Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  I wanted to talk to Conor, but he was busy. Much of the ordering of preparations fell to him, and he had little time to spare between the supervision of the kitchen, the airing of linen, the last-minute sprucing up of stables and yard. I caught up with him briefly the second evening between supper and bedtime, in a dim corner of the great stairs. It was a good vantage point without much echo, and for once there was nobody else around. I looked at my brother afresh, imagining him in a druid’s white robes, his glossy brown hair plaited and tied with colored cord in the fashion of the wise ones. He had a serenity of gaze, a far-seeing look that you never saw on his twin’s face, for Cormack was a man of action who lived for the moment.

  “I’m sending for Father Brien, Sorcha,” he said gravely. “Do you think he will come?”

  I nodded. “If it’s just for the day, for the wedding ceremony, then he will come. Who are you sending?”

  He looked at me, reading the unspoken question in my eyes. “I suppose it will have to be Finbar, if I can find him. There is certainly no possibility of your going back, Sorcha. She is watching you closely. You must take great care.”

  “You feel it too then?” I was suddenly cold, looking up into my brother’s pale face.

  He was calm as always, but his unease was palpable. He nodded.

  “She watches those of us who are the greatest threat, and she reads us accurately. Diarmid and Cormack are nothing to her, poor innocents, and she sees no threat in Padriac, young as he is. But you, and Finbar, and myself—we have enough strength, perhaps, to resist her if we stand together. That makes her uncomfortable.”

  “Liam?”

  Conor sighed. “She tried her charms on him too, make no doubt of it. She discovered soon enough that he was cut from different cloth. Liam fights her in his own way. If he could gain Father’s ear, he might speak a word of warning and be heeded. But he, too, has his weak point. I do not like the way this is heading, Sorcha. I wish you had been able to stay away.”

  “So do I,” I said, thinking of the work I had abandoned. Still, at least Father Brien would be coming, and could give me news.

  “Sorcha.”

  I looked up at Conor again. He must have been struggling with himself—not sure how much to tell me, lest he should frighten me.

  “What?”

  “You must be very watchful,” he said slowly. “They will wed, I have no doubt of it. Whether or not we speak to Father alone before that day, the result can hardly be different now. What could we say? Lady Oonagh sets not a foot wrong; our fears are based on fantasy, he would tell us, on the wish to resist change, on ignorance. For once she has hold of you, you no longer see her true self. She clothes herself in a mist of glamor; the weak and the vulnerable have no chance.”

  “And after they are married?”

  Conor’s lips became a thin line. “Perhaps then we will see something of the truth. Believe me, if I could send you away before then, I would do so. But Father is still head of this household, and such a request, so close to his wedding day, would seem passing strange. I will look out for you as best I can, and so will Liam; but you must be careful. As for Finbar…”

  “Who is she, Conor? What is she?” In my newfound knowledge of Conor, I thought he could answer my question if anyone could.

  “I can’t say. Nor can I be sure of her reasons for doing this. We have no choice but to wait, hard as that may be. There may be some pattern to this, so large, so complex that only time will make it clear. But it is too late to prevent the marriage. Now off you go, little owl—you look as if some sleep would do you good. How was he?”

  I knew what he was talking about, despite the sudden change of tack.

  “He was mending well enough, until I was forced to leave. Could even that have been part of her plan?”

  “She could hardly have known of it. Best not to add that to your worries. It sounds as if you have done some good; perhaps now he can heal himself, with Father Brien’s help. And there are others who can guide him to safety. Maybe it’s time to let go, and tend to yourself. Go on, off to bed with you.”

  The next day there was a bit of sun, weakly filtering between the ever-present clouds, and I set to work in my garden, determined to make up to it for the way I had neglected it. I tied my hair up with a strip of cloth, put on an old sacking apron, and armed myself with knife and spade. Overgrown lavender and sprawling wormwood got a good trimming; weeds were rooted out and paths swept clear. As I worked steadily on, my mind slowly began to lose the confusion of fears and worries that plagued it, and the task in hand became all that mattered.

  At length it was tolerably tidy, and I fetched the assortment of bulbs I’d lifted last season to dry out for replanting. Daffodils in the biggest basket; then crocuses, iris, lilies of five different kinds. Some, too, that would grow as well in the wild reaches of the forest as in my sheltered beds: pig’s-ears, faery chimes, and the slender pale bulbs of mind’s-ease. Throw a handful of its leaves on your campfire at night, and you would sleep so well you would never awaken.

  Padriac had fashioned me a little tool of birch wood, for making the planting holes. As I moved around the garden, digging, setting each bulb in its place with care, smoothing the rich soil back over them, tucking them in for the winter, I recalled Conor’s words to us on the day Padriac had offered to make this for me. Don’t cut the live wood, he’d said. Find a limb that wind or lightning has taken from the tree, or a birch that has fallen in a great storm. Cut your wood from that if you can. If you must cut new wood, be sure to give due warning. The forest’s gifts should not be taken without a by-your-leave. All of us knew this lesson. There would be a quick word, and whether it was to the tree herself or to some spirit that dwelled within, probably made no difference. And sometimes, a small gift was left—nothing of great cost, but always something of significance to the giver—a favorite stone, a special feather, a shining bead of glass. The forest was always generous in her favors to the seven of us, and we never forgot it.

  It made sense, now, that Conor had been the one to teach us this lesson.

  I had almost finished; I knelt to plant the last few crocuses among mossy rocks that would shelter them, later, from the chilly breezes of spring. Crocuses are early risers. The door from the stillroom swung open with a creak.

  “My lady?” It was a very young maidservant, nervous and ill at ease. “The lady Oonagh wants you, please. Straightaway, she said.” She bobbed an apology for a curtsy, and fled.

  I had been almost happy. Now, as I knelt there with my hands covered in soil and my hair tumbling down, my heart grew cold again, even in the center of my own quiet place. I could not shut her out, not even here.

  I walked back between the lavender beds. They had bloomed well this year, and remnant flower spikes still released a memory of summer into the air as I brushed past them. Inside, I scrubbed my hands, but the nails were still black. I tidied my hair as best I could and hung the apron on a peg. Well, that would have to do. There were limits to the amount of trouble I would take for the lady Oonagh.

  She’d been given the best chamber, one whose narrow windows gave a view of the lake and caught the afternoon sun. She was waiting for me, standing demure by the bed, with rolls of cloth and laces and ribbons strewn around her. Her auburn hair outshone the brightest of these adornments, trapping the light in its dark tendrils. She was alone.

  “Sorcha, my dear! What took you so long?” It was a gentle enough reprimand. I advanced cautiously across the stone floor.

  “I was working in my garden, my lady,” I said. “I did not expect to be called.”

  “Hmm,” she said, and her gaze traveled over me from tousled head to muddy feet. “And you nearly thirteen years old. It comes of growing up in a houseful of boys, I suppose. But we’re going to change all that, my dear. How disappointed your mother would have been, to see you so wild, and on the very threshold of womanhood. It’s as well she is not here to see how your upbringing has been neglected.”

  I
was deeply affronted. “She would not have been disappointed!” I said angrily. “Our mother loved us, she trusted us. She told my brothers to look after me, and they have. Maybe I’m not your idea of a lady, but—”

  She interrupted me with her cascade of laughter, and her arm around my shoulders. I tensed under her touch.

  “Oh, my dear,” she purred, “you’re so young. Of course you defend your brothers; and I expect they did the best job they could. But they’re only boys, after all, and there’s nothing like a woman’s touch, don’t you agree? And it’s never too late to start. We have a year or two, before we must think of a betrothal for you; time enough. Your father wants a good match for you, Sorcha. We must polish your manners, and your appearance, before then.”

  I pulled away from her. “Why should I be polished and improved like goods for sale? I might not even want to marry! And besides, I have many skills, I can read and write and play the flute and harp. Why should I change to please some man? If he doesn’t like me the way I am, then he can get some other girl for his wife.”

  She laughed again, but there was an edge to it, and a sharpness in her glance.

  “Not afraid to speak your mind, are you? A trait you share with certain of your brothers, I notice. Well, we shall talk more of this later. I hope you will learn to trust me, Sorcha.”

  I was silent.

  Oonagh went over to the bed, where a profusion of cloth was tumbled. She lifted a corner of gauzy green stuff.

  “I thought, this one, for the wedding. There’s an excellent seamstress in the village, I hear, who’ll make it up for you in a day. Come here, my dear.”

  I was powerless to refuse. She placed me before a mirror I had never seen before. Its still surface was circled with twining creatures. Their red jewel eyes were on me as I looked at my reflection. Small, skinny, pale. Untidy mop of dark curls, roughly tied back. Neat nose, wide mouth, defiant green eyes. My version of the family face had not the far-seeing serenity of Conor’s or the pale intensity of Finbar’s. It was softer than Liam’s and more fine-boned than Padriac’s. The dimples that made Cormack’s and Diarmid’s smiles so charming were lacking from my thin cheeks. Nonetheless, I saw my brothers’ images as I gazed on my own.

  The lady Oonagh had taken up a bone hairbrush, and as I stood there she undid the crude tie that kept my curls off my face, and began to brush out the tangles. I clenched my fists and remained still. Something in the steady motion of the brush, and the way her eyes watched me in the polished bronze of the mirror, sent a chill deep through me. A tiny voice was alive inside me, a little warmth; I focused on the words. You will find a way, daughter of the forest. Your feet will walk a straight path.

  “You have pretty hair,” she said. The brush moved rhythmically. “Unkempt, but pretty. You should let me cut it for you. Just a little tidy up—it will sit better under a veil that way. Oh! What has happened here?” Her predatory fingers fluffed the short ends over my brow, where Simon’s knife had shorn away a curl.

  “I—” I was manufacturing an excuse in my head when my eyes met hers in the mirror. Her face was cold, so cold she seemed not quite human. The brush fell to the ground; her fingers still twined in my hair, and it was as if she could see into me, could read my thoughts, knew exactly what I had been doing. I shrank away from her.

  It was only a moment. Then she smiled, and her eyes changed again. But I had seen, and she had seen. We recognized that we were enemies. Whatever she was, whatever she wanted, my heart quailed at it. And yet I believe she was taken aback by the strength she saw in me.

  “I’ll show you how we’ll dress your hair for the wedding,” she said as if nothing had happened. “Plaited at the sides, and drawn up at the back—”

  “No,” I said, backing away, wrenching my hair from her grasp. “That is, no thank you. I’ll dress it myself, or Eilis will. And I will find something to wear—” I glanced longingly at the door.

  “I am your mother now, Sorcha,” Oonagh said with a chilling finality. “Your father expects you to obey me. Your upbringing is in my charge from now on, and you will learn to do as you are told. So, you will wear the green. The woman will come tomorrow to fit your gown. Meantime, try to keep yourself clean. There are servants here to dig up carrots and turn the dungheap—henceforth your time will be better spent.”

  I fled; but knew I could not escape her will. I would wear green for the wedding, like it or no, and I would stand by with my brothers and watch the lord Colum wed a—what was she? A witch woman? A sorceress like the ones in the old tales, with a fair face and an evil heart? There was a power about her, that was certain, but she was never one of Them. The Lady of the Forest, whom I believed I had seen in her cloak of blue, inspired more awe—but she was benign, though terrible. I thought Oonagh was of another kind, at once less powerful but more dangerous.

  I stood in front of the mirror in my green gown, as she plaited ribbons into my hair and grilled me about my brothers. Again the strange creatures fixed their ruby eyes on me and I answered despite myself.

  “Six brothers,” she murmured. “What a lucky girl you are, growing up in a houseful of fine men! No wonder you are unlike other girls of your age. The little Eilis, for instance. Sweet girl. Fine head of hair. She’ll breed well, and lose her bloom soon enough.” She dismissed poor Eilis with a flick of the fingers as she knotted the green ribbon and twisted the end tight. “Your brother could have done better. Much better. Serious boy, isn’t he? So intense.”

  “He loves her!” I blurted out unwisely, rushing to Liam’s defense without thinking. I may once have resented his love for Eilis, but I would not stand by and listen to this woman criticizing my brother’s choice. “How can you do better than wed for love?”

  This sally was greeted with cascades of laughter; even the dour maidservant smiled at my naïveté.

  “How indeed?” said Oonagh lightly, fitting a short veil over my plaited and woven hair. The figure in the mirror was unrecognizable, a pale, distant girl with shadowy eyes, her elegant dress at odds with her haunted expression. “Oh, that looks much better, Sorcha. See how it softens the line of the cheek? I may yet be proud of you, my dear. Now tell me, it seems twins run in the family—and yet I have never seen a pair more different in character than young Cormack and Conor. Like peas in a pod, physically, of course. You are all alike, with your long faces and wide eyes. Cormack is a charming boy, and your father tells me he is shaping up to be a promising fighter. His twin is very—reserved. In some ways, almost like an old man.”

  I made no comment. The maidservant was rolling up ribbons, her lips thin. Behind me, the seamstress from the village still worked on the fall of the skirt. It was a graceful gown; some other girl might have worn it with pride.

  “Conor disapproves of me, I think,” said Oonagh. “He seems to throw himself into the affairs of the household with a single-mindedness unusual in one so young. Do you think perhaps he is jealous that his twin shines so? Does he really wish to be a warrior and excel in his father’s eyes?”

  I stared at her. She saw so much, and yet so little. “Conor? Hardly. He follows a path of his own choice, always.”

  “And what is that path, Sorcha? Does a virile young man really wish for a life as a scribe, as a manager of his father’s household? A glorified steward? What boy wouldn’t rather ride and fight, and live his life to the full?”

  Her eyes met mine in the mirror; and the bronze creatures gained power from her gaze, and fixed their baleful glare on me. I was unable to stay silent.

  “There is an inner life,” I whispered. “What you see is Conor’s surface, a tiny part of what is there. You’ll never know Conor if you only look at what he does. You need to find out what he is.”

  There was a short silence, broken only by the rustle of Oonagh’s gown as she moved about behind me.

  “Interesting. You’re an odd girl, Sorcha. Sometimes you seem such a child, and then you’ll come out with something that makes you sound like an old crone.”
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br />   “I—can I go now? Is this done?” I was suddenly wretched. What else would she make me say? Why could I not control my tongue before her? Her last words had reminded me of Simon, and I could not allow her to tap into my thoughts of him, for if she learned the truth she would not hesitate to tell Father, and then it would not just be Simon, but Finbar, and I, and Conor as well that would be at risk.

  It seemed the fitting was over. The seamstress began to undo the pins, one by one. There were a lot of pins.

  “I’ve seen very little of your youngest brother,” said Oonagh, smiling. She had retreated to perch on the end of the bed, swinging one foot slightly. In her white dress with her hair falling about her shoulders, she seemed about sixteen years old. Until you looked into her eyes. “Always away off doing things, is Padriac. You’d almost think he was trying to avoid me. What is it keeps him away from crack of dawn till after suppertime?”

  This seemed safe enough.

  “He loves creatures, and mending things,” I said. The seamstress eased the bodice down. It was cold in the chamber, despite the fire. “He keeps them in the old barn. If there’s ever a bird whose wing is broken, or a hound suffers an injury, Padriac will fix it. And he can build just about anything.”

  “Mm,” she said. “So, another one who will not grow up a warrior.” Her tone was cool.

  “My brothers are all adept with sword and bow,” I said defensively. “They may not all choose Father’s path, but they are not lacking in the skills of war.”

  “Even Finbar?”

  The eyes of the creatures glowed. I stared back at them and, gathering up every scrap of will, kept my mouth firmly shut. She was behind me again, suddenly, and the hairbrush was in her hand. She waited as the maidservant began, grimly, to unfasten the network of green ribbons that tamed my hair.