Heir to Sevenwaters (15 page)

“The druid taught his charge one more skill. He managed to convey that the desperately desired
out
might be attained if Wolf-child was prepared to tolerate a kind of leash, a strong cord to tie his wrist to that of the druid. He trained the boy to this as if he were a dog, hating what he was doing but seeing no other way to keep Wolf-child by him long enough for the boy to understand his intentions. If he simply opened the gate, Wolf-child would flee. That must end in disaster, one way or another.

“The morning after Wolf-child had learned to accept the leash, the druid arose early, packed up his small bundle of belongings and went out to the gate. Wolf-child was already there, staring out into the forest. The druid fastened the leash around the boy’s wrist and around his own. He opened the gate.

“They went out together, Wolf-child pulling hard, almost toppling the older man. He could have got away, for he was strong, but the druid had his measure by now and spoke calmly, reassuring the boy by his tone. They walked a long way, far enough so that Wolf-child began to sense they were not going back. The druid saw a change on the features of his companion, an awakening, a brightening, as if the gray veil of despair that had lain over the lad since the time of his capture were slowly peeling away. They climbed to the higher reaches of the great forest, where frothing streams gushed down from rocky fells above the tree line and a stand of guardian pines threw the hillside beneath into deep shadow. Up and up they climbed until they reached the cave where the druid had his solitary dwelling. Beside the entry a rivulet flowed into a round rocky basin whose rim was softened by ferns. Rowans grew close; holly formed a protective barrier.

“The druid set down his bundle. With his free hand he reached into a pouch at his belt and brought out two bannocks and a slab of cheese in a cloth. He set these items on a flat stone. ‘My home,’ the druid said, pointing to himself, then to the cave entry, sweeping his hand around to encompass the little clearing, the pool, the rocky chamber. ‘Go free,’ he added, slipping his knife out of his belt and cutting the leash that bound Wolf-child to him. ‘I will be here. Home; food; shelter.’ He tried to show, with gestures, what he meant. Who knew how much the boy could understand?

“Wolf-child had stood very still while the leash was severed. The druid had felt the tension in the boy, every part of him strained for flight. As the length of leather cord fell, broken, to the ground, Wolf-child remained where he was for a long moment, and in that moment a look passed between him and the druid, a look that was as animal as it was human. That look was too complicated for me to explain to you. An instant later Wolf-child was off into the woods, a blur of movement gone almost before the druid had had time to take in what had happened.

“Now I might end the story there,” I said, adopting something of Willow’s own style, “but that would leave my listeners dissatisfied. So I will tell you what came next. The druid was right about the wolves—they would not take this lost son back into their clan. The boy hung about on the fringes for days, trying to edge in, to slip himself back among them unobtrusively, but the clan leader kept him off. The wolves would not attack the boy. They knew he was not of ordinary humankind. But they could not receive him as one of them. It was too late for that. Perhaps, even if he had remained among them, this would have occurred anyway when he began to grow into a man. They sensed the danger innate in his kind. Wolves have no sentiment. That he was raised by one of their own meant nothing at all.

“After some time, the druid noticed that he was no longer quite alone in his secluded corner of the forest. Wolf-child would slip in from time to time, hesitating on the edge of the clearing, wary and pale. The druid began to divide his rations into two and set one half out on the flat stones by the rowans. At first Wolf-child would snatch his food and bolt. But as he regained the ability to trust, he would come to squat near the round pool and eat while the druid ate. The druid began to talk to him. A long, long time later, Wolf-child began to answer, not in growls and whining, but in words. And that was the start of a whole new story.”

I was done. Willow bowed her head courteously in my direction, giving me the recognition due from one storyteller to another. I felt my face grow warm with pleasure.

“Very good, Clodagh,” Aidan said. “I like this ending far better than mine.”

“You have something of Conor’s storytelling gift, Clodagh,” put in Father with a smile. “This tale, in all its versions, has a great deal to teach us.”

As a discussion of the story began, I got up quietly and left the hall. I had heard enough about the boy raised by wolves. It was a sad tale whichever way it worked out. If such a thing occurred in real life, the lad would probably be dead before he ever reached the age of manhood. Indeed, the she-wolf would likely have seen the newborn child not as a cub to be nurtured but as an easy supper. I had enough to worry about without dwelling on such things. Besides, there was something else I felt compelled to do.

Cathal was sitting at the top of the steps outside the harness room. He had his arms folded, his head tipped back against the door, his eyes half closed. He’d as likely bite my head off when I spoke as decide to confide in me. But someone had to talk to him; he was obviously feeling quite wretched. I had spent enough nights recently lying awake with my worries and missing Deirdre to understand what it felt like being alone and miserable.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said, seating myself on the middle step. It was cold out here; I wished I had put on my shawl. “What could there possibly be in a story like that to upset you so much?”

“And good evening to you, too,” Cathal said in a murmur.

I tried again. “For a man all too ready to scoff at the uncanny, you seemed remarkably disturbed. You left the hall before the ending. Before my version, anyway.”

“You know how tedious I find these little entertainments.”

I said nothing. Whatever that look on his face had conveyed, it hadn’t been boredom.

“In fact,” Cathal said after a little, “I did hear your version of the ending. I thought it reflected your preference for your world to be tidy and controlled. Aidan made the tale end as a warrior would, with the wolf boy recognizing his manhood. Coll gave it the form of an ancient myth. Your version was a good compromise. But in its way as unrealistic as the others. This child was not wolf; he was not man. He was condemned to be forever outside.”

My neck prickled. I opened my mouth to speak, but his voice, whip-quick, cut across my half-formed words.

“Don’t! Don’t meddle!”

I swallowed a question about his upbringing. It really was none of my business. But I did think talking might be good for him, and right now I was the only one available to listen. Something had put that terrible look on Cathal’s face tonight; something had made him the volatile, touchy creature he was.

“In case the possibility had crossed your mind, I was not raised by wolves,” Cathal said into the silence. His tone was calmer now, but when I turned sideways on the steps to look at him, he was dashing a furious hand across his cheek. The flickering light from the torch set nearby cast odd patterns across his face. I saw tears glinting in his eyes, and turned my gaze away lest I embarrass him.

“There is more than one variety of wolf,” I said.

“You imagine a past for me that is far more complex and mysterious than the real one, Clodagh. Women are like that, or so I’ve been told—they’re happier creating a fascinating tale than accepting the mundane truth about a person.”

“If you think I spend my spare time dreaming up exciting stories about your misspent youth, Cathal, your capacity for self-delusion is more impressive than I realized. Besides, how can I accept the truth if I don’t know what it is?”

“Why should you want to know? Have I ever asked you about your childhood?”

“If you did, I’d have no reason not to tell you.” As soon as I had said this, I realized how wrong it was—any tale about Sevenwaters had to include the uncanny influence of the Fair Folk. I could imagine how Cathal would respond if I told him, for instance, that Conor and his brothers had once spent three years in the form of swans. “But you wouldn’t ask,” I added. “In your book, my story would be unutterably boring.”

There was a silence, and then he surprised me by saying, “I’m sorry I called you that, Clodagh. These remarks come out sometimes, and once they’re spoken it’s too late to withdraw them. I did not know you then.”

“You scarcely do now, Cathal. Nor I you.”

“There’s nothing to tell. It’s my story that is the boring one. My mother was Aidan’s wet-nurse. He and I were born within days of each other and were suckled together. Aidan’s father is a good man. He saw that my mother would have difficulty in providing for me as I grew up, so he took me into his household as a friend and companion for his son. Thus I gained an education beyond what might be considered my natural entitlement in the scheme of things. I received a training in arms that allowed me to accompany Aidan when he went to Inis Eala. That’s the end of the story. I told you it was tedious.” His elbows were on his knees now, his dark head bowed. He was making his fingers into a knot.

There was an obvious element missing from his story.
At least I know who my father is
, Aidan had said, taunting his friend. It was not something I could ask Cathal about.

“Clodagh.” Cathal’s tone had changed again.

“What?”

“There’s something I need to tell you. You may not like it much. Will you hear me out?”

I was intrigued. “That depends on what it is,” I said. “I can’t stay out here long.”

“I want you to consider a hypothetical situation. It concerns a strategic matter.”

This was the last thing I had expected. “You’re talking to the wrong person,” I told him. “Speak to Johnny. Or to my father.”

“Wait till I’m finished, Clodagh, will you? You remember what Sibeal said about twins in your family and the special ability they are supposed to have?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously. “I thought that where such phenomena were concerned you were a complete cynic.”

“Forget that. Tell me, how would you respond if your twin sister contacted you in this way now, perhaps speaking of strategic matters, the deployment of warriors or plans for councils? Would you speak to her? What would you tell her?”

I twisted around to stare at him. “Why on earth would you want to know that?” I asked him. “Anyway, Deirdre and I don’t communicate that way anymore. She made a decision that we wouldn’t after she left home, and she’s kept to it. What can this possibly have to do with you, Cathal?”

“Your father is particularly concerned about Eoin of Lough Gall just now; he fears an escalation of unrest in the north. I wonder if there could be another possibility, one that perhaps Lord Sean has not considered. Your twin sister has just married a southern neighbor, a powerful one. What if your father were looking in the wrong direction? What if the real threat were not Eoin but your sister’s new husband, Illann?”

“
What?
” I was on my feet, bristling with outrage. “Illann? How can you suggest such a thing?” It was ridiculous. Why would Illann wed a daughter of our family only to turn almost immediately against her father?

“You said you’d hear me out.”

“This is silly, Cathal. It couldn’t be true. Even if it were, why would you tell
me
?” He sat there saying nothing, his dark eyes on me, and after a moment I added, “Why the questions about Deirdre? What are you implying?”

He unfolded himself from the steps and came to stand beside me. “Why would I tell you?” he echoed, and there was none of the old mocking tone in his voice. “This is not something I can take to Johnny or to your father, Clodagh. I’ve no evidence, only a hunch. My instincts tell me you may be personally at risk. It is only fair to warn you. As Illann’s wife, your twin is perfectly placed to spy for him. She need only exchange news with you by this special link the two of you possess, she need only ask an innocent question or two about what Lord Sean is doing, where he’s sending his men, which territorial disputes he’s involved with or which councils he’s attending. Why wouldn’t you answer her? She’s your sister; you trust her.”

I was quivering with anger. “Your instincts are quite wrong,” I said. “Deirdre wouldn’t dream of spying. We’re all loyal to our father. We love him. We love Sevenwaters. It’s a sacred trust to the whole family—”

“Clodagh.” Cathal put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me. Please.”

His touch set my whole body on edge. “Don’t!” I snapped, wrenching myself from his grip. Then, hearing the shrill sound of my own voice, I added more calmly, “All right, I’ll listen. But no more baseless accusations. Where did this notion come from? And why can’t we take it straight to Johnny?”

“No!” Cathal’s hands came up as if to touch me again, then he lowered them to his sides. “This is between you and me, Clodagh. At this point it is nothing more than surmise. An informed guess. There should be no need for action unless . . .”

“Unless Deirdre gets in contact with me and asks the kinds of questions a rival chieftain would ask?”

Cathal sighed. “If she does, you should tell your father immediately. Imagine how it could be if you passed on information to your sister and Illann then used it as the basis for an attack on Sevenwaters. That would look ill for you.”

“This makes no sense,” I said flatly. “An attack, what attack? Why would Illann take any such action? He and Father are allies.”

“It’s only a theory.” He was pacing now, arms wrapped around himself. “But possible nonetheless. How can I convince you to give it some credence?”

“You can’t,” I said. “I had thought we were edging toward being friends, Cathal. But these accusations against Deirdre are deeply offensive. And they’re rubbish. How can you possibly know something like that? How could you know what Illann might be planning if Johnny doesn’t?”

Cathal sighed. “Let me paint a picture for you, Clodagh. We’re in the west somewhere, right on the borders of your father’s land. At dusk a raiding party surrounds a substantial house owned by Lord Sean. The place is fortified, but it’s less well defended than it might be. The raiding party is large, thirty men at least, and they’re not led by Illann, but he’s behind the enterprise. Why, I cannot tell you, but perhaps it has to do with his links among the kinsmen of the High King. The place they’re attacking has elms and oaks close to the house. There’s a stream, a pond, a beech hedge. Two men have been sent in advance to disable the forward sentry post. As a result, the raiders get close enough to set fire to the main dwelling house before their presence is noticed. In the ensuing panic they kill most of the opposing fighters, and the custodian of the house is forced to flee into the woods with his family. The place burns down. The raiders report to the man who sent them: Illann. And Illann thanks his wife for passing on the information that she gleaned for him: that the place was not well defended, since their marriage had allayed any fears of attack in this quarter.”