Daughter of the Forest

by Juliet Marillier

  I struggled to sit up, but something was holding my ankle down. In front of me, I could see the sack still spread, the starwort stems laid neatly across, the glint of the knife where I had dropped it. The other bundle, carefully rolled ready for collection. Beyond this, the streambed, the ferns, the small trees still stood. I twisted around. And behind me, everything was gone. Everything. I stared, scarcely able to take it in. Where the gully had cut into the hillside, bisected by the green-fringed stream, there was now a huge expanse of tumbled rocks and soil and bare roots. Up above, a great raw gash scarred the hillside, as if a slice of living rock had been crudely carved out and flung carelessly downward. Had it come two strides further, I would have been crushed. It had been so quick; so quick.

  In that moment of recognition, I came closer to breaking my silence than at any point so far. For there was no movement, no sound save for the trickle of small pebbles, of pockets of soil as they settled and moved. I sank my teeth into my lower lip, to stop myself screaming, John! John! Where are you? Somehow, I managed to wrench my foot free of the rock that pinned it, aware that I had done myself worse damaged, but not caring. Somehow, I scrambled up and over the rockfall, seeking the place I thought closest to where he had been, dashing the dust from my eyes, forcing myself to move despite the pain. Behind me, at last, there were sounds. The man posted to watch at the tree line came running back up the hill, his face sheet white. Of the other, who had guarded the upper margin, there was no sign.

  It was a desperate search, with no tools for the task, clawing away at stones, using bare hands to scoop out soil, the two of us gasping for breath, not even knowing if the place where we dug was right or not. There was no way to move the bigger rocks, though we tried; by the time you had what you needed, which was ropes and draft horses and eight or nine strong men, it would be far too late.

  We found John, finally. A hand, an arm. After struggling, aching labor, an opening to where he lay, all but crushed by an immense boulder that pinned his body from chest to feet. He still breathed, and was yet conscious, for a narrow triangle between delicately balanced stones had left him a tiny pocket of air. There was nothing more we could move; no way we could free him.

  I sent the man back for help. There was no sign of the other, no way to tell where he lay beneath these tumbled stones. The horses were tethered lower down, under the trees. It would not take so very long to ride to Harrowfield, to fetch men and ropes and tackle. Not so very long. Still, too long.

  I sat very still on the rough stones, for a wrong movement might bring more down around him, might cause the weight to settle more heavily on his body. John’s face was gray under the dusting of soil, and a small but steady trickle of blood made a crimson line on his cheek and pooled on the rock beneath his head. I listened to the sound of his breathing, and felt the weight of the rocks in my own chest. I did not weep for this was beyond tears.

  “Jen—” he was trying to speak. I gestured, no, no talk. Breathe. Just breathe.

  “No,” he managed, and his eyes already held the shadow of farewell. “Say—tell—”

  Each word needed a breath. Each breath bore the agony of that crushing load, the earth slowly squeezing the life out of him. “Red,” he said. “Right thing…right choice…right…you…say yes…” For a few moments he closed his eyes, and when he forced them open again, with a shuddering, rattling gasp for air, I saw the film of death clouding their steadfast honesty. He was bleeding from the nose as well now, bright droplets that became a little stream and then a steady flow. He tried to clear his throat, but could not; a terrible sound came out instead, a cruel, heartbreaking sound. I held his hand, stroked his brow, longed for words. It is terrible to be a healer, and to know that there is nothing, nothing at all, that you can do.

  “Tell,” he managed. “Tell her…” and then a spasm overtook him, and another, and he died, coughing his lifeblood over the tumbled stones. Without finishing what he had to say. But there was no need. I knew that part without being told.

  It did not take long for help to come. And yet, it took forever, as I felt John’s hand growing steadily colder in mine, as his blood dripped on the stones and congealed into little pools. There was no sound around me but the crying of birds and the rustle of a spring breeze in the birches. My voice was silent; but my spirit was screaming for anyone to hear. Why? Why take him? He was good; people loved him. He was innocent of any part in this. Why take him?

  I had been alone so long, cut off from any knowledge of the spirit world, that I could not tell if the little voice that answered me, in my head, was my own or another’s.

  That’s not the way it works, Sorcha. You knew it would be hard. Now you are finding out just how hard.

  But why John? He was happy. Why give him a son and then deny that son a father?

  A laugh. Not cruel, just uncomprehending. Would you rather another had been taken? The child perhaps, or him with the hair like fire, and the cold eyes? Would you wish to rewrite the story?

  I stopped my ears and shut my eyes, but the voice went on inside my head. The fire in the head. It hurt, all right.

  How strong are you, Sorcha? How many partings can you bear, before you must weep aloud? Then the laughter. I did not know if I spoke to fair folk or foul, or simply to the confused voice of my own spirit. I will not listen to you. I will not hear this. Silently, I recited my brothers’ names over and over, a charm to keep out demons. Liam, Diarmid. Cormack, Conor. Finbar, Padriac. I need you to be here. I need you. I will bring you back. I will.

  Help came. Ashen faced, deathly quiet, Red and Ben supervised the desperate, painstaking removal of rocks and soil, the lifting of their friend’s broken body from the rubble. Horses dragged boulders, men set to work grimly with shovel and spade and with their bare hands. But they found no trace of the other man’s body. Either he lay buried too deep, under the last great immoveable rock, or…but the alternative was unthinkable.

  Red’s face was like a carving in stone. He ordered me to leave, but I would not go until John was taken up, and wrapped in a cloak, and laid across his horse. And so we all rode home, I in front of Ben, with a makeshift strapping around my ankle, which now burned like hot coals. Dusk was falling, and the men who walked at front and end of the small procession bore torches. Nobody was talking. I wanted somebody to say, it’s all right. I wanted somebody to tell me, it’s not your fault. But it was my fault. I had come here, and made these people my friends, and now an innocent man had died because he had to protect me. On such a fine spring day, he should have been thatching a roof, or putting cattle out to graze, or playing on the grass with his son. Not guarding some crazy girl while she cut bundles of thorns. He should have been safe. Now he was dead. And I could see that Lord Hugh, riding straight backed, leading the horse that bore its master’s broken body, had strapped to his saddle the two rolls of starwort I had harvested, before the rockfall had destroyed the place where it grew. The price of that small harvest was his friend’s life. Such was the burden on him, such the weight of the Fair Folk’s command, that even after this he was obliged to help me. He did not allow the pain of it to show on his face, for he had erased from it any sign of feeling. In the torchlight it was like a mask of ashes, with blind holes for eyes. Ben wept openly, his grief plain for all to see, and many of the men riding there were red-eyed. Not Lord Hugh. He hid his pain deep inside, as deep as the dark secret place at the bottom of a well.

  Perhaps I had forgotten that Margery was a Briton too. I soon remembered, as we rode into the courtyard, and saw her face, still sweet, still calm; but aged suddenly, so you could see the tracery of little lines about eyes and mouth that she would have as an old woman. They bore her man’s body inside, and upstairs to be washed and laid out, and she said not a single word. Nobody was looking at me; or rather, everybody seemed to be carefully not looking at me. Ben lifted me down, and I found I could not walk on the ankle, which had swollen up alarmingly. So he carried me indoors, but nobody seemed particularly inter
ested in helping me, so I made my way to my room, leaning on the wall with one hand, hopping on one foot, as the other sent spasms of pain up my leg and through my back and into my bursting head. I bolted both doors and sat on the pallet hugging Alys and staring into the dark. What was this pain, compared with Margery’s?

  I did light a lamp, eventually. I did look at the ankle, force myself to move the foot, wrap it in a length of linen to provide some relief. It was not broken. I fetched water and performed my ablutions, brushed the dust and soil from my hair. Distantly, I heard the household still awake, going about its business. Surely, now, he would send me away. How could he not send me away?

  After a long, long time, there was a knock on the door, and it was Lady Anne.

  “Margery wants to see you,” she said curtly. I followed her past the eyes of what seemed to be every member of the household, as they stood or sat in little, huddled groups, unable to rest, united in their grief and shock. I hobbled, and nobody offered assistance, though Lady Anne did wait for me on the stairs.

  He was laid out in their own quarters, though soon he would be moved downstairs, and a vigil would be kept, with candles. It was quiet; so quiet. Didn’t these people know how to grieve for a good man? Didn’t they know how to weep, and scream with rage, and curse the powers of darkness in their sorrow? Didn’t they know how to hold one another, and dry one another’s tears, and tell tales of the things he had done, and of what he had been, to see him safe on his way? Where were the great fires, and the toasts in strong ale, and the scent of burning juniper?

  John was dressed in a robe of soft gray, and his body was clean, but there was no way to hide the terrible bruises, or the damage to the bones of chest and pelvis. He had fought strongly, to hold on so long.

  “Jenny,” said Margery. She had not wept. She looked remote, a shadow of herself. Her eyes were calm and empty. I wanted to put my arms around her, to hug her and cry with her, for she was my friend. But she put a space between us without saying a word. Ben was there, sitting against the wall, and at least he had a tankard of ale in his hands. Red stood in the shadows at the far end of the room. I supposed I was there for a reason. I supposed I was there because I had seen him die, and she wanted to know how it was with him. Without words, this was a daunting task.

  John—speak—you. My hands were shaking; I could hardly bear her blank, expressionless stare. She gave no sign of understanding.

  John—tells me—you, the baby.

  “What is the point in this?” Lady Anne snapped. “These signs are meaningless, and disrespectful in this place of mourning. You’re upsetting Margery, girl. What are you thinking of?”

  I looked across John’s still body to his wife, and thought maybe her eyes flickered, just for an instant. I tried to reach her. Please. Please listen.

  “Try again, Jenny.” Red was beside me, watching my hands. “Perhaps I can help.”

  So I went through it once more, and as I moved my hands, he spoke my thoughts aloud.

  “John wanted—John had a message for you.” Close eyes, hands to one side, rest cheek on hands. “He died peacefully. With courage.” I brought my hand from the man lying still before me, to cover my heart, and then toward his wife, who stared at me, impassive.

  “He said, tell Margery I love her,” said Red. “Tell her she is in my heart.” It was hard for me to keep going, but I told myself, compared with what she feels, this is nothing. Nothing. So my hands went on moving, saying the things I knew John wanted to say, would have said if there had been time, and Red’s quiet voice made my gestures into words.

  “He said, tell her I know she will raise my son to be a good man, strong and wise.” I looked at John one last time; his face calm under the bruises, his clean, white feet not quite covered by the robe. I touched the tips of my fingers to my lips, then moved my hand gently toward her.

  “He said, say good-bye to them for me. And—and tell my son my story.” There was a catch in Red’s voice. I did not look at him. Margery’s face stayed calm a moment longer, as she met my gaze.

  “Thank you,” she said in a very small, polite voice. “I’m glad someone was with him when—and now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” This was Lady Anne, who had maintained her disapproving frown throughout.

  “Please.” Margery’s voice was wobbling a little, and as I turned to go, I saw her face crumple, and tears start to roll slowly down her cheeks.

  Out on the landing, Red took one look at my limping progress and picked me up bodily with never a by-your-leave.

  “You are the most obstinate, pigheaded—” he muttered. “How on earth did you get upstairs?”

  “She walked,” said his mother, one step behind and looking like thunder. “As she can perfectly well do now.”

  Red stopped part way down the stairs, with me in his arms. We were in full view of the household assembled below. I could see Lady Anne’s thoughts on her face, clear as if they had been spoken aloud. A man died today, because of her. One of our own. Someone’s husband, someone’s father. She killed your friend. And yet, you carry her about as if she were some precious flower, some princess too fragile for her feet to touch the ground. What will they think of you? What are you doing to this house? Red was looking at her too, and when he spoke it was very softly.

  “This is a girl who puts herself through hell every day, who will walk over rocks barefoot until her feet bleed, who puts her own needs last, always. But she will not be last in my household. If Jenny cannot walk, then there really is something wrong, Mother. And I will deal with it as I please.” Very calm and controlled. Perhaps only I heard the slight unsteadiness in the voice. His mother was furious. But people could see her face, and so she followed us downstairs with quiet dignity, and said no more. Me, I would rather have hopped and hobbled back to my room alone. But nobody asked me. I did not have to look about me to know what every person there was thinking. John is dead. With him dies part of Harrowfield. What will she destroy next? And yet he shelters her still. Witch; murderess. It was not spoken aloud; not in his lordship’s hearing. Not yet.

  In my room, he placed me on the bed and went back to bolt the door. The outer one was open, and on the top step were the two bundles of starwort stems, and my knife.

  “Your ankle,” he said, “is it—?”

  I signaled, nothing. It’s nothing.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Red. “And I would help, if I could. But I cannot stay here, there are matters to attend to, I—”

  He made his way to the outer door, stepped over the bundles, down the steps, and he was moving as if in the dark, as if by touch alone. Yet there was a lantern burning there. I thought him gone, and moved to bolt the door behind him. But when I limped over to the doorway, he was standing silent at the foot of the steps, one hand flat against the wall, his forehead on the cold stones next to it, and his other fist pressed against his mouth so hard the knuckles showed white. His shoulders were shaking.

  I suppose, at that moment, I forgot that I was afraid to touch. Perhaps I did not think at all. My hand went up, and I laid it gently on the back of his neck, where the skin showed pale and vulnerable between tunic and severely cropped hair, where the bones showed under the skin. His reaction was instant and violent. His body went completely still, as if frozen with shock; and then he breathed out explosively, and on that breath were words spoken in a tone I had never heard before, harsh, uncontrolled.

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  I snatched my hand away as if stung, and backed up the steps, as fast as my injured ankle would let me. For a moment, before he vanished into the darkness, he turned his face toward me, and I saw what it held, when the mask of composure was stripped away. Anguish, fury, grief; and a bitter self-loathing, the mirror of his brother Simon’s face. And under this, something else, something far more elusive that dwelled in the depths of the eyes, guarded by barriers only to be breached by the most daring, or the m
ost foolish.

  I did not sleep that night. My spirit was heavy and my heart sick. As I lay watching the shadows move around me, listening to the little snores of Alys, I thought, if I stay here, I will destroy him. I may destroy all of them. And I thought, if I leave, I will not complete the task. For the powers of evil draw their net tight. If I do not stay here, I will lose my brothers. And it will have been for nothing. My mind went from one thought to the other, and back again, and there was an ache in my heart that rivalled the fierce pain of my damaged ankle. He hates me, I thought. They all hate me. And with good reason, for in this household I am nothing but a destroyer. And the little voice in my head spoke up, What is this? Self-pity? You cannot afford such a luxury, Sorcha. And you cannot have this both ways. Put your foot back on the path. Step forward. And hurry, for the enemy is close behind. The little voice could not be ignored. But there was one matter to attend to, first.

  So, before dawn broke I rose and went out into the garden, and gathered the things I needed. Ben lay in a heavy slumber on the bench, with an empty ale jug for company. I drew a circle in the soft earth, and placed four candles around it. In the center I made a tiny fire, with sticks of hawthorn and elder. Somebody had to help John’s spirit to go free, and to seek its new path. I could not trust these people to do the right things, even though they loved him. The flames burned small but bright and true. I fixed my mind on his weathered, solemn, steadfast face, and on all the things he had been, and I threw onto my fire handfuls of pine needles, and of thyme leaves, so that before long a sweet, cleansing smell spread across the garden. My mind pictured John as a great, spreading tree, that sheltered and guarded many within and under its wide canopy. I thought of the roots of this tree, holding firm to the earth of the valley, a living part of its deep heart. He was a valley man. Wherever he journeyed, whatever his spirit path, a part of him would always remain here. As dawn broke, I quenched the candles and scrubbed out the circle, and I spread out the last embers of the fire and covered them with sand. It was another day, and there was work to be done.