by Annie Bellet
And I’d be trapped at this pond. I’d have to sleep in her bed, wear her clothes, and become the Lady. Forever.
She realized she’d been staring off into the water over the Seren’s shoulder and shifted her green gaze back to the Lady. “No. I’d like my next task,” she said and then added as an afterthought, “please.”
Seren’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. I need strands of hair from the tail of the March Cann.”
“A Fairy steed? Where will I find this creature? And how much hair do you need?”
“You ask so many questions.” Seren sighed. “To the north lies a lake. In the middle of the lake is an island formed of drowning oak trees. The March Cann can be found there. I need at least two strands, clearly.”
Before Áine could ask anything more Seren turned and slipped into her cottage, the heavy door closing behind her. Áine ran a hand through her tangled hair.
“I hate it when she does that,” she muttered. A soft laugh echoed across the clearing and Áine snatched her pack from the ground and turned away.
She put the sinking sun on her left and walked toward where this lake might be, shoving away all bloody thoughts about the contents of her pack and Seren’s slender throat.
She walked until it grew dark, then called a little ball of light and walked until her legs and feet demanded rest. Áine released her light and wrapped herself in her cloak. She forced herself to eat some bread and then curled against a tree, Idrys’s little wooden horse clutched in her hand.
The bright birdsong of early morning woke her and, after a quick breakfast, Áine set out again. She kept herself pointed north, putting one foot in front of the other. In some places the forest grew too dense and she had to pick a careful path through the brush and brambles. She felt as though she made no progress, that she’d be trapped in this wood forever. The trees here were younger and grew so close together that Áine couldn’t see the sun, only its light filtering in through the canopy, green and diffused.
Sweat ran in trickles down her back and between her breasts. Her hands stung from tiny cuts. The light grew dimmer and Áine paused to pull another twig from her hair. She wished for her braids, but her hair was still far too short to pull away from her face or the entangling vegetation.
Áine heard the sound of frogs ahead and hope grew in her heart. She had to be close. She shoved her way through another thicket of young poplar and wild cherry saplings clotted around with ferns and abruptly found herself knee deep in cold water.
The forest gave way without warning. Áine gasped at the shock of the water closing over her feet and at the huge expanse of the lake in front of her. Water spread out dark and glassy as far as she could see. The sunlight glinted off its surface in places while other bits of the lake were obscured by wisps of mist the sun couldn’t burn away.
Áine twisted around and pulled herself out of the water and back into the thicket. The lake mud sucked at her shoes and threatened to steal them from her but she managed to pull her feet out carefully. Her skirt was soaked up nearly to her thighs and her shoes were a mess. Áine used a handful of leaves to get the worst of the mud off and then tied the shoes to the strap of her pack. She pulled her skirt up and tucked as much as she could into her belt. Then she held on to a slim poplar trunk and looked out over the lake.
Off in the distance, she saw a dark shape. She hoped that was the island but saw no good way to reach it. Áine looked at the forest that stretched to either side and arched around the lake toward the horizon. She wondered if her knife would cut down trees. Perhaps she could make a raft of some sort and pole her way across the lake. She chuckled at the idea and sighed. Time to get wet, silly girl.
Adjusting her belt, she bunched skirt to beneath her breasts and stepped barefoot into the water. She held her pack above her head and waded carefully out into the lake. The water stayed at the level of her knees. Little insects dodged away from her along the surface as she walked and the hum of birdsong drifted over the lake. The unseen frogs grew silent around her as she disturbed the lakebed.
Slowly the water deepened until Áine was up to her hips. The cold mud dragged at her feet but the sun shone welcome warmth on her head and back. Her arms ached from holding the pack up and she let it rest on her head as her shoulders slumped. The dark shape in the distance became clearer and clearer as she walked until, after what felt an eternity, Áine made out the shape of a grove of huge spreading oaks rising from the lake.
The sun dropped to the level of the lake and poured a bright spear of light across the surface as though pointing to the grove, Áine reached it and clambered out of the water up onto the huge roots of one of the trees.
The island was made up of five ancient oaks unlike any Áine had seen before. The bark was silver and black and the whispering leaves overhead held all the greens, golds, and russets of spring and autumn mixed. Áine set her pack down in the crook of the nearest tree and let her skirts down.
The roots tangled among each other, creating a platform above the rippling lake. Áine chose the thickest, widest part and sat down to rest and consider her options. The March Cann was clearly not on the little island at the moment.
Áine kicked herself for not asking more questions of Seren. She knew that Seren would disappear as soon as she was able; after all, it seemed to be the Lady’s pattern to give Áine as little chance for information as possible. The fairy steed might appear in an hour, or only once a year.
“Or once a century,” Áine muttered. She tried to count up how long she’d been in Cymru-that-could-be. A week? No, longer. A fortnight? She decided that down that path lay only madness.
The sunlight died slowly and a breeze drifted over the lake. The frogs resumed their garbled songs. Áine wrung out her damp skirt and pulled her cloak from the pack. She pulled out an apple as well and sent a grateful thought toward Blodeuedd for the gift of the pack and its contents. If she had to wait a year or one hundred, at least she wouldn’t starve. “Though I might die of boredom and despair.”
Áine sat down with her back to the one of the great oaks and curled into her cloak. She didn’t call a ball of light, worried that she might scare off the fairy steed if it came in the night. After a while the sound of the rippling lake and her own exhaustion pulled her down into sleep.
The whirring of wings and a bright glow woke her. The moon rode high in the clear sky and a creature of legend descended to the sunken oaks. Áine’s eyes flew open and she forced herself to stay still as the March Cann settled down onto the roots in front of her, its head turned away, looking out over the lake.
It was taller than any horse she’d seen, but its body was whip thin with three sets of wings extending from its withers and spine, more like a dragonfly’s wings than a bird’s. The fairy steed’s body shone with shifting light, orange, yellow, blue, and purple, shining like a rainbow at the edge of where sky meets horizon, bright and diffused all at once.
The March Cann touched down on cloven hooves like those of an ox, its hair feathered at the legs and joints. Áine gasped and the creature turned its head. She held perfectly still, wondering if the two spiraling silvery horns on its forehead were dangerous or only ornamental. She hoped the latter.
Multi-colored eyes stared at her for a moment and then it curved its slender neck back toward the water. Áine shifted slowly and looked out past it to see what the fairy steed might be looking at.
There, out on the water, thousands of iridescent moths danced in and out of the lance of moonlight where it touched the lake. The insects swirled and wove pattern after pattern until she could almost see the story they told. Was that a pack of hunting hounds? There, that pattern, was that a stag? A hunting horn? A sword held by a woman in a flowing robe?
Áine shivered and let her cloak drop slowly. Mentally she shook herself and tore her eyes away from the dance. The March Cann stood still, apparently transfixed by the moths and the story they told.
Áine crept closer, each footstep and scrap of skirt on tree r
oot sounding like the slamming of door or the breaking of a thousand sticks in her mind. The fairy steed did not shift or look her way.
She drew so near she could see its hair waving in the breeze, feel the warmth of its body, see its sides move as it breathed. No, he; this close Áine could tell that the March Cann was clearly a male. His tail was thick and long, the strands multi-colored like his fur. Áine chose two purple ones and achingly slowly stretched out her hand to grip them.
The moment her fingers touched the steed, he jerked, coming alive again and leapt up and away from the island in surprise. Áine gripped the hairs, yanking with all the strength in her arm. She might as well have tried to uproot one of the ancient oaks she stood upon for all the effect it had. For a dizzying moment, the strength of her grip and the fairy steed’s tail warred as he lifted her clear of the ground.
Then a rear hoof struck out and slammed into her shoulder. Áine lost her grip and fell back to the roots, her left ankle turning beneath her.
She lay gasping; her sore hand trailed in the water between the roots of the oaks and her other set tight against the burning pain her shoulder. The March Cann flew up into the sky, spiraling higher and higher until Áine lost track of him among the stars.
“Get up,” she hissed. “Your shoulder is dislocated. Get up.”
The searing pain in her shoulder overshadowed the sharp ache in her ankle as she shifted to kneel, and then stand. Áine limped back to the more solid part of the roots and felt around the shoulder joint of her right arm. It was certainly dislocated. She took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. There’d be quite the bruise on her chest tomorrow.
Áine had reset dislocated shoulders before, but never on herself. She tried rotating her arm with her elbow bent placing her forearm parallel to the ground, but though she could feel things shifting, she couldn’t get enough force on her own to pop the joint back into place. She gritted her teeth and looked at the wide trunk of the oak she’d been sleeping under.
She jammed her left fist into her upper arm to help stabilize and then hobbled up to the tree. Closing her eyes, she threw her body forward, jamming her shoulder into the tree. With a horrible grinding sound and pain so harsh it brought instant tears to her eyes and a raw cry to her throat, her arm slipped back into place. The pain faded immediately to just a dull ache and Áine whimpered in relief. She sank down and pulled her cloak around herself.
Though she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself up and wallow in misery at her utter failure to procure hairs from the March Cann’s tail, Áine’s healer instincts warned her she had to deal with her ankle as well. She cut the rag from her old dress into three strips and bound the sprain tightly. That done, she put Trahaearn’s knife away and lay back against the oak. Out over the lake, the moths still danced in hypnotic patterns, but all the wonder had bled from Áine’s mind.
Would the March Cann return? How long must she wait? And how would she get the hairs free? She gingerly set her injured leg out in front of her and sighed.
The knife. Of course. She could use that to cut free hairs from the fairy steed’s tail. If he returned. If, if, if. Áine rubbed at her eyes as her tears finally overflowed. A few escaped her hands and touched the wood, turning to pearls that shimmered for a moment before sliding between the roots to sink beneath the lake.
* * *
Emyr opened the door to his room and let Idrys out into the hall. He turned back to finish dressing and walked to the window. Unlatching the casement, Emyr leaned out the opening to get a feel for the weather that morning.
Spring mists clung to the buildings in the dawn light, lending a surreal touch to the village. It was still chilly but Emyr guessed the sun would burn away the mist and they might have a more or less clear spring day. He started to pull the wooden shutters back closed but stopped as something caught his eye. A weak ray of sunlight sparkled on two tiny white droplets resting on the window’s ledge.
Emyr’s heart leapt into his throat as he realized what they were. Pearls. Two perfect teardrop pearls that he guessed would be a match to the one even now resting in his beltpouch. He snatched them up and threw wide the casement, dark eyes searching the passages between the buildings.
Nothing stirred and he managed to stop himself from yelling her name. “Áine,” he whispered. “Áine.”
Two pearls. Two years. Does it mean something? Emyr clenched his teeth and abruptly threw the pearls away, out into the muddy ground beyond. Does it mean wait? Two more years? Why? What’s the point of waiting for a woman who walks away the moment a terrible secret is shared? Can you see us, Áine? Do you see our hollow hearts, our hungry eyes?
He slammed the shutters closed and wrapped his arms around his chest. He could feel more ribs than usual, even after as hard a winter as the last had been. Idrys had grown thin as well; both of them were locked into a war between hope and despair, trapped in the monotony of their own lies, of the curse.
“We’re lost, more lost than if you had never come into our lives,” he murmured. “Without you, there is only hope, and we’re running thin on that, aren’t we?”
Before her, there was no hope at all, a traitorous voice in his mind whispered.
With a soft cry, Emyr turned back to the window and opened it again. He climbed through the opening, barefoot in only his pants, and bent to search the freezing mud. He found the pearls, one a mere arm’s length from the other.
He clambered back through his window and rinsed his muddy hands and feet off in the basin near the hearth. Then Emyr added the two pearl tears to the third in his belt pouch.
Three pearls. Mother is silently pressing us to move on, to attend to our duty as Llynwg’s Chief. One more winter, Áine. I can give that much, just come home to us; I promise we’ll forgive the absence. Please come home.
* * *
Áine slept fitfully throughout the remainder of the night and into the day. The sun was high overhead before her stomach reminded her that she still needed to eat. She rose reluctantly and pulled bread free from her pack. Her ankle felt tight and ached but looked well enough. Her shoulder was a different story. She pulled aside the neck of her gown and winced at the deep purple and red bruising that traced the hoof of the March Cann.
Mechanically, Áine chewed her bread and drank from the waterskin as she considered the coming night. She couldn’t try the same thing again. Assuming the steed showed again and landed in the same place, she’d likely face the same outcome without a better plan.
She recalled the speed at which the creature had reacted to her touch. There was no way she’d get a good grip on its tail and have time to bring up the blade with her other hand before it pulled her off the ground again, especially since her right arm was already injured and therefore slowed.
Shaking the crumbs out of her skirt, Áine watched absently as they filtered between the roots and into the lake. She jerked and looked over to where the fairy steed had landed the night before.
The roots there were thinner, more spread out as they arched gently above the water. There was room enough between some for her to squeeze herself down and the lake here was only waist deep. She could hide there to the side, and out of range of the steed’s powerful kicks. She’d be pulled into the air; she knew there was likely no way to avoid it. But she hoped she’d cut the hairs before they flew too high, and the lake would cushion her fall if she landed in the water.
Her plan firmly in mind, Áine sat back against the broad oak to wait for dark. She wasn’t thrilled at her chances and held Idrys’s little wooden horse in her palm, rubbing a thumb over it.
Emyr had been teaching her to ride. She wished he’d taught her more, that she’d had more time, more skill. A true heroine, like one from the tales Tesn had told her as a little girl, would leap fearlessly to the fairy steed’s back and ride it into the sky until the creature grew tired and had to land. Then she would climb down and triumphantly cut free two perfect strands of hair from its tail and stride back to the evil fey Lady
and demand the curse be broken.
Áine snorted and tucked the little horse away in her pack again. Too bad I’m all they’ve got, isn’t it?
The day passed with the sluggishness only boredom can lend. Áine ran through every recipe and cure for every common ailment she could think of before abandoning that to make little oakleaf boats that she sent out on the lake. The pain in her shoulder died down to the ache of a bad bruise and her ankle let her put a little weight on it by the time the sun slipped down behind the forest.
Áine put her pack up in the tree after tucking her dress, belt, and cloak safely inside. She kept only the knife, removed from its sheath and gold wrappings. Her right hand’s grip still felt weak to her, so she put the knife in that hand and decided she’d use her left to catch the tail when the time came. If the time came.
The lake water was cold and her feet sank into the mud up to her ankles. She could feel submerged edges of smaller roots beneath her feet and against her thighs as she slid down into her hiding place. Gods, let this work, please.
The stars emerged and the moon peeked over the lake to the east. Crouching there in the dark, Áine fought the cold and her own doubts. Emyr, Idrys, I’m a world away from you. Did I only imagine your love? If I fail, if I die, you’ll never know what I tried to do for you, for us.
For myself.
Her teeth chattered and her skin felt as though it might crawl free of her bones in protest before the moon rose far enough to send its light out over the water like the broad blade of a spear pointing straight at the island. Áine nearly cried out with joy as she heard the whirring of wings and felt a strange wind lift her blood-red hair from her damp cheeks.
The moths returned, appearing as if by magic over the lake, swirling in their tapestry patterns as they’d done the night before. And above her, like a gift descending from the gods themselves, came the March Cann. He settled in the same place he’d been the night before, snorting and pawing at the roots and looking around the island before turning his attention to the moonlit dance over the lake.