Daughter Of The Forest (12 page)

“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.

Some broken things you can’t mend. Some you have to put together very slowly, piece by fragile piece, waiting until the last bit of work is strong enough before you try the next. It takes a lot of patience.

It was thus with Simon. Finbar’s visit had set us back a good deal, and I had first to repair that damage before starting again on the long process of healing. Simon had made a bargain with me, and it seemed he was a man of his word. Therefore, though he was often in the blackest state of mind, with little will for survival in his damaged body, he would always grit his teeth and follow my orders.

Six or seven days went by, and we moved on with painful slowness. Nighttime was the worst. Because Simon would not tolerate Father Brien’s help, it was I who must attend his every need, though the good father assisted me as subtly as he could by making sure cloths and salves were close at hand, by keeping linen fresh and providing food and drink, as if by magic, whenever I might find myself free to partake of it. I wondered, sometimes, at the ready supply of such items here in his isolated dwelling. It came to me that Simon might not be the first fugitive to pass this way, and be offered healing and sustenance in this quiet sanctuary. And who better to maintain a steady provision of life’s necessities than the silent Finbar, who traversed the woodland as unobtrusively as if he, himself, were a creature of the wild? Despite Father Brien’s support, I was tired, with a bone-deep weariness I had never known before. I used the goldenwood as sparingly as I could. With its help, Simon slept for a short span before the nightmares began, and I learned to fall asleep the instant he did, since for me too this was the only time of respite.

There was a pattern of sorts to these nights. Simon would cry out, and I would wake with a start to find him sitting bolt upright, hands over his face, shivering and gasping. He never told me what he saw, but I could imagine. Then I would light a candle, and I would pass him a cloth to wipe the sweat from his body, while the dog retreated to the doorway, whining anxiously. I ran through many songs and stories during those dark times, and my throat became dry and sore with talking. Some of it Simon heard, and some of it ran past him like leaves in the wind. When the fear was at its worst he let me put my arms around him and sing lullabies, and stroke his hair as if he were a frightened child. At length he would fall asleep again, and exhaustion would overwhelm me, sitting by his bed, so that I slept where I was, my head on the pallet, my hand in his. Such spells were brief. He might wake four, five times in one night; the temptation to dose him with something powerful enough to give us all a whole night’s rest was strong, but I knew his path to recovery lay in cleansing the body and learning to live with the fear. For the memories would be with him always, in one guise or another.

He wouldn’t let Father Brien near him. It was I, only I who must do it all, wake in an instant, soothe and comfort, keep wounds cleaned and dressed, be there to deal with Simon’s every need. That was hard, but it was our agreement. Still, at night Father Brien never left us alone. He would sit in the outer chamber, a candle by his side, waiting until the blessing of sleep should come again. His silent presence was reassuring, for I found the demons of night a formidable challenge.

There were times when I hated Simon, though I could not have said why. I suppose I knew that after this, things would never be quite the same for me. And, after all, I was not yet thirteen, and my mind still strayed to how nice it would be to be home, riding ponies with Padriac or planting out crocus bulbs for spring flowering. I had a longing to work in my little garden, so quiet and orderly, full of fresh scents and healthy, growing things.

After eight or nine such nights, Father Brien and I were looking like ghosts, wan and drained. Then there was a day when the sun came out early, and the air was a little warmer, and I made Simon get up and walk outside, further than usual, so that we were high enough to see over the trees and glimpse the silver of the lake water cradled in the deep gray-green shadows of the forest.

“Our home is down there,” I told him, “quite near the lakeshore, but it’s hidden by the trees. On this side, the forest goes right down to the water’s edge. On our side, there are rocks in the water, and you can lie on them and watch the fish. And there are paths through the forest, each different from the last.”

“It would be easy to get lost.”

“We don’t,” I said. “But it happens, when people don’t know the way.” I thought about this for the first time. How was it that we always did know the way?

Simon leaned back against the trunk of a leafless ash tree, shutting his eyes. “I have a story for you,” he said, surprising me greatly. “I don’t have your skill in telling, but it’s simple enough.”

“All right,” I said cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

“There were two brothers,” said Simon, and his voice was flat and expressionless. “They were like enough in looks, and strength, and intelligence; but the one had a few years’ advantage over the other. Funny, what a difference a few years can make. Their father died; and because of those few years, the elder brother inherited the whole estate. And the other? Just a little parcel of land nobody wanted, that’s all he got. The elder was loved by all; he had those few years to establish his claim on their hearts, and gain their loyalty, and he did so with never a thought to his brother. And the younger? Somehow although he was just as good, and strong, and talented as his brother, nobody ever seemed to know it.

“The elder was a leader, and his men looked up to him and respected him. He was a man incapable of error, and he commanded total loyalty wherever he went, without effort. The younger? He did his best; but it was never quite good enough.” Simon fell into silence, as if unwilling to go on.

“So what happened?” I asked eventually.

Simon stretched his mouth into what might have passed for a grin, if not for the coldness of his blue eyes. “The younger got a chance to prove himself. To do something that everyone, even his brother, couldn’t fail to recognize. After that, he thought, I will be like him, just as good as him, better even. He took the chance, and failed.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know, little witch. This story doesn’t seem to have an ending. How would you finish it?” He lowered himself to the ground cautiously.

I moved over to make room for him on a fallen branch. Linn was in her element, snuffling around in the autumn leaves, darting here and there, running back to check on us from time to time then bounding off after a new scent.

I chose my words with care. “It has the makings of a learning tale, though they usually have three brothers, not just the two. I think the younger brother would head off into the world to seek his fortune, and leave his big brother behind. On the way he’d meet three people, or creatures—it’s usually three.”

“You have an answer for everything,” said Simon bleakly. “Tell me the rest.”

“Well, you could end the story in a few different ways,” I said, warming to the task.

“Let’s say the little brother meets an old woman. He’s hungry, and he only has one oatcake, but he gives it to her. She thanks him, and he goes on. Maybe next he sees a rabbit caught in a snare; and he frees it.”

“He’d more likely skin it and have it for his supper,” said Simon. “Especially after the oatcake.”

“But this rabbit looks at him with such beautiful green eyes,” I said. “He has to let her go. Lastly he meets a giant. The giant challenges him to a fight with staves. The young man agrees, feeling he has nothing to lose. They fight for a while, and he gets in a few good blows before the giant knocks him out cold. When he comes to, the giant thanks him politely for a decent bout; of all the travelers who have passed that way, he’s the first who has dared to stop and give the giant a bit of amusement. After that, the giant comes along with him, as a sort of bodyguard.”

“Convenient,” said Simon. “What next?”

“There would be a castle, and a lady in it,” I said, gathering a handful of fallen leaves and berries and absently starting to weave them together. “He’d see her from a way off, maybe riding by in all her finery as he and his giant friend are trudging along the road, and the instant he sees her, he loves her and he wants her for his own. But there’s a problem. To win her, he has to accomplish a task.”

“Or maybe three.”

I nodded. “That’s more common. And here’s where his good deeds in the past help him. Perhaps he needs to clean out a huge stable before sunrise, and the old woman turns up with a magic broom and does it in a flash. Then maybe fetching some object, a golden ball, from a deep narrow place, the bottom of a long tunnel under the ground. The rabbit could do that. The last would be a feat of strength, and that’s where the giant comes in. So our hero wins the lady, and lives happily ever after.”

“What about his brother?”

“Him? Well, you see, by the time the younger brother has finished all his adventures, and won the lady’s heart, he’s forgotten all about his big brother and how jealous he was. He’s got his own life.”

“I don’t like this ending,” said Simon. “Try another.”

I thought for a bit. “What if he went to war, and came back to find his brother had died, and all the lands were his?”

Simon laughed, and I didn’t like the harshness of it. “How do you think he would feel about that?”

“Confused, I should think. He gets his heart’s desire, which is to take his brother’s place. But forevermore, he thinks about those years he wasted, envying his brother instead of getting to know him.”

“His brother wasn’t interested,” said Simon flatly, and I thought I’d come too close to the mark. I concentrated on the wreath I was weaving. Leaves of russet, deepest brown, golden yellow. Some were already fragile, the last trace of summer slipping away from their skeletal bodies. Berries red as blood. He watched me.

“Sorcha,” he said after a while, and it was the first time he’d used my name instead of “witch” or “girl” or something worse. “How can you believe in these tales? Giants, and faeries, and monsters. They are a child’s fantasies.”

“Some may be true, and some not,” I said, threading a long pointed leaf under, and through, and around itself. “Does it matter?”

He got up, and I heard the change in his breathing as he swallowed a gasp of pain; silence meant control.

“Nothing in life is like your stories,” he said. “You dwell in your own little world here; you can have no idea of what exists outside it. I wish—” he broke off.

“Wish what?” I asked when he did not go on.

“I would almost wish that you should never discover it,” he said with his back turned to me.

“Don’t you think I have begun to?” I stood up, the little wreath in one hand. “I have seen what they did to you. I have listened to you crying for help. And you have told me yourself such stories of cruelty that I must believe them true. You have hardly thought to spare me.”

“You shut that world out, with your tales.”

“Not entirely,” I said as we began the slow walk back. “Not for you, or for myself. The tales make it a bit easier, that’s all. But you will have to talk about it eventually, if you are to heal and return home.”