The branch she stood upon was slim and supple, swaying and dipping playfully beneath her weight in the spring breeze. Perhaps by summer Una could be persuaded to give up this hiding and return to Ulster.
“Please, soon!” Meghan whispered fervently to the day.
The climb down to the ground took longer than the climb up. When she touched the damp earth once more, Meghan was again hushed and worried. She had yet to find a way to keep Una from being suspicious about her appearance. As she reached down to scratch a new itch, an idea came to her. She would bathe in the pond at the edge of the oak grove; that would remove the dirt and soothe her scratches.
She made her way toward the water confidently. The herdsmen believed her a demon capable of turning herself into a wild boar at will, and they would undoubtedly come again into the forest to search for her, but she knew they would not follow her to the pond: they thought it was enchanted.
When she reached the marshy waters of the small pond, she stood for a moment watching a water bug skimming across the glassy surface. The pond was little more than a sunken bog, its surface deceptively calm. In its amber and brown depths lay a swaying forest of reeds in which an unsuspecting swimmer might be caught.
Certain that she was alone, Meghan stripped off her tunic, flung it on the bank, and dived head-first into the silent water, her knife still strapped to her wrist.
Her slim body slipped unimpeded through the soft, smooth water. Like a thousand gentle fingers the cold water soothed and caressed her body. Savoring the freedom of weightlessness, she arched her back and swam in slow, graceful somersaults just beneath the surface. Finally, when her need for air forced her to the top, she struck out with deliberate strokes across the water, her yard of blue-black hair trailing like a banner of silk ribbons.
As she had in the treetop, she felt the intoxication of happiness winding up through her. In the water she was as insubstantial as a leaf. Neither fish nor ducks resented her intrusion into their realm, nor did they care whether she was blemish-free or marked. They swam away only from the hands of predators. Ugliness did not frighten them.
Aye, I am ugly, Meghan thought as she flipped over onto her back and opened her eyes to the hazy morning light. She had looked at her face often enough in the glassy surface of the pond to know.
She discounted the reflection of the large, velvety blue eyes that stared back at her from the green-brown water and the lustrous tangle of inky tresses that surrounded the delicate angles of her chin and brow. She saw none of her beauty, only the vivid birthmark that marred the creamy smooth texture of her left cheek. Sometimes she would squint until her image blurred and the red mark seemed only a shadow on her cheek. Then she could make believe that it was gone entirely. Or she would drape her hair forward over her left eye to cover the mark, and pretend that she looked like everyone else.
Yet, I am not like everyone else. Meghan sighed and closed her eyes. She would not think about it.
The snort of a horse on the opposite bank took her by surprise. Alarmed, she slipped noiselessly beneath the surface. Several swift kicks carried her into the reeds growing thickly in the shallow water, and wriggling free of their slick coils, she came up for air among them. Then she crouched and waited.
Before long she heard the voices of her unwelcome companions. First there was a great splash beyond the sea of reeds where she hid, followed by a large dog’s joyful barking. In that instant the morning sky exploded with life as geese, ducks, and cranes took flight in fear for their lives. A moment later she heard a man’s shout.
“Heel, Ualter! Heel, you great beast!”
Meghan tensed. The words were spoken in a tongue which, though she did not speak it, she recognized as English.
When the dog continued to thrash at the water’s edge despite its master’s command, the voice roared again, “Go ahead and drown yourself, you ungainly cur! I’ll not be sharing my cloak with you this night.”
Her heart pounding in fright for the second time that morning, Meghan slipped the knife from the thong that held it securely to her wrist. Its narrow but deadly blade shone like silver in the misty light as she waited behind the blind of weeds.
Perhaps, she hoped wildly, they would simply pass on. But that hope bolted when she heard the creak of saddle leather and the man dismounted with what sounded like a groan of pain. An instant later, the reeds behind her rustled and a covey of quail, flushed by the dog, raced toward the woods for cover.
Meghan gripped her knife more tightly. If the dog’s attention was drawn to the birds, he would surely spot her.
But the animal did not come her way. He was content, it seemed, to wade back and forth, barking incessantly. Finally, after another sharp command from his owner, he ceased barking and the splash of water died.
For a long, nervous minute Meghan remained perfectly still and listened. They were not going away. She could hear the man speaking softly in his unfamiliar tongue to his pet but she could not tell what they were doing. The voice came no closer, but it did not retreat.
Curious and needing the advantage of observation, Meghan reluctantly moved toward the voice, keeping only her head above the surface. The lazy ripples made by her passage were so slight that she knew no one would notice. At last she found a thinning in the pond weeds and looked for the first time at the intruder.
Ever after, whenever she saw something beautiful, she would remember that this man bathed in the morning light was more beautiful.
Angled sunlight, illuminating the pond mist like a sheer saffron flame, surrounded the man in a brilliant golden haze. Everything about him was golden, from the amber sheen of his skin to the rich color of his hair, from which dawn’s light struck gilded sparks. He stood still, his face in three-quarters’ profile, and Meghan caught her breath. His was a mysterious face, unlike any she had ever seen before, with its smooth cheeks, straight mouth, and long jutting nose. Cut short, his fair hair waved closely about his head. He was bare to the waist, his green velvet doublet lying in the grassy bank. Broad in the shoulders, his tall and well-muscled form was lithe, not bulky.
As he moved toward the water, she noticed the bandage on his right forearm, through which blood had seeped, and the smears of mud on his boots and leggings and on his brow. He walked stiffly, as if he had injured his hip or knee, but at the water’s edge he dropped gracefully onto the grass and began muttering to himself. In quiet curiosity she watched him tug with difficulty at his thigh-high boots, speaking swear words that she did not need translated. He was injured and was impatient with his awkwardness.
Had he spoken her language she might have been tempted to aid him. But she was not certain that he was even real. The men who had chased her that morning were thick-bodied and hairy, their features half-hidden beneath unkempt beards and wild streaming hair that reached to the middle of their bare backs.
Once before, in Ulster, she had hidden and watched O’Neill warriors who stopped to camp near her home. They were muscular and tall and wore wolf skins and bright yellow mantles across their shoulders, which they shed to bathe in the Blackwater. Fascinated, she had stayed and watched until Una had come looking for her. And so she had learned that men were mostly the same. Save for the amount of hair on body and face, she had decided that the only difference among men was in their size.
But this man, if he was a man and not a fantasy, had scarcely any hair. What little there was was the color of wild honey. Meghan still held her weapon. From the corner of her eye, she kept track of the overeager dog prancing back and forth behind his master. He was a huge beast, nearly as tall as she, with a reddish brown coat and dark markings on his ears and muzzle.
“There!” the stranger cried triumphantly as he tossed a boot aside. The second came off more quickly, and then he stood once more. Meghan did not see him unfasten his leggings. It seemed to her that they merely fell away from him and then he stood as God had made him.
Never having learned modesty, Meghan studied him with open interest. His le
gs were long and shaped by supple muscle, but that was not what most attracted her. Nestled at the base of his belly in a shadowing of golden curls was the proof of his manhood. Whatever else he might be, he was a man.
As she gazed at him, Meghan felt a curious stirring inside her, not unlike the quickening of her body near its monthly cycle. The feeling surprised her, for she had never experienced it at the sight of a man before. But he was unlike any man she had ever seen. Perhaps the herdsmen were right; the pond was enchanted and the man was the work of magic.
Unable to understand but willing to feed the strange languor stealing over her, she traced the slope of his spine with her gaze, lingering on the tight swell of a buttock, on the contoured muscle of his thigh, and then rising again to blink in wonder at the pure gold of his hair. It made her feel as warm and happy as she had when she climbed to the top of the oak and turned her face to the morning sun.
A golden haze stole softly over the opposite bank, wrapping the man in a mantle of amber light. When it had drifted on, only the dog remained, standing tall, straight, and perfectly still.
Gasping in surprise that the man had suddenly disappeared from her view, Meghan forgot her fears and stood up. Then the water heaved about her and she realized that he had dived into the pond. Not wanting to be found, she dropped down and began moving back into a denser region of the reeds, only to pause in fresh amazement as she heard the man’s voice. He was singing…in Gaelic!
There is a distant isle,
Around which sea horses glisten:
A fair course against the white-swelling surge—
Four pillars uphold it….
Unknown to us wailing or treachery
In the familiar cultivated land,
There is nothing rough or harsh,
But sweet music striking on the ear.
…A beautiful game, most delightful,
They play sipping at the luxurious wine
Men and gentle women under a bush,
Without sin, without crime.*
*The Voyage of Bran, eighth-century poem
Resisting the urge to continue to spy on him was futile. Drawn by his charming voice, she stretched out in the water and allowed herself to float back toward the break in the reeds. The water’s chill would have driven her out long before now, but there was no safe way to leave while the huge dog sniffed the air expectantly. What harm, then, she asked herself, could come from watching the man until he left?
He was floating on his back and Meghan was not surprised to see a smile upon his face. The urge to swim to his side was powerful. He seemed friendly, a kindred spirit in this place that she thought of as hers alone. Without conscious thought she slipped her knife back into its place. But a lifetime of caution kept her from joining him. If he saw the mark on her face it might frighten him away, or, worse, he might try to kill her as the herders had.
Even when he drifted across the pond, so close to her that she could see the pale light of his eyes, she did not move. Yet she drank in every bit of him. When two yards separated them he stood up in the shallows and began washing the blood from his injury, and she noticed that he was young. The blond stubble of beard on the strong angles of his jaw and chin pronounced him full grown, but he had only recently come of age, she guessed.
Fascinated, she watched as the breeze stirred rippling shivers across his broad back. She too shivered, and as her teeth began to chatter she wondered how long she would be trapped in the water. With relief she saw him dive back toward the center of the pond, heading for the opposite shore and his horse and dog.
Meghan clasped her hands tightly over her naked shoulders, but the cold pierced bone-deep and her shivering intensified. For a moment she entertained the impulse simply to leap from the water and run into the woods. The man could easily be evaded…but, alas, not the dog.
Her wary gaze moved to the bank, where the dog stood at the water’s edge waiting eagerly for his master. Panting, his open mouth revealed large sharp teeth, and his black eyes kept watch on the lake surface. A shudder of revulsion quaked through Meghan. The baying of hounds after her own blood was too fresh in her mind for her to admire the handsome animal. She would miss the man when he left but she would be glad when the beast was gone.
The dog was the first to realize that something was wrong. He moved out and began pawing the water, whining like a puppy. Following his lead, Meghan turned her attention back to the pond. Its surface was smooth again, with no sign of the stranger. Then she saw the faint bubbling near the center.
Though she could not see through the murky water, an inner vision revealed a man suspended beneath the surface, his body bobbing and swaying like a puppet at the end of the reeds that gripped his wrists and ankles. Without hesitation she pulled her knife from her wrist, clamped it between her teeth, and dived toward that telltale sign.
The sun had climbed higher in the sky but its rays could not penetrate far into the marshy water. Still Meghan kept her eyes open as she propelled herself deeper into the muddy green underworld. She did not think of failure. It never entered her mind that she would not find him. She hoped only that she would be in time.
As she reached the tops of the long sinewy weeds she drew back instinctively. Their touch was like the licks of long wet tongues across her stomach and legs. This was what she had been taught to avoid.
Her hesitation lasted only a moment. The golden-haired stranger was down there; the writhing nest of snaky weeds had wrapped themselves about him and held him in a death grip. He had no weapon to free himself. She had to find him.
Although her skin shrank from the cold reedy fingers that reached out to her face and body, she plunged deeper into the forest of underwater growth, one hand stretched out in the darkness in search of her goal. When she felt a man’s shoulder under her palm, the solid hard warmth of his skin triggered a leap of joy within her. Already her lungs were aching. With a hard kick she forced herself deeper, reached blindly lower to grasp him under the arm, and then tugged. Only then did he respond. His arm came up and, incredibly, shoved her up and away. Caught unprepared, Meghan floated helplessly to the surface.
She broke the surface gasping for air, confused and amazed. Was he a madman? Or had he thought her some monster of the deep come to claim him as its meal? It did not matter. A flip and a kick sent her straight back down. This time she didn’t hesitate as the reeds grazed her. Without seeing, she knew where he was.
She found his head first, when the springy texture of his hair moved through her searching fingers. Slipping behind him to stay out of his reach, she ran a hand down his back until she encountered his bonds. Both legs were caught in the leathery grip of the reeds. Small but sharp, her blade sliced through the wet tentacles that clung to him. He was no longer hostile, but he did not even try to free himself as she worked to release him. She hacked more frantically at the vines.
He must live! He must!
The thought became a chant in her mind. She could not bear another death on her conscience.
When finally he floated free, rising past her like a bubble, Meghan sheathed her knife, grasped him about the waist, and began to kick with all that was left of her strength. They rose slowly. It seemed an eternity to her until they reached the air. When his head broke the surface her gasps sank them again and again until she could control the heavings of her starved lungs; but not once did she release her burden.
“You’re safe! You’re safe!” she whispered against his cheek as she started for the shore, the stroke of her free arm carrying them.
In deep water she maneuvered him easily, but as they reached the shallows the man became an ungainly weight. Finally Meghan gave up swimming and began dragging him, one hand under each armpit, as she struggled for sure footing on the slick bottom.
Suddenly the water behind her erupted with splashing and barking. A moment later, Meghan was pushed flat as a great weight leaped onto her back. Hair streaming water cross her face, Meghan righted herself and came face to face wi
th the stranger’s pet. The dog was even bigger than she remembered, nearly chest-high and baring teeth that could grind her bones, but she was too angry to be terrified.
“Get away, ye great beastie!” she roared in a furious tone and heaved an armful of water at the dog.
Without waiting for the animal’s reaction, she turned and grabbed the man, whose head had slipped under the water. Pulling and tugging, she brought him to the bank, keeping her gaze averted from the animal who stood watching her. No doubt he waited to see if she meant his master harm.
When she reached the grassy bank, she lifted the man by his underarms and tried to drag him onto the land. He was heavier than she had thought and her efforts met with only partial success. Once his shoulders and chest cleared the water, she found she had no strength and lowered him onto his back. Squatting, she paused to draw several fresh breaths, knowing that he would not slip back in.
“No thanks to ye!” she muttered as the dog came hesitantly forth, his head lowered, and poked his nose beneath his master’s. After a brief inspection, he began to whine.
“He’s nae dead!” Meghan said sharply, and pushed away the dog’s muzzle as she bent over the man. He could not be dead; she would not have it so.
But a look at his face was not reassuring. He lay absolutely still, his face as translucent and pale as mother-of-pearl. Annoyed and frightened, Meghan gently shook his shoulder.
“Awake, man! Ye must nae be dead!”
She laid a hand on his chest, but she could not be certain that she felt anything more than the throb of her own pulse in her fingertips. She knew nothing of dead people, had never touched one. The small animals she and Una snared were different: their rapid heartbeats and quick breathing were easily detected. She shook him again.
“Open yer eyes, man! Dinna be dead!”
Once more the dog poked his muzzle against the man’s clammy cheek and licked it twice before lying down beside him. The man did not respond.
Rose of the Mists Page 2
