by Erin O'Quinn
I laughed, more like the hack of a crow than a laugh. “The vile purposes are theirs alone, and I know it. Anyone who would seek to poison the high king has no purity of purpose.”
I carefully spat in their direction. The gesture was a bit too ladylike, and a trace of saliva ran down my own chin. But it was a sign of contempt nonetheless. I thought briefly that I needed to practice my disdainful spitting, for it was a good way to upset an opponent.
The spitting served its purpose. Loch-Lucet stepped toward me with menace in their dull eyes. I had confronted real warriors in my life, and the skinny druids were almost laughable, but nonetheless I sank into a defensive crouch. I remembered my own first rule of self-defense—scorn not your opponent. “Stop!” I cried in my terrible warrior voice. “Stop! Or I will utter the curse of the warrior goddesses.”
As Sweeney translated my warning, almost smiling, four small women, all dressed in woolen triús or bríste, converged on the druids from the four cardinal points. Each one held a gleaming bata—even Mockingbird, who had insisted on being part of the spectacle—and as they walked toward Loch-Lucet, they swung their weapons over their heads.
Flaxen-haired Brigid, the only one of us who could speak Gaelic, shrieked in her best goddess voice, “The dire Brigid herself comes to bash your head in.” And then she said it in her most guttural and menacing Gaelige tone. I could not understand her next words, but I knew she introduced Morrígan, Badb, and Macha, the vengeful goddess of war and death, and even the bean sídhe, the banshee of their worst dreams. Mockingbird, I thought approvingly, was an outstanding banshee, for her shriek made even Sweeney blanch a bit.
The druids, true to their nature, covered their heads and cowered together. I wanted to laugh, but I needed to sustain the image of an angry war goddess.
It took only a few moments for the Triús to surround the helpless brothers and lead them to the Glaed Keepers for trussing and carrying away. I walked to Sweeney’s cart, determined not to gloat or show anything but steady purpose.
“Dia duit, Owen.”
He glowered at me. “What? No new manifestation? I thought you would at least become the fierce triple godhead, or the double ravens on the shoulders of Odin himself.”
“I told you the truth,” I said evenly. “I am not here with ropes, or manacles. I am here to ask you to return with me gladly.”
“You said you have found my father,” he sneered. “Tell me, that I may kiss his feet and thank him for a life of misery.”
I stood in front of his cart, looking him boldly in the eyes. “Please tell me that I have not raised the hopes of your family—of Nuala, of Murdoch, of Fergus and Echach and Cara, Orla and Éva—all in vain. Please tell me that I may not tell your mother to go ahead and die in grief for your refusal to reconcile with her.”
I stopped then, and I continued to gaze into his eyes. I hoped that I did not look threatening, or even reproachful. I wanted him to read the truth there, and my eyes did not waver.
“You are a scholar,” I said. “Read the truth.”
At last his own eyes softened. “Caylith,” he said in a low voice. “Does your mother hate me?”
“I think she loves you, Owen, in a way. She will no doubt marry Glaedwine, but she holds your memory dear.” I thought about the ornate comb she kept close to her bed.
Then an unexpected sight greeted me, for I saw Sweeney’s eyes filled with tears.
“And you blame me not for hurting your husband?”
“My husband is not hurt, except by the repudiation of his own uncle.”
His—uncle? What do you mean?”
“He was once scorned and reviled by his uncail Eóghan. But he has broad shoulders and a short memory.”
Then Sweeney’s great head fell to his chest, and I saw his own shoulders moving up and down, as though wracked by silent sobs.
“Owen,” I said, close to his ear, “your father was Niall of the Nine Hostages, most famous Ard Rí in the history of Éire. Search no longer, but come home and love your family as they love you. And later, at Tara, seek a kingship of your own.”
I straightened up and caught Glaed’s eye. At a signal from him, two Glaed Keepers walked up to Sweeney’s cart, and each seized the top of one of the wheels. Then they began to walk, bearing him toward home, grandly, as a king would be borne to his realm.
Chapter 26:
Heartbeat in the Stone
Sweeney’s slow, regal ride was short lived. In spite of what he had called “good theater,” we were forced by approaching darkness to encamp for the night. The Glaed Keepers carried him toward the bank of the river called Faughan, a few thousand feet from the site of the stones, deep in a pleasant valley. As the Keepers walked, flanking Sweeney, I saw that Mockingbird also walked at his side, foregoing her overweight mare. I led Clíona, ambling a few feet away from them, and I listened unashamedly as they spoke.
Sweeney’s eyes were straight ahead, and his jaw was clenched. “Madam, there is no need to gawk at me. Have you never seen a cripple?”
“You, sir, are what I call maudlin. Bringing up your condition is the same as drawing attention to yourself. Why? So that others may perhaps weep at your crippled legs? And I doubt you even know the source of the word ‘maudlin.’” Mockingbird’s own jaw was set at a stubborn angle, and yet I saw an unaccustomed brightness dancing in her eyes.
Sweeney swung his head around to glare at her. “I have read the scripture in the original Aramaic, Madam, and I am all too familiar with the pitiful figure of Mary Magdalen. Are you suggesting that I am somehow cloying?”
“Quite,” she said in clipped tones. “Interestingly, did you know that the word cloy comes from the Latin word clavus—”
“A nail. As in ‘nail to the cross.’ Ingenious observation, Madam—ah—”
“Widow,” she snapped. “Widow Mockingbird. You may call me ‘Moc’ for short.”
“Very well, um, Moc. May I ask where you studied the language of Caesar and Cicero?”
“You may, Mister Sweeney. But we are almost at our place of encampment.”
“Then will you tell me later? And call me ‘Owen,’ for I am not yet old enough to be addressed as though I were a feeble elder.”
I walked ahead with Clíona, deeply amused. Liam and his brother had found a likely place to start a fire, and I saw that several Glaed Keepers had already fanned into the nearby trees, hunting our supper. I tethered my mare and unsaddled her, first gently lifting the gruit ingredients I had prepared for Sweeney and seizing the small cauldron I had tied to the saddle.
Soon Brigid, Swallow, and Brindl were next to me, unsaddling and currying their own horses. “Cay,” said Swallow. “Why do you suppose Mother is following—even favoring—the irritable Sweeney?”
I smiled again, thinking of their learned conversation. “I think she has spotted him as a likely fellow scholar. Where did she learn Latin, by the way? And Christian scripture?”
Swallow sighed. “My mother is a repository of knowledge, Caylith. Truly a walking contradiction, like Brindl.”
Brindl lifted her lovely, gold-flecked eyes and also smiled. “It is called taking advantage of every opportunity, dear Swallow. My own life has given me many opportunities. Caylith and I are just alike in that regard.”
“Except that you have truly learned, Brin, while I have run the other direction and learned largely by accident,” I reminded her. “But I, too, am curious, Swallow. How is it your mother can ride a horse, argue shades of meaning, discuss Latin root words, fashion a bríste—and at the same time make sure that you and Torin are able to keep his promise?”
Swallow flushed to the roots of her strawberry-blonde hair. “Do not misjudge her, Cay. Her being here is the same as telling us that yes, we may touch each other, for my family is present.”
“I know, Swallow. I am sorry for teasing you.”
“Cay,” said Brigid, who had been listening with great interest, “I think that Moc and Owen like each other. Just a feeling. But
they seem almost to be toying with each other.”
We all laughed at her. “Nonsense,” said Swallow. “My mother is dedicated to the eradication of all men from our lives.”
“And yet, a handsome swain lurks nearby, poised to marry you—by her own tacit permission.” Brigid told her, now teasing her far more than I had. Swallow did not answer, but her flush deepened.
I took my gruit ingredients and my cauldron to the fire. A large pot was already set on the fire stones to boil, and I dunked my small pot into it. Settling it against the hot rocks, I began slowly to add ingredients to the water—horsetail-reed powder first, the most effective reducer of pain, then a pinch or two of hawthorn, a handful of dried gorse blooms, and perhaps a spoon’s worth of heather leaf and root. I used my long knife to stir the ingredients, concentrating on a mental image of Owen Sweeney.
“Man of grief, taste the leaf. One of sorrow, heal tomorrow. God above, bring him love.”
I had never before invoked the Lord while making a potion. I fervently hoped that it would not be considered blasphemy, but I reasoned that my purpose was sincere, and that surely Christ knew what was in my heart.
I dipped my thumb into the mix and licked it. It was not bitter, but I thought it needed something to give it a bit of heft, like a good weapon. I walked slowly along the riverbank, and I saw it in the near darkness—a low-growing clump of white-petalled flowers that I had known for years. We called it “winter savory,” and its flavor was very distinctive, somewhere between mint and rosemary. In fact, it reminded me strongly of Liam’s kisses, for he often chewed a bit of savory leaf while he worked. I gathered enough to fill the skirt of my tunic and ran back to the fire. I sheared off a good amount of stem and petals and threw them into the mix without crushing them, and then I tasted it again. It was perfect, both aromatic and appetizing.
Later that evening, we were a merry group around a large, roaring fire. Even Sweeney joined the lively conversations that flowed around him. I silently walked to Mockingbird and knelt at her side where she sat near Sweeney. “Moc, may I talk to you privately?”
She looked at my serious face and immediately walked with me, away from our friends. I held out a metal cup I had poured full of potion. “Moc, this is a gruit that I made especially for Owen Sweeney. It contains ingredients from his own baile, ones with special significance in his life. It is designed to reduce pain and induce mental healing. I need to ask you to make him drink it.”
“Hah!” she said. “I know the man not. But I think he would not willingly drink an unknown brew. Would you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I have already told him of the comfort tea I used to give Grandfather. I told him honestly that I wanted to give him a potion also. He did not agree. But he did not disagree. I think you can convince him to drink it.”
“Caylith, I like you. And I respect you, for I think you selflessly brought my people to a place of salvation. This is what I will do. I will tell the stubborn Owen Sweeney my opinion of you and your abilities. He has already sampled my skepticism. Thus he will know that I am not spreading honey on bitter greens. And then you will approach and offer him your cup. Is that fair?”
“I accept that arrangement, Moc. Let us go to Sweeney.”
I followed her back to the fire, and I knelt just out of earshot as she talked with Sweeney. At last she turned and gestured to me, and I walked to his cart and knelt again. “Owen. I told you once I have a certain, um, affinity for plants, for making healing potions. I mentioned how I had started to heal Grandfather, but he left for Snaefell and will never return.”
I paused and looked at him He was regarding me from under his brooding, dark eyebrows, and his mouth was set in a firm, grim line. I could read his expression easily. It said, “no.” And yet I kept speaking, my words halting. “Before you tell me ‘no,’ I need to mention that I, too, need a bit of healing. My pain is spiritual, as I think part of yours is also, and I willingly drink of this potion before I hand it to you.”
Thinking about my beloved grandfather, wracked with sorrow, and my own scarred mother, I lifted the cup and drank. Tears were running down the corners of my eyes as I handed the remainder of the cup to Sweeney.
He said not a word, but he raised the cup in an ironic toast and then drained it in a few long swallows. Handing it back to me, he said, “Ask me in the morning how I feel. If I am still alive.” I saw the faintest twitch of a smile. It was like trying to find an expression of humor on the face of a marble statue, or on the face of my grim armsman Gristle. I thought it was there, and then it disappeared too quickly to be sure.
“Goodnight, Owen,” I said. “Codladh sámh.” Then I turned and left him, walking back to Liam.
* * * *
It was no use trying to bathe. Liam and I had found a comfortable spot upriver where I stripped off my red fox and sat in the water of the river. He sat next to me, naked also, and we rubbed the cold water over each other, shaking with cold. After a very short time, he stood and put his hands under my arms, drawing me to my feet. “Too cold to love,” he said, and by the light of a pale moon I saw what he meant.
Laughing, we sought our blankets. One was spread on the ground as a protector against the cold earth, and the other he drew over our wet bodies. We lay with our mouths together, each caressing the other’s hair, our groins pressed together for warmth. “Oh, oh, Liam, I have missed your sweet mouth,” I breathed. Our lips and tongues slowly rediscovered each other, and then the movement became more urgent as I felt his groin start to swell.
“Cat, I need ye. Every inch of ye.” He began to suck and lick my neck, then my shoulders, then the place where my breasts began to swell. I turned and twisted in pleasure, moaning my need to him, pushing against his groin with my own. Soon he was taking long draughts of my breasts, lingering on the nipples, trying to quench his desire for my own hungry moans. “Please, please suck me harder, yes. Bite my nipples. Oh!”
I had missed his ravening mouth, and I let him know it. As he took my breasts, I guided him inside me easily, and he began to ride me as though I were a wild pony. Then his mouth was on mine, his tongue driving deeper and deeper as his groin did, too. “Harder, harder,” I told him, trying not to cry out.
“Tell me, tell me,” he said, almost harshly. “How hard?” By now, he was pushing in so hard and so deeply that my voice was more like a measured gasp. I held his arms while he thrust, and moaned, and finally crested like an angry wave. I felt his hot fluid on my legs, and I struggled to breathe, still trying to climax, still pushing against him.
“Oh, Cat,” he said, “come here and kneel, yes, love, kneel over me mouth.” I did as he said, and his mouth moved between my legs while he lay on his back and grasped my buttocks and sucked, and sucked. He lifted me up and down on his mouth until I was shuddering with passion. When I finally climaxed, I felt as though my entire body was a pool of hot pleasure, and I cried out sharply, once, and then I collapsed on him.
He held me close, kissing me. “Yes, little fox, I love ye. Ye make me feel good.”
When finally I could talk, I murmured, “The potion, Liam. Made me—made me want you but too slow, like wine, like a dream…my desire…” And then I was asleep.
* * * *
Before daybreak I was squatting at the fire, mixing more potion. I felt deeply rested and happy, and I wondered how much of my feeling was due to the potion I had drunk last night, and how much was due to Liam’s remarkable lovemaking.
“I will make sure Sweeney drinks more this morning, unless he truly did die,” I told myself resolutely. “And if he did die, I shall pour it on his very grave.” I took my cup again to his cart.
I saw that Moc was still asleep near him, and Sweeney was awake. I had the feeling he had been watching me. I knelt again by his cart. “Maidin mhaith.”
“I am still alive.”
“Ah, too bad, Owen. I have been rehearsing your eulogy,” I said with a grin.
“Give me the damned cup, Caylith.”
<
br /> I handed it to him, and this time he drank a bit more slowly. “I slept remarkably well,” he said, almost accusingly.
“There will be good days and bad,” I said.
“Is it true the waters here are a curative?” he asked.
“The place is called Clóidigh. It is popular with the local people. I bathed in it last night. I think the curative aspect may be largely superstition, Owen.”
“I know that. And yet, what harm could there be? Do you think your Saxons could take me there?”
“Of course,” I told him, rising. “Before dawn, before breakfast.” He drained the cup and handed it back to me.
“I will accompany the soldiers,” said Moc’s voice at my elbow.
“Good morning, dear Moc. I leave you in good hands, then, Owen Sweeney. Perhaps before we leave today, we will all go back to the quiet stones one last time.”
I walked to where our horses stood. I saw a few Glaed Keepers stirring nearby, and I bade them go to Sweeney. I threw the blanket over my mare’s back, then her saddle, and I began to cinch it.
“Cay, Thom and I will be leaving right after morning meal.”
“Brindl! Good morning. Of course, dear one. Do you think others may want to leave early also?”
“I think so. We need to get back home. I think Glaed and most of his men want to go ,too. And Brigid and Michael.”
“That leaves just a few of us—Sweeney’s family—to travel more slowly and get used to each other,” I said, hugging her. “I think it is a good idea. Thank you, Brindie, for your warrior actions today.”
“I enjoyed it far too much. We will meet again next Thursday.”
* * * *
I stood with Liam regarding a stone as tall and wide as he was. It was light gray and weathered. Like the one we had seen near the Lough Neagh, it was crisscrossed with feathery strands of lichen. But one entire side of this stone was streaked an almost bloodred.
