Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  Maeve lay back on her pillows with a little wheeze of outgoing breath that might have been a sigh. Her eyes turned toward me.

  “Well, Maeve,” I said as steadily as I could, seating myself on the stool by her bed. “I’ve brought somebody to see you.” I lifted Riona up so that the child could look at her butter-yellow locks, her shrewd dark eyes and delicately embroidered mouth. The pale pink skirts fanned out over the stark linen of Maeve’s coverlet. The child’s lips stretched in a tiny smile.

  “Good,” I said. “She’s glad to see you, too. I’ve a favor to ask. I’m going to visit your uncle Eamonn, and I’ll be away awhile. Riona can’t go. But I don’t want to leave her on her own, seeing we’re so new here. I was hoping maybe you’d look after her for me while I’m away. You’d need to keep her company, see that her hair’s neat, maybe give her a corner of your bed at night. Could you do that?”

  The little, painful smile was there again.

  “Good,” I said, and I unwound the strange necklace the doll wore, knowing somewhere deep within me that while I might give up my small companion to someone who needed her more, I could not let go this last link to my mother. I slipped the necklace into the pocket of my gown and tucked Riona in beside Maeve, under the covers. She fitted snugly into the crook of the child’s arm as if she belonged there. The expression on her embroidered features seemed almost benign.

  “Now I’ll tell you a story, and then I have to go. Would you like a story?”

  A very faint response. “Mmm.” That was all she could manage. On the far side of the chamber, Muirrin sat down by the fire, and one of the women put a tankard between her hands. She stared into the flames as if suddenly too weary to move.

  What sort of tale do you tell to a child as she looks across the room and sees death waiting in the shadows? I knew plenty, but none of them seemed right. What trickery can amuse a little girl as her skin twists and tightens and works itself into a crippling fabric of scars? How do you keep her heart strong and her spirit clear when you must speak from the dark turmoil of your own guilt? My fingers toyed with the little edge of fringe that hung down below my everyday shawl. Silken and sunny. Memory of innocence. The delicate, lacy pattern of wavelets lapping the sand in the tiny secret cave. Notes of a melody arching through the stillness of the dawn.

  “The folk I traveled with when I came here, they tell a lot of tales around the fire at night. That’s to help keep out the cold, you understand? The smallest children sit in front, and the old men and women, where it’s warmest. Then there’s the bigger lads and girls and the grown up folk, that’s another circle. And beyond that, there’s the creatures. Dogs that guard the camp, and ducks and chickens in little coops, and the horses. Enough horses to make a fine big circle all of their own. If those horses could speak, they’d have a tale or two to tell. Some of the stories are noble and grand, and some of them are silly, and some of them can make you cry and laugh at the same time. I’m going to tell you a story about a boy and a white pony. It’s a new one. You are the very first person to hear it. You and Riona.”

  Maeve gave a little sigh, and turned her head slightly toward me, as if not to miss a single word.

  “Well, now,” I said, “this boy was one of the traveling folk. He’d grown up on the road. That was what he was used to. No fine houses or soft beds for him; no servants to cook or wash, no clients to tend the beasts and work in the fields. Just a cart and a pair of horses, and the sky and the sea, and the way stretching on before him, full of adventures. He didn’t settle long. It’s in the nature of a traveling man to be always on the move, you see.”

  Maeve was trying to say something. I bent my head to catch the faint words.

  “…name?”

  I swallowed. “His name was Darragh. He traveled with his mother and father, and his sisters and brothers, and some cousins and uncles and aunts, and his old grandfather as well. There were plenty of folk, and even more horses, because that was what they did. They’d catch the wild ponies or buy them cheap, and train them up fine for riding, and sell them at the Cross. That’s where they hold the best horse fair in all of Erin.”

  The room was very quiet. Not only was the child absorbed in the tale, but Muirrin’s gaze was now intent on me, and the serving women had put down their work and seated themselves on a bench near the window to listen.

  “Now Darragh had a rare gift with the horses. It was something about him, something you could never quite put your finger on, but the creatures trusted him. It’s a hard thing for a pony to go away from his herd and be among men, you know, hard and frightening. Like saying goodbye to your family. Like going somewhere so different it could be another world. They call it breaking a horse, to tame it so that it will take a saddle, and submit to a rider’s will. Sometimes what they do can seem quite cruel; tying a creature, making it lie down and accept a man’s mastery over it. Breaking its spirit, that’s what it is. That’s the only way, the traveling men say, if you want the horse to be of any value to a buyer. Nobody wants a beast that can’t be trusted to obey.

  “Darragh didn’t like to speak of breaking. He’d a different approach entirely. If the other men thought his methods a little odd, they never said so, because it was always the horses Darragh had brought in that were the most sought after, and fetched the best prices at the Cross.

  “There was one time when they were camped under a hill, and the men and lads went out to watch for wild ponies, thinking to take a few to prepare for the next autumn’s fair. The ponies were grazing on the sweet grass of the hillside. They were edgy, ears twitching, tails swishing, as if they sensed something was afoot. Ready to bolt at the least excuse, they were. Their coats were the colors of the landscape, black, gray, brown, the shades of rock and lichen and bark. But there was one who stood out. She moved among them like a lovely full moon between dark clouds, her coat as white and shining as anything you’d ever see. Her mane and tail fell like the silken fringe of a lady’s shawl, lustrous and gleaming.

  “‘That one’s mine,’ said Darragh in a whisper.

  “‘Her?’ muttered his father, who knew more about horses than most people could learn in a lifetime. ‘Not likely. Look at her eye. That creature’s mad. There’s a pride and an anger in her means you’d never break her. More likely she’d be the death of you. Pick one of the others.’

  “But Darragh had made up his mind. The usual thing, once they’d chosen the ones worth taking, was to come back with their own horses, and the dogs, and cut the ponies out from the herd to take back to the encampment. There they’d be confined, and subject to the usual discipline, until they were docile enough to be ridden.

  “Darragh knew the white pony was different. He’d seen what his father had seen: the wildness in the eye, the flare of the nostrils, the proud carriage of the beautiful head. She was like some princess of the old tales, aloof and untouchable, and very much herself. And frightened. She had sensed his presence there. This pony could not be seized and driven by sticks, with hounds yapping at her heels. That would indeed send her mad. This princess could only be tamed by love.

  “It was as well the traveling folk were camped in those parts over the summer, for Darragh needed time. He told his mother he might be away a bit, and to let his Dad know, but not quite yet. Then he went up the hill very early in the morning, when the mist still slept in the hollows and crevices and only the boldest birds sang out their challenges to the first rose tint of the dawn. He went soft-footed, without company, with a little halter in one pocket and a scrap of bread and cheese in the other, and his eyes and ears open. The white pony was on her own under the rowan trees. She was dreaming; and so quiet was Darragh, coming up to her, that she never heard a whisper until he was quite close, sitting on a rock as still as he could. She looked at him. He made no move, though truth to tell it was freezing cold and he was hard put not to shake and shiver. But he kept still, and made sure his gaze was on the grass or the trees or the sky slowly lightening to a faint lilac, and after a whi
le she seemed almost to forget him, dropping her head to crop at the grass. But she’d her eye on him, he knew it.

  “It was a long process. On one hand, Darragh was wearing her down with his patience. On the other, she was trying him to the extent of his persistence. Everywhere the white pony went, there was Darragh, silent, still, not trying anything, just keeping close by her. She’d run, she’d run swift as the west wind, up the valleys and over the passes and across the fields of shimmering grass, and Darragh would run after her as fast as his human legs could carry him, and get left behind time after time. But always, eventually, he would find her. He had ever been a lean fellow, and he grew thinner. There’d be a bite to eat at a cottage here, or a handful of berries there, but it wasn’t much. His boots were nearly worn through. Back at the encampment, his folk counted the days as they passed.

  “‘Boy’s a fool,’ said his dad. ‘I told him he’d never break that pony. Anyone can see she’s crazy.’ His mother didn’t say anything. She had her own opinion, but she kept it to herself.

  “Darragh was exhausted. He’d run from dawn till sundown, and his ankle was hurt, and there were blisters on all his toes. Many days had passed since he first set out from home, and now they were back on the hillside where it had all started. The pony was watching him, and he was close, very close to where she stood. He could almost hear what she was thinking: that she found his behavior very strange indeed, and could not understand what he wanted of her. That she should be over the hill to the east, with the herd, but for some reason she was here with him. She should go, the others were waiting, but…but…

  “‘Well, then,’ said Darragh, and he took one step forward, and laid his thin, brown hand very gently on the white pony’s neck. ‘I’m off home. You’d best go back to your own folk. Keep out of trouble, now.’ And with that, he turned and was off down the hill to the camp.”

  I paused. All was still in the room; even the voice from the neighboring chamber had ceased its steady cadence. Outside, birds were calling.

  “That can’t be the end,” said Muirrin.

  I glanced down at Maeve. She was still awake, her face turned expectantly to me.

  “Indeed no,” I said. “Darragh went home, and soaked his feet in a bucket of warm water, and ate a big bowlful of stew, and then he rolled up in his blanket and slept from dusk until well after cockcrow. His sister, Roisin was her name, had to wake him up, so sound was he sleeping after all that running, and all that sitting quiet, and all that trying to think the way a pony would think.

  “‘Get up, Darragh,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Look. Look over there.’

  “He rolled out of his blanket again, blinking and rubbing his eyes. And there, delicate and graceful in the morning sunlight, stood the white pony, waiting for him on the far side of the camp among the baskets and barrels and bits and pieces. She put her beautiful head a little on one side, and looked at him with the eyes his father had called crazy, and she gave a soft whinny, as if to say, I’m here now; what comes next?

  “The summer after that, Darragh’s father asked him if he planned to sell Aoife, for so the white pony had been named. He’d get a good price for her at the fair, for she was a creature of exceptional intelligence, though in truth, she was only at her best when Darragh himself was on her back. Still, he’d taken a girl for a ride on her once, and her manners had been perfect. But Darragh wouldn’t part with her.

  “‘I can’t,’ he told his dad. ‘She’s not mine to sell.’

  “‘What nonsense is that?’ his father queried. ‘You caught the creature, you tamed her. Of course she’s yours. I know five men who would pay in good silver for such a mare.’

  “‘That’s not the way of it,’ Darragh answered, stroking Aoife’s snowy coat with gentle fingers. ‘I chose her, and she chose me. There’s no catching about it, and no owning. She’s free to go if she wants. Besides, I could never part with her, not now. She’s my luck.’

  “As time passed, Darragh became much sought after for his way with horses. It’s not everyone has the ability and the patience to tame a wild creature with love alone. He never parted with Aoife, nor she with him. They became a sort of legend, the two of them. People would point and whisper as they saw the dark young man with his little gold earring, riding by their cottages on the beautiful white pony.

  “‘That boy’s half horse himself,’ somebody would say.

  “‘Not what I’ve heard,’ said another. ‘They say the creature’s a faery pony. Turns into a beautiful girl at night, and back into itself by day. No wonder he wouldn’t give her up.’

  “But Darragh only grinned his crooked grin, and nudged Aoife’s flank softly, and the two of them moved on into the dusk. And that’s the end of the story, for now.”

  Maeve seemed to be asleep, her breathing quieter, and Riona still clutched tight in her arms. I tucked the coverlet over her small form.

  “Is that a true story?” asked the big serving woman with some hesitation. She had sat entranced throughout my tale.

  “True enough,” I said, thinking it was just as well my kind could not weep, or I would be making quite an exhibition of myself by now. “Indeed, I rode on that pony myself once. She’s every bit as clever and as lovely as the tale describes.”

  “You tell it well.” Muirrin got up from her chair and stretched wearily. “It makes you sound like—like another person entirely.”

  I did not reply. All the fine tales in the world, all the sweet memories, could not make things right again. Not for Maeve; not for any of us. I was glad Darragh had gone away. I was glad I would never see him again. What boy in his right mind would want someone like me for a friend?

  “Muirrin,” I said, remembering belatedly why I was there. “You heard we are all going to Glencarnagh, the girls and I?”

  “I did,” said Muirrin with a wry smile. “A surprise, that was. I wonder what inspired Uncle Eamonn to this sudden gesture of family support?”

  “I think he’s just trying to be helpful,” I said.

  “That’s as may be. The girls have never gone there before except on formal visits with Mother or Father. Uncle Eamonn is a stickler for everything proper. He always works by the rules.”

  “This isn’t breaking any rules. He is their uncle, after all.”

  “Mmm,” Muirrin regarded me quizzically. “As long as you know what you’re up to.”

  “I—I must ask you a favor,” I said. “The children want to see Maeve before they go. It seems to be important. I was sent to persuade you to let them in, just for a little.”

  Muirrin frowned. “It will only upset them, and that will upset Maeve. Perhaps you do not realize how sick she is, Fainne. She has been badly shocked, and is quite weak. I don’t want to risk further contagion in these wounds; that could finish her. Forgive me for being blunt, but I must do everything I can to help her hold on until Aunt Liadan arrives. This is not a good idea.”

  “Please let them visit.” I used the craft, as subtly as I could, to make my words sound convincing. “I don’t wish to distress you, but—but Sibeal said, what if Maeve dies, and we’re not here? They are thinking of that. I’ll warn them to keep their comments to themselves, and not to upset her. Please, Muirrin.”

  Now Muirrin was looking at me very closely indeed, and she had a strange expression on her face, as if she were trying to puzzle out a page of words written in a language both familiar and unknown.

  “Very well,” she said after a moment or two. “I can hardly say no when you put it like that. I’ll send for you when she wakes. The girls must leave before the bandages are changed again. They can’t be here for that. Fainne—” She bit back her words.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You seem—different, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean, different?” I was alarmed. Surely she had not noticed my use of the craft?

  “I don’t know,” Muirrin said. “It’s as if sometimes you were one person and sometimes another. As if there were two of you. S
ounds silly, doesn’t it? I must really be tired.”

  “Isn’t one of me enough?” I said lightly, but I knew I had been careless. I had overlooked the strange powers some members of my family possessed. I had forgotten about the Fomhóire streak. From now on I would be more watchful.

  As if to ease the way for our departure, the clouds dissipated and the sun rose on a clear, cold morning. Horses and ponies were readied before the main doors, and a great many men-at-arms, whose dark green tunics blazoned with a black tower marked them as of Eamonn’s household, assembled themselves into an impressive escort. This time, it seemed, none of the men of Sevenwaters were to ride with us. Eamonn was family and so, I assumed, was spared the indignity of being seen across the borders by my uncle’s guards. Family could be trusted. So Darragh would have me believe; the message had been implicit in his blithe talk of the joys of growing up surrounded by sisters and brothers. It just went to show, I thought bitterly, how little I was really accepted here; Eamonn might pass as he liked, but they would not even let me take a stroll into the forest without an escort of armed men. Yet I was blood kin, and Eamonn was not.

  The little girls were very quiet indeed. Visiting Maeve had been difficult for them; holding back their comments and their tears of dismay, even harder. They had done bravely, the four of them, and I had made sure I told them so, later, when the door was closed on their sister’s pain. There were tears enough then, but they were as much in anger as in sorrow.

  “It’s not right!” Clodagh had muttered, frowning furiously as she stared down at her clenched fists. “Such things should not be allowed to happen. How can the gods let it happen?”