Night's Child

by Cate Tiernan

  Her mother's face softened. "Moira-I've lost so many people I've loved. If I lost you, too, I couldn't go on. Do you understand? I couldn't go on." Her brown eyes looked searchingly into Moira's. For a moment Moira felt a twinge of guilt. Her mum had lost a lost of people: Cal, then Hunter, then Dad. Her birth parents.

  But none of that changed the fact that Moira had to do this. "I'm going," she said firmly.

  In the small boat Sky had pulled on an ill-fitting life vest. Her pale hair was already being tossed by the wind. Wordlessly Morgan pointed back to the bed-and-breakfast.

  Moira felt a spark of anger. "I'm part of this!" she cried. "He's my bloody real father!" It didn't sound right, coming out of her mouth-Colm was her father. But she knew it was still the truth, and stranger or not, if Hunter needed help, she wasn't going to sit by and do nothing.

  Morgan shook her head, her eyes full of pain. "No." Then she turned from Moira and climbed down to where the boat was tied. She stepped into the boat and pulled on a life vest. At Sky's word she pulled up on the rope tying the boat to the pier, and Sky pulled back on the throttle. The small engine roared to life. Without a backward look Sky sat back and took the old-fashioned tiller under her arm. There was no steering wheel, no console-only battered vinyl seats, ripped and smelling offish.

  Moira stared unbelievingly. Were they really going to leave her here, on an island a thousand kilometers from home, with strangers? Were they really going to make her sit out this final stage when they were looking for her birth father?

  She didn't think so.

  The boat was slowly pulling away from the pier, its engine already sounding asthmatic. Without allowing herself time to think about whether it was a good idea or not-she knew it wasn't, but she was way past caring-she sprinted forward and threw herself off the pier as hard as she could.

  Whoosh! She hit the surface of the water hard, going under before swimming back up. The plan had actually been to land in the boat, even if it was headfirst. Morgan and Sky both turned at the splash, and in an instant Morgan was grabbing her arm and hauling her upward.

  "What were you thinking, Moira!" Morgan shouted. Air, breathe, air. "You're not leaving me!" Moira shouted back when she'd finally gotten her wind.

  Sky had slowed the engine and was looking at Morgan inquisitively. Moira looked at Sky, then at her mum. Total exasperation crossed Morgan's face, but finally she shook her head. They wouldn't turn back-they'd wasted too much time as it was.

  Her mother took off her life vest and handed it to Moira.

  "What will you wear?" Moira asked.

  "There are only two," her mother said shortly.

  Moira looked around. They'd left the harbor behind and were passing slower-moving fishing boats. It had been sunny, with just a few puffy, cotton-ball clouds in the sky when they'd set off. The sea had looked a rich blue-green, full of life.

  Now, only minutes later, Moira could scarcely see any blue in the sky at all. An endless, heavy-looking mass of gray clouds was sweeping across the sky as if pushed there by a huge, invisible hand. Moira moved forward to sit on one of the vinyl side benches up front. The sea was the color of lead. Instead of perky little white-capped waves, it was churning, uncomfortable, roiling with some deep disturbance. There were no birds overhead, Moira noticed. Seagulls had been thick by the harbor, bright white and gray, raucous cries filling the air. Now it was as if they had been erased from the picture.

  She looked up to see her mum looking solemnly at Sky.

  "Come into my parlor," Sky said dryly.

  Said the spider to the fly. lona had sent this weather. There would be more, Moira knew. They were going forward, even if this was a trap.

  Moira sat shivering. Her shirt, jacket, jeans, socks, and sneakers were soaked, and she was freezing. The temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees and the wind had gotten brisker. Salty spray occasionally flew up into her face, feeling like needles hitting her skin.

  Sky turned the boat slightly, aiming for a gap between two big islands. The ride became much rougher as the boat cut across the current. Moira sneaked a glance at her mum, who was staring straight ahead, white-faced and determined. Morgan looked over at her, and her eyes were so sad and solemn that Moira felt a touch of panic.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch. Her hands were white-knuckled from gripping the handhold on the side of the boat. Her face stung from salt spray and wind.

  Oh, no. A familiar sensation began in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed convulsively. Then her mouth flooded with saliva, and with her last few working brain cells she realized she needed to hang over the edge of the boat now, because she was going to vomit.

  More salt spray hit her face-she was closer to the water. She started to cry, her body suddenly racked by sobs. She'd never felt so lost in her whole life.

  Then her mother was there, scooping her long hair back, her hand on Moira's neck. When Moira's stomach finally seemed not only empty but inside out, Morgan pulled Moira back up. She'd taken a bandanna out of her back pocket, and she wiped Moira's stinging face. Moira was sobbing now, knowing she had to stop right away, knowing she looked like a baby, knowing her mother had been only too right about wanting her to stay.

  "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."

  "Shhh, shhh," said her mother. "It's hard. That's why I didn't want you to come."

  "I'm sorry," Moira repeated, shivering again.

  Morgan studied her for a second, then closed her eyes. She spread out the fingers of her right hand and placed them over Moira's face, touching her temple, her forehead, a vein in her neck. Then she started to murmur words in Gaelic, a few of which Moira recognized from class, but most unknown. Within moments Moira breathed a sigh of relief. Her pounding head, racking nausea, fatigue, and fear were easing.

  Within a minute Moira tentatively let out her breath. Oh, Goddess, she could breathe without pain. She took in slow, deep breaths, feeling pain and tension leave her with every exhale. She opened her eyes just as her mum opened hers.

  "Thanks," Moira said, feeling a new sense of awe. Her mum had healed her before, but now Moira truly understood where the ability came from-a source of power deeper than she'd ever imagined. "That's so much better."

  "We need you in good shape," Morgan said, and hugged her.

  It was right then, at that moment, that Moira realized that her mother's powers as a healer were probably exactly equal to her power to destroy. It was almost blinding, this huge example of how everything in life was both black and white, good and bad, healing and destructive. Mum always called it the thorn on the rose, and Moira marveled at how complete everything felt, how reassuring it was, in some way, that the wheel always turned unbroken.

  Morgan took her hands away and shook off any magickal energy that was left over. There were pale violet circles under her eyes; she looked sad and weary and oddly expectant, as though she were waiting for bad news.

  Within Moira's next breath, the whole world went gray.

  Blinking wildly, Moira could still see her mother, less than three feet away, and could still see Sky, three feet in back of her. Everything else was gone. "What is this?" she cried as Sky slowed the engine to a crawl.

  "Fog," Sky called back. She cut the engine and swung the tiller all the way to one side and fastened it there; now they would go in slow, tight circles for a while. She stood and came to the midsection of the boat, where Morgan and Moira were. The three of them peered uselessly out, but it was as if they were surrounded by a thick, gray wool blanket.

  "Well, I can't see a bloody thing," Sky remarked. "Goddess only knows if we're about to beach up on some rocks-I thought we were still pretty far away, but who knows? We're in the middle of bloody nowhere. Goddess, lona's much more than a pain in the arse."

  "So we need to get rid of the fog," Moira said, trying to think.

  "Well, yes," said her mum, running her hand through her hair and getting stuck almost immediately in a tangle. "It's just that we have no way of knowing how much is
there, how wide it is, where to move it to."

  Fog. Fog was made of water vapor. "Can we make all the tiny water drops in the fog sort of stick together, be attracted to each other?" Moira asked. "Then they would turn into rain and fall. Rain would be miserable, but you can see through it."

  Her mother looked at her, blinked, then looked over at Sky. A slow smile split Sky's usually solemn, thin face, and she nodded.

  Moira felt a spark of pride-maybe she could hold her own with these two strong witches. She was Morgan's daughter after all, and she had to remember that.

  Moira, Morgan, and Sky held hands and concentrated. Sky worked the main part of the spell. They concentrated on feeling each infinitely small atom of moisture floating in air, boundless numbers of them. One tiny particle joined another and was joined by a third. Slowly a chain reaction started where each water molecule joined with others and still others. They became heavy, too heavy to float in the air, and began to drift downward, pulling others down with them as they went. Within minutes a frigid rain pelted down, soaking them instantly. The small canvas roof didn't cover where Sky sat by the tiller and offered little in the way of protection for the other two. Rain slanted at them sideways, stinging their faces, drenching their salt-sticky hair.

  It was miserable. But they could see.

  Sky cranked up the engine and took hold of the tiller. They were through the two islands of North Ulst and Lewis, headed out to open sea. The rain followed them. The waves were still spine-jolting. Time ceased to register as they made their way across the leaden sea. It seemed as if they would be crossing this water forever. They passed a smaller island on the left. Ahead of it, slightly east, was another, even smaller island.

  "We should be able to spot another one soon," Sky said, raising her voice over the waves.

  The whole world lit up with the biggest bolt of lightning Moira had ever seen. Her hair stood on end with the electricity, and every detail of the horizon was blotted out. Boom! It was followed immediately by an enormous, rolling peal of thunder that shook Moira right through her body into her bones.

  "We must be getting close," Sky said, grim determination on her face. Her eyes were dark, like obsidian, her skin pale and leached of color. Her wet clothes stuck to her tall, graceful figure, and she gripped the tiller hard with both hands.

  Morgan turned to Moira. "Don't touch anything metal," she instructed, then lifted her arms to the sky. "Morgan! Don't!" Sky shouted. Startled, Morgan turned to look at her.

  "Save your strength," said Sky. "Don't waste it here. I can see the island ahead. We'll need you more later."

  Morgan nodded and sat down. Sometimes Moira thought she could see the island, but mostly she could see nothing but rain, highlighted by huge, spiky lightning bolts. The booms of thunder rolled through them incessantly, one merging with another.

  The wind picked up. Waves doubled in size and crashed against the boat like wrecking balls, jarring Moira, making her teeth rattle, almost pulling her hands from where they clenched the torn seat cover. When she looked in one direction, she saw a wall of sullen gray water. When she turned her head to look over the other side of the boat, she saw another wall of water. The sea itself seemed to have come alive, awakened by the uneven chortlings of their motor, angry at their presence. It seemed to well up around them, eager to drag them to the bottom of the sea.

  No sinking, Moira told the universe. We are not going to sink. This is not the ferry. We are in control. We are protected.

  "I see it!" Morgan shouted, pointing off to the right. They had almost passed it-if they'd kept going, they'd have headed out into open sea.

  Sky tried to turn the tiller but strained-it was stuck. Morgan joined her, and the two women pulled the long wooden bar with all their strength. The boat creaked ominously-it didn't want to turn-and Moira refused to think about their fate if the tiller should break and they had no way to steer, lona isn't going to win this, she thought fiercely. She will not win. Just as she was about to go help, the tiller finally budged, working against the waves, the wind, the rain.

  The island itself looked like a row of giant, black, moss- grown teeth, sticking up out of the water like some huge, decayed jaw. Lightning flashed every other second, and the thunder was so constant it was impossible to tell where one clap ended and another began. Every jagged streak of lightning highlighted this rocky wasteland, and the closer they got, the more uninhabitable the island seemed.

  What if this has all been a wild-goose chase? What if lona was lying? What if we came all this way for nothing? What if Hunter's really been dead for years?

  Moira felt a blanket of despair settle over her and knew it was futile to battle it She looked at her mother and Sky and saw the same gray feeling of helplessness cover their feces like a shade.

  Her mother frowned and rubbed a hand over her wet forehead. Then light dawned in her eyes. "It's a spell!"

  Why was Mum bothering? It was pointless to struggle, to hope, Moira thought with weak despair. They were all going to die.

  Morgan drew runes in the air: Eolh, for protection, Thorn, for overcoming adversity, Tyr, victory in battle, Ur, strength, and Peorth, hidden things revealed.

  Slowly Moira realized what was happening. Her head began to clear, and she stood up and joined Morgan. Together they repeated them. At the tiller Sky joined them, and as the three drew Peorth in the air, there was a tremendous bolt of lightning, and suddenly the island was upon them, rearing up like a dragon from the sea, so close they were about to be dashed on the rocks. The sea, the despair, and even the distance had been an illusion. Frantically Sky grabbed the tiller. Moira sat next to her and pulled also. Morgan scanned the shore magickally and then with one hand shielding her eyes from the rain.

  There was no place to land a boat. The shore was rocky and jagged, sharp, broken boulders protecting the island at every turn. They kept on, and finally, just as Moira was afraid that she had no strength left in her arms, her mother spotted a tiny inlet, just a small stretch of sand barely big enough for their boat. Sky and Moira steered the boat into it, wincing as they bashed against rocks with an unholy scraping sound. They beached, the V-shaped hull of their fishing boat completely unsuited to being pulled up onshore. Morgan jumped off the boat, looking wobbly on land, and managed to secure a rope to a twisted and deformed tree that grew out of a crack in one rock.

  Then Moira jumped down into the sand. Sky leaped down after her, and they looked at the boat, tilting dangerously sideways on the beach. The propeller was halfway out of the water, long, slimy strands of seaweed twisted around it. It was amazing that it had worked at all.

  As far as they could see, there were only rain-slicked black rocks, sodden sand, stunted and gnarled trees, and storm. There was no sign of any human existence. Moira kept blinking against the onslaught of rain, trying to peer into the distance. She cast out her senses. There was nothing.

  Her mother reached out and took her wet hand. Sky took her other hand. The three of them walked forward, their feet leaving squishy footprints in the slippery sand. Moira tried casting her senses again and felt a dull ache in her head, but nothing else. The sand weighed her feet down. Her chest felt odd, tight, and the pain in her ribs was sliding slowly back. The idea that they had to get back in that boat and somehow get off the island filled her with a gray, hopeless fog-and this, she was sure, was no spell.

  They walked literally across the island, a distance of maybe half a kilometer. It tapered to an arrowhead shape, rounded at the tip, maybe sixty meters across. The wall of rock ended, too, cutting off the beach at its other side. Moira searched the land, looking for anything that would indicate that any other human had been here. There was nothing. Only a dead feeling, a numbing of her senses, a dulling of her emotions. This place was spelled, created to be a mindless prison. Hunter's not here, Moira thought frantically. This had all been a trap; lona had lured them here to capture them. She had to get out of here- she had to get her mum and Sky out of here.

  But
before she could speak, Morgan squeezed her hand and strained forward. Moira followed her mother's gaze, and her mouth dropped open. In the face of the tall rocks was a cave opening, barely visible. But they could see the outline of a person, a human, shuffling toward them from the entrance.

  18

  Morgan

  He had to be here-he had to, Morgan thought in despair. But she could feel nothing, pick up on nothing. She had risked her daughter's life to try to save her muirn beatha dan's. But there seemed to be nothing here-only grotesque, deformed trees and sharp bits of rock that stabbed at her feet through her shoes. She gripped Moira's hand more tightly. Hunter is here somewhere. He simply has to be.

  Then she saw it-an opening in the wet, black rock face. A cave. Visible only because of a faint, flickering light deep inside the rock. The light was blocked, and slowly an outline appeared, a person. A human being was walking toward them.

  Morgan's heart constricted painfully, her eyes straining to see into the cave's darkness. Holding hands, she, Moira, and Sky hurried toward the cave. There was no need for words. Their hearts and minds were too full to speak.

  They were almost upon the cave when the figure shuffled awkwardly out into the storm, into the palest, most fractured bit of light available. It was not Hunter. "Oh, Goddess!" Morgan whispered, staring in dismay at the wizened old woman. The woman had wild, tangled gray hair, large, vacant eyes, and sunburned skin crinkled in folds over a face that scarcely looked human. A woman. A leftover witch, put here by some MacEwan, possibly Ciaran, for all Morgan knew. Put here and forgotten for who knew how long.

  The woman's faded gray eyes fastened on them blankly. "You're not real," she muttered indistinctly, shaking her head and looking away. "You're not real. They never are." She turned around and began to head back into the cave.

  "We're real," Morgan called strongly, starting to follow her. "We're real. We're looking for-"

  Her words wisped away into the wind. A second figure was blocking the cave entrance. This one was tall, thin, gaunt. He had long, pale blond hair and a darker blond beard. His eyes were deep set and an odd, light green, as if bleached by the sun and sea.