Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) (9 page)

After yet another fruitless day, I arrived home to find a rough-looking man had arrived. He had a thick, black beard and scars on his knuckles. His name was Bran and he was passing through, he said, on his way to visit his sister who lived several days' walk south. Papa invited him to stay the night with us for it was mid afternoon and he would not reach the next estate before dark.

We gathered around the table that evening and Bran ate heartily. The soup was thick and nutritious, full of herbs and vegetables. Last summer had been good to us and this winter there was plenty to go around, even so close to spring. In other years our supplies had been lean by this time and we had made do with thin soups and flat breads.

"What news have you?" Papa asked. "We've had no news from further afield than Maker's Well through most of the winter."

"Disturbing reports, my lord." Bran tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in his soup. His full black beard sopped up almost as much as the bread did. "Murder and mayhem. Violence and destruction."
 

Papa's face was grave. "Perhaps then your news is not such as one should share at the dinner table."

Bran nodded and slurped the last of his soup. Mother passed him a ladle and he eagerly helped himself to more.
 

Once everyone had eaten their fill, we moved into the living room. A fire blazed in the hearth and the room was already pleasantly warm. Mother produced a large jug of sweet, spiced wine. I claimed a padded chair which was situated just within reach of the fire's warmth. Mug in hand, I stared into the flames, trying not to see the fiery raven lurking in its midst.
 

Once we were all settled, Papa turned to Bran. "Would you care to share your news with us now? Here by the fireplace is a more suitable location for a tale of woe and injury."

Bran nodded and swallowed a large mouthful of wine. "This is very good, my lady," he said to Mother.

She smiled, pleased, and got up to refill his mug. "Tell us your news and I will ensure you do not go thirsty during its telling."

After another warm mouthful, Bran began. "I am from Badger's Crossing," he said. "It is more than a sevennight's walk from here. As I told you earlier, I travel to visit my sister, who I have not seen since she married three years ago. I do not bring good news for I must tell her of our mother's death. Badger's Crossing is, I believe, about the size of Maker's Well. The next town past us is Mapleton, a two day walk, and then there is Crow's Nest, which is the better part of a day further. It is from there I have heard disturbing reports.

"What I know is grim. A man passing through Badger's Crossing on his way from Crow's Nest told of a witch who holds the town in thrall. They do anything she says and seem desperate to please her. She is a beautiful woman, he says, one whom it would not be unusual to hear that a man slavishly obeys, but a whole town? It is more than passing strange.
 

"If she says kill your neighbour, they do it willingly. If she says take this child and leave it in the woods, they obey. To the child, she says, go, they will take you to the woods and the wild pigs will tear you to pieces and eat your body, and the child says yes, my lady."

I froze. Bran's words were familiar but I couldn't place them. Then I remembered. Hadn't I once told a tale in which Titania, queen of the fey, directed a woman to take a child to the woods and leave her there for the wild animals to eat? Coincidence of course but as I looked across the room, my eyes met Papa's. His face was pale and lined.
 

"What does she look like, this woman who wields such power?" Caedmon asked, his voice sceptical.
 

"The man I heard this from swore she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was entirely white, her eyes were blue, clear and cruel. Her skin was like snow and so fine it was almost translucent."

The spiced wine clung to my tongue, suddenly sour. White hair, blue eyes, pale skin. But Ida wasn't real. She was no more real than any other tale I had created. She was an image in my head, born of my desire to imagine my tales meant something. For if they were whispered to me by some Otherworldly muse, surely they were important.

But it seemed Ida was no longer in my head and neither were the tales she had whispered. It was a coincidence though. It had to be. Papa was no longer looking at me. In fact, it seemed all of my family were very carefully avoiding my eyes. But none of them knew about Ida.

Bran's words washed over me as he described how the witch played family against family, friend against neighbour, until nobody trusted anyone else. People had died, homes were lost, children disappeared and were never found. And yet still they did everything the witch told them to.

"Surely they do not have to do as she says?" Mother asked. She shuddered and pulled Eithne close to her.
 

Bran held out his mug to be refilled. "The way I heard it, they do not question. Everything she says, they rush to obey. It seems they no longer think for themselves."

"Where is Fiachra tonight?" Eremon asked. He sat beside Niamh, each with a child on their lap, their twin sons, heir and druid. "He could tell us whether this is possible."

Fiachra had a strange ability of disappearing quietly, unnoticed until someone asked for him. He did not appear at every meal and did not sleep in the bedchamber Mother had prepared for him. Where he went and what he did was a mystery.
 

"Fiachra has a higher master than family," Papa said and the shine in his eyes could have been either pride or sadness. "I'll speak to him when he returns. Mayhap he will have knowledge of similar circumstances."

As I looked at our family assembled around the hearth, a chill gripped me. Papa stood, leaning against the fireplace, grave and authoritative. Mother sat in her usual place, close by the fire. Her face was pale and concerned. Eithne sat nearby, her chair drawn up beside Mother's. Her face too was pale but her eyes glittered fever-bright.
 

Eremon, Niamh and their sons sat together on a bench. Caedmon was further back from the fire, Grainne nestled on his lap. Marrec and Conn lounged on benches at the back of the room, talking quietly between themselves. They were often like that: nearby but not quite a part of what happened. Sitric was in Maker's Well as usual. Fiachra might be anywhere.
 

These were the people I loved and they were all I loved in the world. What would I do if the witch came here? But Crow's Nest was a long way from Silver Downs. We were safe here from her reign of terror and death.

Long after the house became quiet, I was still sleepless. From my bed, I looked around my small chamber, lit by the fire flickering in the hearth. This room was so familiar, I barely noticed it anymore. The toys and games of my childhood had long been packed away and replaced by an assortment of interesting rocks, leaves and feathers I had collected on my rambles around the estate. The one toy still on display was a small wooden sword, made by Caedmon to suit my then-six-summers-old frame. It sat on the bench below the window, a reminder of long summer days traipsing the length and breadth of Silver Downs with Caedmon. My bedchamber contained little else. A narrow bed and a chest of drawers with washbowl and ewer. A thick rug and heavy curtains kept the cold at bay. The room smelled of home and warmth and comfort.

Comfort was something I sorely needed as I shivered under the covers while recalling Bran's words. Icy tendrils of horror crept through my limbs. Surely such a thing was not possible. I had not created this witch. I was just a bard, not a druid. I had no knowledge of magics or potions, spells or chants or charms. I couldn't even tell rosemary from lavender, let alone create some malignant evil with the power of words alone. But running through my mind was Papa's warning the night I proclaimed myself to be a bard. The night he told me I could bring my tales to life. I had laughed and we never again discussed the matter.
 

It was many hours before I slept. And when I did, I dreamed of a raven. It stood on the end of my bed and stared at me with glassy eyes as black-red blood dripped from its beak. Eventually it gave a single caw and left in a rush of ebony feathers, flinging bloody droplets over my face as it rose. It flew out through the open window. I tried to wipe the blood from my face before realising I was awake.
 

I shivered and huddled further down under the blankets. A biting breeze rustled my hair and I pulled the covers over my head. At length I realised there should be no wind, for the window had been latched and the drapes drawn when I went to sleep. But now the window was wide open and the curtains billowed as another gust blew around the bedchamber. I got up and closed the window, ensuring it was securely locked. The latch must have worked itself free as I slept.
 

I stirred the fire and added more wood. Flames rippled as the fire leaped in the grate. It had been some time since I had dreamed of the raven. Several weeks at least. Usually, the dark bird appeared in my dreams every few nights. I had long wondered what it meant. It was clearly a symbol of something, but what? Death? In other circumstances, I might have thought it portended Eithne's death but with Fiachra's words still ringing in my head, I wondered whether the raven signified my own death.
 

A friend does not whisper
, Fiachra had said.
A friend will offer aid loudly and publicly
. What friend did he mean? I didn't really have any although with six brothers, a sister, and two nephews, I could always find company if I wanted it. Our family had its routines, with evenings spent around the fire, companionably exchanging tales, and I had never felt the need for more society than that. I knew boys my own age, of course. They were friendly enough and we would talk for a while when we met at various festivals, but I had always preferred solitude and silence and, in truth, was far happier spending my time roaming the estate and creating tales than making idle conversation with someone I only saw a few times a year.

I eventually returned to bed and sunlight peeked around the drapes by the time I next woke. The window was still closed and I felt a little foolish at the surge of relief that flooded my body. But as I rose, a chill colder than midwinter gripped me and my knees turned to water. For there, on the blanket, was a bright red drop of blood. Right where the dream raven had stood.

I eventually forced myself to move, to look away from the redness. Perhaps it wasn't really blood. It could have been there for days. If it
was
blood, then clearly I had cut myself at some stage and the blood had dropped, unnoticed, on my blanket. It didn't mean a raven had actually stood on my bed during the night. A raven whose beak dripped blood.

By midmorning I had almost convinced myself I had imagined the blood. It was a spot of dirt perhaps, maybe mud, but I had gotten confused and assumed it was something more than it was. I pushed the image to the back of my mind and tried to forget. By the time I thought to check the blanket again, a servant had replaced it with a clean one.

My mood lightened. I felt relaxed, carefree, almost happy. Perhaps I was finally emerging from the melancholy that had gripped me for years. It had been a long time since I had felt as free as I had of late. Not since the early days of my tenth year, the last summer before Caedmon left to be a soldier. How light and full of hope I had felt then. Every day had been long and sunny and full of adventure. Perhaps this was the start of my journey to regain that freedom.

Bran departed immediately after breakfast and for a day or two I almost forgot his news of the witch. But then Sitric returned home, bringing similar tales. And a friend of Grainne's father knew someone who lived in the town next to Crow's Nest and insisted the tales were true. From the family at Three Trees, we learnt the son of their cousin had beaten a man to death for no reason other than that the witch told him to. A chill ran through me with each new story. These were no longer tales from a stranger who may or may not be trying to impress his hosts, but news from people we knew, about people they knew.

The more we heard, the more my uneasiness grew. I could tell no one for the idea was laughable, this silly notion that it was all my fault. That the witch was really Ida, somehow brought to life and escaped from my head. Anyone who heard such a thing would surely think me a fool. What an imagination, they would say, even for a bard. Yet I could never quite forget the way Papa had sighed the night I told the tale of a bard who brought his imaginary muse to life.

Days passed and I was still unable to create a tale. Not even the tiniest spark of inspiration lingered within me. At night, I lay awake, hour after hour. If I slipped into sleep, my dreams were restless and filled with ravens who stared at me with blood dripping from their beaks. When morning came, I was tired and irritable and no closer to convincing myself that Ida was not the witch. I was merely a bard. And yet I was the seventh son of a seventh son.

On the eve of Caedmon's departure, the family gathered around the dinner table. My brothers joked and jostled with each other for space. Sitric travelled from Maker's Well and even Fiachra made a rare appearance for he still lingered at Silver Downs. Cook provided an outstanding feast: roasted wild boar, sweet and juicy and dripping with fat; winter root vegetables, drizzled with honey and baked until they were crispy and golden; thick slices of brown bread which we dipped in the rich meat juices; followed by pies filled with preserved blackberries. I ate until my stomach was ready to burst.

After the meal, we moved to our accustomed places by the living room hearth. Our fire tonight was small for the nights were finally warming. My mind was still occupied with the feast and with the lingering taste of tart blackberries on my tongue. I was caught off guard when Papa called for a tale.

"Something stirring, Diarmuid," were his instructions. "Something to put Caedmon in the right frame of mind as he leaves us tomorrow. Tonight we want heroes and courage, my boy."