by Rex Sumner
“Darling, you’re back! We were so worried about you.” It was Fionuir, rushing into the room and bending down to give Susan a hug. Pain shot through her and she winced. “Oh, your poor arm, silly me! It will be tender for at least another month. Now let me look at you.”
She sat down on the bed, pulling Susan beside her and inspected her, cradling her face between her hands so Susan couldn’t escape before trying to pull her dress down so she could examine her shoulder.
“Stop it, Fionuir, I am fine. Just a bit tired.”
“I’m not surprised. You are thin, drawn and look exhausted. Of course, you haven’t eaten for a week. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen, I am sure we can find you something.”
Despite her half-hearted protests, Fionuir dragged her to the kitchen and proceeded to stuff her with anything she could find, even finding a goblet of nectar, which Susan viewed with grave suspicion.
“Don’t worry, this is the gentle one, which you enjoyed. I tried to stop you drinking the Goibhniu, remember. I wouldn’t give it to you now.”
Susan did feel better, perking up enough to enquire about the other girls, with every intention of discovering how Laoire fared in her absence, dreading she would hear he still occupied Orlaith’s bed. A scrabble at the door announced Riofach.
“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Soo Zann. I didn’t know you were out of the healing tree till Maelbelenus asked me to find you. Oh, you are looking much better. How is your arm?”
“Fine, thank you. Why did Maelbelenus want you to find me?”
“Oh, I’m such a duck. You have to come to his tree, straight away. He has some visitors for you. They are important.” She leaned forward and delivered this last in theatrical style, catching Fionuir’s attention.
“Who are they, Rio?” She stood up and brushed her gown.
Riofach looked both ways in conspiratorial fashion. She hissed out the words in a whisper.
“I think they are from the Other Side. Maelbelenus is being so respectful towards them.”
Fionuir stood, frowning a little. She didn’t speak as she helped Susan stand and they started for the door while Riofach chatted. Her non-stop words soothed Susan as they walked down the stairs and through the midday sun. She fell silent as they approached Maelbelenus’ tree. Fionuir took her hand and whispered in her ear.
“Be strong. They may seem terrible, but all will be just a test.”
Susan’s step faltered before she followed Riofach into the room without announcing their arrival, in the Elven fashion. You can’t sneak up on an elf.
A brooding presence filled the room, emanating from a squat elf at the rear, beside Maelbelenus’ desk. His hair swept back from his forehead into a high knot, before falling back. Black, rare amongst the Elves, shot with grey, which hung in a strange manner from the back of his head. Far from handsome, bright green eyes inspected her from beneath impressive eyebrows. Dark, brown skin whorled with tattoos showed from under loose robes, not just the usual moss green, but patterned with mystic symbols etched in red and gold. Immediately aware of his scrutiny, Susan threw her head up and stalked to a chair, for some reason irritated beyond measure.
A strange lady with a timeless face burnished with blue tattoos, arcane symbols of power, stood in front of the desk. She caught Susan as she arrived, taking both her hands and studying her eyes from deep limpid green pools with no iris. Susan tried to smile, but it did waver, as she saw again the dark brown skin, dark hair and green eyes. This dark almost squat woman also wore her hair in a bun at the back of her skull. She was ugly, Susan realised with a start. This was no elf.
“So this is the girl masquerading as Aine,” said the lady, her face without expression. “Do you think she will like that?”
“I confess I have pretended once or twice,” said Susan, “but I do find it irritating. I would prefer people to call me Susan.”
“Soo Zann,” said the lady, with a measured stare. “Yes, it is an awkward name, suitable for a snake, perhaps. I shall call you Aine as well. She left it to my judgement.” Her eyes left Susan’s, and she stepped back a pace while holding onto Susan’s hands, running her eyes around the perimeter of Susan. The same expression on her face as the Venerable Reinand wore when he checked her aura. Susan smiled slightly, trying to think good thoughts and pulse her aura with no idea whether she caused an effect.
The lady focused on her, narrowed her eyes and asked, “Do you know what I am doing? You do, don’t you. Interesting. Can you see ara?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know the word. I thought you were looking at what we call aura in Harrhein, the shadow of the spirit.”
“That is a good description, yes. Would you like to meet Queen Aine?” She shot the question out with no warning, watching for reactions.
Susan beamed and nodded. “And Fiotr? Can I meet him too?”
A brief smile flew across her face. “Alas, child, he is a story from long ago.” She turned to her partner, their eyes met for a moment and she turned to Maelbelenus. “Very well. She is most credible. We shall take her to the Sidhe for training.”
“Excuse me?” Susan groped for understanding, but angry words were cut off by Fionuir.
“I shall accompany her as her Anam Cara. I shall take the training with her.”
The Not-Elven lady paused, regarded her at length, before nodding.
“I am also her Anam Cara and should come,” said Laoire, who Susan hadn’t known was in the room. It gave her a thrill to know he would come too. Maybe he hadn’t heard of her indiscretions.
The lady raised her eyebrows at this before examining him. She took his hands and inspected both sides before dropping them. She reached up and touched his cheek with a soft smile.
“I am sorry, child, but this is not your path. You are drawn to her flame, but she is not for you and I will not have you burn. Go now, say no farewell, and remember her not.”
In a trance, Laoire left the room, moving in a jerky manner, much to Susan’s annoyance. She probed the sudden empty hole in her heart and bit her lip.
“Who are you,” she said, bursting with frustration. “Who are you to come here and order us about? Who are you to think you can take me away to this side thing? I’ve had enough of bloody elves.” She reverted to Harrhein for this last statement.
“Child, your future lies far, far away, further than you dream. You will not stay long with us, but you need our training. We are the Tuatha De Danann and we sustain the Lore of Coillearnacha.” She turned back to her partner, before throwing a parting shot in perfect Harrhein over her shoulder. “And we are not elves.”
*
Righteous fury built up in Susan. She didn’t like being ordered around; she’d lost a kingdom because of it. Now these awful Tuat people thought they could drag her off to a side thingy. Well, they could think again. She would take her bag and go, all right, but not with them. She’d collect Rina and ride for West Port. They could go hang. A tug on her hand brought her to the present, as she walked to their rooms hand-in-hand with Fionuir. She prepared to launch into her with a blistering attack to relieve her feelings. As she drew in a breath, she noticed Fionuir’s shoulders shake. She stopped dead and pulled Fionuir round to face her.
Fionuir’s eyes were closed, screwed up, the beginning of a tear in one corner. Susan reached up a finger and collected it, bringing it to her mouth.
“The tear of an Elf. Such powerful magic. What is the matter, Fionuir?”
Fionuir threw her arms around Susan, shaking as she held her. She mumbled into her shoulder.
“Oh, Susan, I am so scared. I know it is a great opportunity, but I shall never see my family again, not as Fionuir. I couldn’t let you go alone, but I didn’t think they would take me.”
Holding her tight and rubbing gently, Susan stared into the middle distance, seeing nothing. She was too shocked to spea
k, exactly what Fionuir needed.
“We will go to the Sidhe, the entrance to the Otherworld, and they will take us through. We will live there, learning, studying, for a hundred years or more, before we come back to serve them. We will have aged not at all, but our loved ones will be gone, dead, moved or married elsewhere. And we can’t even say goodbye. There’s a boy, in the Patrol, he’s away now. We danced last month, and I lay in his arms till dawn. He loves me, will petition the Goddess to bless our union, and he will never know where I am.” She banged her head against Susan’s shoulder, while Susan wondered at her previously unmentioned lover. “He’ll probably lie with Fainche now, the rutting sow, but he will never stay with her. She is too young and too inexperienced.”
She pulled herself back, her anger at Fainche serving to balance her and restore her mood to determination.
“Oh, never mind. It is done, and the Fates weave my path, I must follow. Come, my love, we must pack some belongings. Forget your chest, use a travelling sack. Underwear, moss pads and leather to repair slippers, two sets of clothing and, yes, your waxes and dyes. They aren’t heavy, but will be fun. Bring your jewellery and sewing kit. Wait! Make sure the needles are bone, not steel. No steel allowed in the Sidhe.” She paused to think.
Her words struck Susan like dawn revealing a landscape. Gone for a hundred years? The perfect way to escape, for she knew the king would still search for her. Her loved ones gone when she came back? Good riddance. They all betrayed her.
Arriving at her tree, she squeezed Fionuir’s hand.
“Thank you darling. I will be all right now. I will pack, following your advice and be down here in ten minutes. Shall I meet you here or come to your tree?”
“Come to mine, I won’t be ready so fast. I have more to leave behind. I shall give it to Riofach, she needs it more.”
*
In her room, Susan washed quickly, luxuriating in the cool water while wondering how long before she could wash again. She added a giant towel to her bag. It would serve as a blanket or bed roll at night. Her travelling sack included a strap sewn from the top to half way down, so she slung it over her head and one shoulder, positioned it on her back. The check caused her to take it off and repack, to ensure the contents moulded to her back, with the towel closest, and then she was ready, grabbing her staff as an afterthought.
Fionuir sat on her bed, staring at her belongings. Her sack did not have a strap, and Susan sewed one on, using a wide cloth belt and a fast, overlapping stitch while Fionuir watched, a blank expression. Susan packed her bag for her, neither talking, until Fionuir stood up with a shrug and put the last few items in the sack. Susan put it on her, adjusting the contents for comfort.
“Let’s do this,” said Fionuir, with a wan smile.
“Let’s go. Where are we meeting them?”
“In the Glade. We will take the Fairy Road.”
Fionuir said no more, despite Susan raising a quizzical eyebrow, and led off. Susan thought she saw Riofach peeking from a tree, but the normally bustling tree village seemed empty as they strode through.
The Tuatha De Danann indeed waited in the Glade. The lady nodded at their arrival, while the dark man whistled sharply, a strange, high-pitched melody.
The bushes rustled and four huge deer emerged. Susan took a step back, her mouth dropping open. The things were bigger than horses. The man approached the first, bending his neck in greeting, and spent time in silent communion.
“What the hell are those?” Susan whispered in Fionuir’s ear, using a Harrhein curse without thinking.
“They are Giant Elk,” said Fionuir, understanding her meaning. “We see them no more in our forests, gone for five hundred years, but the Tuatha De Danann still ride them and they come to their call.” Her eyes gleamed. “I never thought I would ride one. It is the stuff of legend!”
The leading elk sported an enormous pair of antlers, which he tossed before turning and allowing the dark elf to spring aboard. The smallest elk, with no antlers, made her way to Susan, who reached up to caress her nose.
“Hello, beautiful,” said Susan in Harrhein. “Oh, you have a wet, cold nose. But such lovely eyes. May I have the honour of riding on your back? I promise to move with you to make it easier.” The elk nuzzled her, breathing in her face, and turned, bending her forelegs with a long rabbit-like ear raised at her.
“I can manage,” said Susan, and the elk stood still while she used her staff for leverage to jump high. The elk proved taller than a horse, and she couldn’t quite make it, sliding down while hanging on to the neck, so she changed tactics and jumped again, getting her chest over the neck of the elk before swinging her leg over. Her sack swung with awkward intent, smacking her head, but she made it without losing her staff which she tucked under her arm.
Fionuir’s elk had knelt for her and now lurched to its feet, causing Fionuir to give a little cry as she wobbled. The backbone of her elk cut deeply into her bottom, and Susan wondered how she would survive. She pulled her towel from her sack, forming a pad, before noticing the man sitting a little further back. She placed her pad there, before settling on it and tucking her toes into the elk’s armpit. He nodded, and the elks took off, running. Susan found the rhythm after a moment, an awkward gait, and from the back watched Fionuir struggling. She kneed her elk level and called across.
“Grip with your lower leg but not under his stomach, and move your hips. That’s it, a little faster, yes, you’ve got it. Oh!”
The moment Fionuir fell into the correct rhythm, all the elks increased speed and seemed to flow along the path through the forest. Susan didn’t think she had ever travelled so fast, racing past trees along no apparent track, yet with no hanging boughs to sweep her away. She kept ducking and no branches touched her, but she crouched closer to the elk as the wind turned cold and bit deep, till she felt her nose and ears would fall off.
She glanced with envy at Fionuir’s luxurious hair, now wrapped around her head and face, before digging into her bag to pull out a blue woollen kirtle which she wrapped around her head.
They rode for perhaps an hour, till Susan’s bottom and thighs ached, making her thankful for her recent riding. Fionuir made no sound, moving with mechanical precision on her elk, her face a closed mask. The lady dismounted in a clearing, leaving her elk to wander, and proceeded to unpack a large sack. The man collected water from the stream, while Susan stretched her aching back. Fionuir collapsed where she dismounted and Susan started for her.
“Leave her,” said the lady, “get some firewood. I will treat her.” The last phrase came in response to a mutinous glare from Susan, who flounced to the nearest young pine to break off dead branches. Her earlier travels taught her to find the dry branches still on the trunk, rather than the damp ones on the forest floor.
She returned to see Fionuir lying back with her eyes closed, skirts up and the lady applying a salve to red and angry thighs, and calves awash with white-headed sweat spots. The man did something to a pile of kindling as she approached. Without a flint, he somehow created fire and the kindling flared. She deposited the wood beside him, which he acknowledged with the barest nod.
The fire took the branches with speed, and he assembled a tripod over the fire using stout poles from which he suspended a leather water sack, well scorched from previous use. She knew he would keep the flames below the water line to stop the leather burning.
Susan walked down to the stream and washed her own thighs clean of elk sweat, thankful for the lack of chafing despite not using a saddle. She came back to silence as a wan Fionuir sat beside a cloth on which the lady laid out foods from her basket, flatbreads, dried meat, nuts and leaves. The man poured hot water from the skin, using a flat antler to support it, into mugs made from aurochs horn which he stabbed into the ground.
Accepting one, Susan found it contained an infusion of liquorice root and some flowers she did not recognise, which
imparted a delicate, fragrant flavour. She liked it.
“Do you have names, or should I call you Mr and Mrs Twat or whatever you said you were?” Susan used her politest voice, reserved for when her indignation reached a peak.
“I am the Lady Oona, Shepherdess of the Troillac Trees, while this brute is named Arthur, after the bears he tends.”
“Oh,” said Susan, thinking Arth was indeed Elven for bear and wondering if that is where the name came from. She knew a few Arthurs. “Tell me of my bear, whom I danced with? Did you send her?”
“The elves killed her,” said Arthur without preamble. “She was a good girl, and I am not sure why she should rush into the feast like a crazy girl. I did not expect such behaviour from her.”
“She brought you to our attention,” said Oona, while Susan stilled at the memories. “Did you know your father?”
“My father?” Susan showed her confusion. “He is a tailor in Bresol, Galicia. He was not nice to me.”
“Are you sure he was your father?” Arthur leaned forward, eyes intense as they burnt into her.
“Yes, well, no, actually Colonel Donnell said he was my step-father, come to think of it.” Susan spoke with care, seeking the trap.
“Would you like to meet your real father?” Oona passed her a flatbread, with a little pot of what proved to be cream, slightly curdled but still tasty.
With studied deliberation, Susan used her knife to smear the cream on a piece of flatbread, broken from the side, and chewed with delicate precision as if she were taking tea and scones with her ladies at court.
