Child of the Prophecy (88 page)

And together, the two of us began the long climb upward to warmth and shelter; to a life reborn. For it seemed his destiny was to be mine, and mine his, here in this place of the margins, this place where earth and fire, air and water so sweetly and mysteriously met and parted and met again in their eternal dance.

Epilogue

In the years after the great battle for the
Islands, many tales grew up about the events that took place and their aftermath. For a time something resembling the truth was told; a tale that might be called history. This tale told how Sean of Sevenwaters defeated the Britons, with the help of his allies, and the leadership of the young man Johnny, a warrior of near-supernatural powers. Such was this victory, that Northwoods renounced his claim to the disputed territory forever. Yet in a way Edwin did not lose. New alliances were formed between old enemies. In time, the daughter of Northwoods wed the heir to Harrowfield, and so, ironically, by making peace at last these two great estates of
Northumbria achieved exactly what that villain Richard of Northwoods had once desired: a strong, united holding in the
north west
of
Britain. There was an even stranger alliance, that between Northwoods and Sevenwaters, no less than a pledge of peace and goodwill between Briton and Irishman. That was Johnny's doing, and it led to long years of content and prosperity on both sides of the water. Nobody spoke much about the battle itself; all knew there were oddities about it, such as the use of ships suspiciously like those of the Finn-ghaill, and the intervention of some powerful strangers, and how it all hinged, in the end, on a sword fight between two men. Some folk said there had been a woman there, and some said an ogre or a faery; but most dismissed that as wild imagination.

As time passed the tales developed a life of their own. Fishermen, in particular, liked to exchange them on cold nights around the fire, their telling embroidered by the effects of a tankard or three of good ale. The funny thing was, everybody spoke of the
Islands, and how they were won back at last by great courage and skill. But when you asked someone where they were, nobody seemed quite able to say with any accuracy. Some said south of Man, but that couldn't be right, for they had all sailed there in their curraghs, and everyone knew there were no such islands there, only a bit of rock the sea washed over every high tide. Some said maybe north, but others argued the point. Wherever the
Islands had been, they were not there now; not so as you could find them, anyway.

But sometimes, they'd hear a tale from one fellow or another who thought he'd seen something, and when you put these tales together, there was a sort of story to it, a story so strange it was past believing; and yet they did believe it, almost. You'd be rowing along, and a mist would come down as sudden as if by magic, and when it parted for a moment, you could see a tall pillar of stone, like a tower built by giants, only this stood in the sea with the waves crashing in all around it. And sometimes you'd see folk there at night, sitting on the rocks by moonlight, or climbing up and down as if they were crabs, so nimbly did they move on the precipitous slopes. Little folk like children, with hair as red as the leaves of an autumn beech; and sometimes a man or a woman, but all you'd catch was a tiny glimpse of them before the mist closed in and hid them once more. One fellow had seen lights, right on the very top, and another swore he spotted a creature with a feather cloak and scarlet shoes; but the others told him he was letting his imagination get away from him. Another had told how there were many selkies there, all around the rocks on the south side; and a woman sitting by the water, singing. A mermaid, he thought it was. Nonsense, said the others. But still they told the tales.

The stories make me laugh. I watch the ways of men in my mirror of clear water, and as the years pass I see our tale twisted into a strange distorted reflection of itself, evolving into something more acceptable to folk, without the blood and loss, without the cruelty, the terrible errors and the waste, and I smile and let it pass me by. I hear my daughter recite the lore, and praise her efforts, Well done, Niamh, but

not too much, or she will have nothing to strive for. I give her time for play, with her father and small brother. They laugh and sing and tell tales as they sit in the sun under the rowans. They make whistles of whalebone, and invent new names for fish and bird and scuttling rock creature. They see no strangeness in Fomhoire folk.

Danny may choose to leave us when he is grown; but we think he will stay. He has two homes here, the sea and the land, and he revels in the freedom of one and welcomes the warmth of the other. Our daughter's path is more difficult. For her, perhaps the Fair Folk will indeed shipwreck a likely voyager, a man of courage and vision to be drawn through the mists to this hidden place, and captured by love.

It will be a long time. It will be after my time, and my daughter's, and her daughter's as well. We will see terrible things in the caves of truth; we will see the rape of the earth, the fouling of the oceans, the burning of the great forests. We will see man's cruelty and his greed, and the loss of the old faith save in the hearts of a dwindling few. But the time will come. It must; have not the Fair Folk said so themselves? Wisdom will prevail at last, when the world is all but lost; and man will find his bond with the earth, his mother, once more. This is a great and solemn trust, and we will fulfill it faithfully.

I learned many things on my journey to the Needle. I learned about loyalty and courage and forgiveness. I learned that love is the cruellest thing, and the kindest. I learned that friends are found in the strangest of places, if you know how to look. My life here is rich beyond measure; the goddess was indeed kind. She granted me the wondrous gift of a second chance; and I will not fail her.