Misfortune of Time

by Christy Nicholas

  Étaín almost whispered. “Additional beds at the hostelry would be most helpful.”

  Bressel stared at her as if marveling she could speak. He turned to Airtre and scowled. “You allow your wife to participate in discussions about your work, Airtre?”

  “She sometimes has good insights.”

  Bressel stood quickly, his stool clattering behind him. He towered over Étaín as she cowered from his sudden threat. “She’s a woman! Any woman should know her place. In fact, it’s obvious she no longer knows hers. I’d highly recommend the proper correction, Airtre. If you don’t do so, I would consider it my duty to take up your slack.”

  With reluctant moves, Airtre rose and slapped Étaín. The sting felt sharp, but he hadn’t hit her very hard. Bressel growled at Airtre’s paltry effort and cocked his own arm back. This time her head rocked back and her neck cracked. She scuttled away before Bressel urged Airtre into another blow.

  After she escaped to the pantry, the men spoke again, but in low tones. Étaín couldn’t hear the discussion and didn’t want to. Instead, she worked on cleaning her cooking mess, despite her aching cheek. While she tried to clean up after herself as she cooked, today she’d had no time.

  A scrape of the stools on stone alerted her to Bressel’s imminent departure. She wiped her wet hands on a rag and went out to give him a proper farewell.

  She put her hands out, face up, and he placed his over hers, hoping her required duties didn’t earn her another blow. “You are welcome to our hearth again, Bressel.”

  He nodded curtly and pulled on his cloak, fastening the brooch tightly against the weather. “Airtre, we’ll speak more on this tomorrow, eh?”

  Her husband waved his hand and nodded, moving to his evening bench, closer to the hearth. Étaín needed to get Bressel bundled off and out the door so she could pour her husband’s evening drink. His one indulgence from his normally ascetic ideal remained his evening glass of sloe wine. She made it herself, which meant little expense for the indulgence, but the wine remained beyond what the stricter rules of the church suggested.

  Bressel finally got his leather shoes on, still damp from their earlier dowsing. She got him out the door and hurried to the pantry for Airtre’s wineskin.

  He scowled at her as she poured the drink. The sweet, spiced, ruby liquid splashed into his wooden mug, and his scowl softened.

  He took a sip and actually smiled. “When is Maelan due back?”

  “He should return any time now.”

  “Good, good. Now leave me. I must think on some things.”

  Grateful for the respite, she returned to cleaning the cooking area.

  * * *

  With a frown at the slug, Étaín plucked the disgusting creature and tossed it into her bucket with a shudder. She hated slugs and took her frustrations out on the revolting pests. While she kept several ducks, they didn’t eat enough to keep the population of the slimy things to a reasonable level. Even her barrier of garlic and onions didn’t work well.

  She pinched another with a grimace.

  A snort of disgust made her turn to find her grandson glaring at the bucket. “What will you do with them, Grandmother?”

  She smiled. “While I might use my salt to dissolve them, salt is too precious for such a task. However, a good pounding might destroy them. Would you help me later with that?”

  “I get to squish them? Yes, please! When?”

  She laughed. “Give me another hour, at least. I want to get a good crop before we go on our rampage. In the meantime, tell me what this plant is good for?”

  Étaín put her hand under the leaves of one plant, and Maelan furrowed his brow. “Burdock.”

  “That’s good, Maelan, but what do we use the burdock for?”

  He shrugged. “For joint-ache?”

  “Good, that’s one use. What else.”

  He stared at the slugs. “I don’t remember.”

  “Think, child. I know I’ve told you this before.”

  “Why do I need to know this, Grandmother? Soldiers aren’t healers.”

  She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “Are they not? What happens when your brother-in-arms gets injured on a campaign? Do you seek a healer or bind the wound yourself? If you don’t know how to treat his wound, he may die. Wouldn’t you rather be able to help him?”

  He made a noncommittal sound deep in his throat. Étaín took that as an agreement and said, “Burdock can also help bad skin and a bound bowel. How do you prepare the leaves?”

  “Boil it?”

  “Well, yes, make a tea. Close enough. When do you pick it?”

  “I don’t know, Grandmother! I’ll just come get some from you. You’ll already have picked and boiled the stupid thing.”

  She glared at him. “Watch your language, young man. I might not be close.”

  “Why not? You’re always close by.”

  Shaking her head, Étaín frowned. Her time to leave came close, and she must prepare the child for her absence. “I won’t be on campaign with you, even if I lived nearby when you grew up. You need to know such things, Maelan!”

  He used his toe to make a circle in the garden dirt.

  She answered her own question with a sigh. “You harvest in midsummer, preferably during a full moon.”

  He frowned. “Full moon? Is it magical?”

  “All healings are magical, my child.”

  Maelan crossed his arms. “Brother Aedan says not. He says magic is evil and of the devil. We shouldn’t do magic.”

  Brother Aedan is a fool. However, saying such things out loud wouldn’t do. It only made sense that magic existed in this world, neither for good nor evil. Magic simply existed, like the water in the river or the sun in the sky. Who would call the moon evil? A tutor, one who might have a kinder world view, might be just the solution.

  To her grandson, Étaín smiled. “It’s wise to get information from many sources, Maelan. No one knows everything. However, if you ask enough people, you might find you come close to the truth someday.”

  Maelan blinked several times, obviously not understanding her philosophy. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

  “True, but a search for the truth is a worthy pursuit.” Even Brother Aedan couldn’t disagree with such a statement. Still, Maelan didn’t repeat Brother Aedan’s opinion and therefore showed improvement.

  “Did you straighten your sleeping alcove this morning? Or is your cot still a mess?”

  He avoided her gaze, his blue eyes fixed on his toes, so she knew the answer. “Off with you then, child. Do your chores, and later we can squish the slugs.”

  With renewed energy and a quick grin, he bounded back to the main structure, leaving her to her garden.

  Étaín didn’t have a large plot, but her herbs and spices took a good portion of the yard. A larger area of turnips and other food plants grew along the edge of the low palisade, but this area had become her pride and joy. She lost herself for hours among the green things, her hands deep in the loamy soil. Sometimes she stared with intense satisfaction at the living plants and creatures which thrived under her care. She rarely got to see her children or grandchildren live out their lives, but at least she had her herbs and animals.

  Her third husband, Brennan, had loved the garden. He showed her many of the plant properties. His mother had been a proper hedge-witch and taught both healing and flavor uses of the different herbs. She’d also taught about dangerous herbs, those used to kill, and made Étaín promise never to use them for that purpose, as a condition of being taught. Étaín smiled at the memory. What had been her name? She only ever called her Mother, the only mother she’d ever really known and loved.

  Étaín’s own mother had died when she’d turned six. The only legacy she had from her real parents had been the brooch, a secret treasure she kept well-hidden.

  Her foster-parents had treated her poorly. She preferred not to think of them at all, nor those horrific winters with her first husband.

  But
Brennan, though he’d been dead and gone over a hundred winters, still held fond memories for her.

  After so many winters, she found it difficult remembering his face, but she recalled laughing green eyes and blond curling hair. She’d loved playing with his beard.

  Such is the difficulty of living so many winters. She’d lived over five lifetimes so far, thanks to the magical brooch her mother had given her. Still, without working each morning to renew her magic, she looked barely thirty winters old. Étaín worked hard to change her appearance, using both magic and makeup, but the constant work took a lot of effort. The magic of giving her face lines and keeping her hair dull gray grew exhausting.

  She swallowed, remembering the first time she’d slipped her morning routine, decades before. Her then husband, already old and crabbed, caught her with her young face on after she’d been delirious with fever for a moon. The magic didn’t fall away overnight, but she needed to work to renew the details each day.

  His eyes had grown wide, and he’d crossed his fingers to ward the evil away. “Witch! Devil! What manner of creature are you? What have you done with my wife?”

  He’d not been a terrible husband, but she’d been unable to convince him she hadn’t become a Fae changeling. He remained sure his true wife had been stolen in the night.

  She’d argued with him, cut her arm to prove she bled, touched cold iron without complaint, even kissed a wooden cross. Still, he stayed convinced she‘d become something evil. Before he roused the village into a murderous mob to hang her at a crossroads, she’d needed to bolt under cover of midnight.

  She’d fled so many times, she’d lost count. Each time her secret was revealed, even suspected, she needed to move on, move away, and lose all contact with the family she had grown. Even winters later, if she came back into an area, she must be careful lest someone remember her of old. The few times she met her own grandchildren had been heartbreaking, as they must never realize the truth.

  Étaín no longer attempted to find her descendants.

  She closed her eyes and shut away the ache which blossomed in her heart, the pain of lost memory and lost children.

  She stood and wiped her hands clean along with her memories and picked up her bucket. Maelan would have his fun now.

  When she entered the roundhouse, though, she didn’t find Maelan. Instead, Bressel had arrived and discussed something with Airtre. She daren’t simply exit again; it would raise a question from Airtre. Instead, she busied herself in the pantry. She made something for them to eat and drink. Not knowing how long he’d been there or how long he’d stay, she didn’t want to waste a lot of food, but flatbread and sweet butter never went amiss. She arranged it on a tray with a pitcher of ale and brought it in.

  Airtre nodded to her as she arrived while he spoke to Bressel. “Still, the new man must surely have the favor of the abbot, if he came all the way from Dubhlinn.”

  “He does, and he doesn’t. Certainly, he’s a new talent and well-regarded. Still, he’s young and untried. I believe you’ll have the better chance when the opportunity arrives.”

  The tray delivered, Étaín escaped quickly, but she felt Airtre’s eyes on her back. He hadn’t approved of her intrusion. He hadn’t wanted her to hear their discussion. If only he’d warned her of Bressel coming … but he would blame her, regardless.

  She slunk out to the garden, the bucket of slugs forgotten by the door.

  The sound of a horse leaving alerted her to Bressel’s departure. Why she hadn’t been listening harder for his arrival, she never knew. Perhaps the man had arrived when she fell deep in thought about her past. She must be more careful next time.

  Airtre’s shadow fell upon her as she weeded. She turned but remained crouched, eyes fixed upon his bare toes. He liked going barefoot, as it appealed to his ideals, if not his comfort. His nails needed trimming and looked encrusted with dirt.

  Étaín expected the cuff to her ear, but she still let out a gasp.

  “My private matters are private, wife. You know this well. Why did you interrupt us with your domestic meddling?”

  She had no answer to that. She kept silent, knowing it would incur another blow. To answer would cause greater punishment. She rocked with the second hit, her ears ringing.

  Airtre had never been in the habit of striking her before Bressel had urged it the other night. She’d received a few blows over the winters, but they’d definitely increased in both frequency and power.

  “Grandmother! Can we squish the slugs now?”

  Her grandson came to a halt. He had accidentally witnessed her corrections in the past, and Étaín hoped he would stay silent. Airtre seldom struck the boy in anger, but occasionally his temper overcame his restraint.

  The silence grew heavy, interrupted finally by the buzzing of an early bee. With a curse, Airtre stalked off, splashing in the mud near the back entrance to the roundhouse. Soon, the silence returned, a welcome blanket of safety.

  Maelan knelt and offered his hand. “Would you like help, Grandmother?”

  She put her hand in his, grateful for the gesture. “You’re a good lad, Maelan. Come, shall we go to the market? I need supplies.”

  As her grandson helped her exit their modest palisade, she could feel the pain in her cheek. She moved her jaw back and forth, testing the bones. Nothing broken, just bruised. That’s not so bad as it might be, then.

  “It’s not fair, Grandmother.”

  “What’s that, child?”

  “The way Grandfather strikes you. He shouldn’t do it.”

  She stopped walking. “Whyever not, Maelan? It’s his right as my husband.”

  He furrowed his brow. They’d taught him Brehon Law, and she could see him considering the rules, one by one. “But you did nothing to deserve it! And if he leaves a mark, you can demand your bride price and divorce him.”

  She shook her head. “There is no divorce in Christian law, Maelan.”

  “But there is in Brehon law!”

  She smiled. “And I am married to a Christian priest, child. Therefore, which law do you think holds sway?”

  They walked in silence for some moments, but Étaín felt the heat rising from her grandson as he stewed over the dilemma.

  “You might leave him, Grandmother.”

  Étaín blinked several times. She’d left many men in her life, but had never stayed alone long. She’d never been good at surviving on her own in this world, without a male protector. Still, how would the child know any of that? To him and everyone around, she’d been with Airtre since she’d been young, and knew no other life.

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “Things are not so simple as that, Maelan. Besides, if I left, I should not see you again. I look forward to seeing you grow up into a strong warrior.”

  “Well, if he does it again, I’ll stop him.” Maelan’s voice turned sullen.

  She halted and knelt, taking both his shoulders and looking sternly into his eyes. “You shall do no such thing, young man. Do you hear me? Give him no excuse to strike you. You are not old enough to fight him. He’s a full-grown man, and you are still just a lad.”

  “But he hurts you, Grandmother!”

  She shook her head. “No. You must promise me, here and now, you will not fight him. Take a vow upon our family name.”

  He set his jaw and Étaín feared she hadn’t gotten through to him. She shook his shoulders a couple times. “Promise me!”

  He cast his gaze down and spoke in a low voice. “I promise, Grandmother.”

  “Look me in the eyes, Maelan.”

  He looked up, his teeth clenched and his eyes blazing with resolve. “I promise, Grandmother—for now.”

  It remained the best she could hope for. He would hold his vow for now, and by the time he’d grown big enough to make good his threat, she’d have moved on. The child wore his honor like a shield. If she worked hard, she could keep him from harm for a while yet.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Étaín woke s
lowly. Her cheek throbbed with dull pain. She knew if she looked into her bronze mirror, her color would be high and her eyes puffy. The night before she’d been able to stay out and watch the moon rise. Such had been her habit in youth, one she still tried to honor, but it meant she’d gotten little sleep, and she needed her rest.

  She rubbed the sleep from her face and lay still, concentrating on her mother’s brooch. Next, she pulled on the magic within. Then she deepened the lines around her eyes, the crepe-like skin on her hands and her neck. She increased the silver in her hair and its wiry texture. She would rub ash under her eyes to intensify the appearance of aging, but some of it she must do with magic. Cosmetic disguise only worked so well.

  Each morning she needed to renew her magic. It faded with the night as she couldn’t concentrate on it. Airtre might come to her in the night for marital duties and find her younger than he expected. However, he rarely did so now since she had become ostensibly too old to bear children. Even when he did, his Christian ideals required he only bed her in the dark. For once, she felt grateful for the odd religious strictures imposed by the church.

  The magic drew energy from her body, so she didn’t need to fake the groan when she got to her feet. Her muscles ached today. It took more and more power to keep up her aging disguise, power she could ill-afford to waste.

  She must move on soon. She hoped she had enough time to see Maelan fostered and safe away from Airtre before such became necessary.

  A sound from the hearth spurred her to dress quickly, daubing her eyes and pulling her hair back into a knot at the base of her neck. Airtre must already be awake.

  Her husband typically rose early, but treasured his morning solitude, and did not appreciate conversation when she served his morning meal. However, he expected her to clean up as soon as he completed his meal. He would leave for the abbey soon, and she’d best be on hand to take care of her duties.

  When she cautiously emerged from her alcove, he had both elbows propped on the table, gazing morosely out the back door. The view remained the same as always—the small pond across from their garden. With a start, she realized what day it was.