Swan Witch

by Betina Lindsey

  He peeked up at her. “A-a-a-h, woorroo, ye should know. ’Tis a lay path into Myr…to yer mother’s swan clan. Only the pure of heart kin enter.”

  “Begorrah!” exclaimed Eithne. “Aye, it makes sense now. When I was a child my mother said as much when we walked past the stones. She said, ‘There is another world. It is hidden in this one.’ I never understood.”

  “Arrah!” shouted Bron. “I see the tower! Just beyond, through the mists…there…”

  Eithne spied the tower, its outline oscillating in the air, a stone phantasm. Samisen spiraled around its pinnacle.

  In the broken lulls between the gusts of wind, Bron cried out, “Lady, help!”

  And within the shadows of the casement, Eithne glimpsed the unforgettable fire of her mother’s hair…a fire that matched her own locks. “Mother!” she cried out.

  A slim hand reached between the iron bars. “Eithne?…’Tis you?”

  “Aye, we’ve come…but Sheelin is not long behind. My voice…he draws away my voice.” The cold wind burned her eyes and tears streamed down her reddened cheeks. “You must tell me what to do.”

  “Sing! Sing to break his illusion…as you did when you were a child. The tower cannot withstand the singer’s voice.”

  In the moment Eithne gathered herself. It had been so long since she’d sung. Her throat ached, her whole body ached from resisting the grasping potency of Sheelin’s powers.

  Her song carried over the desolate marsh, past the soft blue ooze above the bending reeds and out to sea. She sang steadily, her voice growing firm and strong. Against the white fury of the worsening winds, breast heaving, she sang as if winging on the brink of heaven and hell. Deep from her long silenced soul, her full-throated song began splitting foundations and shattering the careful stonework of Sheelin’s illusion.

  Slowly, the casement cracked wide and fearlessly Ketha lunged forward. The strong arms of Bron caught her to the safety of Samisen’s back. Ketha threw her arms around her daughter in a sweet reunion.

  Being crushed between the pair Gibbers squealed with irritation, but was readily silenced by Bron. “If it’s a might too close for you, we can remedy it quick enough.”

  In fear of being thrown off, Gibbers squealed again and gripped Ketha’s feathered cloak for dear life.

  Bron guided Samisen away from the collapsing tower to a solid grassy islet in the marsh. All dismounted. Gibbers fairly kissed the earth, vowing he’d not climb onto that beastie again.

  Hands on Eithne’s shoulders, Ketha was admiring her. “You’ve turned into a beauty.”

  Eithne smiled at her mother, her heart rejoicing. “’Tis your own gift to me.”

  “And who is this?” asked Ketha, turning to Bron mac Llyr.

  A sparkle in her eye, Eithne laid her hand on Bron’s arm and said, “He is Bron mac Llyr, the one suitor who could answer the one question that I in truth could ask.”

  “Nay,” breathed Ketha in an admiring tone. “You must tell me all. What was this question?”

  A blush suffused Eithne’s cheeks. “I asked him if he loved me.”

  “Bedad,” muttered Gibbers, rolling his great round eyes.

  “And?” prompted Ketha, giving Gibbers a scolding glance.

  “And I said in truth I did,” Bron said, taking Eithne’s hand and squeezing affectionately.

  “Well,” declared Ketha, “I will hear the whole story, but first we must make plans as to what we should do now. Without doubt Sheelin is about his own plottings.”

  “Aye,” agreed Eithne, her hand lifted to clutch her aching throat.

  At that moment everyone’s attention shifted. Across the sky appeared, snowy and huge, five swans winging on the wind toward them. The swans circled above twice, thrice, coming lower each time and then with a flapping of wings skidded along the marsh surface, their legs breaking water into a series of silvery arcs. Alighting silently, their wings closed.

  Eithne opened her mind to them.

  Sisters, we are couriers from Myr. We’ve been sent by Bree, the seeress. She summons you to return.

  Very well, returned Ketha wordlessly. I will do what Bree has asked. But you must swear in turn to do what I shall ask of you.

  By our lives, we swear it, sister.

  This is my daughter, Eithne, the only woman-child of my line. She is in great danger, yet she cannot return to Myr for in doing so will endanger our land. I will return to Myr, but I ask that three of you, my sisters, remain guardian at my daughter’s side wherever she travels.

  Eithne did not like this. She turned to her mother and said, “Mother, we have just been reunited. Why must we part? I do not understand?”

  “The power of the singer’s voice is the only power that can keep Sheelin from breaching the portal between the two worlds of Myr and man. You must remain in the world of men and hold him at bay.”

  “But even now he draws from me my voice. I cannot keep him from taking what he wants.”

  “You can, Eithne…and you must. Do not underestimate your own power…that ancient and rare gift of the singer’s voice.” She embraced Eithne, holding her a long while as if she were transferring some of her own slender strength to her.

  Tears clouded Eithne’s eyes and she confessed, “I’m afraid, Mother.”

  “I know…I know,” said Ketha, stroking her head. “But you will be in good hands. Go with this man who loves you. His love will be a protection to you.” To Bron she said, “Take care of her, Bron mac Llyr.” She turned back to the swans. I will go with you now.

  Ketha stepped off the bank, magically transforming before all eyes into a swan. She and the other two swans, wings flapping, rose heavily and flew off toward the horizon. The other three swans uttered a sonorous farewell and remained floating within sight in the rushes.

  Eithne watched the birds disappear.

  It became very still.

  Bron was eager to leave the marshes and be off to the sea isles of his home, but he was hesitant to press Eithne onward. So much had transpired in the last hours, he thought it best for her to have time to rest. He walked a short distance away and sat down on the bright moss where a green spider laid a gossamer web from reed to reed. Close by, a golden plover arose and flew a little way, its cry stirred the air.

  “I’ll be havin’ ye return me home now,” came Gibbers’s voice.

  Bron near laughed aloud. “I’m not going that way.”

  Gibbers’s mouth dropped wide open, “Och, be aff wid yer nonsinse.”

  “You won’t be returning unless you walk yourself there. The Lady Eithne’s safety is foremost. I’ll not endanger her by returning to Rath Morna.”

  Gibbers frowned fiercely. He jabbered his piece of protest about how he’d “niver” find another bridge like the bridge of buzzards or a cashel as much to his liking as Rath Morna.

  Bron ignored him and turned his attention to Eithne. She remained still and pensive.

  “Wimmin, there’s no undhershtandin’ thim,” philosophized Gibbers, looking at Eithne and shaking his head. “There’s rivers that’s quiet on top bekase they’re deep, an more that’s quiet bekase they’re not deep enough to make a ripple. An’ whin a woman’s quiet, begorra, it’s not aisy to say if she’s deep or shallow.”

  Bron was not inclined to sit much longer and listen to Gibbers’s prattle. “We are leaving now,” he announced, coming to his feet. Gibbers scrambled after him, mouthing protests.

  Eithne turned when Bron touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked gently.

  She clasped her hand over his and said, “’Tis a lonely place here. I was thinking how it must have been all those years for my mother. How could Sheelin do such a thing to her?”

  “It’s hard to know why some men do what they do. Come, now. Your mother is free. ’Tis over.”

  “But not finished.” Eithne sighed. She shivered as if icy fingers touched the base of her spine.

  The sconces burned low, throwing the chamber in shadow. Sheelin’s brow f
urrowed as he stared into the crystal orb of sight. Through the mists and drifting fragments he saw the ruins of Woad Bog Tower. His face took a stiff, masklike appearance, and grew pale. Ketha had escaped!

  The mists of vision shifted to another aspect of the marsh. He saw Bron mac Llyr lifting the blue-cloaked Eithne upon the white stallion. Mac Llyr leaped on himself and the winged steed threw himself upward. Its wings snapped out to seize the wind and it shot away, trailed by three white swans.

  Sheelin’s thin lips peeled back and he began uttering a low guttural chant while continuing to stare into the crystal orb. The dark bulk of an island suddenly appeared in the mists, rising from the sea like an emerald gem. The last rays of the setting sun burned across its face, touching the small rounded hillocks with shadow and gilding its rocky cliffs golden. On a headland, he saw a circle of great stones. This caused him to fall silent.

  With a wave of his hand, the image faded. His eyes hard and sharp, Sheelin turned away.

  Chapter 11

  “’Tis there, Tir nan Og, the Island of Heart’s Desire,” said Bron. With effort, Eithne opened her eyes. She looked over Samisen’s wings and saw tier upon tier of stone mountain rise from the sea. Everything was a deep slate blue and streaked by gray slices of cloud and water. The air was wet and cold and whitecaps frosted the sea.

  On the outset it did not appear to her to be a land her heart might desire. And as weary as she felt, it seemed a bleak haven.

  “My clan holds a thousand islands in this western sea. They are the Blessed Isles. Some have aught but sheep and gulls, sandy coves and sheltering caves, but ’tis ours to birth and die upon.” His voice held pride and the warmth of homecoming.

  Daringly, Samisen swooped dangerously near to the stone pinnacles of the sea cliffs. Eithne did not feel well. The journey had been long and arduous. She shifted stiff legs, eager to soon touch her feet to this new land, but apprehensive as well. She worried that she might be unacceptable to his clansmen…she who was not of the same kith.

  She felt other fears…a fear that even surpassed her fear of her father’s retribution. She feared that in the end Bron mac Llyr would cast her aside for a woman of his own clan. Now his arms encircled her in protection and love, but would it always be so? Doubt niggled at the corners of her mind. A small wretched voice whispered, No one can truly love you. You are the evil, wicked gurrul.

  Bron’s voice was at her ear, his breath a caress in the chill. “I know a croft where a warm, quiet peat fire burns slowly night and day, where the bed is springy with heather tips and spread with clean white blankets and sleeping furs. A kettle of springwater hangs over the fire, always ready and hot. ’Tis near the white sand beaches where you can walk with me and feel the wind’s breath upon your rosy cheeks. There I will take you.” Saying this he kissed her.

  “Och, and what of me?” moaned Gibbers from his hidey-hole beneath the folds of Eithne’s blue cloak.

  “I’m thinking there are a myriad of bogs for the likes of you. Take your pick,” offered Bron, his head tipping to the vast expanse below, inhabited only by a clump or two of white and black sheep.

  “Begorrah, I’ll not be nabers with ye swoonin’ lovers. The sight fairly turns me stomach.”

  “Then be off with you!”

  And with that, Bron yanked Gibbers from under Eithne’s cloak and tossed him from Samisen. Gibbers howled a great walloo. And in the moment even Eithne questioned the intent of Bron’s action. But she looked down and saw they were not so far above the marsh bogs. She heard the plop and splash of Gibbers landing in his new abode.

  “He’ll be fine. ’Tis near enough the croft, but not too near. I should have left him in the northern marsh. He wounds you with his words. I do not like his meanness.”

  “Aye, he is that, but he was the only playmate of my childhood. I had no others. I would miss him had you left him behind.”

  “You are too forgiving, Eithne.”

  “Not so. I near choked him to death.”

  “Arrah, he earned your ire.”

  Samisen spiraled lower. Suddenly, Eithne felt him hit solid earth, breaking into a gallop over the rough blanket of turf. Folding in his wings, he soon slowed. The three swans alighted as well upon a small spring fed pond.

  In the fading light of evening Eithne saw a rough stone croft tucked against the gray-green scape of moss and lichen covered rockery. Smoke curled from the wind-eye of the slate roof.

  A gaggle of brown geese skirting the door yard honked and wing flapped as if to say, who is this come to disturb us? An old sheepdog rose from the doorstep and waggled his tail in greeting.

  Bron leaped from Samisen and easily lifted Eithne into his arms. Carrying her, he ducked beneath the overhang and pushed open the latchless door.

  Inside, a glowing fish oil lamp on a lace clothed tabletop lightened the natural dimness of the croft. Looking around, Eithne saw it was as Bron had said. A warm fire did burn in the hearth. A bed built into the wooden wall that partitioned off the stable from the croft appeared clean and inviting. A steaming kettle whistled over the fire and beside that butter golden scones sizzled in a pan. Eithne’s mouth began to water for it had been some time since she’d eaten.

  “Who lives here?” she asked, as he carried her over to the bed and set her down.

  “No one,” he said, helping her with her feathered cape. He opened a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and took out a down spun shift. “Here, put this on. ’Tis soft and warm.”

  “But who does it belong to? I cannot wear that which is not mine.”

  “It belongs to no one and everyone.”

  Eithne was truly puzzled. “I do not understand.”

  Bron smiled and said as he walked over to the hearth, “’Tis the way of our clan…what belongs to one of us belongs to all of us. Over the islands, here and there, are crofts like this for the wayfarer. In these crofts a fire always burns and food is ever ready.” He snatched up a scone and began eating with great relish.

  “’Tis magic then.”

  “Aye, but not of your father’s kind. ’Tis the magic of goodness. As long as none succumb to greed our clan ever has abundance. We do not hoard or secret away our bounty. We are openhanded and openhearted.”

  Eithne had stripped off Bron’s tunic and now lifted the down shift over her head. The instant it touched her skin she felt a vibrancy of warmth. The chill departed from her bones and her fingers and toes began to tingle.

  “Where is the cashel of your clan?”

  “There is naught,” he said, still munching.

  “Where do they live?”

  “Here and there.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “My clansmen are loners by habit because of the distances between the islands and solitariness of a seaman’s life. Spring, summer, and fall we come together in celebration. Unlike the excess of Rath Morna ’tis a humble feasting. In the winter the seas are unsettled and so we do not gather.”

  He poured a cup of tea for himself and one for her. He gave it to her. Holding the cup in both her hands, she drank. Her nose began to run from the heat.

  “Is there a handkerchief?” she asked.

  “Aye.” He went to a shelf and reached for a neatly folded handkerchief. She watched him attempt to pick it up with his sword hand. She heard him utter a small curse from under his breath when his fingers passed through it.

  She thought a moment and then spoke. “Why do you keep the illusion? We are no longer at Rath Morna,” she observed.

  In his good hand he gripped the hanky. With his back to her, he stood quite still. There was a barely visible tension across his shoulders as though there were something powerful within him he was trying to control.

  Realizing she had touched a sensitive spot, she tried to amend by saying, “That you have a hand or not makes no difference to me.”

  From that position he said, “But it does make a difference to me.”

  He turned slowly toward her, his face closed. He tos
sed the hanky beside her. “I’ll attend to Samisen.” Abruptly, he walked out the door. A gust of cold swirled into the room and left Eithne sorry to have spoken, and almost wishing she was still mute. Amidst the escape there had been no opportunity to tell Ketha about Bron’s hand. And even she wondered if her mother could heal such a wound.

  She felt alone even though the old sheepdog slept before the fire. Her appetite was gone. Regret churned in the pit of her stomach. What good was a voice when she could not speak words that might ease a person’s heartache. Even so, she knew Bron’s wound was beyond healing with words. Then if not by words, she wondered if true love could heal deep wounds? If she loved him enough would he forget his deformity? Would he forget he could not play his harp? Nay, he would never forget. The loss would eat at him until the day he died.

  She crawled under the blankets and faced the firelight. Utter weariness befell her. She heard clumping footsteps sounding through the connecting wall of the stable and Samisen’s snorts. She tried very hard to keep her eyes open while she waited for Bron’s return.

  On the low wooden table lay a pool of light under the lamp; underneath, on a woolen hearth rug the old sheepdog shifted every now and again. She listened to his breathing.

  Once a tiny scratchy sound came from a corner of the cupboard—a wee mouse. The sheepdog lifted his head and watched the mouse reproachfully, then over to Eithne, as if to say he could not be expected to do a cat’s work. The mouse disappeared and all was quiet again.

  Eithne woke at intervals all through the night. Bron did not return and she suspected he slept in the stable straw with Samisen.

  When she stirred, the old sheepdog stirred as well. He got up slowly from before the fire and came across and stood a moment by Eithne’s bed and dropped a friendly cool nose into her hand, lying open on the bed. It felt like a reassurance to Eithne that all was well. Then he walked back to the rug and flopped down with a long sigh.

  All night long upon the hearth, the soft trail of smoke rose from the peat, slowly and steadily weaving the endless mystery of night and dreaming.

  Next day, Eithne awoke to the smell of scones and a whistling teakettle. Hunger gripped her and before she attempted her absolutions, she ate three scones one right after the other. A fourth she fed to the dog and let him out the door into the gray light of morning.