It was a long night after the two Fae had left. Eógan was moved in near the fire, once Utromma swept it back together. Utromma joined Eolande by Orlagh’s side as she continued to moan and groan. The day grew dark, and the moon rose. The smell of blood and sweat permeated the cavern, and Maelan waited.
Maelan thanked all the gods who might be listening, as well as Adhna and Flidaisínn that his granddaughter was alive. He wanted to thank his Christian God, but didn’t consider it appropriate any longer. He could no longer be a Christian, not in his heart and soul. He had given up that honor, that privilege when he agreed to go to Faerie. Faerie was far from a Christian place.
He mourned his loss of faith and solace in the dark of the night.
Chapter 14
Would this night never end? Orlagh panted in between bouts of anguish, crushing Eolande’s hand when the pain hit. The Fae girl remained strong, though, and Utromma as well. Both women helped her to bear down on her pangs, driving her child out of her body with each subsequent contraction.
When the current contraction eased, Orlagh whispered through her hoarse throat. “Water.”
Utromma lifted the waterskin and dribbled cool, clean water into her mouth. She swallowed the sweet liquid and opened her mouth for more, but then another contraction hit.
She pushed against the pain, screwing her eyes up tight and squeezing both Eolande’s and Utromma’s hands. Still, a low growl escaped her lips, increasing to a screech. The contraction went on much too long before the pain eased.
Utromma checked under her furs and said, “Just one more push like that, Orlagh! One more and you’ll be done.”
Done? She’d never be done. This horrible pain would last forever, or the rest of her life, which probably wouldn’t be too long. The contraction came again, worse than before, and she screeched until her throat had no nerves left. She sobbed, just wanting this to stop.
Where did Temuirr go? Did she imagine his arrival? She swore she’d seen him by her side, holding her hand. She needed to see his sweet smile again, to feel his hand in hers. Now all the men huddled in a knot on the other side of the cavern, and she couldn’t tell which was him.
“That’s it! He’s almost out, Orlagh! Push!”
She couldn’t push. She could only cry. The wave of agony washed over her again, her belly muscles rippling in betrayal of her wishes. Still, she knew what must be done. Orlagh gathered up her anger, her fear, and her determination, and bore down with all her might.
A thin wail broke through her throbbing ears, and she realized her child must be making the sound. “Is my babe alive? Let me hold him!”
“Patience, Orlagh. The babe is alive. He’s alive. He’s a wee baby boy. Give me just a moment.” Utromma did something below her, and something jerked and pulled within her. She wanted to push again, but her babe had been born.
“One more push for the afterbirth.”
Orlagh pushed, straining against the pain. When she finished and panted with the effort, she held her hands out. She needed to hold her babe.
Eolande held a bundle, wrapped tight and wiped clean, and came to lay the babe in Orlagh’s arms. “See this wee brave soul? He already looked at me, Orlagh. He’ll be a fine boy.”
She looked into her son’s dark blue eyes and fell into the wonder of them. He seemed so precious, so tiny. She held his small hand, translucent fingers wrapping around the tip of her thumb. He felt surprisingly strong for such a little thing.
Eolande and Utromma exchanged glances. “What? What’s wrong with my baby?” Orlagh looked at her baby’s face, but nothing seemed amiss.
She started to unwrap his bundled blanket, but Eolande put a hand on her arm. “Nothing’s wrong, Orlagh. Just relax. You need to rest and heal. Your birth lasted long, and we worried for you. Still, you stayed strong and survived. Your son is strong as well, and will thrive.”
Reassured, Orlagh sat back. She wished Temuirr would come and visit her. He must still be over with her grandfather. She could make out someone, but it looked like Eógan. She couldn’t tell in the low light from the fire.
Struggling to sit upright, Orlagh held her babe close. He fussed, and she cooed in his ear. Her entire body ached, and she had no strength at all. “Eolande, where did Temuirr go? I must show him our son.”
Eolande smiled, but something struck Orlagh as sad about the expression, something pitying. Orlagh didn’t want pity, she wanted her husband. She pushed until she sat up and a wave of nausea swept over her.
“Temuirr! Temuirr, come meet your son!” No one stirred on the other end of the cavern. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. “Temuirr! Husband, come to me!”
Tawnith flew around the cavern several times, cawing and fluttering in her face. She batted the raven away with her free hand and cursed the creature. A slow, chilly dread crept up her spine and suffused her blood. “Grandfa! Someone! Where is Temuirr?”
A form finally approached, but too bulky to be her husband. Her grandfather stood, his face battered and frowning. “Orlagh, may I hold my great-grandson? Have you decided upon a name?”
She held the baby away from his outstretched hands. “I’ll name him with Temuirr. Where is he? What have you done to him? I know he came here! I saw him, he held my hand!”
Tears glistened in her grandfather’s eyes, and her fear grew. Four nasty gashes showed stark upon his face, and dried blood crusted his cheek. “He… he’s gone, Orlagh. He died trying to save you from an attack. He died a hero, giving his life for his family.”
She shook her head, her words rising in frantic volume. “No, no, no, that can’t be true! You’re lying, Grandfa! You never approved of him, and you’re lying! He can’t be dead. He can’t! We barely had any time together. Eolande, tell me he’s lying!”
Orlagh clutched her baby so tightly the child squeaked and cried. She eased her grip, looking down into his wrinkled, red face. Her tear dripped into his nose, and he sneezed. More dripped, unheeded, to his cheeks. Orlagh became vaguely aware of Eolande hugging her, and Utromma patting her shoulder. She shrugged them both off. She didn’t need empty platitudes. She needed her husband. She needed the father of her baby.
Doubling over from another wave of pain, she moaned and sobbed. It simply wasn’t fair. All she’d craved was love in her life. How did everything go so horribly wrong? She clung to her baby with all her might, like a talisman against the darkness. At least she had him.
She cradled her babe, the last bit of Temuirr she had left in this world, sobbing and howling like a lost wolf puppy, succumbing to all-encompassing grief at the loss of her love.
Her friends backed away to give her time to grieve.
Many hours passed before she stopped rocking over her babe, and only his fussing brought her back to her senses. She pulled up her léine so he might find her breast and gave him his first meal, her tears still staining his face. He rooted around a bit, searching until she helped him. He wouldn’t suck at first, but eventually, she got him to latch on. Only bysting flowed now; her real milk might take a few days, but for now, he got sustenance.
Her son would need to be strong, growing up without his father. She cast about for a suitable name, one which implied strength and power. One of her favorite legends came to mind, that of Conall Cearnach, Conall the Victorious. Conall was a good name, one any man would be proud of. Temuirr, lover of stories, would have approved.
She smiled at her son, sucking hard at her breast. “Will that work, sweet boy? Would you like to be named Conall?”
He made a few tiny sounds and grabbed her finger with his hand. She took it for approval.
When he finished, she burped him as she’d seen countless new mothers do and unwrapped him, wanting to see her whole son.
That’s when she discovered what Eolande and Utromma had been exchanging glances about.
Her son looked entirely perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, one tiny penis. However, his left foot looked half again the size of the other. It had grown clubbed and grotesque. He’
d likely be lame all his life.
She didn’t know if her difficult birth caused the defect, a Fae curse, or some other factor. In truth, she didn’t care the cause. All she knew is he would need his strong name. She held her son tight and remembered his father. The tears returned so easily.
She imagined her child’s future, and a sickening wave of nausea swept over her. In her mind’s eye, a Vision appeared of her son, grown and married with a child of his own. He worked on a farm, hale and healthy. Not wealthy, no, but happy.
The Vision passed, and Orlagh smiled, despite her nausea. Now she not only had faith her son would thrive, but she’d discovered what power the brooch had gifted her.
* * *
A fortnight later, Orlagh had recovered well enough to travel. She still hadn’t spoken to Maelan since the bard’s death. She must blame him for everything that had gone wrong, and in truth, she had every right to do so.
If he hadn’t kidnapped her from the bard group, she’d have given birth without an insane Fae trying to kill her and Temuirr would still live. It surprised Maelan to finally be able to say the bard’s name without wincing. Still, hindsight was perfectly clear and foresight muddy. He had done what he considered right at the time, and nothing could be done to change that now.
Images of Liadan’s sweet face still haunted him in the dark hours of the night, though, chiding him for his decisions, decisions which had resulted in the death of others.
His beloved wife and his granddaughter’s husband weren’t the only ones who had died from his commands. The faces of the slain still came to his dreams, full of reproach and anger. Flidaisínn’s sweet face drifted into his regrets.
Last night, the worst of the nightmares had returned. He’d relived the battle and tragic results so many times in his life, but they kept returning. No matter how many times he shunted them into the deepest recess of his mind, they returned with increased anguish.
The worst memory came from the first time Eógan had saved his life, the first time they’d become true blood brothers.
Just after Liadan had died, Maelan remained full of anger and despair. He had little care for his own life at that point and simply tried to dull the pain by killing his enemies. For once in their lives, Eógan became the responsible, circumspect one of the pair.
Maelan needed to be out of the ringfort and planned a cattle raid. Eógan argued against it, but Maelan overruled the younger warrior.
It had been a minor skirmish, all told. The cattle raid into Gaillimh had gone without issue, and they had returned to their own lands under cover of darkness. A fine haul they’d found; two dozen fine beasts for their chief. The lads had been riding high on their success, cheering and laughing when a crow cawed, and the ambush struck.
His memory faded into a red haze of action and reaction, his spear spinning and stabbing into everything which swirled around him. It was a frenzied dance of death, killing everything that moved. He knew nothing except the blood which sprayed into his face at every blow.
Maelan didn’t know why he’d survived the ambush. Even Eógan couldn’t tell him what precisely had happened. When he finally regained his senses, the two of them were all who remained standing. Even the cattle had been slaughtered.
The blood of that night became difficult to wash away. It took many winters for him to become confident in battle again.
Forty warriors had died that night, men of Ui Briain and Ui Conchobair alike. Young men, with their lives before them, looking only to steal some cattle or bed a lass. Young men with wives, mothers, sisters to mourn them.
Each and every one of those souls kept Maelan awake at night, keening into his soul for their murder.
He shuddered and stood, trying to dispel the ghosts of his past. He had a future to plan and a future to deal with. If the shades of his past would not leave him be in this world, perhaps they would fade when he moved to Faerie.
Maelan created packs for each of them to hold supplies, clothing, tents, and water. Orlagh had been able to walk two full hours the day before. That should be enough for them to start the trip to Ceann-Coradh. From the cave, they had a good two-day journey across country, if the traveler had decent health. With Orlagh still weak from her birthing, and the child still so young, it might take four days or more. They needed to make certain they had supplies for the trip.
He went outside to survey the weather. The setting sun shone brightly in a clear, blue sky, a rare sight for late winter in Hibernia. To be fair, it hadn’t snowed in days. Spring truly crested the horizon. He breathed deeply, smelling the sun-warmed stone, pine and moss, the sort of spring day that gave hope in the darkest, coldest night.
Something swooped at his head, and he ducked, throwing his hands up in defense, but he spied Tawnith. Cursing at the raven, he stood, holding his lower back. He was getting too old for such adventures as this. With Eógan’s handfasting to Utromma, perhaps his best friend had finally begun to mature. Maybe Maelan could finally pass on his leadership to new blood. It would be a relief to do so, truly. He glanced back into the cave as Utromma scolded the raven, who had picked at her raspberries. Maelan chuckled.
A sound in the woods caught his attention, and he froze. Adhna assured Maelan Ammatán would no longer bother them, but Maelan put little store in the word of any Fae. He ducked into the cave and grabbed his spear, returning to scan the treeline. A few moments later, several figures emerged from the brush. Warriors, human warriors. Maelan relaxed slightly.
He narrowed his eyes as they approached, trying to identify them. None of their faces looked familiar, but the cut of the léinte might be recognizable. Each clan had a particular style they preferred. This style looked similar to his chief’s style, but subtly different; longer at the sleeves, shorter at the hem.
Now he remembered the cut; these must be Murtough’s men, his chief’s brother’s warriors. He gripped the spear more tightly and planted his feet firmly on the rocks. While Murtough’s men wouldn’t exactly be enemies, the brothers had no love for each other. They’d traded leadership of the clan several times over their lives, usually with prejudice and violence, and likely would again.
As the warriors came closer, their leader put out his fist in front of him, in a sign of truce. Maelan glanced into the cave and did the same. Everyone within had noted his stance and stood ready with their weapons. Even Eolande held her bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.
The leader, a man with long reddish hair and an impressive beard, called out. “Hail, stranger. We mean no harm.”
Maelan nodded and said, “Hail, stranger. I am Maelan mac Lorcáin of the Ui Briain clan.”
Breaking out into a wide smile, the redheaded man said, “We are Ui Briain as well! I am Hugh Ua Briain, son of Murtough, our clan chief! Come, let us drink ale as kinsmen!”
Murtough became chief? When had that happened? Maelan cast his mind back, but they’d had no news of the politics of the clan for moons. He’d been lost in Faerie for a good portion of that time, and Eógan never had a head for intrigue. He hesitated, trying to organize his ideas and form a proper response.
Eógan saved him by coming out with a small keg of ale. “Hail, kinsmen! Come, drink with us!”
Several hours later, the subject of Murtough’s chiefdom came up. Hugh explained the circumstances. “Murtough had been quite ill last spring, you knew as much?”
Maelan nodded.
“Well, he recovered, but he kept his recovery secret until he had enough strength to take Ceann-Coradh under cover of night. He did and had imprisoned his treacherous brother. He now rules Ceann-Coradh, though not for long.”
So Diarmait had been imprisoned. Maelan found himself relatively concerned for his chief’s freedom, but Diarmait had been his brother’s prisoner before. Maelan cocked his head. “Not for long?”
“He wants to move the clan seat soon, somewhere more accessible. He said Ceann-Coradh was too tiny for a Chief of an Mhumhain.”
Maelan shook his head. He’d lived in Cean
n-Coradh much of his adult life. Would he have to leave? Actually, Murtough would surely have his own warchief. Maelan would no longer have that particular duty. He became oddly comforted by the thought and took a deep swig of ale. He licked the bitter foam from his lips.
* * *
With the help of Hugh and his warriors, they moved their small party back to Ceann-Coradh in only three days’ time. Orlagh remained quiet for most of the trip, saving all her conversations for her son, Conall.
Maelan winced every time he glimpsed the child’s club foot. He became convinced his dealings with the Fae had been somehow responsible for the defect. More than one story told of a Fae cursing a human with similar deformities, sometimes for seven generations. He couldn’t think of what else he might offer Adhna to remove the curse if indeed that’s what it had happened. Besides, he didn’t know how to contact the old Fae, other than perhaps through his granddaughter. Perhaps he should leave some cheese out for the old Fae.
Eolande had also become more withdrawn with each passing day. She spoke only to Orlagh and her raven, ignoring any other attempts.
The return home remained a quiet affair. Maelan had no immediate family to welcome him, other than those he was already with. Eógan and Utromma went to their own roundhouse to plan their new life together while Maelan and Eolande took Orlagh to his roundhouse. The Fae girl set up the room to make caring for the babe easier, while Maelan went to the main hall. He must make his report to the new chief.
Murtough Ua Briain did not look like his brother. Where Diarmait had been tall, thin and wiry, Murtough was short and bulky. He looked like a huge pig, tiny eyes full of intelligence and guile. When Maelan entered the hall, Hugh stood next to the chief in his warchief armor. So, the son was also the warchief. That was useful to know. Strange how Hugh never told him this particular detail.
Misfortune of Song: Druid's Brooch Series: #5 Page 26
