The boy was almost asleep, his face nearer to repose than I’d seen it yet, but wary still. He spoke in a whisper.
“If you’re not a witch,” he said, “how did you know my name?”
One of the Fair Folk told me. That was the truth, but I could hardly expect him to believe it. I thought quickly. As I said before, lying was a skill I never came to grips with, being no better at it than my brother Finbar.
“I will answer that when I see you on your feet and out in the air,” was the best I could manage. “Now you must rest, while I see what food Father Brien has for us. The dog must be hungry too.”
But when I tried to call Linn to follow me, she lowered her whiskery muzzle onto her paws, and simply looked at me with liquid, doggy eyes. Simon’s hand rested on her back, fingers moving against her rough coat. And so I left the two of them, for a while.
There followed the strangest time of my young life, up till then at least, for what came later was not merely strange but almost outside mortal understanding. On that first night I did as the lady had bid me, going out alone under the great oaks, and climbing up high to where the delicate net of goldenwood hung suspended like a constellation of stars between the massive boughs of the forest giant. I used a small sickle to cut down what I needed. Father Brien was somewhat concerned that I might fall, or cut myself instead of the plant. But I explained to him how this herb is sacred to those of the old faith. Indeed, it is so mystic and powerful that its true name is secret, neither to be spoken aloud nor given written form. We called it goldenwood, or birdlime, or some other name in place of its true title. It is a strange herb, outside the laws of nature, for it does not grow toward the light, as other plants do, but in what direction it will, up, down, to east or west as the fancy takes it. Nor does it root in the ground, but grows from the upper reaches of oak, apple, pine, or poplar, twining itself around their limbs, resting in their canopies. It takes no account of the seasons, for it can bear both ripe and green berries, and flowers, and new leaves all at the same time. There are strict rules about cutting it, and I had followed them as well as I could, since it appeared I had been given permission.
Goldenwood could be used in many ways, and I employed most of them in my attempt to help the Briton. Woven in a circle and hung over his pallet, it had some efficacy in keeping his night terrors at bay. I made an infusion, and we all drank that, but sparingly. My cure relied partly on clearing Simon’s body of the herbal influences that had been so essential up till now; but this physic, the most powerful of all, he still needed. As I had gathered it under a waxing moon, I had seen an owl fly overhead, dipping and rising in the cold silence of the night sky. Maybe she was the one I knew, now again part of the dark world’s fabric.
The few days Conor had sanctioned came, and went, and so did Finbar. He rode up on a sturdy hill pony whose strong back could easily bear us both home. Father Brien was in his cottage, doing some fine work with pen and inks, while Simon and I sat (or lay, in his case) on the grass a little further down the hill. Moving him had been a nightmare, the first time. Every step was agony for him, but he refused to be carried by an old man and a scrawny brat who talked too much, as he put it. So he walked, and put his teeth through his lip keeping silent, and I felt the pain piercing through my own body as I held his arm and walked beside him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Sorcha,” said Father Brien. He looked anxious, but he was leaving the treatment in my hands. On the other side of Simon, the dog padded steadily along, curbing her usual high spirits, leaning in slightly to help him stay upright. His hand gripped her collar.
“I do,” I said, and Father Brien took my word for it.
So, on the day Finbar came there we were, the three of us, Simon, me, and the dog, but she had left our side to sniff around under the trees, tail whipping from side to side as she scented rabbit. We’d talked a lot by then, or rather, I’d talked and Simon listened, having little choice in the matter. I asked him nothing, and he gave away nothing; so I relied on the old tales, and snippets of song, and occasionally I talked about my forest and some of the strange things that happened there. He could be rude, and even cruel, and he was both when it suited him. I heard plenty about my people’s nature, and what they had done over the years to his own folk; and he was imaginative in his insults to me and to Father Brien. These I could handle well enough; the tales of war were harder for me, which is probably why I talked most of the time—at least that kept him quiet. His mood was changeable; it could snap from exhausted tolerance to fury to terror at a moment’s notice, and tending him drained my energy more than any other patient I had encountered. I dressed his wounds twice a day, for he would let Father Brien nowhere near him. This was one task I never got used to.
By then there was a sort of acceptance developing between us. Although he scoffed at the unlikeliness of it all, I knew he liked my tales. The fresh air and the walking, hard though it was for him, had brought a slightly better color to his face, and the cornflower eyes were not quite so lifeless. I brushed his hair; he made more fuss about the pulling out of knots and tangles than he ever had about the cruel pain of his injuries. I took his general ill temper as a good sign; for anything was better than the blank-eyed despair with which he waited for the endless day to pass, the ashen-faced terror of his night waking.
Then Finbar came. His pony had walked the last part of the dirt track; he left her some distance away and came on by foot. From habit, he moved in total silence, so his appearance was quite sudden, there on the edge of the grove. And Simon was up in a flash, his swift rasping intake of breath the only indicator of what this movement cost him, and then I felt my hair gripped from behind and cold metal at my neck.
“Move one step further and I’ll slit her throat,” he said, and Finbar stopped dead, white-faced. There was no sound save for the single note of a distant bird calling to a rival; and Simon’s labored breathing somewhere behind me. Finbar stretched out his hands very slowly, showing them relaxed and empty; and then he lowered himself to the ground, back straight as a young tree, eyes watchful. His freckles stood out against his pallor and his mouth was a thin line. I could hear Father Brien humming to himself within the cottage. The knife eased away from my throat, slightly.
“This is your brother?”
“One of them,” I managed, my voice coming out in a sort of squeak. Simon loosened his grip a little. “Finbar saved you. He brought you here.”
“Why?” The voice was flat.
“I believe in freedom,” said Finbar with admirable steadiness. “I’ve tried to right wrongs where I can. You are not the first I have helped in such a way, though what became of them afterward I do not know. Will you let my sister go?”
“Why should I believe you? Who in his right mind would send a little girl into his enemy’s arms, alone except for a doddering cleric? Who would turn traitor to his own family? What sort of man does that? Maybe you have a troop of warriors, there in the trees, ready to take me and finish what they started.” Simon’s voice was under control, but I could feel the tension in his body, and knew staying upright and holding me must be agony for him. He would not last much longer. I spoke to Finbar directly, without words, mind straight to mind.
Leave this to me. Trust me.
Finbar blinked at me, relaxing his guard for a moment. I read in his thoughts an anger and confusion that I had not seen in him before.
It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s him.
I have never been prone to the weaker characteristics of a woman; in fact, despite my small size and apparent delicacy I am a strong person and able to endure much. I should never have thought myself capable of such a deception, and I risked much in my guess at Simon’s probable reaction. But at the time, it was the only thing I could think of. So I gave a slight moan, and buckled at the knees, and it was to Simon’s credit that he dropped the knife and managed to catch me before I hit the ground. I kept my eyes firmly shut, listening to Finbar making noises of brotherly co
ncern, and Simon regaining his weapon and warning my brother away. Then Father Brien’s voice—alerted by the noise, he was at my side quickly and wiping my face with a damp cloth that smelled of lavender. Opening my eyes cautiously, I met a very wry expression on the good father’s face. He didn’t miss much.
I turned my head one way. Finbar sat exactly as before, cross-legged, bolt upright, his expression well schooled. I turned my head the other way. Simon was very close, his back against a large stone, the knife held loosely between his hands. I felt he had been watching me, but now his eyes were turned away, toward the trees. I did not like the look of his skin, which was showing that sweaty pallor that I’d hoped was gone for good.
All four of us were apparently at a loss as to where to go next. The problem was solved unexpectedly by the wolfhound, Linn, who had tired of her rabbit hunt, and now hurtled toward us out of the forest, ecstatic to see so many friends at once. First she leapt on Finbar, planting her feet on his shoulders and washing his face with some vigor. Then she bolted over to me, careless of my apparently delicate state of health, and planted heavy feet on my stomach in passing. She circled Simon, quivering with anticipation, but careful, still, not to hurt him.
“Well, children,” said Father Brien matter-of-factly, “I shall fetch a cup of mead, for I believe we all have need of it. Then we shall talk. Try not to harm one another for a few moments, I beg you.”
He rose, and Simon let him go. Clearly, though, I was not yet free to do the same, for as soon as I managed to sit upright I felt his hand around my arm again, and there was still a fierce determination in his grip. Clearly there was some reserve of strength there that even I had not guessed at.
We sat in uneasy silence until Father Brien returned, bearing a jug and some cups, and then Finbar began to speak in our tongue.
“No!” I said sharply, cutting him off. “Speak so that Simon can understand you. There have been enough secrets already. We may be enemies but we can at least be civil.”
“You think so?” said Finbar, brows raised. “The Briton here has hardly shown civility.”
“Now,” said Father Brien, giving each of us a cup, “let us simulate a truce, at least, and attempt to sort this out. I believe Finbar is here on peaceful business, young man; he was to collect his sister and escort her home.”
“As you see, I am unarmed,” said Finbar, his hands open on his knees. A strand of hair fell across his eyes, but he made no attempt to brush it away. It was me he was watching this time. “I’m here to fetch Sorcha, that’s all. I had been thinking of asking after your health, to see maybe if saving you was worth the bother; but I won’t trouble myself with that now.”
He has no intention of hurting me. Can’t you see that?
Finbar raised his brows at me, disbelieving. Simon was silent, his cup untouched on the grass beside him. I felt his hand burning against my skin, through the thin fabric of my dress. The dog sniffed at the mead.
“Any news from your father, Finbar?” Father Brien asked casually.
“Not yet. It will be some time longer, I think. Your patient will be safe enough until he can travel. It would be good to be able to say the same for my sister. For one who was called here to heal, it seems she has not been treated kindly. I think I have come none too soon.”
Simon’s voice was cruel. “What did you expect? A jubilant welcome? Fawning gratitude? Give me one reason why I should be thankful to be returned to life!”
There was a silence.
“Son,” said Father Brien eventually, “the future seems dark to you at present, and there is no telling where your way will lead. But there is a light on every path. In time you will find it.”
“Spare me your homespun faith,” said Simon wearily. “I despise it, and you.”
“You are hardly in a position to throw it back in his face,” said Finbar mildly. “He cares for you and your kind because of that very faith. Without it, he might be a killer like my kinsmen. And, perhaps, like yours.”
“Indeed, I was once just such a man. I know the power of a cause, and how it can blind you to reality. Finbar sees this already. Perhaps your mission in life will be to learn it.” Father Brien was reflective.
“What do I care for your missions! I am fit for nothing. As fast as she patches me up, I fall apart, stinking of decay. You would have done better not to meddle, but to leave me where I was. The end would have been quicker.” Simon’s voice was still under control, but a convulsive shiver ran through his body. I opened my mouth to speak, but Finbar got in first.
“I’m taking my sister home,” he said. “I thought to help you, and so did she. But I will not have her hurt or threatened. We have done what we can, and it seems you have no further need for our services.”
Simon laughed derisively. “Not so fast, big brother,” he said. “I still have my knife, and I am not quite helpless. The little witch stays with me. You sent her here to heal me; so let her heal me. For she seems to believe the impossible can happen, if we do not.”
“You forget that she is just a child,” said Father Brien.
“Child? Huh!” Simon gave a mirthless chuckle. “Outwardly, perhaps. But she’s like no child I’ve ever known. What child knows the properties of herbs, and a thousand stories each stranger than the last, and how to…” His voice faltered. Finbar glanced at Father Brien, who gazed back at him reflectively. My arm was starting to hurt a lot, where Simon’s fingers clutched it.
“It’s not up to you to decide,” I said as firmly as I could. I looked at each of them in turn—Finbar with his ashen face and clear gray eyes, the mild, penetrating gaze of Father Brien. Simon’s touch communicated his pain and despair. “I have a job to do here, and it’s not finished. Between you, you’ve already undone most of my good work this afternoon. Finbar, you must go home, and leave me to my proper task. Believe that I am safe here, and best left alone. I will call you when I am ready.”
He needs me, Finbar.
I won’t leave you here. He tried to keep me out of his thoughts, but he could not quite conceal his guilt and confusion. This worried me. Wasn’t Finbar the brother who was always so certain, who always knew what to do?
You must leave me. This is my choice.
And so he did, eventually. It was fortunate that Father Brien trusted me and believed in what I was doing, for it was he who persuaded my brother to move back into the cottage and leave me alone awhile with my patient. Simon let them go, silent. It was only after they were out of sight, and the cottage door closed with a thud, that the restraining grip on my arm changed to a clutch for support, and he let out his breath in a long shuddering gasp. Between us, the dog and I got him back into the cave and lying down, and I broke all my rules and made up draft that would give him a reasonable sleep.
“You’d best drink this,” I said, holding out the cup.
Simon sniffed at it suspiciously. I had given him nothing but the infusion of goldenwood, since the day I came.
“What’s in it? It smells different. I suppose you’re trying to poison me now? Finish me off?”
“Isn’t that what you said you wanted?” It was beyond me to keep this retort back, for I was annoyed with his refusal to help himself.
Simon raised his brows at me. “It smells bad. I won’t drink it.”
I put the cup into his hand and curled his fingers around it. “You have a short memory,” I told him. “Didn’t you promise to do as I told you, as long as I agreed to look after you? I’ve kept my side of it. I’m staying here until you’re well again. Now drink this and stop talking. You’re not the only one who’s tired and out of sorts.”
He drank, scowling up at me the while, and lay back again, his eyes fever-bright. Then I sat by him, talking of nothing much, watching him grapple with the pain and fight to keep silent. After a while, the effects of the herbal infusion stole over him and his features began to relax, his eyes clouding. My arm was hurting quite a lot, and I went quietly over to Father Brien’s shelves to seek an ointme
nt, perhaps mallow root or elderflower. I found what I wanted in a shallow lidded bowl, and returned to my stool to anoint my bruises. There was a ring of reddened flesh right around my upper arm. Massaging with the salve relieved the pain a little.
Something made me glance up as I placed the lid back on the bowl. Simon was still awake, just, heavy lids not quite masking the startling blue of his eyes. “You bruise too easily,” he said indistinctly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Then his lids dropped and he was asleep. The dog moved in closer, wedging herself alongside him on the narrow pallet.
There was a short spell, then, for explanations and decisions. I went to the cottage and we stayed there, but with the door open, for as I told the others, Linn would alert me if Simon wakened. Father Brien insisted that both Finbar and I ate and drank, although neither of us had the stomach for it.
It took a while to persuade Finbar to go home. He still believed me to be in danger, and swore that Conor would never agree to my staying. I used his old argument against him: You should not assume a Briton was evil just because of his golden hair, or his height, or his strange manner of speaking. He was a human being with strengths and weaknesses, just like us. Hadn’t Finbar said so himself many times, even to our father?
“But he threatened to kill you,” said Finbar, exasperated with me, “he held a knife at your throat. Does that mean nothing?”
“He’s sick,” I said. “He’s scared. And I’m here to help him. Besides, I was told…” I broke off.
Finbar’s gaze sharpened. “Told what?”
I could not lie. “Told that this was something I must do. Just the first step on a long and difficult path. I know I have to do it.”
“Who told you this, Sorcha?” asked Father Brien gently. They were both staring at me intently now. I chose my words with care.
Daughter of the Forest Page 8
