Dreamer's Pool (6 page)

I walked through the dusk and into a moonlit night. The sounds of daytime – cows lowing, the turning of a water wheel, a dog barking – gave way to the hooting of owls, the sudden, heart-tearing cry of some small creature in a predator’s grip, the rustling of a cold wind through the leaves. And, from time to time, the very small sounds made by someone who was trying hard to go undetected. The snap of a twig; a soft clearing of the throat; a creak that might or might not be a creature moving in the undergrowth.

The plan had been to keep going; to tire my pursuer out. The further I went, the more convinced I was that there was only one man following me. It was now well into the night and the fellow was still there. The flaw in my plan became apparent. Rested, warm and fed, I had set out in the morning with new heart, ready for anything. Now I was reminded that a person does not so quickly recover from a long period of deprivation. I was, quite simply, worn out. If I tried to keep on walking until daybreak, I’d end up tripping over a tree root and breaking my leg. And while Conmael would perhaps come to my rescue, I had absolutely no desire to put myself further in his debt.

Well, here I was in a passable camping spot, on a hillside overlooking pasture land, with some bushes for cover and a bit of an overhang for shelter. The plan would have to change. I needed sleep. So, hunker down without a fire and keep the knife within grabbing distance. On balance, it seemed likely anyone who had taken the trouble to track me so far was not intent on a simple job of murder. As I unrolled my blankets and nibbled a piece of dry way-bread, I realised I’d probably got this all wrong. The invisible follower might be human, but he wasn’t carrying out Mathuin’s orders. He was surely in Conmael’s pay. His job was not to hunt me down and kill me, but to make sure I got to Winterfalls in one piece.

The more I thought about this, the more likely it seemed. And, now that I had settled in one spot, I could not hear the tracker at all. Perhaps I had exhausted him. Or maybe I had finally lost him. Either way, I’d have to take the risk and sleep for a while or I’d be in no fit state to go on in the morning.

I huddled as far back beneath the overhang as I could and wrapped myself in blankets and shawl. Under the waxing moon, the fields were a silver tapestry scattered with the dark knots of trees and the shining patches of stream and pond. I reminded myself that I was free now; that the aches in my weary body were good ones, brought about by walking on the fields of Erin under an open sky. No degree of exhaustion could ever compare with the spirit-sapping weariness of a year in the vile confines of those cells. Every day in there was a day too many. As I drifted off to sleep, I told myself I would never, ever let myself be locked up again.

I woke to find a little fire burning not far away. Conmael’s folk again. No offerings this time, but the warmth was welcome; it eased the worst cramps from my limbs, and I was able to eat a hot breakfast before I moved on. No sign at all of the tracker, though the ground near the fire was disturbed, making me wonder if he had been right up here, a hop and a step away from where I’d been sleeping. I could not find any clear footprints, but someone had certainly come close. When the fey had brought the bath, they’d left no traces at all. I walked on with the knife stuck in my belt. A big dog would have been useful. If Conmael returned, maybe I’d ask for one.

Another day’s walking; a night camped in woodland. The tracker was still with me, soft-footed as a wary wild creature, betraying his presence only in the smallest ways. Skilful; persistent.

By late afternoon on the next day, the weather had turned wet. If I’d had a home to go to, certain shelter ahead, I’d have kept on walking, knowing I could be under a roof by dusk with a hearth fire and dry clothing. But my body was not strong as it had once been, and I was travelling an unknown path. I headed deeper into the woods and found a shallow cave that opened onto a small clearing among elder trees. There was evidence that others had camped here before me: a rudimentary hearth fashioned of rocks, a place where the stream had been dammed to form a shallow pool, and in the cave, a stack of wood. The rain fell steadily; my clothing was wet. But this hearth was protected by the rock shelf above it, and I would be able to make a fire and dry things out. As for the tracker, he’d have a choice: emerge and show himself, or stay out there and get soaked through.

When I’d kindled the fire and was building it up, I saw him. He was only a darker patch under the trees, motionless. Then a gust of wind brought down a small branch, and he flinched as it landed close by him. I peered through the curtains of rain, but already he’d shrunk back from view. Not coming out, then. Well, it wasn’t my problem if he died of an ague. I’d never asked him to follow me.

I’d caught a fish earlier in the day, and now I made it into a kind of soup with a handful of greens I’d gathered along the way. What I did not eat now I would have in the morning. I made a makeshift frame to hang my damp clothing on, but with the tracker so close I was not prepared to strip. I draped my shawl and stockings over the frame and set my boots in the warmth. I was beginning to think the pack Conmael had given me had a fey charm of some kind on it, for the rest of my belongings, including the two rolled-up blankets, were quite dry.

The fish soup smelled appetising. My supplies included a bowl, a spoon and a cup, all fashioned from a strange pale substance, neither pottery nor bone, but smooth as silk to the touch and carven with little creatures, hedgehog, owl and fox, peering out from a twine of ivy. They were far too fine for the likes of me. I filled the bowl, draped one of the blankets around my shoulders, then settled by the campfire to eat.

Beyond my place of shelter the rain was coming down in remorseless, drenching sheets. I watched the stream broaden and the little dam overflow its confines. My fire was the only light in the darkening woods; the moon would not show her face tonight. I gazed toward the spot where I had last seen the tracker, but it was too dark now to make him out. If he had any sense at all he’d back off, leave this dogged pursuit and find himself somewhere dry to sleep. Such pig-headed persistence. It reminded me of something. It reminded me of . . .

Morrigan’s curse! Surely not. Why in the name of all the gods would Grim follow me miles across country, and if he did, why would he act as if he was on some kind of secret mission? No, it couldn’t be. I squinted out through the rain again. Had those glimpses of the tracker matched the hulking lump of a man who’d shared my imprisonment day in, day out for the last year? Why would he do this? It couldn’t be him. But in my mind I saw Grim performing those exercises in the near-dark of the cells, every single night, every endless, mind-numbing night, hauling himself, pushing himself, keeping himself strong as if tomorrow would be not another day in the dank horror of Mathuin’s prison but a day of challenge and hope and heroism. For pig-headed persistence, Grim was the man.

‘Danu save us, Grim,’ I murmured, remembering the way he’d lifted me out of the place. After it happened, after we saw open sky above us, that had been the first thing he’d done. ‘That day you were waiting for really did come.’

What now? I might be wrong. I might call out only to see a complete stranger, armed and dangerous, heading up the hill in response to my kind invitation. But if it was him, and I didn’t call out, I might go out there in the morning and find a sodden corpse, dead from cold. I hated obligations. I didn’t want to owe Grim anything – wasn’t my agreement with Conmael bad enough? – but I couldn’t turn my back on him. There was no way I’d have got out through that broken roof by myself.

Right, then. I’d need to make it quite clear that all I was offering was a share of fire and food for tonight, and a spot to sleep out of the rain. He could explain why he was here, and I’d tell him I didn’t want company on the road, either open or covert. And in the morning we’d go our separate ways.

I stood up and yelled through the downpour. ‘Grim! If that’s you, get yourself up here out of the rain, you stupid man! What’s the point of escaping if you’re only going to drown?’

No answer that I could hear, but there was some movement down there under the trees. A shambling shape, like a troll or giant from an old story, made its way slowly out and up the hill toward me. Even as I set the little pot back on the fire, I slipped my knife from my belt. Grim free might be quite a different man from Grim behind bars. Who knew what acts of violence he might have in him, what old offences might be preying on his mind, what wrongs he might believe needed righting? One well-aimed blow with his big fist and I’d be gone. He’d sleep by my fire, help himself to my belongings and be on his way, and the sodden corpse wouldn’t be him, it would be me.

‘Hurry up!’ I snapped. ‘Get that cloak off, you’re dripping everywhere. Move in by the fire, here.’

He was shivering with cold; his clothing must have been soaked right through. This sorry specimen wasn’t going to be making any explanations until I got him warm and dry. I’d never called him Bonehead the way the others had. Right now the name seemed perfectly apt.

‘Listen,’ I said, putting the knife back in my belt. ‘Forget modesty, we’ve seen the worst of each other already. I’ll turn my back, you take those clothes off and wrap this blanket around you. Let me untie that –’

‘No . . .’ It was a feeble protest; his attempt to push my hands away was equally pathetic.

‘All right, do it yourself, then. But hurry up; the longer you keep those wet things on, the longer you’ll take to warm up. Tell me when you’re decently covered again.’ It was beyond ridiculous, after that place, for there to be any need for privacy between us. The things we’d seen in there made a mockery of the niceties of life outside. On the other hand, we
were
outside now, and I at least would have to teach myself, all over again, how to behave around ordinary people, the kind of people who didn’t realise places like Mathuin’s lockup even existed. With my back to Grim, I got the way-bread out of my pack and broke off a good-sized piece. Then I waited. And while I waited it came to me that small courtesies like this should not be dismissed. That the ability to give a person a few moments’ privacy was a worthwhile thing; it was to offer the gift of respect.

‘Lady?’ Grim’s voice came eventually, deep and uncertain. ‘You want this pot stirring?’

‘Can I turn around without offending your modesty?’

‘Blanket’s a bit small. Nice and warm, though.’

I turned. Had things been different I might have smiled, but I had too much on my mind to be amused by the spectacle of a very large man draped curiously in an inadequate length of cloth. ‘Black Crow save us,’ I muttered. ‘You’d better have the other one as well, here.’

‘You’ll be cold –’

‘I have a perfectly good shawl and my clothes are dry. And I have a full belly. Sit down here and eat, it’ll help warm you up.’ I poured the remaining fish soup into the bowl, stuck the spoon in and handed it to him. ‘And this.’ I put the way-bread down beside him.

‘You don’t want me eating your supplies –’

‘Shut up, Grim. Not another word until it’s all gone. That’s an order.’

He ate; I busied myself draping his sodden garments over bushes and stones around the fire. His prison rags were gone; at some point during the three days since our escape, he had acquired a set of plain clothing, trousers, shirt, tunic, cloak, boots. If he had a pack or weaponry, he’d left it out there in the woods.

The food was soon gone; it would be way-bread for breakfast. I hoped the fish would be biting again tomorrow.

‘First good meal I’ve had in days,’ Grim said. His voice was markedly steadier, but he was avoiding my eye. ‘Thank you, Lady.’

One thing needed sorting out quickly. ‘I’ve got a different name now. Blackthorn. Don’t call me Lady.’

There was a pause, then he said, ‘Blackthorn. That’s a healer’s name, isn’t it? A wise woman’s name.’

‘That’s right. It’s what I was, a long time ago. But Blackthorn’s not my old name, it’s a new one, from the day we left that place.’

‘Mm-hm. Good choice. It suits you.’

‘Prickly and difficult.’

Another silence. ‘Not how I’d put it, but yes, that too.’

‘Grim.’

‘Mm?’

‘I’ve got a bit of a story to tell you. About what happened that day. But first, who got out? Apart from us, I mean?’

The silence stretched out so long this time that I thought he was not going to answer at all. Then he said, ‘Poxy and Dribbles. Got out and away as far as I know.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘Just them and us, Lady. I mean Blackthorn. Have to get used to that.’

No, he wouldn’t, because after tomorrow morning we’d never need to see each other again. ‘You’ve got some questions to answer,’ I said. ‘But first I’ll tell you the story.’ As simply as I could, I told him about the fey benefactor who had come from nowhere, and had offered me freedom provided I went to Dalriada and didn’t come back. I explained that I had promised to go back to my old craft and use my skills to help people. Conmael’s other requirements, I did not share; there was no need for Grim to know. But he did deserve an explanation of the strange event that had killed our cellmates. ‘I don’t think Conmael cared at all who was hurt or who died,’ I said. ‘Only, for some reason, that I should get out before Mathuin’s men came to make an end of me. Thank you for helping me that day.’

‘That was nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘Just wish I could have got the others out too. All of them.’ And after a moment, ‘I don’t trust the fey, and you shouldn’t either. Full of tricks. They say they’re helping you, and all the time they want something from you. You need to be careful. Why would this fellow do that when he was a stranger to you?’

‘I have no idea. But I can look after myself.’

We sat there awhile without talking. The rain was easing off; I hoped the morning would be dry so I could move on quickly.

‘Grim?’

‘Mm?’

‘Why did you follow me? Why are you here?’

His only response was a shrug.

‘Come on, Grim, you can do better than that. Why come after me, and why be so secretive about it? For a while there I thought you were Mathuin’s men. You scared me.’