Seer of Sevenwaters (18 page)

“Bran being the Chief,” Gull explained, “though Bran was not his real name, but one Liadan gave him, since she wouldn’t use the other. Well, we found him, and a sorry state he was in, unconscious and cramped from being stuffed into a hole not big enough to house a scrap of a dog like Fang there, let alone a fully grown man. Liadan couldn’t carry him. I was hardly better placed, my arms aching, my hands in bloody rags. But I was all the help she had.

“It so happened that the fortress in question was located in the middle of a swamp, a place where one wrong step meant sinking into mud over your head. There was a causeway, but we weren’t offered the use of that. Instead we had to make our way from one clump of foliage to the next, a stride, a leap, an act of blind faith. Liadan had the child on her back; I had the Chief across my shoulders. Our captor was a man who enjoyed games. To be fair, he said, he planned to let us progress a certain distance before his archers began using us for target practice.”

Ardal murmured something that sounded like an Armorican oath.

“It was late in the day,” Gull went on, his eyes going distant as if still, so many years later, he saw the scene with terrible clarity. “The light was fading. Liadan was a slight girl, not tall; it was hard for her to jump from one safe purchase to the next. I was nearly spent. If ever there was a time to abandon hope, that was it. But he’d always given us hope, each one of us in our own darkest moment; he’d always told us that it was worth going on, that we could find a solution, that we simply needed to be the best we could. And there was this girl, with her little child, who’d shown the courage of a seasoned warrior. I’d no choice but to match that. Still, things were looking grim.

“Just when we’d reached a point where there seemed no way on, help came. First there was a light, moving across the surface of the bog toward us. As it came closer, I saw that it had the form of a bird, a raven. That was an eldritch thing; gives me goose bumps just thinking of it. As it passed, beneath it the foliage of the water plants began to weave itself together and to flatten out, making a kind of pathway. We didn’t stop to think too hard. The raven reached us, turned, and headed away again. We followed. Liadan sang a lullaby. The baby quieted. We walked on that mat of woven fronds, not questioning how it was all holding together or whether it could bear our weight safely. I glanced back once or twice as we went, thinking that if we could use this path, so could our pursuers. But the path was vanishing even as we crossed it; nobody would be following us this way.

“I hardly had the strength to feel relief, only the will to put one foot in front of the other, to keep the Chief balanced across my shoulders, to set aside the pain in my hands. So we crossed over the swamp, and there he was, waiting on the other side: your Ciarán, Sibeal, though he was not a druid back in those days, more of a sorcerer, I think. The flame-shaped bird turned into an ordinary raven and settled itself on his shoulder, and he greeted us. And out of the dusk, one by one, stepped forward our own men, ready to take us to safety. I’ll tell you something, those ragtag warriors with their beaten-up faces were the most beautiful sight in the world.

“That, of course, was only a small part of the story. The Chief was sunk in darkness; Liadan brought him light. She healed him, body and spirit. But we all played our part, Ardal. As he lay locked in his nightmare, we all found something of hope in our past, something he had given us, and we spoke to him of that. We reminded him that he was not an outcast, a wretch, a piece of rubbish thrown on the scrap heap, but a man of worth and goodness, a man whose courage shone from him, a man who always thought of others before himself.” Gull’s white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “All this is his doing: this island; this school; this place of community and purpose. Though, of course, he’s left it in his son’s hands. The Chief and Liadan, they’ve moved on. Sometimes, when Bran visits Inis Eala, I get the feeling he’d rather still be here. Still, a man does what he’s called to do. And that’s the end of my story. Liadan saved Bran from captivity and death. Sibeal rescued you from the sea. But for her, you’d have perished that night. They’re exceptional folk in the Sevenwaters family. Johnny carries on his father’s traditions here, which means you can trust him, and you can trust me. If there’s something in the past that you don’t want to remember, something difficult, just know that if ever there was a place where a man can make a fresh start, Inis Eala is that place. As long as you tell the truth, nobody will judge you.”

“I remember nothing,” Ardal whispered. “Nothing at all.”

CHAPTER 6

~Felix~

I
t is night. Gull’s sleep is a warrior’s; he would wake in an instant. From Sibeal’s chamber, silence. I picture her deep in slumber, the clear eyes closed, the sweet mouth in repose. Her dark hair rippling down across the covers that blanket her slight form. A druid, committed to a lifelong journey of the spirit. I have encountered druids before, I think. But none like her.

It is night and I am awake. Somewhere beyond these walls there is a man who would kill me for my memories. It was no idle threat; his eyes were like hard frost. What is it he fears so?

I have nothing to tell, nothing of any account. My mind is a shell, empty save for a rattle of old images. Noz, my dog. A row of olive trees. A cart on a dusty road. And now, as I lie here in the dark with eyes wide open, a bog, a mist, a stirring of the uncanny.

Gull sleeps quiet in his corner, untroubled by what his tale has awoken. I see barren hills. It is desolate, empty country where folk scratch a sparse living and forlorn spirits wander. A haze wraps the slopes, rendering them uncertain, treacherous. Below, down below, lies Yeun Ellez, where strange lights come and go. The dark ooze is patched with eruptions of ominous bubbles. Rank pools defy the probing of the longest stick. There are places where an object, thrown in, vanishes as if seized by an invisible hand. Flickering; fading; changing. A gateway to another world . . .

Who told me this? Is it a tale recounted around the fire, a thing of magic and wonder from time past? I remember the voice, a seasoned voice, expert in the telling of stories. I see the eyes, a vivid blue, the skin like old parchment. A hand in mine, knotted fingers warm with love. Is this a true memory? Have I conjured this from my real life, the life I have forgotten? Lying here on this pallet in the darkness, I see the Ankou striding out of the swamp, rags dripping bog water, eyes ghastly with mad intent, hands tipped with scythe-like nails black as pitch. His flesh is pale; his stride is long. My heart sounds a drum beat. My feet are rooted to the ground. Slowly, I begin to sink. I am on a steady, inexorable descent to the place beneath. Terror snatches away my breath. I stretch my mouth in a silent scream.

If you will go there, Felix, at least go armed with knowledge.
The wise old voice speaks in my mind and I am back in the chamber again, in the dark, and the Ankou is gone. My heart is knocking at the walls of my chest; chill sweat coats my skin. I have made some sound, surely. But Gull does not stir, and in the little chamber beyond the curtain all is silence.

Felix. I think that is my name. I will not tell them. In this place of secret threats, knowledge is dangerous. The brave name Sibeal has given me will serve. I shiver, remembering that man’s gesture, the knife across the throat. Is that how he would do it? Or would it be a sudden cord around the neck, or poison drops in the jug? Perhaps I harmed someone dear to him. Or stole his treasure. Maybe I betrayed his trust. No. Use your wits, Felix. He fears my knowledge. I have seen something. I have witnessed something he wants forgotten, something he does not wish these good people to know about. The hair prickles on my neck; my heart is chill. Remember, Felix. Why can’t you remember?

I do not think I will sleep tonight. Oh, Sibeal, I wish you would come through that doorway, come and sit here by me. I wish you were close with your sweet clear voice and your eyes full of far-away things. Help me to remember, Sibeal. Help me. All I know is that I have a task, a mission, and time is running all too swiftly. I must remember before it is too late. Vanquish demons . . . Confront the Ankou . . . Be a hero, as Gull and his Liadan were in their own tale . . . hah! What manner of hero is this, who for so long could not bring himself to speak aloud? Deiz, little dog, you show more courage than I, with your bold forays up and down my pallet and your warning growls. Yet here you are, no bigger than a squirrel.

The night seems long. There is a deep quiet, broken by the occasional cry of a sea bird passing overhead, and the sleepy bleating of sheep. Gull gets up and goes out. He comes back; stands by my bedside yawning.

“Awake, Ardal? I’ll get you some water.” The candle set carefully down on the stool by my bed; the cup lifted between his palms. Twin flames shining in the dark eyes. “Here,” he says. I prop myself on an elbow and take the cup in my own hands, surprising him. Tomorrow, I will show Sibeal that I can do this. “Good,” Gull murmurs. “Lie back now.” And, as he returns to his own bed, “The gods guard your sleep.”

My arm hurts. My shoulder hurts. My throat aches. What a hero! That small effort has worn me out.

That man said that if I spoke he would kill me. What of those who tend to me? When I remember, when I tell my tale, perhaps I will imperil not just my wretched self, but all those who hear me. Perhaps my very presence endangers them. Who knows what manner of man I am?

While I wait for the dawn, I imagine an augury for Sibeal. In my mind I hold the rune rods bunched in my hand, loosely, while I ask the question.
What lies ahead for Sibeal? What paths will she be offered?
I let my imaginary rods fall as they will, making a pattern on the linen of the ritual cloth. Three lie across the others: these are the runes of augury.
Daeg
;
Beorc
;
Gyfu
.

What would you say, Sibeal, if you could see this? There is love in it, and sacrifice, and completion. There is a bright light in time of darkness. There is, in the end, an understanding that comes from deep in the spirit. Those men Gull spoke of, those who hope, foolishly, selfishly, that you might not be entirely committed to your future path—for you are young in years, if not in wisdom—hope in vain. If ever there was a druid’s augury, this is it. From a man like me, this path must lead you far, far away.

~Sibeal~

“Sibeal, may I speak with you?”

I jumped, startled; I had not heard Cathal coming. “Of course. You’re abroad early.” I was seated on the rocks overlooking the little cove where I had encountered Svala, the day Knut asked me to keep her secrets to myself.

“You, too.”

“I usually go walking before breakfast.” It was a journey to greet earth and wind, sun and cloud and hovering gulls. It helped me step forth from the wild landscape of dreams.

Cathal seated himself beside me, gazing out to the rocky islets off the coast. He looked grim. Today the sea matched his mood; it was a sullen gray under scudding clouds. For a while, neither of us spoke. When the silence had almost become awkward, Cathal said, “Sibeal, we spoke before about scrying.”

“Mm-hm.”

“The dreams continue. They persist, night by night the same.”

“What is it you want to know, and cannot bring yourself to ask?”

“About the child: if it will be born safely, if it will thrive and be well. About Clodagh.” His jaw was set tight. Someone who did not know him might have thought the look in his eyes was anger. Perhaps, in part, it was; anger that he was driven to this. “I need to know, Sibeal. I thought perhaps you . . . ?”

I had seen nothing concerning Clodagh and her baby; I had not sought guidance on the matter and I had no intention of doing so. Now, with a suddenness that was becoming familiar since my arrival on Inis Eala, an image came to me: a tiny child, a boy, lying naked on a shawl of many colors. He was so small. Even my little brother, Finbar, born many days before his time, had from the first been more robust than that. Or did I misremember? Watching over the babe was a tall, black-cloaked man. They were out of doors, in the shade of old oaks. I could not quite see the man’s face, but it was surely Cathal. I hoped it was Cathal. The vision faded.

“Your fear is shared by every man who is about to become a father for the first time, Cathal.” With an effort, I kept my voice calm. I put from my mind the knowledge that Cathal and his father were so alike that even Clodagh had mistaken Mac Dara for his son the first time she saw him. “Clodagh is young and healthy. And there’s expert help here on the island; Muirrin will look after her. Unless you’ve suddenly decided you must go back to Sevenwaters, surely there’s nothing to worry about.” But there was; it was written all over him. And this was not a man to let his fears overwhelm him; this was a warrior, strong and skillful, a man others looked up to.

“My dreams are full of storm, violence, death.” Cathal knotted his fingers together. “I’m losing sleep over them, and so is Clodagh. You said before that you believed the shipwreck had left more than two men and a woman on this shore. Sibeal, something is wrong here, deeply wrong. I have heard more than one person speak of ill omens, of shadows and portents. I am not the only man on Inis Eala troubled by his dreams. My father has a long reach. Even here, in this protected place, I carry talismans to keep his influence at bay.”

Cathal had given Clodagh his green glass ring, handed down over many generations of his mother’s family. That ring had helped keep Cathal safe as a child. Its protective magic had won him and Clodagh their release from the Otherworld, when Mac Dara would have trapped his son there. Maybe it was safe for them on Inis Eala, but I had noticed Clodagh still wore the ring, and Cathal carried a cargo of charms sewn into the lining of his long cloak.

“My dreams have been the same,” I told him. “Dark, violent, frightening. But—shadows and portents? What exactly have people been saying?”

“Thus far it’s no more than a general unease among the men. It may die a natural death. I have heard some talk.”

“What talk, Cathal? And what has this to do with Clodagh and your child?”

He was sitting with elbows on knees, his hands still interlaced. He did not look at me. “Perhaps nothing,” he said quietly. “But with every unusual event, with every surprise, I fear my father’s influence. The sudden squall that wrecked the ship out there . . . It was no ordinary storm. I saw an uncanny hand in it, and I suspect others did as well. And . . . ”

“Go on, Cathal,” I said after a while. “I may not be able to give you the answers you want, but I will listen without judging, and I’ll betray no confidences.”

“What you saw the other morning was only a small example of what I can do. I could have helped them. Those wretched souls. I could have been on one of the boats. I could have . . . ” He looked utterly wretched.

“That was a fierce storm, Cathal.”
An unnaturally fierce storm
. “Even you could not have held back those waves, or stopped that gale from blowing
Freyja
onto the rocks.” In my heart, I wondered. He was Mac Dara’s son, after all.

“I should have tried,” Cathal said. “Instead I put my own needs first: the need to escape my father’s notice, the need to keep my family safe. Meanwhile the wives and children of other men perished before my eyes. No wonder I am visited by nightmares.”

“If you go beyond the boundaries of Inis Eala, if you reveal yourself and if your father finds you,” I said carefully, feeling somewhat out of my depth, “Clodagh could be left on her own with the child.”

“And so I did not act. I am a coward, Sibeal. If I could know what lies in her future, if I could be assured they will be safe, the two of them . . . ”

“Have you sought answers in the scrying bowl? Have you used other tools of divination?”

The waves washed into the cove below us, a whispering song in the quiet of early morning. “You know I have not,” he said.

“Then don’t ask me to do it. She’s my sister.”

Cathal did not reply.

“Besides,” I said, “my visions are often fragmentary, cryptic, full of symbols. They are open to many interpretations. There are no neat windows into the future. It would alarm me if there were—that would surely mean that we have no power to influence what is to come.”

My companion gave a mirthless smile. “If one could see a possible future, one might then take steps to ensure it did not come about.”

“We’re not gods,” I said. “There’s good reason why a divination is never carried out on one’s own behalf. If you obtained answers, you could find yourself paralyzed by them.”

“I understand.” After a moment he added, “Sometimes I wonder how someone so young can be so wise.”