Daughter Of The Forest (22 page)

“There is no choice,” I wailed. “She took them, she changed them, and now they are gone! What can I do but run and hide, and be alone? She said she would come after me, I must not stay here, I must find Father Brien—”

“Stop,” she said, holding up her hand, and I did, snatching air in a shuddering breath. “He cannot help you this time. Listen.”

I listened, and was suddenly struck by the absence of sound. Even the insects seemed to have stopped ehirping. The grove was deeply silent. “You may wonder why this place is so quiet. It is the stillness of sleep, of farewell. He is here, but he is not here.”

“What do you mean?” I had thought myself unable to feel anymore; but her words turned me cold.

“There is little time,” she said, standing up, and now I could sense the power of her presence as once before in this place; it was as if the heart of the great forest were centered here. “You must listen, and listen well. For indeed you have a choice. You can flee and hide, and wait to be found. You can live out your days in terror, without meaning. Or you can take the harder choice, and you can save them.”

I stared at her. Linn had drunk her fill, and now lay down in the sun, tongue lolling. There was a little silence.

“Save them?” I whispered after a while. “You mean—this spell can somehow be undone?”

“It can,” said the Lady, “but it will not be easy. You are the only one that can achieve this, and so you must be extremely careful, for she suspects this and will seek to find you, in order to stop you. Your brothers’ warning saved you, but they could not save themselves. Only you can do that.”

“But she told them—she said,
there is no remedy
.” I could hear the words now, like a death knell.

“She wished to leave them without hope, thinking always that they had failed, not just to save themselves but to protect you and to redeem their father. Without hope they will be vulnerable, less able to survive. Or so she believes.”

“That is cruel,” I said. “Why does she do this?”

“It is her nature,” said the Lady tranquilly. “According to her whim, she makes mischief of one sort or another; some harmless enough, some petty. This is a grand plan; but she has not learned that there are other patterns older and larger than her own. You can undo her work, this time, if you have the will.”

I felt a small glow of hope within me. “What must I do?”

“It will be long, and arduous, and painful, Sorcha. Are you strong enough?”

“Yes! Yes! Tell me what I must do.”

Her eyes were compassionate as she moved to seat herself on the bench again. “Sit here beside me, daughter. That’s better. Now listen carefully. You must fashion a shirt for each of your brothers. The thread, the weaving, every stitch of these garments will be your own work.”

“I can do that, I can—”

“Hush. That would be an easy task indeed, even for a wild little thing such as you. But there is more. From the moment you leave this place till the moment of your brothers’ final return to humankind, no word must pass your lips, no cry, no song, no whisper must you utter. Nor will you tell your story in pictures, or letters, or in any other way to living creature. You will be silent, mute as the swans themselves. Break this silence, and the curse remains forever.”

“I understand,” I said quietly. “And what more? How do I find my brothers, to clothe them in these shirts?”

“Ah, not so fast,” she said, and she took my hand in hers. “This is still too easy. The shirts will be made not of wool, nor of flax, nor of skins. They will be spun and woven from the fibers of the starwort plant. The barbed stems will cut you, the spines will tear at your flesh. There will be no brother to comfort you and bathe your ruined hands. You will weep in silence, biting your lip not to cry out in pain. Can you do this?”

“Yes,” I whispered. Linn came over to me, thrusting her cold nose into my hand. I buried my fingers in her soft coat. “Will I see my brothers?”

“You will see them. Next year on midsummer eve, and thereafter twice a year at midsummer and midwinter between dusk and dawn, they will resume their human form, and they will come to you if they can. But remember, you must not make a sound, you must not tell your tale, even to them, or they will be swans forever. The task will be long, Sorcha. You must leave this place and travel to safety as your brothers planned. Take the cart track to the west. Just before the crossroads there is a very old track to the right, that leads back into the forest. Look carefully, or you will miss it, for it is well concealed. Follow that path along the lakeshore. It will lead you to a place of safety, where the forest will conceal you for a time at least. Take from here what you need. Choose with care.”

I spoke hesitantly. “Sometimes my brothers—sometimes we talk without words. Through images of the mind. Is even that forbidden?” How could I survive, if that link were broken? I looked up at her. Her features were very severe. I thought she was assessing me, wondering whether I was indeed as strong as I thought. She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. I took a deep breath.

“I will do as I must do,” I said. “But my brothers are part of me, and…” I could hardly ask her any favors.

The Lady gave a little smile, as if she understood all too well. “I did not make this spell; I seek only to counteract it. This silent speech will still be safe, I think. The lady Oonagh plays with forces she does not fully understand. The bond between your brothers and yourself is far stronger than she could ever imagine. You will not reach them in this way while they are swans. But you may use it when they return. You take a risk if you do. Remember, you must not tell them your story, for if you do the spell cannot be broken. You must learn to guard your mind, even from them.”

“But what if—”

“Hush, child. It is the way of spells, and charms, to set these tasks for us. You may choose to do as I ask, or not. Remember, when your shirts are sewn you must place them over these swans’ necks, all six in the same place, one after the other, and if you have kept silence, then your brothers will be men again.”

There was a rustle as of a sudden wind in the bushes around us, and in the wink of an eye she was gone.

I had seen dead people before. The nature of my craft made this inevitable. But never, till now, someone close to me. Father Brien lay on the cave floor, where he had fallen. There was no time to grieve. Had there been longer, I might have wept over him, and I might have found out the cause of his passing. Perhaps it had been natural, a spasm of the heart or a rush of ill humors in the blood. It could equally have been poison, or a thumb cunningly applied to the neck. I closed his sightless eyes and touched his cheek. Whatever had occurred, his face now showed the tranquility of deep, abiding acceptance. He was at one with himself and with the great wheel of being. They say the spirit does not leave the body, not fully, until the third morning after death. My old friend had not been gone that long, but his inner self had flown, out into the arching expanse of sky he used to watch from the top of Ogma’s Peak, out above the dark treetops and the wide waters of the lake, and on into the west. I placed the wooden cross between his hands and the words of a Christian prayer were in my mind, but I said nothing. Who knew where his spirit would fly? He had always been open to both ways; in death, many doors would open for him.

I had no wish to abandon his body, even untenanted as it was, without further ceremony. There should have been burning, but to kindle a fire was to ask for discovery. Besides, I must pack and leave while it was still day. There was time only to sprinkle rue and tansy leaves, and a little of his store of monkshood. Linn hovered in the doorway; she would not come in. I did not weep for him. Instead, I felt a cold sense of purpose take hold of me. The grief was still there, and the emptiness. But I was able to focus on what must be done, and I moved swiftly through the necessary tasks.

More than once I blessed the good Father for his practicality. His old horse was there, tied up under the trees. Because of the need for speed and concealment, I would not take the cart, but the animal could carry a load, and so aid me well. For I had no doubt I must live alone, and fend for myself, for quite some time. If I had known then just how long it would be, my courage might have failed me. Six shirts, I thought. That could take at least until midsummer. And I would meet nobody during that time, so I would need food, and seeds, and medicines, and the wherewithal to make fire and to sew and spin and weave. Father Brien had not foreseen that part, but nonetheless he had prepared well, expecting to provision me and my brother for a trip well beyond the forest’s boundaries. I had abandoned my own bundle back on the lakeshore when I had fled in terror. I would not have my clothes, or my special salves and remedies, or the remnants of my ruined garden which Finbar had gathered so carefully for me. I felt in the pocket of my gown. The small, smooth piece of wood with its carved symbols was still there.

Father Brien kept his stores at the back of the cottage, and I took anything that might be useful. A bag of barley meal, a sack of dried beans, a small crock of honey. The weather was already chill. I helped myself to an old cloak and a homespun tunic. Simon’s boots were still there, and I took them. A sharp knife, a sickle, a cooking pot. It was going to be difficult to feed the dog. I trusted she would develop a sudden skill for hunting. Father Brien had no distaff and spindle, no weaving loom. But even a holy father’s garments need mending sometimes, so I found bone needles and a spool of thread, and these I slipped into the small pack. A water bottle, a spade. The horse looked at me a little plaintively, his ears twitching. I placed some rolled-up blankets on top of the load and tied it firmly. The little pack, which contained carefully selected items from Father Brien’s stock of herbs and spices, I would carry myself. And his oaken staff I would use to ease my way.

I stood there a moment before I took my farewell. The clearing was full of memories. The coming of Father Brien, his prayer, and reading, and healing, his solitary life in the forest and his teachings. His young visitors: the solemn Liam and sunny Diarmid, the twins like mirror images, Cormack, bold and fearless, Conor, deep and subtle. Finbar with his passionate integrity. Padriac, eager for knowledge. And their small sister, who was not the seventh son of a seventh son, but who trailed along after them anyway. He had taught us much over the years, and now he was gone. Now my brothers’ human selves were indeed just that, just a memory, until I should bring them back. Here was the rowan tree where I had seen the Lady of the Forest that first time. Here the spot where Simon had held his knife to my throat and asked us why we would not end his miserable life. The trees whispered the memories of my stories, and the air still held the trace of his voice; don’t leave me, it breathed, don’t leave me alone.

I rubbed a hand fiercely across my cheeks, and then snapped my fingers for Linn to come. She would learn fast enough that I could no longer call to her, or praise her with kind words. As for me, I could hardly imagine a life without my brothers, for they had always been there, sometimes kind, sometimes gruff, always ready to help when I was in trouble. They were a part of me, and I of them. Now I was alone, and I must manage without them, for to fail in this task was to lose them forever. I would not think of the lady Oonagh, or of my father. I would not consider what might happen if they should find me here in the forest. I would ignore the thudding of my heart, and the ache in my head, and the way my mouth grew dry when I contemplated the work laid out for me. I must bring my brothers back. I would bring them back. I took up the horse’s leading rope, turned my face toward the forest, and walked steadily away into the west.

The lady of the Forest had chosen our refuge well. It was close to the northern shore of the lake, at a spot where the curve of a small wooded promontory sheltered a tiny bay from view. Where the land rose above this bay there was a cave which owed as much to artful engineering as to nature. Although it was so near the shore, gnarled rowans and overhanging creepers concealed it completely from view, so it would be invisible from any track or thoroughfare. Some way further up the hill, in a small clearing, a tiny spring welled, and here herbs grew half wild, where once they had been cultivated by some solitary wanderer such as I. And all along the stream bed, all the way down to the lake, grew the strong stems and feathery leaves of starwort. This plant does not die down in winter, but remains green even in the coldest time. So I could start right away.

The cave itself had been a surprise. Its walls bore marks of careful excavation, and here and there they were engraved with mysterious symbols whose meaning I guessed at only dimly. I thought Conor would have known what warning or protection they gave, what tale they told. There were cavities in the walls, and not all were empty. I found blankets in an oiled wrapping, and several old cloaks, and a couple of knives with decorated bone handles and remarkably well-preserved blades. It seemed others had sheltered here before me, perhaps protected by the Fair Folk. More useful still, there was oatmeal in a crock, and a store of sweet, wrinkled apples.

The blankets were the best discovery, for it was close to midwinter, and I did not feel safe enough to light more than the smallest fire, lest my presence be detected. I was always cold, chill to the bone during the long nights, aching and slow on frosty mornings. I wrapped the blankets around myself and tried not to feel it.

Perhaps I was stupid to believe I could lift the spell. Too many stories, you might say, a head too full of old tales, where it’s just a matter of completing the tasks, and then the hero wins his heart’s desire. But I was not so foolish, even then. I had once told Simon he could make his tale end any way he liked. But this was not strictly true. I set my path straight ahead; but there were others that influenced its course, that diverted and changed and confused it. And as the Forest Lady had warned me, even at the start it would be very hard. Far harder than I had believed it could be when I had first listened white-faced to her description of my task.