Daughter Of The Forest (17 page)

“What’s the point?” put in Finbar. “He’s doomed. You may as well seek to turn back the great tides of the west, or halt the stars in their dance, as step in his way on this. The lady Oonagh has him in her thrall, body and soul. I never thought to see him weakened so; and yet, strangely, I am not surprised. For nigh on thirteen years he has purged himself of any human feeling, has shut out any warmth of spirit. No wonder, then, that he was easy prey for such as her.” His tone was bitter.

“You judge him too harshly,” said Father Brien, scrutinizing my brother’s face. “His decision is unwise, certainly, but he has made it with good intentions. For surely he sees his new bride as a guide and mentor for his younger children, someone to harness their unbridled ways and bring a little warmth to their lives. He is not unaware of his short-comings as a father. If he cannot reach out to you himself, perhaps he believes that she can.”

Finbar laughed. “It’s clear you have not yet met the lady Oonagh, Father.”

“I have learnt of her, from Conor and from your oldest brother, who greeted me on my arrival. I know what you face here, believe me, and I pray for you all. It is a tragedy, indeed, that your father is blind to her true character. I merely seek to prevent you from judging him too hastily. Again.”

“So you will at least speak with him?”

“I’ll try.” Father Brien got up slowly. “Perhaps we may find him alone now. Conor, will you accompany me? Oh, and by the way—” he fumbled in a deep pocket of his robe, taking something out. “Your friend did not vanish entirely without token, Sorcha. He left this behind where I would surely find it. I can only deduce it was meant for you. Its meaning is not clear to me.”

He placed the small object in my hand, and the two of them left quietly. Finbar watched me in silence as I turned it this way and that, trying to read its message. The little block of birch wood was, I thought, from Father Brien’s special stock, kept dry for the making of holy beads and other items of a more secret nature. It had been smoothed and shaped until it lay comfortably in a small hand such as mine. The carving was surely not the work of one afternoon; it was precise and intricate, showing a degree of skill that surprised me. I could not make out its meaning. There was a circle, and within it a little tree. By the shape I thought it was an oak. At its foot, there were two waving lines, a river perhaps? Wordlessly I passed it to Finbar, who studied it in silence.

“Why does a Briton leave such a token?” he said finally. “Does he seek to place you at risk, should it be found? What could his purpose be? I have no doubt it reveals his identity, in some way unknown to us. You should destroy it.”

I snatched the little token back from him. “I will not.”

Finbar regarded me levelly. “Don’t get sentimental, Sorcha. This is war, remember—and you and I have broken the rules well and truly. We may have saved this boy’s life, and we may not. But don’t expect him to thank us for it. Campaigners don’t leave tracks behind them unless they want to be found. Or unless there is an ambush ready.”

“I will keep it safe,” I said. “I can hide it. And I know the risks.”

“I’m not sure you do, Sorcha,” said my brother. “The lady Oonagh is waiting, just waiting, to find any weak spot. Then, like the wolf at night, she’ll move in for the kill. You’re not very good at hiding your feelings, or at concealing the truth. She would have no mercy on you; and Father, once she told him, would exact full retribution from us both. And think what would happen to Conor, if his part in this were known. I regret ever telling you the full story. You’d have been better just to help me on that night and never know anymore.”

This brotherly remark was hardly worth commenting on. Besides, my mind was on other things.

“He can’t survive, can he?” I said bluntly.

“You know his chances better than I do,” said Finbar, frowning. “A fit man, in these conditions, with the wherewithal to make a fire and hunt game, might make his way across country and keep out of sight. You’d need to know where you were going.”

“It’s just such a waste!” I could not really express how I felt, but Finbar read my thoughts clearly enough—he was always good at getting past any shield I might try to put up.

“Let go of it, Sorcha,” he said. “Father Brien was right, there’s nothing any of us can do. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I suppose his chances of making his way to safety were never great.”

“So why do it? Why take such a risk?”

“Wouldn’t you rather die free?” he said.

I spent some time on my own in the stillroom, mostly just thinking, the slight weight of Simon’s carving a constant reminder of my bad news; it was well enough concealed in the small bag I wore at my belt, though a safer hiding place would be needed soon. I made up an elderberry salve, and swept the floor. Later, I went out, deciding that after all I was hungry. Fat Janis’s honey cake had not gone very far. Supper was not an attractive prospect, for on this important day the whole family would be expected to put in an appearance. Maybe a miracle would happen, and Father Brien would persuade my father to put off the wedding. Maybe.

Outside my door, crouched in a corner of the drafty passageway, was Linn. I almost missed her, for she was cowering in the shadows, but my ears caught her faint whimper.

“What is it, Linn? What’s wrong?” I looked closer, and gasped at the great oozing weal that cut across her face from above one eye to the corner of her mouth. Her teeth gleamed through a gashed, bloody lip.

I coaxed her out; she was shivering and flinched even from my friendly touch, but I kept talking quietly, and stroking her gently, and eventually I got her over to the old stables where Padriac greeted me with the shocked outrage I expected. Muttering about certain people and why they shouldn’t be allowed near animals, and what he’d do to them when he found out who they were, my youngest brother neatly cleaned and stitched the wound while I held poor Linn still and talked to her of green fields and bones. Padriac was very efficient, but it still took a long time. After he was finished, the dog heaved a great sigh, drank half a bowl of water, and settled down in the straw next to the donkey.

It was dusk now and I reminded Padriac that we’d better clean ourselves up for supper; the lady Oonagh frowned on lateness. As we turned to go, there was Cormack, standing back in the shadows, his face linen-white.

“How long have you been there?” I asked, surprised.

“She’s well enough,” said Padriac, and there was a strange edge to his voice. “Why don’t you pat your dog, let her know you’re here to see her? Why don’t you do that, brother?”

There was an awkward silence, and then “I can’t,” said Cormack in a strained voice.

I looked from one of them to the other.

“What’s going on?” I asked, bewildered.

“Ask him,” said Padriac furiously. “Ask him why he won’t come in and touch his own dog. The guilt’s written on his face, plain to see. This is his handiwork. Forgive me if I don’t stay to chat.” And he was gone, brushing past his elder brother as if he were not there.

“Can this be true?” I said, horrified and incredulous. “Did you do this, Cormack?” Surely Padriac was wrong. It was Cormack who had saved this dog from drowning, Cormack who had raised her from a small pup, Cormack whose steps she followed with slavish devotion. My brothers might show little mercy to their enemies on the field, but they would never willfully hurt a creature in their charge.

I stared mutely as Cormack made his way over to the stalls and stood looking down at his damaged hound. He held his arms around himself as if unable to get warm, and when I moved closer I could see that his cheeks were wet.

“You did do it,” I whispered. “Cormack, how could you? She is a good dog, faithful and true, and sweet-tempered. What possessed you to hurt her?”

He would not look at me. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice thick with tears. “I was in the yard, practicing, and she ran up behind me and I—don’t know what got into me, I just let fly with my staff. It was almost as if someone else was doing it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

“It wasn’t as if she were even in the way, Sorcha. Just—just suddenly, I was angry and I hit her.”

“Speak to her,” I said. “She forgives you, look.”

Hearing his voice Linn had raised her damaged head from the straw, and her long tail was thumping weakly. The donkey grumbled in its sleep.

“I can’t,” said Cormack bleakly. “How do I know I won’t do it again? I’m not fit for any company, man’s or beast’s.”

“You did a cruel thing,” I said slowly. “There’s no undoing it. You are just lucky that your brother had the skill to mend this damage. But she needs your love, as well, to get better. A dog does not judge you. She loves you, no matter what you do.”

Linn gave a whine.

“Go on,” I said. “Pat her, talk to her. Then she can sleep easy.”

“But what if—”

“You won’t do it again,” I said grimly. “Trust yourself, Cormack.”

He knelt down, finally, and put out a tentative hand to stroke her neck, never taking his eyes off that ghastly, disfiguring wound. Linn turned her head with some difficulty, and licked his hand. That was how I left them.

I move reluctantly toward a part of our story that is difficult to tell; though not the most difficult. So, we had supper, and Cormack was not there, and neither was Finbar. Father commented on this and was greeted with a wall of silence by his remaining children. Father Brien sat quietly near the foot of the table. He ate sparingly, and excused himself early. Eilis kept glancing nervously at the lady Oonagh, like a frightened animal. Liam held her hand under the table, but his face was like stone. Nobody needed to tell me that Father Brien’s talk to Father hadn’t changed anything.

Then it was late at night, and most of the household was asleep. As the only girl, I had the luxury of my own chamber for sleeping, and that was where my brothers gathered. We were all there but Diarmid, though Cormack’s eyes were red, and he would not sit by his youngest brother. Finbar had appeared from nowhere, like a shadow. We lit seven white candles, and burned juniper berries, and sat there in silence for a while thinking of our mother and trying to share what strength we had. There had been no chance to visit the birch tree together, so we communed with her as best we could. The fire was down to embers, the candles threw a steady light on solemn faces and linked hands.

At such times, we spoke if words came to us, but were content to draw strength from one another’s touch, and from our shared thoughts. Not that all of us could communicate mind to mind, as Finbar and I did. That was a skill reserved for few, and how we came by it is a mystery. But still, the seven of us were well tuned to one another, and could feel without words the pain and joy and fear of our siblings. That night, we felt Diarmid’s absence like the loss of a limb, for we were united in our sense of impending doom, and our network of protection was incomplete without him. Nobody would hazard a guess at his whereabouts.

Liam shifted slightly, and a candle flickered, sending shadows dancing high on the walls.

“We draw our strength from the great oaks of the forest,” he said quietly. “As they take their nourishment from the soil, and from the rains that feed the soil, so we find our courage in the pattern of living things around us. They stand through storm and tempest, they grow and renew themselves. Like a grove of young oaks, we remain strong.”

Conor, who was seated on his left, took over.

“The light of these candles is but the reflection of a greater light. It shines from the islands beyond the western sea. It gleams in the dew and on the lake, in the stars of the night sky, in every reflection of the spirit world. This light is always in our hearts, guiding our way. And should any of us lose the light, there will be brother or sister to guide him, for the seven of us are as one.”

It was Cormack’s turn next, but he was silent for so long I thought he had decided not to speak. At last he blurted out, “I did a bad thing today. So bad I should not be here. Tell them, Sorcha. Tell them, Padriac. It has already begun, the shame, the spoiling. I don’t think I can do this anymore; I’m not fit for it.”

Liam and Conor and Finbar looked at him. Padriac opened his mouth, but I got in first. “He hurt his dog,” I said. “Hurt her quite badly, and for nothing. She’ll recover, thanks to Padriac’s skill. He blames himself; wrongly, I think.”

“How wrongly?” blazed Padriac. “He did it, he said as much himself.”

“What he said was, it was almost as if someone else was doing it,” I said. “What if someone else
was
doing it?”

“You mean—”

“I’ve felt it myself,” I went on miserably. “Looking into her mirror. She did it somehow, by brushing my hair, with her mind, with her voice. She tried to take away my will, to make me say and do things I didn’t want to. And she was very strong. I could not quite keep her out.”

“She was there,” said Cormack slowly, incredulously. “On the steps, at the practice yard. She was with Father, watching me. She was there. Could she have—but no, surely not.”

“But why?” asked Padriac angrily. “Why should she wish to do such a thing? There’s no reason to it, it’s just a piece of petty trickery. She’s marrying him, hasn’t she got what she wants already? And Linn is innocent. Would she cause her suffering for nothing?”

Conor’s mind was on a different track. “What did she try to glean from you, Sorcha? What did she want to know?”

“Just—things. About me, and all of you—she asked about each of you. Little things. But it felt bad, not as if she just wanted to get to know us, but—” I shivered. “I don’t know. As if she would store the information and use it somehow. Use it against us.”

Conor turned back to his twin. “You love this dog,” he said, looking Cormack straight in the eye. “She is a part of you. She owes her life to you. You would not hurt her.”

“But I did hurt her. No matter who made me, who put the thought into my head, it was my hand that struck the blow.”

“What’s done is done,” said Conor. “You cannot change that. But you can make it better, you know how.
Be
the dog, feel her pain, feel her sense of betrayal. Feel also her simplicity, her forgiving, her love and trust for you. The two of you will heal together.” He dropped my hand and took Cormack’s, drawing him into the circle. After a while, Padriac moved in and took his brother’s other hand, and we sat quietly again.