Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  “Better eat something. And drink.”

  I stayed quite still. There was wisdom in not making it obvious I understood their language. If they thought me some sort of wild girl of the woods, some village idiot, I would be safer. I would not be much of a trophy, or worth a hostage price. After all, I was my father’s daughter.

  “Mm.” He scrutinized me as I sat there, huddled in the half dark. Then he tried again, muting his voice so as not to wake the others. “You—food? You—water?” It seemed he had learned a few words in our tongue. His accent was laughable. I looked at him, and he held out a traveler’s cup. I edged away from him, for however kind his words, he was a man, very tall and broad of shoulder, big enough and strong enough to do whatever he liked to me. My fever had come down, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop shaking.

  He put the cup on the ground near me, and retreated. When I failed to respond, he tried again. “You—water,” he repeated. “Unless,” he went on in his own tongue, “you feel, like me, that you’ve swallowed half the lake already. You made a good attempt to drown me, I thought.”

  For an instant, a most curious feeling came over me, as if we were replaying a scene already a part of my life from somewhere long back, but subtly changed. Then it was gone, and I picked up the cup, annoyed at the way my hand trembled, and drank.

  And he was right, I did feel better.

  “Good,” he said, not taking his watchful eyes off me. I drank again, my hand steadier on the cup now. In a minute I would try to get up. See if I could walk. If I could run, just for long enough to get away. For the Britons had their own desperate mission. They would not waste time seeking me, they would more likely be relieved at losing their unexpected burden. Then I would…at that point the train of thought reached a blank. I was in unknown territory, without proper clothing, without food or tools or any help. And if I had understood right, a band of armed and dangerous men would be moving swiftly down on us once dawn broke. They’d said Redbeard. Could this be Seamus Redbeard, the father of Eilis? What if I were here, and they found me? There would be men there that would know me, even after nigh on two years. What then? It did not bear thinking of. There would be a swift return to my father’s house, and to the lady Oonagh. The thought made my flesh crawl. That way was all darkness and death, for me and my brothers. I was in danger from both the Britons and their pursuers. I had to get away.

  “Here. Eat.” The Briton held out a strip of the dried meat, as if to a nervous dog. I shook my head. “Eat,” he repeated, frowning. His eyes were as blue as ice, as blue as the sky on a frosty winter morning. I was hungry; but not so hungry that I could stomach flesh. Then he was putting the meat back in the bag where it seemed they kept their travelers’ rations, and he was looking maybe for something else, and his eyes were turned away just for a moment. I moved fast and silently, using all the skills I had. Up, across, under the overhang, away—

  His hand shot out so swiftly I barely saw it. He gripped my arm painfully, jerking me to my knees beside him. I bit back a yelp of frustration and fear.

  “I don’t think so.” He didn’t even raise his voice. The others slept on. His hold did not slacken; he knew how to use the least force to cause the most hurt, that was certain. I was drawn up close to him, too close for comfort, for I smelled his sweat and his anger and I felt his breath on my face and saw the chill in his eyes. His strength and quickness alarmed me—how could I ever have thought I could get away? The fever must indeed have made me stupid. But I was angry too. What game was he playing? Why keep me here now, when they needed to move on swiftly and unencumbered?

  He had hardly moved from where he sat, save to imprison my arm and hold me by him. His fingers dug into my flesh. He had very big hands. I could not quite stifle a gasp of pain, and his grip loosened, but not much.

  “Damn you,” he said, still in that quiet, level voice. “Three moons and more I’ve been in this godforsaken country, searching for answers. Traveled to the strangest places on earth; followed every lead, turned every wretched stone. Put my friends at risk of their lives. And for what? Hunger and cold and a knife in the dark. There is no truth on this island of yours. Rather, there are as many truths as there are stars in the sky; and every one of them different.”

  I gaped at him. Whatever I had expected him to say, it was not this.

  “I could swear you understand me,” he said, looking direct into my eyes. “And yet, how could you?”

  What was it Conor had said once, about me and Finbar? The two of them are like open books…their thoughts blaze like a beacon from their eyes…I hoped this Briton could not read me so well. It was starting to get light; I heard his companions stirring.

  “You want to go,” he stated. “Where, I can’t imagine; but I suppose you have some bolt-hole near here. Perhaps to hide in until your countrymen arrive; maybe you think to watch them hack us to pieces. I did not think you one of our enemy; not when I stopped you from drowning yourself. Perhaps you really are an innocent, as my friends believe; too simple to be dangerous.”

  I tried to wrench my arm from his grip. “No,” he said without emphasis. “Three moons with no answers, and now, on the last day, the very last, I find the first piece of the puzzle. And who do I get to explain it? A girl who can’t talk, or won’t. See this?” He was reaching into his pocket, and for the first time there was a note in his voice beyond the quietly conversational. “Tell me where you got this.”

  And there it was. Simon’s little carving, the small oak tree in its protective circle and the wavy lines, which may or may not have been water. Nothing of interest in my bag, he’d said to his friends. Nothing much. That in itself had been strange enough; you’d have thought the starwort shirts were worth a comment. But it was this item that had caught his attention. “Tell me,” he said. “Who gave you this?”

  And now he was really frightening me. I willed all expression from my face. Think of nothing. Let him know nothing. It was as well I was bound to silence. I was no liar; but think how the truth would sound. It came from another of your kind. He was tortured at my father’s home, and came close to death by the hot iron. Close to death, and closer to madness. We saved him, and I tried to help him, and he was getting better, and then…and then I left him alone when he most needed me. He went out into the forest without the means for survival. Even now, the mosses creep on his white bones, somewhere under the great oaks. Birds pluck his golden hair to line their nests, and his empty eyes gaze up forever at the stars. That was the truth.

  “Damn you,” said the Briton again, “why won’t you speak? I will have this answer from you before ever I let you go.” And then the others were waking, rising in silence to roll bedding and stow gear, to check weapons and make all in readiness for a swift departure. And I thought, you will have a long wait for your answer. For you must wait until the six shirts of starwort are spun and woven and sewn together; until the day my brothers return, and I slip the shirts over their necks, and the spell is broken. Until that day, you will hear no answers from my lips. And no man has the patience to wait so long.

  In the gray light before dawn, I watched them ready themselves, and marveled at the silent understanding between them that spoke of long days and nights in the field or on the run. I did not know what they were, or where they were going. They were spies perhaps, like those my father had captured and held in his secret chamber; or perhaps they were mercenaries for hire. Their watchful faces, their hard bodies, their light gear and carefully tended weapons told of long experience and serious purpose.

  They were soon ready, finding time, even, to allow me a few moments’ privacy for the body’s essentials. I knew now not to try to run. He would outwit me, wherever I went. He would outwit me, whatever I tried. For now. When I returned from my ablutions, they were talking in low voices.

  “…no point in arguing. If Red says we’re taking her, we’re taking her. We’ll be slow; best leave now and cover as much ground as we can before full light.”

 
Ben was enraged; his words came out in a sort of hiss, for they were all muting their tone. I supposed the men who sought them might be close at hand.

  “This is complete folly! Forget the girl; she’ll do well enough here, and if not, what of it? Her kind are no more than savages, killers every one. How many good men have been lost in those accursed woods, or come home mere shells of their former selves? I don’t know what chivalrous impulse has got into you, Red, but I know I’m not risking my hide for her. As for you, John, your brains must be addled to let him get away with this. It’s insanity.”

  Red took no notice of him, but hefted his pack onto his back and held out a hand to me. “Come on,” he said, snapping his fingers, and I stared at him. I would not be treated like some hound that would follow her master’s every bidding. “Come,” he said again, and this time he gripped my arm where he’d hurt me before, and I sucked in my breath.

  “She’s got a few bruises,” remarked John. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Red.”

  Red looked at him. “I do,” he said. “Now we split up, so my good friend here can’t complain about the girl slowing him down. You two will take our original path back down to the cove. You should keep ahead of them if you go now, and the boat should be ready to pick you up before they get there. With luck.”

  “What about you?” inquired Ben.

  “I’ll take the girl, and come around by the bluffs and down the cliff path. More dangerous, perhaps, but more direct. They’re more likely to follow you, I think. I’ll skirt the river as far as I can. If I’m not there in time for the boat, don’t wait. Cross over to safe mooring; I’ll meet you at the priory.”

  “How?” said John, scratching his head. But there was no reply, and nobody was going to argue. That seemed to be the way it was. Red made the choices, and the others accepted them, even when, as it seemed to me, they were foolish beyond belief. How could a man who acted so unpredictably, who made such erratic decisions, be their leader? If it had been Liam, now, he would have consulted his men and reached a sensible compromise. Here there was no more discussion. Ben and John shouldered packs and disappeared between the bushes, silent-footed, and Red grasped my wrist and pulled me after him, back down toward the river. I resisted, tugging hard enough for him to turn back, exasperated.

  “We’re not going to get far this way,” he said. “I—” He saw where I was pointing. My bag, with its cargo of starwort, still lay where he had dropped it under the overhang, near the smothered remnants of our small fire.

  “All right,” he said, scooping it up and throwing it to me. “But you carry it.”

  It was a long and desperate morning. I tried to keep up with him, but I knew I was holding him back. The going was not easy, especially once the land rose in scarp and ridge, the meager track traversing rock and scree and scrubland, climbing high above the winding course of the river. The lake and the forest fell behind us as we moved ever eastward and a little north. The sun rose steadily in the sky. I had done many a trip with my brothers through the forest, staying out at night, living wild for a day or two. I was swift and knew how to move in the woods and choose a path. But this was different. To start with, I was far weaker than I had thought, and found I must stop more and more often to draw breath before going on. And I had no shoes. Tough as my feet were, the rocks cut them and they bled. Red made few concessions, beyond grabbing my wrist or arm to haul me up after him, or waiting silently for me to catch up. His expression was somber. Regretting his decision, I thought, and no wonder. He had water in a skin bottle, and shared it with me. The sun rose higher, promising a warm day. We crossed the river; or rather, he crossed it, wading steadily through the waist-deep waters of a ford, and carrying me over his shoulder. When we got to the far bank, he dumped me down on a flat-topped rock.

  “So far, so good,” he said, squatting down beside me so that his eyes were on a level with mine. He looked at me closely. The light blue gaze was shrewd.

  “They are still far enough behind,” he said. “But not so very far. They have divided their forces, I think. Can you go further?” I tried not to show I understood him. It was not easy. My feet were hurting and my head was getting that strangely fuzzy feeling again. Yet I knew there was no choice but to go on.

  “Men,” he said, trying the language he knew I might understand. “Bad men. You—me—walk?” He used gestures to convey this message to me and I was taken with an urge to giggle, despite the seriousness of the situation. I set my mouth firmly, determined to show neither weakness nor any other emotion. I considered vaguely what path I had been meant to take when the Forest Lady had sent me down the lake in a little boat away from the forest. Where had I gone wrong? For this, surely, was the wrong way, eastward, ever eastward with pounding head and bleeding feet, and a grim-faced stranger for company. How would my brothers find me, so far from home?

  I looked at Red again. He was studying my feet, and then my hands, and his expression was quite odd. Mocking, I thought; but his derision was not turned on me, but inward.

  “Strong-minded, aren’t you?” he said, slipping the pack off his back and hunting inside it. He took out an old linen garment which he proceeded to tear into strips, holding a corner between strong white teeth. “But these feet will take no more today. Here.” His hands worked deftly to bind both my feet with strips of cloth, tying them neatly in place. He was good; I could hardly have done a better job myself. I let him do it, thankful for the few minutes’ rest. Never mind that these soft bandages would not last the day’s walk. I supposed he meant well. After all, if I could not make the distance, neither could he. Unless he left me behind.

  “Good,” he said, “and now you must eat something, and then we finish our journey. There are apples growing here, did you see? It seems they ripen early in these parts. Perhaps they are more to your taste than our rations.” And apples there were; little green ones with a faint blush of pink on the skin. Round and perfect. He picked one and quartered it neatly with a small, lethal knife.

  “Here,” he said, offering me a segment. I took it, wondering greatly. They had indeed ripened before their due time, and strangely. There were several trees in this sheltered spot, but only one whose fruit seemed ready for eating. On the others they hung hard and green. There are many stories in our country with apples in them; they are the fruit of the Fair Folk, and used more than once to tempt mortal man or woman to stay in the place under the hill far longer than is good for them. Apples are a token of love, a promise. It was clear that Red had never heard what it meant, for a man to share an apple with a young woman. Perhaps, I thought, it didn’t work with Britons anyway. Besides, I was hungry, and there was a long way to go. So I took his gift and ate it, and another piece, and it was the best thing I ever tasted. When we’d finished, I got up to walk on, but Red stopped me.

  “No,” he said. “This will be quicker.” He picked me up in his arms like a small child.

  “You’ll have to hold on,” he said. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

  It was a losing race from the outset. Perhaps, if his prediction had been right and the pursuers had gone after his two companions, we would have made our way to safety in time. The Briton pressed on tirelessly, bearing my weight with no apparent difficulty, putting me down to scale a rock wall, pulling me up one-armed as he clung on; or helping me around an overhang or down a crumbling bank. But before long it became evident that they were closing in on us. I did not know how far there was to go. There was a damp, fresh smell in the air that suggested a large expanse of water, and many birds wheeled overhead. We were passing through thickets of rowan and, as we went, our clothes were torn by brambles, and our faces and arms whipped and scratched by twigs and thorns. The pace was fast; I felt the steady thump of the Briton’s heart as he began to run soft-footed under the trees. He swore under his breath. And I heard the undeniable sound of many boots crunching on leaves to our right, and to our left, and behind us, and the hiss of an arrow coming over his shoulder to lodge, whirr
ing, in the trunk of a stately berry-laden rowan tree. The Briton whispered an oath and dropped me.

  “Run,” he said, drawing his short sword and turning his back to the tree. “Go on, run!” He made an urgent movement with his arm; he meant me to go on alone, while he fought them off. “Go, damn you, go!” I found I could not move; and then it was too late. They were all around us, stepping out from cover, men with the field armor my brothers wore, men with the long clever faces and dark curling hair of my own people. Men with hatred and vengeance in their eyes. One was reloading a longbow; the others had drawn swords. They took their time advancing.

  “There’s a knife in my left boot,” muttered Red, moving his sword from hand to hand. “Take it. Use it. And run if you can.” I snatched it and he glanced at me sharply before he stepped forward, thrusting me behind him, and the first of our attackers charged, yelling and wielding his blade in a maneuver I recognized well from the practice yard at home. My brothers would have responded by ducking, and slashing at the opponent’s knees. Red didn’t duck. Instead his boot came up, lightning swift, and he knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand, catching it neatly in his own. In an instant, it seemed, he sent the man reeling away with blood staining his right sleeve.

  They gathered in a semicircle, not too close. Among them were men I had seen before, at my father’s table. I stayed behind Red, as far as I could.

  “He can fight,” said one. “The bastard can fight. Who’s next?”