Child of the Prophecy (66 page)

I could do, and whatever stood in my way I was going to do it. I would make my father proud of me, despite all.

I ran on. Under the spring moon the landscape took on a silver shine, glittering rocks, pearly sand, gleaming bushes as if I fled through some realm beyond the mortal one. And there were strange sounds: above the roaring of the ocean came low, sad cries, like those of some great creature of the deep, mournfully singing of something lost, some treasure never to be regained. There was an anguish in it, a sorrow that was beyond comforting.

I ran as far as I could go, all the way to the rocky headland at the north of the island. I never looked behind me for folk following with lanterns or torches. What would they care if I fell off a cliff and broke my neck? Why would they bother if I blundered into the sea and let the inky waters swallow me? They would think themselves well rid of me. Darragh was wrong about family, and Liadan was wrong about love. Both brought nothing but unnecessary complications. I was better off with neither.

Now I was at the rock face, and there was an entrance, a little tunnel with a sandy floor, perhaps leading to a place of shelter, and it was quite like home. Still panting hard, with my hair tumbled over my eyes and both hands stretched out in front of me to find the way, I stepped inside. I thought I would go in far enough to be out of the wind, and then I would curl myself up into a ball, and shut my eyes tight, and pretend, until morning, that there was nobody else in the world. No Coll, no Liadan, no Johnny, no Darragh. Especially, no Grandmother. I would lie down on the sand and will them all away until the sun rose. Then I would get up and go back, and be strong again.

I edged forward in the dark, fingers touching the rock walls on either side, feet moving cautiously. I made no sound. Some way in, the tunnel seemed to open out; I could see little, but there was a movement of air and a sense of space, and a little ripple of water winch was not the sea. I glimpsed something white ahead of me amid the shadows, like a fold of cloth, or a swathe of feathers. I reached out my hand in front of me and instead of hard rock or empty space, my fingers touched something that was soft and warm and unmistakably alive. I gave a yelp of fright, stepped back, trod on my gown and sat down painfully on the ground. There was an answering exclamation

of alarm in the darkness, and a sound of soft footsteps retreating. I sat there, working on my breathing. In, out. Calm. Discipline. Some way off light flared, and then there was the steady glow of a lantern coming closer. I got slowly to my feet, staring at the man who bore it, and blinking in disbelief. He stared back at me. No doubt the expression of shock on his pale features mirrored my own. But it was not the sudden fright of the encounter that made my heart thump now. It was not the similarity this man bore to my uncle Sean, and to Liadan, with his long pale face and shock of wild dark hair, his slender, upright form and neat, clever features. Nor was it his ragged robe, his tattered cloak, his unshod feet that shocked me. It was the wing he bore in place of his left arm; a great shining thing, a gleaming swath of gold and pink and cream in the lantern light. My grandmother had said, You'll need to watch out for that fellow with the swan's wing.

"You ran away," the man observed as he stood there looking at me.

"Who are you?" I managed, still somewhat short of breath. His voice was very odd; unaccented, but still with the hesitancy of one who speaks a tongue not his own.

"It seems my tale has not yet spread as far as Kerry," he observed dryly. "Come. You've run a long way. You'll want to rest, and maybe drink something. I don't have a fire here, but I can provide fresh water and a place to sit in comfort. I hope you didn't hurt yourself."

"It's not those sort of hurts that are the problem," I said grimly, following him as he walked ahead into the cave. There seemed no alternative, really. I could hardly sit down and refuse to budge.

We reached a place where there were rock shelves against the cavern walls, and a still pool gleaming before us. Above it the chamber was open to the sky; in the dark waters stars gleamed remote and mysterious. The man set his lantern down and fetched a little cup of dark metal. He bent and filled it from the pool, and I heard him mutter words, familiar words. He passed me the cup with his right hand. I was trying not to stare at the feathers, only part-concealed by the ancient, raggedy cloak.

'Thank you," I said, and drank, feeling the cold and purity of his offering flow into my being. My breathing slowed; I became calm. "You honor the earth as you take from her," I observed.

"I am no druid, child. My mother taught us early to respect that which gives us life. It is a lesson one does not forget."

"Us?" I delved into my memory. I knew the story, of course; but even though it was so close to home, perhaps I had not quite believed it. I should have done. This creature, part man, part swan, was of my grandmother's making. "You, and Conor, and your other brothers, you mean?"

He inclined his head. "And my sister. Why have you come here?"

"By accident. I did not know there was anyone here. They never told me. I wanted—I just wanted a hiding place. Just for a bit."

"You have found one, then. Won't they come looking for you?"

"They don't care," I said miserably, so enmeshed in my woes I hardly thought how odd it was to be speaking thus to a stranger. "They said I did something bad, and I didn't, but they wouldn't believe me. Nobody cares where I am."

"Still," said the ragged man, "we'd best perhaps let them know. Then you can stay here undisturbed until you have regained yourself."

"Let them know?" I stared at him blankly. "How?" And then I saw his eyes; deep, colorless eyes like light on still water, eyes that were the image of my cousin Sibeal's. There was no need for him to answer.

For a time I sat there on the rocks, and sipped the water, and watched the shadows dance and sway around the cavern in the lantern light. The pool was very still now; the faint rippling I had heard before was quite gone. It was a place of great calm; of immense silence. It was like the little cave below the Honeycomb; a place of the margins. I breathed slower still; the throbbing in my head subsided.

'This is a place where secrets are safe," said the man in a soft voice. "It is protected by forces older and stronger than time. I am surprised they did not send you to me earlier, for I see you are deeply troubled."

"What are you offering? Good advice? A brisk talking to? I've a friend who's all too ready to offer both, and won't understand I don't need them. I go my own way. Why should I tell you anything?"

He waited before replying.

"I do not offer advice. Sometimes I see things, and sometimes I speak of them. Sometimes I have visitors, and they talk to me. Liadan's sons come here. She herself does not need to come."

"Because you talk mind to mind?"

"You do not share that gift? That surprises me."

I frowned. "Why would it surprise you? You seem to know who I am. Doesn't the Sight come from your Fomhoire ancestry? My mother had no such gifts, and even my father has not that particular ability. Our skill is limited; it was decreed thus by the Tuatha De, long ago."

He raised his brows. "Who told you that story?"

I did not answer.

"Secrets are safe here. All secrets. You were not told of me. So we scared one another. My name is Finbar."

"Mine is Fainne," I said stiffly. "How can it be safe? Nowhere is safe. Not while—"

"Not while you wear what you wear around your neck?"

I realized that, in my headlong flight, the amulet on its strange cord had broken from its concealment and now lay fully visible against the bodice of my gown. I put my hand up in a futile effort to hide it. The metal was quite cold.

"A powerful charm," Finbar observed. "If you have withstood its influence thus far, you are indeed your father's daughter. I recognize this cord on which it hangs."

"You do?" The man was full of surprises.

"Oh, yes. It was your mother's, made for her by Liadan when Niamh was sent away. She who gave you this amulet most certainly did not give you the cord."

"No. I restrung it. And it seemed to me . . ."

"Ah, yes." Finbar nodded. 'The one counteracts the other, as far as it can. You must thank the strong women of our family for this token of kinship, for it weaves a powerful protective spell, Fainne. Not a spell of sorcery, but something simpler and purer. Liadan worked into it the very fiber of all who dwelt at Sevenwaters. She tried to keep Niamh as safe as she could. Your mother was much loved, though you may doubt that."

I stared at him, unable to find words.

'That is an amulet of malign and potent influence," he said gravely. "But here in this place it cannot perform the task it was designed for. Why don't you take it off?"

I turned chill with fear. "No!" I whispered. "No! I cannot do that! We must not even speak of such things, lest—"

"Lest she hear us? Look around you, Fainne. Liadan tells me your

father raised you in a knowledge of the druid lore; an understanding of the pattern of all existences. Look around you with the eye of the spirit. This place is safe. Here, all secrets are guarded."

I could scarce bring myself to consider it might be true. He had terrified me by suggesting I might remove the amulet, here, with Darragh so close; didn't he know Grandmother would come after me as soon as I slipped the cord over my neck? I stared into the dark pool, silent.

"You fear to speak. Indeed, there is a great burden on you, one too heavy to bear; and yet you bear it stoically, Fainne. This strength you owe to your father's teaching, I think. You need not speak; if you wish, simply remain here silent and rest until the morning. You have no reason to trust me. I understand that. Perhaps it will help if I tell you I know what it is to be alone; to be shut off from everyone else in the world, so there is not a soul who understands your dilemma; not a single friend to help you. When you are thus isolated it takes great strength to carry on. There were times when I would have given up. I had such hopes; such great and stirring dreams, before the lady Oonagh came and I was changed forever. I wanted to make the world right. I wanted to make tyrants just and miscreants honest. I wanted to put an end to cruelty and oppression. Those were the dreams of a boy your age, Fainne. Before I was twenty, the fire of those dreams was turned to cold ashes, and I became what you see before you: a thing neither man nor beast, a creature of the margins, with no place in the world of affairs. But I am still here. I did not take the way of the small, sharp knife, or the high cliff and the flight to oblivion."

"Why? Why not do so? Have you remained here because you seek vengeance for what she did to you?" His words both shocked and fascinated me, and I forgot to be cautious.

"Vengeance?" He spoke the word as if he had forgotten what it meant. "I had not thought of that. If we had not the strength to act against her then, myself and Conor and all the others together, then we would hardly possess it now. It has been a long time. No doubt the sorceress has regained and reinforced those powers that were undone by my sister. I would not dare confront her. I could not face that a second time, and lose myself again."

His pale face was calm, but there was a deep fear behind the words which I recognized, for I had felt it myself, looking into my grandmother's mulberry eyes.

I nodded. "Then why have you carried on?" I asked him. "Why not end it, as you said?"

"I would not take that path while my sister lived. To throw away the life she won for us would have been to spurn her sacrifice and her love. And after that, there was Johnny."

"Johnny?" I was taken aback. "What has he to do with this?"

Finbar smiled. It seemed to me this was something he did so seldom he had almost forgotten the way of it; like speaking aloud. "He is the child of the prophecy, isn't he? Such a one cannot grow up unguided. It is not simply the strengths of the body that he needs to develop. I have helped him all I can; though I fear not enough. Conor might have done more. Liadan made a safe place for me here. I cannot live as men do. I—I am not quite as I once was. You may know, as Ciaran's daughter, how the mind of a wild creature differs from that of a man. I do not know how far your father's teaching took you— ?"

"I have experienced what you mention," I said tightly. "I know what you mean. There are—instincts, which call strongly. It can be difficult to disregard those, and keep a sense of oneself."

"You do know. Then you may begin to understand how it is for me. Since that time, since the sorceress changed us, I have kept within me a little of both, man and swan. I am never quite free of those fears: the frost, the hunter, the snapping jaws of the hound. That is why I live here and do not visit the settlement. Liadan has been wise, and treated me with kindness. You seem doubtful, child. Your aunt will learn in time what stuff you are made of."