Child of the Prophecy (39 page)

It was a very small sound that caught my attention, a rhythmic gasping, ah—ah—ah, under the breath. I paused outside the doorway to a darkened chamber.

I should have moved on straight away, when I saw them. But I found I could not. I stood fixed to the spot, staring. The faint light from the hall candles revealed them dimly. I recognized the woman. She worked in the kitchens, Mhairi was her name, a comely enough creature if a little slatternly, with a generous figure and fine dark eyes. She had her back to the wall, and her legs apart, and her skirt up around her waist, and Eamonn was doing to her what he had been unable to do to me, up by the waterfall. The effects of my spell had been short-lived. He was not embracing the woman; he had his two hands flat against the wall, on either side of her head, and he was scarce looking at her as he thrust and thrust with a grim-faced determination that I thought was not far from anger. Mhairi did not seem unwilling; it was her little cries I had heard, and in the shadows of the room I could see her eyes half-closed, her face flushed, her lips parted. I could not make my legs move to carry me away from where I had no business to linger. The pace of their movement increased, and Mhairi gave a shuddering moan, and then Eamonn cried out and pushed inside her one last time, and I backed away on silent feet, and fled to the relative safety of the kitchen, my cheeks hot with embarrassment and shame.

My dreams did nothing to dispel my feelings of unease and self-disgust, and in the morning I found I simply could not go out and about my daily business as if nothing at all had happened. Back in Kerry, if we were feeling out of sorts, there had been a simple solution. Father would either lock himself in the workroom to wrestle with his problems in his own way, or go walking out in the wind and sea spray, with only Fiacha for company. If it was summer I would find Darragh, and recite to him my tale of woe, or sit beside him in silence while the world came slowly back to rights. In winter I would meditate: I would fix my thoughts on a single phrase of the lore, or a fragment of verse, and let the rest drop away. In Kerry there was the time and space for such things. Here it was different. The girls were always about, and eager for my company. And Eamonn was here, Eamonn who had made it clear we had unfinished business. I could not face that, not yet. There were folk everywhere. There was no place for stillness.

My head was full of unwelcome thoughts. My mind was so jumbled it was no wonder I could not see my path ahead. Already winter was upon us, and I had achieved nothing, beyond a descent into confusion and self-doubt. For that I could thank the creatures who called themselves the Old Ones. I did not want to believe what they had told me, about the battle and what it might mean. I did not want to confront that. But I must. A serving woman brought warm water for washing, and I told her I was indisposed. I wished to spend the whole day alone in my chamber, I said. No, I did not require food and drink, beyond the jug of water I had already fetched. I had logs for my fire. She was to make sure everybody knew I was not to be disturbed. Everybody. I would be fine, as long as no one came to bother me.

Then I bolted the door and made up the fire, and settled cross-legged before it, with a folded blanket between me and the stone floor. It would be a long day, and my self-discipline had weakened somewhat since Kerry. Father always said cold was a state of mind. One must learn to deal with the way it made the body shiver and tremble and long for woollen blankets and mulled wine. One must learn to put that aside. I had sat from dawn to dusk under the standing stones, or on the ledges of the Honeycomb. But today I needed my blanket and my little fire. I was slipping. I was letting the ways of these folk get under my skin and change me.

Time passed. I started with the lore, because that came almost without thinking. Its flow carried me along, to a certain point. I fixed on fire; I thought of it in all its forms, and I began to go deeper into my trance, the breathing slower, the body bathed in light, the mind beginning to release itself, just on the edge . . . and there was a polite knock on the door.

"Fainne? Fainne!"

It was Deirdre. I was far distant now, and heard her voice as if through a barrier, from the bottom of a well. I ignored it, holding onto my stillness with all my will.

"Fainne!"

"Maybe she's asleep." That was Eilis.

"It's the middle of the day. She can't be asleep."

"Better leave her alone." Clodagh's voice, the voice of common sense. "They did say—"

"Yes, but-"

"Deirdre. They did say don't disturb her for anything. Not for anything."

"Yes, but-"

Their voices faded. But they had disturbed me. I found I could not return to my trance, and I felt sick, as one does when torn too abruptly from that other state of consciousness. Now that the words had intruded, they were followed by thoughts and feelings, and my mind was retelling me the events of yesterday and of last night, and failing to make any sense of it. All right, Eamonn had wanted a woman, and when I had thwarted him with my little spell, he had gone elsewhere. That was logical enough. Why should I object to the discovery that one was as good as another? Why should I care that he had only asked me here because he thought I would be easy prey, poor, innocent, adoring thing that I seemed? I could not have it both ways. I would not play Grandmother's game with him. I had already decided that, before ever we rode out together. So why did it matter that he had thought me so cheap, and had so easily satisfied himself with a substitute? What had I believed, that he genuinely thought me beautiful? That I might prove to be the cure for all his problems? Perhaps that he would consider making me his wife?

You're nothing, I said to myself. It's Liadan he wants. To him, all other women are the same. All you were to him was another virgin for the taking. You're nothing. Beneath notice. What man would love a girl like you? Best stick to what you're good at.

I stared across the room at the cobwebs around the doorway. The big spider in the corner was poised above the main web, dark and still, waiting. I focused on her. She shivered and trembled, and there on the stone wall was a tiny, jewel-colored creature that was partway between a bee and a bird, clinging to the ungiving surface with little, claw-like feet. It looked quite uncomfortable there, as if it would sooner have been in some rainbow grove wreathed in exotic flowers. I willed the spider back in her place, and watched her scuttle away into hiding, doubtless somewhat shaken.

I got up, the ability to be still quite gone for now, and poured myself a cup of water. As I bent over, jug in hand, something fell into the cup with a little plop. It was the bronze amulet from around my neck, the one Grandmother had given me. Wear this always. Never take it off, you understand? It will protect you. I fished it out of the cup

and dried it on my skirt. The cord on which it had been strung was frayed through. I would have to find another. For now, I placed the small token carefully in the wooden chest I had brought with me from Sevenwaters, down at the bottom where it would be safe. One of the girls would have a bit of cord or ribbon which I could use.

Perhaps the water had settled me. I felt clearer in the head. And the sun was coming through the clouds, outside my window. The room seemed lighter. I stretched, and went back to my place before the fire. I folded my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. This time, I would use the eye of the mind to picture my most secret place, the place of my heart. A little cave, almost underground, but not quite. The light a soft blue-gray, as if light and shadow were one in this small, mysterious space. The only sound the gentle washing of wavelets on a pure sandy beach not two strides long. A place where earth and sea and sky most wondrously and sweetly met and touched. My mind was quiet. My heart was steady. A kind of peace touched my spirit. Subtly, I began to move into that realm beyond thought, which is the realm of light.

Some time later there was a tapping at the door, and voices again.

"Fainne! Are you awake?"

Clodagh, this time. She had changed her mind about disturbing me, then. But her words passed me without meaning. I remained still; I was too far away to be called back so easily.

"Fainne!" The tone was insistent. And then there was another voice, a man's.

"I thought you were told to leave your cousin alone to rest today."

"Yes, Uncle, but-"

"Didn't your mother teach you to obey instructions?"

A short silence. "Yes, Uncle Eamonn."

"She would not be pleased, then, that you have chosen to disregard them now you are away from home."

"Yes, but-"

"You heard me, Clodagh. Your cousin is tired, unwell perhaps. We should respect her wishes. I brought her here to rest, not to be constantly bothered. Now find something useful to do with yourself. All of you."

There was a mutinous sort of pause. Then three, or maybe four, small voices muttered, "Yes, Uncle Eamonn," and footsteps retreated, and there was silence. All of this I heard, yet remained still in my secret place, my safe haven. Somewhere, deep in my mind, the thought came to me, It's time I took them home. Home to Sevenwaters. Home to the forest.

By dusk I had completed my meditation, and come slowly back to here and now. I felt weary, but different. I felt I might sleep, and not dream evil dreams. My mind was calm. After fasting and silence, my body seemed somehow cleaner. I was a little closer to myself, the self of Kerry, the girl who had in recent times seemed almost lost to me. Perhaps, after all, she had been there all the time, that girl who could make decisions and see ahead, and know when to start and when to stop. Perhaps I had only needed silence to find her.

I would not go down to supper. I wanted to hold on to this feeling. I wanted to let it strengthen in me, so I would have the courage to face it all again. Especially, so that I could go to Eamonn, and thank him politely for his hospitality, and tell him I wanted to take the girls home, straight away. There was nothing to be negotiated between us, I would say. It was over before it ever happened. A mistake on both our parts. A misunderstanding.

I went to lie on my bed with a blanket over me, and I rehearsed this speech in my mind. It would be important to get it right. Eamonn was a powerful man for all his shortcomings, and I did not wish to offend him. But we must leave. It was clear to me now. I simply did not have it in me to do what Grandmother wanted. I was not what she thought me to be. I could not be like her. Even if she did as she threatened, and hurt my father, I still did not think I could do it. If the Old Ones were right, this was not just about the winning or losing of a battle. It went far beyond that. It was about the difference between a future, or no future at all. Surely such momentous events must unfold regardless of anything I might do. I was going to have to tell my grandmother this. I was going to have to refuse to do her will, and live with the consequences. Maybe I would ask Conor for advice. Maybe I would tell him the truth, and throw myself on his mercy.

I was feeling drowsy. The fire glowed gold, the candle was steady on its shelf. The folk of the household would be sitting down to supper, the children in their own quarters, perhaps squabbling over whether they should have woken me or not, for whatever trivial rea-

son it had been. The men and women in the warmth of the kitchen. The lord of the tuath alone at his fine table. I willed myself not to feel sorry for him. His loneliness was of his own making. It was his choice.

Warm and relaxed, I hovered on the verge of sleep. I wondered what the girls had wanted. They had not come back after Eamonn ordered them away. Probably some little drama, a cut finger or a lost kitten. There were plenty of folk to help them. I did not understand why they always came to me. Now I would sleep, and I would dream good dreams, of the sea and the sky, of old friends and times of innocence. In the morning I would start anew, as bravely as I could.

"Fainne."

At first I refused to believe it. I squeezed my eyes tight shut, as if to deny the familiar voice I heard right there beside my bed in the firelight.

"Fainne! Get up!"

She was there. Not just her image in the glowing coals, not just the subtle whisper of her voice inside my mind, but my grandmother herself, here with me, inside my darkened and bolted chamber. Cold with shock, I turned my head and let my eyes verify what my quaking heart already knew for truth. There she stood, not two paces from me, in her old woman form, wild hair, tattered garments, claw-like fingers, baleful stare. Her voice was vibrant with anger.