Muse

by Kylie Quillinan

  Silver Downs lay nestled in a valley created by rolling hills of pastureland. In the summer, the fields were covered with silver thistledown, their flowers round as a bumblebee's belly. Many hours had I spent lying amidst the thistledown, blowing on the fragile blossoms to release them up into the air and waiting for them to drift back down, falling whisper-soft on my face. Even more hours had I spent roaming the fields, up hill, down into gully, across the streams. I knew every footstep of those fields, all the way from one border to the other, from the corner in which the lodge stood to the far edge where the woods began.

  Papa forbade us to enter the woods for it was said they contained a doorway into the realm of the fey. Tales told of those who ventured deep into the woods and never returned. Whether they declined to come back, having sampled the delights of the fey world, or whether they weren't permitted to return, nobody could say.

  In truth, I had never thought much about the woods. They were there on the edge of our land, and they were there on the edge of my consciousness. As a small boy, I was kept too busy to contemplate trespassing into forbidden territory. Six older brothers meant I learnt to fight somewhat for they routinely wrestled me to the ground for the smallest fault. I had no formal schooling, but my brothers took turns teaching me to read and I could draft a simple letter and read the reply. I could count and tally sums and I knew the history of the lands surrounding us. Many years passed before I realised how unusual it was that all of our family could read, write and tally at least a little.

  By mid morning, I had reached one of the twin rivers meandering across the corner of the estate. In summer, this was a pleasant spot where one could watch fish swimming in the river and water bugs dancing across the top. Now, the waters were frozen with just the slightest ripple in the ice hinting at how they usually flowed.

  Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, my eyes traced the outline of an aged oak tree, its bare branches stark against the winter-grey sky. I tucked the image away for use in a tale and Ida murmured her approval.

  With the sun beating down on me and the satisfaction of solitude, things didn't seem quite so bad. I cautiously turned my mind to my Midwinter humiliation. Anger soared, towards Caedmon, Rhiwallon, myself. Embarrassment warred with frustration that Caedmon had refused to listen when I protested his plan. No doubt by now Rhiwallon had told everyone she knew. Heat rose in my cheeks, my hands trembled and Ida whispered of treachery. I pushed away the thoughts, and Ida, for my feelings were yet too raw to examine them closely.

  I would spend this time here by the river creating a new tale. Something to amaze my audience. My most recent tale-telling, at Caedmon's betrothal party, still sent pangs of hurt through my heart. I had not yet achieved any level of success as a bard. Yet every time a tale failed to please, it left me determined to create a better one. One day, I would compose the perfect tale. A tale no audience could ignore. It might even be my very next tale. And so I pushed the memories away and got to work.

  I started with a warrior. Immediately I thought of Caedmon and I hardened my heart. I would not allow myself to become distracted. I had work to do. So, a warrior. A simple man with no large expectations for his life other than to survive each battle, marry a good woman and produce at least three sons. But of course, life is never as simple as we wish. Perhaps his wife has produced only daughters and he fears he will never have an heir. My interest dissipated. What audience would want to hear such drivel?

  I lay back on the rock, my body fitting comfortably into a shallow depression. In summer, I could lie here and listen to the river gurgling over rocks and around water plants. Small patches of sunlight would pierce a green canopy above me and dust motes would sparkle as they danced in its rays. Now, I could see straight up through the naked trees to the grey sky beyond. I was warm enough with my thick coat and the sun streaming down on me through the skeletons of the trees.

  My thoughts wandered through a variety of topics. Possible tale ideas. Caedmon's upcoming handfasting. My muse. I called her Ida for it meant thirst, an appropriate name given how I longed for her inspiration. Sometimes I pretended she was real, that my inspiration truly stemmed from a presence inhabiting my mind. What would it be like to share my head with another living creature? Would she know my thoughts and I hers? We would be closer than any husband and wife.

  In my mind's eye, Ida smiled and images from my new tale swirled around me. I suddenly realised what it lacked: courage and purpose. Perhaps one of the fey has fallen in love with the warrior's wife and tries to persuade her to leave him. But the wife is faithful to her husband, and refuses the attentions of the fey. So the fey sets three tasks for her husband to complete to prove he is worthy of her.

  The idea was plausible enough, for the fey interfered in human lives for their own reasons. Some believed it was because they wove human lives into a pattern to satisfy a design only they saw. Others thought it was merely whim that drove the fey to interfere and that there was no higher purpose. Me, I didn't know. What the fey chose to do with the lives in which they interfered was of no concern to me other than as fodder for my tales.

  A tiny smile played on Ida's lips as if she was satisfied with these initial explorations of my new tale. Her mouth was wide, the lips thin and blood red. It was not an attractive mouth. Not like Rhiwallon's.

  Again, the hot memory of humiliation flooded through me along with a stab of anger towards Caedmon. The situation was his fault. It was he who pushed me to do what I didn't want to. The more I thought about it, the madder I got until if Caedmon had appeared in front of me right then, I might almost have hit him.

  Ida's smile broke through my thoughts and again I felt she was satisfied. My new tale pleased her and the knowledge mollified me, cooling my temper. It was enough, for now, that an audience of one, albeit imaginary, was pleased. For that's all any bard ever wants, to please his audience. Perhaps if I could learn to please my imaginary muse, I might also be able to succeed with a real audience. One day, I would weave my words into a beautiful constellation of humour and truth and learning, fine enough to satisfy any audience. One day, I would conclude the telling of a tale to smiles and nods, applause and cheers, rather than silence and sudden excuses.

  I spent the morning pleasantly absorbed in my new tale. Ideas appeared in my mind — snippets of dialogue, glimpses of imagery — as if fed by Ida. And this tale felt different from any other I had created. It was authentic. Honest. Illuminating. There was light and dark, wonder and horror, and an outcome that would surprise even the most learned listener. Surely this would be the tale to please my audience.

  9

  Diarmuid

  AS THE SUN reached the midpoint of the sky, and my stomach growled with hunger, I started towards home. All morning I had busied myself with my new tale but now, as I drew closer to family and ceremony, I gingerly let myself think about the upcoming celebrations.

  With Caedmon's aim of producing an heir before he left, there had been no time for a lengthy betrothment. He and Grainne had waited only long enough to send word to the closest druid settlement. A druid, or perhaps two, was expected to arrive this morning and then Caedmon and Grainne could be handfasted. Caedmon had itched at even so short a delay, but he wanted his heir to be legally recognised. So he waited and was as grumpy as a badger with a sore paw.

  Caedmon and I had barely spoken since Midwinter. I was angry, disappointed, lost. Caedmon had been my hero since I was old enough to choose a favourite brother. I didn't know quite how to deal with the fracture between us.

  I intended to slip into the house, snatch some bread and cheese, and go straight to my bedchamber. But the druids had arrived and Papa caught my eye as I tried to sidle past to the kitchen.

  The druids sat at the dining table, eating heartily but not looking at all like men who had spent eight nights on the road. One wore a robe so white it seemed to glow. The other was clad in the brown garments of a novice.

  I gave the druids only a cursory inspection until I noticed how clo
se Mother sat beside the novice, clutching his hand and smiling up at him. It was not unusual for a novice to accompany a master for such duties. The face of this one was calm and clean-shaven, his hair hung to his shoulders in braids, and his eyes seemed to peer into my very soul. His face was familiar and it took a moment before I remembered where I had seen him: at the solstice festivities.

  When I studied him closely, I saw echoes of our family. His shoulders were broad like Fionn and Eremon and Caedmon. His hair was dark, like all of us, and his grey eyes were shared by Eithne and also Eremon and Niamh's twins. Still, I might not have recognised him were it not for the way Mother smiled at him.

  "This must be Diarmuid." Fiachra's voice was clear and musical, a voice made for calling to the elements. "My youngest brother."

  "Fiachra." I hardly knew what to do. Of course the appropriate way to greet a brother whom one had not seen for years was to hug him, but was that still appropriate when the brother was a druid?

  He rose and enveloped me in his arms. I expected him to be skinnier for surely druids did not eat much and did no physical work, but the arms around me were well-muscled and his embrace was strong.

  "Well met, brother," he said.

  "Don't let me keep you from your meal," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  "Come sit by me, Diarmuid. Tell me about yourself."

  With the melancholy still weighing heavily on me, I wanted only to be alone but I could not refuse Fiachra with grace. The other druid, an older man I did not recognise, slid along the wooden bench so I could sit between them.

  I settled myself on the bench and reached for the bread, smearing a thick slice with honey from our own bees. It ran over my fingers as I bit into it, sweet and sticky and tasting of Silver Downs.

  "So you are the bard brother." Fiachra reached for another slice of bread. The honey didn't drip off his bread the way it did mine.

  "So it would seem," I said.

  "And you the seventh son of a seventh son."

  "I am."

  "I assume you know what that means?"

  Before I could respond, Mother interrupted. "Fiachra, would you tell us about your studies?"

  He gave me a look that seemed to promise we would continue this conversation later and then turned to our mother.

  "There is little I can discuss publicly, even with family. We study the folklore and the history of these lands. We learn of the fey and of those who came before them. We study the elements and learn how to interact with them. More, I cannot say."

  "Why are you here?" I reached for another slice of bread.

  The moment stretched uncomfortably.

  "I cannot discuss that," Fiachra said finally.

  "Surely it is because of Caedmon's wedding," Mother said. "It is good of them to let you be here with us."

  Fiachra shook his head. "Caedmon's wedding is convenient but it is not the reason I am here. I would have come soon anyway. But perhaps not quite this soon."

  I thought of Eithne. Was she sicker than she seemed? Perhaps Fiachra had been permitted a leave of absence to attend his sister in her last days. The bread suddenly stuck in my throat and the sweet stickiness of the honey repulsed me.

  "If you need anything," I said.

  Fiachra met my eyes and nodded slightly. "I can't shield you from this, Diarmuid. What you sow, you must reap."

  I puzzled over his words briefly and then let them go, forgetting them for far longer than I should have.

  10

  Diarmuid

  THE HANDFASTING CEREMONY was held outdoors beneath an old oak tree that had likely seen many such rituals over its long years. The snow-laden hills mirrored a sky that was now filled with fluffy white clouds, so that everywhere I looked was blindingly white. The wind was tinged with ice and I shivered despite my thick coat and sturdy boots. I thrust my hands into my pockets and wriggled my toes to keep them warm as Caedmon and Grainne exchanged the words that would bind them. Strangers stood on each side of me, folk who had arrived with Grainne's family.

  My eyes suddenly filled with tears and I dashed them away before anyone noticed. Why was I crying? I should be happy for Caedmon but instead I felt isolated, sorry for myself, and angry with Caedmon.

  The older druid, whose name I never did learn, conducted the ceremony. He asked the blessing of each of the elements and then Caedmon and Grainne spoke their vows. They smiled at each other and I tried hard to push aside my anger. Grainne would be a widow before long if Caedmon's grim suspicions were correct. Did she know that these next few weeks might be their only days together?

  A fist clenched my heart and sorrow flowed through me. If this was to be our final parting, I didn't want it tinged with anger. I would speak to him tomorrow, tell him how angry I was, that it was unfair of him to put me in such a situation. It was unfair on Rhiwallon too. If Caedmon were to apologise, perhaps I could forgive him. Ida whispered, snippets of a tale about two brothers, and I promised to mull over her idea later. She sank back down into the depths of my mind.

  As the druid wrapped a length of red ribbon around Caedmon and Grainne's wrists, binding them together with the fabric and their promises, I looked around for the members of my family. For the first time since Fiachra had left as a boy, we were all together.

  Mother wiped away a tear and Papa wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into him. Their solidarity in that moment reflected the partnership they had demonstrated through my entire life. Papa ran the estate with assistance from my brothers and the tenants who built their homes on Silver Downs land and provided labour in exchange for Papa's protection. The estate produced mostly everything we needed and, sometimes, a small surplus to be sold or traded. Mother ran the household, supervised the women who worked for us as servants, and brought up the family. We weren't wealthy but Papa provided well for us, and Mother managed the resources carefully.

  Wherever Father was, my eldest brother, Eremon, would be nearby and indeed today he and Niamh stood a few paces from our parents. Older than me by six years, Eremon was Papa's heir and had worked the estate alongside our father since he was barely old enough to walk. He was much like Papa in both appearance and attitude. He and Niamh lived in their own house on the family estate, close enough to spend evenings with us but far enough for privacy as they established their own family. Their twin sons were barely three summers old but already Eremon and Niamh had their heir and druid. The boys were solemn today, each clutching the hand of a parent.

  A year after Eremon came Caedmon, the soldier son. He was rarely home from campaign but when he did return, he always had time for his youngest brother. I would shadow him, lapping up stories of battles and quests, and dreaming of the day I might have my own adventure to tell. Never before had I felt so distant from him, separated by my anger and his thoughtlessness.

  Sitric was the next son, younger again by one year. He had worked as a scribe for some six summers already and spent most of his time in Maker's Well, the town nearest to our estate and the better part of a day's walk in good weather. He made a steady living, writing and reading letters for those who were unable, and recording purchases, sales, loans, and other matters as folk might want a written account of. I searched for Sitric in the crowd and found him at last. He stood on the edge, a little apart from the others.

  It was not until the fourth son that the druids received their due. The men of that order knew Fiachra was to be theirs, for as his birth began two of their number appeared at our farmstead to offer small enchantments for his safety. Like Sitric, Fiachra stood alone. I wondered that he could be warm enough in his brown robes but if he shivered, I couldn't see it.

  Mother was certain her next babe would be a girl. It was instead to be twin boys, Marrec and Con, my elders by just two years. Neither had displayed any inclination towards a particular trade, so they assisted Papa and Eremon with the management of Silver Downs and thus Papa had three sons capable of running the estate when he died. As always, Marrec and Con stood together. Beside
them stood their betrotheds, small dark-haired women, sisters who seemed to share almost as close a relationship as their intended husbands.

  I was born after Marrec and Conn, seventh son of a seventh son, and although I knew it not in my youngest years, destined to be a bard. With my inability to so much as look a woman in the eyes, it seemed I would watch each of my brothers marry until in the end only Eithne and I remained alone.

  I sought out my sister in the crowd. She was three years younger than I and my only memory of her birth was an image of Papa, his face white with dread and slick with fear. As a babe, Eithne was ever small and sickly. She was sixteen now and thus of marriageable age, but she had not the strength to survive pregnancy and no man would want a wife who could not provide the three sons he needed. I should have stood next to her, for surely she would be feeling as alone as I. But when I finally found Eithne, she wasn't watching the ceremony. I followed her line of sight.

  He wasn't there amidst our family and friends but stood within a grove of young ash trees, about a hundred paces away. I would have recognised the pale face and too red lips had I ever seen them before. He leaned against a grey trunk, gaze fixed on Eithne. A small smile passed between them.

  Who was he? How did Eithne know him? And what was the meaning of the secretive smile they shared? Surely he was not allowing Eithne to fancy herself in love with him.

  The ceremony finally concluded and folks moved in to congratulate Caedmon and Grainne. I pushed my way through the crowd. But Fiachra blocked my way.

  "No, Diarmuid." He placed a hand firmly on my shoulder. "You must not interfere."

  "I don't want to see Eithne hurt." I tried to slip out from under his hand, but I could no more escape Fiachra's grasp than I could Caedmon's.

  "You must leave Eithne to her own fate."

  "He is misleading her. Or he is misleading them both. If I can talk to him, tell him how unwell she is—"