by Jack
‘She’s gone, then?’
His mouth went into a hard line. ‘She is no more.’
‘Ciarán ...’ I hesitated.
‘Mm?’
‘What she did to Conri — it was very long ago. Haven’t you tried to undo the geis before? There must have been other unwed girls in the family over the years.’
He grimaced. ‘It seemed too much to ask. As you can see, he himself has mixed feelings on the matter.’
‘Can you ... can you communicate with Conri?’
‘You mean speaking mind to mind, without words? Alas, no. We have an understanding; it has developed over the years and has served us well enough. But I cannot ask him what he wants, Aisha. I can only use my own judgement. He needs to do this. And I want it done. He’s my brother, and I owe him. I cannot put it more simply than that.’
‘Then why now and not before? If it seemed too much to ask those other women, why is it all right to ask me?’
Ciarán regarded me with his dark mulberry eyes. ‘You seem ... formidable,’ he said quietly. ‘A woman travelling all alone with perfect confidence; a woman of wit and intelligence, balance and integrity. Strong; brave; whole. If anyone can do this, I believe you can.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
His lips curved. ‘You think not? We’ve exchanged many tales as we walked, Aisha. We’ve passed through the forest of Sevenwaters together. Besides, I am the son of a sorceress; I have abilities beyond the strictly human. I believe my assessment of you is accurate. If I did not, I would never have suggested this course of action. Would I trust my brother’s future to a woman who was doomed to fail?’
The situation was nothing short of ridiculous. I considered the possibility that Ciarán was actually completely mad, one of those wild men who are supposed to wander about the woods and commune with the trees, and that the next thing he might do was strangle me or have his way with me, or both.
‘Why do you smile?’ he asked.
‘I’m wondering what he’s like now,’ I said. ‘Conri. In the vision he was just a lad, barely become a man. He hadn’t even —’ I broke off as a new thought struck me. Conri had been transformed into a raven on his wedding day. If I did what Ciarán wanted, I’d be acquiring a husband who was not only elderly, but also inexperienced in the art of love. The prospect hadn’t much to recommend it. ‘There would be rather a large gap between our ages,’ I said. My mind quashed this objection instantly with an image of Father and Mercedes dancing together by lantern light. Tenderness. Passion. Complete understanding. A pang of some hitherto unknown emotion went through my heart. Longing? Yearning? That was crazy. My life was a good one, a complete one. I did not need this complication.
‘He was a goodlooking boy,’ Ciarán said. ‘He’s likely to be a well-made man. And he is the same kind as I am: my half-brother. I expect that in physical appearance Conri will seem no older than five and thirty.’
‘And he’ll come complete with an ill temper and a load of bitterness on his shoulders.’
‘It’s not as if there’s been no cause for that,’ said Ciarán mildly. ‘And once he is a man again, it may change. You could change it, Aisha.’
‘And if I can’t bear the fellow?’
‘A hand-fasting can be made for a finite period. A year and a day. Five summers. Whatever is deemed appropriate.’ After a moment, Ciarán added, ‘I must be quite honest with you. To be sure of meeting the requirements of a geis, one might need to make permanent vows.’
‘I need time. Time to think.’ By all the saints. Was I actually considering this? What had got into me?
‘Of course.’ Ciarán looked as if he’d be quite content to sit here by the fire all night if necessary. ‘You’ll be tired,’ he added. ‘Take all the time you need. He’s waited many years; a little longer can make no difference.’
A little longer. Or much, much longer. If I said no, Conri might be condemned to stay in bird form more or less indefinitely. The raven seemed bitter and warped. What would he be like in another twenty years? I began to realise what a patient man Ciarán was. A good brother. They both were.
‘You may prefer that we lead you straight to the keep in the morning,’ Ciarán said now. ‘I can introduce you to Sean and his family: his wife, two unwed daughters and a very small son. And Conor; I could take you to meet him.’
There was something he wasn’t saying.
‘But?’
‘It just occurred to me,’ Ciarán said with unusual hesitancy, ‘that if we performed the hand-fasting before you went to meet the family, your explanations would be much easier. You arrive with your husband, the two of you receive a delighted welcome. Conri is accepted as a member of the family without question. There would be no need to speak of his past or of his parentage. It seems you have travelled widely, Aisha, and met many folk from different lands. The fact that you were wed to a man of Erin would hardly provoke questions. Appearing as a single woman travelling alone, then suddenly acquiring a husband more or less from nowhere, surely would.’
‘Do these people know about Fiacha?’
‘They know him only as a raven.’
I stared into the fire, trying to imagine how it would be to walk into the keep of Sevenwaters as a married woman. I could not picture it. Instead, I saw young Conri facing his mother, holding his nerve against the onslaught of her cruelty. That boy with the lovely voice, losing himself. And the raven by Lóch’s side, watching her die.
What Ciarán had just suggested would be too much for Conri. It would be too soon. Once the transformation was done, he’d need time, space, quiet. I’d seen the way Father tended to abused animals, how he gentled them, waiting until they were ready to take the first steps forward. Gentle was not a word folk used when describing me. But I supposed I could learn.
‘If I agreed to this,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t take him straight to meet the family. It’s been a long time for him. We’d be best on our own awhile. He needs to mend. Until that’s begun, he should see only you and me, I think. I know how to fend for myself in the woods, Ciarán. All we’d need would be shelter and quiet, until he’s healed.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the bird had turned around. He was looking at me.
‘You have the time for this?’ Ciarán asked.
I had told Fernando I would catch up with him next time the ship came into Dublin. It could equally well be the time after, or the time after that.
‘There’s no point in agreeing to something if I’m not going to do it properly,’ I said. ‘I’d be foolish if I expected a man to step out of such an ordeal with no damage at all. And if I’m to be his wife, it’s up to me to help him get over it, I suppose. I should make it quite clear’ — I glanced over at Fiacha, who had gone so still he resembled a carven effigy of a bird — ‘that I never planned to settle in these parts. That doesn’t change. I can stay awhile. As long as he needs. Then he’ll be coming back to Xixón with me. He should meet my father.’ It was quite difficult to surprise Father; in that, he was like me. But I was sure, Here’s my husband. Not long ago he was a raven, would startle even him.
Ciarán had gone rather pale. I think that up until now he had not given real credence to the possibility that I might say yes.
‘I suppose,’ I added, ‘it’s not so much a husband I’ll be getting as an adventure.’
* * * *
CONRI
My frail bird body shudders. I watch my brother as he readies himself for the hand-fasting ritual, and there’s so much in me I think I might split apart. Lóch, sweet, lovely Lóch, forever lost. And this woman, this tall black woman with the clear eyes and strong jaw, a woman like a shining blade, a woman as unlike my sweetheart as anyone could be; why is she doing this? She almost frightens me. Lóch, dear heart, I’m sorry. It should have been you by my side. Lóch, don’t hate me for this.
‘Are you ready?’ Ciarán asks.
I cannot answer, but the woman — Aisha, her name is — nods her head. At the last moment, she reach
es up and tweaks a corner of her elaborate head-cloth. The cloth unwinds; a cascade of hair descends, black as night and glossy as silk. Even my ascetic brother gawks at her. Suddenly, despite her height, her garb that might be a man’s — long tunic, woollen hose and boots — despite the strength and challenge in her gaze, a warrior’s look, Aisha is all woman.
She turns her dark eyes full on me. ‘Conri,’ she says, quiet as a breeze in the grass, ‘I’m sorry your hand-fasting cannot be as you once dreamed. I did not know your Lóch, but I am certain she would not want you to spend the rest of your life this way. I can never replace her. But I can offer you a new kind of life. I can offer my best effort.’
Sheer terror churns in my gut. I don’t want this! Why would I want my life back without Lóch? If this works, what will I be, so many years on? A wrinkled greybeard with the mind of that young lad who thought himself man enough to wed and be a father? What if Ciarán speaks the words and I become a creature with a man’s body and a bird’s mind? What if I turn into a monster? I never asked for this, I never expected anyone to do it, I don’t want it ...
‘Are you ready, Conri?’
I look at Ciáran’s face, high-boned, steady-eyed, calm as still water. I do not look at Aisha; there is no need. I feel her presence beside me, strong as oak, fearless as Queen Maeve herself, beautiful as the keen flight of an arrow or the piercing cry of the pipes. I want this. I want it from the bottom of my heart. I want it as the parched earth wants rain. I want it as a man wants sunlight after long winter. I want it with every wretched, bitter, cynical corner of my body.
I cannot give Ciarán an answer, so I stretch my wings and fly to Aisha’s shoulder. She flinches, then straightens, ready for the challenge. Her strong mouth softens into a smile.
‘We’re ready,’ she says.
Ciarán paces steadily, casting a circle in the clearing. He greets the spirits of the quarters, asks the gods for a blessing, then moves to stand before us in the centre. We are on the stones between the campfire and the pool. Aisha and I face north, Ciarán south. The star-jewelled night sky forms our wedding canopy.
As my brother begins the hand-fasting, a deep stillness seeps through me, a peace I have seldom known before. It is something like the sensation a bard feels when a song is done; when the music lingers on the air and in the heart long after the final measure.
‘Under sky and upon stone,’ the druid says, “twixt firelight and water, I ask you, Conri, and you, Aisha, to make your solemn vows of hand-fasting. Aisha, repeat these words after me.’ The mulberry eyes meet hers and I feel the smallest shiver run through her body. I edge along her shoulder until my wing feathers brush her cheek, black on black. And she says it, phrase by phrase, word by sweet word, she says it.
‘By earth and air, by fire and water, I bind myself to you. Until the stars no longer shine on us, until the earth covers our bones, until the light turns to dark, until death changes us forever, I will stand by you, Conri, my husband.’
She does not shiver now. Her voice is the note of a deep bell, strong and steady.
Ciarán draws a breath. Looks at me. His eyes are suspiciously bright. ‘Conri, best of brothers. Repeat these words after me. By earth and air, by fire and water ...’
Oh gods, oh gods ... The change is quick. My heart has barely time to hammer a startled beat, my wings hardly manage to carry me down from Aisha’s shoulder before my body stretches and lengthens and thickens, my features flatten, my vision alters with sickening speed, pool and flames, man and woman, stars and dark branches swimming and diving all around me. Stone under my cheek; stone under my chest, my belly, my limbs ... a man’s limbs.
Aisha is kneeling beside me; I feel her hands, sure but gentle on my back, my shoulder. I have forgotten how to use this body. I cannot move. Repeat these words after me ... I struggle to my hands and knees, Aisha helping me. I think I might be sick. I am sick, retching up the meagre contents of my belly onto the stones. Aisha scoops up water, cupping it in her hands. I drink. The skin of her palms is lighter than the rest of her, the hue of fine-grained oak. Her fingers are long and graceful.
I stand. Her arm rests lightly around my shoulders, supporting me. I draw breath, open my mouth, utter a croaking sound.
‘Take your time,’ says my brother quietly. ‘By earth and air ...’
I understand, through the nausea, the dizziness, the utter wrongness of this clumsy man-body, that the geis cannot be fully undone unless I can play my part.
‘By ... by ... ah ...’ A paroxysm of coughing. The two of them wait for me, quiet, confident. ‘By earth ... and air ...’
‘Good, Conri,’ whispers Aisha. ‘You’re doing fine.’
‘By fire and water,’ says Ciarán, and I see that he has tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘By fire ... and water ... I bind myself ...’
It comes more easily with each word. A harsh voice, for certain, no bard’s honeyed tones, but a human voice. I stumble through the vow. I owe it to my brother for his long care and for his belief in me. I owe it to this woman, this stranger, to honour the sacrifice she’s making for me. So, turning to look into her lustrous dark eyes and seeing not a scrap of pity there, only joy at the remarkable feat we’ve accomplished tonight, the three of us, I finish it: ‘Until death changes us forever, I bind myself to you, Aisha, my wife.’ Dearest Lóch; goodbye, my lovely one.
Ciarán takes a cloth strip from his belt. Aisha extends her right arm, I my left. We clasp hands, and my brother wraps the cloth around our wrists.
‘By the deep, enduring power of earth; by the clarifying power of air; by the quickening power of fire; by the life-giving power of water, you are now joined as husband and wife. By the mysterious, all-encompassing power of spirit, you are hand-fasted until death separates you one from the other. I give you my solemn blessing, Conri, my brother.’ He touches my brow with his fingertips and I feel a thrill of power run through me. ‘I give you my solemn blessing, Aisha, my sister.’ He touches her in her turn, and I feel her tremble.
My knees are weak. I’m still dizzy and sick, my eyes unwilling to accept the change. Aisha holds me up while Ciarán speaks the final prayers, closes the circle, then moves to add wood to the fire and get out his little flask of mead. My knees give up the struggle; Aisha only just manages to stop me from falling. She settles beside me on the stones, her arm around me in comradely fashion. It feels good.
Ciarán pours mead into cups. For a while, the three of us sit in utter silence.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I say eventually. ‘This was your crazy idea; yours and hers.’ I glance from the sombre, pale Ciarán to the silent Aisha. Before either of them can speak a word, I burst into tears. I sob and shake like a child, my head clutched in my hands. Aisha kneels up and wraps me in her arms, cradling my head on her shoulder and humming under her breath. Gods, oh, gods ... The worst of it is to be so helpless, so feeble, so unmanned before this woman, this extraordinary woman who surprises me at every turn.
‘Weep now, Conri,’ she says in a murmur. ‘Weep for Lóch; weep for your young life lost; weep for what could not be. Weep all night if you need. Weep until those sad tears are all gone, husband. And in the morning, know the good gifts that you have. The most loyal of brothers. A wife who will stand by you forever and always tell you the truth. We will not long be strangers, Conri. Family, at Sevenwaters and in Xixón. When you are ready, we will go to meet them.’
Still the tears flow; I cannot stop them. This does not mean I do not hear her.
‘The sunrise and the moonrise,’ says Ciarán. ‘The forest and the lake. The stars in the sky. The flight of birds; the secret paths of fox and badger. The company of friends. The wisdom of elders. The laughter of children; perhaps, in time, your own children.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Aisha puts in dryly, but there’s a smile in her voice.
‘A song by the campfire,’ says Ciarán. ‘The notes of the harp.’
That stirs me to speech. ‘No,’ I hiccu
p against Aisha’s shoulder. ‘Not that.’
‘Hush, Conri,’ says my wife. ‘Hush, now. It’s a long road ahead, and we must learn to walk before we can dance. I’ve one more thing to say to you.’
I manage a sound of query.
‘You’re a much finer specimen of manhood than I was expecting,’ she tells me. ‘I think it possible my father may approve.’
Ciarán splutters on a mouthful of mead; he’s a man who rarely laughs. I lift my head. Before I can wipe my streaming eyes, Aisha’s fingers come up and brush the tears from my cheeks, sweet as a mother tending her child. But different. Quite different.