The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  Iseult looked gratified, and Lachlan said impatiently, ‘By the Centaur, Isabeau, Meghan said ye knew how to use this thing.’

  She cast him a seething look and bent her head over the page again, the light from her finger casting strange shadows over the words. Suddenly she smiled. ‘O’ course!’ She scrambled to her feet, slammed the book shut and set off back the way they had come.

  ‘Where are ye going?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve been a fool!’ she cried. ‘I should have worked it out the first time I realised we had somehow gone astray. The maze works backwards. Instead of trying to reach the dome, we should be trying to go away from it!’

  By the time they reached the end of the maze it was dark. They stepped with relief from the claustrophobic closeness of the hedges and saw a great stone temple ringed by wide steps leading up to arched cloisters. They climbed the steps and found themselves by a wide pool edged with stone and open to the sky. All round the pool were thick pillars made of a stone so ancient the many symbols carved all over them were worn almost to obscurity.

  Both Iseult and Lachlan immediately saw the resemblance to the pool on Tulachna Celeste, except that the great menhirs were here topped with decorated arches, and at one end was a raised platform with great bronze doors into the domed observatory. All the stone was beautifully fretted and carved, and stone faces looked down at them from the curve of each arch.

  The water was very low in the pool, and murky green-brown. At one end of the pool was a stone channel where water once ran. At the other end was carved the crest of the witches’ tower—two crescent moons and a star.

  They wandered around the pool, exclaiming over its beauty and wondering where Meghan would have hidden the Lodestar. She had given them no clue, but by now they were sure the answer would be somewhere in The Book of Shadows. Then Isabeau gave a startled cry.

  She was staring up at one of the arches. Perched on its apex was a white bhanais bird with a magnificent sparkling white tail. It looked as if it was studded with diamonds, but as the bird spread his tail for their admiration they could see it was silver iridescent feathers that caused it to sparkle so.

  Who is it that disturbs the rest of the Keeper?

  They all jumped. I am Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, Lachlan answered politely, bowing to the bird.

  And these two, alike as if one is a reflection in the pool?

  My wife, Iseult NicFaghan, and her sister, Isabeau NicFaghan.

  It has been a long time since we have had a MacCuinn visit the stargazer. Indeed, it has been a long time since anyone has visited.

  The Pool o’ Two Moons has been locked away and only now have we managed to unlock it again.

  I am pleased. It has been lonely here for my wife and I. We have had nothing to eat except worms and bugs since the last MacCuinn was here—gone are the days when we supped on cake and wine.

  He spread his wings and drifted down slowly, his magnificent tail shimmering. Ye wish to see the observatory, I suppose?

  Lachlan looked at the other two and Isabeau shrugged and nodded. The Keeper promenaded before them, his tail spread so they could admire its curled and plumed feathers. The doors opened as he approached them, and he led them into the interior of the observatory. They examined the instruments and charts with great interest, Lachlan becoming so absorbed Isabeau had to remind him why they were here. She could not help a certain tartness to her tone, for Lachlan had been consistently rude and quick-tempered with her since their meeting last night.

  Reluctantly he put down the chart and followed them back outside. Gladrielle had risen, looking blue and delicate, and Magnysson was close behind her, swollen and red on the horizon.

  ‘Ask The Book o’ Shadows where the Lodestar is hidden,’ he ordered.

  Isabeau bridled at his tone but nonetheless lay down on the ground, setting the ancient book before her. She gathered her will, emptied her mind and thought of what she needed to know. Then she opened the book.

  Although it was windless in the shelter of the hedges, a breeze sprang up and riffled the pages of the book. Isabeau tried to save her place with her finger but the pages fluttered over and she could not see where the book had first opened.

  ‘That’s what always happened to me!’ Iseult said with a certain satisfaction.

  ‘That is what happens if ye go to the Book without a clear question, or if there are many pages in the book where the subject is mentioned,’ Isabeau said, despair on her face. ‘Ye must always make your question as defined as possible.’

  ‘So what did ye do wrong?’ Lachlan’s voice was angry.

  ‘I did nothing wrong!’ Isabeau glanced down at the book and saw it had at last settled on a page. She read what it said, and a little smile sprang up.

  ‘What does it say?’ Lachlan said and snatched the book away so he could read. She let him, sitting up on her heels. She watched his expression fall, and he said, ‘Eà damn it, this is useless! It’s just a faery story!’

  ‘Eideann and the Nightingale,’ Isabeau said. ‘It was always one o’ my favourites.’

  He slammed the book shut and got to his claws in a rage. ‘This is useless! Why did Meghan no’ just tell us where she hid it?’

  ‘She did,’ Isabeau replied and clambered to her feet, the Book cradled in her arms. Refusing to say another word, she went back up the steps to where the white bhanais bird was perched.

  Keeper, may I ask ye a question? she asked.

  He gave a hoarse chortle. Ye may ask three, my dear. Not counting that one.

  Were ye here when the last MacCuinn came through the maze?

  No, but my father’s father was then Keeper of the Pool of Two Moons. I was told all I needed to know before my father died.

  Do ye know if the last MacCuinn was a little old woman with black eyes and a white streak through her hair?

  Indeed she was, my dear.

  She carried something and hid it. Can ye tell us where it was hidden?

  I may only tell the one who carries the MacCuinn crest.

  Lachlan started and came forward to show the Keeper the brooch he wore to pin his plaid together.

  The orb she carried was hidden at the pool, the bird said promptly. Behind the crest of two moons.

  Almost before his harsh cries had died away, Isabeau, Iseult and Lachlan were running up the stairs. They hung over the pool, pushing and pounding the crest, trying to make it open. Then Isabeau’s fingers pressed the star, and immediately the stone carving swung forward and they saw a dark space behind. With a cry, Lachlan reached in his hand and pulled out the Lodestar.

  It was a dull white stone, about the size of an apple, only perfectly round. Mist drifted within its glass walls. Lachlan cupped it in his hands and a frail silvery light sprang up in its heart. For a moment they could hear a trace of music, like sleigh bells. Then the light flickered away.

  ‘It is dead!’ Lachlan cried in horror. ‘Look at it! We are too late, it is dead.’

  ‘We have to bathe it in the pool,’ Iseult reminded him. ‘Meghan said it would fade as its birthday approached. It should be washed in the pool at the time o’ the two moons crossing. Then it will be renewed.’

  They all looked at the sky, where the two moons were so close Gladrielle had a strange murky colour. They all sat to wait, Lachlan cradling the Lodestar in his hands and crooning to it. The fragile wisp of light occasionally twisted within but otherwise there was no response.

  Lachlan rose to get the far-seeing glass from the observatory, and they took turns to stare at the sky through it, amazed at what they could see. Planets with rings of fire, drifts of violet and green cloud, stars bright and dim, great stretches of impenetrable blackness. The moons grew closer and closer as they rose, Magnysson seeming to swell as Gladrielle grew frailer. Then he leant towards her, and they saw a crescent-shaped bite in her side.

  ‘That is the shadow o’ the larger moon,’ Lachlan said. ‘It looks as if they are merging, but in fact they are a long way away from each
other, it is just the angle that we see it from.’

  ‘Two moons that reach out to each other, sometimes to kiss, sometimes to bite,’ Isabeau murmured. She felt tears prick her eyes, for the words reminded her poignantly of her first meeting with Jorge, when she had been an eager acolyte, dreaming of magic and adventure.

  Slowly Magnysson ate into Gladrielle, and then they saw an even larger shadow move across his red-hued flank. ‘That is the shadow o’ the earth,’ Lachlan said. ‘Soon the earth will be between the sun and the moons and we will have a total eclipse.’

  ‘How do ye know all this?’ Iseult asked him in irritation.

  He smirked at her and said, ‘Did ye read none o’ the books Meghan gave us?’

  Gladrielle was swallowed, and only a curve of Magnysson remained. A hush had fallen over the garden and all the yews rustled mysteriously. Then the last thin curve of red was blotted out and immediately all the stars sprang out, brilliant against the velvety blackness. Where the two moons had been was a round dark hole in the sky, a great whirlpool of darkness.

  Gradually the larger of the moons moved aside, and light began to spill out from one side. The water in the pool began to slowly rise, bubbling up from the centre. Lachlan stood and sang the winterbourne, and a sparkling fountain gushed into life. Silver light shone through the archways into the pool, and all the water was lit up mysteriously.

  Lachlan walked down the steps, the shimmering light blazing on the white lock at his brow and sculpting the planes of his face. His face was triumphant. The steps led straight into the water and he walked into it, and bent and dipped the Lodestar in the bubbling, light-filled water. There was a flash of bright light and music sounded. He held up the Lodestar triumphantly, streaming with glittering water like the bhanais bird’s tail. ‘It is done!’ he cried. ‘The Lodestar is renewed!’

  At that moment a hawk dropped out of the sky and snatched the Lodestar from his hands. He shouted in dismay, but the hawk beat its powerful wings and rose in the air. In two quick strides Lachlan caught up Owein’s Bow and shot an arrow into the sky. It curved in a perfect trajectory and pierced the hawk’s breast. The bird gave a dreadful cry and fell, the Lodestar dropping from its claws. Lachlan flung up his hand but he was too late. Across the dark garden a tall shape sprang free of the shadows. With their night vision Isabeau and Iseult could both clearly see Maya, with the baby Bronwen in her arms. The baby laughed and held out its hands for the Lodestar and it flew to her.

  As soon as the baby’s tiny fingers touched the orb it swelled with music. Isabeau and Iseult could hear words among the melody, words of welcome and connection. ‘No!’ Lachlan screamed. ‘No!’

  Maya walked across the garden towards them, while the baby balanced and spun the great orb on her fingertips as if she were a jongleur and it a juggling ball. ‘They say the Lodestar responds to the hand o’ any MacCuinn,’ Maya said in a gloating voice. ‘We have it now, and as they say, whoever holds the Lodestar shall hold the land …’

  ‘So they say,’ Lachlan agreed grimly. Maya climbed the stairs and stood, the ruin of her face twisted into a smile. To Isabeau’s grief, she saw Latifa’s round form huddling in the shadows of the garden and she knew the old cook had shown Maya the way through the labyrinth.

  ‘So at the end ye have lost, Lachlan MacCuinn, and I win. My daughter is very powerful, ye ken. She was conceived at the height o’ the comet with a Spell o’ Begetting, and it was made sure she would be born at the most potent hour …’

  ‘Except Lasair made ye give birth prematurely,’ Isabeau pointed out, ‘so Bronwen was born at the autumn equinox, not at Samhain.’

  They ignored her, Lachlan and Maya facing each other over the length of the pool. He said savagely, ‘No matter how powerful she is, Maya, she is but a babe.’ He held out his hand and called to the Lodestar with all his will and all his desire. The Lodestar lifted from the baby’s hand and soared towards him over the pool. The baby whimpered in disappointment and held up her little hand again. The Lodestar faltered, as if unsure whom to respond to. Isabeau was irresistibly reminded of her trial in Caeryla, when the young laird had made Lasair choose between her and his rightful owner, the Grand-Seeker Glynelda.

  The orb hesitated only a moment, then flew to Lachlan’s hand. His fist closed about it in triumph. ‘See, I am more powerful and the Lodestar chooses me. Prepare yourself for death, Ensorcellor!’

  Unable to use his bow with the Lodestar gripped tight in his hand, he drew his claymore and started towards them.

  Maya glanced around in fear, then looked at the pool before her. The water was still bubbling with light, but it had begun to twist away at the centre, like water running out of a sink. She flung Bronwen into the pool and dived cleanly into the swirling heart.

  ‘No!’ Isabeau cried and dived after them.

  The water boiled with silver light. She saw Maya’s feet disappear into a swirl of bubbles. Bronwen swam nimbly as a tadpole after her, reaching out one hand to grasp Maya’s hair.

  Deeper and deeper into the sparkling, fizzing water Isabeau dived. Her eyes were wide open, but all she could see was luminosity, as if a great light shone from the depths of the pool. She kicked strongly and saw Maya’s feet ahead of her, both braceleted with flowing fins, as she dived straight into the heart of the spring. Bronwen, Isabeau called and the child looked back at her, her eyes shining strangely, her body glinting with scales, frills floating all about her hands and feet, a long, serrated fin curving out of her baby spine. Then she wriggled ahead, following her mother.

  Desperately Isabeau caught her tiny foot, then the baby was squirming in her arms. She turned and struck for the surface, her lungs burning. It seemed a long, long swim, all the light beginning to die. At last she floundered into the air, gasping and choking, the baby in her arms.

  Lachlan strode into the pool, the water swirling up to his knees. He grasped Isabeau and helped haul her out. ‘What did ye do that for?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Save … Bronwen … from drowning,’ Isabeau gasped, turning her body so the baby was out of his reach.

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘By the look o’ those scales and fins, she would no’ have to worry about death by drowning.’

  Isabeau, dripping wet and shaking with cold, realised with a jolt that he was absolutely right. Bronwen had swum as easily as any fish and had seemed quite happy in the water. Maya was gone, lost somewhere in the waterways below the garden. With two great rivers on either side, Isabeau had no doubt she would find a way free. Bronwen could have escaped with her and probably would have been safer with her than with a vengeful uncle who would see her as a potential threat to his throne and that of his heirs. With tears welling up in her eyes she realised her impetuosity had again led her to act before she thought.

  Lachlan suddenly gave an almighty shout. ‘Look at me!’ he cried. ‘Look at my feet!’

  They stared in stupefaction, for where Lachlan’s black scaly talons had been were two very white, shapely human feet. He lifted one, then the other, his swarthy face breaking into a delighted grin, then he threw back his head and sang, a clarion call of joy and triumph that rang through the garden. The Lodestar shone bright as a tiny moon in his hand, and birds rose from their roosts in hedge and tree with a clatter of wings, carolling with startled delight.

  ‘When Magnysson shall at last hold Gladrielle in his arms, all will be healed or broken, saved or surrendered …’ Isabeau cried and looked desperately at her hand. A sharp and bitter disappointment pierced her, for in the bright moonlight she could clearly see her hand was still missing the last two fingers. It took her a moment to realise her remaining fingers were as straight and smooth as they had ever been. Even then, clenching her two fingers and thumb open and shut, grievous tears burnt her throat and dampened her cheeks, and she bent her head to Bronwen’s so her tears were hidden from the others. Through the baby’s dark hair she saw a silver lock glinting in the moonlight.

  ‘It is done!’ Lachlan said with immense sati
sfaction. ‘I have saved the Inheritance. Now I hold the Lodestar, I shall hold the land!’

  Isabeau sat by the dying embers of the fire, rocking the child in her cradle with one foot. It was cold in her little room but she made no move to blow the ashes into flame. She was tired, chilled and dispirited. It was nine months since she had set out on her adventures with such high hopes. So much had happened. So much had changed. If she had not left Meghan on the slopes of Dragonclaw, how different would her destiny have been? She might have her body and her soul intact, her loyalties undivided, her future clear before her. She might have won the MacCuinn to love herself, and now be Banrìgh of all Eileanan. She might have been the one to whom Ishbel the Winged taught her secrets.

  Instead, she had no place, no future, of her own. Meghan had called Lachlan and her twin the only hope of the country, yet what was she, apart from Iseult’s maid-in-waiting and the baby’s nursemaid? Tears trickled down her cheeks and she lifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder.

  The door creaked open and Meghan came in slowly. She had aged terribly since her wounding—her face was heavily lined, and her snowy lock was lost among many other white streaks. Gitâ rode on her shoulder; he was rarely to be seen more than a few paces from his witch any more, and he cluked over her until she grew exasperated. At Meghan’s waist hung the Key, polished to brilliance.

  Meghan saw the tears on Isabeau’s face and sat beside her, taking her hand. ‘I think this is the first time I have seen ye alone since we parted ways.’

  Isabeau nodded, rocking the baby gently. Meghan said, ‘I have no’ got very much time, they are all so foolishly fussed about my health and insist I stay most o’ the time in my bed. I thought ye would like to talk though.’ Isabeau nodded again, and the old witch said, ‘I wish ye were no’ so silent now, Isabeau, I miss my chatterbox.’