by Trisha Telep
“Colm was like a . . . a bear – a lion – swinging his sword to left and to right, and calling upon the One God to help him. While lesser men ran, he pushed forwards into the heat of the battle.
“One by one, they fell like cornstalks before Colm’s sword. He carved a path through their numbers until only three of the Norse devils remained. Olaf the Red was one. Sven the Widow Maker was another. Lief Snorrison was the third. One by one, Colm sent them to dine with the Valkyries in Valhallah!”
He stopped, overcome by the memory, unable to go on. Exhaustion ringed his eyes with dark shadows. His cheeks were hollowed and gaunt.
Siobhan feared he would collapse before he had told her what she must know.
“Bring wine – nay, nay, bring whiskey! Quickly! Here, Fergus. Drink. Drink it down, cousin,” Siobhan urged when the cup was brought. She pressed her hands over his and gazed earnestly into his eyes. “Is he truly dead? You must tell me everything! Is he truly lost to me, Fergus? Would I not feel it in my heart, somehow, were he gone from me for ever?”
The fiery “water of life” restored Fergus somewhat. He drew a deep breath before he carried on. “Forgive me, my lady, but your lord is dead. We were cheering him on from across the inlet when a berserker hurled his sword into the air like a spear. It hurtled towards Colm, spinning end over end. Its jewelled hilt flashed in the sunlight. The blade pierced my cousin’s side. A great gout of blood poured from his mouth. I heard him call your name as he fell, my lady, and then he moved no more. We could only watch, helpless, as those godless heathens carried his body away,” he ended bitterly.
“Blessed Lady, no!” she whispered. “No, no . . .”
“The Vikings called him a hero, my lady. They admired his warrior’s skills, you see. His courage. That he was an enemy lord meant nothing to them. They said their skalds – storytellers – sang Colm mac Connor’s praises about their campfires that night, for all that he is Irish. He died a hero’s death, my lady. He is – was – a man to be proud of.”
Siobhan swallowed over the choking knot of tears in her throat. If she gave way to her grief, she would not be able to go on. “And what became of his . . . his body?” she whispered. “Where did they take him?”
A great shudder ran through Fergus. He hung his head. “We heard Colm mac Connor was to be given a hero’s funeral. One fit for a Viking prince, my lady.”
“Then you could not find my lord’s body?”
“No, my lady.” Fergus hung his head in shame.
After Fergus had left, Siobhan sat and stared into the fire. She felt numb. She felt neither sorrow, nor rage. She felt nothing.
Colm is dead, she kept telling herself, over and over. Just as the skrying glass had foretold. Fergus had seen Colm take a mortal blow, had seen him fall.
But though she believed Fergus, and knew he would never lie to her, she loved Colm, loved him with all her heart: she would not, could not, believe that she would never see him, touch him, hold him, again.
Surely she would be able to weep, if he was truly gone? Surely she would know, in her heart, if he were no longer of this world?
“What am I to do, Aislinn? What?” she whispered. “How shall I bear this?”
Aislinn’s heart went out to her mistress. She was close to tears herself. “Oh, my lady,” she murmured, putting her arms around Siobhan’s shoulders. “Don’t despair. If your lord was truly dead, you would know it.” She hesitated. “There is . . . There is a way you could learn the truth.”
“There is? What is it?”
“The skrying glass, mistress.”
“No! Never again! That wretched glass has caused trouble enough!”
“But it could tell you what has befallen your Lord Colm!” Aislinn pleaded. “’Tis the only way.”
“I’ve not seen that wretched glass since before my mother died. I have no idea where it went.”
Her twelfth birthday was the last time Siobhan had seen it.
“It is in the carved chest, my lady. The Lady Deirdre’s chest. I saw it only a few days ago.”
“Oh?”
Aislinn reddened but for once made no excuses. “It is wrapped in black cloth. Hidden at the bottom of the chest.”
“Very well,” Siobhan said, deciding. “Bring it to me, Aislinn. And be quick!”
With every passing moment, her fear and uncertainty were mounting, spiralling out of control. Her heart said Colm was not dead; that the mirror had been wrong those many years ago. But Fergus had believed otherwise. He had been inconsolable, certain that he had seen his cousin struck a mortal blow. What harm could it do to consult the looking glass? Besides, what more had she to lose?
Knowing something, anything, was surely better than this endless torture?
Refusing Aislinn’s offers of help, she carried the skrying glass to St Kieran’s Tower. There, she propped it against the tower wall.
Standing before the ebony glass with its frame of tarnished silver, she drew a deep breath and demanded to be shown her husband on this, their wedding day.
’Twas the eve of Samhain.
A night when the impossible seemed possible.
At first, smoke boiled and gathered in the black glass, swirling and billowing.
When, little by little, the smoke cleared, she saw Glenkilly Bay reflected in the mirror. The sunset sky was streaked with red, gold, orange. Coming night darkened the edges of the western sky like a great pall of black smoke.
And, from out of that glorious sunset sailed a Viking funeral ship, listing like a wounded swan as it sailed into the bay.
Atop the cliffs and headlands, the Samhain bonfires had already been lit; beacons to guide the funeral ship to shore on this All Hallows Eve; a night when both pagans and Christians believed the dead returned to earth.
A sob caught in her throat as Siobhan turned from the glass to look out of the window – and saw the same scene as that reflected in the glass.
She sped down the tower steps, then climbed the ladder to the ground, ten feet below. She missed her footing in her haste and fell the last two feet, but was up and running towards the shore without missing a step.
It had come to pass, just as the skrying glass had foretold so many years ago. This had been her doing, hers alone. She had no one else to blame! She had known what the terrible cost of loving Colm would be from the very start.
By yielding to his wishes, by naming their wedding day, she had also named the day of his death. She was as responsible for it as the berserker who had slain him.
Onwards came the terrible drakkar, sailing onwards with its pall of smoke. A funeral barge fit for a fallen hero; one that showed the high esteem in which even Colm’s enemies had held him.
The Vikings had honoured Colm mac Connor with a funeral given to only their bravest warriors; a blazing ship to carry him to the feasting halls of Valhallah.
A few small flames yet licked at the serpentine prow as the dragon ship was drawn closer to shore by the incoming tide.
Against all odds, Colm had come home to her.
She stared at the vessel, willing it to come deeper into the bay, hoping it would become stranded on the rocky shore so that she might see with her own eyes that Fergus was right, that her beloved was truly dead and gone, lost to her for eternity.
But as she gazed out to sea, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, willing the vessel to come closer, she saw the impossible: a movement where no movement should be.
The rays of the setting sun had reflected off a golden wristband as the dead man raised his arm.
A wild sob of joy tore from Siobhan’s throat.
He was not dead.
She had seen him move!
And as long as there was yet life inside him, there was also hope . . .
“A water creature / Shall I be,” she whispered. “Swimming in / The restless sea / By the magic / In my blood / Change me!”
As always, whenever she shifted shape, the air grew very still. The cries of the gulls ceased. The harsh c
aws of the crows that hung in the trees – black omen birds, harbingers of death – fell eerily silent. Even the sound of the waves breaking against the shore was stilled as light began to pour from Siobhan’s fingertips.
She beckoned the light, bidding it engulf her, bidding it surround her in its magical golden aura.
“Change me! Change me!” she pleaded urgently.
All at once, Siobhan, the woman, was no more. In her place was now a silkie, a creature half seal, half woman.
She slid off the rocks and dived into the shallows as sleekly as any mermaid, streaking through the lapping waves of the bay towards the dragon ship.
“Follow me!” she called to the fishermen mending their nets. “My lord lives! All of you, help me!”
The fishermen rubbed bleary eyes, unsure of what they were seeing. The light was fading. The rays of the setting sun dazzled their eyes. Was it a sleek brown silkie that begged their help? A magical silkie with the voice of their chieftain’s daughter, the Lady Siobhan? Or Siobhan herself?
Quickly, carrying their coracles on their backs, they hurried down to the bay, where they set the small round crafts into the water.
Straightway, they began rowing towards the smouldering drakkar, and its precious cargo.
As they lifted Colm from the vessel into one of the coracles, Siobhan closed her eyes. She offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the gods, both Christian and pagan, that Colm had been returned to her alive.
All that remained now was to summon her healing arts and all the spells and simples in her stores to see that he remained that way.
Siobhan sent a fisherman for a cart to bring Colm home to Glenkilly.
He opened his eyes to find her hovering over him. There were tears in her green eyes, more rolling down her cheeks. He had never seen a sight more beautiful than her face. He smiled and whispered, “Summon a priest, Siobhan, my darling.”
“Why, my lord? Not for the . . . the Last Rites?”
“No, my silly love. To hear our wedding vows! Did I not tell ye we should be wed on Samhain Eve? Aye, and so we shall. I shall put an end to your wretched curse, woman, once and for all – before it puts an end to me!”
Siobhan and Colm mac Connor were wed in a Christian ceremony in the chapel of St Kieran’s Church before midnight that Samhain Eve. The bride wore a gold kirtle. A harvest wreath of wheat, and red and golden leaves crowned her black hair.
That night, as Colm slept a deep and healing sleep, his bride celebrated their union in another, secret ceremony, deep in the woods; a ceremony that had its roots in pagan times. She also gave thanks for her husband’s life in a second ceremony that was nobody’s business but her own.
Magic was, after all, a part of her nature, a part of who she was. Siobhan mac Connor – shape-shifter.
The Houndmaster
Sandra Newgent
Hollylough, County Meath, Ireland – 1422
One
Branna Mordah understood little of weddings, but knew she wanted one like Mama’s.
Her mother knelt before the altar in the little stone chapel. Tiarna, the only name Branna had ever called the man on his knees beside Mama, recited the priest’s words in a deep, comforting voice. “I, Gavin, take thee, Aideen, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, till death do us part, if the holy church will ordain it: And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Branna turned her attention from the priest’s droning words to the beautiful window above the altar. Decorated with pieces of coloured glass, the moonlight streamed through the window, spilling green, gold and red on to the stone floor. A familiar object formed the centre of the design. The image resembled a tree, yet it was unlike any she had seen in the forest.
The priest’s movements recaptured Branna’s attention. He held an item in his wrinkled hand, but it was hidden beneath a white cloth embroidered with a tall cup.
The priest lifted the cloth.
Branna gasped. “’Tis wondrous, Mama.”
The brilliant gold cup bore green stones and mysterious etchings, giving Branna reason to look again at the window.
“The wee one should be abed. She has no business here.” Shaking his head, the priest filled the chalice with deep, red wine.
“I am not wee. I am five.” Branna held up the correct number of fingers as proof.
“She is my one child.” Mama’s voice held a slight pleading tone. “Hush now, Branna. ’Tis time to drink from the chalice.”
“The little one stays, Father.” Tiarna’s voice was calm and the old man held his tongue.
With a wave of Tiarna’s hand the priest continued with his final prayer and blessing. He placed the cup in Mama’s two hands. She turned, faced Tiarna and took a sip, her blue eyes meeting his above the gilded rim.
“’Tis my heart’s desire.”
Mama looked beautiful. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, haloed by the circlet of white flowers Branna had tied all by herself. Her mother passed the chalice to Tiarna and he sipped from the cup.
The blessed quiet was pierced by a chorus of high-pitched howls. Branna grabbed her mother’s skirt when three white hounds crashed through the double doors and galloped down the isle towards the priest.
Mama bent down and whispered, her voice calm, “Hide, my sweet, under the bord’s sacred cloth.” Mama pushed her towards the table, and then stepped off the dais. Branna saw Mama take the chalice and Tiarna’s proffered hand. He raised Mama’s hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. Then they turned, standing shoulder to shoulder to confront the terrible dogs.
Branna faced the altar, but her feet would not obey Mama’s command. She could only stare at the table covered by crossed white cloths embroidered with the same tree as in the windows. Tears stung her eyes. She wanted Mama.
Tiarna scooped her up, kissed the top of her head and pushed her under the table. “Do not come out till the dogs leave, Little Raven.”
Branna crouched under the heavy table. From a gap between the cloths, she saw the frenzy of the battle. The priest chanted words Branna did not understand. He stood before Mama and Tiarna, drawing a cross in the air. For a moment, the dogs hushed. Then, the hound with the reddest eyes leaped upon the old man, ripping at his throat. Branna had seen Tiarna’s hounds tear apart a hind in the same manner. The dogs turned next to Tiarna and Mama.
Mama stepped forwards and raised the chalice. Wine sloshed over the lip and down her arm. She stood ready to strike down the lead dog. Tiarna swept her behind him.
Terrified, Branna squeezed her eyes shut, determined to make the bad dogs disappear. The screams died quickly and all was quiet again. Branna felt hot, tinny air upon her face. She slowly opened her eyes straight into the blazing red orbs of a dog. The hound panted in her face, its breath heavy with the scent of the battle, his white fur flecked with blood and wine.
He growled low in his throat, and Branna crawled further under the table. With a last threatening snarl, the dog captured the chalice in his jaws, and led the other Hounds of Hell out of the chapel and into the night.
Branna ventured from beneath the table. Tiarna and the priest were sprawled in the aisle, not moving. Branna crawled to her mother who lay still at the base of the dais. The white flower crown had broken, its blossoms scattered about her mother’s body. Branna touched her beautiful mother’s face, which was torn and bloodied. Mama’s lifeless eyes were locked on Tiarna.
Branna screamed, the sound echoing in the empty chapel.
Branna swallowed the scream that threatened to escape her lips. She rode past a snagging tree, its bare branches sticking out like fingers twisted by age. The nearly full moonlight shimmered off its bark, turning it silver. A light breeze shook its limbs, as if warning her away. She shivered and wrapped her heavy, fur-trimmed cloak closer. She squeezed Molly’s ribs urging her on. The terrifying images of the past still left her quaking, but it would not dissuade her from her task. She must find the emerald chalice.
Branna’s me
mory of the man her mother had loved was small. She did not know his full name, only had called him “Tiarna”, the Gaelic name for lord. Two things she knew for certain – he had made her mother sing and he’d saved her from certain death. No matter what Aunt Meeda whispered amongst her friends, Branna knew Tiarna had been good.
Her life after that night had changed. She’d been whisked away and taken to her uncle’s modest house to live, but had never felt welcomed by his family. Her raven-dark hair and blue eyes, different from their red and hazel, had not helped.
Molly picked her way over an ill-repaired, stone packhorse bridge, its rough surface interspersed with timber planks. She stopped the mare on the other side and looked across the rocky field towards the imposing Norman castle upon the hill.
Castle Hollylough.
Aunt Meeda had warned her to never travel to this land, as it was evil, but Branna could no longer abide her wishes. She would face down evil if necessary. She had to find the magic chalice and bring her mother back.
Dismounting, Branna removed the small spade from her leather pack. She led her horse across the field, carefully stepping over a low hedge, moving closer to the standing stones. Outside the ring, she dropped Molly’s reins to let her graze on the last of summer’s sweet grass.
Branna entered the circle, striding to the large dolmen in the centre. This is where Grandmama had said the chalice might be buried, inside the portal tomb. Branna couldn’t have attempted this without Grandmama’s assistance.
Her mother’s mother had been Branna’s only friend and confidante after Mama died. She had oftentimes been the shield between her and Aunt Meeda, who’d never been warm to her. Branna not only wanted to find the chalice for herself, but for Grandmama, who was becoming frailer every day.
