Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  “You are reluctant to speak. But how can I be a good mother to these boys, if I do not know them?” She sighed expressively, her face sweetly rueful. “I’m afraid Colum has favored some of his sons and neglected others. I detect a very frosty atmosphere where young Finbar is concerned. What can he have done, to earn such censure? Is it simply a reluctance to participate in warlike pursuits? Or has he never really forgiven his mother for dying and leaving him alone?”

  “That’s not fair!” I stood up and whirled around to face her, wrenching my hair from the servant’s grasp. I was oblivious to the pain. “Mother didn’t choose to die! Of course he misses her—we all do, nothing can ever fill the space she left. But we’re not alone, we never have been, we’ve got each other. Can’t you understand that? We are friends, and family, and part of each other, like leaves on the same branch, or pools in the same stream. The same life flows in us all. Talking of jealousy is just silly.”

  “Sit down, dear.” Oonagh’s voice was quite calm; she did not react to my outburst. “You spring to your brother’s defense—that is natural, as you have had no other companionship, all these years. What grounds have you for comparison, so narrow is your little world? Not surprising, then, that you cannot see his limitations.”

  I managed to escape, finally, but there was no way of blotting out her words, and I wondered again what it was she wanted from me, from us. I felt a strong desire to have all my brothers with me, to touch them and talk with them, to feel their strength and comforting sameness. So I looked for them; but Cormack was engaged in a bout with staves, grinning fiercely as he challenged Donal to find a way past his whirling weapon and fancy footwork. And Padriac was fully occupied with some contraption he was building. A raven perched on a rail above him, turning her head this way and that as his fingers went about their delicate task. “What is it?” I asked my youngest brother, eyeing the intricate folding framework of fine wooden slats and stretched linen.

  “Not quite a wing, not quite a sail,” muttered Padriac as his deft fingers fastened another tiny joint. “With this, a small boat will travel very fast over the water; even in the lightest of winds. See how the panels turn, when I tighten this thread?” Indeed, it was ingenious; and I told him so. I patted the old donkey, and peered into the stalls, where a litter of brindled kittens nestled in a corner of the warm straw. The raven followed me, still limping a little from her injury (attacked by other birds, Padriac thought, but she was mending well). She gave the kittens a wide berth.

  There was a long walk, straight between willows, and hedged by a late-flowering plant whose childhood name was angel-eyes, because its round blue blossoms seemed to echo the color of a spring sky. It was alive with blooms, but the heavens today were leaden; no angels would smile on this wedding. Down by the lake, Liam walked with Eilis. He held his cloak around her shoulders with his arm, careless as to who might be watching, and his head was bent as he spoke to her solemnly. Eilis had her face turned up to his, and she looked at him as if to shut out the rest of the world. For a moment, I felt a dark foreboding, a shadow over the two of them that spread its chill toward me. Then they were gone under the trees, and I went on toward the house.

  There was much activity around the kitchen, with carts coming to and fro, and barrels of ale and sides of meat being hefted on shoulders and stowed away. Smells of baking and roasting drifted in the cold air, and horses stamped and snorted. Linn greeted me at the door, snuffling her wet nose into my hand, but she did not go in. It was then that I noticed, among the carts drawn up on the stones, a familiar vehicle of plain, serviceable kind, in whose shafts an old horse waited patiently for his turn to be unbridled and led away to warm stable and rest. And this was odd. Why would Father Brien be here now, with still a night to go before the wedding? I had been sure he would come down early in the morning and travel back before nightfall, for how could he leave Simon alone after dark?

  I went in, but none of my brothers was there, and Fat Janis chased me straight out again, saying she had quite enough to worry about, what with all the fancy baking and the men coming in and helping themselves, without young ’uns underfoot. As she propelled me through the door, she slipped a warm honey cake into my hand with a wink.

  I found them eventually back where I’d started, in my own herb garden. It was probably the most private place there was, with its high stone walls and its single door into the stillroom; barring the rooftop, that is, but only Finbar and I went up there. Father Brien was on the mossy stone seat, and Conor was leaning next to him, speaking earnestly, while Finbar sat cross-legged on the grass. As I creaked the stillroom door open wider, they fell silent and all three turned their heads in unison to look at me. It was as if they had been waiting for me, and there was clearly something very wrong. “What is it?” I said, “what’s the matter?” My two brothers looked at Father Brien, and he sighed and got up, taking my hands when I ran up to him.

  “You won’t be happy with this news, Sorcha,” he said gravely. “I wish I had better for you.”

  “What?” I demanded, not allowing myself to think.

  “Your patient is gone,” Father Brien said bluntly. “The day I was away, I made haste to return by sundown, as we planned. When I reached home, the place was in darkness. At first I feared the worst for the two of you; but I could see your belongings were taken, and no apparent harm done, and the dog had neither remained nor, it seemed, come to any ill. I knew Linn would not have let you be taken without blood being shed. It was plain the horses whose hooves had marked the ground belonged to your brothers.”

  “But Simon—I left him safe—he said he would wait for you—”

  “There was no sign of him, child,” said Father Brien gently. “His outer garments were gone, and his ashen staff; though it seemed he took neither food nor water, nor a cloak against the cold, and he left his boots behind. I can hazard a guess at his intentions.”

  For he cared not if he lived or died. But he had promised me.

  “Didn’t you even look for him? Why didn’t you send for us?” I was beset with visions of Simon alone in the forest at night, surrounded by his personal demons, slowly weakening with pain and cold. Perhaps already he lay still and silent under the great oaks, with the mosses creeping over his lifeless body.

  “Hush, daughter. Of course I searched; but he is a warrior, and though hampered by his injuries, knows how to disappear when he will. And how could I send for you or your brothers? I thought it most likely that he had been taken prisoner again, and brought back here by whoever came to fetch you. I have learnt from Finbar that this nearly did happen.”

  “Indeed,” said Finbar. “Maybe, when he saw how easily he could be taken again, he chose this way, Sorcha. There is a breed of man that would rather die than be captive. And he was as pigheaded a fellow as I ever saw.”

  “But he promised,” I said rather childishly, choking back tears. “How could he come so far, and then throw it all away?” I could not forget that I had broken my own promise. Now I knew how it felt.

  Conor put a comforting arm around me. “What exactly did he promise you, little owl?”

  I hiccupped. “To live, if he could.”

  “You cannot know if he has broken this promise or not,” Conor said. “Probably you will never know. Hard though it is, you must put this behind you, for there is no way you can help your Briton now. Rest easy that you did for him all you could, and think of tomorrow, for we all have other tests and trials ahead of us.”

  “Your brother speaks the truth,” said Father Brien. “We have no choice but to move on. There is a marriage to perform; it gives me no great pleasure to do so, but I am bidden by your father and have no grounds to refuse him. Will he speak with me alone, do you think?”

  “You can try,” said Conor. “The last thing he wants just now is good advice, but coming from you it may be less unwelcome. Both Liam and myself have sought to speak with him privately, and have been refused.”

  “What’s the point?” put
in Finbar. “He’s doomed. You may as well seek to turn back the great tides of the west, or halt the stars in their dance, as step in his way on this. The lady Oonagh has him in her thrall, body and soul. I never thought to see him weakened so; and yet, strangely, I am not surprised. For nigh on thirteen years he has purged himself of any human feeling, has shut out any warmth of spirit. No wonder, then, that he was easy prey for such as her.” His tone was bitter.

  “You judge him too harshly,” said Father Brien, scrutinizing my brother’s face. “His decision is unwise, certainly, but he has made it with good intentions. For surely he sees his new bride as a guide and mentor for his younger children, someone to harness their unbridled ways and bring a little warmth to their lives. He is not unaware of his short-comings as a father. If he cannot reach out to you himself, perhaps he believes that she can.”

  Finbar laughed. “It’s clear you have not yet met the lady Oonagh, Father.”

  “I have learnt of her, from Conor and from your oldest brother, who greeted me on my arrival. I know what you face here, believe me, and I pray for you all. It is a tragedy, indeed, that your father is blind to her true character. I merely seek to prevent you from judging him too hastily. Again.”

  “So you will at least speak with him?”

  “I’ll try.” Father Brien got up slowly. “Perhaps we may find him alone now. Conor, will you accompany me? Oh, and by the way—” he fumbled in a deep pocket of his robe, taking something out. “Your friend did not vanish entirely without token, Sorcha. He left this behind where I would surely find it. I can only deduce it was meant for you. Its meaning is not clear to me.”

  He placed the small object in my hand, and the two of them left quietly. Finbar watched me in silence as I turned it this way and that, trying to read its message. The little block of birch wood was, I thought, from Father Brien’s special stock, kept dry for the making of holy beads and other items of a more secret nature. It had been smoothed and shaped until it lay comfortably in a small hand such as mine. The carving was surely not the work of one afternoon; it was precise and intricate, showing a degree of skill that surprised me. I could not make out its meaning. There was a circle, and within it a little tree. By the shape I thought it was an oak. At its foot, there were two waving lines, a river perhaps? Wordlessly I passed it to Finbar, who studied it in silence.

  “Why does a Briton leave such a token?” he said finally. “Does he seek to place you at risk, should it be found? What could his purpose be? I have no doubt it reveals his identity, in some way unknown to us. You should destroy it.”

  I snatched the little token back from him. “I will not.”

  Finbar regarded me levelly. “Don’t get sentimental, Sorcha. This is war, remember—and you and I have broken the rules well and truly. We may have saved this boy’s life, and we may not. But don’t expect him to thank us for it. Campaigners don’t leave tracks behind them unless they want to be found. Or unless there is an ambush ready.”

  “I will keep it safe,” I said. “I can hide it. And I know the risks.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Sorcha,” said my brother. “The lady Oonagh is waiting, just waiting, to find any weak spot. Then, like the wolf at night, she’ll move in for the kill. You’re not very good at hiding your feelings, or at concealing the truth. She would have no mercy on you; and Father, once she told him, would exact full retribution from us both. And think what would happen to Conor, if his part in this were known. I regret ever telling you the full story. You’d have been better just to help me on that night and never know anymore.”

  This brotherly remark was hardly worth commenting on. Besides, my mind was on other things.

  “He can’t survive, can he?” I said bluntly.

  “You know his chances better than I do,” said Finbar, frowning. “A fit man, in these conditions, with the wherewithal to make a fire and hunt game, might make his way across country and keep out of sight. You’d need to know where you were going.”

  “It’s just such a waste!” I could not really express how I felt, but Finbar read my thoughts clearly enough—he was always good at getting past any shield I might try to put up.

  “Let go of it, Sorcha,” he said. “Father Brien was right, there’s nothing any of us can do. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I suppose his chances of making his way to safety were never great.”

  “So why do it? Why take such a risk?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather die free?” he said.

  I spent some time on my own in the stillroom, mostly just thinking, the slight weight of Simon’s carving a constant reminder of my bad news; it was well enough concealed in the small bag I wore at my belt, though a safer hiding place would be needed soon. I made up an elderberry salve, and swept the floor. Later, I went out, deciding that after all I was hungry. Fat Janis’s honey cake had not gone very far. Supper was not an attractive prospect, for on this important day the whole family would be expected to put in an appearance. Maybe a miracle would happen, and Father Brien would persuade my father to put off the wedding. Maybe.

  Outside my door, crouched in a corner of the drafty passageway, was Linn. I almost missed her, for she was cowering in the shadows, but my ears caught her faint whimper.

  “What is it, Linn? What’s wrong?” I looked closer, and gasped at the great oozing weal that cut across her face from above one eye to the corner of her mouth. Her teeth gleamed through a gashed, bloody lip.

  I coaxed her out; she was shivering and flinched even from my friendly touch, but I kept talking quietly, and stroking her gently, and eventually I got her over to the old stables where Padriac greeted me with the shocked outrage I expected. Muttering about certain people and why they shouldn’t be allowed near animals, and what he’d do to them when he found out who they were, my youngest brother neatly cleaned and stitched the wound while I held poor Linn still and talked to her of green fields and bones. Padriac was very efficient, but it still took a long time. After he was finished, the dog heaved a great sigh, drank half a bowl of water, and settled down in the straw next to the donkey.

  It was dusk now and I reminded Padriac that we’d better clean ourselves up for supper; the lady Oonagh frowned on lateness. As we turned to go, there was Cormack, standing back in the shadows, his face linen-white.

  “How long have you been there?” I asked, surprised.

  “She’s well enough,” said Padriac, and there was a strange edge to his voice. “Why don’t you pat your dog, let her know you’re here to see her? Why don’t you do that, brother?”

  There was an awkward silence, and then “I can’t,” said Cormack in a strained voice.

  I looked from one of them to the other.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Ask him,” said Padriac furiously. “Ask him why he won’t come in and touch his own dog. The guilt’s written on his face, plain to see. This is his handiwork. Forgive me if I don’t stay to chat.” And he was gone, brushing past his elder brother as if he were not there.

  “Can this be true?” I said, horrified and incredulous. “Did you do this, Cormack?” Surely Padriac was wrong. It was Cormack who had saved this dog from drowning, Cormack who had raised her from a small pup, Cormack whose steps she followed with slavish devotion. My brothers might show little mercy to their enemies on the field, but they would never willfully hurt a creature in their charge.

  I stared mutely as Cormack made his way over to the stalls and stood looking down at his damaged hound. He held his arms around himself as if unable to get warm, and when I moved closer I could see that his cheeks were wet.

  “You did do it,” I whispered. “Cormack, how could you? She is a good dog, faithful and true, and sweet-tempered. What possessed you to hurt her?”

  He would not look at me. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice thick with tears. “I was in the yard, practicing, and she ran up behind me and I—don’t know what got into me, I just let fly with my staff. It was almost as if someone
else was doing it.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  “It wasn’t as if she were even in the way, Sorcha. Just—just suddenly, I was angry and I hit her.”

  “Speak to her,” I said. “She forgives you, look.”

  Hearing his voice Linn had raised her damaged head from the straw, and her long tail was thumping weakly. The donkey grumbled in its sleep.

  “I can’t,” said Cormack bleakly. “How do I know I won’t do it again? I’m not fit for any company, man’s or beast’s.”

  “You did a cruel thing,” I said slowly. “There’s no undoing it. You are just lucky that your brother had the skill to mend this damage. But she needs your love, as well, to get better. A dog does not judge you. She loves you, no matter what you do.”

  Linn gave a whine.

  “Go on,” I said. “Pat her, talk to her. Then she can sleep easy.”

  “But what if—”

  “You won’t do it again,” I said grimly. “Trust yourself, Cormack.”

  He knelt down, finally, and put out a tentative hand to stroke her neck, never taking his eyes off that ghastly, disfiguring wound. Linn turned her head with some difficulty, and licked his hand. That was how I left them.

  I move reluctantly toward a part of our story that is difficult to tell; though not the most difficult. So, we had supper, and Cormack was not there, and neither was Finbar. Father commented on this and was greeted with a wall of silence by his remaining children. Father Brien sat quietly near the foot of the table. He ate sparingly, and excused himself early. Eilis kept glancing nervously at the lady Oonagh, like a frightened animal. Liam held her hand under the table, but his face was like stone. Nobody needed to tell me that Father Brien’s talk to Father hadn’t changed anything.

  Then it was late at night, and most of the household was asleep. As the only girl, I had the luxury of my own chamber for sleeping, and that was where my brothers gathered. We were all there but Diarmid, though Cormack’s eyes were red, and he would not sit by his youngest brother. Finbar had appeared from nowhere, like a shadow. We lit seven white candles, and burned juniper berries, and sat there in silence for a while thinking of our mother and trying to share what strength we had. There had been no chance to visit the birch tree together, so we communed with her as best we could. The fire was down to embers, the candles threw a steady light on solemn faces and linked hands.