Seer of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  “I’ll bid you good morning, Spider,” I said. “Muirrin sent me out for fresh air and exercise, so I’d better make sure I get them.”

  As I was turning away, Knut spoke again. “The man. Very sick. Die soon, yes?” Before I could reply he added, “Sad.”

  Knut did not sound especially sad, but then, his Irish was limited—perhaps he did not realize how blunt his speech sounded.

  “Ardal is still alive.” My tone was sharper than was quite courteous. Out here, with the sunshine on my face and the wind in my hair, I had begun to feel that perhaps everything would be all right; that Ardal would win his fight, and achieve his mission, and . . . I had not thought beyond that point. Knut’s words had conjured images of Ardal racked with coughing, Ardal shaking as he vomited into a basin, Ardal lying insensible on the bed while I tried to see if his chest was still rising and falling. “He won’t die if I have anything to do with it.”

  I turned my back and walked away, striding fast. I did not slow until I was sure I had gone beyond sight of the men. My heart was pounding. I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. This was ridiculous. A druid was serene and composed, striving for wisdom every moment of every day. A single ill-considered remark should not have the power to upset me so much.

  The tracks at this eastern end of Inis Eala were little more than goat paths, narrow and uneven. At some distance ahead there loomed a great rocky outcrop surrounded by grazing sheep. In fact, the rock formation did somewhat resemble an enormous ram. I imagined him as a guardian spirit, watching over these ewes as they ate their breakfast, and the thought made me smile.

  By the time I reached the rocks I was tired. I would sit here a moment, drink some water from the skin I had brought, then go back to the settlement. I had already been away from the infirmary too long.

  Gazing over toward the sea as I drank, I saw something unusual in this stark landscape: a pair of small trees side by side not far from the cliff’s edge. They were of no kind I recognized, and that in itself was surprising, for a druid knows trees. These bore needles of a dark gray-green, and their branches were gnarled and knotted like the fingers of an old man. When I walked over to examine them more closely, I saw a path leading down the cliff to the shore below. And there on the sand, a still figure in his dark cloak, was my brother-in-law Cathal.

  He was alone. He had not seen me. I imagined, if he had come to this out-of-the-way place so early in the day, he did not want company. But I stayed where I was, watching him, unable to make myself move away.

  Cathal was facing the sea, his arms outstretched, palms toward the water. The expression on his face was one of deepest concentration; he looked to be in another world. Every part of his stance told me he was casting a spell. I watched in wonder. Cathal never used his skills in magic on Inis Eala. He had come here to be a man among men. He had come here to forget he was Mac Dara’s son. And yet, here before me, his father’s legacy was on full display.

  The sea stilled. Where only moments earlier the cove had been alive with the wash of waves rolling in and breaking into shivering lace, now the water lay quiet under the morning sky, tranquil as a lake, safe enough for a tiny child to play in. Not the least ripple stirred. I held my breath. I had never seen anything like this. Surely not even Ciarán could perform such a feat.

  Cathal’s arms came down to his sides, and he brought his hands up before him, moving them in a sequence too complex for me to follow. The sea stirred; waves arose once more, coming in to crash each in its turn onto the pale sand. A gull came down and landed beside Cathal, followed by another. Now they were coming in their dozens, alighting on the sand all around him, two on his shoulders, one perched on his dark head, until they formed a gathering of twice fifty or more. For a moment I wondered why it seemed so odd, and then I realized the birds were completely silent: no calling, no squawking, no sound at all. Cathal lifted his arms, and the flock arose as one, winging away to the east.

  I should leave. Either that or I should let Cathal know he had an audience. I opened my mouth to call, but before I could say a word he turned and looked straight up at me. A moment later he was headed up the path.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as he came up to me. “I was out walking and happened to see you. I didn’t think—”

  “That I practiced these arts anymore? I have not done so for some time, Sibeal. It always seemed best not to do anything that might attract my father’s attention. The ward over the island should keep us from his notice, but one can never be completely sure of it. All changes in time. It is perilous to forget that.” Cathal hesitated, giving me a penetrating look. “May I speak further, Sibeal? You have plenty to trouble you just now, I know, but . . . ”

  “Of course. I understand this is in confidence. Such matters are not for spreading abroad.”

  Cathal nodded. “Shall we walk back?” And as we headed off side by side, “I have begun to practice, yes. Since the wreck . . . I hope I never face such a choice again, Sibeal. I know I could have helped those folk, saved lives, and yet I did not act for fear of endangering my own dear ones. No wonder . . . no wonder my dreams have been troubling. What I have seen . . . It seems important to be sure I can still exercise certain special skills. Indeed, I must work to sharpen them.” He was looking particularly grave.

  “You spoke of dreams, Cathal. What kind of dreams?”

  “The same dream has visited me every night since the ship foundered on our reef. It is intense, mysterious, less like a dream than a vision. There is a storm in it, and voices screaming. It’s dark. Full of violence and disruption. I wake with a sense of urgency, but I cannot understand why.”

  My own nights had been visited by images of storm and disquiet, something akin to the scrying visions of those first days. My charcoal runes had not been effective long. “I wonder what it was that came to Inis Eala the day Freyja foundered,” I mused. “Two men and a woman, certainly. And something more.”

  “Even before the wreck, I had begun practicing my craft again. Clodagh knows; nobody else. Our child will be born soon. I will need every weapon I have to keep him safe.”

  “Him?”

  “I pray that it will be a girl, for then Mac Dara’s interest will not be so strong. But I sense that we will have a son. I would do anything, anything at all to ensure my father does not come near our child. If I must counter his magic with magic of my own, I will do it.” A shiver went through his tall frame. “But I hope it will not come to that.”

  “Have you visited the scrying pool, Cathal?” I asked with some hesitation. “That could provide you with some clarity.” With his particular gifts, scrying could indeed provide a window on the future. Whether he would want to look through that window was another matter. I knew that if I had been able to see plain truth in the water, as Cathal could, I might well turn away from scrying altogether.

  “I am too much of a coward for that,” he said. “Besides, the questions I would want to ask fall outside accepted practice—they are too close to my own interests. For now I will simply wait, and hone my skills, and hope. If the dreams persist I will seek your advice again.”

  Cathal walked back with me; if the house builders saw us, perhaps Knut thought that more appropriate than a young woman going out on her own. His odd remark had made me wonder again about Svala and that odd scene at the cove. She had seemed almost a different person when her husband was not close at hand. I must seek her out some time; try again to reach her. But not until Ardal recovered.

  “The yellow flag’s up,” Cathal said as we crested a rise.

  “Yellow flag? What flag?”

  “In the settlement on the mainland. Over there, look.”

  In the distance, to the south, I could make out the bright pennant flying above a rooftop on the far shore. Among the small fishing vessels moored at the mainland jetty a larger boat stood out, one that had not been there yesterday.

  “It means the Connacht men have arrived,” Cathal said. “Someone will go over and fetch them lat
er. We don’t allow visitors to come straight to Inis Eala. Clem checks that everything’s in order before he hoists the signal. The combat display will be tomorrow.”

  “I should think I’ll miss it. I’ll be needed in the infirmary.”

  A silence. When I glanced at him, Cathal gave an odd little smile. “Attached to this fellow Ardal, aren’t you?”

  “Attached. What does that mean?”

  “You’re fond of him.”

  “I did pull him out of the sea, more or less.”

  “Johnny pulled Knut out of the sea. There’s no special fondness there, though Knut has certainly become well-liked.”

  “It’s not quite the same, Cathal. What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  He sighed. “Nothing, Sibeal. I’m hoping you may be able to spare a little time for Clodagh, that’s all. She had great hopes of your visit, but she’s seen little of you. She misses her family, Deirdre in particular. And, from what I hear, Ardal is getting expert attention from our three healers. Clodagh might appreciate your company for the combat display in particular. She gets anxious when I’m involved in such things, especially now, while she’s carrying the child.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish. Of course I’ll be there.”

  “Selfish? No, Sibeal, quite the opposite. Think of this as a personal favor I’m asking. I love my wife. I want her to be happy. That is why I . . . ”

  That is why I practice magic, even when in the longer term it may endanger those I love best.

  “I know, Cathal,” I said.

  I spent the rest of the day in the infirmary. Ardal seemed to be holding his own, and at one point even whispered in Irish, “Thank you, Sibeal.” This brought tears flooding to my eyes, and I saw Muirrin looking at me oddly. When Gull finally ordered me off to bed, I retreated to my chamber and a restless sleep in which the same dreams returned: mountainous seas, impossible cliffs, screams, blood, darkness.

  In the morning, after a noisy breakfast in the dining hall—the Connacht men swelled the number of warriors, filling the place, and everyone seemed to be talking at once—all I wanted to do was spend the day by Ardal’s side. Perhaps he would say more today. Perhaps he would start to talk to me properly. But I had made a promise, so I sought out Clodagh in the cramped space she and Cathal shared in the married quarters. My sister was rummaging through a storage chest.

  “Ah, there it is!” Clodagh said, fishing out a skein of wool and adding it to her basket. “This green is for Spider’s cloak. I’m making each of the men who has helped build our house a new garment fashioned in his choice of pattern and colors.”

  I knew without asking that she would have done everything herself: spinning, dyeing, weaving, sewing. A gift of her own hands, as the house was of theirs. Along with her clever fingers, Clodagh had always had a generous heart.

  “Spider told me you’d been up to see the house,” she said as we headed out toward the work room. “Aren’t they doing a wonderful job? I love the way people work here. Even the most mundane tasks are carried out with such care. You could almost call it joy.”

  It was true. I only had to watch Biddy cooking or Sam polishing a sword or Gull cutting herbs in the garden to know it. “It’s odd,” I said. “I mean, this place is a training ground for warriors. It prepares men to deliver hurt and death. And yet people do their work as a druid does, in an awareness of wonder. With a knowledge that the breath of the gods flows through their bodies and quickens their blood.”

  “Johnny doesn’t keep this place going in order to whip up conflict, Sibeal,” Clodagh said. “He provides training so that, when they have to fight, people know how to do it properly. There are men here who haven’t much to offer the world except their combat skills. Men who, if they did not have a home and a role on the island, would have nowhere to go and nothing to live for.”

  I considered the small number of islanders who remained from the original outlaw band. Gull, Spider, Rat, the absent Snake. A handful of others. “It won’t always be that way,” I said.

  “No, Sibeal. And Johnny won’t always be here to lead them. When Father dies, he’ll be chieftain of Sevenwaters, and will have to give this up. I believe the community will keep going. Someone else will become leader. You say it’s odd that the people here live their lives in the knowledge of goodness, with the purpose of the island being warcraft. But Erin was founded on war. Men will always fight; it’s in their nature. They may as well be properly prepared for it.”

  My mind had wandered down a different track. “Would Cathal become leader here when Johnny moves on?” I asked.

  A long pause. Clodagh rubbed at an invisible speck on her sleeve, not looking at me. “You know me, Sibeal,” she said eventually, her tone constrained. “I’m an ordinary woman with no visionary abilities at all. But I feel in my bones that we’ll be gone from here before that time. My instincts tell me Cathal will be caught up in momentous events whether he wants it or not. I hope I’m wrong. I would be perfectly happy to stay on Inis Eala.” After a moment she added, “I do miss the family. I wish I could see Eilis and Finbar and our parents sometimes. And I’d love to visit Deirdre. I can’t believe my own twin has two children and I’ve never even seen them. But I’ve made my choice, and I wouldn’t change that.”

  As we walked across the yard, the men were heading over to their practice area, a circular enclosure surrounded by a double stone wall higher than a tall man. Clodagh led me with confidence against the flow of warriors—they stepped courteously aside to let us pass—and into the long thatched building, where two little girls were busily carding wool while women plied distaff and spindle or worked at looms. A basket by one woman’s side contained a sleeping baby. A fire crackled on a hearth, warming the room so fingers would not be too stiff for delicate crafts. Morning sun streamed in through the open shutters, bathing the orderly scene in light.

  Clodagh admired one woman’s weaving and another’s embroidery, then fetched her distaff and spindle and a basket of carded wool, and started spinning a fine, even thread. I found some plain mending to do—our mother had made sure we were all competent in such skills—and settled beside her. The women had plenty to talk about. I found myself answering a flood of questions about what it was like for a girl to be a druid and why I would choose such a life. I answered as well as I could, and in turn heard much about the various paths that had brought these women to the unusual community of Inis Eala.

  Alba, whose brother Niall was one of Johnny’s men, had run away from home rather than be wed in payment of a family debt. The debt had been quietly settled; Johnny had a talent for making things happen without undue fuss. Alba had not brought any particular skills with her, other than the ability to play the fiddle and sing, but she had found her place here. “I mend nets and look after children,” she said with a grin. “And I suppose I might make someone a good wife, when I decide whom I like best. Aren’t you sad to miss all that, Sibeal?”

  “If she was,” Clodagh said crisply, “I don’t suppose she would have done all those years of preparation to be a druid.”

  “It’s a fair question,” I said. “No, I don’t think I will miss what I’ve never had. A druid has a close bond with the gods; closer, I believe, than the bond between a wife and her husband, or between a mother and her child.”

  Now it was Clodagh who looked at me askance.

  “You don’t agree?” I said.

  “I can’t possibly say, Sibeal, never having had a spiritual vocation. And nor can you, never having had a sweetheart or been a mother. It’s hard for me to believe anything is stronger than the bond between parent and child. A mother would do anything to keep her baby safe. Anything.”

  I could not argue with her. Although her own child was not yet born, Clodagh had proven her theory already, when she journeyed to the Otherworld to wrest our baby brother from Mac Dara’s clutches, and at the same time returned a child of that uncanny realm to his own mother.

  “Maybe some of us are not cut ou
t for motherhood,” I said. “I know the path I’ve chosen is the one I must take. I’ve always known.”

  “You’re lucky, then,” said a rosy-cheeked girl named Suanach. “Lucky you were so sure, and lucky you had a choice. Some of us didn’t; at least, not until we came here to the island. Look at Flidais.”

  The slender, delicate Flidais had told her story already, and a dark one it was: she had fled an abusive family, and had arrived in the settlement across the water with no more than the clothing on her back. Time had healed her wounds, both those of the body and those of the mind. Now she was wed to the much older Rat, and their daughter was one of the two children busy with the wool.

  “Of course,” one of the other women said, “anyone’s path can take a twist and a turn. Even yours, Sibeal. What if you decided to use your talents, not as a druid, but as a scribe or musician? A wandering storyteller?”

  I had finished my seam. “It doesn’t feel like my own decision,” I told her. “If the gods call me to follow a certain path, that is the way I must go. Even if my personal inclination draws me elsewhere.”

  Suddenly everyone’s attention was on me.

  “Not that it does,” I added hastily, feeling an unwelcome blush rise to my cheeks. “I did not come here with the idea of snaring a likely husband. Although I suppose there would be plenty offering in a place like this.”

  “Speaking of storytellers and musicians,” said Alba, perhaps seeing my embarrassment, “Johnny has said we can have entertainment after supper tonight, in honor of our visitors’ arrival. No dancing; it’s too soon for that. Still, it should be fun. Sibeal, will you give us a tale? I expect you have a rare talent for it, being a druid. Niall and I will provide the music, with one or two others.”

  “Of course,” I said, but my heart sank. The way things were going, I would be spending very little of today in the infirmary. I’m sorry, I said in my mind, hoping, foolishly, that somehow he would hear it.