evidence.
Then there’s Corb. It hurts to leave him, even for a short time. True offers to keep vigil, but I say no. True must be safely concealed up in the forest before anyone comes back here. As Brocc, Liobhan, and Torcan perform a last check of everything, I take the stony man aside and thank him again for his help.
“I am glad to be of service,” True says. “You are a remarkable man, Master Dau. Strong of heart. Deserving of kindness. I have a gift for you.”
I can’t speak.
“It does not come without risk,” True says. “Like all magic, it is . . . unpredictable. But you are a warrior like my friend Brocc. You are a man of great courage. Will you try it?”
“I . . . I . . .” The word won’t come out. My heart feels so full it might burst.
Footsteps approaching; someone else is here. Liobhan. “True is offering you the healing potion, Dau.” Her strong voice has been reduced to a thread.
“Two drops left,” True says. “One for each eye. They are yours, Master Dau. I cannot promise that they will restore your sight. The magic is not mine, but belongs to my ancient forebears. But if you are willing, we can attempt it.”
Liobhan makes a little sound, instantly stifled. She’s trying not to cry. In that moment she makes the decision for me. “I will try,” I say, choking back my own tears. I must act as a man of courage should. “Whether or not it succeeds, this is the most generous of gifts, my friend. Are you sure?”
“I am sure. You are a brave man, and the path before you is no straight and easy track.” There’s a pause, as if True is drawing breath. Then he says, “My hands are not delicately made. Liobhan, you have the skill to do this. If I hold Dau still, will you administer the drops?
”
Liobhan draws a ragged breath. She sounds overwhelmed. Unsurprising after what she’s just been through. But when she speaks, her voice is strong and capable. “Of course. Dau, you should sit on this stool. True will stand behind you and put his hands on either side of your head—that’s it, True. We’re doing it this way in case the drops sting; it might be hard to keep still. And if it works, it will be a shock to you after so long in the dark.” A tiny clink as she withdraws the stopper. “Ready?”
“I’m ready.” My heart is going like a galloping horse. My skin is all over cold sweat. Let this not be a dream. It feels unreal. How am I possibly deserving of such a gift? The gods I don’t believe in would be justified in smiting me dead the moment the potion touches my eye.
The stuff is cool and refreshing; it falls on one eye then the other. For a moment I see a flash of light and color, impossibly bright. If it were not for True’s strong hold, I would jerk my head in shock.
“Shut your eyes and keep them shut,” says Liobhan with a healer’s assurance. “Give it some time. Breathe slowly, Dau. Make your whole body calm.”
“Rest easy, friend.” True sounds untroubled. His deep tones are soothing.
Waiting is agony. “How much longer?”
“Count to one hundred.”
“No. You should sing. And . . . move closer. Here, beside me.”
I feel her kneel down on my right. True keeps his hands on either side of my head, but the strong grip has become more of a gentle, reassuring touch. Liobhan sings. The song is familiar, only there’s more of it now.
Often he mourned the loss of light
The blaze of sun, the candle bright
Yet there was joy in touch and sound
The wet nose of a loyal hound
Friends’ laughter; the song of a lark
Solace and comfort in the dark.
He knew that he would rise once more
Walk forward through the open door
His feet would tread a bright new way
His eyes would look on every day
With constant wonder, hope, and joy.
This gift would heal the wounded boy.
There’s a silence. Then she says shakily, “You can open your eyes now, Dau.”
I open them. It is as I long imagined: the first thing I see is Liobhan’s face. Her cheeks are wet; tears spill from her lovely eyes. Her bright hair is disheveled, falling in myriad strands over her shoulders and down across the heavy brown cloth of the monk’s habit. She has a big bruise on her jaw. As I blink and stare and try to ignore a dizziness that is making everything spin around us, she takes my hand and lifts it, laying my palm against her cheek. The look on her face is . . . remarkable. It is more than I can ever be worthy of, even if I live to be an old, old man.
“You can see,” she whispers.
I am wordless. I am flooded with feelings. I am like a pool after a long dry summer, filled to overflowing by fresh autumn rain. “Outside,” I say. “I want to go outside.”
True helps me stand up; supports me when my head reels. I have imagined him in my mind, but he is bigger and stranger than I pictured him. I wonder what Seanan and his men will say of him, when they report on the fight. I turn and see Brocc in the doorway of the hut. His expression is hard to read. He looks over at True, then turns his gaze away.
“It worked, Brocc!” says Liobhan. “Dau has his sight back!”
“A generous gift,” Brocc says. “This was a wise choice, True.” Now he’s looking at Liobhan, whose face is flushed with delight. She can’t stop smiling as she helps me walk toward the door.
Oh, the greens! So many shades, so many layers, the sun on the leaves, the fresh grass, the moss coating the old walls. The colors are a dazzling miracle. I want to stare and stare. But I cannot. We must go. There is work to be done.
“One thing before we leave,” I say. “I want to see Corb.”
Liobhan is quick to understand. She shows me where he lies, swathed in a cloak. I kneel beside him. It is the strangest, most solemn of moments. Corb was my companion, sometimes my nursemaid. He was my protector. He was my friend. He was my little brother. He lies lifeless here because of that. How odd that I have never seen him until now. His face is long, with prominent cheekbones; his hair is the color of oak bark. He has fine, long-fingered hands. He is so pale. Gray pale. My mind fills with troubling thoughts. If I had not sent him with the dog . . . If I had not asked for volunteers to come up here . . . If I had not expected him to fight . . . But there is no point in that. He is gone. “Farewell, brave friend,” I say. I draw the cloak over him again, then rise to my feet.
“He was a good boy,” says Liobhan. “A remarkable boy.”
I will have to go up to the farm when this is over. I will have to tell his mother and father that their good son is not coming home. I will have to fetch the dog, little Hope. That will be almost worse than fighting blind. But I will do it. This death is on me.
Torcan exclaims with surprise and delight when he discovers I can see. He is quite as I imagined him, handsome and upright with abundant dark hair and a broad smile, though like the rest of us he bears the scars of battle. There’s a bandage around his arm and shoulder, with blood seeping through.
“Needs attention as soon as we get back,” Liobhan says, seeing me looking. “We’ll need Brother Petrán.”
The captives are all sleeping heavily now under the influence of Liobhan’s potion. We bid True farewell, and I thank him for his kindness, his courage, his generosity. His remarkable gift has changed my future. He tells me I am a fine man, and deserving. Then he heads up to the forest to wait for Brocc. They have supplies; he can camp there overnight.
Walking back to my father’s house I want to look at everything, to drink it all in, to rediscover trees and grass and stones and sky, the sheep in the fields, the light and shadow of a fine morning, the faces of my companions. It is so remarkable to have my sight back, though I do feel somewhat unbalanced, like a seafarer stepping off his vessel after a long journey. As we go down the hill we work out our story. Yes, there were two others with us when the skirmish took place—not only the traveling storyteller, but also another man whom he had met on the road, a musician who had some fighting skills. That man could not stay to bear witness, as he was on the way to a family wedding further north. As for my vision, I regained it in much the same fashion as I lost it. At some point toward the end of the fight, I tripped and fell hard. When I rose, I found I could see light and shade with both eyes. By the time we had walked back to my father’s gate, all was becoming clear again. A miracle, one might say.
This tale is somewhat flimsy, but we decide a simple explanation will be more plausible than a complicated tale. I hope they believe it, since it will need to cover not only the restoration of my sight but also the anticipated accounts by Seanan and his team of a stony giant appearing and ending the fight. The traveler was no giant; he was simply an unusually tall man. Stone? How could such a thing be? At that point Liobhan will suggest that their memories may be addled by the potion she was obliged to administer. It contained a substance called devil’s-foot; the same thing that may be in my father’s sleeping drafts. It lingers, Liobhan will say. Makes folk vague; robs them of the ability to think clearly.
As we walk, I’m aware of pain. The potion may have restored my sight, but it’s done nothing to help my ankle, and I’m dizzy as well. Still, I use the stick only on the roughest parts of the track. I keep my back straight. I hold my head high. I look down toward my father’s domain and rehearse in my mind what must come next.
Liobhan stumbles once or twice. A night’s torture and a hard fight have taken their toll even on my strong, brave friend. I reach out a hand to steady her and she glances at me with a grin on her face that is as warm and fine as sun on a winter’s day. If I could, I would look only at her. But now is not t
he time for such things. The smile, the touch of hands, those are enough. Despite what awaits me in my father’s house, there is a warmth in my heart such as I have never felt before.
Brocc is very quiet. Something is troubling him. I wonder if he would have wished True’s gift to go elsewhere, kindly though he spoke to me at the time. It is not for me to ask him. Perhaps he will talk to Liobhan.
There’s no difficulty going in the gate. The guards do give us some surprised looks. There is Brocc, a striking stranger in his unusual clothing; Liobhan, bruised and untidy, in her monk’s habit; Torcan similarly dressed, but unhooded; and myself, walking with confidence and meeting their stares full on. The guards ask no questions. Once we have passed, I hear them conducting a rapid conversation in lowered voices. I need to act quickly.
“Straight to the infirmary,” I say. “And I’ll answer any awkward questions.”
The sun is high now and there are plenty of folk around; but although we attract more stares, nobody approaches us. As we enter the herb garden, I see a reception party waiting: three monks standing by the door to the stillroom. Ruarc is nowhere to be seen. A good sign or a bad one?
“Master Dau,” says a broad-shouldered fellow with tonsured gray hair. “What has happened?” Then, before I have time to say a word, “Your eyes. Have you . . . are you . . . ?”
“Brother Petrán,” murmurs Liobhan. “The infirmarian.”
“May we come inside, Brother Petrán? Two of our number are injured and we are all weary. But there are some matters to be dealt with. One in particular is urgent. We need to speak behind closed doors.” I glance at the other two monks. “Forgive me. I can see you now, but I do not know your names.”
A Dance with Fate Page 37