I looked around the circle, sensing my brothers were closer now than they had ever been, and then I met Finbar’s eyes where he sat a little aside, watching me. There was a wariness in his expression that I had never seen before, an uncertainty that concerned me, for of them all, he had always been the one surest of his way. I tried to reach him with my mind.
What is it, Finbar?
But it was Conor who replied.
“It is hard to come back, Sorcha, and harder for some than others.”
“We may have little time here,” Liam said, getting to his feet. “If what Conor suggests is correct, we may have only until dawn. We must do what we can to provide for our sister.”
“Only one night, and stuck out here in the forest,” said Diarmid bitterly. “Where can we start, when there is so much to be done?”
“Some things can be achieved,” said Liam, taking control. “Small things, maybe, but useful. Believe me, Sorcha, it pains and shames each one of us to be forced to leave you here alone. But we can at least ensure a little comfort for you. The cutting of wood, the readying of this place for winter, for I fear we will not return before the snows are deep here; this can be done by lantern light. Have you an axe?”
I nodded.
“To the west there is grazing land, and grain stored,” said Conor.
“How far?” asked Cormack.
“You can get there and back before daybreak,” his twin answered. “Take Linn. It’s dark, and the paths are treacherous. She will lead you. I suspect she would not consent to stay behind, in any case.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Padriac. “Or would do, but these boots are killing me. That’s the problem with transformations. You keep on growing, but your clothes stay the same size. Maybe yours would fit me, Finbar.” They fitted him well enough, for my youngest brother was half a head taller than when I had last seen him. His outgrown pair might do for me one day, if I ever grew into them. Then Padriac and Cormack were off under the trees, small lantern in hand and knives in their belts, for they had found those as well. I hoped the weapons would not be needed. I thought they might go unnoticed amid the midsummer revelers, whatever their errand. Linn followed; it would have been beyond anyone’s power to stop her. At least of the three of them she knew the way.
Liam and Diarmid set to with axe and hatchet, lopping branches off the dead ash tree and stacking them under the shelter of an overhang. They worked with a speed and precision that startled me, and stopped for neither food nor drink. They took the second lamp to light their task, leaving the rest of us in semidarkness by the glowing fire.
“Now,” said Conor, “I want to see those hands. Have you a supply of salves? Beeswax?”
I showed him my dwindling stocks, stored in a niche of the cave.
“This will not last long,” he said gravely. “Then what will you do? Is there not some other way this task can be accomplished?”
I shook my head.
“Then at least I can tend to you tonight, and perhaps seek some help for you. You must understand, little owl, that this is the worst thing for us. Not being here with you, having to watch you suffer on our behalf, seeing you sacrifice your life for ours—this cuts us deep. For Finbar it is hardest. He, of us all, needs to follow the path that leads straight ahead, whatever obstacles are in the way. To have that taken from him, on what seems little more than a whim, tears him apart. And now he must hurt what he loves best.”
We moved back to the fire, where Finbar still sat silent. Conor took my small hand in his and began to rub the salve gently into my skin, rolling and kneading my fingers with his own. He stopped talking and instead began to hum softly, a monotonous little tune that had beginning and ending woven into one, so that it went on and on, and seemed to fit well with the strange stillness of the night. Further away the dull thud of axe on wood punctuated the flow of the song. I began to relax. At first I had flinched, for it hurt to have anyone touch my hands; but after a while the song lulled me and I heard owls in the trees around, and the croaking of frogs in the many tiny waterways around the lake. And then Finbar came over to sit by me and took my other hand in his. Conor’s hand was warm and full of life; Finbar’s was like ice. For a while we sat thus, and I surrendered my damaged fingers to my brothers’ ministrations, storing up images and feelings to last me the long, weary time till midwinter. It would have to be enough. Conor was still humming scraps of song under his breath, working his own strength into my hands and through them into myself. At last Finbar spoke.
“I’m sorry, Sorcha. I hardly know what words to choose. One night. It is too short a time to waken our memories of this world. My mind holds so much, and I have seen—I—no, some things are best left unspoken.”
I turned to face him, and this time he met my gaze direct. I saw firelight flicker in his gray eyes, and there was doubt in them.
What is this? You can’t give up! You, of all people. What is wrong?
Still he kept his shutters down.
“You can talk to us, Finbar,” said Conor quietly. “Here, we three are linked hand in hand. We know you. We know your courage. Speak aloud of what troubles you, if you will not open your mind to us.” It was spoken gently enough, but there was an authority in his words that seemed to give Finbar no choice.
“Why Sorcha?” he said. “Why single her out for such suffering? She is innocent of any wrongdoing, incapable of an evil thought. Why should she make this sacrifice for us?”
“Because she is the strongest,” said Conor simply. “Because she can bend with the wind, and not break. Sorcha is the thread that binds us all together. Without her we are leaves in the wind, blown hither and thither at random.”
“We are strong. We are all strong.”
“In our own ways, yes. But each of you would break before this storm. Even you, for there comes a time when the path straight ahead crumbles underfoot, or is washed away by floodwaters, and then if you will not take another way you are lost. Only Sorcha can bring us home.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Finbar impatiently. “What of yourself? How can you be so calm, so accepting, when you see your sister as thin as a wraith, dressed in rags and her skin weeping with sores? I would rather die, or remain under this curse forever, than let her suffer this way for me. How can you stand back and accept this?”
Conor regarded him gravely. “Do not misjudge me. I feel Sorcha’s hurt deeply, and she knows it. But I have traveled this way before; and I have stood on the threshold between that world and this. Perhaps that makes it easier, for unlike the rest of you, I can carry both within me. For you, the changing will be harder each time. But your doubts do nothing to ease Sorcha’s task. She needs our strength, while we are here. She needs to touch us while she can.”
We sat quiet for a while. It occurred to me that Conor had not really answered his brother’s question. It was late, and the forest was still save for the axe blows ringing out in the darkness. I recalled another time, when I had seen Finbar’s mind-pictures despite his efforts to shut me out; the cold, the falling, the flight…was this what he feared, the flashes of sight that told him of things to come? How much did he see? And was the future so ill, that he did not dare to share his visions?
My mind was well shielded, but Finbar spoke as if he knew my thoughts. “Sorcha,” he said softly. “Believe me when I tell you that you should not be doing this; it would be better for you to go away, far away and forget us. Leave the forest and seek protection with the holy brothers in the west. You will never be safe here.” He twisted the ends of his hair in restless fingers.
“So we should all perish?” questioned Conor mildly. “The lady Oonagh would certainly be pleased with that result. You offend your sister with such a suggestion, Finbar. We are her brothers; she loves us as we love her. She could not take such a choice.”
“She must not stay here,” said Finbar. The shutter in his mind was firm; whatever dark knowledge he held there, it was not to be shown us.
“These ima
ges of the mind,” said Conor, poking the embers with a long stick, “they can be riddles in themselves. What you see may be truth, or half-truth, or a nightmare of your own making, born of your fears and wishes. The lady Oonagh’s enchantment may even now be at work within you. Perhaps she meddles with your inner voices as she changes your outer form. You cannot trust these visions.”
“What else can I trust?” Finbar replied. “With no knowledge of the time we were gone, what other map have we to guide our choices? There is scarce time to recall who we are, before it is blanked out again. Our father could be dead or worse.”
“He still lives,” said Conor softly. “Stricken sorely by the loss of his children, and bound fast by his wife’s spell, but not wholly under her domination. He survives, thus far.”
How do you know? His words had shocked us both; we asked the same question together, I inwardly, Finbar aloud. Our eyes were fixed on Conor intently. Our expression, I think, was the same.
Conor looked down at our linked hands, smiling a little ruefully. “You are right, of course,” he said. “One cannot be man, and bird, at the same time. Entering that new state of consciousness, you lose the memory of the old. You are not a man in swan’s feathers; it is not so simple. You change entirely; and your vision of the world is a wild creature’s: flight, safety, danger, survival. The lake; the sky. There is little more. During that time, you may fly over the lord Colum’s stronghold, or swim by the shore where Eilis and her ladies play at ball, but you do not see them, not as a man would. You cannot; but I can.”
Finbar drew his breath in sharply. “I should have known,” he said slowly. “You are further down the path than I guessed. I am sorry, as well as glad; your burden may be worse than mine, in its way.”
The lady Oonagh. What of her?
“She still rules there, Sorcha. And will bear a child by harvesttime. Her influence is strong. She still seeks you, but without success, for the dwellers in the forest protect you.”
“Father. You said he was not entirely under her spell. What did you mean?” asked Finbar tightly. I looked at him in surprise. Perhaps I did not know him as well as I thought. He caught my expression.
“The power of enchantment is great, Sorcha,” he said more calmly. “The power of loss is strong too. I begin to understand, now, why he has acted as he has. So, it does matter to me that he survives. It matters that she is stopped. But there is a limit to the price I would pay for this. There is a limit to the price any of us should pay.”
“I could tell you about Father,” said Conor. The ring of axe on wood had ceased; now my two eldest brothers came down the hill, breathing heavily, and squatted down next to us. “I could tell you much; but sometimes it is better not to know.”
“Not to know what?” asked Liam, settling between me and Conor and putting an arm around my shoulders.
“What passes, what changes in the world, while we are in that other state,” said Conor. Liam glanced at him sharply. “So you do know,” he said, not altogether approving.
“Some things yes, others no. I am not able to be in all places at all times; my bodily shape is the same as yours. I see differently, that’s all. Rest assured that our father still lives, and is not altogether lost, though his grief is terrible. He longs most to see his daughter, in whose face is his last memory of her whom he loved and lost. The lady Oonagh hates that,” Conor said.
My jaw dropped in surprise. Me? But he had scarcely noticed me when I was there. “What tale did she spin, that he could accept her innocence in this?” asked Diarmid with a dreadful bitterness in his tone.
“That I can’t tell you,” said Conor. “Besides, why deepen your own sorrow and frustration? We can do nothing for him, or against her, until the enchantment is broken. So, we must do as Sorcha wishes, and leave her here to complete her task, though it breaks our hearts to do so.”
It was terrible how quickly the remainder of that night passed. We sat by the fire, talking of this and that, trying not to glance skyward too often for the first traces of dawn. Later, much later, the boys and Linn came back from their expedition. They had escaped the worst sadness of the night by filling it with activity. It would be a night long remembered by the local people, a Meán Samhraidh of more than usual activity by the wee folk; several washing lines would be missing items, a few dairies and cellars would have unexpected spaces on their shelves. Padriac passed me a warm woollen gown in a vivid shade of red, several sizes too big, a capacious shawl, and some homespun stockings, well mended. They’d be good for winter. Cormack bore a large sack of meal and a bundle of turnips, a round of ripened cheese and a length of stout rope. Both had pockets full of small treasures. Linn was licking her lips.
“I hope you took good care not to be seen,” said Liam, frowning. “I want no trace of Sorcha’s whereabouts spread among these people—you know how tongues wag. It takes but one traveler to catch idle gossip, and the tale is away down the road and to the lady Oonagh’s ears before you can draw breath.”
“It’s all right, big brother,” laughed Cormack. “We may be unsure if we’re man or bird, but we haven’t lost all our skills. I guarantee you we left not a trace. Even the hound cooperated, didn’t you, Linn?”
She danced around him happily; he was back, and her world was in place again. I could have wept for her, knowing how short his stay.
“We must make it up to these people, when we are ourselves again,” said Diarmid. “It is wrong to steal; besides, they are poor and can ill afford to spare these things. Still, I believe Sorcha’s need is greater, just now.”
“Don’t worry,” said Padriac lightly, sensing this lecture was aimed at him. “We won’t forget. Some midsummer eve, in years to come, the little people will leave them a stack of wood, and a jug of ale, and some finery for themselves. We’ll be back.”
“Maybe,” said Finbar.
“That’s enough!” Liam’s voice was sharp. “To finish her task, Sorcha needs our support, she needs our trust. Haven’t you yourself always said we seven must be here for each other, that our strength is in our oneness? Of course Sorcha will complete her work, and of course we will return. I don’t doubt this for an instant.”
“As surely as sun follows moon,” said Conor quietly. “As surely as seven streams become one strong river that flows and swirls over boulder and under towering cliff, never faltering on its journey to the sea.”
“Next time, Sorcha,” said Padriac, “I’ll be able to make you a better weaving frame. There are some good bits of ash, I’ve put them to dry under the overhang at the back of the cave. They should be ready by midwinter, if you keep the rain out. And save that rope, I’ll be needing it.”
I smiled at him; so eager to help, so young yet. He might have outgrown his boots, but in essence he had changed not at all. No, it wasn’t my youngest brother I was worried about.
“I ask myself,” said Finbar, with a stubborn note in his voice that we all recognized, “why this must happen. Why must Sorcha endure what must occur, why sacrifice herself thus when she could be safe and protected, and move on with her own life in peace? Why not leave us as we are? For all we know, by the time the task is done, if indeed it can be done, our father might be dead, or changed forever; why then need we be saved, and thus ruin our sister’s life?”
We all stared at him. There was a slight pause. It was Conor who spoke first.
“Because evil must not be allowed to prevail,” he said.
“Because we must reclaim what is ours,” added Liam.
“And save our father, if we can,” said Cormack. “He’s a good man for all his faults, and without his leadership our lands are as good as lost. Briton and Viking and Pict will be swarming over the islands, and to our very door.”
“Because Sorcha believes it’s the right thing,” said Padriac with devastating simplicity.
“I cannot let the lady Oonagh’s work go unpunished,” said Diarmid. “If it weren’t for my stupidity, perhaps we could have stopped her. My honor re
quires me to seek her out, to make an end of it.”
“Listen,” said Padriac. “It’s almost dawn.”
They were silent. A solitary bird had begun to chirrup high in the elms. And the sky was indeed beginning to lighten with the first pale gray of the morning.
We made our way to the shore. Liam went ahead, carrying the lantern. I walked by Finbar, and I tried to let him know how I felt, but could not tell if he heard me.
All will be well. Believe in me. Hold on, and live. For us all. It was like sending thoughts into empty air, to be blown away by a passing breeze.
We waited for the light, clasping hands in our circle, saying nothing, passing strength and love one to the other. Finbar was between Conor and myself; he let us take his hands, but they were still icy cold, as if nothing could ever warm him again. Just before dawn, Conor bid me go back to the cave, for, he said, it was better if I did not watch them go. They hugged me one by one; Conor first, then the others in turn, till only Finbar was left. I thought he would go without a word; but he touched me on the cheek and for a moment he let me in.
Be safe, Sorcha. Till next time. I am still here for you.
The chorus of birdsong swelled. It was like that other morning, the morning the mist had arisen from the lake and taken them from me. It was suddenly too much to bear, and I felt my lips trembling, and tears welling in my eyes.
“Go back inside now, little owl,” said Conor gently, and his voice came to me as if down a long, narrow tunnel.
“Until we return,” said Cormack, or maybe it was someone else, and then it was really dawn, and there was a sound of rushing wind, and swirling waters, and beating wings, and I ran blinded by tears back to my cave and lay there facedown weeping, for losing them now was no easier than last time and I did not want to see, or even to imagine, the slipping away of their minds and the transformation of their selves into creatures of the wild.
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