When she woke, stiff and aching, the sun had climbed up but had not reached its midpoint. Eleanor was damp and clammy, so she took the oar and started to paddle. The waves were small, green touched with gold, and the sun seemed to warm her back. She pad-died and rested several times. The sun crossed its high point and began to curve down the bowl of the sky.
A dark line sat on the horizon. She shaded her eyes and looked at it for a while. Then she resumed her paddling. It got closer and soon became a discernible shoreline. Finally, she paddled into a good-sized bay and found a fairly smooth beach.
Eleanor stumbled onto dry land, or rather, damp sand, fell on her face, and kissed the earth. She murmured the sweet words "Erin, I am home” and then just lay there. After a time, she got up and emptied the boat, putting the oar back under the bench. Wrolf was nowhere to be seen, but a set of tracks in the sand marked his trail. She dumped her things down, spread the half-dry blanket and her damp clothing out on the shore, and surrendered herself to sleep.
XI
The sun was almost down when she awoke. Wrolf had returned, his chest showing the evidence of a hearty meal. He greeted her arousal, as was his wont, and watched as she opened her bags and sorted through the contents.
The napkin with Sal’s bread and cheese was as clean as the first day she had seen it. The bread was still soft and fresh, and she ate some with swigs of water and pieces of the cheese. She thanked the Lady of Willows again and tied up the rest of the food.
The clothes Iseult had given her were still damp as were the ones she was wearing, so she took out the rosy shift and blue gown Sal had given her and put them on. The cloak was damp but not dripping, so she left it off.
• "Next time, let’s take Aer Lingus, Wrolf. I wonder where we are. Somewhere between Cork and Dublin, I’ll bet. I don’t recognize this bay, but there’s no reason I should. Look, the Evening Star. Hail to thee, bright Venus.” The twilight deepened, and the sky began to cloud up. She studied it, Irish weatherwise, and began picking up her things. "It’s going to rain,” she told the wolf as she tied the sword across her shoulders. "I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’ve just seen enough wet for a while. Let’s see if we can find some cover. People who say it’s always raining in Ireland are wrong. It only rains when you are there. I wonder if I am ever going to be dry and well rested again. I hope Silver Heels is all right. And where am I going to find the sheath for Bridget’s sword? Ireland is a big country. Oh, well, I shouldn’t expect a neat itinerary. But I wish I had one. This is like a scavenger hunt with no clues. Do you know where we are going, Wrolf? Yes, of course you do. You are my guide. / want to know where, though, and you can’t tell rne.”
She was babbling and she knew it. She halted the flow of words, aware that she was lonely for the sound of a human voice, and somewhat afraid. This was no friendly Ireland of her childhood, but a gloomy, mist-cloaked terra incognita. She was filled with doubts, suddenly, as if she sensed some faintly distasteful event lay before her. What had Sal said? Something about a dark-haired lover. The idea chilled her in a way the sea had not. Realizing the danger of reflection, of anticipation, she turned back to Wrolf. "Lead on, MacDuff.”
He barked his answer and trotted into the trees. Eleanor trudged after him, glad in the pale green of spring leaf. The smells of earth and mulch under her feet were reassuring.
A fine rain began to fall, but Wrolf led her on. The trees were crowded close together and caught most of the wetness, but Eleanor was very damp by the time they came to the hall. She stared at it in mild disbelief, for it was a fine building to find in the middle of the forest.
Wrolf padded up and scratched at the great door. It was carved and painted with the wonderful interlaces so characteristic of Hibernian art, but she was sure she had never seen anything like it before, for the building was round, not rectangular, and looked as if a stand of oak had grown into a house. The exterior walls were like the trunks of trees with their bark stripped away, decorated with pattern and color.
Eleanor found she was shivering, not from cold but from an excitement that was part fear and part joy. There was a face carved in the center of the door, a beast’s face, neither cat nor dog but a blend of the two. It had a wolfs muzzle and a cat’s pricked and tufted ears. The eyes were two smooth stones, as rounded as moonstones, but golden, not white. They seemed to look at her.
"Do stop scratching, Wrolf. You’ll mar the paint. Are you sure there’s not a motel in the neighborhood? Damn! I never wanted to have adventures.” The wolf whined and butted her hand. "Yes, yes. I’ll knock. Don’t be pushy.”
She lifted her hand and tapped softly. Then she lowered it and clung to Wrolf’s mane, sinking her fingers into the rough hair and feeling the warmth of his body beneath it.
The door was yanked open with great force. A large man with reddish hair and golden eyes loomed over her, his face twisted in a sullen snarl. He looked at Eleanor in her streaming clothes and hair plastered to her wet face, and he pursed his lips.
"What did you do, swim?” he barked. His voice was harsh. "Some princess. Come in, come in. You’re making a draft,” he added, as if the cold and wet were her fault. He stepped aside. "I can’t see you’re worth all the fuss.”
Eleanor found his mutterings a complete puzzle and was sure he had mistaken her for someone else. Still, Wrolf had brought her there, and she trusted her companion as guide and friend.
"Thank you, kind sir,” she said, and entered. He started to shut the door in Wrolf s face and got a deep growl.
"No one said anything to me about letting a muddy beast track up the floor.”
"Oh. Well, in that case, I’ll just leave,” she snapped. Eleanor wasn’t sure if he was master or servant, but his rudeness annoyed her.
"Don’t be such a dog-in-the-manger, Baird,” said a woman’s voice. "She’d singe you to ashes in a month. If it took that long. Close the door, you great oaf. I’ll take a chill.”
The red man closed the door, appearing to take the criticism in good part. Eleanor looked at him and found he was eyeing her in a way she didn’t care for. "I don’t see why Doyle should have all the fun. He isn’t even here to greet his ladylove. Why shouldn’t I just take her and the sword? I’m a better man than he is, any day.”
Baird reached out two large hands, golden with hair along the backs, and clasped Eleanor to his chest before she could protest. Close up, he smelled of cat, a kind of acrid pungency that filled her nostrils. Wrolf hackled and growled but made no move.
"Let me go!” Eleanor commanded, her voice muffled in the soft wool of his tunic. She pushed her hands against his chest, then shoved the rowan stave at him ineffectually.
"I’m glad to see you have a little fight for a drowned rat,” he chuckled. "I like a girl with a bit of spirit. Really, I’m much nicer than Doyle. He’s dark and ugly and morose. Tell Mother you like me.”
Eleanor felt a prickle of fear, like the sense she had of Clovis on their first meeting but less strong. She squirmed to get away. A large, hairy hand clamped over her face, pinching her nose and covering her mouth.
"Tell Mother you want me, or I’ll take you right here,” he hissed. "A bed would be better, don’t you agree?”
Eleanor’s head was spinning from lack of air, and she had a vagrant thought that every man she met either wished to bed her or eat her. Then she formed Bridget’s name in her mind and found herself sitting on the floor some feet from the now howling Baird. He flopped his hands and licked them piteously, and she knew the fire had come to her again.
"I told you not to touch her, Baird,” came the woman’s voice again. "Why are all my sons so stubborn? And willful? I’ve tried to teach them manners,” the voice went on, aggrieved, "but I might as well try to teach a worm to dance.”
Eleanor looked around for the speaker. At first she saw nothing but the painted walls of the hall and the tiled floor, an eye-wearying confusion of interweaving patterns. The ceiling was an interlace of branches, stylized and natural at
the same time.
Finally her eyes came to rest on a circular fire pit in the center of the room. Curled beside it was a woman whose clothing seemed to be a continuation of the floor patterns, so that she was almost invisible, except for a pale face set in braided hair. Even the plaits seemed to follow the interlace of the tiles, the colors shifting as the woman moved her head.
The woman was tiny, ageless, and elfin, and Eleanor wondered how so small a female could have birthed the hulking Baird. Eleanor got to her feet, her boots making a squeaking sound, and curtsied toward the little figure.
"You are a cunning one, to see me so quickly. Come to the fire, child. I won’t hurt you. Leave your cloak by the door. See, your wolf is already making himself quite at home. Take off your boots, too. Stop blubbering, Baird. Anyone would think you were dying. Go find a dry garment for her. You’ll excuse me for not getting up. I can’t disrupt the pattern just yet. Oh, I could, but even such a guest as you doesn’t seem worth an earthquake.”
"I should think not,” Eleanor answered, shedding the cloak and tugging off the boots. Her teeth started to chatter when her feet rested unshod on the tiles. She moved toward the fire pit and found herself circling it. The patterns of the room were confusing, dizzying, and she peered at the myriad colors, seeking some clue to proceed upon. She made another try, setting her foot upon a wide red band, and found herself moving back toward the snivelling Baird. She closed her eyes for a second and tried to feel the patterns, but all she found was an overwhelming sense of energies. It took her two more tries to find a line that led her to the fire pit. She walked along it cautiously until she came to the pit. Then she sank gratefully down, feeling the energy of the various patterns strumming up her body. Eleanor shifted her weight around until she was nearly comfortable, though she still had a sense of being in two other places at once, besides sitting by the fire.
The tiny woman watched all this with interest, her eyes bright in her pale face. Eleanor was puzzled by the whole place, for she could not think of anything quite like it in folklore or myth. She realized that to some extent she had been guided by unconscious assessments drawn from her rather extensive background in legend. But this strange chamber was disturbing because she did not know what it meant. What kind of person was the coiled woman across the fire pit—a goddess or a lady?
The fire was pitifully small, and yet the heat it gave off was enormous. Eleanor felt the clothing begin to dry on her body. She rubbed the blue tunic Sal had given her between her fingers, feeling the good wool and remembering the Lady of the Willows with great affection and some nostalgia. Then she remembered the knitting pins and the ball of yarn in her bag and got them out, eager to keep her hands busy. She cast on for a stole, a simple rectangle, knowing she would unravel it later, and began to work.
The large size of the needles made the work go fast, and the ball of stuff with which Sal had replaced Sarah’s wool was as smooth as satin and had a dull sheen. Eleanor didn’t know if it was silk or linen or some fiber she had never heard of. She only knew the knitting soothed away her uneasiness.
The woman’s voice brought her back to her surroundings with a start. "Well, you aren’t one for idle chatter, I see. Now, me, I chatter quite a bit. It passes the time for me, which hangs heavy on my hands. My sons are not entertaining companions, whatever their other virtues.”
"I beg your pardon,” Eleanor said, blushing furiously. "I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just been a long time since I had a minute to think, what with Black Beasts and Stone Wolves, and other things.”
"I understand entirely. I have nothing to do but think. So, you are come on an errand from Bridget. Pushy female. You mustn’t be in awe of her, girl. I knew her when she was only an egg. Always arranging things to suit herself. Like this whole matter of the sheath. Did she ask me nicely, would I give it up? She did not. She yanks you out of bed and says, 'Go get it.’ Still, I can see you’re a good girl.” The woman shifted, and the patterns on her gown blurred and flowed. The many tiny braids of her hair seemed to rearrange themselves like tiny serpents into a new pattern.
Eleanor’s fingers continued knitting by feel as she watched. She was struck by the contention that Bridget was younger than her companion. What was older than a goddess? The universe, or the earth itself. "The young are often thoughtless of the... prerogatives of others, my... Lady Eldest.” Eleanor stumbled over the words, feeling them form like a silky thread in her mind, only to slip away from her.
"True, true. She rushes off one night to impress a bunch of dirty priests, for she was ever one to need adulation, even at the price of altering her nature, and leaves the sheath and hasn’t even the kindness to come and get it herself. Never mind that I’ve been crippled
by the separation of sword and sheath, for the greater power lies in my portion, but it is useless without the blade. Never mind that she hasn’t sent so much as a daffodil in centuries or inquired as to my health. Oh, no! She just sends you over here to remove my treasures, without a by-your-leave. Impertinent hussy!”
Eleanor wasn’t sure what to make of this catalog of grievances. "I... didn’t know.”
"Of course you didn’t! That girl glories in being cryptic! I’ve never had a straight answer from her, never. She thinks her purposes are the cosmos. Conceit, that’s what it is.” The words were hard, but the voice was still sweet. "No, child. I know it’s not your fault. Pawns just go where they are pushed. And I must admit, the need is very great. But if she’d paid attention to her business, instead of letting herself be limited by her worshipers, none of this might have come to pass. Going off to Albion to dwindle into a saint. Self-serving pride, that’s what it was.”
"I cannot argue with you, because I don’t really know what you are talking about,” Eleanor said quietly.
The little woman gave a chuckle. "Sharp as a pin under all that politeness, aren’t you? Here is a riddle, then. What has no beginning or middle or end, is eternal and dies, eats itself and is never consumed?” Eleanor stared at the woman and let her mind play with the images as her fingers flew across the needles. She could think of an answer for each part, but not one for the whole. She saw a moebius strip first, but it did not eat or die. The patterns on the woman’s dress dazzled her and seemed to color her mental image until the moebius was a rainbow interlace. She stopped thinking of literal objects then and let herself manipulate symbols freely.
Finally she said, "A serpent, bowed and nowed,” using the heraldic term for knotted. She thought of the Midgard Serpent and the Worm Quroboros as she spoke.
"Remind me not to play knucklebones with you, child. Your mind at play is a charming thing, full of light and color. Like your name. Perhaps Bridget was wiser than I thought. Do you know me now?”
"I... think you are... the Earth Serpent, girdling the world. Except that all the stories I know... uh, change your gender.”
Another chuckle. "Of course they do. That dangle on a man is very like a snake sometimes. I’ve had my prerogatives altered so many times, it doesn’t even annoy me anymore. I’ll still be here when the cosmos winks out, ready to make a new one. Men have been trying to steal eternity since life began. Before time was invented. They never have, but they keep at it. You have no idea how often I’ve had my head hacked off with that very blade you carry, or one of its mates, by my envious offspring and lovers. Baird would be doing it now if I hadn’t sent him into the pattern so we could talk. Men are such a nuisance sometimes. I’m glad they aren’t my creation.”
"They aren’t?”
"Goodness, child, did you think I was the Creative? What a sweet compliment. No, that’s much too energetic a job for me. I know my place. I don’t aspire to the High Seat. It’s a cold chair, that one, and I like my comforts. Except my sons—and they can’t hurt me— no one tries to take my place. But the High Seat is ever in contention. There is always war in Heaven. Dreadful, bickering place, and cold as mischief. Take my advice and avoid it.”
Eleanor smiled. "I hardly think
I will have any reason to make the choice.” She looked down at her knitting, and her jaw dropped. She had done about twelve inches, and there was a pattern, a complex interlace that would have required a third needle and much counting and concentration. Nor was the ball of yarn any smaller than when she began.
"You’ve already made your choice, Eleanor. That’s Albion hanging from your needles. Not the island you just left but the lines of force that make it up. All the world is here in this chamber, woven into bands of color. You are part of the war for the High Seat, but all mortals are, no matter if they serve the Light or the Dark. Listen! Doyle comes.”
Somewhere, far away, there was the sound of a horn bellowing brazenly. Then the noise of a pack of some canine creatures, though Eleanor could not guess if they were hounds or wolves. The door was flung back, and a huge figure stood outlined in the dying light, a man with snarling animals roiling at his knees.
XII
"Shut the door, Doyle. You know I hate the draft. And keep those beasts quiet. We have guests.”
He did as he was bid and slammed the door. The animals stopped their snapping and yelping at a gesture. There were seven of them, wolves, with silvery coats and russet ears. They stiffened and pointed at Wrolf, who rose from his place beside Eleanor. He gave a single sharp bark, and the largest of the pack trotted across the tiles toward him, apparently unhampered by the patterns. The two great animals touched noses, and Wrolf wagged his tail and fawned.
Eleanor barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the huge man, as dark as his brother was fair, wet with rain and covered with gore along his arms and chest. He had black hair, unkempt and flowing over his shoulders, and a great fountain of a beard, braided below the chin and tied back over his shoulders. His eyes were blue, hard, and unwelcoming, and his mouth below his long mustache seemed never to have smiled. Steam began to rise from his body even before he approached the fire pit.
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 12
