“I know,” I said. “When I was—your uncle spoke to me, unguardedly, at some length. He told me many things which he will now regret. He thought…he thought I would not tell you, he thought I would never…”
I could hear Red’s careful breathing, in, out, in, out, as if he could not trust himself to let go.
“My uncle—did he lay a hand on you, when—did he touch you, Jenny? I was prevented from—from—Ben stopped me, but if—”
“It’s all right,” I said with difficulty. “I am not hurt. He said to me, I don’t want my nephew’s leavings. I was not harmed.”
“I’ll kill him,” said Red softly, turning his face away from me.
“You’re a just man, and a fair one,” I said. “These people depend on you; you are the center of their world. Let your anger go, and then judge him. They look to you for their example. It will be easier, when I am gone.”
He turned his head toward me; let me see, for an instant, the deep loneliness of the eyes, the shadows and lines drawn stark on the white skin. How could a man who had so much, be so alone?
“My brother,” his tone was bleak, “has few memories of those lost years. So he says. But wherever it is that you fit in, he will not hear a word against you. I heard him talking to my mother tonight, when we returned. He spoke of you as if—as if of an angel. He said, her hands are the gentlest in the world, and she tells such tales, tales you would not believe, and yet, when she speaks, you know every word is true. He may have forgotten the rest, but you he remembers.”
“I—”
“Ssh,” he said, and he reached out his hand and touched his fingers very gently to my lips to silence my words. “Don’t tell me.” He touched me only for a moment; and yet I fought the urge to put my hand over his, to turn my lips to his palm. I made myself keep very still. Then he took his hand away, and I moved back a step. Unspoken words lay heavy between us. Unspoken words, and unmade gestures. With any other, I would have said farewell with a hug, a kiss, the touch of fingers to cheek, the clasp of hand in hand. With Red, I could do nothing.
“You have a circle,” he said, “that you draw tight around you; John, Ben, these feral brothers of yours. Simon is as fiercely protective as the rest of them, and yet he has little cause to love your kind. But once you touch us, our hearts are no longer our own.”
My lip quivered, and I sank my teeth into it, wincing with pain. I will not cry. I have wept enough. I, too, can be strong. I reached up and slipped the cord over my neck.
“You’ll be wanting this back,” I said, blinking rather hard. The ring lay on my open palm, light and warm. It took all my will not to close my fingers around it. I saw Red’s hand clench into a white-knuckled fist.
“If it means so little to you,” he said after a moment, “put it in the fire, or throw it on the dungheap. I have no use for it.” Then he turned and made his way down the hall, and I was reminded of the night of the rockfall, when he had walked as if blind, although his eyes were open.
The little mare bore me as sweetly as on the day we had journeyed to the bay of the seals. My brothers were quiet, as if the wonder of seeing the daylight world through their own eyes, after so long, was almost too much to bear. Red rode at the head of the column, his hair bright as the sycamore leaves that drifted down around us, catching the autumn sunlight. Ben was watchful at the rear.
It was hard to keep back the memories of the last time we had come this way, along the hidden track, under the trees, over the hills and away from the valley. I had not expected that Simon would come with us, but it seemed he had argued his case and convinced his brother. He rode close by me, and I told him what Richard had said to me, about Eamonn of the Marshes, and about bargains and deals, and about what had happened that night, when Simon had disappeared from the camp. He listened, and nodded, and let me talk. I did not tell quite all. Some of it was too close to our own story, too close to the part of it Red had waited so long to hear, and then, in the end, had not wanted to hear.
“My uncle took a risk, in telling you this,” said Simon thoughtfully. “A great risk. Once this becomes known, he will forfeit any influence he had left, and be cut off from his family and from his allies; I cannot think what future he could contemplate. I am concerned for Elaine. He has placed her in a very vulnerable position by his actions. And he has no sons. There will be kinsmen aplenty jostling to take his place at Northwoods.”
Elaine had been a good friend to Red, I thought. Maybe now she would get what she deserved. Maybe now she could choose as her heart prompted her, and not as her father ordered. Simon was a fine young man, and I wished them joy in each other.
“Richard thought I was going to die,” I said. “He believed that I would never speak again. How could he lose? Such a man loves to gloat, and cannot resist sharing his triumph. Had Red…had your brother not returned in time, it would have been as he intended.”
“My brother made sure he was here in time,” he said wryly. “I have never seen a man ride so, as if driven by demons. Good old reliable Hugh. So calm, so capable. So utterly predictable. But you have changed him.”
There was a smell of salt in the air, and I thought I heard a gull. Padriac’s face showed the ghost of a smile, as we headed steadily westward. Steadily homeward. He was young. Of us all, he seemed least hurt. I thought he would be able to make his life again, and make it a good one. For the rest of us, I was not so sure. Liam must face what lay ahead at Sevenwaters; must try to deal with our father, and our father’s wife, and mend the shattered pieces of a once strong holding. Diarmid seemed eaten up with bitterness, and Cormack was like some explosion waiting to happen. As for Conor, deep, wise, mysterious Conor, even he had shown me today he could be blinded by his own convictions. For he had not seen Red for what he was. And Finbar, who rode now as one in a dream, scarce seeming aware of what passed right by him, Finbar would live a life far removed from what might have been. I had brought them back; but each had lost a part of himself, in the long time away.
We made good progress, and now rode up between tall trees, our horses separated by the difficult terrain. Simon and I were somewhat apart from the others.
“You’re going home,” he said. “But you still have my brother’s ring.”
I was taken aback, and could think of nothing to say.
Then he said, “Why didn’t you wait for me, Sorcha?”
I gazed at him. Then I said carefully, “I could not stay. I told you that. I did not want to leave you, but my brothers made me go. I was only a child then.”
“I remember a tale you told me,” he said. “About a magical cup, from which only the pure in heart could drink. There was a man who waited and waited until he was old, and his patience was finally rewarded. I have waited far longer. I was gone a long time, Sorcha. Beyond the span of mortal man or woman. Nine times nine years, in that place you told of in your stories. Longer than my brother could ever imagine.”
Still I stared at him, as we crested the hill and our horses walked together across a clearing and on into the woods. Their feet trod softly on the carpet of fallen leaves. I was unwilling to believe what he was telling me, and yet I knew, as a teller of tales must know, that this was the truth.
“In the story, his sweetheart waited for him,” said Simon, fixing his bright blue eyes on me with a frightening intensity. “She waited until both of them were old. Years and years. For you, it was only three. Why did you marry my brother? Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I—I—how could I know?” I whispered, shocked. “I didn’t know. I never even thought—”
He was silent.
“You were hurt,” I said. “Burned. What about—”
“There are those that can erase such scars, as if they have never been. There are those that can offer such sweet inducements, that a man might forget this world forever, and when he is cast back up, when they have no more use for him, be destroyed utterly by his longing for what he left behind in the land under the hills. They kept me a lon
g time. I bear no scars, not outwardly. What injuries were done to me by your kind, belonged to another life. Long, long ago. But I am not out of my wits, Sorcha. I kept my mind clear and fixed of purpose, through all those long years. Through all that time of waiting, I thought only of returning to find you again. Prayed only that time would be kind, and pass more slowly in this world. When they cast me out at last, I had few memories of the old life; those that I had were like phantoms, nebulous and fleeting. But one remained bright and true.” He reached up and slipped a cord from around his own neck; passed me the small pouch of supple leather that hung there. “Open it, look.”
I loosened the fastenings, and felt inside. Something fine and soft, like a strand of silk. The little mare kept up her steady pace, needing no guidance. In front, Cormack and Conor rode together; behind, Padriac had engaged Ben in an animated debate on the principles of flight, and whether one might build a machine that would carry a man through the air. Finbar was there somewhere, silent behind them. I could not see Red, or Liam, or Diarmid. I drew the small thing out of the pouch. There in my hand was a lock of dark hair. The curl he had cut from my head that day long ago, with his sharp little knife. Don’t leave me. What cruel game had they been playing with all of us? What twisted path had we been following, like blindfold puppets in some wild dance? Had we no will? Had we no choice?
“So the Fair Folk took you,” I breathed. “Took you from the forest…”
“You know their ways,” he said. “How they cajole, and charm, and delight. How they bully, and play tricks, and terrify. But for this talisman, I would indeed have run mad. Would have lost myself many times over. Would have forgotten all. But I would not let them take it; and at last they gave up and released me, and sent me back. You should have waited, Sorcha. You should have waited just a little longer.”
What could I say? He took the lock of hair from my shaking fingers, and stowed it away again, and put the cord around his neck so that the pouch lay over his heart.
“I told you a story once,” he said. “Do you remember it?”
I nodded. “I remember it. A story of two brothers.”
“You said I could make it end in any way I chose. This path or that. I came to believe you. But you were wrong. I have waited, and waited to find you again. But you married my brother. This, too, he has taken from me.”
There was nothing I could say. I stumbled ahead with words, anyway. “I didn’t know—how could I know?…Do you remember everything? Then why—”
“Who would believe the truth?” he asked, and the blue eyes were for a moment as deep and stark and lonely as his brother’s. “This way is easier. Who would believe, but you?”
We rode on in silence. Ahead of us I could see Red riding alone, leading the way, and behind him four of my brothers, Liam and Diarmid, Cormack and Conor, their horses following his along the track, which had narrowed as the terrain grew steeper. We rode on through the woods, until we reached the place where the trees opened up, and you could see the wide expanse of the sea before you. Across that shining water, in the west, was home. And the forest. My forest.
“We used to come here long ago,” said Simon. “There are seals, sometimes.”
“I know,” I said.
His gaze sharpened. “He brought you here?”
“I have seen the cove,” I said, thinking, I cannot go back there. Don’t make me say good-bye there. I may be strong, but I am not strong enough for that.
“Nobody else knew,” said Simon very quietly. “We told no one of this place. Even Elaine, we never told.”
I said nothing. A little further along the track, the others waited for us. Behind us, Ben and Padriac emerged from the trees and came up at a crisp canter. I saw a huge grin of delight appear on Padriac’s face as he got his first glimpse of the wide, glittering expanse of water which had so astonished me when I had first seen it. As we sat there, looking out to the west, Finbar rode up slowly behind. His eyes showed nothing, and his expression was blank.
“It’s just up there to the north,” said Red. “We keep a boat in the next cove, not far from here. Our man should be ready. You have a good day for it; a fair wind.”
“Have a mind to your sister’s stomach,” put in Ben. “She’s not overkeen on sea voyages.”
All too soon, it seemed, we were gathered on the shore, and by the sea a dour boatman I had met once before was readying his small craft. Padriac, whose ventures had hitherto been confined to the calmer waters of the lake, sprang to help him, and was soon busy with ropes and oars. The horses grazed further up the hill, too well disciplined, or too weary, to wander far. Red had walked away from us, and stood alone on the rocks, looking out to sea.
I said good-bye to Ben, as Liam took my pathetically small bundle of belongings down to the boat, and the others stretched cramped limbs and gazed into the west, across the tumbling waves, across the wide water, straining for some glimpse of the land they knew lay there. Ben hugged me, and said, “Don’t forget us,” and I said how could I forget such a fine head of hair, and that I would pass all his jokes onto my brothers. He turned away and made himself suddenly very busy with a troublesome piece of harness.
“Good-bye, Simon,” I said. He had tucked the little pouch under his shirt again, out of sight. Each of us wore our memories of what might have been.
As I turned away he said, “How can he do this? If you were mine, I would fight to keep you. I would die, before I let you go.” Then Liam called out from down by the water, “Hurry up, Sorcha! We’re almost ready.”
The moment was finally here. Red waited, a still figure on the rocks, his gaze turned on the distant horizon. The gulls screamed overhead. This was a different cove, but the memories still lingered, of that other day. Somehow, I was standing before him, and we looked at each other. Looked at each other, and there might have been no world, save for the two of us. I could find no words. Not a single one. The Fair Folk had warned me my path would be hard. But nothing could have prepared me for something as hard as this. Red, too, was silent. It had been easier for us to understand one another when I had had no voice. Looking at him, I could see how his face might be, when he grew old. A face marked by grooves and lines, where his tears would have flowed, had he allowed himself to weep. His eyes were empty.
“Come on, Sorcha!” yelled Diarmid.
I can’t go. I must go. I blinked back tears, unable to move from where I stood.
“I almost forgot,” said Red. His voice sounded very strange, as if from a long, long distance. He reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
He put it into my hand. A round, shiny, perfect apple, green as new grass with a faint blush of rosy pink. And now his eyes had changed so that I saw what lay there, hidden deep, so deep only the bravest or most foolhardy would seek to find it.
He had always understood me better, without words. So I laid my hand on my heart, held it there for a moment, and then moved it over and touched my palm against his breast. My heart. Your heart.
“Come on, Sorcha, we haven’t got all day!” Padriac shouted.
I turned away, just before the tears began to well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks, and I ran to the boat and was hauled over the side. They pushed it forward, and the wind and waves took us and began to carry us westward, westward over the sea and home to Sevenwaters. And I sat with the apple in my hands, and my eyes fixed on the shore, where he stood like a man carved in stone. Tears blurred my vision, but still I looked back, until all I could see of him was the small bright flame of his hair against the gray and green and white of the shore line. All that he had of her was his memory, where he held every moment, every single moment that she had been his. That was all he had, to keep out the loneliness. But Red would forget. Now that I was gone, he could begin to forget. As for my own heart, it had been torn in two, and I did not think even the best healer in the world could mend it.
Chapter Fifteen
We sailed on through the day and into the night, and whe
n we made landfall it was on our home shore and in darkness. Once at sea, it had become quickly clear that it would be Liam who was in charge from now on, and at the end it was he who directed the boatman by means of precise gestures to a wild stretch of coastland apparently peopled only by wind-battered vegetation and scattered stones. Cormack lifted me out of the boat, and Conor took my bag, and there were the seven of us, standing in the cool of the night on the ground of Erin once more. The small boat vanished away into the darkness with a faint splashing.
My brothers had not been sick. They had enjoyed themselves, almost. Between spasms of retching, I had had time to see the glow of excitement on Padriac’s face as he was allowed a turn at the tiller, as he took his place with sail or oar. Not that my brothers were unfamiliar with little boats; a family of boys does not live so long close to a great lake and not teach itself some skills in going by water. But this was different. I could see in Padriac’s face a vision of far wider seas, a yearning for wild adventure and mysterious lands beyond the reach of maps. I read in his eyes a reflection of what I had seen long ago, when he released the owl from his glove and she spiraled up, up into the endless sky. And I heard Finbar’s inner voice. Soon enough he, too, will fly away. My brother sat silent in the boat, his dark cloak not quite concealing the sweep of white feathers. Be glad of Padriac’s joy. For this homecoming cannot be a triumph.
We had been well provisioned by the household of Harrowfield, and once we had reached the shelter of a patch of woodland, my brothers made camp with the quiet efficiency of long practice. A small lantern was lit, and shielded so that its light spread no further than the little grove where we sat.
“No fire,” said Liam. “Not tonight. And we will not seek horses, though I am eager for home. It is best that we arrive unannounced, and on foot.”
“Sorcha will be tired.” Conor was keeping a close eye on me; watching that I finished every mouthful of the barley bread and bean curd he had given me. “It is a long way; four or five days’ journey, even for us.”
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