Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  Sorcha, hail. Sorcha, our sister. A tinkle of laughter, and the flash of a delicate wing or a cobwebby veil, half seen in the dappled light. Sometimes you would come across a long strand of golden hair, or a slender footprint, where they had passed. Come and dance with us, sister. I greeted them silently, knowing they knew I could not follow them. And then in a flurry they were gone; for along the cart track came an all too human band of youths, both boys and girls, laughing, whistling, and shouting, with flowers and ribbons in their hair. I watched them quietly, and Linn stayed silent where she was; one sharp gesture from me was enough to command her obedience now. As the band passed between the hawthorn bushes, they paused to wrap colored streamers on branches still fragrant with late blossom, and sang an old rhyme, asking the great Mother for a bountiful harvest. They sang with shining faces and bright eyes; and when they finished the girls broke into fits of giggles and ran off down the track, and the boys ran after them, and then they started again.

  Two of the young men had bundles of sticks on their backs, and the party split up, the girls continuing down the track until every hawthorn bore its summer garland of gold and white and green ribbons. The boys made their way up the nearest small hill, and now I could see a bonfire in readiness on its very top, and realized this must indeed be the final preparation for Meán Samhraidh, the midsummer solstice.

  Tonight there would be offerings passed across the fire, and flaming herbs would be carried to stable and barn, to field and cottage, to ask the blessing of Dana, the mother goddess, on every creature that dwelled there.

  And so it was time. Time to find out if I could believe what the Lady had told me. Time to learn if it was true I could break the spell. For I remembered well her promise; twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter, they will come to you if they can, and from dusk to daybreak they may resume their human shape. The words themselves were hedged with uncertainty. But I believed my brothers would come, and that I must return to the lake and wait for them.

  The girls were still in sight down the track and I dared not move while I could be seen. And now there was another young man coming, more hesitantly, well back from the rest. He was thickset and had the coarse, innocent features of one born not quite right, one who would be always one step behind the others. He hurried along the path as best he could, limping a little, his big hands stretching out to touch a ribbon bow here, a blossom there, his broad smile revealing a prominent set of teeth.

  The others had moved on without him, but he didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he chose the place just below my tree to sit down by the road and rummage in his pocket. I was eager to be off, but could not move. The boy took out a lump of bread and cheese and began to partake of his meal in a leisurely way. I could hardly begrudge him; after all, he had chosen the same spot as I to enjoy the sights and smells of this glorious summer day. So I waited, watching him take each mouthful. It was a long time since I had tasted bread. After he had finished, the boy seemed to drift off into a half doze, his hat tilted almost over his eyes, his hands dangling between his knees, apparently scarce taking in his surroundings. I waited a little longer. He showed no signs of moving. I thought of my brothers, and the long walk back to the lake, and I began, very slowly, to climb down from my perch.

  There had been a time when we could move through the forest, my brothers and I, with speed and in total silence. Nobody could have seen us, or heard us, or caught us. But now my hands had lost their fine touch. They were swollen and hardened and the joints ached even in summer’s warmth. I lost my grip for a moment and grabbed at a branch, and I made a twig crack, just the tiniest noise. He was on his feet in a flash, staring straight at me, and his around brown eyes were full of wonderment.

  “Faery!” he exclaimed in a loud, slightly indistinct voice. “Faery girl!”

  His grin was huge and joyous, as if his fondest dream had come true; as if he had seen the most wonderful object of his imaginings. For an instant I stared back at him. Then I slipped away to the ground, grabbed my bundle and fled into the forest, and I made sure my path home was so hard to follow that none could track me there. Poor boy. I wonder how many times he had waited in that spot, hoping for a sight of the Fair Folk. Often it was to just such as him that they chose to appear. I hoped, if he told his tale, that it would be put down to excessive imagination. With luck, they would believe it really was a faery girl that he had seen.

  The encounter had shaken me. To risk discovery thus, on the very day of my brothers’ return, had been foolish in the extreme. I vowed never to come that way again, however great my need to see humankind, however painful my isolation. No word must make its way back to my village, and thence to the lady Oonagh. For she would come for me if she found me, I was in no doubt of that. Besides, I had wasted precious time. Already midsummer, and the first shirt barely begun. At this rate I would be here for many moons. I hastened home through the forest, eager for nightfall.

  To speak truth, I scarcely doubted that first time that they would return as she had told me. And so I prepared for them, washing myself, dragging a comb through my disheveled curls, making my simple home as orderly as I could. I left the fire alight, though damped down, and I walked to the lakeshore well before sunset. There I performed the ritual alone and in silence. I was careful to leave nothing out. In turn I greeted the spirits of Fire, Air, Water, and Earth. I did not ask any favors. Instead I opened my mind to what would come. Told them that I accepted it, whatever it was. Asked them to accept me for my part in the great web of life, and to use me as they would. When I had finished I took up my staff of oak that had been Father Brien’s, and I cast the circle on the white sand around me. I sat cross-legged at its very center and waited, with the wide, empty waters of the lake before me. Gradually the sounds of the forest began to make their way back into my consciousness. Trees rustled, birds called and answered high above. I could do no more.

  The sky deepened to rose and violet and a dusky gray. An owl flew overhead unseen, her mournful cry floating in the evening air. Not long. Not long now. Linn had been quiet, crouched in the grass, watching me carefully. Now she crept closer, growling softly. And they were there, out on the water, drifting together, white ghosts on the darkening ripples. My heart leaped, but I sat still and waited. Thunder rolled far away to the west, and the air clung damply to the skin.

  The last trace of sunlight was extinguished; night stretched her hand over the forest. As dusk became dark, there was a movement in the water, and they came to shore, one by one. The moment of changing was veiled from me by the night, for the moon had yet to show herself through gathering clouds. I saw dimly the shape of a great wing, the bending of a strong, arching neck. And then they were here, my brothers, my dear ones, on the sand before me, dazed and wet, half clothed in the selfsame garments they had worn before, and then, best balm for the spirit, came the silent greeting of mind to mind, stumbling and incoherent at first, but filling my heart with the deepest joy.

  Sorcha. Sorcha, we are here.

  I moved forward, touching each one in turn, half seeing by the light of my small lantern the wildness and confusion in their eyes, hearing their voices halting and hesitant. All was not well with them. If I had expected them delivered to me whole and unchanged, brave and true and laughing as I remembered them, then I had misapprehended the nature of enchantments.

  It is not so bad. Conor put his arm around me as I heard his inner voice. Remember the tale of the four fair children of Lir? Turned into swans they were for nine hundred years, and when at last they came back to human form they were like little old men and women, bent and deformed. We have returned unharmed, in body at least—and somewhat sooner than they.

  This did little to reassure me. Did my brothers know nothing of the spell and counterspell? Nothing of the length of their enchantment, and the method of undoing it? How would I explain this, without the power of speech, and with the command of silence on my story? And there was something else wrong here.

  Where is Finbar
? For my mind was able to touch but the one brother, and my hands found but five.

  “He comes. Give him time,” said Conor aloud, and I was reassured that he sounded quite like his normal self. And now the others were getting up, groaning slightly as if from excess of ale or a hard beating in the practice yard, and as their human consciousness slowly returned to them they gathered around me, and hugged me, and gripped each other by hand or shoulder as if to be sure that this was not just another vision or trick of sorcery. The dog sidled across to Cormack, still cautious. He bent to fondle her ears and stroke her scarred face with gentle fingers. Then she knew him, and jumped up to plant huge paws on his chest, barking ecstatically. I saw him draw back for just a second, and a look almost like fear passed across his face; and then it was gone as he roughed up her coat, grinning.

  I took hold of Conor’s jacket, drawing him away from the shore. In my other hand I held the small lantern. My brothers followed me up the hill to the cave, but they were still slow to return to full recognition and were silent for the most part, following my direction without question. We reached the cave, and I rekindled the fire and lit another lamp. It should be safe enough. Tonight all souls would be gathered for midsummer revels, and only the most foolhardy or ignorant mortal would venture deep into the forest at such a time.

  My brothers sat around the little fire like lost spirits that had drifted off their chosen path. There was little talk at first; they seemed stunned, though from time to time one would reach out to touch another’s hand as if to reassure themselves that they were indeed returned to human form. After a while I became aware that Finbar was there as well, come silently up from the water to join our small circle. It was as I stretched to throw another piece of ash wood on the fire that his hand came out to grasp mine; his eyes had always been sharp.

  “Your hands,” he said grimly, “what’s the matter with your hands?” and his long fingers moved gently over mine, feeling the roughness and the swelling and the hardening of the joints. “Sorcha, what has happened? Why don’t you speak to us?”

  I was mindful that my story could not be told, not even to my brothers. So, I touched my closed lips with my fingers then placed my hands together and swept them swiftly apart, shaking my head. I may not speak. Not at all. I may not tell you. I had a strong shield around my thoughts, but I had reckoned without Conor’s intuition.

  “She has laid this curse on you,” said Conor, “that much is plain. With what end? Is there an end?”

  I shook my head miserably, showing him again with fingers on lips that I could not tell him.

  “You can say nothing at all?” ventured Diarmid, his face a picture of frustration. “But then how will we know—how will we—”

  “Have you no memory of the time away?” Conor asked him cautiously.

  “Memory? Not exactly. It’s more like…”

  “Feelings, not thoughts,” put in Padriac who, of them all, seemed most like his old self, if somewhat quieter. “Hunger, fear, warmth, cold, danger, shelter. That’s all a swan knows. It was—different. Very different.” I saw him look down at his arms for a moment, and I suspected he was wishing that, as a man, he could still fly.

  “You must understand, Sorcha,” said Conor in his measured way, “that the mind of a wild creature is unlike that of a man or woman. I believe very little crosses the boundaries with us, when we change. As swans we can see the things that occur to man and woman, but we cannot comprehend them as you do; and once transformed back to our human shape, we remember the other life only dimly, as through an autumn mist. Padriac summed it up well. A wild creature knows the need to hide, to protect, to flee, to seek food and refuge. But conscience, and justice, and reason—these are outside the span of its mind. Finbar finds this punishment hard, for he values these things above all others. The lady Oonagh might almost have chosen the curse especially for him; it is hard enough for the rest of us.” He looked across the circle of firelight at Finbar, who watched us silently, his face in shadow.

  “Sorcha’s own punishment has been worse,” said Cormack soberly. “To be alone in the forest, so far from everything, and unable to speak.” He looked at me closely.

  “At least we have returned, and can set things right for you,” said Liam, who was stretching his long legs cautiously as if to check they still worked properly. “Or is this some vision, to be gone before we have time for thought or action? For how long are we returned to our human form?”

  But I could not answer. To tell this was to tell part of the story, and it was forbidden.

  “Not long, I suspect, from Sorcha’s look of misery,” said Diarmid bitterly.

  “I would suspect, as little as one night,” said Conor. “In the old tales, it is dusk and dawn that are the times of changing. We must be prepared for the worst.”

  “One night?” Diarmid was outraged. “What can be done in one night? I would have vengeance; I would undo the ill I helped create. But we are far from home, too far to return. Why are you here, Sorcha? What about Father Brien who was to have helped you?”

  That was another story, and so could be told. I mimed for them. A Christian cross; coins on the eyelids. Flight up, up into the distant sky and away to the west. They understood me well enough.

  “So our old friend is dead,” said Liam.

  “And not from natural causes, I’ll be bound,” added Cormack. “That fellow was like an oak, slight though he was; he’d a strength in him better than many a good fighting man’s.”

  “The lady Oonagh’s hand stretches out,” said Diarmid.

  Conor glanced at him. “There will be vengeance,” he said. “Full and terrible vengeance. His killers will be scattered in pieces, and crows will pick at their white bones.”

  We all stared at him. His tone had not even changed.

  “We believe you,” said Diarmid, raising an eyebrow.

  “He was a Christian,” put in Padriac. “Perhaps he would have wished forgiveness, not retribution.”

  Conor stared into the fire. “The forest protects its own,” he said.

  “This was a great loss to you, Sorcha,” said Liam. “Have you now no companions here, save solitude?”

  “She cannot tell you,” said Conor. “But all this is for a purpose, I have no doubt. Sorcha, do you know the length of this enchantment? Is there an end to this? And when may we return here?”

  I shook my head, placing both hands over my mouth. Why wouldn’t they stop asking questions? I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

  “It will be a long time, I think.” Finbar’s voice was very soft. “A time to be measured in years rather than moons. You must not press Sorcha for answers.”

  Not one of them questioned what he had said. When Finbar spoke thus, it was always the truth.

  “Years!” exclaimed Liam.

  “She cannot be left here alone for so long,” said Diarmid. “It is not safe, nor seemly.”

  “There is no alternative,” Conor said. “Besides, you know your old stories as well as the rest of us. There must be a purpose to this, but she is forbidden to tell. Right, Sorcha?”

  “Tasks,” said Cormack quietly, from where he sat with his arms around the dog. “There will be tasks to complete before the end.” He saw my nod of agreement. “What can we do, Sorcha?”

  I shook my head, spread my hands wide. Nothing. Nothing, but stay safe. Stay alive for long enough.

  “It has something to do with her hands,” said Conor slowly, and his voice was dark with some feeling I could not fully understand. “Not for nothing would you damage yourself thus. There is some evil at work here, I am certain of it.”

  I shook my head, for he was only half right.

  No. Not evil. This is the way. You must let me do this. I can save you.

  “Here,” said Padriac from behind me. I had not noticed him going into the cave, but now he emerged with my spindle in one hand and a length of the telltale thread dangling, sharp and brittle. The firelight glowed on its deceptive, delicate stra
nds. There was a general intake of breath, and Padriac sat down among the others, the spindle balanced between his capable hands.

  “What is this?” asked Liam, outraged, as his fingers touched the fiber. “This thread is full of fine needles. No wonder her hands are ruined. This thread is—”

  “It’s starwort,” said Padriac. “Sorcha has the fiber ready for spinning, and the start of a woven square.”

  “Spinning with starwort!” exclaimed Cormack. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “You yourself mentioned tasks,” Conor reminded his twin. “It looks as if you were right.”

  “You don’t need to sound so surprised,” said Cormack with a trace of his old grin.

  “Six brothers.” Finbar had been very quiet, and now his voice was constrained, as if he spoke only because he must. “Six brothers, six garments, maybe?”

  “Garments of starwort? I would not gladly wear such a rough shirt,” commented Diarmid.

  Conor’s level gaze went around them all, appraising. “You might be glad to wear it,” he said slowly, “if it had the power to undo the spell.” It had not taken him long to work it out.

  For a moment, as they looked at one another across the fire, it seemed to me that there was some communication between my brothers which needed no words, and that this time I was shut out. It dazzled me, that this puzzle had been solved so quickly; it hurt me, to know my brothers’ cleverness, their insight, their very love and concern for me would be gone again the moment the light of dawn touched their troubled faces. I was learning the nature of magic; it seemed to work according to a strict set of rules. And yet, somehow, it never worked in quite the way you expected. Like the Fair Folk themselves, it had twists and turns that always took you by surprise.