by Diane Zahler
“You will be able to converse with us,” Riona told me, and I looked at her questioningly. “You remember, we told you that the queen could hear your thoughts, if they were directed at her?”
I nodded.
“So we too can hear them, as we are half-witches. You have only to think your speech to us, and it will be as if you’ve spoken.”
“Oh!” I said, pleased. “That will make silence much more bearable.”
“For you,” Liam grumbled under his breath, but his eyes told me he was teasing, and I managed to ignore him.
I put on an old dress that Riona had outgrown, for she told me that the nettles would rip and stain anything we wore. Then we started out for the field. I felt the weight of my task heavy on me as we walked, and knew I was afraid. Riona had explained that we had to soak the nettles, so that their fine, stinging needles would come off, and then dry them, even before I began to spin. It seemed an endless series of labors, and the very thought of it wearied me. My days, I saw now, had been filled with play and entertainment, and I wondered why I had complained so about the simple tasks Mistress Tuileach set me. I did not know how to work. How could I possibly pick and soak and dry, spin and weave and sew, and do it all before the lake froze?
To distract myself—and with the prospect of a long silence looming before me—I began to talk, almost desperately. I chattered to Riona and Liam about balls and parties and dinners in the palace, about my brothers’ various adventures, about hunting and jousts, gowns and horses. I could tell that Riona enjoyed the bits that featured Cullan, and Liam seemed to like hearing about the hunts and swordplay. By the time we reached the field, I was tired of my own voice, but I had one last thing to say. I turned to Liam.
“I am so very sorry for calling you common last night,” I told him, the words that I had rehearsed spilling from me almost too fast to be understood. My voice cracked on the word common. “It was terribly impolite, and I didn’t mean it. I truly hope that you will forgive me.” This was the most—or perhaps the only—heartfelt apology I had ever made, and I waited anxiously to hear Liam’s reply.
His eyes crinkled in a smile, and he bowed his head to me. “You were vexed and tired,” he said graciously. “Of course I forgive you.”
I sighed with relief. It had not gone as badly as I had feared at all.
“And,” he went on, “it is not the first time you were rude to me.”
“Liam!” Riona said, shocked.
“No, go on,” I said. “What did I do?”
“It was a year ago, or more,” Liam told me. “You had a bird in a cage, and it was ailing. It would not eat.”
I recalled it well. It was a lark, and it had stopped singing its sweet song and would only sit on a silver perch and stare out my window.
“Yes,” I said in a low voice. “I remember.”
“I let it go,” he reminded me. “I opened the cage and the window, and it flew to freedom, and you said—”
“Oh, don’t!” I interrupted him. “I am dreadful, I know. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me!”
He grinned at me and said, “It is all in the past. I just wanted to be sure you remembered we had met before.”
“I do remember now,” I said, ashamed. “You were right; a lark should not be caged. I have not had a bird since.”
“Liam, stop tormenting her,” Riona scolded her brother. “We must begin our picking.”
“You are both very kind to help me,” I said awkwardly, for I was no more practiced at gratitude than apology. “Collecting the nettles will surely hurt you—you don’t have to do it.”
“Of course we must,” Riona replied gently, and I remembered how lovingly and sadly she had stroked Cullan’s feathered wings.
“We’re glad to help you,” Liam added, placing a warm hand over mine. I looked at his face, realizing all at once that he was as handsome, with his bright blue eyes and dark curls, as his sister was pretty. The thought made me flush, and I pulled my hand away.
“We should start,” I said abruptly, and we turned to the field.
“These are nettles,” Riona told me, pointing to a weedy plant with a thick stem and jagged leaves that grew in profusion in the barren-looking soil. “The stings come from the stem, and the needles are very thin and hard to see. It’s impossible to avoid them. I’ve brought gloves—they will help to protect your hands.”
I took the thick gloves she held out to me, wrinkling my nose at their appearance. They looked rough and peasantlike and were too big for me, so when I grasped the first nettle by its tough stem and pulled, one of the gloves slid down, leaving my wrist exposed. The nettle brushed against it, and my breath hissed out between my teeth as I held back a cry. I had never been stung by a nettle before. It was like a dozen stabbing pinpricks that grew in intensity until I was sure I would wail aloud. I held my breath, thinking of what would happen if I spoke: each word will be as a knife in the victims’ hearts. Then suddenly the pain faded, and I was left with a sore, reddened patch on my wrist that itched and burned.
I pulled up the glove and yanked hard near the base of the plant, jerking the nettle out of the ground by the roots. Then I went on to the next. Behind me, Riona and Liam began to gather the plants into bundles. I endured sting after sting as my gloves slid down or I made the mistake of wiping my neck or brow with a gloved hand, for the stinging needles clung to the gloves. During the first hour I wept as I worked, but then I grew more accustomed to the pain. I set my jaw and trudged silently onward through the field.
When the sun began to lower in the sky, Riona said that we must stop. My arms and shoulders ached, and I was exhausted. We carried the bundles back to the cottage and into the garden, where an enormous kettle of water waited. I placed the nettles in the water to soak, as Riona instructed. Then I stripped off the gloves, wincing at the raw patches on my wrists and hands where the gloves had slipped as I picked.
“I have something to soothe the stings,” Riona said, leading me inside. She settled me by the fire, dislodging a small rabbit that nestled in the chair, and brought a bowl of a lavender-scented cream from the kitchen. Kneeling beside me, she smoothed the cream onto my hands and arms, my neck and face where the skin burned and itched. Immediately I felt better.
“This is made from dock leaves from my garden,” Riona told me, “mashed into a paste and mixed with lavender. The lavender is just for the scent.” I nodded weakly at her and sighed. What must I do next? I thought.
As if I had spoken aloud, Riona said, “The soaked nettles must be dried tomorrow, and you will have to pick many more. What you have gathered will make only a single shirt.”
I stared at her, amazed that she had actually heard my thoughts. A moment, later, though, I was horrified. I had thought I’d picked enough for all the shirts. No, that cannot be! I thought. I can’t do this for four more days!
“Of course you can, Princess,” she said gently, finishing with the unguent and standing up. “Now, I think we have all earned a good tea. Then you must change and get back.”
We had tea, and I practiced my new mode of communication. It took some concentration, for I was used to speaking without thinking overmuch about what I said.
The tea is delicious, I thought at Riona.
“It is a restorative, made from cowslip flowers and red clover,” she replied. “That was very nice and clear, Your Highness!”
You must both call me Meriel, I thought at them, wondering if two could hear me at once. They looked surprised.
“No,” protested Liam, “that doesn’t seem . . . right.”
I smiled at him. You are doing so much for me and for my brothers, I told them. It would not be right if you were to call me anything else. They smiled back at me then, and my heart was lighter as I changed into my own dress and started back toward the castle.
I stopped at the lake, eerie in the gathering dusk. Mist was rising from its cold water, and my snow-white swan brothers swam through the vapor like ghosts. They gathered around me eagerly
, but I, of course, could tell them nothing. I shook my head and pointed to my closed mouth, reminding them of my silence, but still they seemed uneasy. I did not want to leave them there, though it was some small comfort to me that I was working to help them.
I hurried home as darkness descended, climbing back up the vine to get to Cullan’s window. I found this much more difficult than climbing down, especially with my poor blistered palms. But I managed, and then had to spend an uncomfortable evening dining with Father, Lady Orianna, and several guests. I tried to keep my wounded hands and arms out of sight and my aching back straight in my chair. Luckily, the conversation flowed without stopping at me, so my silence was not noted. I nodded and smiled when necessary and nearly fell asleep over my gooseberry tart. When the gathering broke up, I staggered to my room. Mistress Tuileach had already gone to bed, so I lay down on my coverlet without disrobing and was asleep in an instant.
In the morning I met Mistress Tuileach in the salon, for I knew I could not miss my lessons again. I was fearful that my silence would betray me and had not worked out a convincing way to avoid speaking. I poured tea neatly, smiling and nodding, and played a piece at the pianoforte in the music room. To my great relief, my governess did not ask me to sing or to practice my French. She dismissed me before noon, saying, “You must be sure not to strain your throat, child, if you are feeling a cold coming on.” I looked at her sharply, but she only gave me her customary brisk nod, and I touched my throat delicately and nodded back.
I clambered out Cullan’s window and down the thick vine; then, making sure I was not observed, I sped to Riona’s cottage. The afternoon passed in much the same way as the day before, as I picked and soaked nettles, laid them to dry in the garden, and picked and soaked more.
We had a series of clear, crisp days, and I followed the same schedule, with silent lessons in the morning, work in the afternoon, and a silent dinner with Father, Lady Orianna, and whatever guests or councilors they were entertaining each evening. The queen had constant visitors, lords and ladies from Ardin whom she had known before she met Father, and I was grateful that her attention was taken up with them. It gave her less time to notice me. And Father—well, he was utterly captivated by his new wife. Though it pained me to see that he did not note my silence or my damaged hands, I was thankful for his distraction as well.
By the fourth day of picking I felt stronger and less exhausted from the work. I did not grow used to the nettles’ sting, though, and each afternoon’s labor began with pain and tears. But I would think of Baird’s face as he sang or Aidan’s joyful whoop as he leaped a stile on his horse, and my memories gave me the strength to go on. At last, as the fifth afternoon waned, Riona said I had collected enough nettles, and I began to spin, sitting at the wheel in the corner of the cottage’s main room.
The spinning was not difficult, but the nettle fibers had to pass between my fingers as I spun them into thread, so I developed blisters that quickly became thick calluses. Red and raw, my hands were no longer those of a princess. Not even a merchant or a goodwife would have hands like mine; they were a laborer’s hands. I mourned them at first, but I was proud, too, of the work that had torn and hardened them and made them ugly.
As I spun, Liam told me stories—old tales of heroes and battles—which were exciting enough to help pass the time. He especially liked the tales of the Fianna, men who had to pass terrible tests to join their warrior groups. With their long hair braided, they had to run through the forest, pursued by the other Fianna. If they were captured, or if their braids caught on a bough, or if a branch cracked under their feet, they would fail the test—and they had to recite poetry as they ran.
Poet warriors! I marveled. What a strange and wonderful breed of men they must have been.
“That was in the days when all the folk of Faerie—fairies, elves, monsters, witches good and bad—lived among people. It was not such a good time, though it makes for good tales,” Riona said. “Many of the Faerie folk are cruel and don’t care at all about what their deeds do to humans. Now only the witches live with people, for they—we—are closer to humankind than any of the others. Some have married humans, as Mother did, and there are many of us who are half witch. As for the rest of the Faerie folk, it is better that they stay below ground in their own land.”
“There are rumors, though . . . ,” Liam mused.
Rumors of what?
“Well, people say that the creatures of Faerie are stirring again—that some are making their way back up to us.”
Why should they do that? I asked. Do they not like it in their own land?
“That is their home, but they do not like being forced to stay there,” Riona replied. “They are kept below by powerful spells that witches like our mother have cast to protect us. Always some have managed to escape, but now it seems that more and more are coming up. We fear that they want to be part of both worlds—or even to rule both worlds, their own and ours.”
I thought of the legends surrounding Heart Lake, but said nothing.
When I grew weary of Liam’s tales of swordfights and sieges, he described his own plans for the future. He wanted to study physic, the medical art, but to apply the healing skills he learned to animals rather than humans.
“Mother travels from village to village as a healer,” he explained. “But my skills seem to work best on animals. That rabbit, now”—he pointed to the rabbit that sat beside Riona as she crushed herbs with a mortar and pestle—“she had been shot by someone’s arrow and left to die. I did not think she would survive, but with Riona’s herbs, she’s done very well.”
“It’s your touch, Brother, as much as my plants,” Riona said fondly. “The animals seem to know he won’t hurt them. They do not mind when he works on them, and many of them stay on with us.” She stroked the rabbit’s fine fur, and its long ears twitched with pleasure. “And though a stoat and a rabbit are mortal enemies in the wild, here they have grown up together and are friends.” It was true; I had seen the stoat and rabbit sleeping together in a basket by the fire, curled around each other.
Liam and Riona taught me the medicinal properties of the herbs in their garden: yarrow, to treat headaches; coriander, which reduced fever; rosemary, to heal disease and help memory; fennel, to stop colic in a fussy baby. Every plant, it seemed, had a use, and I was fascinated to learn them. In fact, I was fascinated by nearly everything Liam and Riona did and said. I was unaccustomed to being with others near my own age, except for my brothers, for there were no other princesses living near Castle Rua, and few noble children. I had spent all my time vying for my brothers’ attention and affection. Now I began to realize that there had been a great lack in my life, and despite the wearisome nature of my task, I cherished the hours I spent at the little cottage.
One afternoon, when I had been spinning for three or four days, I was able to see brother and sister do their work. A knock sounded at the door, and Riona opened it to find a box there, holding an injured squirrel. She carried it inside after looking about for the person who had left it, but there was no one in sight.
“They often come to us thus,” she sighed, lifting out the little animal with its long, bushy tail. “Some of the children are frightened of witches and run off, for it is not always clear if we are good or bad.” The squirrel wriggled and squeaked, but when Liam took it from her it settled in his hands and lay there quietly, its eyes bright and suspicious.
“Its paw is crushed,” he said, looking the squirrel over carefully. “Perhaps it was caught between rocks as it tried to escape some terrible danger.”
He laid it gently in a box lined with soft grasses, and the rabbit and stoat came to sniff at it, backing away when it chittered wildly at them. Liam and Riona mixed herbs together and made a paste, which Liam applied to the wounded paw. The squirrel tried to lick it off and made a face of such dismay at the taste that I had to cover my mouth to keep the laughter in. Each afternoon when I arrived I checked on it, and in a matter of days the paw wa
s healed. The squirrel did not stay on with the other animals but ran back to the small stand of woods not far from the cottage, where it could forage for nuts. Often we could hear it chittering to us from a nearby tree.
It took over a week to spin the nettles, but when at last I was finished, I had great spindles of coarse thread that I now needed to weave into cloth. Riona brought out her hand loom, which was small enough to carry, and instructed me on how to use it. Immediately I thought, Oh, can I weave at the lake, and see my brothers?
Riona pursed her lips. “Is it safe?” she wondered. “Have you ever seen guards there?”
I shook my head. No, never, I replied, for I passed the lake each day as I went to and fro. The queen keeps them at the castle—to confine me! I smiled, thinking of my daily escape.
“Then I think it is a fine idea,” Riona said. “The day will be warm tomorrow—it should be lovely there.”
I was very skilled at sneaking from the castle by this time. As soon as my lessons were finished the next day, I dashed down to the lake, eager to spend time with my brothers. Liam and Riona had not yet arrived with my loom and thread, so I could not begin working. I could see the swans across the water, dabbling in the weeds for food, but they did not notice me as I waved. I started to walk around the wide shoreline to them, but then I thought that if I went the other way—to the narrow end of the lake and around—it would be a shorter distance. I knew, too, that the narrow point was rumored to be the source of the Faerie spring, and I was drawn to see what was there. I did not quite believe in the lands and creatures Riona and Liam had described to me. Besides, the day was fine, the sun bright—what ill could befall me?
I had not gone far before I began to regret my impulse. There was no real path; the way was thick with thorny bushes that grabbed and tore my skirts. The mist that always hung over this part of the lake even on fine days thickened around me, and I grew confused. It seemed that I had been walking much longer than I should have to reach the lake’s end. I tried to keep the water in sight on my right-hand side, but the shore was rocky, and I had to move away from it. I was about to give up and start back when I heard a strange, sweet sound. It was like water gently plashing from a fountain, and like the thrum of a harp at the same time. It seemed to call me forward.
