“Don’t be. I’m happy that you’re so close to the end of your quest. I’m hopeful that you will succeed. You shouldn’t trouble yourself over me. As you see, I’m fine.”
“If you say so.” I didn’t believe him for a moment. There was much in his eyes; too much to interpret. It troubled me to hear him talking about you, not we, as if my mission were really nothing to do with him. “I know something’s wrong,” I ventured cautiously. “Wouldn’t it be better if you told me what it is?”
“Leave it, Clodagh.”
It was a snarl this time, and rendered me immediately silent. I concentrated on my soup, warming my hands around the cup. Time passed. The longer we sat there, the heavier grew the weight of what lay unspoken. Out there in the forest, that thing sent out its sorrowful call again. Eventually Cathal cleared away pot and cup, washing them in the stream, and I sat staring into the fire with my lids dropping over my eyes. It was still day, but I could not stay awake.
“Why don’t you sleep awhile?” Cathal passed me one of the blankets. “I’ll keep watch.”
“I think it should be safe for both of us to rest,” I said. “That’s what the creature seemed to be telling us. No need to worry until dusk tomorrow.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll stay awake for now. Go on, sleep. You need rest. Have good dreams.”
I rolled myself up in the blanket and was asleep almost before I laid my head down, but there was not a good dream to be had. A jumble of images assailed my mind: a group of hard-faced, tattooed warriors riding into the courtyard at Sevenwaters. Sibeal running through the forest all alone, her face white as chalk. Mother lying on her bed with her face turned to the wall, her eyes open but unseeing. Muirrin weeping. Coll and Eilis, sitting together halfway up the stone steps to the tower in total silence, their small faces wearing pinched expressions as they listened to a raging argument from the hall below: Father shouting, Johnny responding in clipped, hurt tones. A creature in a silver dog mask, warning of sorrow to come. Then I was falling, falling, the rocks coming up to meet me . . .
I sat up, my skin drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering. The glow of the fire made a warm circle, but there was a chill in the air. High in the trees around us, birds were calling restlessly, exchanging warnings. Be ready! warned one. Be ready! And another challenged: Now or never! And still, somewhere beyond the safe enclosure, that wailing rang out in the forest.
I had slept for much longer than I’d expected. Though the light in this place could be deceptive, I judged that it was nearly dusk and past time for me to take my turn on watch. Becan was still fast asleep, wrapped in the cloak, breathing gently. I looked around for Cathal, thinking I might offer to prepare another meal.
For a moment, when I could not see him, I thought the worst: not that he had come to some harm, for I had believed our guide’s assurances of safety, but that he had fallen victim to his doubts and had walked away, abandoning the mission now that it was almost over. Then I spotted him seated cross-legged by the pond. I opened my mouth to call him and shut it again with his name unspoken. His pose was familiar to me. He was preternaturally still, his back very straight, and he was gazing into the water with the same air of intense concentration as my sister Sibeal assumed when she was in a visionary trance. I knew that if I spoke to him he would not hear me. Cathal, scrying. Cathal, who until a day or so ago had scoffed at the least hint of the uncanny. Cathal, who was valuable to Johnny because of his infallible instincts; Cathal, who had known about the attack on Glencarnagh before it happened. If that knowledge had come to him because he had a seer’s gift, why in the name of the gods hadn’t he said?
I waited for him to finish, my heart thumping as I tried to put it all together: the things he’d told me; the things he’d left out. The description of the house at Glencarnagh but not the name, because he’d seen it but didn’t know what it was called. Illann and Deirdre; had he seen them in a vision plotting against my father, or had that been only the hunch he’d said it was? Visions didn’t always reflect reality anyway; that was one reason why Sibeal didn’t share hers. They might show only what could be, or what might have been, or they might give a cryptic picture, something that could only be understood by a druid skilled in the interpretation of symbols. Whatever Cathal was, he was no druid. Gods, he had left himself open to accusations of basest treachery, he had fled in the manner most calculated to make him look guilty, when all he had needed to do was tell Johnny the source of his knowledge. He couldn’t have imagined that Johnny would doubt the wisdom of such a vision, Johnny whose own mother was a seer of some note. What had Cathal been thinking of? With my mind leaping from question to question, I made up the fire, boiled water and busied myself producing another meal of the dried-meat soup while the baby slept on, exhausted by the day’s travails.
By the time I had the brew ready Cathal was stirring, stretching, doing the things a seer needed to do to awaken the clay self and retreat from the strange, compelling world of the vision. That could take a while. I had sat with Sibeal often enough to know it must be allowed to take its own pace or the seer might be left with a severe headache and the loss of all useful memory of the gods’ wisdom. I said nothing as Cathal came back to the fire. I held my tongue as he sat down not far from me. I handed him his share of the food and set about eating my own. I hadn’t forgotten the mood he’d been in earlier, snapping like a wild creature prodded incessantly by a curious child.
After a long time, he said, “Thank you.” His voice was ragged.
“For the soup?” I said lightly. “When we get home to Sevenwaters I’ll cook you a proper one. It’s something I’m supposed to be good at.”
“For the soup, yes. And for . . . for being forbearing.”
“Ah. Something I’m not usually good at.” I felt nervous and edgy. I wanted him to confide in me but I was afraid he would close up, the way he often did, and leave all my questions unanswered. Suddenly it was more important than anything in the world that he should trust me.
“I don’t do it often,” Cathal muttered, looking fixedly into the flames. “It’s not a skill I’m proud of. But it’s a . . . a compulsion. Sometimes. Sometimes I can’t help myself. And it’s useful. To Johnny. It helps me keep my place with him. If it weren’t for this I’d be back at Whiteshore, treading that uneasy line between chieftain’s ward and lowborn bastard.”
After a little I said, “Your skills as a warrior are exceptional, Cathal. Even I can see that. I’m certain Johnny would keep you in his band whether you had this . . . instinct or not.”
“Instinct. I’ve passed it off as that. I imagine Johnny has some idea of where my hunches come from. He’s very astute. But he doesn’t comment, and I don’t offer explanations.”
“Does Aidan know?”
“No.” He set down his soup and stared into the flames.
“Cathal.”
“Why didn’t I tell you I could do this? Why did I give you the account of an attack and not say why I was certain it would happen? In hindsight I regret that bitterly. I didn’t know you then. Not as I do now. And . . . I’ve never told anyone about this, not a living soul. I hate it. I despise it. It’s a curse.”
“A curse?” He had sounded like a furious, wounded child, and I felt a powerful urge to move around the fire and embrace him. But he was not a child, and I stayed where I was, frightened by the yearning tug of body and heart. “Cathal, in my family visionary ability is viewed as a wonderful gift. I know how hard it is to possess it. Sibeal talks to me, and I understand what a weight such knowledge puts on the seer’s shoulders. All the same, it’s something to be proud of, not cause for anger or shame.”
“It’s different for me.”
“Why, Cathal?” As I spoke, the answer came to me. I held my breath, waiting.
“Because it’s from him. It must be. My mother was an ordinary woman, a fisherman’s daughter, hardworking, poor, with not a fey bone in her body. Fine looking in her youth; that was her misfortune. Whatever gift I have fo
r seeing the future, it’s not because I am her son, Clodagh. It’s because I’m his. A man I want to forget ever existed. A man who broke my mother’s heart with promises he didn’t keep. He took advantage of her trust and made casual use of her body, then walked away as if her gift of herself were nothing. He never returned to see the son he fathered on her. Seven years she waited for him to come back. Then she died. Believe me, I would burn and beat and scourge this uncanny talent from my body if I could. It’s supremely ironic that my ability to see what is to come has earned me a home on Inis Eala, the only place where I’ve ever felt I belonged.”
This was like feast after famine. For so long Cathal had refused to tell me a word about his past. These sudden revelations were hard to take in. I summoned my courage and said exactly what was in my heart. “You are truly welcome here, Cathal. Wherever I am, there’s a place for you.”
He looked up, his eyes black pools in which the firelight made flickering golden points. “Ah,” he said, his lips twisting, “you really know how to hit a man when he’s down.”
What did he mean? Had I caused him to lay his heart open, a heart already full of sorrow, and then burdened him with something that finally made the weight unbearable? All I had done was speak the truth. In the back of my mind a song began to write itself, a sad one. “May I ask you something?” I ventured.
“Mm.”
“I had thought perhaps you and Aidan were half-brothers; that his father, the lord of Whiteshore, was your father too. It seems that isn’t right.”
Cathal shook his head. “There were folk at Whiteshore who believed that. Still do, I expect. Lord Murtagh is a fine man. He’s made in the same mold as your father. Such men do not stray from their wives. He took me in out of sheer goodness of heart. Aidan and I became friends, and that earned me my education and other opportunities. Lord Murtagh provided for my mother as well, but she would never come to live in his household, not after Aidan and I were weaned. She stayed in the village. We used to see her on the bridge, like a wan ghost. She’d spend hours there, staring into the water. Waiting. Waiting until she could wait no more.”
I did not ask if his mother had killed herself or had simply faded away out of despair. The dream I had had of my own mother lingered all too close—her haunted face, her eyes on the wall. “Did she tell you anything about your father?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She went out of her way not to talk to me, not to be seen with me, as if I somehow shamed her. I can remember her telling Aidan and me not to come to her house in the settlement.” His tone was matter-of-fact now, but I could hear the hurt in it, buried deep. “Living in Lord Murtagh’s household, I had a more privileged existence than she could ever have provided. I suppose my mother was happy with that, though I never saw her smile. When that fellow took advantage of her, he sucked all the life out of her. She had nothing left for me. When she finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back, she had nothing to live for. I was only seven, Clodagh. I didn’t see it coming. A child doesn’t understand that kind of despair. Aidan and I found her in the river.” His shoulders were hunched. He was seeing things in the fire, memories that hollowed his cheeks and set a hard line on his brow. “After that I nearly let hatred eat me up. Aidan saved me. He was there when I needed him. He put up with me when nobody else would. Because of him I never lost sight of the fact that life went on, no matter how hot the rage, no matter how deep the sorrow of it. Aidan has his faults, and I don’t let him get away with them. He keeps me in check in much the same way.” He took a breath. “If you and he . . . When you go back, I imagine . . . What I said about his betrothed, Rathnait, and the future . . . Just ignore it, Clodagh. Do what your heart bids you do. There’s been too much bitterness. You and Aidan would be happy together. You’re strong. You could help him control his anger. If it’s what you want, you should open your arms and take it.”
I said nothing at all. Two days ago, I would probably have thought this very good counsel. Now, watching him across the fire—the long, sad planes of his face, the wounded mouth, the shadowed eyes—I knew with utter certainty that, whatever happened when we got home to Sevenwaters, I would not be marrying Aidan. I could not say this aloud. Indeed, I should turn my eyes away from Cathal, lest he see something on my face that I was not ready to share.
Becan began to stir and fret.
“Ah, well,” observed Cathal in an attempt at his familiar drawl, “life goes on.”
“I have another question.” I loosened the cloak around the baby so he could kick freely. “You spoke of seeing the future. You said you were certain the attack on Glencarnagh would happen. Sibeal says her visions don’t always show what’s to come, but all manner of possibilities, which it’s easy to misinterpret. But you implied . . .”
“What I’ve seen has always been true,” he said with devastating simplicity. “I wish it were otherwise. It’s far more comfortable to know nothing of the future. Not to have roads blocked off, possibilities closed down. I avoid still water. I shun mirrors. I hate my father for destroying my mother and for laying this curse on me. Everything bad in me, every quirk and trick and unpleasantness, I owe to his blood. His legacy means I cannot be part of your world, Clodagh. I’m doomed to tease and goad and hurt, over and over.”
“That is not the man you are, Cathal,” I said quietly. “You are not your father. You are yourself. Maybe you owe it to her, to the mother you loved so much, to rise above this. To be strong enough to transcend it.”
There was a little silence. Then he said, “You didn’t ask me what I saw.”
“Sibeal has taught me that one should not do so. If you have something useful to tell me, perhaps you will. But I don’t expect it.”
Cathal sighed. “I hoped to see something that would help us. What I saw was obscure. I could do nothing to interpret it.”
“If I were a seer right now,” I said, “I would want a vision of Sevenwaters. To know how my family is coping. I had distressing dreams about them.”
“I’ll try again in the morning, if you want.”
“I had a sad sort of dream,” I told him. “It seemed to show how things might be at Sevenwaters if we don’t achieve this quest. At the end I saw warriors of Inis Eala riding to battle.”
“The Painted Men.” Cathal smiled. “The fighters of that legendary leader, Bran of Harrowfield. Your uncle is revered on the island. His rare visits are cause for great celebration, with drinking, feasting and extraordinary feats of arms.”
I had never been able to think of Aunt Liadan’s husband as an uncle. There was too much danger about him; his outlaw past set him beyond all that was ordinary. I wondered what he had made of Cathal when they met.
“I liked those older men when I visited Inis Eala,” I said cautiously. “It seems to me that the ones who were part of Bran’s mercenary band have something that ordinary people don’t. A . . . a tolerance, I suppose it could be called. As if they have seen and endured so much that they can rise above everyday difficulties.”
Cathal shot me a look. “You wouldn’t be trying to teach me something, would you?” he asked.
“If I were I would be far more subtle about it, Cathal. I think this lesson is one the two of us may take time to learn. We need to get home and weigh it, free of the fears and challenges that await us here.”
“How very wise and measured of you, Clodagh.” He was mocking me. “What if there is no time?”
“Then I suppose we’ll stay as we are,” I said, a lump in my throat. “With important things unsaid. With mysteries unsolved. With treasure still buried, waiting forever to be found. With secrets unshared.”
Cathal looked at me, not mocking now. “It might be safer that way,” he said.
In the human world spring had been well advanced and the soft evening light had made outdoor activities possible long after suppertime. In this eldritch realm nothing was predictable, not even the passage of sun and moon across the sky. Today the dark came rapidly, as if a great hand had drawn a
blanket over all, shutting us in with the shadows. Beyond the circle of light cast by our small blaze there now lay a profound blackness. I took a walk to relieve myself in a secluded corner and could barely find my way back. From twenty paces away the campfire could be discerned only as a faint glow in the gloom.
Becan lay on the cloak waving his twiggy hands, and beside him sat Cathal with legs stretched out. As I approached I heard him addressing the infant in a serious tone. “. . . hope you realize how good she is to you. You’re privileged, young man.”
As I came closer he glanced up. “It won’t be easy for you to relinquish him,” he said. “Are you prepared for it?”
I wished I could pretend to him, to myself, that the thought of handing the baby over to the Fair Folk did not fill me with anguish. Becan was so vulnerable. I had only had him in my care a few days, but he trusted me. He knew me. He’d been left at Sevenwaters without a thought. If I had not saved him, he would be dead by now. How could I know his own folk would look after him? How could I be sure they would love him as I did? “I’m not prepared at all,” I said. “When it comes to the point, I suppose I’ll just do it.”
“As long as you know it’s going to hurt,” Cathal said. “I see how much you care for him and it fills me with wonder. He’s such a dried-up little scrap of a thing.”
“Even a scrap is worthy of love,” I said. “I suppose Becan has a mother and father in this realm, but I’m not looking forward to returning him. I didn’t think about it much until we were brought here and it started to look as if the quest might actually succeed. If it does, if we get Finbar back, then there will be another problem to face.” The warmth I had felt when I overheard those words of praise was gone. In my mind was the long, dark way through the forest; the river; the cliff, which must this time be scaled; the fields whose sweet scent lulled the mind to sleep; the perilous raft we must rely on to bear us through the portal to our own world. A baby who, this time, could not survive long on honey water.
[Sevenwaters 04] Heir to Sevenwaters Page 27