Daughter Of The Forest (8 page)

“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 scrutinized 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 honor. 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 toward 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 among 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 rumored 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 toward 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 spilled 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 traveler. 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 travelers 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 honor among your people, as with ours.”

“Honor? 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 suckling 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 honor.”

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.