Child of the Prophecy (12 page)

"Uh-huh. And that was why you wouldn't come out?"

"Part of the reason."

"And what was the other part?" He was frowning, his dark brows drawn together.

"I—I can't do ordinary things anymore. I can't have—friends. I can't let that get in the way. It's hard to explain. This is bad enough, going on the cart, mixing with folk, having to talk and listen and—I just can't do those things anymore. I—I can't let anyone close."

Darragh did not reply. I stared at the ground, knowing he was looking at me, but unwilling to meet the expression in those too-honest brown eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"So am I," he said slowly. "Sounds pretty odd to me. You might think yourself too fine for the likes of us. But there's folk of your own kind, where you're going. Family. It'll be good for you, Fainne. They'll welcome you. Folk are not so bad once you get to know them. And—it's only right, to have family and friends around you. I don't understand how you could do without them."

I drew my shawl closer around my shoulders. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," I said. "But our kind don't have friends."

Then we turned and made our way back down the hill, and he took my hand on the steepest bits, and neither of us said a word until we were nearly under the elms and could hear Molly laughing at some joke of Peg's.

"You have, you know," Darragh said softly. "Sometimes you get friends without asking for them. And once you've got them, they're not so easy to lose."

"I'm going a long way away," I said.

"I'm a traveling man, remember?" said Darragh. "Always on the move, that's me."

The journey was long. I learned to shut out some of the noise by repeating in my head, over and over, the recitation of question and answer that Father and I had perfected during the long years of my childhood.

Who were the first folk in the land of Erin?

The Old Ones. The Fomhoire.

And who came next?

So it went, as the carts trundled along under gentle autumn rain and crisp westerly breeze, and sometimes, when we were running late, under a great arch of stars.

Whence did you come?

From the Cauldron of Unknowing.

For what do you strive?

For knowledge. For wisdom. For an understanding of all things.

The lore was all that I had to keep me going. The lore was control and direction, amidst the noisy children and the chattering women and the constant company, more company than I was likely to want in a lifetime.

Peg was kind enough in her rough way. She never asked me to help with skinning rabbits, or fetching water, or washing the children's clothes. She tried to find me a quiet corner to roll out my bedding, once she saw how I edged away from the other girls and pulled the blanket over my ears. When we stopped for a single night, we'd sleep in the carts, with a sort of awning over that gave half-shelter. The boys slept out under the trees, next to the horses. There was a smell, with so many folk close together, and it was never really quiet. Often I lay awake looking up at the sky, thinking of Father back home, and listening to the small cracklings and rustlings around me, the horses shuffling, the sigh of children rolling over in their sleep, the snores of older folk worn out by a long day on the road. At dawn they'd be up again and soon ready to be off, the packing a well-practiced, speedy process. It seemed to me we were covering a great distance, despite many stops to sell baskets, or collect a pony, or simply to visit old friends. I lost count of the days after a while. There was a time when we came down through a desolate sort of valley with what looked like small lakes at the bottom, and I managed to waylay Darragh for a moment as he came by the back of the cart where I was sitting.

"Are we nearly there?" I asked him, softly so that nobody else could hear.

"Nearly where?" asked Darragh.

"Nearly at Sevenwaters," I whispered.

Darragh gave his crooked grin and shook his head. "Scarce halfway yet," he said. "It's a long way north, and east as well, before we reach the forest. Quite different, it is, in those parts. Still, you'll get a rest soon, and a bit of fun."

"Fun?" I scowled at him, bitterly disappointed that we had so far still to go, and furious with myself for having asked.

"That's right. Best days of the year. Down the bottom, where the valley opens out, we'll be stopping a while. Resting the horses. Making a proper little camp. Not far from there, you come to the Cross. That's where they hold the best horse fair in the country. Games, races, music, plenty of food and drink, finest company you're likely to meet anywhere. Get to know some great folks there, you will." He was watching me closely. "Don't look so anxious, Fainne. I'll look after you."

We stopped by the lakeside, and the menfolk went a certain distance along the shore, out of sight. The day was not so cold, for all the autumn was passing. Not that it was ever any trouble getting the children into the water, it was washing them that was the problem. I watched as the women and older girls stripped and scrubbed the little ones, to the accompaniment of squeals of protest and much splashing. The bath gave way to a sort of water fight, and then Peg and Molly and the other girls took off their own clothes without so much as a word of warning, and proceeded to wash themselves with a shared sliver of soap and a volley of ribald comments. I looked away, feeling a strange mixture of embarrassment and envy. Things seemed so much easier for them. I did not like the water. At home, I had never swum in the sea. My baths had been taken in a small tub before the fire, and I had fetched and warmed the water myself. Always, I had performed my ablutions in complete privacy. Even Grandmother had respected that. Still, I knew I was dirty and did not smell as I would wish to, and I did have two clean gowns in my little chest. But this—this was too hard.

Peg scrambled out of the water, her body still lean and shapely for all her brood of children.

"Come on, lass," she said with a smile. "Last chance to get spick-and-span before the fair. The water's not so chill, once you're in." I - I don't know-"

"Come, child, nobody's looking. There's a little cove there, a bit more private. Not used to this, I can see. I'll keep a watch out for you." So, my cheeks hot with embarrassment, I picked my way down to the water's edge, separated from the others by a curve of shore and a few willows, and stripped off my clothes while Peg, who had donned a fresh gown and was now combing and re-plaiting her long dark hair, sat on a fallen tree trunk nearby and warned off the children if they came too close. The water was freezing. To make things worse, the bottom was soft, oozing mud, and it was easy to lose your footing. And it grew deep so quickly. I glanced over and saw the other girls swimming, brown arms flashing, wet hair like graceful weed across naked shoulders. Farther down the lake it sounded as if the boys were swinging from a tree branch into deep water. I washed as quickly as I could, using the scrap of soap on body and hair, grateful for the chance to rid myself of the sweat and grime of the journey, terrified that I might take one step too many, and plunge in over my head by mistake. Peg was looking the other way. I could be drowned before she noticed. Nobody knew I could not swim. Nobody but Darragh. To sink beneath the water, to gasp and strain and be unable to fill the chest with air, that would be a terrible way to go. It would be like ... it would be the same as ... I willed that thought out of my mind, unfinished.

When I came out Peg handed me a cloth to dry myself, and then there was Molly with a gown in her hands, a gown that was not mine, for it was a bright homespun, striped in blue and green, and over her shoulder she had a neckerchief with a little border of blue ribbon.

I stood shivering with the cloth hugged around me, barely covering my nakedness.