Muse

by Kylie Quillinan

  I took a step towards him and stumbled. My legs shook but slowly I remembered how to walk without the certainty of four legs. I moved closer to Diarmuid, wanting to be near him. I wanted his arms around me. I wanted him to pick me up and hold me to his chest, where I could feel his heart and smell his scent.

  "Don't," he said. "Don't come near me."

  I stopped, confused. "Diarmuid? What's wrong?"

  His mouth twisted and his face was a furious red. "I don't know who, or what, you are, but don't come any closer."

  My heart shattered. My chin wobbled and tears seeped into my eyes. I blinked them away. I would not cry in front of him.

  Ida laughed, a soft, tinkling like wind chimes. "Oh my. Look at your little dog now."

  Diarmuid glared at her. "Are you satisfied? You've taken all of my friends from me, one by one. What's next?"

  Ida smiled coldly and her hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles were white. "What did you expect from me? Gratitude? You kept me locked inside your head for all those years. You owe me something for that."

  "I owe you? I created you. Without me, you wouldn't exist."

  "And what a fine existence it was. Trapped in your head, witness to your every thought and emotion."

  Ida looked at me and I froze. Please don't turn me back into a dog. Had I still been Bramble, I might have whimpered. As Brigit, I stayed silent and looked her in the eyes. I was strong. My mother raised me to be confident, capable, a wise woman.

  "My dear, you would be horrified if you knew even a tiny bit of what goes on inside his head," Ida said. "I've seen his true nature. You might think you know him but you see only as much as he wants you to. He won't show you the darkness inside."

  "I know a little more than you think," I said and although my voice was hoarse and scratchy, the words were even enough. "Who do you think he confided to night after night? Why, the dog, of course. The dog knows everything."

  51

  Diarmuid

  SHE WAS PERHAPS a year or two older than me and wore a grey dress with scuffed boots. Her dark hair was coming loose from its bun and wisping around her face. This was the woman I had seen from time to time, the one I had hoped to find the courage to speak to. The one I had thought of when Caedmon asked whether there was someone he should meet while he was home.

  I backed away. My legs were weak and my face hot. Secrets I had shared with her flashed through my mind. She knew everything about me, things I had never said to another person, things I had said only because she was just a dog. I never expected to one day be face to face with a person — a woman — who knew those secrets.

  She was strong, this woman who used to be Bramble. Ida was sending out her power, trying to weave a hold around her, but if the woman noticed, she didn't show it. At first she held herself uncertainly, as if still figuring out what form she inhabited. I recognised the moment she realised she was human again, the moment she decided to fight. She straightened her shoulders and stood tall. Then she glared at me and I saw Bramble in those wide, unblinking eyes.

  "You needn't worry," she said in a voice that sounded unused to human speech. "I'll keep your secrets. But first we need to deal with her."

  I turned back to Ida. It was time to be strong but, expectedly, I found myself pitying her. This would be the end of her freedom, here in this room with its workbench and its sturdy chairs. This was where her tale ended.

  "Ida, it's time to finish this," I said, gently. "I'm going to tell you a tale. It's about a bard who brings his muse to life. Somehow, she draws from him enough power to escape out of his head, and she goes off into the world. But something is wrong with the muse. She is dark, twisted."

  "She is what she is," Ida said, "because everything she knows comes from the bard's head."

  Her power swirled around me, seeking, burrowing. I pushed it aside and concentrated on my story.

  "When his muse leaves, the bard knows he has done something very wrong and is determined to make things right again. So he goes in search of her, and when he finds her, he tells another tale, a new tale about how the muse returns to the bard's head. And as he speaks, his muse, just like the one in his tale, is drawn back inside of him."

  I waited, bracing myself for the intrusion. But Ida continued to sit in her chair, an almost bored look on her face.

  "What's wrong?" asked the woman who used to be Bramble. "Why isn't it working?"

  "I don't know," I said through gritted teeth. How could it not work? Even Fiachra thought this was what I needed to do.

  "Think," not-Bramble said urgently. "Think of when you created her. What was different about that tale?"

  Ida laughed. "Have you still not figured it out? We are in for a long day, aren't we?"

  "Ignore her," the woman said. "Focus."

  I cast my mind back, trying to ignore the welling panic. When I told my very first tale, the one in which I created Ida, it had been the night before Caedmon was leaving to become a soldier. I remembered that the days ahead without him had seemed long and empty.

  "I was lonely," I said. "Despondent. I was afraid that Caedmon might never return. And afraid he would return changed."

  "How is that different from when you told other tales?" the woman asked.

  I hesitated but as the words started to flow, the pieces came together and I began to understand. "I am nervous before I tell a tale, anxious that my audience won't like it. But once the tale begins, I am calm. All other emotion disappears. The words flow from somewhere deep inside of me. That first time, I didn't know that folk would hate my tales. I was fully focused on the tale, on my words, on how I felt. My feelings are the key."

  "Try it," the woman said. "Let the emotions fill you and overwhelm you, then tell your tale."

  Perhaps she was right. I had nothing to lose if she wasn't.

  Ida laughed. "You're never going to figure it out at this pace."

  I blocked out her words, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. I thought about the reasons for my journey, my desire to make up for what I had done. I thought about the journey itself and what we had gone through to get this far. I thought about my friends, one by one. Owain, a killer by trade but a kind, gentle man who had saved both my life and Bramble's. Rhiwallon, a woman fleeing the man she feared would take her child. And then there was Bramble. My smallest companion. The one who had lain beside me night after night while I poured out my fears and my hopes. The one who had stood beside me as we faced down the fey, a dragon, and Ida. The one who was really a woman, trapped in another form, and I never even realised. And now here I was, alone. Betrayed by my companions, one by one. None of them was who I thought they were.

  A warm hand grasped mine and held it firmly. No, not alone. I still had Bramble. In a different form, perhaps, but still, she was here.

  I began to tell my tale again and this time I let my emotions infuse my words. I wove all of my hope and horror, heartbreak and happiness into the tale. I let myself feel — really feel — the devastation of realising that my tales were responsible for such awful things. I opened myself to the hurt and abandonment of Caedmon leaving to become a soldier. I felt the jealousy I had hidden away when he handfasted. My resentment that he had everything: a destiny, a career, a beautiful wife. My envy at his confidence, his ability to talk so easily to women, his bravery.

  I felt the horror of climbing up the rock pile to rescue Rhiwallon and being pursued by the beast that had stolen her away. The terror of facing the dragon, the awful hopelessness of realising that our fate would depend on the ability of each of my companions to answer a riddle. The frustration of knowing I had gotten us into such a situation but that I would need help to get us back out.

  All of these emotions welled up inside of me, filling my heart and my limbs and my head, until I thought I would either burst or lose my mind. I poured it all into my tale. It was still a dark tale but now there was also hope. There was wonder and beauty and love. It was unlike any tale I had ever told before.r />
  As I reached the end of the tale, where the muse is drawn back into the bard's head, I opened my eyes. Ida still sat in her chair but her face was pale and her eyes wide. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white and straining. I could feel her struggling, still trying to control my thoughts, still trying to influence Bramble. Her power had little strength over me while the woman who used to be Bramble held my hand, but still she tried.

  My mind began to fill with a presence both strange and also instantly familiar. I kept my eyes on Ida as she faded, her essence drawn back into my head. I said my final words. The tale was ended. For the first time in many weeks, I saw her in my mind. Her delicate figure, the translucent skin, her long white hair.

  Ida began to writhe and scream. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I imagined the wooden box, its lid already open in preparation. Recalling Fiachra's instructions, I exhaled and somehow pushed at Ida, shoving her in the direction of the box. At first she didn't seem to notice. I managed to push her right up against the box before she realised what I was doing. Then she fought me. I clenched my teeth and blood filled my mouth as I bit my tongue.

  As Ida struggled, the pain was as real as if she beat a hammer against the inside of my brain. My head pounded but I fought to ignore the pain and stay focused. Already my legs trembled and I panted from exertion. No matter how hard I pushed, Ida was always a little bit stronger. Then she was gone and instead I fought a black raven that somehow seemed to be both inside my mind and right in front of me. Wings beat against my face and sharp claws raked my arm. There was something inside my mind that I recognised as my self, my own essence, and it was being pushed towards the box. Panic grew, sharp and nauseating.

  "Fiachra," I screamed. "Help me."

  Then he was there with me in my head.

  "This is your mind, Diarmuid," he said. "You control what happens in here."

  His presence calmed me, focused me. I resisted, pushed back, managed to get away from the box. The raven disappeared and Ida returned. We grappled, struggled, fought. Then, so suddenly that I wasn't even sure how it had happened, Ida was in the box. I slammed down the lid.

  The box trembled and I held the lid secure. My mind-self had hands now and they gripped the lid so tightly that the edges cut into my fingers and my own blood stained the wood. Surely the box would break apart from the force of Ida's anger. But, somehow, it held and gradually her resistance lessened.

  Eventually I thought I could probably make my way back to the inn while still holding down the lid. Fiachra was gone. I hadn't even noticed when he left.

  I opened my eyes to find the room dark. The woman who used to be Bramble was curled up on the chair in which Ida had sat. She looked at me, a question in her dark eyes.

  "Don't speak," I said. I finally noticed how my legs trembled and sweat dripped down my back. "I can't…"

  We left Ida's house. I barely noticed the dark skies or the empty streets as I stumbled back to the inn. Beside me, Bramble was silent. All of my attention was focused on the box. Ida had settled for now but it was likely a trick to lure me into thinking she had given up. As soon as my attention wandered, she would spring from the box and take over my mind. The possibility of being trapped and helpless in my own body kept me focused, despite my fatigue.

  Owain and Rhiwallon were in the common room when I reached the inn. I didn't look at them, couldn't risk being distracted by talking to anyone. I focused on the stairs, making my way up them with such single-mindedness that I hardly noticed when I crashed right into someone. He swore at me and Bramble muttered a soft apology, tugging my arm to lead me away. I reached our bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed, my weary body sinking into the softness of the straw mattress. Exhaustion flooded my limbs, making them heavy, and my concentration wavered.

  Suddenly Ida sprang out of the box. Again, I grappled with her, pushing her back. She gained the upper hand and I gritted my teeth, pushing harder. This was my mind and I would not be a prisoner in it. I eventually managed to confine her again. By that time, my hands trembled and I was dizzy with exhaustion. Then someone sat beside me on the bed, someone who smelled like sunny days tinged with lavender. A hand gently touched mine and the scent of fresh bread filled my nostrils. Something pressed against my lips and when I opened my mouth, a small piece of bread was deposited in it.

  I hadn't realised how hungry I was. I kept my attention on Ida's box and when I opened my empty mouth, more bread appeared. Bramble didn't speak as she fed me, piece by piece. Once I had eaten my fill, she held a mug to my mouth and cool ale trickled down my throat.

  I moved from the bed to a wooden chair. All through the night, I kept my attention focused on the box. Ida struggled for a while but eventually she stopped. Perhaps she slept, or perhaps she wanted me to think she slept.

  Bramble, Owain and Rhiwallon took turns to sit up with me through the night. From time to time, someone would hold a mug to my lips or offer me some bread. I ate and drank to maintain my strength, feeling neither hunger nor thirst. Ida stirred occasionally, pushing at the lid for a while but then settling again.

  When eventually I was sure I could keep part of my attention on the box, I opened my eyes. Daylight filled the bedchamber. Bramble sat cross-legged on the bed. Owain and Rhiwallon were absent.

  "I think she is contained." I yawned. I was exhausted and drained, both physically and mentally.

  "Does she still fight?"

  "Sometimes. Mostly, she's just waiting."

  I stood and stretched. My back was stiff and my legs cramped from spending the night in the wooden chair. Ida moved, cautiously, testing my attention. She found the lid of her box securely fastened and sank back down into stillness.

  "There's water here if you want to wash," Bramble said.

  I nodded, too exhausted to speak if words weren't necessary.

  "I'll wait downstairs," she said.

  I pulled off my shirt, which was stiff and sticky, and washed the sweat from my body. The shirt reeked but my spare was still covered in Davin's blood.

  The common room was mostly empty of patrons. My companions were gathered around one table and a sole man sat at another. He was hunched over, almost asleep, a mug of ale by his hand. He looked like he had been there all night. The scent of yesterday's mutton still lingered in the air, mixed with the stench of stale ale.

  "Thank you," I said. "I couldn't have done this without you."

  "Is she really back in your head again?" Rhiwallon asked. She held herself stiffly and didn't look at me. I couldn't tell whether she was still mad at me or afraid.

  "She's still fighting but I'm learning how to keep part of my attention on her. It's getting easier."

  I turned to Bramble. "Who are you? How did you come to be a dog?"

  "I was stubborn," she said with a hint of a smile. "I refused a task from the fey and that was my punishment."

  "What was the task?"

  "A journey. They wanted me to go somewhere but wouldn't tell me where or why."

  I hesitated. Was the journey she took the one they intended? She guessed where my thoughts led.

  "Yes," she said. "I think this is where they meant for me to be."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged. "They have their own reasons, and are unlikely to share them with me. It doesn't matter. They achieved their aim."

  "What was that?"

  She shook her head and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. "It doesn't matter."

  "What is your name?" I asked. "Your real name? I can't help but think of you as Bramble."

  "Brigit. But I don't mind Bramble. I've become quite used to it."

  It was hard to think of her as Brigit when I saw Bramble every time I looked at her. Brigit's eyes were much like Bramble's, and like Bramble, her emotions flared from them. I hadn't often stopped to think about what she was feeling before, but I could read her eyes now: hope, confusion, and something that looked a lot like hurt.

  The innkeeper brought bowls of porridge. I barely ta
sted my meal, focused as I was on Ida's box. Perhaps if I concentrated on it all day, I would be able to maintain my focus long enough to sleep for a while tonight. I suspected, though, that it would be several days at least before I could safely sleep.

  I hardly knew what to think of the fact that Bramble was really a woman. Brigit. I tried not to think of the many confidences I had shared with her as she lay beside me at night. My cheeks were hot and Owain gave me a strange look but he didn't speak until he had finished his porridge.

  "Well, Diarmuid." He pushed away his empty bowl. "What now?"

  "I suppose we go home," I said.

  Rhiwallon made a strangled sound and buried her face in her hands. Owain leaned close to murmur something to her.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  A sharp kick bruised my ankle.

  "Idiot," Brigit hissed.

  Belatedly I remembered Rhiwallon's secret. "I'm sorry," I said. "I—"

  Another kick and Brigit glared at me. I stopped talking and ate my porridge in silence. Other patrons wandered into the room, some in pairs or groups and some alone. They ordered meals or ale and chatted with their companions. It was strange to see the world continue in such an ordinary fashion. After last night, it seemed everything should be different somehow.

  "Where is your brother?" Brigit asked. "The druid?"

  I shrugged. "He has probably left, gone back to wherever it is the druids live."

  "He's very knowledgeable," Brigit said. "He taught me much."

  I waited but she didn't elaborate.

  After the meal, we returned to our bedchamber to gather our belongings and start the journey home. I was right behind Bramble — Brigit — as she opened the door, and I saw what she saw: the room was gone.

  We walked into an enormous cavern. And we weren't alone. The last time we confronted the fey, there was a multitude of them. This time we faced only the king and queen.

  52

  Diarmuid