Child of the Prophecy (85 page)

"Even now your sons make terms of peace." It was the flame-haired Lord who spoke, his voice as solemn and deep as thunder. "Even so easily is this settled, by one as wise and courageous as the child of the prophecy. For make no doubt of it, the young man too

has played his part here; without him the battle would not have been won, for it is he who gives your men the very heart that sustains them. Without him peace will not be made between Northwoods and Sevenwaters; between Harrowfield and its neighbor. Johnny is the child of our own making; his lineage of our devising." I heard a little cough behind me; the Old Ones appeared to have a somewhat different opinion on this issue, but they were not arguing the point. "The boy is a rare and shining example to you all. Follow him, and you may enjoy peace on both sides of the water. Follow him, and you may preserve both lands and forest, for a time. For a time." There was a deep sadness behind his stirring words.

"Come, Fainne."

I could no longer refuse to follow; it was indeed time. The warriors were dispersing fast; some, under Snake's orders, headed for the anchorage to load ships and make ready for departure. There were many men to carry away from the shore, and a miracle of organization would be required. But the men of Inis Eala were good at these things. By nightfall, all would be away safe. Green-clad warriors were lifting Eamonn's broken body; dealing with the spear. Men of Seven-waters were covering the ragged, peaceful form of Finbar with a white cloth which bore the symbol of two tores interlinked. Sean was looking over toward the guard post, for Edwin of Northwoods stood there waiting.

"Just a moment," I said to my Otherworld guides; for I thought, since this parting was forever, they could grant me a little time at least. I turned to my uncle, the lord of Sevenwaters.

"Tell the girls I won't forget them," I said as steadily as I could. "They taught me about family, and a lot of other things. I would like to be sure Eamonn is given a good farewell, with lights and music and honor, for though he made many errors, in the end he died bravely. And tell Maeve—tell her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

There was pain in Sean's eyes, but also a certain respect. He nodded, and kissed me on one cheek and then the other, but he said not a word.

"Goodbye, Uncle," I said to Conor.

"Goodbye, my dear." His expression was very grave. "This is a long farewell. I wish I could help you. You are so young, for such a trust. So young, with your whole life ahead of you."

"It doesn't seem to matter," I whispered, the tears beginning to flow again. "I may as well do this, since it is all I am fit for."

"All?" Conor echoed. "A great and wondrous all, I think."

He didn't understand. None of them understood the hollow emptiness inside. I turned to my father.

"Father?"

Ciaran looked down at me, his face very pale, his dark eyes still guarded, even now. "I have great faith in you, daughter," he said. "I always did. Great faith, and great pride. And I love you. Never forget that."

"Father, will you go back now? Home to Sevenwaters? They need you. Conor is old and tired. It is time for the ties of family to be remade, and for the wisdom of your own kind to be renewed in the forest. And there is a little girl there who might be a great mystic, if only you would teach her. I have done a lot of harm, Father, thinking only to protect those I loved. I wanted to keep you safe, and—and—"

My words trailed into silence.

"You have been very strong; strong enough for all of us, in the end. I will consider what you ask." He glanced at the white-shrouded form that lay on the ground near our feet. "Perhaps it is time at last for these wounds to be healed. Now goodbye, daughter." He bent to kiss me on the brow. "May the hand of the goddess rest gently on you; may the sun warm your days, and the moon light your dreams."

"Goodbye, Father. I'll hold you in my heart, always."

But it seemed to me, as the Fair Folk led me down to the shore where a long, dark boat lay on the pebbles waiting, that my heart was empty now, washed clean of all it had ever held, and that it could never be filled again. It did not seem to matter what was in store for me, how lonely and perilous the task. It did not seem to matter what I was leaving behind. They did not understand that. None of them understood. The Old Ones had been right. I had cast away my only treasure. I had not known how much I had to lose, until it was already gone. Now, by my own choice, I had lost everything.

The boat slid away from shore with never a sail or an oar in sight, with never a crewman to guide her on the perilous way to the Needle. Behind me on the shore the Fair Folk stood watching, grave and silent. I clutched Riona tightly in my arms as if I were a little child again, as the boat moved ever swifter away from the land.

"It wasn't fair," I whispered fiercely. "Darragh was so good, he never did anything wrong, and she killed him, and it was all because of me. And Finbar died because of me, because I made him come here. Nobody understands. Nobody knows. They expect me to feel like some sort of hero; as if I were full of a grand purpose. But there's nothing left in me but emptiness."

And it seemed to me I heard the small, silent voice of the doll as I looked into her dark, inscrutable eyes. I know, she said. I, whom Niamh made with her own two hands, stitch by stitch, thread by thread; I know what love is.

I looked back toward the shore, where Conor and my father now stood side by side, each raising a hand in salute and farewell. Their figures grew smaller and smaller, and at last could be seen no longer as the little boat surged forward, gripped by the current, dragged ever faster toward the treacherous rocks of the Needle. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to what would be.

The Fair Folk travel swifter than the west wind; more subtly than a shadow. They were waiting there, when the boat came through swirling waters to the Needle, and swept into a cavern under the rocks, and stopped abruptly beside a rough-hewn shelf. This formed a jetty of sorts, though what vessel other than a faery craft might make its way to such a strange anchorage, I could not imagine. The Lady of the Forest extended her hand again, helping me to scramble out, leading me up a set of impossible steps cut in the precipitous rock face. Who could live in such a place? The slightest wind might blow you down to the reefs below; and how could you survive? I saw myself wasting away to a lonely death on a diet of seaweed and the occasional shellfish prised from the rocks with bleeding fingers. A hermit's life. It was possible, of course. There was that place in Kerry, the Skelligs, and the Christian monks who had held on there through Viking invasions, through pillage and murder, through the storms of Mean Fomhair and the hard clutch of winter. Year after year they had clung to their pinnacle, its isolation strengthening their faith and sharpening their minds, the better to contemplate the mysteries. I did not understand the Christian way. My studies suggested to me it was somewhat lacking in respect for the things that are: for the power of earth and sun, the force of water and the purity of air. Those are the cornerstones of the old faith, for without them, without the knowledge of moon and stars, without the understanding of all existences, how could one make any sense of things at all? We are a part of those wonders, tied to them as a newborn child is tied to its mother; if we do not know them, we do not know ourselves. There are so many manifestations of beauty: swift deer and sleek salmon, delicate wren and mysterious starfish, strong oak and slender birch. And there are the things beyond the margin, which show themselves but rarely: the inscrutable, changeable beings of the Otherworld, who walk beside us through our short lives, unseen save when they choose, or when we ourselves learn to cross that divide. At Samhain we may see them, or in dreams and visions; but it is not as it once was, when the Old Ones walked the land, and the boundaries were scarce visible between the great things that are and those who are their guardians. As for the human folk, we are a small part in the long way of it, so small; yet each of us is precious, a jewel of great worth, and each of us is different. The Fair Folk might not see it that way, I supposed. They could not understand how the loss of a single human life could weigh so heavy, for their thoughts were on the grand scheme of things; my importance lay only in the part I would play for them.

We came to the top of the steps. I was breathless and dizzy, for I had eaten nothing since I left Inis Eala. Here the precipitous surface gave way to a small plateau, sheltered by a natural rock wall. There were rowan bushes growing, thick with both leaves and berries, though it was as yet barely spring. The wind did not batter this small place of shelter; indeed, there was a strange sense of calm about it, as if it were in some way isolated from the rest of the world, from storm and frost, from the passing of the seasons, perhaps even from time itself. In the center of the open space a spring welled up between flat stones, to pool in a basin of rock before it ran through a narrow channel to the edge, and tumbled away down to the sea far below. A little cup stood by the basin. Either someone lived here, or had done; or the place had been prepared for me.

"It is a long time," said the Lady of the Forest, "since man or woman dwelt in this place. There was a druid, once. It is a difficult calling; the Needle has been untenanted now since long before the memory of man or woman living, or their fathers, or their fathers' fathers. We came very close to losing all. Sevenwaters let the Islands go; the invaders hacked at the sacred trees and defiled the holy spring; they walked in the caves of truth. But they saw nothing. They understood nothing. The mysteries reveal themselves only to the few, only to those who understand the pattern."

"If that is so," I asked her, "why not just leave things as they are? Why should you need a weak human tool like myself, to stay here for you and watch over this place as a sort of—caretaker? Doesn't it look after itself? You could keep folk out by magic, couldn't you? Mists, storms, sea monsters? Why would you need the child of the prophecy?"

The fiery Lord appeared by her side. I had noticed a certain flamboyance in his style; he seemed given to sudden showers of sparks and colorful flashes of light.

"Ah," he said with a grim smile. "The explanation lies in the words themselves. A prophecy must be respected. One can help it along a little, but in the end it governs the falling out of things. We have known for a long time that our days were numbered; we have known this prophecy must be fulfilled if we were to have any chance of preserving what is precious to us all. Our age is drawing to its close at last. The Old Ones fared better for, weak, crippled breed though they are, they nonetheless possess the wisdom of the earth itself, the ability to blend and go unseen right in the midst of things, and to endure. The Tuatha De have different arts. Once we were great indeed, rulers of the realm of Erin, supreme and powerful. We did indeed shine bright; in us was the very embodiment of mystery and wonder, magic and enchantment. But the world changes. In this age of human kind, our places of refuge are few. The forest of Sevenwaters is one of the last; and while Lord Sean rules there, and after him the child, Johnny, we may walk beneath those oaks in safety. The archdruid is one of the true folk of Sevenwaters; he will keep the observances of the old faith, and inspire others. And Ciaran, too, will have his time and his influence, for all he is her son. The man is strong-hearted and has much to give. They will win a season, a year, a lifetime for the forest and its dwellers. But there will come a time, soon enough, when even that ancient wood will fall to the axe, to grant man his grazing land, his settlements, his towers and walls. He thinks, in his ignorance, to tame the very earth, to force the very ocean to his will. And so he will lay waste the body of the mother who gave him birth; and will not know what he does. The old ways will be forgotten, Fainne, no matter what we do. A new age begins; an age of darkness in which those who walk the earth are cut off from the very things which give them life."

"Without you, all will be lost." The being spoke who seemed made only of air and light; all I could see of him were his luminous eyes and the golden threads of his hair. "For while the mysteries remain alive in the heart of a single human creature, while the knowledge of our kind dwells there in safety, then we do not pass away forever, but simply wait, dreaming, until the time comes for renewal, for rebirth of the sacred trust, the understanding of the great circle of existence."

"You must keep these things alive, Fainne," said the watery being, whose long hair waved around her shoulders like delicate strands of pond weed. I thought I saw tiny, glittering fishes swimming there, darting in and out of the fronds. "This is the trust laid on you."

"But—" I began, one quite obvious question springing to my lips. "Come, let us show you."

The Lady of the Forest took my hand again and led me to the rock wall, and now I saw there was an opening there, a mere slit cunningly concealed, so one would think it no more than a slight irregularity of the surface, perhaps only a shadow.

"There's a great deal more here than meets the eye," she said gravely. "These portals are not easy to find; thus do we guard what little is left to us. Once within, you will discover this is a larger realm than you imagined."