"Telling tales is one thing. I can practise them, know how they will end. But a conversation… You never quite know what turn it will take. I can't be prepared for that. I go red and forget how to speak and they laugh at me."
Caedmon laughed then and swallowed the rest of his ale in a hearty gulp. "I have a solution for you. We need to find you a woman. Once you bed one for the first time, the rest will be easier."
My heart pounded in my ears. Such a scenario could only be a disaster. Complete humiliation. "No, I couldn't—"
"It's settled then," he said. "And I'll listen to no arguments, little brother. I'll find you a pretty girl. Next week's winter solstice would be a good time, what with all the celebrating and drinking and making merry. All you have to do is be there."
"Caedmon, really, I can't—"
"I'm not listening." He set his mug aside and rose. "I'm off to bed now but tomorrow I'll start making arrangements."
3
Diarmuid
I SAT UP alone for some time after Caedmon went to bed, staring at the raven in the fire and nursing my ale. Finally, I set my mug aside and left the fire to burn itself out.
My bedchamber was chilly and the bed even colder. I huddled under the covers, goosebumps prickling my skin as I waited for warmth. The fire was mere coals, casting little heat on my small room. I didn't bother to build it back up. Ida whispered to me but I pushed her away.
With every tale, I hoped this would be the one the audience would like. But every time, the reaction was the same. It had always been like this, ever since the day I told my first tale as my tenth summer drew to a close. At that time, Caedmon had been due to depart for the army's training grounds where he would learn to become a soldier. It would be the first time I had been separated from him for more than a few hours.
He and I had spent every possible moment together during those last few months. We camped under the summer stars with only each other and a fire for company. We terrified ourselves investigating an ancient barrow, half expecting the fey to punish us for trespassing on hallowed ground. We battled imaginary enemies and Caedmon taught me to defend myself. I was small for my age, and slender with it, but he made sure I knew how to wield a dagger and I became somewhat capable with a small bow.
Preparing for Caedmon's first departure was difficult for I had never before said goodbye to a brother with the uncertain knowledge that he might not return. Farewelling our druid brother, Fiachra, was different, for he always had one foot in the beyond, even as a child. But Caedmon was the brother I knew best. As summer slipped away, he had become somewhat distant and disappeared for hours at a time. Perhaps he was trying to prepare me for his impending absence. Or perhaps he was preparing himself.
I said nothing about the increasing time we spent apart. In truth, I was somewhat jealous that he edged towards his destiny while I had yet to perform a single tale, for I had but recently realised that barding would be my own career. On the days Caedmon absented himself, I worked on my first tale, gently crafting it into what I thought was a thing of wonder and truth.
Caedmon had no time to wander the estate with me that last day for he was busy making his farewells to the tenants and servants, the animals and our home. It was not until just before the evening meal that I was able to snatch a few moments alone with him.
The sun was sinking towards the horizon, sending fingers of deep purple across the sky as I lingered outside in the hope of spotting Caedmon. The day's warmth had faded to a slight coolness heralding winter's approach and the late afternoon air was heavy with grass and sweet heather. Finally, he appeared from behind the barn and smiled when he saw me waiting there for him.
"Well, little brother." Caedmon wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we walked towards the house. "Tomorrow's the day."
"I know." Now that I finally had him to myself, I was tongue shy. I wanted to wish him well on his journey with all of a bard's eloquence but, in truth, I wasn't yet able to string such words together. "I wish you good luck."
"I'll be sorry to not see you grow up." Caedmon squeezed my shoulders with sudden intensity. "This is not what a big brother should do — go off to have adventures while leaving his younger brother to make his way in the world alone."
Suddenly the days yawned ahead of me, long and cold and empty without the bright spark of Caedmon's enthusiasm. It was always he who suggested we explore the fields, or camp out, or fish in the stream. He who devised some elaborate game involving the mare or a few branches. What adventure and excitement would exist for me without Caedmon?
The dinner table that night bore a splendid feast of all of Caedmon's favourite foods. Roasted hens stuffed with herbs, the last of winter's root vegetables carefully hoarded for the occasion, juicy salad greens from the garden our sister Eithne tended when she was well enough and, after, bowls of plump blackberries with fresh cream. We took our places at the table, my brothers jostling each other as they claimed favoured seats.
I picked at some chicken and nibbled on a few berries but my stomach churned. Bitterness and desertion warred with my desire to be proud of Caedmon for fulfilling his fate. And proud I was but the prospect of how empty life would be without him loomed far nearer.
Our father, Fionn, beamed with pride at his soon-to-be soldier son and regularly slapped him on the back. If he felt sadness, he did not let it show. Our mother, Agata, was pale and quiet and ate almost as little as I. Caedmon had seconds and then thirds of everything.
Five of my six brothers were present: Eremon, the oldest son and Papa's heir; Caedmon, ever my favourite; Sitric, the first brother to not have his destiny mapped for him since birth and who spoke of becoming a scribe; Marrec and Conn, one soul split between two bodies. I was the last-born son and after me came only Eithne, our sister. Fiachra, who was born after Sitric but before Marrec and Conn, was absent but nobody expected him to come home. He was a druid and had higher matters to attend to than the small matter of a brother going off to battle.
The room was rowdy as my brothers joked and laughed, passing platters between them and teasing Caedmon with the horrors he might expect on the battlefield. Caedmon himself said little; too intent on filling himself with good food while he could.
When Caedmon had finally eaten his fill, he leaned back, his hands on his belly and his face calm. "An excellent meal," he said. "And certainly a fitting farewell."
Papa wrapped an arm around Caedmon's shoulders. "A tale is in order, I think. Something suitable with which to send our young soldier off to battle. Who would like to tell it?"
This was the opportunity I had awaited for my tale was finally ready. I spoke quickly, before anyone else could volunteer.
"I will."
Silence greeted my announcement and I didn't miss the look that passed between my parents.
"Diarmuid," Mother said and her tone was cautious. "You have never before offered a tale. What causes this?"
At only ten summers old, I was too young to feel embarrassment. "I have created a tale and I would like to tell it."
The silence lasted longer this time and I looked around the table, wondering why nobody spoke. All eyes were on our parents. Mother and Papa looked only at each other as if an unspoken conversation passed between them.
"We wondered when this day would come," Papa said eventually. "Diarmuid, there is something you should know before you choose this path. Something about yourself and our family."
I waited, my heart suddenly beating hard. I could not even begin to guess what this secret might be. From the looks on my brothers' faces, it seemed only I was clueless, and perhaps Eithne, although her face was hard to read and I could never be sure whether she didn't understand or just wasn't interested.
Our parents looked at each other again and it seemed each waited for the other to speak. It was our mother who finally did.
"Diarmuid, you know you are the seventh son of a seventh son."
I waited. There must be more for this was no secret to me. I had never met a
ny of my uncles because Papa's brothers all perished long before I was born, although the circumstances of their deaths were never discussed. In fact, the one time I asked was the only time I saw my father cry.
"In our family, the seventh son of a seventh son is very special." Mother spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
The sweet feeling of anticipation was stealthily replaced with oozing dread. I would have fled but my legs refused to move and I could do nothing but sit and wait, looking from Mother to Papa and back again.
"Diarmuid, in our family, the seventh son of a seventh son is always a bard," Papa said, and it seemed the words pained him.
The dread flowed away and my heart lifted. Finally, I too had a destiny. I was one of the chosen sons who had a fate to fulfil. I might not be heir or soldier or druid but I was a bard.
"It's a very big responsibility," Papa said. "You have no idea how much responsibility it is to be a bard, to be a teacher of truths and a weaver of words, especially…" He stopped then and it seemed another unspoken message passed between him and Mother. An almost imperceptible shake of her head meant that whatever else he had intended went unsaid.
"Papa, why do you never tell any tales?" I asked. For if I was destined to be a bard, surely my father, as the seventh son of a seventh son, was too.
"I have told enough tales in my lifetime." His words hung heavily in the air. "More than enough. I care little to tell them anymore."
We adjourned to the living room. The room had looked a lot bigger back then and the stone fireplace towered higher than I stood. There was an assortment of both soft chairs and wooden benches, enough to seat a family of ten plus a few guests. The late summer evening was warm enough that we had no need for a fire but we gathered in our accustomed places by the hearth.
Papa leaned back into his chair and stared into the empty grate for some time before he finally turned to me. "You may as well give us your tale, Diarmuid."
I had imagined this moment over and over. Myself standing before my family, back straight and head held high as I regaled them with my tale of love and loss and lessons learnt. They would gasp at the daring of its ending, for I would tell no tales with flaccid happy resolutions. No, if I was to be a bard, I would teach people, help them become better than they were. My tales would educate, enlighten, illuminate. I would be a bard without peer.
I stood and positioned myself in front of the fireplace and told the tale that had been playing through my mind during those final hazy days of summer. I poured all of my emotions into my words: my sadness at Caedmon's imminent departure; fear that he might never come home again; anxiety that he would be injured, or worse, in battle. Loneliness. Abandonment. Heartbreak. As I spoke, the pain eased. The act of tale telling soothed my soul and my heart soared. I had a destiny. I would be the most famous bard ever for I was meant to tell tales.
My tale was about a young bard obsessed with his imagined muse, thinking of nothing but her with every waking moment and dreaming of her at night. Eventually, through some arcane spell or other mystery — I left that unexplained — he brings her to life, only to discover his fantasy made flesh and blood is some evil twist on the creature of his dreams. And thus the poor bard realises he must destroy his muse. I left the story there, with the bard setting out on his grand quest to track down the creature that was once his muse.
I had been so absorbed in my tale, I paid scant attention to my audience. In truth, I did not expect anything but adoration and praise. I emerged to discover my family sitting in silence. Not a single person met my eyes, not parent, nor brother, nor sister. Mother fled with a sob, one trembling hand pressed over her mouth.
The silence stretched until eventually Papa cleared his throat. "Well, Diarmuid," was all he said.
I left, my eyes so filled with tears that I tripped over an errant rug. I didn't want to go to my room, to remain in the same house as those who couldn't, or wouldn't, appreciate my tale, so I fled out the back door and somehow made my way into Eithne's herb garden.
Its inhabitants were nearing the end of their summer blooms and preparing for the cold months ahead. I recognised few of them: blackthorn, basil, mint. Others I knew would be there but couldn't identify: chamomile, juniper, sorrel. There would be rosemary and lavender, although I was hard pressed to tell between them, and many others whose names and uses were a mystery to me.
I sat on a wooden bench and let my tears flow. As they subsided, I inhaled the mingled aromas of herbs, finding solace in their sweetness. They would be pruned soon, by Eithne if she was well, or by a servant. Their stems and leaves, flowers and seeds would be gathered and dried for use in the coming season of illness and fevers.
Movement through the garden indicated that I was no longer alone. In the darkness of the moon's ebb, I could not tell who came to offer comfort until Papa sat beside me.
"Diarmuid," he said and then sighed. "What a fine mess this is."
"I don't understand." I sniffed and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. "Why did they hate my tale?"
"It was a fine tale. We are just surprised you have come to this so young."
"I'm ten summers old. Caedmon has known all of his life he would be a soldier."
"But Caedmon is sixteen summers and only now about to become a soldier."
Although his words were reasonable, it was hard to acknowledge this when my heart felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of cows.
"Why did nobody tell me I was to be a bard? It is a noble profession, not something terrible."
Papa sighed again and shifted slightly.
"Tell me. Why did I not know?"
"We did what we thought was best for you." He spoke slowly and hesitated often. "Your mother and I thought to let you choose your own path. There are sons enough in this family who have had their futures dictated to them. We wanted you to decide for yourself whether you would be a bard or something else."
"Is it true? That every seventh son of a seventh son is a bard?"
"In our family, yes. You are descended from an unbroken line of seventh sons through many generations. And every one a bard."
"Then it seems I never had a choice," I said, and now I made no attempt to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Beside me, Papa shook his head. "No. It seems not."
He was silent for some time before he spoke next. "Diarmuid, I must warn you. Be careful of the tales you tell."
I waited. The seat creaked as Papa shifted and I thought he might leave without speaking further. At length he continued.
"As the seventh son of a seventh son, you have a special ability. You must be very careful. Sometimes… sometimes the things you say, the tales you tell, may come true."
A laugh bubbled up from inside of me. Relief, for I had thought he intended to tell me something terrible but it was merely a joke.
"Absurd," I said. "And impossible."
I felt, rather than heard, him sigh. "I wish it were so."
4
Ida
I AM. BUT I am not alone.
This place is confusing. There are terrors in here, demons he keeps well hidden. Nightmares and horror. Darkness and desolation. Despair. I crave… something. I don't know what. It is something… else. Radiance. Lightness. Beauty, symmetry, colour.
Now he is confused. Resentful. Lonely. Interesting. His heart pounds, his breath quickens. His thoughts are dark and lingering. The one he looks up to above all others has disappointed him. Oh, how he despairs now.
I whisper to myself, a sly comment intended for my own amusement. He hears me. And not only does he hear but he understands. He weaves my comment into his own thoughts, braiding our words together until I can barely tell which were his and which were mine. He probably never knew.
I whisper again about the one he loves and his heart hardens. He believes me.
No longer am I confused or alone for he is here with me. Or I am here with him. Day after day, I speak to him. Commentary about those around him, thoughts that b
ury themselves deep in his heart. My words resonate with him. I feel power, intimacy, companionship. I feel alive.
He fancies himself a bard so I whisper ideas. He takes them greedily and begs for more. I see myself take shape in his mind. A woman's form. He gives me long white hair and eyes the blue of a frozen river. A slender figure, dainty hands. Have I ever before had a form? I don't know. As I continue to whisper, his image of me grows firmer.
More and more, his thoughts linger on me. Now, with every event, every conversation, it is me to whom his thinking turns first. He wonders what I would make of it, how I would respond. He names me: Ida. I don't know whether I have ever had a name before. Ida will do as well as any.
I soon learn how to make him feed me. And feed me he does. The flow of power, at first hesitant and intermittent, becomes a steady stream. As I feed, he weakens. Not so he would notice; physically he is no different. It is in his mind the changes occur. For I have learnt the type of thoughts he must have for me to draw power from him. As he sinks into melancholy, his loneliness and bitterness strengthen me. And, gradually, I forget I ever longed for something else.
I anticipate that he will realise what is happening but day after day, week after week, he doesn't. Eventually I stop expecting it. And indeed I hope he does not realise. At least, not until I am strong enough to leave. After that, it won't matter. But for now, I need him. He will be my freedom.
5
Brigit
"BRIGIT, ARE YOU shelling those peas or mashing them?" Mother's tone was sharp and her face said clearly that she despaired of trying to teach me anything.
I removed my sticky hands from the bowl and wiped them on my apron, leaving green streaks against its crisp whiteness. While lost in my thoughts, I had been crushing the pods.
"I'm sorry."
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