By the time I reached the crannóg on the lake, night was drawing in. Oil lamps had been lit along the walkway that joined it to the land. I stood beneath that walkway for a while, listening to the sound of birds flying home to roost, and watching my reflection distort and reform upon the surface of the water.
Fionnuala
That evening when Aoife first came to our sanctuary, I hardly knew what to say to her. Although older than my mother had been when she died, her features were still of that famed beauty the bards had spoken. She moved with careful grace, as though her feet did not wish to disturb the ground upon which she walked.
“Mother,” I said, standing. “I did not expect you.”
“Please, sit,” she replied, motioning with a hand.
I resumed my place upon the mat, where I had been staring into the fire, imagining Conall’s face smiling at me through the flames, for I had thought of little else since we left Sidh-ar-Femhin. We had been enchanted that night, fascinated by one another, and I was sure that if it hadn’t been for what followed, I would have received a kiss – my first. Yet how could I resent one who had brought such happiness to my father? He had hardly visited us since our return, but for once it was because he was distracted with pleasure rather than sorrow.
“Here,” she said, walking to a table in the far corner and returning with a bronze comb. “Let me sit with you a while.”
She took my hair in her hand and began to brush it gently, navigating the curls and knots without ever once pulling at my scalp. It felt strange at first, for no one but Sorcha had brushed my hair since my mother. It brought a lump to my throat and I closed my eyes, relaxing into her touch until it soothed me.
“Tell me,” she asked. “Why do you live here, beyond the fort?”
I did not wish to admit that our father had banished us in his grief, to keep from hearing my brothers’ cries, so I told her that we preferred it here upon the water. That it made us feel closer to our mother.
“You miss her still?”
“I will miss her always.”
At that moment, Aodh appeared. He had been swimming in the lake and hauled himself ashore by the rope he had strung last summer. He was naked, and the bitter waters had turned his skin bright pink from the tip of his toes to the nape of his neck.
Aoife did not look away as he entered, reaching for his tunic to dry himself. She studied him, watching the way his newly formed muscles flexed and gave with each movement. He was indeed becoming a man. With each day that passed the difference between his body and those of his brothers grew more pronounced.
Aodh and I had spoken little since our return, yet our eyes often met, sharing in our secret grief over the loss of a life we had tasted so far from here. I knew he had grown fond of Caílte in the way I had grown fond of Conall. Our silence masked a yearning neither one of us wished to speak of, for in speaking it we would have to acknowledge our unfulfilled hopes, and hope would die.
“You are so quiet, Fionnuala.” Aoife said. “What is it? Are you unhappy that I am here?”
I placed my hand over hers, on my shoulder. “No, mother. Please do not think that. Your marriage to our father was a surprise, but it was a good surprise, for we have heard him laugh more in these past months than he has laughed in all the years since your sister’s parting.”
I felt her fingers close around mine.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
By this time Aodh had dried himself down and pulled on a shirt and braccae. He sat on his haunches by the fire, arms drooped between his knees, watching us.
“You are not unhappy to be here?” he asked. “The air is cool, and this must all seem very dull in comparison to our grandfather’s lands.”
“Not at all,” she replied. “It is cooler, yes, but the land holds a certain enchantment. It is raw in its beauty.”
I liked the way she said that, for it returned a little poetry to a world I’d long since lost the elegance of. My heart lifted then, for perhaps this would be the dawn of a new day for us. Perhaps my father would become the man he once was. Perhaps he would hunt the woods with his sons, and hold feasts and celebrations of his own. Perhaps the clans who had avoided us for so long would once again return to drink mead and break bread, and with them would come their sons and their daughters, their bards and druids. The future started to unfurl like a flower before me. I imagined nights of laughter and singing, and perhaps, not too far ahead, that kiss I had so longed for.
Sorcha
That first half of the year was blissful in my memory. The frosty solitude that had engulfed Sidhe Fionnachaidh those past years seemed to melt with the warming of the season. I saw Lir laugh and jest with his men as he had not done since Aobh was alive. In truth, it took them some time to get used to it.
“I’m never sure what to reply,” said Faas, one of Lir’s greatest warriors. “For so long all I have said to him is ‘as you wish,’ and ‘beg your pardon’.”
I knew what he meant. We had all been so used to tiptoeing about the fort, keeping our voices to a whisper and swallowing our laughter before it drew breath. Our instruments had gathered dust and the fires had burned only brightly enough to provide a little warmth, they never blazed.
Now our musicians were to be found practising every morning, for each night Aoife demanded they play so that she could dance with Lir and sing forgotten Fomori folksongs. I doubted she had ever sung those beneath her father’s roof, yet Lir would not deny her anything. Just as before, he had given the whole of his heart, and more fool any who dared urge restraint.
Not that any of us would. We were far too happy sharing in their delight. Aoife was intent on turning our humble home into a seat of pleasure, with the sweetest meats, the softest bread and the strongest wine.
It was not long before other clans started to visit.
The Gangani were the first to return, their leader Ahern, Lord of the Horses, twice as brash and twice as broad as ever I remembered him. He brought in tow a daughter, Mell, whose temper matched her namesake for it cracked like lightning whenever she did not get her way. Perhaps Ahern was expecting a match with young lord Aodh, but neither could stand the sight of each other and my little master spent all his time by the lake, swimming and snaring birds. Fionnuala fared little better, retreating to the crannóg as soon as the feasting was over.
Next came Sile of the Nagnatae. She had once been a renowned druid and future-teller, born blind yet possessing the second sight. She was old now, so old it looked as though she might crumble at any moment. Her milky eyes were unnerving, and with age her hearing had grown dull. Even Lir’s booming voice struggled to reach her. She stayed longer than any of us would have liked, for perhaps she was lonely and had nowhere else to go.
Soon, more lively guests followed. Breck of the Darini and Dolan of the Coriondi travelled far to attend Lir’s court, bringing with them unusual gifts of bronze and iron. They offered up intricate metalwork: weapons for the men and decorations for the girls. The twins took quite a shine to Dolan and he spent the early mornings teaching them swordplay up on the ridge.
That year the flowers in the valley seemed to bloom brighter than ever before, the fruits budded round and juicy and every boy became a poet, whether gifted or not. Songs were sung of Aoife’s beauty and grace, whilst new dances showed Lir wooing his bride in the crudest of terms. Crumbs clung to the beards of the bards as they inhaled mead and spat out rhyme. Even my own hands began to dance once more against the flames, casting shadow sagas of love and rebirth.
Ah, we enjoyed ourselves as we raced from winter to summer.
It was nearing the longest day that the first seed of doubt was sown. I was walking between the huts, collecting stray garments for the wash, when I chanced to hear a conversation in my mistress’s chamber.
She had brought with her from Sidh-ar-Femhin a pinch-faced maid by the name of Guennola. She was like a spectre, for she never spoke and was rarely to be seen at any of the festivities. She kept to herself, ten
ding to her lady, for Aoife would never let another dress her.
That day was peculiarly warm, the sun drying the land and causing its moisture to cling to my brow. There were dark patches beneath my arms and I was eager to get my basket of clothes to the boiling pot so that I could go and lie in the valley beneath the shade of an oak.
I don’t know why I paused by the door to listen. It was not like me to eavesdrop. In my experience, little good came of listening to other people’s conversations, and this should have been no different. Yet it was perhaps the first time I had heard my mistress’s voice in its natural state, relaxed and at ease, free from the special smile she reserved for her guests. She sounded younger somehow, more like a girl.
“What should it matter to me?” she asked. “For I shall have my own soon enough.”
“Well,” I heard Guennola’s crisp reply, “I pray they come quick, for he loves those others something fierce.”
“Oh, what of it. They are but children. My sister’s children. Of course they are loved, but have you not seen the way he looks at me? What have I to fear?”
“He is older than you—”
“And in perfect health.”
“I have seen the way he looks at you, and I have seen the way they look at you. It is not the same. Should he die before his time, you would have no home here. They would cast you out, I’m sure of it.”
I felt my stomach tighten. This viper of a woman, whispering fears into my lady’s ear that were wholly unfounded. I slipped away with my armful of washing and went about my business. Yet all that time whilst I stirred the pot, wiping sweat from my face, I couldn’t help but wonder. What place would Aoife hold in our household should Lir – gods forbid – be taken from us?
His kingdom would fall to his children, for she was not their mother, nor even their foster mother, for she had sworn no oath of protection and they were too old to require her tutelage.
Then what of the words she had first spoken? That she would have children of her own soon enough. Of course she would. She was of the right age, she was healthy and spirited, and the nightly noises from Lir’s hut left me in no doubt that he was willing. So why did it come as such a shock to me to contemplate another child in our midst?
I suppose because it had always been the five of us: Fionnuala, Aodh, Conn, Fiachra and myself, for as long as I could remember. Lir had other children, but they played no part in our lives. Why shouldn’t he have more who would?
Still, the thought sat uncomfortably with me. Fionnuala and Aodh were the eldest, but who was to say a child by Aoife’s comely form would not be his favourite? What then of the fortunes of my dearest ones?
It began to dawn on me that there was a price to be paid for the lightness of heart we had all enjoyed those past months. There were things to be thought on, important things, that had only now made themselves known.
Aodh
It was the night of the Summer Solstice when my father held a great feast. The druids turned the valley red with the blood of cattle and we all wore feathers in our hair to catch the luck of the gentle winds that swept the ripening grain.
Elatha, the highest druid of my father’s lands, had predicted a great harvest that year, and with it a blessing upon our people. I for one certainly felt blessed, for the great chieftain Laisrean honoured us with his presence, and with him brought a daughter, Luiseach.
From the moment she arrived, she haunted my thoughts. Her hair was as long as her slender arms, bright as daybreak, and when she smiled her eyes shone like the morning star. She sang like a bird and danced like a fawn.
“You must remember to eat,” my sister teased, placing a finger beneath my open jaw to close it. “Those muscles of yours will go to waste if you don’t feed them.”
Though it was true, I hardly thought of anything else in her presence.
There is a story about the great warrior Cú Chulainn, son of Lugh. His ferocity in battle was second to none. There was no one to match him in all the known world. Yet the ferocity with which he fought was untameable. In the heat of battle he would forget himself, possessed by ríastrad, hacking and slashing through enemies as though cutting through corn. But he also forgot his kin, for the heat of his rage blinded him, and he would kill indiscriminately – foe or friend.
After one such battle, his blood high, and the severed head of a rival chieftain held even higher, he rode his chariot home on the Summer Solstice.
The women and children of his fort ran to greet him.
He murdered them, every one.
For this reason the day of the solstice was a day of rest. Two nights were to pass before the celebrations could begin. The potency of the sun had to fade.
I swam in the lake each afternoon of those lazy days of rest.
From out there on the water, I caught sight of a figure on the shore. Swimming closer, I recognised it to be Luiseach. She was there, watching me, dressed in a simple gown of cornflower blue, green strips of cloth in her hair.
I swam as close as I dared, for I was naked beneath the water and did not wish to embarrass her.
“Hello there,” I called, treading the cool water.
“Hello.” She smiled, raising her face to the sun. “What a fine day for swimming.”
“Join me,” I called.
“I wish that I could,” she replied. “Yet I know not how.”
At that moment, a flock of swallow-tails swooped over the water, dipping their beaks against the surface to drink. I ducked my head so that they wouldn’t fly into me. When I surfaced, Luiseach was up to her ankles in the water, her beautiful dress muddied.
“Aodh!”
“What is it?”
“Oh, Aodh! I thought you had drowned!”
I stared at her ashen face before bursting into laughter. I couldn’t help myself. The thought of drowning was as likely as losing a fight with a goose. I wasn’t laughing to be cruel, it simply amused me that she should be so concerned. She took this as an insult.
“You brute!” she cried, turning on her heels and storming away.
I swam as hard as I could to the crannóg, hauling myself up that rope. Dragging on clothes that resisted my wet skin, I raced to the end of the walkway, but she was already out of sight.
I cursed beneath my breath.
That evening there was a quiet meal at my father’s hall. There was to be no music or dancing until Elatha decreed it safe, so we dined on oatcakes and honey, milk and weak wine.
As the men turned to joking and the women to whispering, I managed to catch Luiseach’s eye, but she scowled and turned back to her food.
“Fin. Fin, you’ve got to help me,” I said, accosting my sister as she returned from relieving herself.
“What is it?” she asked, clearly expecting a terrible disaster to have befallen me.
“It’s Luiseach, she isn’t speaking to me.”
As I had done by the water, she stared for a moment and then laughed. I felt the insult Luiseach must have done.
“Why, whatever did you do to her?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything, I swear. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“Some misunderstanding.”
“Look, I just need a chance to put it right. I need the chance to talk to her.”
“And you want my help?”
“Come on, Fin. She likes you. She’ll listen to you. She’ll follow you.”
“Follow me where?”
“I don’t know. Over there?” I said, inclining my jaw towards a cluster of store huts beyond the main fire.
“You want me to ensnare her?”
“Don’t make it sound so devious.” She laughed again. I loved my sister’s laugh, it sounded like pixie bells. “Come on Fin, she’s lovely.”
“More lovely than you deserve,” she replied, but her lips parted in a mischievous smile. “Very well. Go wait there and I will see what I can do.”
It felt as though I were waiting a lifetime. Just as I thought Fin had failed me, I heard their high
voices coming towards the huts. I had lit oil lamps around one of the doorways, intending to step out as her eyes drew towards it.
“I’ll just be a moment,” I heard my sister say. “I forgot my shawl.”
As she walked away, my plan began to play out.
Luiseach turned, noticing the lamps around the hut. I stepped out. Her eyes met mine.
She turned to go, but I raced towards her, taking her hand in mine and turning her back.
“You tricked me,” she hissed. “You both did.”
“Please, don’t think unkindly of Fin, she didn’t know.”
She took back her hand and stepped away.
“That was a horrible thing to do, to let me think you were drowning.”
“On my oath,” I said, placing my fist against my chest, “it was not deliberate. I was just trying to avoid the birds. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her grey eyes studied me for a moment.
“I suppose it was a little foolish of me,” she sighed.
“No, not foolish. Sweet.”
I gave her my most disarming smile and she blushed.
“My father will be wondering where I am,” she said, softly.
“Then I won’t keep you.” She smiled again as she turned away. “Luiseach,” I called out, causing her to turn back. “Come down to the lake tomorrow. I’ll teach you to swim.”
*
By mid-afternoon I had convinced myself she was not coming. Fin had already grown tired of my lamentations and gone up to the fort with the twins.
The Children of Lir Page 9
