Storm Maker

by Erin O'Quinn

  He was silent, his mouth now set in a grim line. I had merely guessed at a possible connection between the ambitious Sweeney and the equally grasping Loch and Lucet. From his expression, I saw that my conjecture might be correct.

  “Perhaps your own signals have not yet told you, Sweeney, that Loch and Lucet are probably in chains at this moment—or, at best, far from the royal bally at Tara. Your own runner who comes bearing news of Liam’s capture may be restrained rather awkwardly. Any future demands on the king may be taken as a direct threat on his own life. I think that in the future he will not be so ready to retract his legal endowment as you may hope.”

  I did not take a step closer to him, but I drew the hazel wand from my belt, all the while pointing the long knife in the direction of his throat.

  “You are undone, Sweeney. You desperately hope I will allow you a chance to seize me, using the grotesque muscles of your great arms and hands. But it would be as though a clumsy child tried to capture a firefly. I promise you by my troth that you will die trying.”

  “Caylith.” His voice was strangely quiet. “If I meekly cede to you, what then? Will you still be bent on murdering me?

  “The murder will not be on my head, nor on my hands,” I said evenly. “You think I am a Christian woman. But what if I told you that I have fallen under the awesome influence of the druids themselves? Not Loch and Lucet, but men and women far more powerful, an enclave of beings who can call forth the dread might of the very gods.”

  My lies came easily, for I had rehearsed them as I lay in Sweeney’s stinking hole. “So yes, I am a Christian. But I have learned ways even more powerful than those of Father Patrick. How else do you think I was able to see the king within an hour after your men seized Liam? How do you think I was able to take down the two most powerful druids in Éire? Do you even have a guess as to how I found your men and your holdings so quickly?”

  He raised his head just a little, and I saw just the beginnings of doubt and fear. “How did I know that you were sitting in a currach with two men, paddling up the bay, and then back down to your teach? And how did I see your two mounted lickspittles drawing a crude chariot between them as they rode at least a mile inland from your currach?”

  I held the hazel switch in front of me and began to intone. “By the awesome power of The Morrighan, by my sisters Neaim and Badb, I curse you. May you be carrion for crows, the banquet of my own darling flesh eaters Talon and Claw.”

  Now Sweeney really did look frightened. In spite of all his learning, his repudiation of all gibberish and superstition, he gazed on me as if he really believed me. I was counting on his childhood learning, the dread instilled in him—as in every child—by parents seeking to discipline their wayward children by tales of banshees and beasties.

  I raised my head and let out an inhuman cry, closer to the throat-hacking sound of a raven or crow. And, just as Jay had instructed them, Talon and Crow responded to my ghastly cry, hurtling through the smoke hole, loose feathers flying.

  I held out both arms. One hand still held the long knife. The other pointed the thorn-studded hazel wand. And the two iridescent-black birds sat, one on each outstretched arm, their eyes glittering and their beaks gaping open.

  Sweeney cried out, almost a scream of pain, and at that moment I let the birds loose. They swarmed his head, pecking at his dirty scalp, but staying away from his eyes and his swatting hands. I strode to the door and bent, unlatching it. I threw it wide open and invited my little army to enter and take Sweeney off my hands.

  They were all waiting outside the door, for my screeching signal was all they had needed to stand ready for the taking of Sweeney.

  Jay was first to enter. He called to his friends, who immediately gave up their easy target and perched on his shoulders. Liam was next, then his brother and cousins. Together, they picked up Sweeney and carried him to his chair and silently bound him. I saw with satisfaction that the ropes bit deep, and that Sweeney was weeping bitterly.

  Liam came to me and held me by the shoulders, looking me up and down, making sure I was unharmed. I smiled, and he gathered me into his chest. We stood that way for long minutes, rejoicing in Sweeney’s capture and our own new freedom.

  Chapter 28:

  A Branch of Hazel

  Sweeney lay bound in his own small wheeled prison, being drawn between his two horses. The cart had been outfitted with a kind of wooden brace attached to the saddles of the horses, and it careened wildly when the wheels struck the hard rocks. I knew it was not in the least painful to the brute, but nonetheless I smiled in satisfaction. It was humiliating. Let him taste some of the scorn and cruelty he once visited on my mother, I thought, and let him think about his men’s treatment of Liam every time his cart wheels hit an errant rock.

  His four men walked behind Sweeney, their hands and arms bound behind them. I thought they looked almost relieved to be held prisoner by gentler captors than their former employer.

  We did not go far that day, for sunset was a scant hour away. We stayed close to the now-shallow waters of the bay, seeking a way to cleanse ourselves of our contact with Owen Sweeney. We stopped where the rocky strand met a grassy slope grown with ash and birch trees. Glaed spoke to four of his men, who silently unhitched the invalid’s cart from the horses and carried it between them to the water, two to a side.

  I watched as the Glaed Keepers immersed Sweeney, still bound tightly to the cart. They dowsed him again and again, and he sputtered and groaned loudly as if being tortured, as though he had forgotten the sensation of taking a bath. At last they hauled him out to dry and sat around him—a silent, menacing guard.

  I saw Michael close by, wearing a light brat, and I strode to him. “My friend, I need your brat, for I would bathe.” I knew he, of all the clansmen, would not tease me. He quietly took off his cloak and handed it to me. I sought an imposing pile of boulders some distance away and stood behind it, taking off my luxuriant fox-pelt tunic and slipping Michael’s cloak over my shoulders. I took off the leather leggings, too, feeling free and joyous after long days of inner anguish.

  I walked into the shallow waters. The feel of mud between my toes was exquisite, almost sensual. I sank as far down as I could, for the water was only waist high, and I dunked my head into the bay. It was not really cold, for the sun had taken all day to penetrate its shallow depth. I lowered my entire body into the water again, then again, until finally I felt the stench of Sweeney wash off my skin.

  Almost everyone was in the water by now, though none seemed to immerse their entire body as I had. I watched Liam standing in his leather breeches, scooping water over his head and letting it run down his chest.

  I waded to him. Reaching up, I tugged lightly at his long hair and bade him bow his head somewhat. I slipped his head bandage off carefully and inspected the wound. “Tá sí maith,” I pronounced, satisfied that it was as good as healed. He grinned and smoothed my cheek with his hand, his eyes thanking me.

  I washed off the ragged piece of cloth as best I could, wondering how Gristle had found a bandage at just the right moment. Then I realized that he must have torn it from his own undertunic. Blood-stained as it was, I decided to keep it anyway, and I took it back with me when I returned to dress. It would serve as a reminder to me—perhaps to both of us—of our recent ordeal. Besides, I thought, it does make a useful headband.

  After dressing again, I laid the brat and the head cloth on a flat rock to dry and went in search of supper.

  I noticed that our four captives were tied to four different ash trees, and that each man was guarded by one of the Glaed Keepers. I thought they were in no danger of escaping, but it did us no harm to keep a strict eye on them. Later, as we ate supper, I saw that the men guarding our captors were hand feeding morsels of roasted duck right into their eager mouths. At this rate, I thought, they will pledge their undying fealty to me. Ah, well. Such is the warrior life. Shifting loyalties seemed to be the order of the day.

  After our evening meal, I
sat with Liam and his kinsmen. “What do you think?” I asked them, gesturing to our captives. “How shall we deal with them when we return?”

  “I think they be not of the clan Sweeney,” said Ryan. “But I will talk with them later and learn a bit about them. If they are stupid and cruel, they may not be worth keeping. Like a bent knife, or a broken arrowhead.”

  “And what of Sweeney?” asked Torin. “Ye could easily have set the birds on him, and they would have pecked him to death—that is certain. Ye could deliver him again to my father, for I would take him myself if ye but asked me.”

  I sat fingering the hazel switch I was still clinging to. “Perhaps we need to ask Liam. Does the man deserve death? Or another punishment, perhaps?”

  Torin and Liam spoke with serious eyes and terse words. Liam sat silent for a while after that. At last he spoke, looking at me. His brother said, “Liam would know what weapon ye bear at this moment.”

  I was puzzled. “It is not a weapon, but a simple branch of hazel.”

  “And why do ye keep it?”

  “I-I think it is a sign of good fortune.” I looked at Liam as I spoke, and I thought carefully about my words. “Many Christians think that the crown of thorns was a supple branch of hazel, just like this, twisted around the head of Christ.”

  Then Liam loosed a torrent of words, and I sat dumbfounded by the emotions he was revealing. I saw sorrow and torment, and even a flash of joy and hope.

  “Caylith,” said Torin, “me brother would tell ye a story. I will repeat it in his own words.”

  I did not reply but looked at Liam with all the deep feelings I had for him—love, and fear, and hope—needing to know what lay in his heart.

  “The simple man born in a hay haggard, Caitlín, he was the son of the high king. And yet he wore no silk, he asked not for fine wine. He would walk the streets dressed all in a simple tunic and listen to the pains of the people.

  “And at last the people themselves turned on him. They bent a hazel twig—like the one ye see here—and they thrust it down on his head until the blood ran down his face. And do ye know what he did? He cursed them not, Caitlín. He blessed them. He forgave them, all in the name of his own father.”

  I saw tears standing in his eyes, and I thought about the bloodstained cloth I had left drying on a rock. I thought I knew what to do about Sweeney. When I was sure that Liam had finished talking, I said, “Liam, a chuisle, we will see Father Patrick when we return. What do you think about delivering Sweeney to his keeping?”

  He did not speak for a while, but he smiled and reached out, taking my hand. Finally, he turned the palm over and traced the outline left by my nails—two little U-shaped marks. I was not sure of his message, but I knew what the marks meant to me. I pointed at one, then the other. “Liam,” I said. “Caitlín.”

  Torin spoke then. “Caylith, our father, as ye might know, is set against Father Patrick and all his mission. I know me mother feels different, but she speaks not against her husband. I can tell that he likes ye very much, and I think he will even stand for the priest Pádraig presiding over your ritual. But if he finds out that Liam is talking to a Christian missionary, he will set his heart against it.”

  “Who will tell him, Torin?”

  “No one but Liam,” his brother answered.

  “Very well. We will know soon enough what your brother decides to do. Whatever it is, I stand at his side.”

  “And ye know that I do, and Michael and Ryan besides.”

  “Then let there be an end on it.” I changed the subject completely. “Torin, do you sing or play an instrument?”

  “I can barely sing along, if I know the ditty,” he answered with a little smile.

  “Ryan, do you have your bone whistle?”

  He pulled it from his belt.

  “Michael, it is time for a song,” I said. “Follow Ryan’s lead. You start singing, and make sure it is none but a merry tune.”

  Soon the clansmen were singing and playing one tune after another, and I sat delighted. Liam slowly lost his sorrowful mood. He sang song after song, one arm around my shoulders, often looking down at me with his O’Neill half smile. He knew the effect his singing had on me, and he was enjoying himself completely.

  Glaedwine joined us after a time, and Gristle and Jay Feather, too. Glaed found his mouth organ somewhere in all his hanging pouches, and after a while, everyone’s voice was joining a bit raggedly on the choruses.

  Gradually, Liam sang less and less, leaning me backward against the trunk of a tall ash tree, into the shadows. He lowered his head and touched my cheek gently with the tip of his tongue. Then he gave it a little, tentative lick. I moved my head just enough that his tongue slid from my cheek to my lips. He played for a while, tracing the outline of my mouth with his tongue. I felt shivers of desire running down the entire length of my body, and I moved closer, opening my mouth only a little.

  “Nnnh,” he said into my mouth, a small moan of desire. His tongue began to thrust, then retreat, a rhythmic motion designed to remove all my objections. Instead, I pulled away.

  “Too much, too much,” I said, but he drew me close again. This time he probed my chin then my throat with the tip of his tongue, but it was so slow, so tender, that I did not pull back. And then he lowered his head to my chest, where the warm foxtail was pinned around the top of my tunic. His arms around my waist, he pulled my chest close to his mouth, while his tongue searched the top of my tunic, looking for the place where my breasts started to swell from my clothing.

  Seizing the back of his head, I held it close, forbidding his tongue to wander any further. But he playfully broke away from my grasp, still seeking, starting to suck as he moved his mouth lower into the top of my tunic.

  I could move away, right now…but I had been without Liam for too long, and all my blood clamored for his touch. So when his lips found my nipples, I lowered my head to his and moaned so softly so that only he could hear my mounting pleasure. My mouth was in his ear. “Wait,” I whispered, and then I moaned, “Oh, oh. We wait.”

  I cupped his cheeks and drew his head away. “Stop. Liam, we will have the world in a few days. We can wait.”

  “I know, Caitlín. Ye make me…I feel…fire.” He took a deep breath.

  “Hold me, a mo ghrá, let us sleep.”

  When I woke, I saw that Liam’s head had slid from my chest into my lap. I carefully unpinned the foxtail and drew it out of my tunic. For the second time, I placed it under his head. I eased myself away and went to the bay shallows to greet the dawn in the way I so loved to do.

  I was certain that no one but Torin would seek the water this early, and I knew he had learned to stay far from me when I was bathing. When I removed my tunic this time, I did not put on Michael’s cloak but waded naked into the welcome water of Trawbreaga Bay.

  I sat on the shallow bottom, my legs and feet splayed out, swirling the water around my body. Finally the first tendrils of light struck the clouds, turning them gradually from gray to rose to orange-red. To me, each coming of dawn was a personal, sensual moment to remember and cherish until the next one. I listened to the splashing of waterfowl as they dived in and out of the water, seeking a breakfast of tiny fish. At last I could see a few colorful ducks paddling in circles near me, not the least daunted by my presence.

  I heard the sound of voices some distance away, and I knew it was time to end my morning ritual. I waded quickly from the water and put my tunic and long leather bróga back on. Seizing Michael’s cloak and Liam’s proud headband, I rejoined my companions.

  Liam stood waiting for me, the foxtail hanging from his belt like a prize quarry. I reached for it, and he stepped back. “Mine,” he said.

  “You scamp,” I said, feeling suddenly naked. “Give it back.”

  He pretended not to understand me and drew me into his chest, his bold eyes on the place where my breasts now spilled halfway out of my tunic. “Mine,” he repeated, and he traced my swelling skin with his forefinger.


  I sighed. Liam seemed always bent on attacking my modesty, and I knew I would continue to protect it no matter how hard he tried. I drew Michael’s brat around my shoulders and tried to ignore Liam’s teasing eyes the rest of the morning.

  We were on our way within the hour, traveling in a lighthearted mood far different from the way we had journeyed to get here. I walked with Liam and Torin, who still could not laugh and tease each other enough.

  “Torin,” I asked him, “do you intend to stay at the royal bally in Tara with your father and your uncles?”

  “I have not had time to make firm plans, cailín. But no—me sense of adventure and independence is a bit too strong to stay in Tara. Why do ye ask?”

  “I have been thinking about the, ah, hags and hunchbacks we spoke of earlier. Do you remember?”

  Then his mouth began to play with a smile. “And ye would show me a place where I may find such ugliness?”

  “I know of a place far from the eyes of the Ard Rí where such ugliness abounds.”

  “Then ye would be a matchmaker? Nay, lass, I would sooner be tied like a stallion about to become a gelding.”

  “I promise you, it would be quite painless.”

  “Then we shall see, Cate. Who knows what the future may hold for such a handsome sprout as meself?”

  Later that day, walking to our seven-lake haven where we had left our horses, Liam and Ryan and I found ourselves walking close to Sweeney’s crude chariot.

  Liam said something to his cousin, who turned to me. “Caylith, think ye the bindings are tight enough to cut a man and sorely wound him?”

  I knew what Liam wanted, but I held back. “He bragged to me of the fools who made his ropes too loose, how stupid the people were who tied him into the currach.”

  “And yet he is surrounded by stalwart warriors, not herders of sheep.”

  I stopped in my tracks and talked to Liam through his cousin. “Liam, I take your meaning. Here—hold my pouch of healing powder. Go to your merciless captor. Do whatever you feel is right.”