Читать книгу Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier - Страница 7

Our story cannot be told without some mention of Father Brien. I said he was a hermit, and that he would exchange a little learning for a loaf or a bag of apples. That was true; but there was a lot more to Father Brien than met the eye. It was said he’d once been a fighting man, and had more than a few Viking skulls to his credit; it was said that he’d come from over the water, all the way from Armorica, to put his skills with pen and ink to work in the Christian house of prayer at Kells; but he’d been living alone a long time, and he was old, fifty at least, a small, spare, grey-haired man whose face had the calm acceptance of one whose spirit has remained whole through a lifetime of trials.

A trip to Father Brien’s was an adventure in itself. He lived up on the hillside south of the lake, and we took our time getting there, because that was part of the fun. There was the bit where you crossed the stream on a rope, swinging wildly between the great oaks. Cormack fell in once; fortunately, it was summer. There was the part where you had to scramble up a rock chimney, which took its toll on knees and elbows, not to speak of the holes it made in your clothing. There were elaborate games of hide and seek. In fact, you could get there in half the time on a cart track, but our way was better. Sometimes Father Brien was from home, his hearth cold, his floor swept bare and clean. According to Finbar, who somehow knew these things, the holy father would climb right to the top of Ogma’s Peak, a fair way for an old man, and stand there still as a stone, looking out eastwards to the sea and beyond it, towards the land of the Britons; or away to the Islands. You could not see the Islands from this vantage point; but ask any man or woman where they were, and you would see their finger point with complete confidence to the east, and a little south. It was as if they had a map imprinted on their spirit, that neither time nor distance could erase.

When the hermit was at home, he was happy to talk to us in his quiet, measured way, and he bartered learning for the necessities of life. He knew many different tongues; his knowledge of herb lore was sound, too, and he could set bones with skill. From him I got many of the rudiments of my craft, but my obsession with the healing properties of plants drove me further, and I surpassed him soon enough in this.

There were times when we helped each other in tending to the sick; he had the strength to wrench a joint back into place, or strap a broken limb; I had the skill to brew a draught or prepare a lotion just right for its purpose. Between us we helped many, and people grew used to me, still a child, peering into their eyes or down their throats, and prescribing some nostrum. My remedies worked, and that was all people really cared about.

There’d been some that were hard to help. When the Fair Folk got to you, there wasn’t much hope. There was a girl once, who’d lost her lover to the queen under the hill. Out courting in the forest at night, silly things, and strayed into a toadstool ring while their thoughts were elsewhere. The queen took him, but not her. All she saw was the red plume of his cap disappearing into a crack in the rocks, and their high voices laughing. When the girl got to us, her mind was half gone, and neither Father Brien’s prayers nor my sleeping draughts gave her much peace. He did his best, treating spellbound lover and mazed wanderer with the same commitment as he gave the cuts and burns of farmer and blacksmith. His hands were strong, his voice gentle, his manner entirely practical. He listened much and said little.

He made no attempt to impose his religion on us, though there was plenty of opportunity. He understood that our household followed the old ways, even if the observance of them had slipped somewhat since the death of our mother. From time to time I heard him discussing with Conor the ways in which the two faiths differed, and what common ground they might have, for he shared Conor’s love of debate. Sometimes I wondered if Father Brien’s tolerant views had been the cause of his departure from the house of prayer at Kells, for it was said that in other parts of Erin the spread of the Christian faith had been hastened with sword and fire, and that now the old beliefs were little more than a memory. Certainly, Father Brien never sought to convert us, but he did like to say a few prayers before each campaign departure, for whatever he thought of my father’s purpose, there could be no harm in sending the men on their way with a blessing.

The clank of metal awoke me. I got groggily to my feet, picking straw out of my hair. The donkey had her nose deep in the feed trough.

‘You missed everything,’ observed Padriac, busily forking fresh straw into the stall. ‘Finbar’s going to be in trouble again. Nowhere to be found, this morning. Father was highly displeased. Took Cormack instead. You should have seen the grin on his face. Cormack, that is, not Father. I’ll eat my hat if I ever see him crack a smile. Anyway, off they went, after the old man said his paternosters and his amens, and now we can get back to normal. Until next time. I wouldn’t want to be Finbar, when Father catches up with him.’

He put his fork away and moved to check on the owl, tethered on a perch in a dark corner of the barn. Her wing was close to mending and he hoped to release her into the wild soon. I admired his persistence and patience, even as I averted my eyes from the live mice he had ready for her meal.

Finbar had disappeared. But it was not unusual for him to go off into the forest, or down to the lake, and nobody commented on his absence. I had no idea where he had gone, and did not raise the subject for fear of drawing attention to myself, or to him and our nocturnal activities. I was worried, too, about my poison, and it was with some relief that I saw the four guards emerge, that first afternoon, to sit in the courtyard clutching their heads, yawning widely and generally looking sorry for themselves. By supper time the word had got around that the prisoner had escaped, slipped away somehow between Colum’s departure and the change of guards, and there were many and varied theories as to how such an unthinkable thing could have happened. A man was despatched after Lord Colum, to give him the bad news.

‘The Briton won’t get far,’ said Donal sourly. ‘Not in the state he was in. Not in this forest. Hardly worth going after him.’

On the second day, Eilis and her retinue left for home, with their own six men and two of ours as escort. The weather was turning; gusts of cool wind whipped the skirts of the ladies and the cloaks of their men at arms, and scudding clouds raced across the sun. Conor, as the eldest son still home and therefore de facto master of the house, bid Eilis a formal farewell and invited her to return when things settled down. Eilis thanked him prettily for the hospitality, though in my eyes it had been somewhat lacking. I wondered how long she’d have to wait to see Liam again, and whether she minded very much. Then I forgot her, for Finbar appeared at supper the next night, as if he’d never been away. Padriac, absorbed in his own pursuits, had hardly noticed his brother’s absence; Conor made no comment. I stared at Finbar across the table, but his thoughts were concealed from me and his eyes were intent on his plate. His hands breaking bread, lifting a goblet, were steady and controlled. I waited restlessly until the meal was over, and Conor stood, signalling permission to leave. I followed Finbar outside, slipping behind him like a smaller shadow, and confronted him in the long walk under the willows.

‘What happened? Where were you?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘Taking that boy somewhere, that’s what I think. But where?’

He was quiet for a bit, probably working out how little he could get away with telling me.

‘Somewhere safe. It’s best if you don’t know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it, Sorcha. Even you have put yourself at risk now. If Father, or Liam, found out what we’ve done, they would be … well, angry is an understatement.’

‘All we did was save someone from being hurt,’ I said, knowing there was far more to it than that.

‘They would see it as a betrayal. Stabbing your own kin in the back. Setting free a spy. To them it’s all black and white, Sorcha.’

‘Whose side are you on anyway?’

‘There are no sides, not really. It’s more a case of where you come from. Don’t the Britons come here to seize our lands, learn our secrets, destroy our way of life? To help them is to go against kinship and brotherhood and all that’s sacred. That’s the way most people see it. Maybe it’s the way we should see it.’

After a long time I said, ‘But life is sacred, isn’t it?’

Finbar chuckled. ‘You should have been a brithem, Sorcha. You always find the argument I can’t answer.’

I raised my brows at him. I, with my bare feet and straggly hair, a maker of judgements? I found it hard enough to tell the difference between right and wrong sometimes.

We both fell silent. Finbar leaned back against a tree, resting his head against the rough bark, his eyes closed. His dark figure blended into the shadows as if he were part of them.

‘So why did you do it?’ I asked after a while. He took some time to answer. It was getting cold, and an evening dampness was in the air. I shivered.

‘Here,’ said Finbar, opening his eyes and putting his old jacket around my shoulders. He was still wearing the same shirt he’d had on that night. Was it really only three days ago?

‘It’s as if everything is part of a pattern,’ he said eventually. ‘Almost as if I’d had no choice, as if it was all set out for me, on a sort of map of my life. I think Mother saw what was ahead for all of us, maybe not exactly, but she had an idea of where we were going.’ He touched the amulet that hung always around his neck. ‘And yet, as well as that, it’s all about choices. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to be one of the boys, to earn Father’s love with my sword and bow – I could do it – take my place at his side and defend our lands and our honour? It would be good to have recognition, and fellowship, and some kind of pride. But I choose this path instead. Or it is chosen for me.’

‘So where’s the boy then? Did he get away?’

As I have said, Finbar and I had two ways of talking. One was with words, like everyone else. The second was for us alone; it was a silent skill, the transfer of image or thought or feeling straight from one mind to the other. He used it now, showing me Father Brien’s cart, loaded with bundles and boxes, making its slow way along the rutted track to the hermit’s cave. I felt wincing pain at each jolt of the cart, though Father Brien held the old horse to a stately walk. A wheel rim got stuck; the good Father’s young helper jumped down to lever it back onto the track. There was a spring in this young man’s step that revealed him as my brother even while the hood concealed his face, for Finbar always walked thus, with a bouncing stride and his toes out. Then an image of the two of them, outside the cave, lifting one long bundle with special care from the cart. A gleam of gold amidst the stained wrappings. That was all; the shutters closed.

‘He was in no state to go any further,’ said Finbar flatly. ‘But he’s in good hands. That’s all you need to know – no,’ as I made to interrupt, ‘I won’t have you involved any more. I’ve put enough people at risk already. It’s finished, for you at least.’

And that, indeed, was all I could get out of him that night. He was becoming alarmingly adept at closing his mind to me, and neither by pleading nor by trying to read him at an unguarded moment could I learn any more. However, his prediction proved to be entirely wrong.

There followed a quieter time. With Father and the older boys away, we fell back into our old routine, although the guard had increased around the keep and the enclosure. Conor controlled the household affairs with calm competence, arbitrating when two cottagers came to blows over an errant flock of geese, overseeing the autumn brewing and baking, the culling of yearling calves, the salting of meat for winter. For Finbar, Padriac and me it was a good time. Donal still put the boys through their paces with sword and bow, and they still spent time with Conor, following more learned pursuits. I usually slipped into these lessons, thinking a little scholarship would do me no harm, and that I might pick up something interesting. Each of us could read and write thanks to Father Brien’s kindness and patience. It was not until much later that I realised how unusual this was, for most households were lucky if they had a scribe who knew sufficient of basic letters to set down a simple inventory. For more complex tasks, such as drawing up contracts between neighbours, one must seek out a monk, or a druid, according to one’s own persuasion. Druids were hard to find, and harder still to pin down. We owed a great deal to Father Brien’s openness of mind. We knew the runes, and we could reckon, and make a map, and had a fine repertoire of tales both old and new. In addition, we could sing, and play the whistle, and some of us the small harp. We’d had a bard once, that wintered over; that was a while ago, but he taught us the rudiments, and we had an instrument that had been Mother’s, a fine little harp with carvings of birds on it. Padriac, with his genius for finding out and fixing, replaced the broken pegs and restrung it, and we played it in an upper room, where Father couldn’t hear us. Without asking, we knew this reminder of her would be unwelcome.

Padriac’s owl got better, and was eager to be gone. Padriac had waited until the wing was quite mended, and then one day at dusk we went out into the forest to set her free. There was a grin of pure delight on my brother’s face as he released her from his glove for the last time and watched her spread wide those great grey-white wings and spiral up, up, into the tree tops. I did not tell him I had seen the tears in his eyes.

Finbar was quiet. I felt he had plans, but he chose not to share them with me. Instead, between his bouts of archery and horsemanship, his scribing and reckoning, he went for long solitary walks, or could be found sitting in his favourite tree, or up on the roof deep in impenetrable thought. I left him alone; when he wanted to talk, I’d be there. I busied myself with the gathering of berries and leaves, the distillery and decoction, the drying and crushing and storing away, in preparation for winter’s ills.

I have spoken of the keep where my family lived, a stark stone tower set deep in the forest, its walls pierced here and there by narrow window slits. Its courtyard, its hedges, its kitchen garden did little to soften the grim profile. But there was more to Sevenwaters than this. Without our walled fields, our thatched barns to house herd and flock over winter, our gardens with their rows of carrots, parsnips and beans, our mill and our strawrope granaries, we could not have survived in such isolation. So, while we felled as few trees as we could, and then only with the deepest respect, the forest had been cleared behind the keep and for some distance to the north, to make room for farm and small settlement. There was no need for ditch or wall here, to keep out marauders. There was no need for escape tunnel or secret chamber, although we did make use of caves to store our butter and cheese against the winter, when the cows would not give milk. Here and there, at other points in the vast expanse of forest, several small settlements existed, all within my Father’s túath. They paid tribute, and received protection. All were people of Sevenwaters, whose fathers and grandfathers had dwelt there before them. They might venture out beyond the boundaries sometimes, to a market perhaps or to ride with my father’s campaigns, when the services of a good smith or farrier were required. That was all right, for they were forest folk and knew the way. But no stranger ever came in without an escort and a blindfold. Those foolish enough to try, simply disappeared. The forest protected her own better than any fortress wall.

The folk of our own settlement, those that worked Lord Colum’s home farm and tended his beasts, had their small dwellings on the edge of the open ground, where a stream splashed down to turn the mill wheel. Every day I would make my way along the track to these cottages to tend to the sick. The crossbred wolfhound, Linn, was my constant companion, for on Cormack’s departure she had attached herself to me, padding along quietly behind me wherever I went. At any possible threat, a voice raised in anger, a pig crossing the track in search of acorns, she would place herself on an instant between me and the danger, growling fiercely. Autumn was advancing fast, and the weather had turned bleak. Rain ran down the thatch, turning the path into a quagmire. Conor had overseen some repairs on the most ancient of the cottages, a precarious structure of wattle and clay, and Old Tom, who lived there with his tribe of children and grandchildren, had come out to wring my hand with gratitude when I passed by earlier.

‘Sure and the hand of the goddess herself rests on your brother,’ he half-sobbed, ‘and on you too, girl. One of the wise ones, like his father might have been, that’s young Conor. Not a drip in the place, and the peat all cut and dried for hard times.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, intrigued. ‘Wise ones? What wise ones?’

But he was already shuffling back inside, eager no doubt to warm his stiff joints by the little turf fire whose smoke curled up through the chimney opening.

I called on a young woman recently delivered, with much difficulty, of twin daughters. I had assisted the village women through the long night of this birth, and was keeping a close eye on the mother, making sure she took the herbal teas I had provided to tighten the womb and bring in the milk. I chose a bad time to make my departure, for the clouds opened as I was half way home, drenching me to the skin and quickly coating my feet in liquid mud. I struggled on; the rumble of thunder deafened me to the squeak of cart wheels approaching, and suddenly there was Father Brien alongside me, an old sack over his head and shoulders. The horse stood stolid in the rain, ears back.

‘Jump on,’ shouted the Father over the din of the storm, and stretched out a hand to haul me up onto the seat beside him.

‘Thanks,’ I managed. There wasn’t much point in talking against the roaring of the elements, so I sat quietly and pulled my cloak closer about me. There was a place where the track passed briefly into a grove of old pines, whose lower branches had been trimmed away. Once we reached this semi-shelter, Father Brien slowed the horse right down; the needled canopy filtered the worst of the rain off us, and the noise faded to a dull, distant rumbling.

‘I need your help, Sorcha,’ said Father Brien, relaxing his hold on the reins and letting the old horse lower his head to search for something to graze on.

I looked at him, taken aback. ‘You came down here to find me?’

‘Indeed, and must travel home today. I would not venture out in such weather without a good reason. I have a patient who is beyond my power to heal; God knows I have tried, and made some ground. But he needs something now which I cannot give him.’

‘You want me to help? To make an infusion, a decoction?’

Father Brien sighed, looking down at his hands.

‘I wish it were so simple,’ he said. ‘Brews and potions I have tried, some with good effect. I have employed many elements you have taught me, and some of my own. I have prayed, and talked, and counselled. I can do no more, and he is slipping away from me.’

I did not need to ask who this patient was.

‘I’ll help, of course. But I don’t know if I’ll be much use. My skills are mainly with medicines. You make it sound as if something more is needed?’

There was no way I was going to ask him directly what was wrong with the boy; this was dangerous ground. I had no idea how much he knew, or what I was supposed to tell him.

‘You will see for yourself,’ he said, picking up the reins. ‘In any event, we must go straight back, once you collect your things. I’ve given him a sleeping draught, and that will keep him quiet for most of today, but we must be there when he wakes, or he may do himself ill.’

‘I’m not sure Conor will let me go,’ I said.

‘Why don’t we ask him now?’ said Father Brien.

We found Conor alone, writing. There was no mention of Britons, nor of escaped prisoners; Father Brien explained simply that he needed to consult me about a patient, and Conor showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to the details. He seemed almost to have expected the request, and agreed on the condition that it was only for a few days, and that I would come home as soon as he sent Finbar to collect me. I left the two of them talking, and went to pack a small bundle, wondering as I scanned the stillroom shelves what we might be dealing with: burns, bruises, fever, shock? Father Brien had not been very specific. I took some clothing for myself and small necessities, enough for a few days. I left my wet cloak steaming gently before the kitchen fires. I took a larger one belonging to one of the boys. Regretfully, I was forced to admit that the onset of autumn required me to go shod outdoors, and I thrust my cold feet into a pair of boots which were somewhat too big for them. It was handy being the youngest, and smallest.

‘A few days only, mind,’ Conor was saying as I made my way back to the cart. ‘I’ll send Finbar up for her. And take care on the road; it’ll be slick going up that last hill.’

Father Brien was already seated, and despite the brevity of the stop, there was a basket from our kitchens, with bread and cheese and vegetables, tucked in behind him. He gave my brother a grave nod. Conor lifted me up, none too gently, and we were away before I could say a word.

The rain slowly abated to a drizzle. We made our way under bare-branched willows, between the first outcrops of rock, beside the bleakly grey waters of the lake, where not a bird could be seen.

‘You know who this boy is, I take it?’ said Father Brien casually, never taking his eyes off the track ahead.

‘I know what he is,’ I corrected cautiously. ‘Not who. I have an idea of what happened to him. What I don’t know is what I’m supposed to do for him. You’d better tell me that before we get there, if I’m to be of some use.’

He glanced at me sideways, apparently amused.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘The boy had some injuries. Serious injuries. He’d likely have died, if your brother hadn’t got him away.’

‘With a bit of help from me,’ I said, somewhat miffed that my part in the rescue was forgotten already.

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said the learned Father. ‘Took a bit of a risk, didn’t you?’

‘I know my dosages,’ I said.

‘You do, better than most of us, Sorcha. But as I said, this patient has been dosed, and anointed, and prayed over. He was – he had a number of hurts, and these I have attended to as well as I could. Although he will never be quite as he was, his body is healing well enough. His mind is another matter.’

‘You mean – he went crazy because of what they did to him? Like that man that used to work in the mill, Fergal his name was – he turned very odd after the little people had him overnight. Is that what you mean?’ I remembered the miller, slack-mouthed, trembling, crouched by the hearth covered in dirt.

Father Brien sighed. ‘Crazy – no, not quite. This one is of stronger fabric than the Fergals of this world. He may be young, but he is a warrior; it’s in his nature to fight back. He resisted his tormentors all through that long night, and I don’t doubt that not one word escaped his lips. He’s been very sick. He had a raging fever, and some of his injuries might have killed a weaker man outright. He fought death hard, and for a while I thought he had won. But his next battle is the hardest; the battle against himself. He is, after all, not much more than a boy, and the strongest of men suffers damage when his own kind turns against him in evil. The lad will not admit that he is hurt and frightened; instead, he turns his anguish inwards and torments himself.’

I tried to get my mind around this.

‘You mean he wants to die?’

‘I don’t think he knows what he wants. What he needs is peace of mind, a space of time without hate, to put body and spirit together again. I thought to send him to the brothers in the west; but he is too weak to be moved, and cannot yet be trusted in other hands.’

There was quiet for a time, save for the gentle thudding of hooves and a sigh of wind amongst the rocks. We were getting closer now. The track grew narrow and steep, and the trees closed in. Up here there were great oaks, their upper reaches bare of leaves, but shawled with goldenwood, and the depths of the forest were dark with ancient growth. The old horse knew his way, and ambled steadily on.

‘Father, if you couldn’t heal this boy, I’m sure I can’t. As my brothers keep telling me, I’m only a child. Maybe I can fix a wheezy chest, or a case of nettle rash, but this – I hardly know where to start.’

The cart jolted over a stone, and Father Brien’s hand shot out to steady me.

‘Nonetheless,’ he said in his measured way, ‘if you cannot, none here can. Conor was sure you were the one to help me. I believe you will know what to do, when you see him. I also believe he will not fear you as he does me. And fear is a great barrier to healing.’

‘Conor was sure?’ I said, taken aback. ‘Conor knew about the boy? But –’

‘You need not trouble yourself about Conor,’ said Father Brien. ‘He will not betray your secret.’

We turned under a rock wall and he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. He swung himself down and reached to help me.

‘I hope, while you are here, that we can talk of a number of things. But let us tend to this boy, first of all. And you can decide for yourself what you can do, and what you cannot.’

The air inside the cave was heavy with the smell of curative herbs. My nose told me he’d been burning a mixture to keep the boy longer in the peace of an oblivious sleep; calamint for protection and courage, thyme to keep night terrors away. Also, harder to detect, the spores of a plant we called wolf’s claw, and I wondered how he’d known about that one, the use of which was extremely dangerous. A person could not be left under its influence for too long. Wake the sleeper must, and confront his fears, or risk being lost in the dark places of the mind forever.

The outer cave was cool and dry, with openings high in the rock walls. This was Father Brien’s healing place. There were many shelves, crowded with dried herbs and spices, bowls and jars and neat piles of folded cloth. A pair of huge oak planks, supported by great stones, served as a working table. An inner chamber opened off this orderly space, and here there was a straw pallet on which lay his charge, rolled deep in a blanket and curled up on himself in protection. Father Brien himself ate and slept in the tiny stone cottage, little more than a cell, nestled under rowan trees not far from the cave mouth. He looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep recently; his eyes were deeply shadowed.

‘The burns are healing well,’ said Father Brien softly. ‘He had some internal injuries; with those I did what I could. They’ll mend well enough in time. The fever was bad, but I brought it down with sponging and white oak infusions. At the height of it, he spoke much, and revealed more of himself than he would have perhaps wished. But he understands where he is now, and keeps his mouth shut most of the time, even when I speak to him in his own tongue. He does not take kindly to my prayers, or to my good advice. And twice I have stopped him from seeking some instrument to destroy himself, or me. He is still very weak, but not so weak that he could not do some harm, given the opportunity.’ He stifled a huge yawn. ‘You may like to rest until he wakes; then we shall see.’

I scrutinised the hermit’s serene face, now pallid with tiredness.

‘He won’t wake for a while yet,’ I said, glancing at the cocooned figure. ‘Let me sit here with him, and you go and get some sleep.’

‘You should not be alone with him,’ he said. ‘He’s unpredictable, and though I need your help, I’m under strict orders not to put you at any risk, Sorcha.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied, settling down on the three-legged stool at the rear of the chamber. ‘There’s your little bell there; and I have a loud voice. Besides, haven’t I six brothers to keep in line? Be off with you; a short sleep at least, or you’ll be precious little use to anyone.’

Father Brien smiled ruefully, for indeed he was near dropping from exhaustion. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but make sure you call me immediately he wakes. Those brothers of yours were very firm.’

He’d said I would know what to do, when I saw the boy. Well, there he was, and a sorry sight to be sure, curled up like a chastised dog, sleeping the dead sleep of one punished almost beyond endurance. His lids were heavy, and there wasn’t a lot of spring left in the sunny curls. I tried to imagine him waking; maybe staring at me with the vacant eyes of an idiot, or the mad ones of a wild creature cornered; but all that came into my mind was one of the old stories, and the picture of the hero, Culhan the Venturer, stepping through the woods silent as a deer. I leaned my back against the rock wall and rehearsed his tale quietly to myself. This was a story often told, one of those tales which have a tendency to grow and change from one telling to the next. Culhan had a lot of adventures; he endured many trials to win his lady and regain his honour. It took a while to tell them all out loud, and the boy slept on.

I got up to the part where Culhan must cross the bridge of spears to reach the magical island where his love is imprisoned. While he has faith in his ability, his feet can tread the needle-sharp span of the bridge without harm. But let any seed of doubt take root in his heart, and the spears will slice his feet in two.

‘So Culhan took a step, and another. His eyes were like a blue fire, and he fixed them on the distant shore. Before him, the bridge rose in a single, glittering span, and the rays of the sun, catching the spear-points, dazzled his sight.’

I was drowsy myself, with the fumes from Father Brien’s tiny brazier; in its lidded compartment, the small supply of soporific herbs must be nearly gone, and the air was starting to clear.

‘From her high window, the lady Edan watched the step of his bare feet as they moved with sure and steady grace over the bridge. Then the sun was blotted out as a huge bird of prey swooped down towards the hero.’

I was not so absorbed in my story as to miss the faintest of movements from the pallet beside me. His eyes were firmly closed, but he was awake. I went on, conscious only then in what tongue I had been speaking.

‘Shrieking with rage, the enchanter Brieden in birdlike form, struck out at Culhan again and again with talons of iron, with cruel beak and venomous will. For but an instant, the hero faltered, and three drops of bright blood fell from his foot into the swirling waters of the lake. Instantly they changed into the form of three red fishes, that darted away amongst the reeds. The bird gave a harsh cry of triumph. But Culhan drew a deep breath and, never looking down, moved on across the span; and the great bird, shrieking with despair, plunged into the water itself. What became of the enchanter Brieden nobody knows; but in that lake it is rumoured a huge fish lives, of unspeakably foul appearance and exceptional strength. So Culhan came across the bridge of spears, and took back the lady Edan. But ever after, his right foot bore the scar, deep along the length of it, of his moment of doubt. And in his children, and his children’s children, this mark can still be found.’

The tale was finished, until its next telling. I got up for the pitcher of water from the table, and saw him watching me from slitted eyes, deep blue and hostile. There was still the faintest shadow of the defiant fury he’d shown in my father’s hall, but his skin was pallid and his eyes sunken. I didn’t like the look of him much at all.

‘Drink,’ I said in his own tongue, kneeling down beside the pallet and holding out the cup I’d filled. It was plain water this time; he would just have to live with the consequences, for I knew the signs of one who had been too long under the drugging influence of certain herbs, and I must at least taper off the dosage. He stared at me, silent.

‘Drink it,’ I repeated. ‘You’ve been asleep a long time; your body needs this. It’s just water.’

I took a sip myself, to reassure him. He must be intensely thirsty, there was no doubt of it, after the best part of a day’s sleep with the brazier burning; but his only movement was to edge a little away from me, never taking his eyes off my face. I held the cup out towards his lips, my hand brushing his arm as I did so. He started violently, clutching the blanket tightly around him and pressing back hard against the wall, as far away from me as he could get. I could smell the fear and feel the fine vibration that ran through every part of his body. It was like the trembling of a high-bred horse that has been mistreated.

My hand was still steady; I hadn’t spilt a drop, though my heart was pounding. I put the cup down by the bed and retreated to my stool.

‘Well then, drink it when you’re ready,’ I said, settling down and folding my hands in my lap. ‘Did you ever hear the story of the cup of Isha now? It was a strange one indeed, for when Bryn found it, after he bested the three-headed giant and entered the castle of fire, it spoke to him as he reached out to take it, dazzled by the emeralds and silver ornaments on it. He who is pure of heart may drink from me, it said in a voice that was small but terrible. And Bryn was afraid then to take it, but the voice fell silent, and he took the cup and hid it deep in his cloak.’

I watched him carefully as I spoke; he was still hunched, half-sitting, against the far wall, hugging the blanket around him.

‘It wasn’t until much later that Bryn came to a little stream and, remembering the cup, took it out to get himself a drink. But strangely, when he drew the goblet from his cloak, it was already full with clear water. He set it on the ground, wondering much, and before he could stop it, his horse bent down its neck and took a long drink. Stranger still, no matter how deep the beast drank, the cup of Isha remained full to the brim. There seemed to be no ill effect on the horse; still, Bryn himself did not use the cup, but dipped his hands into the stream and quenched his thirst that way. For, he reasoned, a dumb animal must be pure of heart, for it knows no different, but plainly this cup is deeply enchanted and must be meant for the greatest man on earth, and I am but a lowly traveller. How could I be worthy enough to drink from such a magical vessel?’

The boy moved one hand; his fingers made a weak semblance of the sign used to ward off evil. I’d seen it sometimes, when travellers passed through, but never before directed at myself.

‘I’m no sorceress,’ I said. ‘I’m a healer; and I’m here to help you get better. That might be hard for you to believe, but it’s the truth. I don’t lie. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, or of Father Brien. We mean you no harm.’

The boy coughed, and tried to moisten his lips with a parched tongue.

‘Playing games,’ he managed, and the bitterness of his slurred speech was shocking. ‘Cat and mouse. Why not just finish me off?’

He had to force the words out, and I could hardly understand him. Still, the fact that he spoke at all was something.

‘Does it take so long to learn I won’t talk? Just finish it, damn you.’

This seemed to exhaust him, and he lay back on the bed, staring up at nothing, the blanket still clutched around him. I chose my words carefully.

‘It’s men that play games,’ I said, ‘and men that did this to you. But I’m not asking you to tell any secrets, or do anything but get well. This is no cup of Isha; drink from it and you get only what your body needs. Anyway, it was one of my brothers that rescued you, and I helped him. Why would I want to harm you, after that?’

He turned his head slightly then, and his look was dismissive.

‘One of your brothers,’ he said. ‘How many of them do you have?’

‘Six.’

‘Six,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Six killers. Six demons from hell. But how could you understand? You’re a girl.’

His tone held both venom and fear. I wondered how Father Brien had managed thus far; perhaps the herbs had kept the boy cooperative and docile, so that what he needed could be done without dispute.

‘My brother risked a great deal to help you,’ I said, ‘and so did I.’ But you were tortured in my house, by my people. ‘My brother always does what is right. He never betrays a secret. And I may seem a child to you, but I do know what I’m doing – that’s why I was sent for. I don’t know what they plan for you, but you will certainly be helped to reach a place of refuge, and then to return home.’

He gave a harsh bark of laughter, so sudden it startled me.

‘Home!’ he retorted bitterly. ‘I think not.’ He had relaxed his grip on the blanket, and twisted his fingers together. ‘There’s no place for me there, or anywhere. Why should you bother with me? Go back to your dolls and your embroidery. Sending you here was foolish. What do you think it would take for me to kill you? A quick grab at the hair, a little twist of the neck … I could do it. What was he thinking of, this brother?’

He flexed his fingers.

‘Good,’ I said approvingly, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘At least you’re starting to think, and look around you. Maybe my brother was wrong, and Father Brien; expecting a warrior such as yourself to repay a debt in kind. Maybe they thought there was a code of honour amongst your people, as with ours.’

‘Honour? Huh!’ He looked directly at me, and I could see that his face might be handsome in the way of the Britons, were it not for the marks of pain and exhaustion. The nose was long and straight, the planes of the face well chiselled and strong. ‘You know nothing, girl. Tell your brother to take you through a village after he and his men have finished with it. Let him show you what’s left. Ask him if he’s ever spitted a pregnant woman like a sucking pig. Remind him of your people’s habit of slicing the limbs off their victims while they scream for a quick end.’ His voice rose. ‘Question him on the creative uses of hot iron. Then talk to me about codes of honour.’

He broke off, and began to cough, and I went over to him without thinking and held up the cup of water to his lips. Between the paroxysm of coughing, and trying to breathe, and the trembling of my hand, most of the water went over the bed, but he did swallow a couple of drops despite himself. He drew breath finally, wheezing painfully, and looked at me over the rim of the cup, seeing me for the first time.

‘Damn you,’ he said quietly, and he took the cup out of my hand and drank the little that was left. ‘Damn you all.’

Father Brien chose this moment to appear at the doorway, took one look at my face and ordered me outside. Sitting under the rowans, listening to the small sounds of bird and insect about their daily business, I wept for my father, and for my brothers, and for myself.

Father Brien stayed inside a long while. After a time, my tears subsided to a faint hiccup or two, and I blew my nose and tried to get past the hurt of what the boy had said, and concentrate on why I was there. But it was hard; I had to argue with myself every step of the way.

Finbar is good. I know him as I know myself.

Why didn’t he speak up, then? Why wait until the damage was done, to perform a rescue? And what about the others? They did nothing.

Liam is my big brother. Our guide and protector. Our mother gave him that task. He would not do evil things.

Liam is a killer like his father. So is the smiling Diarmid. He turns a sunny face to you, but truly he seeks to be just like them both.

What about Conor, then? He does not go to war. He is just. He is a thinker.

He, too, could speak out, and does not.

But he helped us. At least I think he did; he knew about the boy, and he never stopped me.

Conor is a skilful player of games.

Cormack knows nothing of war yet; to him it’s all fun and sport, a challenge. He would not condone torture.

He’ll learn soon enough. He hungers for the taste of blood.

And what about Padriac? Surely he is quite innocent of all this, absorbed in his creatures and his experiments?

True enough. But for how long? And what of yourself, Sorcha? For you are no longer innocent.

So I warred with myself, and could not ignore that other voice. Still it was agony to believe: could the brothers that had tended my bruised knees and taken me along, with reasonable patience, on so many childhood adventures really be the cruel and unscrupulous savages the boy had depicted? And if so, where did that leave me, and Finbar? I was not so naive, even at twelve, as to believe only one side in this conflict was capable of torture and hurt. Had we saved the true enemy? Was nobody to be trusted?

Father Brien took his time. I stayed where I was while the conflict within me slowly abated, and my mind was taken over by a stillness that emanated from the old trees themselves, and from the ground which nourished them. This was a familiar feeling, for there were many places in the great forest where you could drink in its energy, become one with its ancient heart. When you were in trouble, you could find your way in these places. I knew them, and Finbar knew them; of the others I am not so sure, for often when the two of us sat quiet in the fork of a great oak or lay on the rocks looking into the water, they were running, or climbing, or swimming in the lake. Even so, I was learning how little I knew my own brothers.

The rain had stopped completely, and in the shelter of the grove the air was damp and fresh. Birds came out of hiding; their song fluted overhead, passing and passing, very high. At such still moments, voices had spoken to me many times, and I had taken these to be the forest spirits or the souls of the trees themselves. Sometimes I felt it was my mother’s voice that spoke. Today, the trees were quiet, and I was in some distant place of the mind when a slight movement on the other side of the clearing startled me out of my trance.

There was not the least doubt in my mind that the woman who stood there was not of our world; she was exceptionally tall and slender, her face milk-white, her black hair down to her knees, and her cloak the deep blue of the western sky between dusk and dark. I stood up slowly.

‘Sorcha,’ she said, and her voice was like a terrible music. ‘You have a long journey before you. There will be no time for weeping.’

It seemed crucially important to ask the right questions, while I had the chance. Awe made me tongue-tied, but I forced the words out.

‘Are my brothers evil, as this boy tells me? Are we all cursed?’

She laughed, a soft sound but with a strength in it beyond anything human.

‘No man is truly evil,’ she said. ‘You will discover this for yourself. And most of them will lie, at least some of the time, or tell the half-truths that suit them. Bear this in mind, Sorcha the healer.’

‘You say a long journey. What must I do first?’

‘A longer journey than you can possibly imagine. You are already on the path set out for you, and the boy, Simon, is one of its milestones. Tonight, cut goldenwood. This herb you may use, to quieten his mind.’

‘What else?’

‘You will find the way, daughter of the forest. Through grief and pain, through many trials, through betrayal and loss, your feet will walk a straight path.’

She began to fade before my eyes, the deep blue of her cloak merging with the darkness of the foliage behind her.

‘Wait –’ I started forwards across the clearing.

‘Sorcha?’ It was Father Brien’s voice, calling me from within the cave. And she was instantly gone, as if there had been nothing there but afternoon shadows shifting in the breeze. Father Brien emerged from the cave mouth, drying his hands on a cloth.

‘I see we have a visitor,’ he said mildly. I glanced at him sharply, then away into the shadows. Emerging cautiously into the clearing, as if uncertain of her welcome, was the dog, Linn. It seemed she had trailed me all the way up here. I spoke kindly to her and she ran to me in frenzied response, her whole body wagging in belated recognition and the urgent need of affection.

‘Come inside,’ said Father Brien. ‘Bring the hound, she can do no harm. We need to talk about this boy, and quickly. The effects of my draught are all but gone, and I hesitate to give him more. But if he cannot be convinced to cooperate, I will be unable to attend to his injuries.’ He turned to go inside. ‘Are you recovered?’ he added gently. ‘He knows where to aim his words for most hurt. This is perhaps the only weapon he has left to him.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said, my head still full of my vision. I put a hand down to touch the dog’s rough coat, and the rasp of her tongue on my fingers reassured me that the real world was still there, as well as the other. ‘I’m fine.’

The boy sat hunched on the pallet, his back to us. For all his defiant words and angry looks, the set of his shoulders reminded me of a small creature chastised too hard, who retreats into himself in bewilderment at a world turned wrong.

‘His wounds must be cleaned and dressed,’ said Father Brien in our own tongue. ‘I’ve managed quite well while he was half-asleep, despite his fear of my touch. But now …’

‘He must come off these herbs,’ I said, ‘if you want any chance of returning him home in his right mind. We should clear the air completely, and he should be taken outside in the warmth of the day, if we can manage it. Can he walk?’

A look crossed Father Brien’s placid face briefly; a chilling look that mingled disgust and pity.

‘I have not dared to move him, save to tend to his injuries,’ he said carefully. ‘He is still in great pain, and withdrawing the soporifics too quickly will be hard for him to bear. Without them, sleep will be difficult, for he fears his dreams.’

My vision still bright before my eyes, I felt a strong sense of what must be done, though truth to tell, the Lady had given me little by way of practical instructions. But something within me knew the path.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow he must be shown the sun, and the open sky. From now on, just the one herb, just goldenwood, and it must be cut at night. I’ll do that later. Now what about dressing these wounds?’

I moved towards the pallet. Linn slipped past me and padded trustingly up to the boy on her large hound paws. She knew that he was not Cormack; but he was close enough. She sidled forward and thrust her cold nose into his hand.

‘Easy, Linn,’ I said in the language the boy knew. After the first instinctive clenching of his fist, he let his fingers relax and she licked them enthusiastically. He watched her through narrowed eyes, giving nothing away.

Father Brien had prepared a bowl of warm water with chamomile and mallow root; and soft cloths. There had perhaps been an attempt to start the task while I was outdoors, for the bedding was disarranged and more water had been spilt. He moved towards the bed.

‘I said, no.’ The boy spoke with finality.

‘You must know,’ replied Father Brien, unperturbed, ‘as a soldier, what happens if such wounds are left untreated; how they attract evil humours, and turn foul, and how fevers then overtake the man so that he sees apparitions and, burning, dies. Would you invite such an end for yourself?’ His tone was mild as he washed his hands with care and dried them on the cloth.

‘Let her do it.’ The boy threw a glance at me without turning his head. ‘Let her see what her people have done, and so pay penance for it. I spoke plain truth. My body is witness to that.’

‘I think not,’ said Father Brien quickly, and for the first time there was an edge to his voice. ‘Sorcha is a child; such injuries are not fit for a girl’s eyes, and it shames you to suggest this. It is man’s work, and I will do it.’

‘Touch me again and I’ll kill you both.’ He meant this all right; and might just have enough strength to try. ‘Let the girl do it, or leave me to rot. I can go no lower, surely.’

‘I doubt if you could manage to do what you say, however much you might want to,’ I said. ‘But I’ll tend your wounds, on one condition.’

‘Condition?’ the Briton snapped. ‘What condition?’

‘I’ll do everything that needs doing,’ I told him firmly. ‘But only if you cooperate. You must listen when I talk to you, and do as I bid, for I have the power to heal you.’

He laughed at me. It was not a pleasant sound.

‘Arrogant little witch, aren’t you? I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather be left to the decay and the fever. Still, the end result might be the same, anyway. What do you think, old man?’

‘I don’t like it, and neither would your brothers, Sorcha. You should leave this to me.’

‘Then why did you bring me here?’ I asked simply. And since he had no answer to this, he fell silent.

‘Out,’ said the boy, knowing a victory when he saw it, and Father Brien went, reluctantly submitting to the inevitable.

‘I’ll be just outside, Sorcha,’ he said in our tongue, of which it seemed the boy had no understanding, ‘and this time don’t wait so long to call. What you see will distress you, and I can offer no help for that. Treat him as you would a sick animal, and try not to take the guilt for what was done on yourself, child.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said, for the spirit of the Forest Lady was still on me and my sense of purpose strong.

I will not dwell on what came next. To strip before me and submit to my ministrations was painful for him, both in body and spirit. To witness his injuries, to comprehend the vile nature of man’s imagination, was an experience that burned as deep into my heart as the instruments of torture had into his body. He would never be whole again, or know that heedless joy in his manhood that I had seen in my brothers as they wrestled together for sport, or flirted with a likely lass. That another man could do this to him was unthinkable. As I worked, I told him the rest of the tale of Isha, for that took both our minds beyond the dreadful task; and Linn sat anxiously by the bed, licking delicately at the Briton’s tightly clenched fist. Still he cringed from my touch, but having agreed to the bargain, he was stoical under the pain, and only cried out once.

At last, the tale was almost finished, and my work over. My body drenched with sweat and my face wet with tears, I eased the patient into the most comfortable position that could be managed, and spread a fresh blanket over his cleanly wrapped body. In the few moments it took me to fetch the pitcher of water, the dog was up on the bed and stretched out beside him, tail thumping gently. Her expression told me she hoped I would pretend not to notice.

‘Well done, Simon,’ I said, holding a cup of water for him to sip, and this time he did; he was too exhausted to protest, beyond fear. ‘Perhaps you can sleep now – one of us will be here if you need us. Linn!’ I snapped my fingers. ‘Down!’

‘No …’ His voice was a thread of sound. ‘Leave her.’ His hand curled into her wiry grey coat.

I moved, thinking to fetch Father Brien. I was too tired to feel hungry, but my work for that day was not over yet.

‘No.’

I looked down at him.

‘Stay.’

‘I’m not a dog, to do your bidding,’ I said. ‘I must eat, and so should you.’

‘The tale,’ he said weakly, surprising me. ‘Finish the tale. Did Bryn ever drink from the cup, or did he doubt himself forever?’

I sat down again slowly.

‘He did,’ I said, finding the will to go on from somewhere deep within me, though it was quite an effort. ‘It was much, much later, and it crept up on him unnoticed, for after all his adventures, and the ill that befell so many others after they tried to use the cup of Isha, what did he do but put it on a shelf at the back of his cottage, and forget about it. There it sat, with its emeralds and rubies, amongst the old crocks and pewterware, and not a soul noticed it for many a long day. For Bryn stayed in his cottage, beside the enchanted forest with its tangle of thorns, and grew old there; and still he guarded its one entrance, and let none pass, neither man nor beast. There were plenty of young girls that would have wooed him away, if he’d have liked, but he refused them all politely. I’m just a humble man, he’d say, not good enough for the likes of you, fine ladies. And besides, my heart is given.

‘Over the years, there were plenty of chances to ride away – to a war with the soldiers, or to make a fortune with travellers, but he’d have none of it. This is my watch, he told them, and here I stay, though I die at my post. And when the three score years were up, and Bryn was an old, old man with a white beard down to his boot tops, the curse was lifted and the wall of thorns dissolved; and out came an old, old lady in a tattered white gown, with a face wrinkled like a prune. But Bryn knew her instantly for his beloved, and fell on his knees before her, giving thanks for her deliverance.

‘“I’m thirsty,” said the old woman in a cracked voice (but to Bryn it was the most heavenly sound he’d ever heard). “Fetch me a drink, if you please, soldier.” And since there was only one cup in his humble house fit for a lady of her standing, the old man fetched the cup of Isha from his dusty kitchen shelves and lo, it was full to the brim with fresh, clear water. With trembling hands he offered it to the lady.

‘“You must drink first,” she said, and he was powerless to go against her will. So he took a sip, and she took a sip, and the precious stones on the cup glowed bright as stars. When Bryn looked up, there was his sweetheart before him, as young and lovely as the day he’d lost her. And when he looked in the cup of Isha, his reflection showed curls of raven black and a dazzling, sunny smile. “But – but I thought …” he could scarce get a word out, for his heart was beating like a great drum. His sweetheart smiled, and took his hand. “You could have drunk from it all along,” she said, “for who but a man pure of heart could wait three score years for his beloved?” She put the cup down on a stone beside the road, and then they went into the little cottage together, and got on with the rest of their lives. And the cup of Isha? There it rests amongst the bracken and daisies, waiting for the next traveller to find it.’

The boy was almost asleep, his face nearer to repose than I’d seen it yet, but wary still. He spoke in a whisper.

‘If you’re not a witch,’ he said, ‘how did you know my name?’

One of the Fair Folk told me. That was the truth, but I could hardly expect him to believe it. I thought quickly. As I said before, lying was a skill I never came to grips with, being no better at it than my brother Finbar.

‘I will answer that when I see you on your feet and out in the air,’ was the best I could manage. ‘Now you must rest, while I see what food Father Brien has for us. The dog must be hungry too.’

But when I tried to call Linn to follow me, she lowered her whiskery muzzle onto her paws, and simply looked at me with liquid, doggy eyes. Simon’s hand rested on her back, fingers moving against her rough coat. And so I left the two of them, for a while.

There followed the strangest time of my young life, up till then at least, for what came later was not merely strange but almost outside mortal understanding. On that first night I did as the Lady had bid me, going out alone under the great oaks, and climbing up high to where the delicate net of goldenwood hung suspended like a constellation of stars between the massive boughs of the forest giant. I used a small sickle to cut down what I needed. Father Brien was somewhat concerned that I might fall, or cut myself instead of the plant. But I explained to him how this herb is sacred to those of the old faith. Indeed, it is so mystic and powerful that its true name is secret, neither to be spoken aloud nor given written form. We called it goldenwood, or birdlime, or some other name in place of its true title. It is a strange herb, outside the laws of nature, for it does not grow towards the light, as other plants do, but in what direction it will, up, down, to east or west as the fancy takes it. Nor does it root in the ground, but grows from the upper reaches of oak, apple, pine or poplar, twining itself around their limbs, resting in their canopies. It takes no account of the seasons, for it can bear both ripe and green berries, and flowers, and new leaves all at the same time. There are strict rules about cutting it, and I had followed them as well as I could, since it appeared I had been given permission.

Goldenwood could be used in many ways, and I employed most of them in my attempt to help the Briton. Woven in a circle and hung over his pallet, it had some efficacy in keeping his night terrors at bay. I made an infusion, and we all drank that, but sparingly. My cure relied partly on clearing Simon’s body of the herbal influences which had been so essential up till now; but this physic, the most powerful of all, he still needed. As I had gathered it under a waxing moon, I had seen an owl fly overhead, dipping and rising in the cold silence of the night sky. Maybe she was the one I knew, now again part of the dark world’s fabric.

The few days Conor had sanctioned came, and went, and so did Finbar. He rode up on a sturdy hill pony whose strong back could easily bear us both home. Father Brien was in his cottage, doing some fine work with pen and inks, while Simon and I sat (or lay, in his case) on the grass a little further down the hill. Moving him had been a nightmare, the first time. Every step was agony for him, but he refused to be carried by an old man and a scrawny brat who talked too much, as he put it. So he walked, and put his teeth through his lip keeping silent, and I felt the pain piercing through my own body as I held his arm and walked beside him.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Sorcha,’ said Father Brien. He looked anxious, but he was leaving the treatment in my hands. On the other side of Simon, the dog padded steadily along, curbing her usual high spirits, leaning in slightly to help him stay upright. His hand gripped her collar.

‘I do,’ I said, and Father Brien took my word for it.

So, on the day Finbar came there we were, the three of us, Simon, me and the dog, but she had left our side to sniff around under the trees, tail whipping from side to side as she scented rabbit. We’d talked a lot by then or rather, I’d talked and Simon listened, having little choice in the matter. I asked him nothing, and he gave away nothing; so I relied on the old tales, and snippets of song, and occasionally I talked about my forest and some of the strange things that happened there. He could be rude, and even cruel, and he was both when it suited him. I heard plenty about my people’s nature, and what they had done over the years to his own folk; and he was imaginative in his insults to me and to Father Brien. These I could handle well enough; the tales of war were harder for me, which is probably why I talked most of the time – at least that kept him quiet. His mood was changeable; it could snap from exhausted tolerance to fury to terror at a moment’s notice, and tending him drained my energy more than any other patient I had encountered. I dressed his wounds twice a day, for he would let Father Brien nowhere near him. This was one task I never got used to.

By then there was a sort of acceptance developing between us. Although he scoffed at the unlikeliness of it all, I knew he liked my tales. The fresh air and the walking, hard though it was for him, had brought a slightly better colour to his face, and the cornflower eyes were not quite so lifeless. I brushed his hair; he made more fuss about the pulling out of knots and tangles than he ever had about the cruel pain of his injuries. I took his general ill temper as a good sign; for anything was better than the blank-eyed despair with which he waited for the endless day to pass, the ashen-faced terror of his night waking.

Then Finbar came. His pony had walked the last part of the dirt track; he left her some distance away and came on by foot. From habit, he moved in total silence, so his appearance was quite sudden, there on the edge of the grove. And Simon was up in a flash, his swift rasping intake of breath the only indicator of what this movement cost him, and then I felt my hair gripped from behind and cold metal at my neck.

‘Move one step further and I’ll slit her throat,’ he said, and Finbar stopped dead, white-faced. There was no sound save for the single note of a distant bird calling to a rival; and Simon’s laboured breathing somewhere behind me. Finbar stretched out his hands very slowly, showing them relaxed and empty; and then he lowered himself to the ground, back straight as a young tree, eyes watchful. His freckles stood out against his pallor and his mouth was a thin line. I could hear Father Brien humming to himself within the cottage. The knife eased away from my throat, slightly.

‘This is your brother?’

‘One of them,’ I managed, my voice coming out in a sort of squeak. Simon loosened his grip a little. ‘Finbar saved you. He brought you here.’

‘Why?’ The voice was flat.

‘I believe in freedom,’ said Finbar with admirable steadiness. ‘I’ve tried to right wrongs where I can. You are not the first I have helped in such a way, though what became of them afterwards I do not know. Will you let my sister go?’

‘Why should I believe you? Who in his right mind would send a little girl into his enemy’s arms, alone except for a doddering cleric? Who would turn traitor to his own family? What sort of man does that? Maybe you have a troop of warriors, there in the trees, ready to take me and finish what they started.’ Simon’s voice was under control, but I could feel the tension in his body, and knew staying upright and holding me must be agony for him. He would not last much longer. I spoke to Finbar directly, without words, mind straight to mind.

Leave this to me. Trust me.

Finbar blinked at me, relaxing his guard for a moment. I read in his thoughts an anger and confusion that I had not seen in him before.

It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s him.

I have never been prone to the weaker characteristics of a woman; in fact, despite my small size and apparent delicacy I am a strong person and able to endure much. I should never have thought myself capable of such a deception, and I risked much in my guess at Simon’s probable reaction. But at the time, it was the only thing I could think of. So I gave a slight moan, and buckled at the knees, and it was to Simon’s credit that he dropped the knife and managed to catch me before I hit the ground. I kept my eyes firmly shut, listening to Finbar making noises of brotherly concern, and Simon regaining his weapon and warning my brother away. Then Father Brien’s voice – alerted by the noise, he was at my side quickly and wiping my face with a damp cloth that smelt of lavender. Opening my eyes cautiously, I met a very wry expression on the good Father’s face. He didn’t miss much.

I turned my head one way. Finbar sat exactly as before, cross-legged, bolt upright, his expression well-schooled. I turned my head the other way. Simon was very close, his back against a large stone, the knife held loosely between his hands. I felt he had been watching me, but now his eyes were turned away, towards the trees. I did not like the look of his skin, which was showing that sweaty pallor that I’d hoped was gone for good.

All four of us were apparently at a loss as to where to go next. The problem was solved unexpectedly by the wolfhound, Linn, who had tired of her rabbit hunt, and now hurtled towards us out of the forest, ecstatic to see so many friends at once. First she leapt on Finbar, planting her feet on his shoulders and washing his face with some vigour. Then she bolted over to me, careless of my apparently delicate state of health, and planted heavy feet on my stomach in passing. She circled Simon, quivering with anticipation, but careful, still, not to hurt him.

‘Well, children,’ said Father Brien matter-of-factly, ‘I shall fetch a cup of mead, for I believe we all have need of it. Then we shall talk. Try not to harm one another for a few moments, I beg you.’

He rose, and Simon let him go. Clearly, though, I was not yet free to do the same, for as soon as I managed to sit upright I felt his hand around my arm again, and there was still a fierce determination in his grip. Clearly there was some reserve of strength there that even I had not guessed at.

We sat in uneasy silence until Father Brien returned, bearing a jug and some cups, and then Finbar began to speak in our tongue.

‘No!’ I said sharply, cutting him off. ‘Speak so that Simon can understand you. There have been enough secrets already. We may be enemies but we can at least be civil.’

‘You think so?’ said Finbar, brows raised. ‘The Briton here has hardly shown civility.’

‘Now,’ said Father Brien, giving each of us a cup, ‘let us simulate a truce, at least, and attempt to sort this out. I believe Finbar is here on peaceful business, young man; he was to collect his sister and escort her home.’

‘As you see, I am unarmed,’ said Finbar, his hands open on his knees. A strand of hair fell across his eyes, but he made no attempt to brush it away. It was me he was watching this time. ‘I’m here to fetch Sorcha, that’s all. I had been thinking of asking after your health, to see maybe if saving you was worth the bother; but I won’t trouble myself with that now.’

He has no intention of hurting me. Can’t you see that?

Finbar raised his brows at me, disbelieving. Simon was silent, his cup untouched on the grass beside him. I felt his hand burning against my skin, through the thin fabric of my dress. The dog sniffed at the mead.

‘Any news from your father, Finbar?’ Father Brien asked casually.

‘Not yet. It will be some time longer, I think. Your patient will be safe enough until he can travel. It would be good to be able to say the same for my sister. For one who was called here to heal, it seems she has not been treated kindly. I think I have come none too soon.’

Simon’s voice was cruel. ‘What did you expect? A jubilant welcome? Fawning gratitude? Give me one reason why I should be thankful to be returned to life!’

There was a silence.

‘Son,’ said Father Brien eventually, ‘the future seems dark to you at present, and there is no telling where your way will lead. But there is a light on every path. In time you will find it.’

‘Spare me your homespun faith,’ said Simon wearily. ‘I despise it, and you.’

‘You are hardly in a position to throw it back in his face,’ said Finbar mildly. ‘He cares for you and your kind because of that very faith. Without it, he might be a killer like my kinsmen. And, perhaps, like yours.’

‘Indeed, I was once just such a man. I know the power of a cause, and how it can blind you to reality. Finbar sees this already. Perhaps your mission in life will be to learn it.’ Father Brien was reflective.

‘What do I care for your missions! I am fit for nothing. As fast as she patches me up, I fall apart, stinking of decay. You would have done better not to meddle, but to leave me where I was. The end would have been quicker.’ Simon’s voice was still under control, but a convulsive shiver ran through his body. I opened my mouth to speak, but Finbar got in first.

‘I’m taking my sister home,’ he said. ‘I thought to help you, and so did she. But I will not have her hurt or threatened. We have done what we can, and it seems you have no further need for our services.’

Simon laughed derisively. ‘Not so fast, big brother,’ he said. ‘I still have my knife, and I am not quite helpless. The little witch stays with me. You sent her here to heal me; so let her heal me. For she seems to believe the impossible can happen, if we do not.’

‘You forget that she is just a child,’ said Father Brien.

‘Child? Huh!’ Simon gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Outwardly, perhaps. But she’s like no child I’ve ever known. What child knows the properties of herbs, and a thousand stories each stranger than the last, and how to …’ His voice faltered. Finbar glanced at Father Brien, who gazed back at him reflectively. My arm was starting to hurt a lot, where Simon’s fingers clutched it.

‘It’s not up to you to decide,’ I said as firmly as I could. I looked at each of them in turn – Finbar with his ashen face and clear grey eyes, the mild, penetrating gaze of Father Brien. Simon’s touch communicated his pain and despair. ‘I have a job to do here, and it’s not finished. Between you, you’ve already undone most of my good work this afternoon. Finbar, you must go home, and leave me to my proper task. Believe that I am safe here, and best left alone. I will call you when I am ready.’

He needs me, Finbar.

I won’t leave you here. He tried to keep me out of his thoughts, but he could not quite conceal his guilt and confusion. This worried me. Wasn’t Finbar the brother who was always so certain, who always knew what to do?

You must leave me. This is my choice.

And so he did, eventually. It was fortunate that Father Brien trusted me and believed in what I was doing, for it was he who persuaded my brother to move back into the cottage and leave me alone awhile with my patient. Simon let them go, silent. It was only after they were out of sight, and the cottage door closed with a thud, that the restraining grip on my arm changed to a clutch for support, and he let out his breath in a long shuddering gasp. Between us, the dog and I got him back into the cave and lying down, and I broke all my rules and made him a draught that would give him a reasonable sleep. Then I sat by him, talking of nothing much, watching him grapple with the pain and fight to keep silent. After a while, the effects of the herbal infusion stole over him and his features began to relax, his eyes clouding. My arm was hurting quite a lot, and I went quietly over to Father Brien’s shelves to seek an ointment, perhaps mallow root or elderflower. I found what I wanted in a shallow lidded bowl, and returned to my stool to anoint my bruises. There was a ring of reddened flesh right around my upper arm. Massaging with the salve relieved the pain a little.

Something made me glance up as I placed the lid back on the bowl. Simon was still awake, just, heavy lids not quite masking the startling blue of his eyes. ‘You bruise too easily,’ he said indistinctly. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Then his lids dropped and he was asleep. The dog moved in closer, wedging herself alongside him on the narrow pallet.

There was a short spell, then, for explanations and decisions. I went to the cottage and we stayed there, but with the door open, for as I told the others, Linn would alert me if Simon wakened. Father Brien insisted that both Finbar and I ate and drank, although neither of us had the stomach for it.

It took a while to persuade Finbar to go home. He still believed me to be in danger, and swore that Conor would never agree to my staying. I used his old argument against him: you should not assume a Briton was evil just because of his golden hair, or his height, or his strange manner of speaking. He was a human being with strengths and weaknesses, just like us. Hadn’t Finbar said so himself many times, even to our father?

‘But he threatened to kill you,’ said Finbar, exasperated with me, ‘he held a knife at your throat. Does that mean nothing?’

‘He’s sick,’ I said. ‘He’s scared. And I’m here to help him. Besides, I was told …’ I broke off.

Finbar’s gaze sharpened. ‘Told what?’

I could not lie. ‘Told that this was something I must do. Just the first step on a long and difficult path. I know I have to do it.’

‘Who told you this, Sorcha?’ asked Father Brien gently. They were both staring at me intently now. I chose my words with care.

‘You remember Conor’s old story, the one about Deirdre, Lady of the Forest? I think it was her.’

Father Brien drew his breath in sharply. ‘You have seen Them?’

‘I think so,’ I said, surprised. Whatever reaction I had expected from him, it was not this. ‘She told me this was my path, and I must keep to it. I’m sorry, Finbar.’

‘This Briton,’ said Finbar slowly. ‘He is not the first I have met, or spoken with. The others, though, were older men, more hardened, and at the same time simpler. They were glad enough to take their freedom and go. This one plays games, he toys with us and relishes our confusion. If indeed you have received such an instruction, you have no choice but to obey; yet I can hardly believe this boy means you no harm. I am not happy to leave you here, and I think Conor would agree with me.’ He twisted a lock of hair between his fingers. The colour had returned to his face, but his mouth was grim.

I stared at him. ‘Why should Conor decide?’ I asked. ‘He may be in charge, for now, but he’s only sixteen.’

‘Conor is old beyond his years,’ said Father Brien in his measured way. ‘In that, he resembles the two of you. He too has a path set out for him. You have, perhaps, taken this brother for granted; the quiet one, with his steady reliability, his kindness and fairness, his fund of knowledge. But you know him less well than you think.’

‘He does seem to know a lot of odd things,’ I said. ‘Things that surprise you.’

‘Like the Ogham,’ said Finbar quietly. ‘The signs, and where to find them, and how to read their meaning. What we know of that we learned from Conor.’

‘But where did he learn it?’ I said. ‘Not from any book, I know that much.’

‘Conor is expert in a number of matters,’ said Father Brien, gazing out of his small window. The late afternoon sun caught the wisps of greying hair that fringed his calm brow, turning them to a flaming aureole. ‘Some he learned from me, as the rest of you did. Some he taught himself from the manuscripts gathering dust in your father’s library; as did you, Sorcha, with your cures and your herb lore. You will find, as you grow older, that as well as this knowledge Conor has other, more subtle skills; he carries ancient crafts that belong to your line, but which have been largely forgotten in today’s world. You see the village people, how they revere him. It is true that in your father’s absence Conor is a good steward, and they acknowledge that with due thanks. But their recognition of him goes far deeper.’

I remembered something then. ‘The old man in the village, old Tom who used to be the thatcher, he said something – he said that Conor was one of the wise ones, like Father, or like Father should have been. I didn’t understand him.’

‘The family of Sevenwaters is an ancient one, one of the oldest in this land,’ said Father Brien. ‘This lake and this forest are places where strange things come to pass, where the unexpected is commonplace. The coming of such as I, and our faith, may have changed things on the surface. But underneath, here and there, the magic runs as deep and as strong as in the days when the Fair Folk came out of the west. The threads of many beliefs can run side by side; from time to time they tangle, and mesh into a stronger rope. You have seen this for yourself, Sorcha; and you, Finbar, feel its power compelling you to action.’

‘And Conor?’ asked Finbar.

‘Your brother has inherited a weighty legacy,’ said Brien. ‘It chooses whom it will; and so it did not fall to the eldest, or even to the second, but to the one best able to bear it. Your father had the strength, but he let the burden pass him by. Conor will be the leader of the old faith, for these people, and he will do it quietly and with discretion, so that the ancient ways can still prosper and give guidance, hidden deep in the forest.’

‘You mean Conor is – you mean he is a druid? How could he learn this from books?’ I asked, confused. Had I known my own brother so ill?

Father Brien laughed softly. ‘He could not,’ he said wryly. ‘This lore is never committed to the page; the tree script that he showed you is its only form of writing. He has learned, and learns, from others of his kind. They do not show themselves, not yet, for it has been a struggle for them to hold on. Their numbers are dwindling. Your brother has a long path to travel yet; he has barely begun his journey. Nineteen years, that is the allotted span for the learning of this wisdom. And it goes without saying that talk of this is not to be spread abroad.’

‘I wondered, sometimes,’ said Finbar. ‘One cannot listen, and move through the villages, without learning whom the people trust and why. It explains why he leaves us to follow our own ways.’

‘What did you mean,’ I said, still thinking hard, ‘about our father being the one, and giving it up?’ For I could not imagine Father, with his tight, closed expression and his obsession with war, as the conduit for any kind of spiritual message. Surely that was wrong.

‘You need to understand,’ said Father Brien gently, ‘that your father was not always as he is now. As a young man, he was a different creature entirely, handsome and merry, a man who would sing and dance and tell tales with the best of them, as well as beating them all hollow at riding and archery and combats with sword or bare fists. He was, you’d have said, one favoured by heaven with the full range of blessings.’

‘So what changed him?’ asked Finbar bleakly.

‘When his father died, Lord Colum became master of Sevenwaters. There was, as yet, no call on him to be anything more, for there was one far older and wiser that kept the ancient ways alive in these parts. Your father met your mother; and, as it often is with your kin, he loved her instantly and passionately, so that to be without her was like death to him. They were blissfully happy for eight years; and then she died.’

His face had changed; I watched the light play over his calm features, and thought I detected a deep sorrow there, buried somewhere well within.

‘Did you know her?’ I asked.

Father Brien turned to me, his eyes showing no more than a faint sadness. Perhaps I had imagined what I saw.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I had been presented with a choice. They valued my skill with the pen, in the house of Kells, but my ideas caused – unrest. Conform, I was told, or live alone. I had known your father before I took holy orders, a long time ago when I was a fighting man. When I left the chapter house he offered me a place here, an act of some generosity, considering the differences between us. I met your mother. I saw their joy in each other, and how her death took all the light from him.’

‘He had us,’ said Finbar bitterly. ‘Another man might have thought that reason enough to live, and live well.’

‘I think you are too harsh,’ said Father Brien, but he spoke kindly. ‘You know not, yet, the sort of love that strikes like a lightning bolt; that clutches hold of you by the heart, as irrevocably as death; that becomes the lodestar by which you steer the rest of your life. I would not wish such a love on anyone, man or woman, for it can make your life a paradise, or it can destroy you utterly. But it is in the nature of your kin to love this way. When your mother died, it took great strength of will for Colum to endure her loss. He survived; but he paid a high price. He has little left for you, or for anyone.’

‘He had a choice, didn’t he?’ said Finbar slowly. ‘He could have turned another way, after she died – taken another path, become the sort of leader you say Conor will be.’

‘He could, for the Ancient was near the end of his days, and the wise ones came to Colum, seeking a man of his line to join their number. They must have wanted him very particularly, to make such an approach. Far better to begin the long years of learning as a child, or a very young man. Yet they asked him. But Colum was deep in despair. Had it not been for his duty to his túath, and to his children, he might well have ended his own life. So he refused them.’

‘And that’s how they came to choose Conor?’

‘Not then. Conor was only a child; they waited, first, and watched you growing up, the seven of you. And the old one delayed his passing. They watched Conor as he learned to read and write, as he practised his verses and his tales, as he taught the rest of you the wisdom of trees, and how to look after one another. In time, it became clear that he was the one, and they told him.’

We sat there in silence for a while, taking this in, as the sun’s rays slanted lower through the window and the air grew cool with early evening. No sound came from the cave. I hoped Simon’s sleep was dreamless.

‘You can see,’ said Father Brien eventually, ‘what drives your father so hard. Holding onto his lands, and winning back the Islands that were lost so long ago, has taken her place as the sole purpose of his existence. By keeping that foremost in his mind, he holds the wolves of memory at bay. When they close in around him, he goes to war again and silences their howling with blood. This path takes a heavy toll on him. He has, however, rendered his lands and those of his neighbours very secure, and earned great respect throughout the north of this country with his campaigning. He has not won the Islands back, not yet; this he plans to do, perhaps, when all his sons are grown.’

‘He’ll do it without me,’ said Finbar. ‘I know the Islands to be mysterious beyond understanding, a place of the spirit, and I long to visit the caves of truth. But I would not kill for the privilege. That is faith gone mad.’

‘As I said, a cause can blind you to reality,’ said Father Brien. ‘Men have fought over these Islands since the days of Colum’s great-great-grandfather, since the first Briton trod on that soil, not knowing it was the mystic heart of your people’s ancient beliefs. So the feud was born, and a great loss of lives and fortunes followed. Why else would the lord Colum, his father’s seventh son, be the one to inherit? His brothers were slain, all of them, fighting for the cause. And their father let them go, one by one.’

‘But now he sets his own sons on the same path,’ added Finbar grimly.

‘Perhaps,’ Brien replied. ‘But your brothers do not share the obsession of Lord Colum, and besides, there is Conor, and yourselves. It may at last be time for this pattern to be broken.’

I was thinking hard. After a while I ventured, ‘You’re saying Conor will let me stay here, and try to help Simon – that he understands what the Lady told me, about this all being part of some great design set out for us?’

Father Brien smiled. ‘If anyone can break away from a set path it is you, child. But you are right about Conor. He knew quite well why you came to stay here. It is a measure of his strength, and his stature, that he can reconcile this knowledge with his administration of your father’s business.’

I frowned. ‘You almost make it sound as if Conor should one day be head of the family,’ I said. ‘But what about Liam? He’s always been our leader, ever since Mother told him he had to be; and he’s the eldest.’

‘There are leaders, and leaders. Don’t underestimate any of your brothers, Sorcha,’ said Father Brien. ‘Now eat, the two of you, for today’s work is by no means over.’

But we had no appetite, and the bread and cheese were still barely touched when Finbar said his farewells and with some reluctance turned his pony’s head in the direction of home. His parting shot to me was not spoken aloud.

I still don’t trust your Briton. You’d better give him a message from me. Tell him, if he lays a finger on you again, he’ll have not just me but the six of us to answer to. Make sure you tell him that.

I refused to take this seriously. Finbar, threatening violence? Hardly.

I’ll tell him no such thing. You’re starting to sound just like your big brothers. Now get going, and leave me to deal with this. And don’t worry about me, Finbar. I’ll be fine.

‘Hm,’ he said aloud in a very brotherly way. ‘Where have I heard that before? Maybe it was just before you climbed the fence to pat the prize bull; or perhaps it was the time you were so sure you could jump across that creek just as well as Padriac could, even with your short legs? Remember what happened then?’

‘Be off with you!’ I retorted, giving the pony a sharp smack on the rump, and he was away. In the cave, the dog began to bark. It was time to get back to work.