Domnall and the Borrowed Child

by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley

  Domnall crept quietly across the roof and dropped a small handful of pebbles down the chimney. Sparks flew up.

  The door creaked back open. “I’m ready for you, devils! Show yourself,” said the woman. He peeked in to see her holding the horseshoe from the wall like a weapon. She peered into the darkness, but her pupils were wide with fright.

  Too soon, he heard voices behind him, the priest making sympathetic sounds as the male told him how hard his wife had been working. They took the woman back into the hut, leaving the front door open. Where was Micol? Domnall swore under his breath, hesitating for a moment between keeping watch and finding Micol. Finally he shook his head and ran along the stream to help her carry the babe. He could only hope the priest would take his time at pronouncing judgment. He heard Micol before he saw her, or rather he heard the babe’s sobs, barely muffled by the canvas sack Micol was using to drag it to the village.

  “Here,” she gasped. “Maeve said to give you this, it’s flying root.”

  Domnall took the ragwort. “I had no idea she had such a thing. Now come quickly, the priest is already here.” They dragged the snivelling bundle to the outskirts of the village. “Get it out of the sack. And whatever you do, stay out of sight,” he warned Micol, and ran ahead.

  “Tis of the devil, I’ll prove it to ye,” shrieked the woman. Nighean screamed.

  Domnall sprinted straight for the open front door. No use in hiding now. He would save Nighean or get killed trying.

  For a second the shape of both the baby and Nighean’s true form were both plainly visible in the flickering heat of the fireplace. Nighean’s mouth was a frightened grimace of pain as the flames burned away her smock.

  The woman barred the fireplace with the poker. “In the name of God, bring back my son!”

  At that moment, the mortal babe wailed. Micol must have dropped him right outside the door. The humans turned instinctively towards the sound.

  Domnall ran straight into the fireplace. His feet flared with pain on the naked coals. He grabbed Nighean as she collapsed onto the embers and used the ragwort root and the rising heat to lift them both to the top of the chimney. He clutched the whimpering child tightly to his chest and pulled himself onto the roof. Coughing up the smoke and ash, he was as trapped as a field mouse in the glen if he didn’t get them away. He clambered down, his arm burning with the dead weight of Nighean. No sign of Micol. He could only hope she had enough time to get away. He half-carried, half-dragged Nighean to the woods past the stream. She was unconscious and deathly pale beneath the soot. Her legs were already blistering.

  Micol ran up a moment later, clutching the empty canvas bag. Light flickered from half the huts in the village now and the mortal voices carried easily over the glen. They’d be talking about this night for months. Even after the priest left, there’d be no chance of using any crib in the area.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice full of defeat.

  He slung the limp Nighean over his shoulders and began a sloping run back to the Sithein.

  * * *

  The moment Maeve saw Nighean’s red and blistered form, she ran for Daoine the healer, ignoring Domnall and Micol completely. An hour passed before she left the child’s side to speak to them.

  “I can’t believe you’ve done this to her.”

  Domnall braced himself against her rage. “They were planning a baptism; we had to get her out of there.”

  “You said you would look after her. You said you’d keep her safe! We can’t rouse her at all, now. Daoine can’t even give her herbs against the pain.”

  “I know,” shouted Domnall. “Don’t you think I know?”

  Micol stepped between them, eyes flicking from one to the other.

  Maeve didn’t let up. “She needs the milk, Domnall.”

  “I’m looking for a place for her. I know it’s serious.”

  “Serious . . .” She stared at him, angry tears filling her eyes. “Daoine says she’s going to die. If you can’t find the milk, you’ve killed her.” Her words hung in the room.

  Micol’s trembling voice broke the silence. “We’ll find a place,” she said. “She won’t die, we won’t let her. We’ll find something.”

  Maeve turned her back on them and walked away.

  The Sithein was dark and quiet, whispers echoing through the hallways. Everyone had heard about Nighean coming back, unconscious, covered with burns. Everyone knew it was Domnall who’d taken her there.

  A cascade of dirt tumbled from the roof as they walked through the corridor. Domnall glared at the sloping walls. “This whole place is going to collapse one day. I just hope I’m outside when it happens.” Micol stopped and looked at him. He shrugged. “Better to be homeless. Better to die to the sluagh.”

  “Is that all you worry about? Old war stories and your honour?”

  He reminded himself that she was still young. “There was a time when I thought I could change the world,” he said. He sighed. “Now I’m just trying to keep things the way they were.”

  “You can change the world. You just have to find milk for Nighean.”

  His temper broke. “Don’t you think I’d have done exactly that if I knew how?” He swallowed the rising lump in his throat and dropped his voice. “I don’t know where to take her, Micol. The mortals will be talking about tonight for weeks. That priest will be pissing magic water all over the land. There’s nothing I can do, not without help . . .” His voice trailed off. Not without asking the Brownies for help, and they’d probably shoot him on sight. If they didn’t, the council would string him up just for having anything to do with them. And why would they help the Seelie anyway? The whole thing was just ludicrous.

  “You can’t just give up!” She glared at him. “We have to do something.”

  He gritted his teeth. “And what is this magical something you think I can do?”

  She fled down the corridor, but not fast enough: he saw the tears glittering in her eyes.

  Domnall stared at the crumbled leaves on the floor. They should have been replaced by now with fresh green leaves, now that Spring had come. They should have done so many things. The brave ones were gone, the old ways forgotten. And now, Nighean had no one to save her. No one left who would put his life on the line for a child. No one but him.

  He trudged after Micol, catching up to her outside. She sat on a hillock with her arms around the green-furred Cu Sith.

  He sat down next to her. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  She swiped her arm against her eyes and turned to face him. “You will?”

  “Aye. There’s one place where . . . I don’t know. But there’s a chance they might help.”

  “Who?”

  “The Brownies.”

  Micol wrinkled her nose. “The human pets? Aren’t they . . .” She made a motion by her head.

  “Loopier than a drunken lamb,” he said. “Not to be trusted. And they smell.” The Brownies attached themselves to humans, a dependency that the Seelie found deeply unsettling. Domnall chewed his lip. “But they know the humans. They might know where there’s a newborn, far from any churchmen. If anyone knows, it will be them.”

  “Take me with you,” said Micol. “I was useful tonight, wasn’t I? I can help you.” When he didn’t answer, she spluttered on. “I’d like to see them.”

  “It’s not some curiosity show, Micol. They won’t serve you honey and berries.”

  “I know that, I just—”

  “Have you ever smelled roasting flesh? If they don’t shoot you on sight, are you going to sit with them to sup without gagging?”

  Micol swallowed hard but her gaze never wavered. “I’ll not embarrass you. I might not be able to help, but—”

  “Absolutely not. It’s dangerous.”

  “So was the village—”

  “This is not up for discussion, Micol. You are not coming with me. And that’s my final word.”

  * * *

  “Thank you for taking me with you,”
said Micol. She’d followed him for four miles in the darkness, rough grass crunching under her feet, before Domnall finally waved her forward to his side.

  “If you’re going to pick a berry, you might as well pick the bush,” he said with a sigh. “Now hurry up.”

  As they passed the loch, Domnall searched for signs of the Brownie lair. He paused and then pointed towards the high ground. “Watch near that treeline,” he whispered.

  Micol nodded. In silence, they walked up the hill. Domnall stood tall, head high and hands splayed open to show he was unarmed. They had to get close enough to the lair for the Brownies to see who they were, which meant coming right in range of their darts. He motioned for Micol to get behind him; if it got ugly, she would have a chance to run. The wind picked up, driving sharp raindrops into his face. He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking.

  Something whispered past his ear. He half-turned to look and then froze, slowly raising his hands into the air. The dart was meant to miss. He hoped so, anyway, because the Brownie was getting a free second shot.

  “I come in peace,” he shouted. He scanned the closest trees but there was no one in sight. He wanted to make eye contact. He wanted not to die. Not in the rain.

  When no further dart was forthcoming, he took a step forward. “I bring you the blessings of my Sithein.”

  Silence. Under his breath, he whispered, “If you see me get hit, you take cover and run. Do you understand?”

  Micol whispered yes from behind him. Domnall took a deep breath and walked forward, hands held out. “My Sithein asks for your help and for the blessings of your tribe. The Elders request that you hear my plea. If you can help us, we will be in your debt.” There was a sharp intake of breath behind him; Micol, horrified at his promises. But what else could he say? My Elders would probably rather you shot me than to put them in your debt, but I have no choice. I have no one else to turn to.

  He continued forward, a smile plastered on his face. Sweat trickled down his temple despite the cold rain.

  A red-haired head popped up directly in front of him. The dart was inches from his left eye. He threw himself backwards, knocking into Micol, who stumbled out of the way. He took a choking breath and recovered.

  The Brownie held his ground. Now Domnall saw half a dozen more, each with a dart aimed directly at him.

  Domnall opened his mouth and then swiftly closed it again, holding himself as still as he could.

  They were dressed in bright-coloured rags of green and blue and yellow, clothes gifted to them by the humans. How had he not seen them? Where there had been only scraggly grass and moss-covered stumps were now a dozen of the scrawny Brownies, all glowering at him.

  “Well, I guess we found the lair,” he whispered. Micol made a strangled sound from behind him.

  “I brought honey and nuts,” he called. His hands crept down to the cloth satchel tied around his waist. They stared, dark eyes cold like a winter’s night.

  A broad-shouldered Brownie in a faded green tunic and dark red leather shoes stepped out. “Name yourself,” he called.

  “I am Domnall, come from the Sithein reigned by Gyre-Carlin, half a day’s walk to the south.”

  The Brownie nodded. “You speak the truth. And hiding behind you?”

  “My companion, Micol. I have come to beg your help. However, I would ask that if you take issue with me on your land, you would let her leave.”

  They stared at each other. A tense silence descended.

  “I am Redboots and this is my clan.” He waved a hand and the Brownie closest to Domnall put his dart down. The others followed suit. “You are either brave or foolhardy. Either way, I shall hear you out.”

  The Brownie leader beckoned them, and the Brownies turned as one and marched into the trees. Domnall nodded to Micol to follow and hoped fervently to himself that this wasn’t a trap.

  * * *

  The Brownies took them into the next valley where they followed a babbling stream. Domnall was embarrassed to realise that he was nowhere near their lair; he only found the Brownies because they spotted him and were curious. It soon became impossible to follow the banks, which rose sharply. The square-edged granite soon formed a grey corridor edged with moss, shielding them from the rain. They jumped from stone to stone, avoiding the fast-moving water and piles of dead leaves. The grey sky had disappeared into the canopy of the trees above as they hiked through the ravine. Domnall heard the distant roar before he saw the water tumbling down from a crack in the granite to form a pool surrounded by rock cliffs on three sides. A rope ladder swung down alongside the cascading water. Was it here that the Brownies made their home?

  One by one, they climbed the ladder to reach the dark crack which grew into a slender cave as they got closer. Domnall squeezed Micol’s hand reassuringly and followed the Brownie leader in. He froze, blinded by the darkness, but after a minute his eyes adjusted and he could make out the dim marks of a path carved into the rock. The gloom grew so dark he could almost feel it. He stumbled along the steep route, fighting the urge to keep his hands in front of him. Finally, he saw the flickering glow of a fire shimmering in the distance. Domnall held his breath just a second too late. The scent of charred flesh filled his nostrils and he clenched his teeth against the nausea. Micol choked behind him and then went still. Domnall batted away thoughts of Nighean, her soft skin blistering in the fire. He clenched his teeth and walked towards the light.

  He was in a large cavern with a fire flickering in the distance. The far end had caved in, a jumble of rocks leading to the open air. The sun shone through in a single beam, lighting the smoke curling its way out of the mountain. The ceiling above was covered with milky stalactites from some long-lost underground stream. The ground was hard stone, scattered with bones and branches.

  Redboots stood in the center of the cavern, watching them expectantly. Domnall breathed through his mouth, willing himself to ignore the roasting sheep over the fire as he strode as confidently as he could towards Redboots. The other Brownies fanned around them, circling them in the cavern and also, Domnall noticed, blocking the route to three further tunnels which led deeper into the earth.

  “Join me at the fire and dry yourselves,” said Redboots. There was nothing for it but to join him at the end of the pit where a large sheep was skewered on a spit. Redboots pulled out a modern knife, no doubt taken from a human home, and cut a chunk off and chewed it. Micol made a small gagging sound. Domnall turned to find her right behind him, her face an odd shade of green. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. If she was going to be sick, she had better leave now and wait for them outside. Understanding his unspoken question, she swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders. A sheen of perspiration filmed her forehead but she stood her ground. Domnall breathed a sigh of relief and sat down by the rear end of the blackened beast.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, the cracking of the fire and the rustling of the Brownie guards the only sounds. Redboots watched Domnall steadily and seemed to come to a decision.

  “I have no food to offer my guests,” he said, confirming Domnall’s suspicion that bringing the Seelie face to face with roasting meat had been a test of their resolve. “Unless, perhaps, you would be interested in a sip of whisky?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Domnall with a broad grin. It had been decades since he’d last drunk the human brew, and that was just a small jug smuggled in by Tam who had got it in trade from another Sithein. During the war, when tradition gave sway to survival, they often stole bottles from the humans, which they kept at the front lines. That was a long time ago.

  Redboots smiled and picked up a jug, pulling out the cork before handing it to Domnall.

  The deep, rich smell of alcohol and peat filled his nose. He took a long drink, swallowing twice before putting the jug down. The breath escaped him in a contented sigh. Not even the smell of the smoking flesh could ruin this for him. He took another swig and then handed the jug to Micol.

  Her hand shook a bit as she took
it from him but she didn’t falter. She lifted the drink to her lips and swallowed. “By Finvarra,” she choked as the whisky sprayed out of her nose.

  Domnall grabbed the jug, barely rescuing it as Micol raised her hands to her throat in horror. “It burns,” she cried, coughing violently. Domnall’s laughter echoed off the cavern roof. Three Brownies ran towards them from a side tunnel.

  Redboots waved them away with a smile. He gave Micol a solicitous look. “Not to your taste, young Seelie?”

  “It’s fine.” She coughed again and swiped the tears from her eyes. “What was that? Am I poisoned?” Domnall patted Micol’s shoulder. She’d broken the ice far better than any negotiations could.

  “Finest Scotch whisky,” said Domnall. He took another swig and then handed it back to Redboots. “You’ll acquire a taste for it.”

  Redboots took a drink himself and grinned at Domnall.

  They sat quietly by the fire until the Seelie wools were warmed through, Domnall and Redboots sharing the whisky. Micol quietly demurred. The jug was half-empty when Domnall began to tell the Brownie about their dying child.

  “She’s fevered and burned. She’s not got the strength to fight this. She needs mother’s milk but . . .”

  Redboots’ easy smile disappeared. The Brownies lived with the humans, but they regarded Seelie changelings as parasites, an intrusion into their world as well as the humans’. Brownies were not healed by mother’s milk, no more than human curses hurt them. They did not allow changelings into any village where a Brownie made his home. Domnall knew his request was unreasonable but hoped against hope that the Brownies would make an exception for a dying child.

  Redboots’ face was as hard as granite. He put down the jug. “You can’t seriously expect me to help a Seelie bodysnatcher.”

  “I . . .”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” Redboots stood. “I can’t help you.” Domnall heard the rustle of weapons at the ready as the circle of Brownies tightened around them.

  Domnall slumped. “No, I know you can’t.” He put his head in his hands. “She’s dying. I don’t know how to save her. And there’s no one else, not anymore.” He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat and looked at Redboots again. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come if we had any other way to save the child. I had to try.”