Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “Mm?”

  “They said you might be going away. Are you going away?”

  I glanced over at Liadan. “I don’t know, Coll,” I said.

  “Perhaps not quite yet.” My aunt’s tone was grave. “If you continue to make progress with your letters, we may keep her a little longer. Besides, I’m going to need help here.”

  “Good,” said Coll sleepily. “I’m glad you’re not leaving. It’ll be quiet as a tomb here when everyone’s gone. Even Cormack’s going.” He closed his eyes.

  Belatedly I came to a terrible realization. Men bearing bundles down to the cove. Gull packing medicines. Finbar saying there was no time.

  “Aunt Liadan?” I asked in a shaking voice.

  “What is it, Fainne?”

  “The—the campaign. Isn’t it supposed to be in summer?”

  There was a delicate sort of silence. Then Gull spoke.

  “The Chief sets great store by false intelligence,” he said, tightening the lid on a small earthenware jar before he wrapped it in cloth and stowed it deep in the bag. “Summer’s official. But we’re ready to go any time, and it looks like the time’s now.”

  “N—now? You mean—straight away? Today?” My heart quailed. That meant I must do it with no preparation, with no help whatever. It meant that before dusk I would have to watch Darragh get on one of those boats and sail away to battle.

  “Tomorrow,” Liadan said. “Tonight is for feasting and farewells. Bran would not go while Coll was in danger. But—”

  “It’s so early,” I said, shivering. “So soon. I had not thought it would be so soon.”

  Liadan surprised me by coming over to sit beside me, and putting her arm around my shoulders.

  “It gets no easier, saying goodbye to them,” she said. “Each time is like a little death; each time one begs the gods, just one more chance, just one more. Men do not understand what it is like to wait. Women endure it because they must. It’s the price of love. For you, I suppose this is the first such farewell.”

  “It’s not like that with him and me,” I said fiercely, for her kindness was somehow harder to bear than her disapproval. “He shouldn’t go, that’s all. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. At least these men, Johnny and Snake and the Chief, at least they are warriors. It’s what they do. Darragh is—he’s an innocent.”

  “Ah, yes.” Liadan’s hand came up to touch my hair, and to tidy it a little off my face. I expect I looked quite a sight, with bags under my eyes and curls all tangled by the wind. “You recognize that. Sometimes the innocent walk through a battlefield unscathed, Fainne. It is that very quality which protects them. We must hope all will be safe, and return victorious. Now, I think Coll should rest. You must be exhausted and hungry. Biddy and Annie were up early, and there’s a fine breakfast waiting. Why not go through, and enjoy some food and good company, and then sleep awhile? You cannot change what will happen by fretting about it.”

  Gull had finished packing, and was strapping the bag up neatly.

  “Have you ever gone with them?” I asked my aunt. “They must have desperate need of healers at such times.”

  “A field of war is no place for a woman. I would go, believe me; it’s like a knife in the heart to have them out of my sight so long, and in danger. But Bran would not allow it. This is too perilous. Gull travels with them; he will tend to their injuries. Meanwhile, I will keep an eye on things here.”

  “Liadan?”

  She looked at me, but I could not find the words for what I wanted to ask. She gave a little smile, a kind of recognition.

  “Finbar tells me we’ve no choice but to trust you,” she said. “If he can do that, I suppose I can. He has more reason to be afraid than I do. Now go on. And no long faces. We need to see these men on their way with smiles and confidence, not with tears. Those are for later, when we are alone.”

  I ate, but not much. There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I slept, and was visited by dreams so evil I will not tell them here. I woke, and washed my face, and changed my clothes. I braided I my hair neatly down my back. Then I went out and sat on the clifftop above the bay, and thought about birds. The weather was calm. The curraghs stood at anchor, ready to go. There were three large ones and many smaller, some well-laden with bags and bundles, some empty of cargo. There would be weapons, I supposed. Supplies. There must be some sort of camp on the way. I had no idea where, and they had not let me see the maps. I would have to fly, and I would have to go straight after them, or instead of finding them I might travel on and on across that vast stretch of water until my wings gave out and I plunged down into the jaws of some long-toothed sea creature. That was if I did not first perish from cold. I thought of men swimming by night, and shuddered. Surely summer would be better. Why hadn’t they waited until Beltaine, at least? The air was bitter chill; the sea would be unforgiving.

  Birds. Seabirds: gull, tern, albatross. Good for the long distance across the ocean, blessed with endurance and strength. Not so good on land, maybe. Too loud; too wild. It might be necessary to get close; it might be essential to be unobtrusive. A wren; a sparrow. No. Too vulnerable, too weak. No more than a tasty mouthful for some predator on the wing. One might be a hunting creature oneself, a goshawk or eagle. That did not seem right either. What was smallish, and plainish, and not too frightened of man, yet able to fly long distances? There were little gray birds in Kerry; they came down sometimes when I was sitting under the standing stones, and strutted around watching me hopefully, in case I had brought a handful of grain or a scrap of rye bread. Plump things with small heads and neat little beaks. Rock doves, they called them. Didn’t folk sometimes send doves with messages? But then there was pigeon pie. Still, nobody was likely to be doing much fancy cooking where we were going. A dove was small, but not too small. It had a soft, sweet voice and plain, unobtrusive plumage. It could fly a fair way, as far as I knew. That was it, then. As soon as they left I must do it, and without any help. And at the other end, I would just have to hope I would be strong enough.

  These folk had made farewells many times before, but even for them, this was unusual. At other times, a group of the men might be called away on some mission, and return again after a while with one or two missing, and one or two injured, an eye put out, an arm or shoulder damaged maybe. They were used to that, Biddy told me as I sat in a corner of her cooking area making myself swallow a bowl of soup. I could not afford to be weak in the morning, not with such a long way to go. In those days, Biddy went on, before the Chief came to Inis Eala, they’d been on the run all the time, never safe, always in hiding, or risking their lives in some impossible enterprise. They’d earned a reputation for achieving what others could not. She’d lost one good man already; she’d just have to hope she wouldn’t lose another. Thanks to the Chief her boys had a trade, and weren’t fighters, and so they would stay on the island. But Gull must go; she couldn’t stop him. His first loyalty was with Johnny, she said wryly, sprinkling sprigs of rosemary on the side of mutton Annie was turning on the spit. Johnny was the Chief’s son, and the Chief had given Gull a life. She understood that. It didn’t make Gull any less of a stupid fool, though, and she would tell him so. A man who’d passed forty was too old to get up to such nonsense, and didn’t deserve a good woman keeping his bed warm for his return.

  Still, this time was something more. Never before, since they had come to the island and built their school and their community, had so many gone forth together on such a mission. Their job now was teaching the arts of war, not making war themselves. The word was, the Chief hadn’t wanted them to take part in this undertaking. He was a landowner now, with responsibilities of a different kind, and settled at Harrowfield. He maintained his interest in Inis Eala because he couldn’t help himself; it was in his blood. Still, he had wished to stay outside this particular venture. But Sean of Sevenwaters was family, and they owed him something. It had been Sean who had helped them get established; who had put the word about that if you want
ed your men well trained, Inis Eala was the place to go. And Sean was Liadan’s brother. Besides, there was Johnny, who was the heir to Sevenwaters. There was no denying a prophecy. So they went, all of them save the very old and the very young, and those whose trade meant they did not bear arms. All of the fine young men who had guarded us so silently and cleverly; all the strange and skillful band with their odd names and motley garb. Even young Cormack was going; he was indeed a warrior.

  There was a feast, with the mutton, and chickens stuffed with garlic, and a pudding with spices and fruit in it. There was ale, but not in abundance; clear heads were required for a dawn departure. Afterward there was music. Sam and Clem played their hearts out; the woman with the harp excelled herself, first with jig and reel, and then a slow air floating from the strings as sweetly as a faery tune. When she finished that, someone called for dancing and the band struck up again.

  Tonight, touching seemed to be allowed, and glances, and whispered words. Their men being fully occupied with whistle and bodhrán, Brenna and Annie danced together, giggling. The young men were on their feet, and in a flash there was scarcely a woman in the hall who was not out there on the floor twirling and clapping her hands to the sound of an energetic tune and a thundering beat. Nor was the activity confined to the youthful. Big Biddy danced with tall, lanky Spider; the girl who reared chickens circled with the ferocious, battle-scarred Snake, resplendent in his tunic of serpent-skin. Gull took Liadan out on the floor, the two of them laughing like old friends. The Chief did not dance. He sat very still, his gray eyes never once leaving his wife’s slender, plainly dressed figure as she passed under Gull’s arm, or circled gracefully around him, or wove a pattern with him between the rows of dancers. I understood the Chief’s look, intense, hungry. He was storing up memories, to last until he might return and take her in his arms once more.

  Johnny came over, grinning, and asked me to dance, and I said no, politely. Then Gareth tried, falling over his words and blushing, and I said I was too tired. Corentin looked at me, his dark brows crooked in a frown, and he looked at Darragh, but he did not come over. Darragh was not dancing. He sat near me, but not too near, and I could see from the way his foot tapped and his fingers snapped that he was itching to be part of it. He’d music in every part of him, that boy. But he didn’t get up, and nor did I. The reel finished and Liadan came back, flushed and smiling, to sit by the Chief again. They did not look in each other’s eyes; simply, his hand came out to clasp hers as she sat down by his side, and their fingers twined tight together. Tonight they were less careful of what folk might see, for time was very short.

  “Play another!” demanded tow-haired Godric, who had claimed Brenna as his partner. This showed some courage, as her beloved Sam would be watching every move as his blacksmith’s arm drew a throbbing pulse from the bodhrán. But the harper was weary, and wanted a rest and some ale, and Clem said it was time he had a dance with Annie.

  “Hey, Darragh!” called Godric, not to be thwarted. “Didn’t you say you could play the small-pipes? How about a tune, then!”

  Darragh gave a slow smile. “Packed away, they are,” he said.

  “Well, go on then, fetch them! Nothing like the pipes for a bit of a dance.”

  That was true enough. I could see from the looks on their faces that they half-expected rough, untutored playing, the fumblings of a lad who has picked up his skills in dribs and drabs, by copying something heard on occasion, or by guesswork maybe. I could have told them different, but there was no need. Soon enough Darragh had the bag inflated and tucked neat under his arm, and his long, thin fingers began to fly over the holes in the chanter, and a stream of melody poured forth into the air, hushing every voice in the long hall. All stood still and quiet, until Sam took up the beat for the jig, and the older folk started to clap in time, and the dancing began again.

  Storing up memories. The Chief wasn’t the only one who could do that. He’d need his until the end of the campaign. I thought mine would have to be forever. But I didn’t need to look at Darragh to see what I knew I could not have. I could shut my eyes, and let the sound of the pipes make the image for me: the dark-haired lad on the lovely white pony, and above them the pale, wide sky of Kerry, and the soft air, and the sound of the sea.

  “All right, lass?”

  I blinked, and looked up. Biddy stood by me, panting from her exertions, her broad, sweet face flushed, wisps of fair hair giving her a shining halo.

  “You’re looking pale as milk; not coming down with the fever, I hope.”

  “I’m fine.” At least, I was until Darragh brought the frenetic jig to a close and, with a sidelong glance in my direction, began a slow lament. The dancing ceased; the laughter and talk died down. Folk stood hand in hand, or sat quiet, and their eyes softened, and here or there a tear fell as the melody soared and dipped as gracefully as a swallow, the intricate pattern of decorations clothing it in a fine filigree of light and shade. A good tune, like a good tale, speaks to every listener at once, and to no two does it tell the same story. It brings forth what is deep inside the spirit; it awakens what we scarcely know was there, so buried it was by the clutter of our daily living, our cloaks of self-protection. Darragh played from the heart, as always, and in the end I found I simply could not bear it. Any more and I would weep, or scream, or tear off the amulet and shout that I couldn’t do it, and nobody was going to make me. But I had been well trained. I got quietly to my feet and went outside, not far. I sat on the wall by the kitchen garden, under the pale moon. Inside the lament rang on; a song of love and loss; a song of farewell. It spoke of what might have been. I clenched my teeth, and wrapped my arms around myself, and reminded myself that I was a sorcerer’s daughter, and had a job to do. I must forget that I was a woman, and Darragh was a man, and remember that tomorrow I must be a creature of the air, flying high above treacherous seas. I must remember my grandmother and the evil she had wrought: a family near-destroyed, a household shattered. Finbar, a fine young man turned into some walking wraith. The death of my mother’s hopes, my father’s dreams; all had begun with her. I must remember what she had made me do, and what she would have me become. If that did not give me the strength I needed, then we were indeed lost.

  The music ceased. The lights were dimmed; folk streamed out of the long house and away to their beds. I would wait, I thought, until Brenna and the others were abed, and then slip in quietly. I had no wish for talk. I needed to be strong tonight, full of hope and confidence. Instead, I felt alone and helpless and afraid. How could I transform if I had no faith in myself? Now that the music was over, I must breathe deep as Father had taught me: in slowly, fully, from the belly; out in three stages, like the cascades of a great waterfall. And again. Control was everything. Without control I was at the mercy of feelings, and feelings were nothing but a hindrance.

  “Fainne?”

  I jumped. He was right in front of me, and I had neither heard nor seen him.

  “There’s no need to creep up on me like that! Anyway, you shouldn’t be here alone with me, not at night. It’s against the rules.”

  “What rules?” said Darragh, hoisting himself up on the wall beside me. “Now, we’d best have a talk. No time in the morning. Upset you, haven’t I?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You went out. I thought you liked to hear me play.”

  “It made me sad. Darragh, you must go, or I must. There are still lights on, and folk abroad. Someone might see us.”

  “Just two friends having a bit of a chat, that’s all. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “You know that’s not all. Now go away, please. Don’t make this any harder than it is already.” My voice shook. It was taking all my strength to sit still and not look at him. Darragh said nothing for a while. Then he slid down from the wall and turned to face me where I sat, his eyes on a level with mine, so I could not avoid them.

  “What do you mean, that’s not all?” His voice was very soft in the darkness. Behind hi
m, through the half-open door, I could see the glow of lamp light, and hear the voices of Biddy and Gull as they moved about tidying up.

  “Nothing. Forget I said it. Please.”

  “What did you mean, Curly?” He put out one long hand and curved it around my cheek, and the look in his eyes made me feel very odd indeed. It made me want to do things I knew I must not do.

  “I can’t tell you.” I looked at him, and kept my hands quite still in my lap, and made my breathing into a pattern: in, two, three; out, two, three. Control. I managed not to reach up and touch. I managed not to put my arms around his neck, and lay my cheek against his, and give in to the great wave of warm longing that flooded through me. It was cruel. In an instant, I could have achieved what I had wanted so much. I could have smiled as I had smiled at Eamonn, and bid him shut his eyes, and kissed him in the way Grandmother had taught me, a way that made a man burn for a woman, so that he would do anything to have her. I could have made a little noise, and brought Gull or Biddy out to catch us. Then they would have sent Darragh away, and I would have saved his life. But I could not do it; not even for that. This was my friend. He was the only person in the world I could trust, besides my father. I could not bring myself to cheapen what was between us. And yet, what I longed for then, with every single part of me, was to hold him close and to bid him goodbye as a girl farewells her sweetheart, with tender words and the warmth of her body. I kept very still. I said nothing. But I could not school my eyes.

  “Curly?” said Darragh very carefully, as if he had just seen something he could not quite believe.

  Touch me again, something inside me said, despite all my efforts at control. Put your arms around me and hold me close. Just once. Just this once.

  But Darragh turned his back, and shoved his hands under his arms, and his voice, when it came, shook with some sort of feeling I had no hope of understanding.

  “You’d best go,” he said. “Go on, Fainne. It’s late. Best leave now.”