Her ancient bones brought me to birth,
Her crags and islands built me strong,
My heart beats to her deep wild song.
I am the wife with bairn on knee,
I am the fisherman at sea,
I am the piper on the strand,
I am the warrior, sword in hand.
Something was here with me. A tiny presence, many presences, buzzing and whining around my head, making me want to swat them away . . . I kept my hands still. No midges these, but something Other; each was a little light, a manifestation of the magic I had felt the moment Whisper and I first approached the place of the cairns.
White Lady, shield me with your fire,
Lord of the North, my heart inspire,
Hag of the Isles, my secrets keep,
Master of Shadows, guard my sleep.
The buzzing changed as I sang, tuning itself to the melody, wreathing me in a soft, high music. The tiny creatures moved so swiftly I could not see exactly what they were, but I sensed a shimmer of wings, flashes of shining colour, a glow from each as if they bore light within their bodies.
I am the mountain, I am the sky,
I am the song that will not die,
I am the heather, I am the sea,
My spirit is forever free.
The song was done. The presences danced around my head a few more times, then settled on my shoulders, in my hair, on my knees. Their humming music died down.
Not insects. Not tiny birds. Good Folk, in shape not unlike graceful Silver of the Westies, but small, so very small – the largest of them was no bigger than a dragonfly. Their garments seemed fashioned of feathers and cobweb, gossamer and dewdrops, and each had delicate wings. Their small presences glowed with light. I hardly dared move for fear they might break.
‘The song –’ I said, then fell silent as the whole swarm of them flew up at once, as if startled. Yet my singing had not seemed to trouble them. I lowered my voice to a murmur, and they settled once more. ‘The song is my gift to you, offered with respect. I seek the Good Folk of the east, and in particular, the White Lady.’ That was, perhaps, a little blunt; but I must take the quickest path.
One of the tiny beings spoke, or perhaps sang; its voice was so high I could hear nothing but squeaking, and my heart sank. Among the Folk Below at Shadowfell had been five very small creatures whose voices were incomprehensible to human folk; one of the bigger Good Folk had translated for them. I had no interpreter now.
The wee being was trying again. It stood on the back of my hand, waving its arms as if that might help it convey its message. Its hair was long and wild. Its features had a human complement of eyes, nose and mouth, but their placement suggested an insect of some kind. Its garments appeared to be woven from strands of cobweb.
‘I’m s–’ I had forgotten to keep my voice down, and as one they shrank away. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying. I am Neryn. A Caller. I’ve come here from the north. Perhaps some word of our venture has reached you. Are there some bigger folk of your kind close by?’
The little ones broke into a mournful, squeaking chorus.
‘Gone?’ I guessed. ‘What of the White Lady?’
The being on my hand performed a dumb show, first shivering violently and wrapping its cloak around it. Then it pointed to me, and to the cairns, tilting its head as if asking a question.
‘Cold, yes, I’m cold, and going to be colder, since we’re on the threshold of winter. Are you suggesting I shelter inside that beehive hut? This is a place of deep ritual, isn’t it? I don’t wish to offend anyone.’
The being gave a decidedly human-like shrug. It repeated the shivering, then keeled over sideways and lay on my palm as still as death. My heart skipped a beat – had touching me somehow killed it?
The others rose in a cloud, making a shrill sound that seemed akin to laughter. The cobweb-cloaked one bounced back to its feet, spreading its hands wide as if expecting applause. It pointed to me, then repeated the whole performance.
‘Shelter in the hut or die of cold, I understand. If I face that choice, I will do as you suggest. I do need news of the White Lady, if you or others of your clan are willing to provide it. Is she close by? Can I reach her?’
In response, they swarmed into the air again and flew in a shining ribbon to the low entrance of the beehive hut. Almost before I could draw breath, they had disappeared inside.
I glanced back up the hill. Whisper’s absence made me edgy and I wanted to watch out for his return. But perhaps this would not take long. I picked up my belongings – staff and travelling pack – and approached the hut. The entry would have been just the right size for my fey friends, Sage and Red Cap. Pushing the staff and bag ahead of me, I crawled along the short tunnel on my hands and knees.
The space inside reflected the beehive design – it was circular in shape, with a domed roof. The whole construction was of dry-stone, meticulously laid. The floor was bare earth. Here and there in the walls were small recesses that might be used for candles or offerings at ritual time. It was not dark, for the tiny beings had placed themselves on the stones all around, filling the little chamber with glowing light. Apart from them and me, the place was empty. Empty, but full of magic.
I settled myself on the ground, waiting for what might come.
‘Ye brocht a witawoo,’ someone said in tones of reproach. ‘Intae my place, among my wee folk, ye brocht a rendin’, tearin’ witawoo. Didna it occur tae ye that such creatures feed on the small ones o’ the meadow, wee fluttery things such as these here? Didna ye spare a thocht for that, afore ye came trampin’ in?’
Nobody here; only me and the tiny beings. The place was barely two strides across.
I cleared my throat. ‘A wita . . . You mean my companion, Whisper? He’s not an owl; he’s one of the Northies.’
A tinkling sound arose from the tiny beings. I interpreted it as a gasp of shock. ‘It’s true,’ I went on. ‘Whisper comes from the household of the Lord of the North. He’s one of your own kind. True, he does resemble an owl. But he will not eat any of you, I give my word. He will not enter this area, or even fly over it, since it is a place of women’s ritual.’
‘I dinna see this Whisper noo. Whaur did he gang? Just waitin’ tae swoop, aye?’ The voice rang through the little chamber, wry, suspicious and definitely female. Could this be the White Lady herself?
‘Whisper heard some disturbing sounds during the night. He flew off to investigate. He waited until I was safely within the protection of the cairns before leaving.’
‘Sounds? What sounds?’
‘Screaming, shouting. Sounds of distress. Forgive me, I do not know who you are, or where you are, or even what you are.’ She sounded like one of the Good Folk. But a being who chose to remain invisible? That set doubt in me. When the Master of Shadows had tested me, I had seen the Guardians in a vision. The White Lady had been . . . In my mind, she had been a tall, slender human-like figure clad in flowing white robes, very similar to the serene Lady Siona, wife of the Lord of the North. But now that I recalled that vision, I realised I had never actually seen her. It was my own imagination that had conjured up her image. In the vision I had seen only myself, clad in a blue gown with flowers in my hair and bright spring light all around me. I had heard the Lady’s voice, bidding me see with the clarity of air. She had spoken like a noblewoman, her tone confident, mellow and sweet. If anything was certain, it was that the voice I heard now was not the same.
‘I don’t wish to be discourteous,’ I ventured. ‘I am seeking the White Lady, Guardian of the East. I heard – we heard – that perhaps she might be found here. I need to speak with her on a matter of urgency.’
‘Oh, aye? And what matter would that be?’
Even though the Good Folk knew by instinct that I was a Caller, that did not mean they always w
elcomed me. Past experience with Silver and her clan had proven that – they had taken a long time to believe my mission was worthwhile, and their help, when they’d finally offered it, had been a two-edged sword. It must be uncomfortable to be stirred up by a Caller; worse to know that if I chose, I could compel them to act in ways they might not wish to.
I hesitated before I spoke. ‘Has any word come to your folk from the other Watches, about a . . . a venture that is planned?’
‘What venture might that be?’
That might mean they had heard nothing of the rebellion. It might equally well mean they knew all about it but were treating me with caution until they knew I was trustworthy. I could hardly blame them for that, since I was doing exactly the same. ‘Before I tell you more, may I ask . . . are you a representative of the White Lady? One of her people?’
The invisible presence snorted in derision. ‘Ye’re in the Watch o’ the East, are ye no’? What were ye thinkin’, that ye’d run intae a clan o’ folk loyal tae the Master o’ Shadows?’
A shrill chorus from the tiny beings suggested they concurred with this assessment of my stupidity.
‘As it happens,’ I said, keeping my tone courteous, ‘when I met the Master of Shadows in person, it was not in his own Watch, but in the north. That made me wonder if perhaps he and his people may be found anywhere. I think it’s possible they are no respecters of borders.’
‘Southies dinna ken the meanin’ o’ respect.’
There was a pause; a silence that had an expectant quality. I did not speak, and after some time the voice came again. ‘Ye plannin’ on tellin’ us, then? Isna that why ye’ve come tae these pairts?’
‘I had hoped some of your own kind, from the north and the west, might have travelled here before me and spread the word about this undertaking. That was the plan. I know they have done so in their own Watches, so the news is widely known among the Good Folk there.’
Another silence. Then, ‘Spread the word, ye say? Would that be a flock o’ witawoos hootin’ the message for any ear tae hear? Or hawks perhaps, flyin’ doon tae gie the news tae a bunch o’ oor wee folk and snappin’ up ane or twa for supper just by the by?’
I suppressed a sigh. ‘Messengers. Good Folk who can fly.’
‘We might hae caught a wee whisper o’ that sort. Somethin’ aboot a battle, and cauld iron. Nae guid news. There’s enough death and hurtin’ in Alban already. Why would we be wantin’ mair?’
‘The news that came to you may not have mentioned a Caller. That is what I am. I’m seeking the White Lady in the hope of receiving some wisdom. I’m hoping she will teach me the better use of my gift.’ I could hardly make it plainer than that.
The invisible presence said nothing; instead, a rippling sound came from the tiny beings. I interpreted it as mocking laughter.
‘I watched a group of women conducting a ritual here at dusk yesterday, and I saw some of you flying around them. I know most of your kind do not like dealing with humankind, but your presence there suggested you might be prepared to talk to me.’
‘Aye.’ The voice had a tinge of sorrow in it now. ‘The wise women dinna see the wee folk the way ye do, but they feel the presence. This here, the Beehives, ’tis the last place, ye ken?’
‘The last place?’ That had a particularly forlorn sound.
‘The last place in a’ this Watch where human folk conduct the auld rituals in the open. Could be the last place in a’ Alban. There’s a house o’ wise women close by; they come tae the Beehives. If no’ for that, I’d be a’ gone awa’.’
So my suspicions had been right. This was the White Lady herself. How had she shrunk to this? ‘But the others,’ the protest burst out despite my attempt to stay calm, ‘the Hag, the Lord of the North, they are still standing strong despite everything!’
‘That’s no’ what I heard,’ the invisible presence said. ‘Wasna the Lord sunk in a sleep sae deep his ain folk couldna wake him? Three hundred years and mair, that was the word came tae me.’
‘The Lord is awake now and restored to his old self. When I went to his hall seeking learning, his household asked me if I could wake him. I called his wife back from far away, and she broke the spell he had set on himself. Broke it with a kiss.’
Utter silence.
‘And the Hag of the Isles is a strong presence in the west, known to the human folk of that place, if not always seen by them. Three hundred years is a long time. The Lord of the North did not withdraw from the world because of Keldec and the woeful state of Alban. He did so out of grief for his lost daughter. Sorrow sent him hiding away within himself. Love brought him back.’
‘Ye callit his lady, ye say.’ The tone was flat with disbelief.
‘I did. My gift is not yet fully developed, and it was challenging to do that, but it seemed the right way to bring him back.’
‘Oh, aye? Why didna ye ca’ the Lord himself? Wouldna that hae been quicker?’
The voice had changed again; I heard a lively intelligence there, a genuine wish to hear the truth. Perhaps we were no longer playing games. And if I had correctly understood what this being had hinted at before, my response was all- important. ‘I have never been told that a Caller must not summon a Guardian,’ I said. ‘But I think attempting that would be unwise. I feel . . . I feel in my bones that such a call should be made only in the very last extreme.’
‘If ye were facin’ death, ye mean?’
‘I’ve faced death before and saved myself, and others, by calling one of the Good Folk to help me. But a Guardian? Not if all that’s in the balance is the life of one human woman. That’s what I am, Caller or not. If the long story of Alban was a river, I’d be only one drop of it. And if I’m killed along the way, in time another Caller will step up to take my place.’ It hurt to say those words, for I’d been told it could be several hundred years before that might happen – while canny gifts were not uncommon among the populace of Alban, mine was a rare one. ‘But I plan to stay alive at least until next midsummer,’ I added. ‘And I have faith that our challenge to Keldec will succeed, and that Alban will be remade as the peaceful and just realm it once was. I have a part to play in that, and I need your help to do it.’
‘Ye canna mend a pot that’s smashed in a thousand pieces,’ murmured the unseen presence, sounding old and tired now. ‘Ye canna sew up a butterfly’s wing when it’s torn and shredded. Ye canna make hope frae despair. Alban’s far gone.’
‘When I first set out to find the Guardians,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I was told they had all gone away, gone deep, and would wait out the time of Alban’s darkness. I know that to such ancient and magical folk, human lives seem very short and human affairs slight. But the way Keldec has changed Alban is not slight. He might reign for another twenty years, thirty even. He plans to change the law so his son can succeed him as king, and he’ll likely mould his child in his own image. For us human folk, that is a long time to wait. Too long. Alban might then be like that smashed pot, beyond mending. We need to act while we still have strength to do so; while we still have hope. You spoke of despair. But you are still here.’
‘A’ the bittie pieces o’ me, aye.’
I looked again at the tiny, bright beings clinging to the walls of the cairn or perched in its niches. Each seemed as fragile as a butterfly. Might not each little light be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame? If that were to happen, would the White Lady herself be gone forever? I must tread delicately here. ‘While those women come and perform their ritual, you still remain,’ I said. ‘If the rebellion succeeds and Keldec is overthrown, Alban will become a place where such practices are allowed again. Ordinary folk won’t be afraid to observe the old ways. People like me won’t be called smirched anymore; our canny gifts will be accepted. And . . . the bittie pieces of you . . . they would surely be able to come together again. You could shine as brightly as you did before, in
the time of peace.’
I sensed, rather than heard, a deep sigh. The light from the little beings wavered then steadied again.
‘Ane thing I’ll say for ye, ye hae hope enow for a hundred lassies,’ the unseen being observed. ‘Whatever drives ye, ’tis a force tae be reckoned wi’. Ye ken the winter’s almost on us. Were ye plannin’ on stayin’ here at the Beehives through the dark o’ the year? Would the witawoo be catchin’ mice and voles tae feed the twa o’ ye? Would ye be makin’ fire tae bring the king’s men doon on us?’
‘Whisper – my companion – seemed to believe this place was safe even from them,’ I said.
‘There’s a charm can be cast ower the Beehives when it’s needed, aye. I wouldna want tae be puttin’ it tae the test. Keepin’ oot a troop o’ king’s men, that would once hae been naethin’ tae me. These days, I canna be sure I’d hae the strength.’
This shocked me. A Guardian, worn down so far that she doubted her own magic?
‘If I could stay here and be reasonably safe,’ I ventured, ‘and if you were prepared to teach me, Whisper and I would provide for ourselves. The supplies we brought will last us a while, and we can fish and forage.’
‘Fish? Forage? For what?’
A fair question; there would be scant pickings in the cold season. ‘I will be honest with you,’ I said. ‘I came to the east expecting that there would be more Good Folk in the region, and that they would help me. Are there no others of your people living close by?’
‘Nane in these pairts, or they’d be here wi’ me. As for further afield, I havena heard sae much as a chirp or a squeak these fifteen years or mair.’
‘Then I can’t ask you for more than a roof over my head for as long as it takes to learn what I must. I will talk to Whisper. He is resourceful; I think we can manage. I hope very much that you will help me. I can, at the very least, provide you with some company over the winter.’
A ripple went through the tiny folk, undoubtedly laughter.
‘I didna say I wanted company. I didna say I fancied a witawoo up on the hill yonder, spyin’ on my wee folk wi’ his big e’en. But I ken what ye are and what ye can do. I felt ye comin’ closer. I dinna ken if I hae the strength tae help ye. But ye can come in the Beehives by day, and we’ll dae some talkin’.’
The Caller Page 4
