Child of the Prophecy (36 page)

"Good night," I said hastily, and retreated to my own chamber. I lay in bed under my soft woollen blankets and fine linen, so weary I should have fallen asleep the moment my head touched the pillow, but unable to stop my mind from working busily. It was quite obvious what Grandmother would have me do now. Indeed, it was becoming apparent that the task she had set me might not be so impossible after all, if only I could force myself to do what must be done with Eamonn. But how could I? How could I bear it? As dawn broke outside and a cock began to crow extravagantly in the yard, I fell asleep with my problems still turning and tangling in my mind.

I did not sleep long. There was a break in the wet weather, and the girls were anxious to be off out of doors, despite the bitter cold of the day. Visitors had arrived, and were already shut away with Eamonn in his council chamber. He, too, must have had little sleep. There were fine horses being tended to in the stables, and good cloaks being hung to dry before the kitchen fires. Nobody seemed willing to say who the visitors were. Maybe nobody knew.

We went out walking, the five of us, clad in heavy, hooded capes and strong, winter boots. The sun was struggling to emerge from clouds still heavy with rain, and the breeze was biting, but the girls had smiles on their faces. They were glad to be out in the open again.

"It's good here," observed Deirdre. "You can go for a walk without some man-at-arms forever leaping out and barring the way."

Eilis was jumping over puddles. One, two, three—jump! One, two, three—splash! She would need a change of clothes when we returned. As we made our way down a path between neatly clipped hedges of yew, toward a small grove of bare-limbed hazel trees, I observed that there were indeed guards. There was no leaping out, as Deirdre had put it, simply a discreet presence at a suitable distance. Men in green, well armed and silent. One might be allowed to wander, but not unwatched. It was for our safety, I supposed. Still, it riled me. I thought about Kerry, and the way Darragh and I had clambered around the cliffs like little wild goats, and scampered back and forth in the path of the advancing tide, and never a thought given by our folk as to whether we might be safe, or when we might come home. They knew we would be safe because we were together. My heart ached with the longing to be that small girl again. But there was no rewriting the past; there was no stopping the turning of the wheel.

Deirdre wanted to climb trees. She tucked her skirts into her belt and hauled herself up with impressive agility and an unladylike display of leg. Immediately Eilis was clamoring for a boost up.

"Babies," scoffed Clodagh as she lifted her small sister to reach the bottom branch, but the glint in her eye meant she was not to be outdone by her twin, and soon the three of them were scrambling about like squirrels, and swinging perilously from the leafless branches.

Sibeal was seated on a flat-topped rock, near where the rain-swollen stream came down into a small, round pool. Today the water was coated with foam, the current strong even in this place of temporary repose. Sibeal sat cross-legged, her hands still in her lap, her back very straight. It was a pose of meditation, like Conor's. Her gaze was fixed on the water. I settled quietly on the rocks beside her.

Some time passed. Sounds rose and faded: the laughter and shrieks of the others, the creaking of branches, the calls of birds; the voice of the water itself as it cascaded down into the receiving cup of the pool. The sun showed its face abruptly between the clouds, and light touched the surface of the water, piercing, dazzling in its pure brilliance. The froth of bubbles turned to gold; the wet rocks gleamed.

On the other side of me, someone was squatting; someone about the same size as my cousin, but covered with feathers. Somehow, it was possible to speak without making a sound.

You again.

Disappointed? Who were you expecting?

I did not come out here searching for Otherworld beings.

Uh-huh. If the voice of the mind can express disbelief, this was what the creature conveyed. And I did not come to your call, but to hers.

My—my cousin's? She called,you?

She opened the way, so I could cross over. What she sees is something else entirely. She looks in the water. She sees what will be, and what may be. I'm here for you.

Why would you seek me out? I was confused enough already. The last thing I needed was another cryptic dialogue that posed more questions than it gave answers.

You're mixed up. I feel it. You've lost your way, if you ever had one. And you don't know who to ask for directions.

I need no directions. I find my own way. My father taught me to solve my own problems.

And you will. We've no doubt of that. But you're wasting time. What about a little advice?

Tour advice ? I think not. I don't even know who you are. What you are.

The small owl-like creature ruffled its feathers, dislodging one or two of them, which floated through the air before me, delicate, tawny fragments like autumn's last skeleton leaves. On my other side, Sibeal still sat motionless, clear gaze fixed on the water.

What I am, echoed the creature. What we are. Have a look at us, Fainne. If you can't guess, with that headful of druidic lore, your education's been wasted.

Us? I asked, and as the voice of the mind spoke, I saw without opening my eyes a movement of the landscape, a changing and unfolding, as if the streamlet, the great boulders, the crevices of the earth wrinkled and shifted to reveal what had been there all along, if one had only known how to look. They gathered around me in a circle, silent. None was taller than a half-grown child; each was different, each in some way resembled a known creature, a frog, a squirrel, a piglet maybe, though some seemed as much like small plants or bushes as anything; each was uniquely itself. They were not animal, and they were most certainly not human. I looked closer. There was one with a single eye in the middle of its forehead, and one had but a single leg, and hopped along on a small crutch fashioned of birch wood. One had deep wrinkles over its whole body, like an old, dried-up apple; and one seemed covered from head to toe in a gray-green, fuzzy moss.

You are—you are—I hesitated.

Go on. The owl-like creature nodded encouragingly. Who were the first folk in the land of Erin?

You were? I ventured.

There was an approving chorus of chuckles, murmurs, hoots and growls.

We are the Old Ones. It was the mossy, rock-like creature that spoke. Its form was solid, without discernible limbs, and yet it had a face of sorts: a crack of a mouth, and reddish lichen patches which might have been eyes. We are your ancestors.

What! I almost spoke aloud, so taken aback was I. You? How could that be?

There was a ripple of laughter around me. Sibeal did not stir.

Tour ancestors, and your cousin's. But she does not see us. What she sees is quite other. You seem shocked. The owl-creature fixed its large around eyes on me. You never asked the druid for the story, did you? What were you afraid of? The story tells of a union, long ago, between a man of the Gaels and one of our own. The line of Sevenwaters sprang from that coupling. And you are a child of Sevenwaters.

I don't think so. I frowned. I was not raised to love the forest, as these folk do. My path is different.

There was one creature here that seemed made of water; its form changed and flowed within itself as I watched, and through the shifting fluidity of its shape I could see the rocks and grasses beyond. Its form was not unlike that of a small child, with fronds of dark pond weed for hair.

They all come back. Its voice was like the babbling of a brook over smooth pebbles. The children come back to the forest. But it's not enough. Not anymore.

You have come back, said the owl-creature. You may wish to deny it, but you are one of us.

That's nonsense. They were trying to trick me. Trying to make me reveal my purpose here. I'm a mortal girl, that's all. I am fart Irish and part Briton. A mixture. I'm as far from you as—as—

As a stray dog is from the mysterious patterns of the stars? Wasn't that it? Ah, now I've made you angry. And I've proved my point.

What point? What do you mean?

See those little flames that flicker across the surface of your hair when you lose your temper? I don't know any mortal girls who can do that trick. Now listen. We know what you are.

Oh yes? The conversation was beginning to alarm me. I repressed the urge to use the craft. I would not reveal myself thus. And what is that?

The mossy one spoke again. As you said, a mixture. A very dangerous mixture. A blend of four races. Why did your father send you here? Why come now, at the very end of things?

These words chilled me. I must try to take control of the situation, as best I could.

Tell me, I said. The Fair Folk want a battle won, don't they? The Islands regained? Is that what you mean by the end of things? But they have great power already. Are not the Tuatha De gods and goddesses, able to change the patterns of wind and wave, able to strike down whole armies and to rout the strongest of opposition? Why don't they simply take the Islands back themselves? What is the need for human folk to die, generation on generation, in this long feud? This family has lost many sons. And what has it to do with such as you? With—lesser folk?

There was a humming and a whispering and a muttering all around the circle of strange small beings. Eyebrows twitched; tails swished; feathers were ruffled and noses wrinkled in derision.

Lesser folk? The mossy creature spoke in its deep, dry voice. They thought us lesser, when they banished us to the wells and the caves, and the depths of the sea; to the wild islands and the roots of the great oaks. But we remain, despite all. We remain and are wise. Times change, daughter. The order changes. It is thus with the Tuatha De. With the coming of the sons of Mil, their star began to wane. A measure was set on their days. Tour father and the archdruid are among the last of the wise ones in this land. Well may Conor mourn the loss of his aptest pupil, for there will not be another such, not in the time of any mortal man alive on this earth today, nor in the time of his children's children, nor of their children's children.

sets his hand to games of power and influence, he quests for far horizons and wealth beyond imagining. He thinks to own what cannot be possessed. He hews the ancient trees to broaden his grazing lands; he mines the deep caves and topples the standing stones. He embraces a new faith with fervor and, perhaps, with sincerity. But he grows ever further from the old things. He can no longer hear the heartbeat of the earth, his mother. He cannot smell the change in the air; he cannot see what lies beyond the veil of shadows. Even his new god is formed in his own image, for do they not call him the son of man? By his own choice he is cut adrift from the ancient cycles of sun and moon, the ordered passing of the seasons. And without him, the fair Folk dwindle and are nothing. They retreat and hide themselves, and are reduced to the clurichaun with his little ale jug; the brownie who steals the cow's milk at Samhain; the half-heard wailing of the banshee. They become no more than a memory in the mind of a frail old man; a talc told by a crazy old woman. We have seen this, Fainne. That time comes, and soon. Axes will be set to the great forest of Sevenwaters, until there is but a remnant of what was. An old oak here and there, hung with a wisp of goldenwood. One lovely birch by the water's edge, where once a family of clear-eyed children spoke their mother's name, and great Dana's name, in the one breath. The lake itself no more than a dried-up pond. There will be no refuge for them. And when they pass, so too does our own kind. We have seen this.

The calm, measured words chilled me to the marrow.

Can't this be stopped somehow? I asked.

We have seen it. It is what will be. In such a world there is no place for us. Around me, the creatures sighed as one.

Then why is it so important to win back the Islands? Surely it does not matter whether the prophecy is fulfilled. The mark of the raven, the chosen leader, and so on. You're saying it will all be lost anyway. The years of trust, the guard kept on the forest by the people of Sevenwaters, all for nothing?

Ah. That's just the point. All will be lost in time; the lake, the forest, druid and lord and Fair Folk alike. All that you see. It is the unseen that must endure. The seed that waits within the shriveled fruit of autumn; the jewel held safe within the silent stone. The secret hidden deep in the heart. The truth carried strong in the spirit. When the Islands themselves are no more than a memory for humankind, that kernel must survive. For this reason the battle must be won, the Islands reclaimed, before it is too late. All