Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  ‘What about your things, Conri?’ Lóch asked. ‘Clothes, tools, all your possessions?’ She had never asked me where I lived. I thought perhaps she did not want to know. Of recent times I’d been sleeping at the cottage, chastely on a bench while Lóch and her grandmother shared the bed.

  I was about to reply that the only possession that mattered was my harp, but I realised it was not quite true. I had a little box, back in the Otherworld, with objects I had collected through the uncomfortable years of my childhood, treasures I had taken out at night after the day’s failures and punishments were over. Holding and stroking each in turn, I had been comforted by their familiarity. I did not want to leave that box behind. Besides, Lóch was right about clothing. In the human world one had to consider such activities as washing and mending. Before I was quite done with the Otherworld, my mother’s world, I must make one last trip back.

  * * * *

  Ten days before Lugnasad, on a morning of bitter wind, I slipped across the margin and fetched my box from the cave where I had hidden it. I took a cloak, a pair of boots, a favourite hat. I spoke to one or two folk, not saying I was leaving, and discovered that my mother had gone away to the south. Nobody knew if it was a short trip or a long one. I breathed more easily. With luck, she would not return until Lóch and I were far away.

  I emerged into the human world close by the cottage where Ciarán and his keepers lived, a low, secluded place nestled at the foot of the crag called Hag’s Head, and surrounded by rowans. Why did I choose that way? Who knows? As I passed the place I heard a sound that stopped me in my tracks. It could have been me weeping like that, in little tight sobs as I tried to hold the pain inside, so nobody would hear me and know how weak I truly was. I found that I could not walk on by.

  He was scrunched into a hollow between the rocks, arms wrapped around himself, knees up, head down. The bones of his shoulder, fragile as a bird’s, showed under the white skin, through a rip in his tunic. His hair was longer now, and the hue of a dark flame. He heard me coming, soft-footed as I was, and every part of him tensed.

  ‘Ciarán?’ It was awkward; he did not know me.

  The small head came up. The dark mulberry eyes, reddened with tears, fixed their stare on me. He was like a little wild animal at bay, quivering with the need for flight. And yet not like, for there was a knowledge in those sad eyes that chilled me. My brother was too young for this.

  I squatted down at a short distance, putting my belongings on the ground. ‘Did she hurt you?’ I asked.

  Not a word. She had threatened him, no doubt, to keep him from speaking to passers-by.

  ‘Ciarán,’ I said quietly, ‘my name is Conri. We both have the same mother. That makes us brothers.’

  He understood; I saw an unlikely hope flame in his eyes. Impossibilities flooded through my mind: we could take him with us, we could hide, perhaps she would never find us. And then, cruellest of all: I should not go away. I should stay for his sake.

  ‘Conri.’ Ciarán tried out the sound of it. ‘When is my father coming?’

  The hairs on my neck rose. Surely he could not remember his father. I’d seen how little the boy was when she brought him here: too young to understand any of it. But then, this was no ordinary child.

  ‘I don’t know, Ciarán.’ Don’t ask if you can come with me. Already, so quickly, he had a grip on my heart. Why in the Dagda’s name had I passed this way? ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘Will you come back?’

  I drew a shaky breath. There would be no lying to this particular child. ‘I don’t know.’ It was woefully inadequate. ‘Ciarán, I have something for you.’ I reached across and picked up my treasure box. My brother edged closer as I opened the lid. It was a meagre enough collection, but each item was precious to me. What to give him?

  ‘Here,’ I said, picking out a stone with swirling patterns of red and grey, a secret language ancient as myth. ‘I found this up in the hills beyond the western end of the lake. Earth and fire.’

  His fingers closed around it. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Goodbye, Conri.’

  ‘Goodbye, little brother.’ Morrigan’s curse, tears were starting in my eyes, and they trembled in my voice. The longer I stayed, the worse this would be for the two of us. I gathered my belongings, turned my back and walked away.

  * * * *

  Eight days until Lugnasad and our wedding. There was no point in looking backwards. I could not save Ciarán. Even if Lóch had not existed, even if I had been prepared to sacrifice my own life for my brother’s sake, and stay where she could find and torment me daily, the sorceress would never have allowed me a part in his future. If Ciarán was to be her tool, she would not want his edge blunted by weakness, or his true metal tarnished by love. I could do nothing for him.

  So there was a thread of sorrow and regret in the shimmering garment of our happiness. All the same, Lóch prepared for the ritual with bright eyes, and both she and her grandmother professed themselves ready for the adventure that lay ahead. Lóch and I embraced under the shelter of the trees, our bodies pressed tight, desire making our breath falter. Our hearts hammered one against the other. Our wedding night could not come quickly enough.

  * * * *

  Six days until Lugnasad, and both Lóch and her grandmother had gone to the far side of the lake to bid farewell to an old friend, a crippled woman who would not be coming to the celebrations. They would be gone all day. I planned to spend the time practising the harp, for we’d been busy of late and I had neglected my craft. With the two of them to support, and perhaps soon a babe as well, I’d need to maintain my technique and keep on making new songs. Folk soon weary of a bard who repeats himself.

  I worked all morning and by midday I was growing thirsty. I decided to go down to the local hostelry for a cup or two of ale. While I was sitting there minding my own business, a man came in. I looked at him once and I looked twice, for there was something familiar in that face. The fellow was quite old, with many white threads in his dark hair. His face was a map of experience. Despite his years, there was a strength in every part of him, like the tenacity of a wind-scourged tree. He was clad in plain traveller’s garb, a grey cloak, well-worn boots of best quality. A broad-brimmed hat; a dagger at his belt. No bag. I studied the face again, and this time knew where I had seen it before.

  The traveller looked around, then approached the innkeeper.

  ‘Ale, my lord?’ The innkeeper had sized up the newcomer and was greeting him accordingly.

  ‘Share a jug with me,’ I put in quickly, indicating that the traveller should come to sit at my table. ‘I’ll pay.’

  The traveller’s grey eyes narrowed, assessing me. My mother’s words came back to me, sharp and clear: These are not your everyday human folk. They’ll be rather determined, I fear. Then the man walked over and seated himself opposite me.

  I waited for the ale to come. I did not ask any of the questions he might have been expecting, such as Where are you headed? and Where are you from? Instead, for the time it took for the innkeeper to bring the jug, I let myself dream. What if this strong, sad-looking stranger was my father, come to fetch me? What if he had been looking for me all these years, seventeen whole years, and now he was going to bring me home, and I would meet my family, and Lóch and I could live in a place where I truly belonged?

  ‘Are you from these parts?’ the man asked diffidently as I poured the ale.

  ‘Close by.’ I wondered if he glimpsed my mother in me. I wondered if he was as good at guesswork as I was.

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘All my life. My name is Conri.’

  ‘Mm.’ He acknowledged it with a courteous nod, but did not offer his own in return. After a moment he added, ‘Why would you buy me a drink, Conri?’

  My heart thumping, I said, ‘You’re a stranger in these parts. I imagine you may be here for a particular reason.’

  ‘You imagine correctly.’ I could almost see his mind working. He needed information, but
speaking to the wrong person might put his whole plan in jeopardy. ‘What kind of trade do you ply?’ He glanced at my hands.

  ‘I’m a musician. Soon to be wed. We’ll be travelling to live with kinsfolk in the north.’

  He nodded. This answer seemed to satisfy him. ‘Know all the locals, do you?’

  ‘Most. Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘A child. A boy.’

  ‘I see.’ I traced a finger around the rim of my ale cup, thinking he must indeed be tenacious if he thought to pit his human skills against her uncanny ones, his honest strength against her overweening ambition. ‘A small boy or a bigger one?’

  It was in my voice, no doubt: the knowledge. The fear. When he spoke again his tone was hushed, so nobody else could hear, and there was an edge in it. ‘He’d be five years old by now. Red hair; pale skin; unusual eyes, the colour of ripe mulberries.’

  ‘Your son?’ I kept my own voice down.

  ‘Never mind that. Have you seen him?’

  I thought of my mother’s wrath. I thought of Ciarán with my gift in his hand and his eyes full of shadows. ‘There is a child who meets that description living nearby,’ I whispered. ‘But there are ... risks. High risks, my lord.’ Oh, how his eyes came alight as I spoke! The selfsame look had kindled on my brother’s small face when I told him we were kin, and died when I bade him farewell.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Ciáran’s father asked.

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ I said. ‘But I will not. I think the two of us want the same thing: for the boy to be safe. Where would you take him? How could you keep him out of danger?’

  He looked at me. I saw the strength written in his face, and the suffering. ‘If I tell you,’ he said, ‘those who seek to harm him can get the answers from you and hunt him down. So I will not tell. But there is a place where he can be protected, and I will take him there. His father and his brothers will keep him safe.’

  ‘Brothers?’ I echoed, somewhat taken aback to think there were more of us out there.

  The stranger glanced towards the unglazed window of the inn. I had thought this a solitary journey, a father’s lonely quest to claim his lost son. But this man was no fool. He’d brought reinforcements. The two of them were standing out the front waiting for him, youngish men made very much in his own mould, with pale, intense faces, keen eyes, unsmiling mouths. Weaponry of various kinds hung about them. The father hadn’t needed to carry a pack; each of his sons bore one. His sons, but not hers. There was no touch of the uncanny on these hard-faced warriors.

  ‘Half-brothers.’

  It was not a question, but I thought it needed an answer. ‘I only have one half-brother,’ I said. ‘Promise me he will be safe, and I will show you where he is.’ Fear dripped through me like ice water. ‘But understand the danger, for all of us.’

  ‘Oh, I understand.’ His voice was like iron. ‘You are her son?’

  I would not answer so direct a question. ‘I will show you,’ I said. ‘The best time is early morning, not long after dawn. You must be prepared to leave quickly and travel swiftly. At present she is not here, but she may return at any time. Weapons such as those your sons bear will not help you in this struggle.’

  ‘Come,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  The two sons were wary; everything about them spoke distrust. I bore some resemblance to my mother, and while I did not know their story, I imagined she had wrought havoc amongst their family. Unsurprising, then, that they did not warm to me. But they did their father’s bidding and a plan was made. We would camp out in the woods overnight, close to the cottage. We would move in before dawn and take him. They had horses stabled nearby, and could travel swiftly. And they had one or two other tricks, they said, but nobody told me what those were.

  I prayed that my mother’s visit to the south would be a lengthy one, though I knew Ciáran’s training would call her back soon; her methods required that the student not be allowed time to mull over what she was doing to him. If she discovered this plan, all of us would be caught up in her fury. By Danu’s sweet mercy, it was a risk indeed.

  ‘We must make a pact of silence, Conri,’ the nobleman said when the four of us were out of doors, under the trees, working out how it would unfold. ‘Neither I nor my sons here will mention your name, whatever pressure is applied to us. None of us will say how we found the boy. In return, you will not speak of what happened. You will cover our tracks as best you can. You will do all in your power to avoid laying a trail. If you love your little brother, and it seems to me that is so, you will do what you can to ensure he is not hurt.’

  Not hurt? Ciarán had already been hurt so badly the scars of it would be with him all his life. ‘I will honour the pact,’ I said. ‘As I said, I’m to be married at Lugnasad. We won’t be making our home here.’

  ‘I wish you joy,’ he said quietly. ‘Now take us close to the place. We must remain in cover until it’s time.’

  I wondered what Lóch would think when she came home and found the cottage empty. I’d have to invent a story to cover my overnight absence. It felt wrong to lie to her, but she could not know the truth. If this worked, if Ciarán escaped, my mother would be brutal in her efforts to track the perpetrators down. The thought that her touch might reach my sweetheart curdled my blood and froze my heart within me. Let the sorceress stay away. Let us be gone when she returns.

  * * * *

  I think Ciarán knew. His eldritch abilities were exceptional. As the first dawn light touched the leaves of the rowans, a small form slipped out the cottage door, a hooded cloak concealing his bright hair. He moved across the open ground as swiftly as a creature evading predators, which, in a way, was exactly what he was. I glanced at the father’s face, just once, and saw the glint of tears. The nobleman squatted down as the child approached us where we stood under the trees. Ciarán stopped two paces away, a tiny, upright figure, preternaturally still.

  I think the father was intending to re-introduce himself, to reassure, to explain quickly the need for silence and flight. After all, his son had been a baby when they last met.

  ‘Papa?’ The small voice was held quiet. The child understood that this must be covert.

  ‘I’ve come to take you home, Ciarán.’ The grimmest of warriors could not have kept his tone steady at such a moment. ‘We must go now, and as quietly as we can. Shall I carry you?’

  Ciarán shook his head. He put a hand in his father’s, as if they had been parted only from twilight till dawn, and they set off side by side. At the rear, uneasily, came the two brothers and I.

  It felt as if I scarcely breathed while we made our way out of the forest and along the lake to the place where their horses were stabled. I waited at a distance while they retrieved the beasts; the fewer people saw me in their company, the fewer could make a link if my mother came asking. They mounted. Ciarán was seated before his father in the saddle.

  ‘Thank you,’ the nobleman said gravely. ‘I understand what you have risked for him. I am in your debt.’

  ‘Ride safely,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose we will meet again. Goodbye, Ciarán.’ I saw, looking at him, that while he was my mother’s son, a child with more than his share of the uncanny, he was also a human boy of five, scared, excited, almost overwhelmed by what had happened. ‘The blessing of Danu be always on you, little brother.’

  He allowed himself a smile. ‘And on you, Conri,’ he said, and they rode away. Perhaps Ciáran’s father did not understand that an ordinary human man could not break a sorceress’s protective charm, however strong and determined he might be. But I understood, and I recognised in that moment that without the innate talent of the child himself, this rescue mission could never have been accomplished.

  * * * *

  Lugnasad morn: the dawn of our wedding day. The cottage had been promised to a local family down on their luck; they had paid only a token sum for the use of it. The grandmother had traded her house cow for a creaky cart and an ancient
horse. I doubted either would last as far as our destination, the place where these cousins lived. Nonetheless, as soon as the hand-fasting ritual was over we were heading north. We would make camp by the wayside, and our wedding night would be spent under the stars.

  Lóch sent me out of the house while she put on her finery. It was a surprise, she told me with twinkling eyes. I had seen her gown already. In a tiny cottage, there is little room for secrets. But I kissed her and went outside anyway. We had a small supply of good hay we’d kept aside to give the horse a strengthening meal before we started out. I’d take that down to the field, not hurrying over it. By the time I got back Lóch would be ready.