I’m riding with my teeth clenched so hard my head aches. My ears are full of drumming, the horse’s hooves on the ground, my laboured breathing, Blaze’s snorts and gasps. I can’t keep my mind on anything, it’s all whirling thoughts. Am I justified in taking action on my own? Is this enough of a crisis? And if not, does this mean I’m thrown out of Swan Island? Have I just destroyed my future because of an old crone with bones dangling outside her front door? Can anyone make me go back home? I’d burn to death rather than go back. I’d slit my own throat.
Where the terrain gets steeper and the track winds around the hillside, I give Blaze a brief respite. We’re getting close to the spot where the crow-thing attacked me and I was thrown. Nearly at Mistress Juniper’s house. When I dismount and listen, I can’t hear hoof beats. For now we’ve outpaced Rodan’s party. I wish I could believe they’ve had second thoughts about their crazy mission. I still need to warn Mistress Juniper. But Blaze is exhausted. Illann will not be pleased.
I wait for the horse’s breathing to slow. I didn’t prepare for this, not as I should have done. I didn’t think it through at all. If they light a fire, how do I get the old woman out? The track I came by will be impassable. And the other way is too long: right around the hillside, away from court, then down to the low road with its streams and fords. If the fire takes hold, it could kill us before we can reach that track.
As I approach Mistress Juniper’s cottage, I realise I’ve made an even more fundamental mistake. Unless I speak aloud, I have no way of explaining to her. This is far too complicated to be put into gestures.
I’m lifting a hand to knock on her door when I smell smoke. They’ve done it. Not right here, but somewhere back in that first tract of forest. The wind is from the south; the fire will come straight toward us. I make up my mind in an instant. ‘Mistress Juniper! Are you there? Open the door!’ And when there’s no immediate reply, ‘Mistress Juniper! Fire!’
She comes around the side of the cottage, a bucket in one hand and the dog at her heels. Looks at Blaze, whom I’ve tethered loosely by the steps. Looks at me. She seems neither surprised nor scared. ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘You can talk, then. Yes, I smell the smoke. How far away is it?’
I explain in an undertone, glancing down toward the road in case they do decide to come all the way here. ‘Not far. And the wind will send it this way. It’s no accident. You’re in danger, Mistress Juniper.’ Why is she so calm? Doesn’t she believe me? She’s just standing there listening, not doing anything. ‘I can get you to safety,’ I say, ‘but we need to go now.’
There’s a silence. Can I hear crackling, or is it only my imagination? ‘
‘It’s not enough,’ says the wise woman. ‘Is it? Getting me out.’
And of course it isn’t. There’s Brocc. There are those folk who live behind the wall, whatever they are. There’s the ancient forest full of birds and other creatures. How can I face up to Liobhan if I don’t try to stop this? What in the name of the gods was I thinking, rushing up here on my own without so much as an old sack to beat out the flames?
‘Inside,’ says Mistress Juniper, setting down the bucket and opening the door of her house. ‘And be quick.’
Once in, I realise I was wrong on one score. I won’t have to do this on my own. The old woman is taking charge.
‘Fetch down that jar, the blue-glazed one. Yes. Take a pinch of the powder and put it on this board. Chop these. Knife over there. Dogwood. Fennel. Figwort. And a little of this; hold your breath while you’re cutting it.’
She’s crazy. She’s got me cooking up some potion while fire races toward the house and we’ve barely got time to get away before we both burn to death. One part of my mind is thinking that, and the other part is chopping, slicing, doing exactly what I’m told, because Mistress Juniper is so cool and composed that I have to believe she knows a way out of this. While I follow her instructions, she’s beside her hearth, transferring glowing embers to a little brazier, adding sticks, blowing on the thing to make sure it’ll stay alight. She sets it down and comes over to me. ‘All done? Good. This’ll need to be quick. We fight fire with fire. We ask for the gods’ understanding. Their forgiveness for our errors. We ask for their attention.’ She checks my work, nods approval, then scoops up the herbal mixture and throws it onto the brazier. The smell is almost overpowering. ‘Carry it outside for me, Nessan. Set it here, before the front door. Move your horse around to the north side of the house and tie him. Leave a bucket of water by him. Storm! Go with him.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t question. Take him around there, then come back. I’ll need your help.’
I do as I’m told. Blaze is fearful. The air is smoky and it’s getting harder to draw breath. I want to run. I want to put Mistress Juniper on the horse and get up behind her and bolt away along the road while we can. Only there wouldn’t be time. The smoke is thickening, and it’s hard to see more than six or seven paces away. That road will be a death trap.
By the brazier, Mistress Juniper is sitting cross-legged on the ground, her back very straight, her eyes closed. She’s murmuring something in a language I don’t understand. Maybe she’s praying. Asking the gods to save us. Up on the roof of the cottage, there’s just one of the tiny birds left. As I come close, it spreads its wings and flies off into the forest.
I’ve never set much store in prayers. There were times, long ago, when I begged the gods to protect me from my brothers, implored them to take me to somewhere safe, made wild promises about what I would do if they would only get me away. Those gods, if they ever existed, were deaf to my voice. Perhaps they thought me weak. Perhaps they wanted me to stand up for myself. I won’t interrupt Mistress Juniper’s prayers. But I will get on with things while she’s occupied.
She has three buckets. I fill them from the stream that runs by her house. I find sacks in an outhouse and bring them. I run to fetch a broom. She’s still sitting there, not chanting now, but not moving either. The thread of smoke from the brazier rises up to meet the thickening pall above us. Birds scream their warnings.
I stride around the house, emptying my buckets against the walls. I refill them and empty them again, dousing the wood, moving anything combustible out of the way. Is there time to divert the stream? Dig a trench, place rocks, channel it closer to the house? Branches crack and fall with a sound like death. A gust of hot wind hits my face, and small bright embers dance in the choking air. More water. I fill the buckets, run with them to the house, empty my load around Mistress Juniper, taking care not to douse the brazier. She opens her eyes. For a moment they’re unfocused, vague, as if she’s in a dream. Then she looks beyond me to the smoke-filled forest and gets to her feet.
‘Keep it up, Nessan,’ she says, and picks up a sack. ‘Where’s the worst spot?’
We fight the monster together, old woman and young man. I can hear Blaze whinnying in terror. I hope his tether holds; if he runs off he won’t stand a chance. I carry water, throw it in the fire’s path, run for more. Juniper beats at the smouldering ground with her sack, her mouth set grimly, her eyes now fierce with intent. There’s a roaring sound, the voice of hungry flame. More branches cracking; a wind that brings a wave of heat. And now here is Storm, standing square beside her mistress, barking a challenge at the approaching danger. If she had words, they would be, Keep off! How dare you touch her?
For a moment, the wise woman falters. I can’t hear what she says to the dog; the noise of the fire is too loud now. But she sets down her sack for a moment, kneels and kisses Storm on the brow. Then she gets up and points back toward the house, where Blaze is tethered out of sight. But Storm won’t go. Mistress Juniper picks up the sack and starts to beat at the embers again. The dog runs from side to side behind her, whining.
Water. More water. My shoulders ache, my neck aches, my arms can’t lift another bucket. But they do, again and again and again. Mistress Juniper’s sack is
on fire. She tosses it down, stamps on it, snatches up another. Dips it in my bucket then uses it, wet, to smack down on the creeping forward edge of the fire. Things fall out of the trees above us, dead things, dying things. My eyes hurt; I am half blinded by this smoke. My skin feels tight and sore. I am afraid.
There is a strange darkness now. Mistress Juniper has stopped beating at the flames. She’s dropped the sack and is standing with her arms out wide and her eyes shut, as if waiting to die. I keep on fighting. Sorry, Liobhan, I think as I wield the sack. That third dance is not going to happen. We could do with her strong arms here helping us. But I’m glad she is not here.
Storm spots something out in the woods. I can’t see what it is, but before I can grab her she runs toward it, not away from the fire, but straight into it. A scream rips out of me, ‘Nooooo!’ and I’m off after her, not quite in the flames but running through smouldering grasses and twigs and bushes, running through shifting smoke, desperate not to lose sight of the terrified dog. She can’t die, she won’t die, not this time. I’ll save her. I won’t fail her. I’ll save her if it kills me. I run, I run, I trip and fall, I get up and run again. ‘Storm! Wait!’ I skid down a slope, see the flames between the trees, see a great branch crash in a multitude of bright sparks. Debris everywhere, fuel for the monster. There is the dog, down on the ground, perhaps hurt. Don’t shout, Dau, or she’ll be off again. I make myself go slowly; with one eye on the fire, I crouch down beside her. I hook my hand through her collar and breathe again. I make my voice gentle. ‘Storm. It’s all right. Come now.’
She’s nosing at something there in the undergrowth. A dead bird? No, it’s something else. A child’s toy? A doll? ‘Come, Storm.’ She resists the pressure on her collar. I reach for whatever it is, since she won’t leave it. The thing wriggles, then is still. Not a toy. I slide a hand underneath and lift it out awkwardly. I must keep hold of Storm. But I almost let go of her because the thing in my hand and on my arm is . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s alive, and it’s not an animal, and it’s not a baby, it’s . . .
The fire is coming. I head back toward the cottage, holding the thing in my left arm, clutching Storm’s collar with my right hand. The heat is at my back; the monster is roaring. And it’s nearly dark. The smoke has turned day to night. The thing I’m holding lets out a squeak of terror, and I feel tiny hands clutching onto my shirt. I’ve often thought about dying. I’ve thought of all sorts of ways it could happen to me. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this. If I could believe in prayer, I would. All I can do is hope it won’t hurt too much. I can’t even pray that Storm will survive. It’s just like last time. I can’t save her. We’re all gone.
I stagger out from under the trees with my boots smouldering. Mistress Juniper is looking up at the sky, the sky so dark it could be night. I release Storm’s collar and she runs to her mistress like any ordinary dog, jumping up to lick the storyteller’s face. The drumbeat of my heart fills my whole body. At least I brought her home, I think. The little thing in my arms is clinging close, burying its head against my chest. I feel it shivering and hold it closer. ‘It’s all right,’ I murmur. ‘You’ll be all right.’ There’s a new sound, a new roaring. The hot air is suddenly chill. And the tears on my face are joined by the first cool drops of rain.
34
Brocc
There was a fire not long ago. We smelled smoke. We saw it rise to the sky somewhere to the south, not far away. Birds flew over, their voices shrill with warning. I saw Eirne in the woods, with one of those tiny birds on her shoulder. As I watched, she took it onto her finger and spoke to it, but I did not hear the words. I am becoming convinced that those creatures are messengers between worlds.
After the fire came rain, not a gentle summer shower but a driving, chilly, forceful drenching that went on for some time. Eirne’s folk watched it, murmuring. When it was over, Nightshade said, ‘That was surely no ordinary storm. These are strange times.’
The fire is out, we think. The smoke is gone. But there will
be flooding. I hope that does not keep Liobhan from coming to fetch me.
I return to my little house. I work on until my fingers can neither pluck the harp nor grip the pen. The rain has died down to a steady drizzle. I go to the door, thinking I should stretch my legs and breathe some fresh air. But I stop with the door open only a crack. There, under the trees, are two of Eirne’s small folk, those who brought me food this morning. I have wondered how beings who stand no higher than my knee manage to transport the jug and tray with my provisions all the way from the human world. Those burdens seem too unwieldy for such delicately made folk to carry far. Now I understand. One holds a miniature jug, a vessel that could contain only a mouthful or two. The other bears a tray no bigger than the palm of my hand, on which are a tiny loaf of bread, a piece of cheese that would fit in a thimble, and an apple the size of a blackberry. A few paces from my door they set jug and tray down, and one of them passes a hand over them, whispering. In the space of an eye blink, the things become just the right size for a man like me.
Perhaps this spell was secret; perhaps it was not for my eyes. I do not ask, though I think the small folk saw me watching. I open the door wider, nod thanks and stoop to pick up jug and tray, taking care not to spill. As I come back inside I’m thinking hard. A spell to make things small so they can be more easily transported. A counter spell to make them large again. A charm cast not by a druid or a wise woman or a faery queen but by the smallest folk of Eirne’s realm, those one might think the least powerful. I believe I have an answer to the question that has vexed Breifne’s men of authority, and our team as well. I think I know how the Harp of Kings was spirited out of the nemetons.
Thistle-Coat is missing. Rowan calls me to help search. But the gentle forest streams have become gushing torrents; the pools have broken their banks and spread out under the trees. There is no trace of the little one. Nobody knows where she went or why. Nobody mentions the Crow Folk, and we see no sign of them either, but in my mind is that first glimpse of Little-Cap lying in his blood and the dark forms perched on the branches above. I had thought to play music later, to cheer Eirne’s people. But I will have no heart for it tonight.
My boots are by the door, wet through. My cloak drips from its peg. They have brought me a strange little stove. It squats in the corner, its glow more eerie than heartening, though it does warm the hut somewhat. I do not wish to investigate how it works; it looks like a strange creature, part toad, part beetle, with fiery eyes and gaping maw, and needs no tending. I sit on my pallet, hugging the blanket around me, and try not to think about Thistle-Coat out there alone. I think instead of Eirne. I will finish the song she asked for; I will sing it. Where and when that is to happen, she has not told me. And I cannot ask her. There is an awkwardness between us now. I misunderstood her intentions the other night, I think, and my words hurt her. What does she want from me? What can I possibly offer, when I must leave her world at midsummer?
I know, of course. She said it. But I thought it was only words, grand speech-making of the sort Rodan embraces, fine statements of courage and hope, perhaps with little substance. She wants me to help her. She wants me to stand by her side and fight to keep her people safe. She wants me to battle the Crow Folk, if not with a sword, then with my music. I, Brocc, son of a local healer and a master thatcher, transformed into a hero of mythic proportions – a remarkable tale. She wants me to stay.
35
Dau
In the pounding rain, I pass my strange burden to Mistress Juniper. I untie Blaze and lead him to shelter in an outhouse behind the cottage. I rub him down and make sure he has water. Back in the house, the old woman is sitting close to the hearth. She’s wrapped the creature in an old garment of some kind and is holding it in her arms. She gives me instructions and I follow them, glad of anything that will stave off the storm that is building up inside me, something I neither need nor want. I dry t
he dog off with an old cloth. She seems none the worse for her adventure, though her feet are sore. Mistress Juniper provides salve; I rub it into the pads as instructed. I praise the dog for her courage and hope she understands.
I build up the hearth fire and set water to heat. Mistress Juniper, holding the creature in one arm, finds a little basket, lines it with a scrap of sheepskin, then settles the thing in it, near the fire but not too close. I stare, torn between fascination and disbelief. This feels like a strange dream. But the burns on my hands, the damage to my boots, the clinging smell of smoke and the drumming of the rain on the roof tell me it’s real, it’s happened, and this creature that should not exist is right here in the cottage with us. It looks a little like a hedgehog. But it has hands like a human child’s, and its face is an indescribable blend. Along its left side are burns, and when Mistress Juniper touches that spot with gentle fingers, the creature whimpers.
I can’t think what question to ask. In the end all I say is, ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Salve, the same as for Storm. Bandage. Water. Then we hope.’
She points; I fetch what she needs. The creature is crying now, in pain. I hold it still while Mistress Juniper applies the salve and wraps the bandage around its body. It is so small and frail, I am afraid I may break it. When the being is well cocooned and settled in the basket, the wise woman gives it three drops of something from a green bottle, and it falls asleep. I am sitting on the floor beside the basket. Storm moves closer. I feel her warmth against me.
Mistress Juniper takes the kettle from the fire and sets about making a brew. ‘You kept a cool head today,’ she says. ‘You are more than the man I thought you to be, Nessan. Far more.’
It only takes those words, simple words. Only those, and the sleeping form of the dog beside me, and the small, slow breathing of the swaddled creature. A storm of weeping overtakes me, bending me double. My hands come up to shield my face. My eyes are squeezed shut but seeing everything, every moment of hurt, every moment of failure, every blow, every time they showed me I was weak and useless and should have been strangled at birth. I can’t stop. I weep for the memory of Snow as a puppy, snuggled in my arms, and the heart-deep joy of that first day. I weep for the memory of her last day. Ruarc’s arms around my chest like an iron band, and Seanan’s knife, and Snow screaming, screaming. I put my head down on my knees, but in my mind the terrible sound goes on and on.
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