by Erin O'Quinn
“As long as we are sheltered here, Ryan, you could teach me a bit more of the Gaelige tongue.”
“You already learned the word Gaelige, Caylith, for that is the way we describe our language.”
Before I came to this land, I had always said “Eirish” and “Eire-Land,” but I knew now that it sounded ignorant. I wondered how many other words I was mangling on my way to understanding the difficult language.
“Then try this. Conas tá tú? It means ‘How are you?’”
It sounded to me like “kun-us taw-too,” and I said it several times.
“And the person may tell you, ‘I am well.’ Tá mé go maith. When Liam and I speak, lass, keep your ears open. That way ye will hear some of the rhythm and flow.”
I thought the most I would master would be “mo chuisle,” but I nodded gratefully.
The rain eased up the rest of the day, and we made good time. Liam had been largely silent the entire day. He seemed to be wrapped in a mantle of easy silence, listening to Ryan and me but not adding anything to our snatches of conversation.
Before sunset, we all three unsaddled our horses and stroked their flanks and necks. As I stood running my hand down Clíona’s nose, Liam suddenly asked, and Ryan translated, “How is it ye own a pony, Cat?”
This had happened almost a year ago, right around the time Liam had run from me in the wake of MacCool’s accusations. My Welsh mountain pony NimbleFoot had been brought to me all the way from the Saxon Shore area of Britannia, delivered to me by the Welsh pony trainer Wynn. He and I had enjoyed a certain…closeness before I sailed for Éire. He was teaching me to kiss with my whole mouth, without puckering my lips. It had lasted less than one week before I ran from his twisted jealousies. But he had brought my pony to me, leaving it tethered to a tree for me to find.
“The pony was a gift from my Aunt Marrie,” I said. “A trainer named Wynn brought it from the eastern sea of Britannia, all the way to the Deva area, and put it on a special transport.”
“An’ he did all this for one pony?” marveled Liam. I looked at him keenly, but I saw no sign of jealousy, or even irony.
“Oh, no. He brought forty ponies he had trained, saving them from being killed.” I explained how men hunted down and killed the ponies to keep them from mating with regular horses. Both Liam and Ryan clenched their fists in fury as I talked about the practice, still going on throughout the Saxon Shore area in my homeland.
Now, it seemed, I had one pony and two horses. NimbleFoot was a colt, a palomino male, golden with white tail and mane. My chestnut mare, Macha, she of the red mane and tail, was a gift from Liam. The other two were being looked after back in Derry while I was away.
And now I rode the strawberry roan Clíona. Three fine specimens—all owned by a person who not too long ago shied from the very sight of the hulking beasts. I could not help but grin at the memory of shrinking back even from the life-size bronze horses at the forum in Lindum.
That night, while Ryan sought wild game for supper, Liam and I built the fire. He was still very quiet, but I sensed that it was the stillness of contentment, and it made me happy also. When Ryan returned with a glistening otter, Liam borrowed his long knife and skinned and dressed it in a matter of minutes. He set aside the skin, and Liam wrapped the otter in river reeds before plunging it deep into the fire.
“Lass,” said Ryan, “I promised I would show ye a bit of smoke language. We must do it now, while there is enough light for the signal to be seen.”
He brought out the fire blanket, and he threw a few handfuls of wet turf into the flames, making the dark smoke start to rise. “We always scan the sky half an hour before sunset, in case there is a message to be read. And usually, the message is simply ‘All is well.’ Here you see it.”
When the smoke was thick enough, Ryan flapped the blanket over the fire, and he caused a column of smoke to rise. Then he stifled it after about thirty seconds. “That is simple, but it lets the clan know where we are, and we are safe. The signal may be repeated once or twice more, at ten minute intervals.”
“Ryan,” I asked, “how do you warn of danger?”
“Danger always comes in threes. Three puffs of smoke, or three fires, each separate from the others. Follow it with your own signature, as I showed ye last night.”
“So there is not a whole vocabulary of smoke talk,” I said.
“There is not, lass. Just like life itself. A few words can say a thousand. It is no different with the language between Liam and yourself. Do ye catch me meaning?”
I smiled at him. “Yes, Ryan. Thank you.”
I saw that our meat would take at least half an hour to finish. This would be a good time for another lesson, one I could show both clansmen.
“Liam, and Ryan, too. I would like to show you a bit about slow breathing. You will see how to use it in your weapons training.”
I sat cross-legged, not looking at either man as I talked. “Sit comfortably, and follow what I say. Then, when you no longer hear my voice, do it on your own without any words at all.”
I saw that Ryan, too, had drawn his legs into a crossed position and was translating in a low, smooth voice as I talked.
“It all begins with breaths that come more and more slowly. Inhale, and do it so slowly that you seem to burst with the intake of air. Slow, slow. A full minute just to take in one breath. And now breathe out. Again slow, slow. Your whole being is concentrated into letting out that one breath of air.”
I continued to talk, letting my words, my cadence and the slowness of my speech imitate the breathing itself. “There will come a time when you seem not to breathe at all. Do not force it. Let it go. Enter a state of not thinking at all. Enter a place where there is no place. Slow, slow. It will happen. Now you are in a time that is not the past, not the future, but the always-now.”
“You may see visions. You may see someone—perhaps your opponent—move even before she moves. You may feel wet before the rain begins to fall on your skin. That is the place you seek.”
I was quiet then, falling into my own well-practiced state of deep breathing. I never knew what the exercise would bring, and I always entered it with an open heart. Tonight, I saw Liam’s face in front of me, and he was speaking to me. I understood every word.
“Caitlín, I think ye be the other half of me I have been seeking. I am a man of many flaws, but I love ye deep and true. Ye will not regret our marriage, for I will teach ye something new every day. And ye will do the same for me.”
When I opened my eyes, I was shaking, and tears were flowing down my face. There was something so profoundly right about Liam that I was joyous and deeply saddened at the same instant. What about Kevan? I was leaving him behind, in long miles and in my heart.
I looked at him then, and I saw in the gathering dusk that he, too, was blinking back tears. I reached out my hand, and he took it in his own.
“Pósadh liom,” he said simply. I knew deeply that it meant, “Marry me.”
“I will,” I said.
After a long while, only the firelight showed Liam’s face, and I touched it with my free hand. I traced his forehead, his nose, his mouth and chin, as though memorizing every feature against some dark day when he would be no longer with me.
After supper, I lay in the curve of his arm while Ryan played the bone whistle and Liam sang to the eternal stars.
I was not quite sure what had happened, but I think in that powerful moment after my vision that night, I had accepted Liam’s proposal of marriage. My mother had told me that it would happen like this, that one day I would simply know when to stop seeking answers from other men.
Liam had said that I was his other half, the part he had been seeking. His words reverberated in a place deep inside me, close to the bone. Somehow Liam completed me, in a way I could not explain to myself.
I hoped we would not talk about it for a while, until I could sift it all through my mind and my heart. It was like being suddenly naked. My first reaction was to h
ide the parts that I had never let anyone see.
But now, this moment, I thought I had never been more happy. As Liam sang and Ryan played, I stood and danced by the light of the guttering fire. It was little more than swaying back and forth, moving my legs and arms in slow rhythm with the music, letting my bare toes bite into the crumbly earth. And when the music ended, I sank down on my knees beside Liam and lowered my head to kiss him.
He took me gently by the nape of my neck and lowered my mouth onto his, and we let the slow fire spread. Putting his arms around me, he drew me to the ground and talked and murmured into my mouth, words I would not understand for a long time to come, words that needed no translation.
“Yes,” I said, then again, “yes.” Whatever he wanted or needed, I was ready. We fell asleep right there by the fire, twined in each other’s arms.
* * * *
My old habit seemed to have returned naturally, my way of waking more than an hour before the sun even thought about starting a new day. I quietly rose and restarted our cold fire. Liam was sprawled in sleep, and Ryan, snoring softly, lay under a nearby tree.
I had a task this morning, and I went to the river bank to gather horsetail reeds before my morning bath. After gathering a good handful, I set them on the bank near a large, flat rock and shrugged out of my riding tunic. I welcomed the cold waters of the River Antrim as I plunged under the gentle current and bobbed back up again, my hair letting cold streamlets run down my shivering skin.
Once on shore, I dressed again and sat combing my hair in the diminished moonlight, waiting for the light of dawn. When it came, it was an explosion of reds and pinks and golds, the kinds of colors that seem to show up after a cleansing rain.
I walked along the river bank then, seeking a rounded rock that would just fit my palm. Then I returned to my pile of reeds. I set the reeds in small bunches on the larger rock and used the smaller one to grind them into paste. If I had taken the time to let the reeds dry, I would have been able to grind them to fine powder, but a paste would work well enough.
As I finished my rude herb preparation, Liam strode to where I was sitting and squatted in front of me. His eyes asked what I was doing, and I showed him in sign language what I wanted him to do. I brought my tunic skirt up high and showed him the place on my inner thighs where the horse’s flank had rubbed my skin raw. Then I motioned for him to apply the medicine.
I had never seen such an eager acolyte. Eyes sparkling, he scooped a generous amount of reed paste in two fingers and tenderly applied the wet stuff to my skin, taking a long time to make sure he coated every inch. I was sitting facing him with my legs far apart, skirt up, and the sensation of his wet fingers on my skin made my knees start to shake, just a little.
When he was finished, he sank back on his heels and looked at his handiwork. I looked, too. The paste had begun to work its magic. Where the skin had once been red and raw, I now saw the normal rosy color of my thighs. The paste had hardened somewhat, but I thought it best to leave it on my skin as long as possible.
Liam touched my inner thighs with both hands, very gently, as if testing his medical prowess. I put my own hands over his and laughed softly. “Good,” I said. “Thank you.” I still needed to learn how to say the Gaelige words, and I knew that would be my lesson with his cousin later today.
My skirt still up, I sat back somewhat on my elbows and Liam still squatted in front of my splayed legs. I knew my eyes were asking for more than healing, and when he finally looked at my face instead of my nakedness, I saw my own desire reflected in his eyes.
“Liam! Caylith!” Ryan was setting up a warning call, and I hastily drew my tunic skirt back down over my legs.
“Here,” I called back, and Liam and I smiled at each other in a special way. Later, we promised. I rose to walk back to our fire, and Liam stood and unbelted his breeches, ready for the cold shock of the river.
Before we left that morning, I gathered more horsetail reed. I thought we may not be alongside a bank of still water for a while, and I wanted to have a store of healing herbs to use when needed. I unwrapped the little blanket Michael had given me to roll my clothes in, and I stored the reeds to dry under one flap of the coverlet.
As I saddled Clíona, Liam came up behind me and put his hands on my waist, nuzzling my neck. My mind flashed to several months ago when his brutish cousin MacCool had done the same to me. My reaction then was to whirl around, weapon against his neck, drawing blood. Now I said to my horse’s neck, “It is fortunate I have no long knife, Clíona, else I would show this rogue how to treat a lady.”
This time, however, I allowed the knave’s mustache to graze my ear and his tongue to explore it. I turned in his arms. “You do not know how fortunate you are,” I said before his mouth stopped me. We stood enjoying each other for long minutes, and then it was time to mount and ride.
Chapter 8:
An Ancient Summons
That morning as we rode, Liam pulled Angus to within a few feet of my mare, and he signaled Ryan to ride on the other side of me. “Caylith,” Ryan translated, “explain to me about the plants that heal.”
“I think all plants have the power to heal men,” I started slowly, thinking about how to explain plant magic. “The horsetail reed you used this morning is the same plant that healed your cousin’s arm and your own head wound.”
“Then ye are not a druidess?” Ryan translated. I saw a smile playing around Liam’s mouth, as though he had always suspected the rumors were false.
“No, but it is useful to let some people believe that,” I said with my own ironic smile. “I will admit, though, that I do have a certain, um, influence over plants. Some plants respond to me and to no one else. Call it magic, or call it personal power.”
Then I told the men a little about my past, how plants had helped me reveal the portals under stones. I recounted how on a few occasions I had been infused with sublime strength through the power of plants. I told them I had not used my special gifts in a long time.
“But when I first arrived in Éire, a young rower on my currach named Black Knife expressed an interest in learning plant healing. I told him that when we finally settled, I would start to teach him. I think as soon as I return, I will start my plant studies again, and I will have an apprentice.”
Liam took it all in, and then after a few minutes he said, “I would also be your apprentice.”
I was surprised, but I tried not to show it. “I would welcome you, mo ghrá. Then we would be not just the best fighting couple, but the best healing couple in all of Éire.”
“That is logical,” he agreed. “We could beat them down with one hand an’ heal them with the other.”
I always found it difficult to tell when Liam was teasing me and when he was serious. I decided that this time he was teasing me.
“The deep breathing has also become part of my training,” I admitted. “I am able sometimes to see not just the future, but even events that happened in the past, and bring the plants into play to help me.”
“Last night I saw the future,” Liam said, searching my eyes as we rode.
“Yes,” I answered. “I think I saw what you saw, a mo chuisle.” I was not yet ready to talk about it, but he held my gaze.
“Then we will wait for a while. You will tell me when the moment has come.”
“I will.”
I did not take my eyes from his, and he smiled at me, a smile full of secrets revealed and promises kept.
We had not been riding for more than a few hours that morning when Ryan called out to Liam, and they stopped their horses. Puzzled, I reined in Clíona. Both men dismounted and walked twenty or so feet into the gorse. They turned to me and waved, and I rode slowly to where they stood. Then I saw what had drawn their attention.
It was a group of stones, partly hidden by a cluster of ash trees growing nearby. It stood at least a foot higher than I, and it was easily that same width. The monument was made of six huge, standing stones, and on three of them was s
omehow balanced a rock twice the size of any of them, angled so that it faced the rising sun.
All the stones were a light gray streaked and striated with darker gray. Deep-green lichen spread its many-webbed fingers across the surface. I dismounted and slowly approached the stones. I reached out and touched the surface, and it seemed to be made of a thousand tiny diamonds, not so different from the stones I had once seen on the great plain of Salisbury.
Tall grasses grew between the stones and even into the cracks in the base of the rocks themselves. I could not take my eyes off them, nor my hand from the surface. I felt again the strange call I was used to around these ancient stones, a slow pull, deep as my very bones, calling to me.
I paid no attention to either of my companions but sank to my knees at the base of the monument. I felt the bones under the place I knelt, and in that moment I thought I heard them again, too, as I had before. Place of stones, hold our bones.
I felt Liam next to me, and Ryan, too. He spoke through his cousin. “What do ye feel?”
“I feel the old bones. And I hear them singing.”
“Are ye a believer in the gods of old?”
“No. I believe in Christ. And I believe in the life everlasting, as he taught,”
“Then the ancestors still live?”
“In a way, Liam, yes. They speak through these stones.”
“Then Pádraig’s beliefs differ not so much from our own,” he said, and I looked at him then. He, too, had reached out to touch the ancient stones, and his finger traced the fissures and cracks that seemed old as the earth itself.
“Me father has warned me about Pádraig. The druids have told him that the priest means to destroy our beliefs. Do ye think that be true, Caitlín?”
I had to be careful here, for I did not want to go against Father Patrick’s teaching. I knew he welcomed many of the old beliefs of the people of Éire, as long as the teachings of Christ were carefully layered over old superstition and shown to be superior.
