“You remember Conor’s old story, the one about Deirdre, Lady of the Forest? I think it was her.”
Father Brien drew his breath in sharply. “You have seen Them?”
“I think so,” I said, surprised. Whatever reaction I had expected from him, it was not this. “She told me this was my path, and I must keep to it. I’m sorry, Finbar.”
“This Briton,” said Finbar slowly. “He is not the first I have met, or spoken with. The others, though, were older men, more hardened, and at the same time simpler. They were glad enough to take their freedom and go. This one plays games, he toys with us and relishes our confusion. If indeed you have received such an instruction, you have no choice but to obey; yet I can hardly believe this boy means you no harm. I am not happy to leave you here, and I think Conor would agree with me.” He twisted a lock of hair between his fingers. The color had returned to his face, but his mouth was grim.
I stared at him. “Why should Conor decide?” I asked. “He may be in charge, for now, but he’s only sixteen.”
“Conor is old beyond his years,” said Father Brien in his measured way. “In that, he resembles the two of you. He too has a path set out for him. You have, perhaps, taken this brother for granted; the quiet one, with his steady reliability, his kindness and fairness, his fund of knowledge. But you know him less well than you think.”
“He does seem to know a lot of odd things,” I said. “Things that surprise you.”
“Like the Ogham,” said Finbar quietly. “The signs, and where to find them, and how to read their meaning. What we know of that we learned from Conor.”
“But where did he learn it?” I said. “Not from any book, I know that much.”
“Conor is expert in a number of matters,” said Father Brien, gazing out of his small window. The late afternoon sun caught the wisps of graying hair that fringed his calm brow, turning them to a flaming aureole. “Some he learned from me, as the rest of you did. Some he taught himself from the manuscripts gathering dust in your father’s library; as did you, Sorcha, with your cures and your herb lore. You will find, as you grow older, that as well as this knowledge Conor has other, more subtle skills; he carries ancient crafts that belong to your line, but which have been largely forgotten in today’s world. You see the village people, how they revere him. It is true that in your father’s absence Conor is a good steward, and they acknowledge that with due thanks. But their recognition of him goes far deeper.”
I remembered something then. “The old man in the village, Old Tom who used to be the thatcher, he said something—he said that Conor was one of the wise ones, like Father, or like Father should have been. I didn’t understand him.”
“The family of Sevenwaters is an ancient one, one of the oldest in this land,” said Father Brien. “This lake and this forest are places where strange things come to pass, where the unexpected is commonplace. The coming of such as I, and our faith, may have changed things on the surface. But underneath, here and there, the magic runs as deep and as strong as in the days when the Fair Folk came out of the west. The threads of many beliefs can run side by side; from time to time they tangle, and mesh into a stronger rope. You have seen this for yourself, Sorcha; and you, Finbar, feel its power compelling you to action.”
“And Conor?” asked Finbar.
“Your brother has inherited a weighty legacy,” said Brien. “It chooses whom it will; and so it did not fall to the eldest, or even to the second, but to the one best able to bear it. Your father had the strength, but he let the burden pass him by. Conor will be the leader of the old faith, for these people, and he will do it quietly and with discretion, so that the ancient ways can still prosper and give guidance, hidden deep in the forest.”
“You mean Conor is—you mean he is a druid? How could he learn this from books?” I asked, confused. Had I known my own brother so ill?
Father Brien laughed softly. “He could not,” he said wryly. “This lore is never committed to the page; the tree script that he showed you is its only form of writing. He has learned, and learns, from others of his kind. They do not show themselves, not yet, for it has been a struggle for them to hold on. Their numbers are dwindling. Your brother has a long path to travel yet; he has barely begun his journey. Nineteen years, that is the allotted span for the learning of this wisdom. And it goes without saying that talk of this is not to be spread abroad.”
“I wondered, sometimes,” said Finbar. “One cannot listen, and move through the villages, without learning whom the people trust and why. It explains why he leaves us to follow our own ways.”
“What did you mean,” I said, still thinking hard, “about our father being the one, and giving it up?” For I could not imagine Father, with his tight, closed expression and his obsession with war, as the conduit for any kind of spiritual message. Surely that was wrong.
“You need to understand,” said Father Brien gently, “that your father was not always as he is now. As a young man, he was a different creature entirely, handsome and merry, a man who would sing and dance and tell tales with the best of them, as well as beating them all hollow at riding and archery and combats with sword or bare fists. He was, you’d have said, one favored by heaven with the full range of blessings.”
“So what changed him?” asked Finbar bleakly.
“When his father died, Lord Colum became master of Sevenwaters. There was, as yet, no call on him to be anything more, for there was one far older and wiser that kept the ancient ways alive in these parts. Your father met your mother; and, as it often is with your kin, he loved her instantly and passionately, so that to be without her was like death to him. They were blissfully happy; they rejoiced in one another, and watched their small sons grow. They were wise custodians of tuath and forest. Niamh loved her boys, but she longed for a daughter. At last you were born, Sorcha; and she died.”
His face had changed; I watched the light play over his calm features, and thought I detected a deep sorrow there, buried somewhere well within.
“Did you know her?” I asked.
Father Brien turned to me, his eyes showing no more than a faint sadness. Perhaps I had imagined what I saw.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I had been presented with a choice. They valued my skill with the pen, in the house of Kells, but my ideas caused—unrest. Conform, I was told, or live alone. I had known your father before I took holy orders, a long time ago when I was a fighting man. When I left the chapter house he offered me a place here, an act of some generosity, considering the differences between us. I met your mother. I saw their joy in each other, and how her death took all the light from him.”
“He had us,” said Finbar bitterly. “Another man might have thought that reason enough to live, and live well.”
“I think you are too harsh,” said Father Brien, but he spoke kindly. “You know not, yet, the sort of love that strikes like a lightning bolt; that clutches hold of you by the heart, as irrevocably as death; that becomes the lodestar by which you steer the rest of your life. I would not wish such a love on anyone, man or woman, for it can make your life a paradise, or it can destroy you utterly. But it is in the nature of your kin to love this way. When your mother died, it took great strength of will for Colum to endure her loss. He survived; but he paid a high price. He has little left for you, or for anyone.”
“He had a choice, didn’t he?” said Finbar slowly. “He could have turned another way, after she died—taken another path, become the sort of leader you say Conor will be.”
“He could, for the Ancient was near the end of his days, and the wise ones came to Colum, seeking a man of his line to join their number. They must have wanted him very particularly, to make such an approach. Far better to begin the long years of learning as a child, or a very young man. Yet they asked him. But Colum was deep in despair. Had it not been for his duty to his tuath, and to his children, he might well have ended his own life. So he refused them.”
“And that’s how they came to choose C
onor?”
“Not then. Conor was only a child; they waited, first, and watched you growing up, the seven of you. And the old one delayed his passing. They watched Conor as he learned to read and write, as he practiced his verses and his tales, as he taught the rest of you the wisdom of trees, and how to look after one another. In time, it became clear that he was the one, and they told him.”
We sat there in silence for a while, taking this in, as the sun’s rays slanted lower through the window and the air grew cool with early evening. No sound came from the cave. I hoped Simon’s sleep was dreamless.
“You can see,” said Father Brien eventually, “what drives your father so hard. Holding onto his lands, and winning back the islands that were lost so long ago, has taken her place as the sole purpose of his existence. By keeping that foremost in his mind, he holds the wolves of memory at bay. When they close in around him, he goes to war again and silences their howling with blood. This path takes a heavy toll on him. He has, however, rendered his lands and those of his neighbors very secure, and earned great respect throughout the north of this country with his campaigning. He has not won the islands back, not yet; this he plans to do, perhaps, when all his sons are grown.”
“He’ll do it without me,” said Finbar. “I know the islands to be mysterious beyond understanding, a place of the spirit, and I long to visit the caves of truth. But I would not kill for the privilege. That is faith gone mad.”
“As I said, a cause can blind you to reality,” said Father Brien. “Men have fought over these islands since the days of Colum’s great-great-grandfather, since the first Briton trod on that soil, not knowing it was the mystic heart of your people’s ancient beliefs. So the feud was born, and a great loss of lives and fortunes followed. Why else would the lord Colum, his father’s seventh son, be the one to inherit? His brothers were slain, all of them, fighting for the cause. And their father let them go, one by one.”
“But now he sets his own sons on the same path,” added Finbar grimly.
“Perhaps,” Brien replied. “But your brothers do not share the obsession of Lord Colum, and besides, there is Conor, and yourselves. It may at last be time for this pattern to be broken.”
I was thinking hard. After a while I ventured, “You’re saying Conor will let me stay here, and try to help Simon—that he understands what the Lady told me, about this all being part of some great design set out for us?”
Father Brien smiled. “If anyone can break away from a set path it is you, child. But you are right about Conor. He knew quite well why you came to stay here. It is a measure of his strength, and his stature, that he can reconcile this knowledge with his administration of your father’s business.”
I frowned. “You almost make it sound as if Conor should one day be head of the family,” I said. “But what about Liam? He’s always been our leader, ever since Mother told him he had to be; and he’s the eldest.”
“There are leaders, and leaders. Don’t underestimate any of your brothers, Sorcha,” said Father Brien. “Now eat, the two of you, for today’s work is by no means over.”
But we had no appetite, and the bread and cheese were still barely touched when Finbar said his farewells and with some reluctance turned his pony’s head in the direction of home. His parting shot to me was not spoken aloud.
I still don’t trust your Briton. You’d better give him a message from me. Tell him, if he lays a finger on you again, he’ll have not just me but the six of us to answer to. Make sure you tell him that.
I refused to take this seriously. Finbar, threatening violence? Hardly.
I’ll tell him no such thing. You’re starting to sound just like your big brothers. Now get going, and leave me to deal with this. And don’t worry about me, Finbar. I’ll be fine.
“Hm,” he said aloud in a very brotherly way. “Where have I heard that before? Maybe it was just before you climbed the fence to pat the prize bull; or perhaps it was the time you were so sure you could jump across that creek just as well as Padriac could, even with your short legs? Remember what happened then?”
“Be off with you!” I retorted, giving the pony a sharp smack on the rump, and he was away. In the cave, the dog began to bark. It was time to get back to work.
Chapter Three
Some broken things you can’t mend. Some you have to put together very slowly, piece by fragile piece, waiting until the last bit of work is strong enough before you try the next. It takes a lot of patience.
It was thus with Simon. Finbar’s visit had set us back a good deal, and I had first to repair that damage before starting again on the long process of healing. Simon had made a bargain with me, and it seemed he was a man of his word. Therefore, though he was often in the blackest state of mind, with little will for survival in his damaged body, he would always grit his teeth and follow my orders.
Six or seven days went by, and we moved on with painful slowness. Nighttime was the worst. Because Simon would not tolerate Father Brien’s help, it was I who must attend his every need, though the good father assisted me as subtly as he could by making sure cloths and salves were close at hand, by keeping linen fresh and providing food and drink, as if by magic, whenever I might find myself free to partake of it. I wondered, sometimes, at the ready supply of such items here in his isolated dwelling. It came to me that Simon might not be the first fugitive to pass this way, and be offered healing and sustenance in this quiet sanctuary. And who better to maintain a steady provision of life’s necessities than the silent Finbar, who traversed the woodland as unobtrusively as if he, himself, were a creature of the wild? Despite Father Brien’s support, I was tired, with a bone-deep weariness I had never known before. I used the goldenwood as sparingly as I could. With its help, Simon slept for a short span before the nightmares began, and I learned to fall asleep the instant he did, since for me too this was the only time of respite.
There was a pattern of sorts to these nights. Simon would cry out, and I would wake with a start to find him sitting bolt upright, hands over his face, shivering and gasping. He never told me what he saw, but I could imagine. Then I would light a candle, and I would pass him a cloth to wipe the sweat from his body, while the dog retreated to the doorway, whining anxiously. I ran through many songs and stories during those dark times, and my throat became dry and sore with talking. Some of it Simon heard, and some of it ran past him like leaves in the wind. When the fear was at its worst he let me put my arms around him and sing lullabies, and stroke his hair as if he were a frightened child. At length he would fall asleep again, and exhaustion would overwhelm me, sitting by his bed, so that I slept where I was, my head on the pallet, my hand in his. Such spells were brief. He might wake four, five times in one night; the temptation to dose him with something powerful enough to give us all a whole night’s rest was strong, but I knew his path to recovery lay in cleansing the body and learning to live with the fear. For the memories would be with him always, in one guise or another.
He wouldn’t let Father Brien near him. It was I, only I who must do it all, wake in an instant, soothe and comfort, keep wounds cleaned and dressed, be there to deal with Simon’s every need. That was hard, but it was our agreement. Still, at night Father Brien never left us alone. He would sit in the outer chamber, a candle by his side, waiting until the blessing of sleep should come again. His silent presence was reassuring, for I found the demons of night a formidable challenge.
There were times when I hated Simon, though I could not have said why. I suppose I knew that after this, things would never be quite the same for me. And, after all, I was not yet thirteen, and my mind still strayed to how nice it would be to be home, riding ponies with Padriac or planting out crocus bulbs for spring flowering. I had a longing to work in my little garden, so quiet and orderly, full of fresh scents and healthy, growing things.
After eight or nine such nights, Father Brien and I were looking like ghosts, wan and drained. Then there was a day when the sun came out early, and the ai
r was a little warmer, and I made Simon get up and walk outside, further than usual, so that we were high enough to see over the trees and glimpse the silver of the lake water cradled in the deep gray-green shadows of the forest.
“Our home is down there,” I told him, “quite near the lakeshore, but it’s hidden by the trees. On this side, the forest goes right down to the water’s edge. On our side, there are rocks in the water, and you can lie on them and watch the fish. And there are paths through the forest, each different from the last.”
“It would be easy to get lost.”
“We don’t,” I said. “But it happens, when people don’t know the way.” I thought about this for the first time. How was it that we always did know the way?
Simon leaned back against the trunk of a leafless ash tree, shutting his eyes. “I have a story for you,” he said, surprising me greatly. “I don’t have your skill in telling, but it’s simple enough.”
“All right,” I said cautiously, not knowing what to expect.
“There were two brothers,” said Simon, and his voice was flat and expressionless. “They were like enough in looks, and strength, and intelligence; but the one had a few years’ advantage over the other. Funny, what a difference a few years can make. Their father died; and because of those few years, the elder brother inherited the whole estate. And the other? Just a little parcel of land nobody wanted, that’s all he got. The elder was loved by all; he had those few years to establish his claim on their hearts, and gain their loyalty, and he did so with never a thought to his brother. And the younger? Somehow although he was just as good, and strong, and talented as his brother, nobody ever seemed to know it.
“The elder was a leader, and his men looked up to him and respected him. He was a man incapable of error, and he commanded total loyalty wherever he went, without effort. The younger? He did his best; but it was never quite good enough.” Simon fell into silence, as if unwilling to go on.
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