I made myself get up, stretch and walk around the library. I needed to tackle this a different way or I’d make no progress at all. Gritting my teeth, I swept the contents of one of the bigger tables into a pile at one corner. Then I began working my way through them, picking up each little book or scroll or parchment sheet, wiping off the dust with a fold of my skirt, reading a few lines, then setting the piece in the appropriate group. The work table soon held three piles of material—Nechtan’s, mostly loose leaves of deteriorating parchment, spotted brown with age and, where folded, falling into pieces; his son Conan’s, a far smaller heap; and a group of documents whose writers I could not identify. Many of these were in Latin; I glimpsed the words diabolus and mysteria and shivered. Somewhere in here there might be a key to Nechtan’s unusual activities, the ones of which the local priest had so disapproved. Somewhere he might have written more about the experiment, the army he intended to summon or conjure, the immense power he would then be able to wield against his fellow chieftains. And somewhere there might be a link with the family curse and these mysterious beings that Anluan didn’t want to talk about. That was foolish of him, really. Here I was with his family records, after all. If there were dark secrets in the history of Whistling Tor, wasn’t this library the likeliest place to discover them?
I did not make a pile for Irial. The notebooks of Anluan’s father were already collected on their own shelf in a corner of the library. When I opened the covers of one or two, I saw that the lover of plants and their lore had written the year and season on the front page of each. Irial’s books were not dusty. Someone had wiped the leather covers clean and set the volumes vertically, with stones at either end to hold them in place. Above the neatly organized books, a bunch of dried flowers and foliage in a jar and an unlit lamp shared their own shelf, and on the flagstoned floor in front there was a woven mat, its colors darkened with age and wear to a uniform purple-gray. The area was almost like a shrine.
Irial’s books were works of art. His botanical drawings were finely detailed and drawn with both accuracy and charm. He’d used a crow quill sharpened to a point. It was quite plain the artist had loved what he did, unusual as such a pastime might be for someone in his position. It made me wonder what sort of leader Anluan’s father had been. Perhaps he, too, had failed to carry out the duties the folk of Whistling Tor expected of their regional chieftain. Tomas and Orna had been blunt about Anluan’s inadequacy in that regard. Perhaps his father had spent hours in the garden and in the library, pursuing what had obviously been an activity he enjoyed with a passion, and had neglected his district and his folk. Perhaps he had never taught Anluan how to be a chieftain.
Something caught my eye, and I turned the little book in my hands sideways. Irial had written his botanical notes in Irish, which made sense—this language would render his work accessible to a wider readership. But in the margin, in a script so small and fine that at first glance it seemed decoration, not writing, was an annotation in Latin. The most potent remedy known to man cannot bring her back. This is the hundred and twentieth day of tears.
A chill went down my spine.What was this? Another secret, something so private the writer had chosen to set it down in this odd, almost cryptic fashion? Whose loss had Irial mourned for so long?
I moved the notebooks over to the work table, where the light was better. At around midday, Magnus brought me food and drink on a tray, which made me feel guilty for causing him more work. I went out to the privy and returned immediately to the library. There were many, many margin notes, scattered apparently at random through the botanical notebooks, all of them Latin and written in that minute script that tested the most acute of eyes.
It is the forty-seventh day of tears.To see her face in his wounds me.
I long for an ending. Sweet whispers. I must not heed them. The five hundred and third day of tears. Holy Mother, how long had the man gone on grieving?
The notes did not follow the same chronological sequence as the little books. I imagined Irial going back to his old records day by day in the time of his sorrow, setting each observation on a page chosen at random. The last entry I could find was five hundred and three. I searched for the first, and eventually found this: The fifteenth day. My heart weeps blood.Why? Why did I leave them?
And then this: She is gone. Emer is gone. Beside it, in a different ink, a scrawled number two. On the day he lost her, perhaps he had been incapable of writing.
I returned to my chamber when I judged it to be almost time for supper. Now both my gowns were the worse for wear, the brown still stained from my journey, the green dusty after my long day’s work. I brushed down the skirt as well as I could, and washed my face and hands. It must still have been evident that I had been brought to tears by Irial’s notes, for the moment I appeared in the kitchen Magnus set down his ladle, ushered me to a chair and set a brimful cup of ale in front of me.
“What’s wrong?” His broad features wore a frown of genuine concern. When I did not answer immediately, he added, “Come on, get it off your chest.” His manner was kindness itself.
“I’ll be fine. I read something that made me sad. Something that reminded me of home.” I knew about loss. I knew about the numb sorrow that went on and on. “Magnus, what can you tell me about Anluan’s father?”
“Irial?” He turned back towards the fire to stir his pot, but not before I had seen the change on his strong features. Here was another with an abiding sadness. “What do you want to know?”
I realized, to my surprise, that in Magnus’s company I felt safe. On the other hand, anything I told Magnus, Anluan would know before morning. I did not want to share today’s reading matter with the lord of Whistling Tor. “Was his wife called Emer?”
“She was. Who told you that? Not him, surely. He never talks about her and seldom about his father.”
“I saw a reference to her in the documents.When did she die, Magnus? How old was Anluan?”
“This job of yours, it’s going to open up old wounds.”
“I suppose it will, and Anluan has already told me I must read and write and not think about what I’m doing, more or less. But I don’t see how I can transcribe family history if I don’t know how it all fits together.”
“I did warn him the process might be painful,” Magnus said. “The lad was seven when his mother passed away; nine when his father followed her. Irial did his best for as long as he could. After that, all the boy had was me. Irial hired me as a fighting man, not to bring up his son.”
I was silenced. Nine, and both parents dead—it didn’t bear thinking of. At least Maraid and I had had our father until we were young women, though the loss of him had been no less crushing for that.
“Irial was a good man,” Magnus said.“A fine friend, a loving father. Whatever it is you’ve found, you’d best not speak of it to Anluan. He’s already—”
Sounds in the hallway indicated the arrival of the rest of the household, and our conversation came to an abrupt end. Fianchu erupted into the room, bounded over to me and licked my face, almost sending me sprawling, then went to his usual spot by the fire. Olcan, Eichri and Rioghan came in after the hound, greeted us and took their places. We waited briefly, but Anluan did not make an appearance. Magnus began to cut up a leek and cheese pie to accompany the soup, and there was Muirne in the doorway. She was in the same gray gown and overdress, or perhaps another, identical in color and cut, for it was immaculately clean and appeared newly pressed. Her snowy veil looked freshly laundered. Her gaze passed over us, revealing nothing.
“He’s not supping with us tonight?” Magnus queried.
“He’s tired. His leg aches.” I watched as she performed the same routine as last night’s, holding the tray as Magnus served Anluan’s meal, filling the cup, checking that everything was placed precisely so. She left without another word.
My four companions made good company. Magnus kept me well supplied with food and ale. Olcan regaled me with Fianchu’s exploits for th
e day. Eichri and Rioghan exchanged barbs across the table and moved their food around on their platters, but I did not see either eat a bite.As the meal drew to a close, I plucked up the courage to ask Magnus a new question.
“I came here with only a small bag, as you probably saw. I’ll need at least one more change of clothing to get through the summer, and I have no funds to buy cloth, even supposing they have some down in the settlement. Would there be any old things here? Something I could alter, perhaps, just to get by?”
“I don’t know.” Magnus sounded doubtful. “We wear everything until it’s falling apart; then we use it as cleaning cloths and suchlike. You can sew?”
“My sewing is certainly better than my cooking. Do you think Muirne might be able to find something for me?”
“You could ask,” Magnus said. “She’ll know where such things are, if we have any.”
“I don’t think she approves of my being here,” I said, hoping this did not sound discourteous. “It might be a little awkward.”
There was a little pause; then Magnus said, “She’s devoted to Anluan, Caitrin. She looks after him, tends to him, keeps him company even when all he’s fit for is staring at his boots. He can be as miserable as a wet winter day. It takes an unusual person to tolerate such a man. Anything that upsets him, she’ll disapprove of. Don’t take it personally.”
“She surely won’t object to finding you a gown or two,” said Rioghan. “There must be old things stored away. If anyone knows where, it will be Muirne. She knows every corner of Whistling Tor.”
Lying awake in bed some time later, I thought of sad Irial and his lost Emer, and that little boy left an orphan at nine years old. Before he could properly read and write. Before he had the least idea of how to be a chieftain. Most of what Anluan had learned he must have taught himself, unless Magnus had found him a tutor. If he had, the fellow hadn’t stayed long enough to teach his charge Latin.
I wondered in what corner of the fortress Anluan and Muirne had their private apartments and how they had spent their evening. I thought of the beings out in the woods, the ones nobody seemed prepared to talk about. I considered Nechtan’s experiment. What exactly was this army he had tried to bring forth? With my mind full of puzzles, I fell asleep to the melancholy call of an owl, somewhere out on the wooded hill.
chapter four
I spent a number of days struggling to impose order in the library. I set a restriction on myself: read only enough of each document to determine where it fitted into the records, then put it aside for later. It was all too easy to become engrossed and lose track of time.The mirror stayed in its box, out of sight, while I dusted and sorted and made notes.The moment I stepped over the threshold each morning I could feel its presence.
By suppertime each day I was filthy and exhausted. I sat quietly as the men talked. I noticed there was no longer any mention of the curse, the family history, or the mysterious presences out in the woods. Magnus made sure I ate properly. Olcan brought me gifts—a curiously patterned stone, a handful of freshly picked berries.The interchanges between Rioghan and Eichri remained combative in tone, but it was becoming plain to me that the councillor and the priest were old and devoted friends. To me, they showed unfailing warmth and courtesy. As for Fianchu, he had accepted my presence as a member of the household. When I appeared, he would rise from his corner to greet me, then turn his attention back to his bone.
Each evening, Muirne fetched Anluan’s supper and took it away. His quarters were in the south tower; I had seen a lamp burning there late at night. I wondered if he planned to shun the supper table all summer, until the intrusive stranger had departed. I was somewhat uncomfortable to be the cause of such disruption to the household routine. On the other hand, I was beginning to feel at home here, odd though the place was. At long last there were moments during the day when I forgot Cillian; times during the night when I woke, not to the sweating terror of the familiar nightmare, but to an astonished calm—the realization that I had escaped, that I was no longer in the dark place, that perhaps, finally, I was safe.
From time to time, as I sat in the library working, I had a sense of being watched. At first when this happened I would glance up quickly, sure that the silent Muirne must be in the doorway with her big eyes fixed on me, or that the mercurial chieftain of Whistling Tor had come to check if I had fallen asleep on the job again. But I never saw anyone, and after a little I became almost used to that uncanny sensation that I was not alone. Uncanny: if this place was anything, it was that.The scarecrow was often in the courtyard somewhere, birds perched on its hat and shoulders. It generally favored me with a little bow when I walked by, and I responded with a nervous smile or greeting.When I plucked up the courage to ask Olcan what this being was, exactly, the forest man replied, “Something old and harmless. A bit like me, really.”
My clothing grew dirtier by the day, until I could bear it no longer. I arose very early, planning to find Muirne before I began work. Magnus was already off on his round of chores. I ate my porridge seated alone at the kitchen table, trying not to look into the triangular mirror, which this morning seemed to reflect the chamber at dusk, everything shadowed in purple, gray, deep blue. Whoever had fashioned these artifacts must have possessed exceptional skills. I wondered if it was possible for an ordinary man to teach himself such uncanny craft, or whether the knowledge must somehow be bought. Perhaps they were Nechtan’s own creations.
When I turned to go, Muirne was in the doorway watching me, as if she had known I wanted her.
“Good morning, Muirne,” I said, making myself smile as I rose.“I have a request. I’m wondering if there might be some spare old clothing in the house, something I could alter to fit myself—a gown or two, perhaps a shift. I didn’t expect to be staying in one place all summer and I haven’t brought much with me.”
She eyed me up and down, and for a moment her eyes were Ita’s, assessing my body as unacceptable, the sort of form that was designed to draw attention for all the wrong reasons.
“I realize your old things wouldn’t fit me. But I thought maybe . . .”
“Of course, Caitrin. Come with me.” She turned and was off at a brisk walk, leaving me to scurry along in her wake. I followed her through one deserted chamber after another. Like the hill itself, this house was far bigger than it seemed from the outside.There were so many twists and turns that I completely lost my bearings. Eventually Muirne led me through a massive arched doorway and into a chamber of grand proportions, where natural light spilled down through jagged holes in the roof to pool on the flagstones. Rain had come in through the openings and the place smelled of mold. There was an eerie stillness here; the soft sound of my footsteps seemed an intrusion.
“This way,” Muirne said, and headed directly across the chamber towards another door at the far end. I stepped after her somewhat awkwardly. The floor held various piles of debris: half-burned lengths of wood; rolls of ancient, stained fabric; broken glass. And along the sides of the hall stood . . .mirrors. Many, many mirrors, some covered with cloths, some in full view.They were of varied sizes and shapes, the biggest taller than a tall man, the smallest the size of a lady’s hand.Their gleaming surfaces called to me; I felt the pull of them.
“Muirne . . . ?” I whispered, frozen where I stood.
“What?”When I did not reply, she halted and turned. “Come. It’s this way.”
“The mirrors,” I managed. “I don’t want to . . .”
Muirne’s neat brows went up; her lambent eyes were incredulous.“The mirrors can’t harm you,” she said. “Just don’t look in them.”
I swallowed hard and moved on, trying not to glance to either side. But the mirrors made it difficult. From either side of me came their voices, Look here! Look here!, and try as I might, I could not ignore their pleas.With my skin crawling and my heart beating like a drum, I glanced to the right and into the surface of a tall, thin artifact in a dark metal frame. A figure stared back out at me: myself, yet not myse
lf, for though she wore my clothing and bore the shape of my features and my body, she was white-haired and old, her skin wrinkled with time, her mouth not full-lipped and red like mine but seamed and tired, the flesh of her face fallen onto the bones, so I could see death’s touch on her. She smiled at me, revealing shrunken gums in which a few blackened teeth still maintained precarious hold.
My heart knocking, I walked on. Here to the left, a round mirror, artfully made, on a curious three-legged stand with little iron feet. The surface highly polished metal, perhaps bronze; in it, smoke and fire, and from it a roaring, crackling sound, as if I were looking, not into a reflection, but through a window to a scene of terror and destruction.And amid the flames a woman’s voice crying out: Help! Help me! The words turned into a hideous, wrenching scream, and I knew the fire had taken her. I ran after Muirne, glimpsing here a clutching hand, there a pair of anguished eyes, there a scene of snow falling over pines, there a maelstrom of twisting, tangling monsters.
At the far door I stopped to recover myself, leaning on the frame, eyes clenched shut, chest heaving. I told myself I would not be sick again, not indoors, and not in Muirne’s company. I fought to get my breathing under control.
“I’m sorry,” Muirne said, fishing a handkerchief from her pouch and putting it in my hand.“I did not realize you were so disturbed.” She waited patiently while I mopped my eyes, blew my nose and tried to compose myself. “Would you prefer to leave the clothing until later?”
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