“Aonarán will be surrounded by manifold guards and protectors,” said the Storm Lord.
“Not enough to save him.”
“My dear boy, it is out of character for you to put aside your duties in order to wreak harm. You are like a man driven by invisible unseelie creatures riding on his back.”
Arran was indeed a changed man. He would not heed his father’s advice. Next morning, accompanied by Bliant and Gauvain, eager companions, Arran set off for the village of Marchington Hythe.
On witnessing her husband’s dire preoccupation and precipitate departure Jewel felt profoundly sorrowful, more for him than for herself, yet there was the child to care for, and little time to spend on melancholy musings. Besides, Jewel wished to raise her daughter in a milieu of happiness and contentment, not bitterness and loss. Left behind once more, tied to home and hearth by the need to nurture her child, Jewel could not help but feel a twinge of resentment. She now learned the dilemma of motherhood, the tearing of one’s desires in twain; on the one hand there were the great adventures of life, waiting to be experienced to the fullest; on the other, there was a selfish, demanding, and helpless creature to be sustained. Doubtless the child might have been entirely cared for by wet-nurses and nursemaids, yet every maternal instinct protested against it. No one else could attend to the needs of this being that was the center of the Uile—the universe—as satisfactorily as Jewel herself. Notwithstanding, Arran had employed a nanny so that Jewel might rest if she needed to do so, and as it transpired, the new mother was grateful for the assistance.
There was little she could do to ameliorate her restlessness of spirit besides rejoicing every day in the smiles and fresh attainments of her daughter. Seeking ways to divert her thoughts from dismal pathways and make the time seem to elapse more swiftly during her husband’s absence, Jewel took the child on a journey to the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu. It was Jewel’s desire to proudly show the infant to her grandfather and the other marshfolk. Friends accompanied her; Elfgifu, Hilde, and Ettare. By coach-and-six they traveled, with several outriders providing the guard. The Storm Lord had insisted that mother and child should be carried in the equipage most comfortable for hard road travel.
With exuberant joy they were greeted by the people of the marsh, and as they were guided along the maze of causeways and bridges and elevated footpaths Jewel looked about in wonder, for it had been seven years since she had last seen her childhood home, and all seemed new and old at the same time. She watched herons stalking fish, and breathed the heavy perfume exuded by the waxy white flowers of water hawthorn. On forked spikes, the flowers raised their heads an inch or two above the surface of the marsh, and their pale green mats of foliage floated like rafts. Egrets dabbled amidst the round yellow flowers of “brass buttons,” whose small oval leaves spread in dainty carpets across the water. Cormorants swam between blades of umbrella grass, each stem topped by circular heads of narrow leaves arranged like umbrella ribs. In places where no embroidery of vegetation floated, the water-surface was stippled and wavy, like distorted glass panes, and strewn with drifting petals.
Cuiva, White Carlin of the Marsh, welcomed the daughter of her dear friend Lilith. The passing years had only given Cuiva greater dignity; long ago the Winter Hag had taken her natural colors in payment for the extraordinary Wand of a carlin. With her silver rain of hair, her milk-white skin, and her colorless eyes, Cuiva seemed a creature of the permanent snows, an ethereal woman of striking looks who might melt away in the next warm breeze, or else burn you with her powerful touch. She was engaged in mixing medicines and cosmetics, decoctions of white willow bark to ease the pain of headache, toothache, and earache, pounding the dried rhizomes of iris to make orris root powder for use in toothpaste and for scented powders to dust the skin. Jewel remembered her great-grandmother performing those same tasks, and the memories induced tears of nostalgia.
Perceiving their guest’s melancholy, Odhrán Rushford made Jewel laugh with his story about a strange phenomenon: a rain of tiny roseate frogs over the village of Carrickmore in Slievmordhu, far from the marsh. “Naturally the druids declared it was a sign from the Fates,” he said, “but what the Fates might have meant by it is anyone’s guess!”
“I can tell you what caused the rain of frogs,” said Jewel. “It would have been nothing more than a trick of the weather, a small tornado lifting the creatures from their native lagoon and dropping them when its power petered out.”
“Now Jewel, you are become so knowledgeable since dwelling with the weathermasters,” said Cuiva, smiling.
Jewel spent many evenings in the company of her step-grandfather, resting with him by his hearth while the infant suckled. The appearance of the old eel-fisher had altered little over the years, despite that he had endured sixty-one Winters. His hair was sparser and grayer, and his shoulders sagged lower, but the broad face with its webs of wrinkles radiated the same common sense and quiet strength as always, and the scar once inflicted by a fish-hook was still visible through the wild patch of albino pasture that constituted his left eyebrow.
Jewel revered the old man’s wisdom and hoped to glean from him the answers to many questions. She recounted the events that had taken place since she last spoke to him at her wedding, all about the Well of Tears, concluding by telling him of Arran’s mission to punish Aonarán and his sister for their part in the whole business.
“As you explained to me, a seanáthair, out of their own greed, these two Aonaráns bred a grudge against my father. Yet I never did them harm.”
“No, but do you think that would be mattering to such heartless monsters? The brother obsessed with preserving his own life, and the sister—O Unnatural woman!—a slave at her brother’s heel, as ready to murder as to breathe? From what you have said, it appears she now bears a grudge against Arran also, believing it was his fault this Weaponmonger perished at the Comet’s Tower.”
“She cannot touch Arran.”
“As you say, she cannot.”
“Neither can she find any way to distress him by harming our child. As for myself, I am invulnerable.”
“As you say,” the eel-fisher murmured.
“I shall live long.”
Earnán Mosswell gazed into the fire that danced on the hearth. The infant made noises like a kitten before settling into contentment again.
Jewel said, “A seanáthair, I am pleased to see you in good health as usual. The life of the marsh makes a man strong and hale. I believe you will go on forever.”
He smiled. “I will tell you some of the ingredients of the recipe for long life. They include happiness, laughter, dance, song, honest labor, sound sleep, long walks, and fresh food in moderate quantities, eaten slowly at a convivial table, and enjoyed thoroughly. Those who are dwelling on pleasant thoughts are likely to be living longer. I have heard it said that married men live longer than those who are unwed, and that mothers live longer than childless women, but whether that is true or not, the knowledge is not at me. A cup of ale taken with the evening meal is a life-prolonger, so I believe.”
“I shall bear in mind all you have said,” Jewel told him earnestly. “By my efforts I shall live long, Draught or no Draught.”
Jewel and her entourage remained at the marsh during the jollifications of Lantern Eve, but departed the following morning. As she took leave of her grandfather, he gave her a sprig of blossoming crowthistle, dried and pressed between two sheets of blotting paper.
“ ’Tis what we are calling a flower of souvenance,” Earnán said. “This weed is disliked by most folk, for its spines are prickly, yet ’tis tough and resilient, and also beautiful, with its purple wings. Carry it with you to your mountain home as a reminder that what we see around us may at first glance appear common and even distasteful, but if we observe carefully we might be perceiving some worthy attribute, such as beauty.
“Besides,” he added prosaically, “ ’tis a valuable food for goats.”
Jewel’s visit to her old haunts had tri
ggered vivid memories of childhood. After arriving back at her family apartments in Avalloc’s rambling house on Rowan Green, she went to the cedar-wood chest where she customarily stored linen, lace, and precious items. Taking out the fishmail shirt and the gem, she reexamined them, recalling events associated with these marvelous artefacts.
The jewel her father had seized from the Iron Tree sparkled as she held it high, a scattering of reflections and rays, snow-of-moonlight, intensely white. Gently she replaced it in its nest of silk. Then, the shirt. Years ago it had hung on the wall of her grandfather’s cottage in the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu. Its workmanship was impeccable. Some process now lost from the lore of armorers had been employed to fashion the garment from the hide of a strong-armored deep-sea fish. The pearly scales interlocked densely yet flexibly, glistening with shades of turquoise, aquamarine, and metallic frost. Jewel wondered if the family legend was true—had the garment indeed been given to one of her forefathers by a mermaid who loved him? The fishmail shirt had been the only beautiful possession in the poor eel-fisher’s cot. Now it had come to reside in luxurious surroundings, amongst the rich furnishings of a weathermaster’s house. It should not be hidden in the chest, Jewel decided. It should be displayed in full view, as aforetime. With the approval of Avalloc, she had it hung on the wall of the dining hall. There it glittered like sunlight on ocean waves, not far from the great weapon above the fireplace: Fallowblade, the golden sword once called Lannóir, slayer of goblins and heirloom of the House of Stormbringer.
The Storm Lord himself had become a good friend to Jewel, and it was to him she frequently turned for advice. Often, taking Astăriel with them, they would go walking together through the orchards and wild places of the plateau.
The Maelstronnar’s appearance had hardly changed since Jewel had first set eyes on him. His features were striking, the jade eyes hooded by deep lids, the aquiline nose, the noble face framed by a thick snowfall of hair. His bearing was proud, his strength still that of an ancient oak.
“Why are weathermasters so long-lived?” Jewel asked. “I have questioned others who dwell here, and I am told only, ‘Longevity is in our blood.’ Is there more to it? What promotes longevity?”
“Watching, my dear child,” replied he. “Watching.”
“Watching what?”
“There are three things a mortal creature can watch to calm the mind and revitalize the body. Leafy boughs blowing in the wind. Flames, when they are tame. Water—whether it be waves breaking on a shore, or deep ocean swell, or rain or flowing rivers or placid lakes—Water takes many forms and all are good to watch.”
“I have seen leaves blowing in the wind,” said Jewel, “yet it does not make me feel different at all.”
“Have you watched them, hmm?”
“I have.”
“Then tell me, what colors are upon them?”
“Why, green, of course! Except in Autumn.”
“But what shades of green? And what other hues?”
“I do not understand your meaning.”
“Note how the sun’s light falls upon the foliage of that walnut tree. Where the light shines through from the back of the leaves it turns them golden-green. Where the leaves are in shadow they are dark green. And when the light strikes them on their glossy tops they shine purest silver, as dazzling as new-minted coins.”
“Why, ’tis true!” cried Jewel in delight. For a moment she was content to dwell on her new discovery; then she said, “But if a person is blind, what then can they do? They cannot watch. . . .”
“But they can listen. There are two sounds that calm the mind and prolong the vitality of the body: birdsong and the music of water.”
“Such as rain and rivers?”
“Just so.”
“But what if someone is blind and deaf?”
“Then there is the fragrance of flowers, of citrus fruit and fresh-baked bread, of pine forests and new-mown hay. And there is the sensation of sunlight and breezes on the skin, the feeling of having one’s hair combed, the touch of silk and satin and living fur, the rocking of a boat borne on the back of the sea.”
“All these things will help?”
“Just so.”
“But what if—”
Avalloc laughed. “My dear Jewel, let me guess. I’d warrant you are about to ask me about the sense of taste.”
“I am. What is good to taste?”
“Your own tongue will tell you that, inquisitive child. Hunger and honey, cream and cheese, apples and bread and mushrooms, lettuce and beans and more hunger.”
“Why hunger?”
“Hunger is the best condiment. It sharpens our sense of taste so that we may enjoy fare to the fullest.”
“How else should folk proceed in order to live long?”
“Sleep, dance, work, play, sleep again.”
Jewel was not entirely content with these answers. “But what are the most important things people must do to achieve longevity?”
“Give, love, laugh. Plentifully.”
“And that will guarantee it?”
“No.”
“Then what is the use of all you are saying?”
“Dear child, if you give love and kindness to all species of living creatures, if laughter comes easily to you, then no matter how long your span of days, you will have lived them to the fullest.”
Despite this reassurance, Jewel had been made anxious by Arran’s melancholy, and in typically perverse fashion could derive little satisfaction from Avalloc’s words.
The Storm Lord’s son, meanwhile, had arrived with the crew of Mistmoor at Marchington Hythe, where they had easily located Lord Doom’s enthroned oracle. As had been conjectured, the soothsayer turned out to be none other than Fionnbar Aonarán. Arran and his comrades seized the Slievmordhuan in the name of King Warwick, and none of his henchmen or toadying supporters dared oppose the weathermasters.
“This caitiff needs no trial,” Arran said roughly, as the pale-haired man was hustled from his throne room in chains. “ ’Twould be a waste of resources to take him to the courthouse at King’s Winterbourne. He is culpable, and must pay the penalty. Moreover, since he is incorrigible and will live forever, he must be prevented from ever wreaking further havoc on humankind. There is only one solution—eternal imprisonment.”
Few would gainsay the son of the Maelstronnar in his intemperate fury. Bliant and Gauvain, to a lesser extent, shared his sentiments. Therefore they paid no heed to Aonarán’s shrieks and protests but dumped him into the balloon’s gondola and took him with them, ascending high into the sky, leaving his sycophants on the ground staring after them, bereft and agape, wondering if Lord Doom’s chosen one had been so powerful, after all.
Mistmoor glided to the lofty range of peaks called the Northern Ramparts in Narngalis, one of the most remote regions of Tir. There, toward the east, Arran set down the sky-balloon high on a steep mountainside, and they toppled Aonarán from the basket.
Had the great-nephew of Ruairc MacGabhann faced his plight with dignity and courage, the hearts of the weathermasters might have been moved to pity. There was nothing dignified or courageous, however, about his shrill curses and threats, alternating with whining and complaining, his upbraiding and claims of having been framed.
“Do not leave me alone!” he wailed. “I am frightened of being immortal alone. Visions and nightmares plague me. In my fancy I am seeing generation after generation fading to dust; associations forged, only to be severed forever; the young growing old before my eyes, the world passing me by, perishable, while I endure immutable, in infinite loneliness!”
His captors ignored his clamor as they hauled him into the mouth of a disused adit, which had been part of a silver-mine in days of yore. Shored up by strong timbers, the adit ran straight into the mountainside for a league and a half, before joining with the rest of the abandoned mine-workings. It was known to be the last remaining entrance to the old diggings.
They removed Aonarán’s gyves and le
ft him in the adit, deep in the ground, warning him not to try following them to the outside world, for if he did so, they would blast him with strong winds and send him somersaulting back.
Terrible grief can breed terrible cruelty in humankind. Before he had been faced with the prospect of an endless future living without his beloved bride, Arran could never have brought himself to mete out such a harsh punishment. Anger and despair had warped his once-merciful nature. “This is your jail,” he said coldly to the captive. “You need no food or drink to survive, now that you are immortal, and indeed why should His Majesty’s Prisons be put to the trouble of feeding you for the rest of eternity? The only place suitable for incarcerating the likes of you is a dungeon that will last until the end of time. From here you can never escape, to work your ill on the world. Justice is served. Here in this sunless domain you must dwell forever, suffering loneliness and exile.” Leaning closer to Aonarán, he muttered, “This is your punishment for stealing immortality from my bride, who was the rightful heiress.”
With that he turned and walked away, accompanied by his comrades. But as he departed, the voice of Aonarán came shrieking down the lightless tunnel: “How long is it until the end of time, brother? For when all else is gone I shall be your only kin!”
Arran spoke no word but strode faster, holding aloft his light javelin. When they reached the adit’s exit he thrust the extinguished javelin through his belt, quickly spun around, and shouted a vector command, while performing elaborate gestures with his hands.
Even as the balloon had approached the landing place, he and his crew had been preparing for this moment. The atmosphere had already been primed. Air masses were rushing together, charges were building, the impet in Arran’s pocket wailed and dived for cover, and next instant two consecutive bolts of lightning struck the entrance to the adit.
Walls and ceiling collapsed with a roar. Hefty timbers tumbled in, rocks crashed down, and clouds of dust billowed. When the vapors began to clear it could be seen that the door into the mountain existed no more. It was sealed with hundreds of tons of rock and soil and other debris.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 60