The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  Derelei sat frozen a moment, then began to cry. Piteous tears: the utter woe of an exhausted and disappointed infant. Gathering him into her arms, Tuala shed a tear or two herself. One could not reassure such a little child by saying: At least he is alive, or, I think he will be back in springtime. His beloved mentor, his grandfather, had been here only an instant before vanishing, and it was as if the child had lost him all over again. “There, there,” Tuala murmured. “There, Derelei, it’s all right.”

  “All gone,” he sobbed.

  “He is alive and well,” Tuala said, talking more to herself than to her son, who was momentarily beyond comforting. “He has revealed himself to us. It’s a great deal better than nothing. Derelei, you know what we’re going to do? Give Ban a bath before he gets his supper. Wash doggy?”

  Through his tears, Derelei showed a spark of interest. He stretched out to dip his hands in the pond, an inquiring look breaking through the woe. Thank the gods little children were so easily distracted.

  “Not in the pond,” Tuala said firmly. “In the kitchen, in a tub. With lots of bubbles. I’ll hold him while you scrub.”

  “I’M TOO TIRED to carry you anymore,” Eile told Saraid.

  “I know it’s dark, but it’s not much farther. Look, I can see lights down the hill there. That must be the place.”

  Saraid took three steps, stumbled, and sat down on the muddy path. It was so dark, Eile could see her daughter only as a small, exhausted shadow.

  “Oh, come on, then. Not the sling; hold on to my shoulders and put your legs around my waist.” Eile gritted her teeth and heaved the child up, then rose slowly to her feet again. Her knees ached; she was so tired that each breath was an effort. Let this be Fiddler’s Crossing, she thought. Let me find them; let them not take one look and turn me away. She made herself move on, the dog plodding behind her, tail down.

  The settlement was bigger than the one at Cloud Hill, the cottages gathered around a grassy square. Lanterns shone here and there, illuminating whitewashed walls and neat patches of garden. A man was walking along the path. Eile cleared her throat nervously. “Where is the brithem’s house?” she asked him.

  “Conor’s? Down there, across the little bridge and up the bank—see the big place with the wall? That’s his house. It’s late to be knocking on doors. You in some kind of trouble?” He eyed her curiously.

  “We’re fine. Thanks.” Eile turned her back and walked away quickly. No questions; no delays. Let them open the door. Let them listen.

  The brithem’s house was surrounded by a substantial stone wall, in which was set a heavy gate of ironwork. A leafless creeper grew extravagantly on the stones, branching here and there in a complex pattern of its own; in summer the place would be mantled in green. A lantern burned not far inside the gate, and Eile could see lights in the house. The gate was locked. Eile rattled it, reluctant to shout, and somewhere inside a dog began to bark, setting their own companion growling in response. This lawman was evidently wary of intruders.

  The watchdog kept up its alarm, but nobody seemed to be coming. Eile contemplated a third night spent in the lee of a haystack or behind a pig pen, and raised her voice. “Is anyone there? Hello?” A pause; the barking had quieted. “Hello? Can someone let me in?”

  A woman was coming down the gravel path with a lamp in hand. By her side padded a big hound. The gray dog moved up to the gate, hair bristling, a rumble in his throat.

  “Hush,” said Eile.

  A pair of beautiful brown eyes examined them between the bars of the gate. The woman was youngish and not very tall. Eile felt a chill run up her spine. Even in the fitful lantern light, she could see that this woman bore an uncanny resemblance to the Widow. That was wrong. These were supposed to be Faolan’s kinsfolk. They were meant to be friends.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Eile. This is my daughter. I need to see the brithem. It’s urgent. Is he here?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s in another settlement hearing a case. Can you come back in the morning?”

  Gods, another night in the open. Eile hitched Saraid higher on her back. “I’ve walked all the way from Blackthorn Rise,” she said, annoyed that her voice was not quite steady.

  The brown eyes sharpened. “Carrying the child? Is it just the two of you?”

  Eile nodded. “And this dog. He’s harmless.”

  “Blackthorn Rise. From Áine’s house?”

  “Who?”

  “My sister. She’s more commonly known as the Widow.”

  “Your sister? But—” Something wrong here; something askew. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake. The man I’m looking for is Faolan’s father.”

  The eyes went wide. The face paled. The woman looked as if she might faint from shock. “You know my brother?” she breathed. “You’ve seen him?” The lamp shook in her hand.

  “If you mean Faolan, I have news of him. Wait a bit. Are you saying the Widow is Faolan’s sister, too? That’s impossible. She never—I mean, she—” What kind of tangled web had they fallen into?

  “Down, please?” Saraid’s little voice, through a yawn.

  The woman moved swiftly to unlock the gates, using a key from a big bunch at her belt. The hound stood by her, watchful and obedient, as Eile, Saraid and the gray dog slipped through and the gates were secured behind them.

  “I’m Líobhan,” the woman said. “You look exhausted. Come inside; I’ll call the others. You really have some news of Faolan? He’s still alive?”

  “Alive?” Eile was taken aback. She surely hoped he was. “He was a few days ago. But he may be in trouble. I really need to speak to the brithem—”

  “Tell us tonight.” Líobhan’s voice, mellow and warm, was shaking with emotion. “Please. We’ve heard nothing of my brother since he left Fiddler’s Crossing ten years ago. No news at all. This is—it’s unbelievable. You said a few days—does that mean he’s close at hand somewhere? That he’s coming home at last?”

  She did not wait for an answer. Leading Eile along a covered way and in a door to a warm room with a big table and a broad stone hearth, she called out, “Donnan! Grandfather! There’s a girl here who’s seen Faolan!” At the same time she was seating Eile on a bench by the damped-down fire, helping Saraid out of her cloak, filling a kettle; from a nook by the hearth a brindled cat emerged, stretching. The gray dog went under the bench.

  “You’re freezing,” Líobhan said. “Let me stir up the fire, and I’ll find you something to eat. Your tale can wait until my husband’s here, he was just finishing some work…”

  Cautiously, Eile looked about her. This was the coziest chamber she had ever seen, the firelight supplemented by various lamps set about in corners, the furnishings of mellow wood, the walls softened by hangings embroidered in bright wools: she saw Saraid eyeing the scenes depicted there, a bard playing a harp and people dancing in a line, hands linked; folk with pitchforks loading a cart with hay; a child feeding chickens, with a dog standing watchfully by. Strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling and on a side table stood stacks of earthenware platters and bowls, as if this household were used to providing for unexpected guests. In a jug was a collection of winter twigs and foliage, silver and gray and black, lovingly arranged. A striped rug lay before the hearth, fiery red, golden yellow, earthen brown. The cat had moved to sit in the very center of this, the firelight setting a mellow glow on its fur.

  Líobhan was bustling about. At top speed, a basket of bannocks and a dish of preserves appeared on the well-scrubbed table, along with cheese, onions, and a useful knife.

  “Can I do anything?” Eile felt uncomfortable. This lady should not be waiting on her.

  “Sit and warm yourself. If I don’t keep busy I’ll burst into tears or swamp you with questions before the others get here. I can’t believe we’ve heard from Faolan at last. It’s been so long. Oh, here’s my husband.”

  A thickset man in his twenties came in, wiping his hand
s on a stained apron.

  “Donnan, this young woman says she’s seen Faolan. She has some news for us.”

  Donnan gave Eile a nod and seated himself by the fire. The cat jumped immediately to his knee. Saraid’s attention was captured by the creature. Eile could feel her quivering to go and touch, but shyness held her by her mother’s side, all big eyes and silence.

  “Her name’s Patch,” Donnan said to the child. “Would you like to stroke her? She doesn’t bite.”

  But Saraid shook her head and buried her face in her mother’s sleeve.

  Líobhan had poured some kind of cordial into a jug and was topping it up with hot water. “This will warm you up, Eile,” she said. “My own brew: blackcurrant and crabapple.”

  “My wife’s a cook of some renown,” observed Donnan with a smile.

  “Thank you,” said Eile, accepting a cup. This was overwhelming. The kinder they were, the more desperately they sought news, the harder it would be to tell the truth. “I should tell you first… I need to be sure you will still receive me in your house when you know about me…”

  A tall old man with a shock of white hair entered the room, and after him a boy of six or seven, wearing a cloak over a nightrobe.

  “Phadraig,” said Líobhan, frowning, “what are you doing out of bed?”

  “You did shout, Mama.” The boy came over to the fire, scrutinizing first the shrinking Saraid, then Eile, who met him in the eye. “And I wasn’t asleep, Great Grandfather was telling me a story. That’s our cat.” He addressed this straight to Saraid. “She’s having kittens soon; see her big belly? I’m going to keep one. I’m calling it Cu Chulainn, because he was a great fighter, and my cat’s going to be one, too, and catch all the rats in Father’s workshop. If you put your hand on Patch’s stomach you can feel the kittens moving around. Want to try? Here.” And, without further ado, there was Saraid, putting her small hand beside Phadraig’s slightly larger one. Eile saw a smile of complete delight illuminate her daughter’s wan features. It seemed a small miracle; she had to blink back tears.

  “Tell us now, Eile.” Líobhan had seated herself by her guest’s side, a cup of the spicy brew between her capable hands.

  “Let the lass eat, Líobhan,” said the old man mildly.

  “I’m sorry. You must be starving, Eile. Phadraig, Saraid hasn’t had supper yet. Can you put some things on a platter for her? Yes, you can have some, too. You’re growing so fast, I don’t think a second supper will hurt you.”

  “First I have to say… You need to know…” Eile glanced at the two children. The boy was assembling bread, cheese, preserve on a small platter while Saraid remained by Donnan’s knee, fingers gentle against the cat’s soft fur.

  “Phadraig,” said Líobhan, “why don’t you and Saraid take that over to the little table in the corner? I think her dog needs feeding, too. Maybe there’s a bone somewhere. Saraid will help you look.”

  Impossible, thought Eile. In yet another houseful of strangers, Saraid had done well to venture three steps from her mother.

  “A dog? Where is it?” inquired Phadraig, squatting to peer under the bench. “Oh, I see. What’s his name? I bet he’s hungry. Come on, good boy. Come on.” Carrying the platter and talking all the time, the boy drew both cowering dog and shy child after him all the way across the chamber and out through a small door. Saraid did not even look back.

  Eile felt a tremulous smile curve her lips. “She’s usually very wary of strangers.”

  “Phadraig has a way with him,” said Líobhan, her tone matter-of-fact. “What is it you need to tell us, Eile?”

  Eile swallowed nervously. Blurting out the truth in all its violent, bloody detail felt wrong here, among these peaceable, courteous folk. These people did not seem to belong in the same world as Dalach and Anda, a world of curses and threats, of blows and bruises and silent endurance. What if Líobhan heard this and set them both outside the gate to spend another night in the cold? Folk suffered harsh penalties for far less than Eile had done.

  “I killed someone.” There, it was out. “A man who had been hurting me for a long time. I was afraid for my daughter. I did it a while ago; more than fifty days, by my count. The lady at Blackthorn Rise took me in. She said she’d deal with everything for me, but she never did. She just kept me there. I still have to face charges; I still have to be punished. I don’t want to lose Saraid. I ran away from Cloud Hill, after it happened, and then I ran away from Blackthorn Rise.”

  Brown-eyed woman, quiet man, and grave grandfather looked at one another in silence, weighing this. The fire crackled; the cat stretched, luxurious on Donnan’s knee.

  “You’ve come to Fiddler’s Crossing to ask Father to deal with this matter?” asked Líobhan.

  “That’s not why I came. But I suppose he will, now I’m here. I don’t want to be locked up. There’s nobody else to look after Saraid. I never hurt anyone, except him. Well, that’s not quite true. There was a horrible child at Blackthorn Rise, his name was Fionn, he was cruel to Saraid and I slapped him. That’s why we left there. But I won’t hurt anyone again.”

  “Faolan,” said the old man. “What can you tell us of Faolan?” His knotty hands were clasped tightly together.

  “He helped me.” As swiftly as she could, Eile told the story; her audience of three sat silent and still, hungry for every word. “So,” she said at the end, “I thought he was gone, because that was what the Widow told me. But I’m sure I heard him calling my name. Certain of it. If he’s her brother, why would she do that? Why would she lie to me? I’m nothing to grand ladies like her. Me and Saraid, we’re the dirt under her boot sole.” Belatedly, she remembered whom she was talking to. “I’m sorry,” she added. “She’s your kinswoman; I didn’t mean any offense. But she was unkind, and she lied to me. She played games with us. She said I’d be safe there, and I wasn’t; she never settled things with the law. She would have had my daughter beaten. Saraid’s only little.”

  Líobhan sighed. “Gods,” she said as if to herself, “he came back at last and this was what he walked into.”

  Donnan reached over and took her hand. “He did come back,” he said. “Hold on to that. We can sort this out. Your father and I will have to go there. We’ll have to confront Áine openly.”

  “Young lady,” said the grandfather, “Faolan is lucky to have such a friend as yourself. It took courage and strength to make your way here to us, when most other folk in your situation would have seized the opportunity to flee the district. My son-in-law, the brithem, is a just man, and wise. He will settle your case. You should not be afraid.”

  Eile gave a nod, sudden shyness robbing her of speech.

  “I’m sure this all seems very odd to you, Eile,” said Líobhan. “Did Faolan tell you anything of his past? Do you know what happened to us here before he left home?”

  “Not much. He spoke of your family being wronged, and how it was too late for vengeance because the man who did it was dead. There were folk talking about it at the bridge we crossed. They said Faolan had done something so terrible it didn’t bear thinking about.”

  Donnan exchanged glances with the old man. “They must have gone straight to Áine,” he said. “It explains how she knew, how she was there the next morning to take him. She must have offered incentives for silence, or we’d have heard before now that he was home.”

  “You wonder, perhaps,” Líobhan said to Eile, “why we are not more shocked to hear of your own violent deed. Of course, we are a brithem’s family, and that must count for something. But what happened that night, long ago, changed all of us. It took a heavy toll, and we’ve been a long time recovering. Faolan was forced to kill his elder brother, Dubhán, before the eyes of our whole family. The choice offered to him was to do that or see the rest of us die as well. Dubhán bid him do it, and he obeyed, though not until after the perpetrator’s men had killed my grandmother.”

  The old man bowed his head.

  “We were spared, the rest of us,” Lío
bhan went on, “but the men who had invaded our house did not leave empty-handed. They took our youngest sister, Áine. She was twelve at the time. They laughed, leaving, about what they would do to her that night. My father believed her beyond saving; he was certain she’d be dead before rescue was possible. Indeed, he thought that if any of us tried to intervene we, too, would be killed. The man who did this, Echen, was a powerful chieftain. To resist him, as Dubhán had done, was to invite a violent end. It happened right here in this room.”

  Horrified, Eile stared at the flagstoned floor, imagining the blood; seeing a young Faolan with the knife in his hands.

  “For a long time, we couldn’t bear to come in here,” the grandfather said. “My daughter, Conor’s wife, lived only a season after that night. She never recovered from what she witnessed; the first winter chill carried her from us as easily as the breeze gathers up a dandelion seed. Líobhan’s eldest sister, Dáire, went to the priory at Winterfalls, not far from here. She found solace in the Christian faith, and is content with her life of seclusion. She had lost husband and unborn child before that night. It was Echen’s cruelty that took them both. Dubhán sought only a just vengeance.”

  “Two years after it happened, we were still reeling from the blow,” said Líobhan. “Then Donnan came courting me, like a bit of sunshine in a dark place. He’d long been close to the family; my brother, the one who died, was his friend, and Donnan had been part of the resistance that sparked the whole thing. We decided we didn’t want Echen’s victory over us to be complete, as it would be if we let this destroy us. We decided it was time to start healing ourselves. We made this chamber into the warmest, most welcoming place in the house. We said prayers here, lit lamps, sang songs, and told stories. We cooked meals to share. We invited folk to visit.”

  “What about Áine?” asked Eile, thinking this tale was one of the strangest she’d ever heard.