Spirit of the Mist

by Janeen O'Kerry

  “The crossing will be no less dangerous.”

  “But the crossing is necessary! And no one will be attacking us during it! We will not be surrounded by enemies and flames!”

  She reached up and touched the side of his face. “I am the one who can help you in a place such as the crossing, where swords can do no good…and I may well be able to help you in the battle to come with Odhran.” She stared deep into his eyes.

  “You know this, Brendan, just as I know it. I am not afraid, for our fates are now joined, and we will face our future together, whatever it may be.”

  He took her hand and clasped his fingers through hers.

  “Your kingship has returned,” Muriel said.

  “It never left me,” Brendan answered. They embraced, stronger than ever, unafraid of what might lay ahead.

  They drew back from each other just as Darragh approached. “Everything is ready,” he said. “There wasn’t that much to pack, as you can imagine. We can leave as soon as you wish.”

  “We are ready. Just let me get my extra cloak,” Muriel said.

  “Of course, you would not want to leave your lovely cloak,” said Brendan, laughing a little. “I am sure you would not want to be without it—in whatever sort of home we may come to live in.”

  He grinned, and she grinned back, both of them renewed and energized by their newly reclaimed powers and by the task that lay ahead of them.

  Muriel walked the few steps to her bedroll and picked up both her ragged brown servant’s cloak and the wide strip of leather beneath. From the bundle, a tiny bunch of flowers rolled out across the mossy ground.

  Stunned, Muriel reached down and picked up the little bouquet. It was three stems of spring gentian, the dark purple-blue flower with petals like a five-pointed star. There had been no flowers growing here when they first arrived. But somehow this fragile little plant had managed to find its way out here to this empty, windswept island and take root. Sometime earlier during the day, Brendan must have gathered enough to make her a surprise gift.

  She looked up to see him standing over her and smiling. “I once promised you, my lady, that there would always be flowers. For some time, I forgot that promise in the fear and hardship that we faced here. But I have learned that—even in a place such as this—wherever you and I are together, there will always be flowers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Carrying the last of their belongings in the worn leather sacks, the little company made its way down the shadowed, twisting path to the sea far below. And Muriel saw, as they crept through the darkness, that a mist was beginning to form in the low mossy crevices of the rocks.

  At first she did not know whether to feel relief or fear—fear because a rising mist could make their crossing even more hazardous, or relief because a mist could also be the forerunner of rain. Rain would help to put out the fires consuming Dun Bochna.

  But the mist faded and vanished as they reached the base of the island, leaving their journey—and the danger to come—clearly visible in the brilliant night.

  The curragh was a dark form in the moonlight. It rested high on the slanted rock, just out of reach of the treacherous waves. Brendan jumped into it, as did Gill and Duff, and began throwing out the large, heavy rocks that kept the leather boat from being swept away in the wind and water.

  As soon as he finished, Muriel took Brendan’s hand and stepped into the curragh. She held tight to one side as the other men shoved the boat halfway into the water and then quickly stepped inside.

  In a moment, the sea had them. It lifted the crowded little boat and sent it into a sudden backward dive into the deep trough of a wave almost before the men could get paddles over the side.

  “Get it turned around!” Brendan shouted. “Turn it around!”

  With all the strength they possessed, the group worked against the sea to force the small curragh to turn and head for the mainland. But there was another sudden backward drop into a huge trough.

  Muriel looked up to see the crest of a monstrous wave towering over them.

  “Muriel!” cried Brendan.

  He was right. The men could do no more. Now it was up to her.

  Wedging herself into the prow of the boat, Muriel reached over the sides and plunged her hands into the sea. Calm, she thought to it. Calm. Smooth. Though her heart pounded and fear threatened to overwhelm her, she forced herself to keep still and concentrate. Calm.

  The curragh rode high, and then higher still, up the side of the enormous swell. After what seemed like forever, it lowered back down to the surface of the sea, and Muriel knew that the monstrous wave had subsided enough that they would not be swallowed.

  Though the night was calm, the water was not—especially here around the isle. The boat continued to ride huge waves as it backed away from the cove. Muriel stayed in the prow, with her hands stretched into the water, to help the little craft along. Up and down, up and down, dry night air and cold seawater alternating against her skin, she kept her eyes shut and thought only of the sea, of calming the sea, of gentling the powerful waves.

  Calm… Smooth…

  The men worked again with the paddles, and slowly the boat lumbered around. Raising her eyes, Muriel could see the dark mainland ahead of her, set off by the glowing moonlit sky, land that was entirely black except for the ominous orange-yellow spot that burned straight ahead.

  The waves eased somewhat as they made progress away from the isle of Rocks. Muriel’s hands remained in the water now, so smoothly did the boat travel forward, yet she began to realize that the smooth sea created yet another problem: the calm waters here gave them very little tide to carry them forward. She could hear the labored breathing of the men, already weakened by many days of poor food and exposure to wind and rain, as they struggled to get the heavily loaded curragh to Dun Bochna.

  It would take them far too long at this rate. They were barely halfway to the Island of the Birds and the mainland lay much, much farther away. It would be up to her to help them again.

  Muriel leaned as far out over the front of the boat as she could get and then reached into the water as far as possible, stretching her fingers wide. She kept thoughts of a cairn, smooth sea in the back of her mind, but added to it the picture of a group of smooth gray swimmers…the friendly, smiling ones with seemingly limitless strength.

  Let us borrow your strength, friends. Help us reach the land. Many of us will die if we do not reach it now. Let us borrow your strength!

  There was a sudden sharp thump against the bottom of the boat. Then came another, and another—and the curragh seemed to rise up and shoot forward, heading straight for the distant orange glow far away on the land.

  Behind her, the men slowed their paddling. All of them sat back and took the opportunity to catch their breath. On either side of the curragh, out on the moonlit sea, dolphins leaped and splashed as they took turns pushing and keeping pace with the rapidly moving boat.

  Now they approached the Island of the Birds. It was a looming shadow covered with a blanket of dirty white, silent now since its thousands of inhabitants had settled in to roost for the night. Muriel shuddered at the memory of the last time they’d passed the isle. On this occasion, however, they spent little time in its shadows, for their escort of dolphins was hurtling them past it and into the open sea that lay between them and the mainland.

  As they traveled the long dark stretch of water, the sudden sharp thumps on the curragh’s hull were reminders of the dolphins’ amazing aid. The curragh continued to fly over the moonlit sea as Muriel kept her hands in the cold rushing water and thought of calmness…smoothness…and the great strength of these laughing children of the sea who drove them forward. She closed her eyes and felt the power flow through her.

  There was a sudden drop. The curragh slowed, pitching all of its occupants forward. For a moment Muriel found herself nearly shoulder-deep in water as a swell washed up over the front of the boat. She opened her eyes to see the dolphins flee, leaping int
o the air as they returned to the open sea. And then Muriel realized her fingers brushed the rough sand and shells of the seabed—just as Brendan and Gill jumped out into the waves and shoved the heavy curragh up onto the beach.

  Slowly Muriel sat up. Her dark hair fell into her face. The long journey spent controlling the ocean had left her arms cold and aching, but most of all she felt acutely drained—drained and exhausted from the effort.

  Yet she was exultant. They were here. They were safe. She raised her aching arms and allowed Brendan to help her out onto the narrow strip of sand upon which they had landed.

  All of them looked up to see a mass of flames rising into the blackness above, there at the edge of the cliff where Dun Bochna lay, raising a terrible glow against the clear night sky and swallowing the stars in its glare.

  Brendan was the first to turn away. “Quickly, now. Darragh, Killian, take off any sign of your not being a servant. Pull off the gold brooches, the bright wool cloaks—though they are not so bright now!” He gave a wry chuckle. “Your boots are so worn that any other servant would refuse to wear them—no need to take them off. Here are our two last undyed cloaks. Put them on. That’s it.”

  Brendan and his two warriors threw their rectangular cloaks over their heads, pushing their plain bronze brooches through the coarse brown wool. “Hide your swords and daggers beneath the cloaks. Now, Muriel…” He took her by the shoulders. “Please do this for me. Please stay here on the beach, stay here where I can hope that you are safe. I will come back for you as soon as…as soon as I have made sure that Odhran will never threaten anyone again.”

  Muriel could only look up at him. She had been the one to tell him, out on the island, that he must go to Dun Bochna as a servant and not a warrior—but now she felt paralyzed at the thought of seeing him walk up that path that led only to fire and battle and death.

  She looked into those blue and brown eyes of his, one light and one dark, in the glow of the moon. “How can I stand here and watch you walk alone into the flames?”

  “But I am not alone. I have Darragh and Killian, and I have my father and his friends.” From the shadows, Gill raised his head.

  “We need not fight their whole army,” Brendan went on. “I need only slip inside and get to Odhran. Once the invaders have no king, they will flee back to their own land. It is always so.”

  Muriel took hold of his arms. “I know that I told you to do this thing, to dress as a servant and slip inside, but look at Dun Bochna now! How can you possibly hope to save any of it, much less get to Odhran, when the whole place is going up in flames?”

  Brendan glanced up at the glowing orange sky. “We must believe. And we shall save what we can. That is why I have come. And Muriel…”

  He pressed her hand to his heart. “You were right before—about my needing you. You can help me save our home. The flames consume it. What does Dun Bochna need right now, more than swords, more than anything, to save it from the fire?”

  She stared at him. “Rain,” she answered. “Torrential rain. But the sky is clear! There will be no rain tonight!”

  “Think of it, Muriel,” he said urgently, touching his forehead to her own. “You have power over the water like no one I have ever known. Call upon the rain and bring it here!”

  “The rain…” She shook her head. “What power I have lies with the waters of the sea, not with rivers or rain. I cannot make it rain. I have never been able to make it rain!”

  “My lady, you have done many things that you thought you could not do. You are more powerful than any of your forebears—you must see that after tonight. Help me. Do it for love. Bring the rain that will put out those fires.”

  He pulled her close, and kissed her, then stepped back. “I must go now, or there will be no people left to help. When we return, we will meet you here. Stay safe, and keep my love with you—use it all to make it rain.”

  Muriel watched as the shadows of her husband, Gill, Duff, Cole, Darragh, and Killian moved quickly and silently up the winding path toward the fiercely burning dun. When they disappeared above the top of the cliff, Muriel stood and stared at the spot. She feared that Brendan might never return. Yet after a moment she took a deep breath, picked up the hem of her long, ragged skirts, and began to run toward the sea. She had a duty to him—and to his people.

  She turned as she reached the edge of the water, splashing through the shallows, following the beach toward the place, nearest where the fires burned directly above. As she ran, she reached up and pulled the golden dolphin brooch from her worn blue cloak and let both fall to the sand. They were quickly followed by her brown leather belt with its gold ring.

  Soon she reached the foot of the cliff where the stone half rings of Dun Bochna met the edge of the precipice. Those stone walls now enclosed a raging inferno.

  As she stood below the dun, her breath coming quickly now, she reached down and untied the worn leather strings of her battered boots and kicked them off. Last of all she pulled her blue-and-cream-plaid gown over her head and threw it aside.

  Now she wore only her cream-colored linen undergown, loose and flowing to her ankles, dirty and ragged from those many long days spent on the Island of the Rocks. Her wrists and throat were bare. Her hair hung long and loose and unadorned. There was nothing about her to say she was a highborn woman, much less that she was a queen; there was nothing to set her apart from any other servant.

  Just as Brendan had willingly become a servant when he could not be a king, she would do the same, surrendering her station to become as one with the humblest creatures of the earth and the sky and the sea…for if she became one of them, their powers might become accessible to her in ways that would never be possible if she remained closed off by thick clothes and heavy gold and protective stone walls.

  Now she was a servant of the elements, a handmaiden of the natural world, for it was the only hope she had of saving her husband’s life.

  Moving in silence, and as quickly as they dared, Brendan and his five men reached the top of the cliff—and shielded their eyes from the glare of the billowing red-orange flames that suddenly came into view.

  It seemed as if the whole front end of Dun Bochna was on fire. The heavy smoke barely moved at all in the warm, still air, leaving it hanging over the burning rooftops in a thick pall lit from below by the flames.

  Then the sound reached them, the roaring and snapping of the fire, and the shouting and crying of the dun’s people as they ran back and forth in the blaze. And the smell reached them, too: the smell of smoke from the burning wood and thatching of the houses, the scorched odor of metal and earth.

  They hurried around the great length of the outer stone wall until they were at the gates. Brendan shook his head. “I was afraid these would be shut,” he said. Instead, the massive wooden gates lay half-open, one beginning to smolder from the flying sparks. Men and women hurried frantically through them with buckets, a stream of those who were futilely attempting to end the inferno inside.

  “Come with me,” Brendan called to his men. “Draw your swords, your daggers, and hide them under your cloaks. And stay close. Remember, we’re looking for Odhran.”

  They crowded together and ran inside, pulling up their cloaks against the onslaught of heat and smoke. The flames roared in their ears, and they heard the crashing of roofs caving in.

  There was also the heartrending sound of horses and cattle shrieking in fear and agony as the fire reached their wooden pens. Brendan could see the panicked horses plunging back and forth in the heat and smoke, the terrified cattle milling about and pushing up against the smoldering rails of their pens. But there was no one to help. All the dun’s inhabitants seemed enveloped in chaos, were only struggling to get themselves out of their houses and out of the dun.

  Someone clutched Brendan’s arm. He turned to see Gill looking meaningfully at the trapped animals. “Yes. Go,” Brendan aid. His father was not trained to fight but this would be a valuable aid to the dun. “Take Duff and Cole w
ith you. And I expect to see all three of you safe and whole when this is over.”

  “We expect the same of you,” said Gill. The two slapped each other’s shoulders, and then the three ex-slaves ran toward the horse and cattle pens. Brendan and his friends continued on toward the King’s Hall, which was as yet untouched by the flames.

  Odhran and his men surely would be there.

  Muriel dashed ankle-deep into the cold, rushing sea, into the foam sliding gently back and forth across the sand. Raising her arms, she gazed far out to the moonlit horizon and thought with the utmost concentration of mist and cloud, of water and storm. She willed a thunderhead to form out there, far out to sea, from whence the rainstorms always came flying in—

  Mist and cloud, water and storm! Come together over the sea, come to Dun Bochna, come to me! Mist and cloud, water and storm…

  Again and again she repeated the words in her mind, staring at the sky where it met the sea, hoping to see dark clouds rise up and surge toward her—to bring the rain that would save her husband’s home.

  She saw nothing but clear black sky, glittering with stars and lit by the shining white moon…and behind her, the wavering glare of flames high overhead, growing brighter with each passing moment.

  Throwing their cloaks around their faces in an effort to block out the smoke, Brendan, Darragh, and Killian hurried through the grounds of the dun, avoiding burning houses and dodging panicked people who raced about trying to save their belongings. As they passed the last of the flaming dwellings, its roof fell in with a terrible crash, and sent up a shower of flying sparks and burning chunks of straw.

  The three men stood for a moment in the heated air, trying to breathe, and then jumped back into the shadows as some twenty of Odhran’s warriors, all wearing swords and daggers and all carrying rope nets and empty leather sacks, walked towards the King’s Hall as calmly as if they had just arrived for dinner.

  With smoke trailing past their faces, Brendan and his men peered out at the invaders from behind their cloaks. Brendan’s grip tightened on the concealed hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to stay still.