Child of the Prophecy (17 page)

"I heard that too."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Come on, Fainne," he said, exasperated, and he drew Aoife to a halt. "Don't tell me that was nothing to do with you. Someone said a man was half-strangled. Now tell me the truth."

I said nothing. I didn't have to, for at that moment a small, bedraggled form put its head out of my pocket, perhaps thinking the jostling and jolting was over at last. The tiny bird hopped out and settled on the back of Aoife's neck, reaching its beak down in a vain attempt to preen its tattered plumage. Aoife stood steady as ever, a jewel among ponies.

"What in the name of Brighid is that?"

I cleared my throat. "I think it's some kind of owl. It wouldn't fly away, and I could hardly leave it. I had to make it smaller, so people wouldn't notice."

"I see."

"The man was a fake, Darragh. He tried to make a girl do something horrible. By trickery. His potions are worthless. He cared nothing for these animals, they were cruelly caged, and—would you have me stand by, and not act when I can?"

Darragh sighed. "I don't know. I don't know anymore." Without any visible signal from her rider, Aoife began to walk again, and the tiny owl wobbled a little. I put my hand down to steady it. Grasshoppers, I thought vaguely. Worms. Small beetles.

We were nearly back at the camp before he spoke again.

"What you need is a constant guard, night and day. I don't know what your father was thinking of, sending you away on your own. It was like—like giving an infant a lighted torch and telling it to go out and play. You're not only a danger to yourself, you're a danger to everyone else as well. And the worst of it is, you don't even know it."

"What would you know?" I muttered, thinking how happy I had been when we passed this spot in the morning, and how miserable I was now. He had taken all the joy out of the day.

"I do know, Fainne," he said quietly. "I know you better than anyone. I wish you would listen to me. What you do is—is not right. You're blighting your own future. It's not the right way for you. I wish you would heed me."

Part of me longed to tell him I was sorry; sorry our day was spoiled, sorry we had quarrelled, so sorry that next summer he would go back to Kerry and I would not be there. But I could not say those things, I could not afford to listen to him lest I lose the courage to go on; to do what my grandmother had said I must do. My father's life depended on it. And Darragh had wounded me deeply, for his good opinion was everything to me. Words tumbled out of me before I could stop them, hateful, hurtful words. "You don't know! How could you? How could you ever understand what I have to do, and why? It's like—it's like some stray dog trying to interpret the movement of the stars. Impossible, and ridiculous. I wish you would leave me alone! I can't listen to you. And I can't be your friend, not anymore. I don't need you, Darragh. Not now, and not ever."

Once it was said, it could not be taken back. We finished the journey in stony silence. He dismounted without a word and helped me down politely, and I took the very small owl in my hand and slipped it back in my pocket. I looked at him, and he looked at me. Then he took Aoife's bridle and led her away, and I was alone.

Chapter Four

The rain set in, and one of the children had a cough. I offered to stay behind and tend to her, and Peg accepted gratefully. But she left Roisin as well, for company, she said. Being nursemaid suited me. The little girl was no trouble. Besides, it was wet for walking, and I would not contemplate riding with Darragh again, let alone talking to him. The very thought of him made me wretched. I knew how badly I had hurt him. Funny, it seemed to be my own heart that was aching now.

While the child rested, I occupied myself with my other small charge. It had spent the night perched on a side support of the tent, tiny, still and silent. Maybe it didn't want me to know that it could fly. It did not sleep all day, as an ordinary owl should. Instead, it kept its eyes half-open watching me, and seemed happy to accept the small morsels I produced: grubs, beetles, and the like. In the quiet of the night, while the folk lay wrapped in sleep, I had seen it, twice, lift its ragged wings and swoop, deadly and noiseless, to seize some small wriggling creature from the earth, then return to the perch to eat its meal tidily with miniature beak and talons.

"You're a fraud," I whispered as I sat by the child's bedside with the owl perched on my finger, and dangled a freshly dug worm. The little bird stared intently, then opened its beak and gave a snap. The worm disappeared. "A complete fraud." The bird closed its eyes to slits, ruffled its feathers, and appeared to go to sleep. Then I heard hoofbeats outside, and returned it hastily to its dark corner.

Roisin's voice could be heard, and a man's. I glanced out of the tent, then retreated back inside. I imagined Roisin only saw her young man once a year. It was not the easiest way to conduct a courtship, if that was what it was. I sat quietly, hearing their voices, but not catching the words. My mind was far away. I was thinking of Father, and how he had lost both his sweetheart and his dreams. I was thinking it was just as well I was going to Sevenwaters now, and not later. Some things could hurt you. Some people could wound you. There was no room in my life for that. And there was no room in any other kind of life for me, or for my kind. I knew that already. I just had to keep telling myself, that was all, and the pain would go away in time.

The rain had almost stopped. From out by the fire, Roisin called me.

"Fainne?"

I emerged from the tent. The young man was building up the fire, and Roisin was making tea.

"Come and have a drink. It's getting chilly. This is Aidan. Aidan, this is Fainne. Darragh's friend."

Not anymore, I thought, forcing a smile.

"Happy to make your acquaintance, I'm sure," said the young man, and I nodded.

"Aidan's got some news, Fainne." Roisin sounded unusually hesitant. I stared at her. I could think of no news that might possibly be any concern of mine. "Sounds as if Darragh's finally made up his mind," she went on.

"About what?" I asked, accepting a cup of her steaming chamomile brew.

"Diarmuid O'Flaherty, and his horses," said Aidan, who had settled on one of the benches with his arm around Roisin.

"Didn't he tell you?" queried Roisin, as I made no response.

I shook my head.

"Just that O'Flaherty's been on at him, and on at Dad, these two years, to let Darragh stay up there at the farm and help train his horses. Ever since Darragh worked his magic on an animal none of O'Flaherty's men could touch. That was a good while back. He's got that way with them, Darragh, like nobody else. Some of the best stock comes out of O'Flaherty's. It'd be a great chance for Darragh.

But our kind doesn't settle. He always said no. Rather be on the road or back in Kerry, horses or no horses."

"Looks like he's settling now," observed Aidan. "Maybe there's a lass in it. O'Flaherty's daughters are a bonny enough pair."

Roisin glared at him. As for me, I sat there with my cup in my hands and said not a word.

"Bit of a surprise," said Roisin. "Dad's pleased, and sad too. He knows it's a great opportunity. But we'll all miss Darragh."

"Not so hard maybe," said Aidan. "You'll see him at fair time. That's the pattern of it for us here in Ceann na Mara," he explained, looking at me. "Summers in the hill country, winters on the coast. O'Flaherty's got big holdings. Wed into that family and you'd be falling on your feet, that's certain."

"Who said anything about wedding?" scoffed Roisin, digging him in the ribs.

"Folk'll be saying it."

"Folk can say what they want. That doesn't make it true. I never thought Darragh would do it. Surprised us all." She glanced at me. "Thought you'd have been the first to know."

After that things moved very quickly. O'Flaherty was to be off home the next day, and he was taking Darragh with him. Folk gathered in the evening around the fire, but the air was biting cold and nobody was in a festive mood. I said I was tired and stayed in the tent. People talked quietly and drank their ale. There were no tales, and not much laughter. Later someone asked Darragh to play his pipes; but it was Dan Walker who entertained them with a couple of tunes. I could not see, but I could tell from the sound of it. The playing was more expert than Darragh's, but it had not the same heart.

Much later, when all were asleep and a gentle rain had begun to fall again, I heard him, a long way off, down on the shore in the dark. He was playing alone; playing some kind of farewell, to his folk and his family, to the sort of life that was in his blood and in his being. I'm a, traveling man, remember? he'd said. Always on the move, that's me. The lament rang forth over the empty strand and the dark surging waters, piercing the very depths of my spirit. This would have been easy once. I would simply have got up and walked down to the shore to sit by Darragh as he played. There would have been no need for words between us, for my presence would have been enough to tell

him I was sorry I had hurt him. He would have understood that he was still my friend. Things were different now. I had changed them, and now my friend was leaving me forever. It was better that way; better for me, far better for him. Why, then, did it hurt so much? I curled my hand around my grandmother's amulet, feeling its warmth, feeling the reassurance it gave me that the path I had chosen was the right one, the only one. I rolled the blanket around myself, and curled up tight, and put my hands over my ears. But the voice of the pipes cried out in my heart, and would not be silenced.

A long time later I came to Sevenwaters. It was past Mean Fomhair and there was a misty stillness in the air. There had been many days on the road, too many to count. Our party had split in two, leaving one cart at a camp not far inland from the Cross with most of the folk. Without the old people and the children we moved more quickly, stopping only at night. Dan drove the cart, Peg sat by him, and Roisin kept me company. For all their kindness, my thoughts were on the task ahead of me; beyond that I could see nothing. I told myself sternly to forget Darragh. What was past was past. I tried very hard not to think about Father.

We camped a night or two at a place called Glencarnagh where there was a great house and many armed men in green tunics going about their business with grim purpose. Already, there, I saw more trees than ever before, all kinds, tall pines dark-caped in fine needles, and lesser forms, hazel and elder, already drifting into winter's sleep. But that was nothing to the forest. As we moved along a track with great heaps of tumbled stones to left and right, you could see the edge of it in the distance where it crept across the landscape, shrouding the hills, smothering the valleys. Above it the mist clung, damp and thick.

"That's it, lass," announced Dan Walker. "The forest of Sevenwaters."

"Going right in, are we?" inquired Peg. Her tone was less than enthusiastic.

"The old auntie'd kill me," Dan said, "if I passed by these parts without a visit. Besides, I promised Ciaran I'd deliver the lass safe to her uncle's door."

"If that's the way of it, that's the way of it," said Peg.

"You'll get a good meal there, if nothing else," Dan said, looking at her sideways. "Auntie'll see to that."

Going right in, as Peg had put it, proved more difficult than I could have imagined. We came across grazing fields and up a slope to a rocky outcrop. The forest was before us, encircled by hills, stretching out like a huge dark blanket. It was daunting; a place of mystery and shadows, another world, cloaked and secret. I could not comprehend how anyone could choose to live in such a place. Would it not suffocate the spirit, to be deprived of the wind and the waves and the open spaces? In my pocket the small owl stirred. And before us on the track, where there had been nobody at all, suddenly there was a troop of armed men dressed in the same dark colors as the stones and trees around us. Their leader stood out, for over his jerkin he wore a tunic of white, emblazoned with a blue symbol: two tores interlinked.

"Dan Walker, traveling man of Kerry," said Dan calmly, getting down off the cart without being asked. "You know me. My wife, my daughter. We've come from Glencarnagh. I'm hopeful of Lord Sean's hospitality for a night or two."