Child of the Prophecy (27 page)

That night it was especially hard to remember why I was at Sevenwaters. As I have said, the celebration of Samhain is secret. The druids had come forth, this year, only because all knew it would be the last time before the final battle. The festival marked the start of a new year, the year in which the Britons would be swept from the Islands, and the balance at last restored. Perhaps, Conor remarked, our very next Samhain would be celebrated as once before, under the sacred rowans that crowned the Needle, far out in the eastern sea. If he could witness that, he said, he would depart this life gladly. His words sent a shiver up my spine, but I said nothing.

The ritual would still be observed deep in the heart of the forest, where the druids lived their solitary existence, watched over by those other inhabitants with their strange voices and half-glimpsed manifestations. Back in the nemetons there remained a number of Conor's brethren to fulfill this purpose. Those who had come to Sevenwaters would perform a ceremony to which senior members of the family would be invited, and afterward they would emerge to acknowledge and greet the household at large, and share with them the ritual feast of Samhain. In this way, all would be included. But the sacred words themselves, and the manner of their saying, only an inner circle might witness that, and I may not tell it fully here. The smaller girls were excluded. Knowing their complete inability to be still for more than a few moments, I thought that a wise decision.

Samhain is a dangerous time. For the three days that mark the turning of the year and its descent into darkness, barriers are put aside, and the margins between worlds become less clearly defined. It no longer becomes so difficult to see the manifestations of the Other-world, for their shadows loom close in this time of chaos. Things seem other. In the light of the Samhain bonfire, you might look at your neighbor and see, suddenly, the face of a friend long dead. You might wake in the morning and find things disturbed. Stock wander, even when closely fenced. Strange lights can be seen in the darkness of the night, and snatches of an ancient music half-heard. If you wanted to practice scrying, this would be the time to try it. You'd almost certainly see something. You might then wish you'd left well alone.

There was a part in the ritual for the youngest druid, and that part I fulfilled. It was no difficulty to speak the words with meaning and heart. Conor's own voice had a solemn power that seemed to go straight to the spirit. I had agreed to help him. I reasoned that if I were to do my grandmother's will, I must earn this man's trust; I must find a place in this household. I told myself I was simply playing a part; that it meant little to me. But as the ceremony unfolded in the candlelit chamber which had been set aside for the purpose, it became impossible to ignore the presence of unseen others among us, somewhere in the shadowy corners, or in the flame of the ritual fire. Part of the ritual is the solemn repetition of names: the names of those who have departed this life and moved on; those who might, tonight, be able to hear our words, for at Samhain their spirits are no more than a breath away. Somehow this touched me more deeply than anything that had come before, and despite myself, for a time I did forget that I did not truly belong here, and never could. I forgot Grandmother. We stood together as a family, the living hand-fast in our circle, and the others threaded between and around us.

There were many; so many, even in the time of those here present. So much sorrow. They lingered close, the lost folk of Sevenwaters, binding and strengthening the fabric of this family.

"I speak to you, my brothers," Conor said quietly. "Diarmid, ever bold and headstrong. Cormack, twin and comrade, loyal and true. Liam, once master of this hall. You leave your legacy in the fine man your nephew has become, another such as yourself."

"Sorcha, daughter of the forest," said Sean. "Healer unparalleled, and great in spirit. Iubdan, man of the earth, steadfast and wise. My hand is in yours; you guide my steps."

"Eilis, my mother," Aisling said. "In my birth you gave your life. I never knew you, but I love and honor you."

And then they looked at me, and my words came unprepared. "Niamh," I whispered. "You danced at Imbolc, and shone bright. You are my mother, and a daughter of Sevenwaters. We hold you close, as we hold all those departed."

"And also the sons of this household, my brothers who lived but a brief span in this world," added Muirrin, taking her mother's hand. "Small Liam and Seamus; precious as bright stars in the firmament; lovely as beads of dew on the hawthorn; you live as bright flames in our minds and in our hearts. Tonight we draw near and touch you, dear ones."

'Through the shadows we feel your presence beside us," Conor said, raising his hands, "for on this night there is no barrier between us. Share our feast; be welcome and walk among us."

He proceeded with the ritual. In turn the salt, the bread, the wine and honey were shared among those present, and the spirits' portion cast into the flames. I moved around the circle, playing my part as the druids did. I recognized that the terrible losses this family had sustained were my own losses, and theirs mine. I knew the dead were there still, within us. Their legacy was in the deeds and the choices of those who lived. Did my mother look through the veil between this world and the other, and smile at what she saw? What path would she have me tread?

The circle was unwound, and the ritual complete. "Come," said Conor. "The good folk of the household await our company. Let us feast together, and prepare ourselves for the time of

shadows."

We made our way to the great hall, where all the folk of household and settlement were assembled. It was a big gathering. The numbers living at Sevenwaters had been augmented by many warriors, and others with a part to play in the preparation for war. Blacksmiths, armorers, men skilled with horses, and those who dealt with supplies and the movement of large numbers of folk at speed, and quietly. The old woman was there, Dan Walker's aunt. I saw her watching me with her dark, penetrating eyes.

Benches were set out, and some were left empty for what Other-world visitors might care to join us. The doors stood open, for

JULIET MARILLIER

tonight no entry was barred, no passage refused. The hearth fires were cold. Outside, in the clear space between keep and stables, a great bonfire burned, sending its sparks dancing high. The moon was full, and small clouds moved across its pale, glowing surface.

"Morrigan watches from behind her veil," said Conor. "Come with me, Fainne. Let us rekindle these fires, and set our feet forward into the new year."

He had set the bonfire alight much earlier, using his hands and an incantation. Others had kept it going by more earthly means, with a regular supply of well-dried ash fagots. Now Conor took up an unlighted torch, and thrust it into the flames until it flared and caught and burned golden in the night.

"This is the fire of the new year." His voice was strong and clear, his eyes full of a serene hope. "This is the year of the reckoning. We measure the days of darkness, and take stock. We prepare for the time of sunlight and joy, and for the day of victory. I pledge to the folk of the forest, on both sides of the veil, that before Samhain next the Islands will be restored. The child of the prophecy will lead us, and we will fulfill our sacred trust. This I pledge."

Then he put the torch into my hand.

"You know what to do?" he asked me softly.

I nodded. I had the strangest feeling, as if somehow I had done this before; as if a scene from the past were being repeated, but with subtle differences. My feet moved of themselves. I bore the flaming torch into the great hall and, before the assembled folk, I reached out and touched it to the logs laid ready on the massive hearth. They flared and burned bright. Then I walked through the house, taking care to stay clear of the tapestries, until I had lit every single fire, even the small one in my own chamber. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I spotted a little smile on Riona's embroidered mouth, but when I turned to look, she was gazing out the window as solemn as ever.

My duty discharged, I returned to the hall. Tonight, suddenly, I did not fear the crowd of folk there, the talk and the brightness. There was wine and oaten bread, and some cold meats, and a little of the fine soft cheese made from ewes' milk. Only a little, for there would be no fresh milk from now to springtime, and the bulk of our butter and cheese was laid away in the caves. The last of the surplus stock had been slaughtered and the late crops gathered in. Breeding animals, the best of flock and herd, were confined in the barns or in the walled fields close by the settlement. What little grain lay still in the fields would be left now, for the spirits. It was a time to exchange the light of the sun for the warmth of the hearth fire, the action of farm and forest and field of war for the smaller sphere of household and family, and to plan for what was to come.

It was not exactly a celebration. Folk talked quietly among themselves. Even the little girls were more subdued than usual. It was well past their bedtime, and Eilis sat on Aunt Aisling's knee with her thumb in her mouth like a baby. Maeve, who had followed my progress through the house step by step with round-eyed admiration, went to sit near the hearth, leaning drowsily against her big dog. Sibeal was next to the old woman, Janis, who seemed to be telling her a story. The older girls were moving about busily, making sure goblets were refilled and platters replenished.

"You did very well tonight, Fainne." It was Muirrin, coming up with a wine flask to refill my cup. "Almost as if you were called to it, I thought. It is quite an honor, to help with the ceremony itself. It is even more of an honor to light the fires. I have never seen Conor entrust it to other than a druid."

"Really?" I said, and took a sip of the wine.

"He values you, Fainne. You should not take that lightly. Of all of them, of all the swan-brothers, Conor is the only one who remains here in the forest. He keeps the memory of the old times alive. He does not let us forget who we are, and what we must do. He sees a part for you in that, I have no doubt of it."

"Maybe," I said. "Muirrin, you said to me, your parents had daughters, and Aunt Liadan had sons. But—"

She gave a half-smile. "There were twin boys. Between Maeve and Sibeal. They lived for less than a day. I was about seven when they were born. I held them for a while. They had such little hands."

"I'm sorry. I should not have spoken of it. You said your father was content that Johnny would inherit. But I did not know they had had sons and lost them."

"Their grief was terrible. Father has come to terms with it. He is very strong. He loves and respects Johnny. With Mother it is slightly different." She hesitated.

"She is not happy that a nephew should be the heir?" I asked.

"She would never say so. She is a good wife, devoted to my father and dedicated to the seamless operation of his household. She would never say it outright, but she believes she has failed, in not giving him a healthy son. And there is a—a reservation, that is all I would call it. She likes Johnny. One cannot do otherwise. He will be an ideal ruler of Sevenwaters. But she also has some doubts."

"Doubts?" I asked her as we sat down together on a bench in the corner. "Why would she have doubts, if Johnny is the perfect creature everyone makes him out to be?"

She grinned. "He is perfect. I'm sure you will agree when you meet him. Mother's feelings have more to do with his parentage. He's a cousin, of course, but—"

"Is it Johnny's father Aunt Aisling objects to?"

"Not objects. I would not put it so strongly. My mother abides by my father's decisions. It is just that—there is very ill feeling, between my uncle Eamonn and the Chief. Nobody ever says what it is, or was. My mother, I think, believes that her brother can never approve of Johnny as a future master of these lands. That makes her uneasy for the future. The Chief has never come here, not since he and Aunt Liadan went away. When he needs to see Father, they meet somewhere else; a different place every time. I've only met him once myself. And Uncle Eamonn does his best to stay away when Liadan is here. It's as if they can only keep the peace if they never come face-to-face."

"How odd. How long has this been going on?"

"Since Johnny was a baby. Nearly eighteen years, it would be."

"I see," I said, although I didn't, really. There were indeed secrets here; interesting secrets. "I'm sorry, Muirrin. Sorry about your little brothers." This was no more than the truth. I had seen the look of desolation on Aunt Aisling's small, freckled features as their names had been spoken.

'Thank you, Fainne. You're such a kind girl. I'm glad you have come here. Sisters are all very well, but it's wonderful to have a friend I can talk to. Mother will come to terms with my father's plans for Sevenwaters in time. First the battle must be won. Then we work for the future." Her face was alight with hope and purpose.