Son of the Shadows (24 page)

This was greeted with a frosty silence. I began to regret my words, true as they were. When he spoke again his tone had changed. Now it was constrained, almost awkward.

"I hope you will take heed. You should not trust this man Eamonn. Take him as your husband, your lover, and he'll suck you dry. Don't throw your self away on him. I know his kind. Such a man will give you the fair words you want; he will lull you into believing hi him. Such a man knows only how to take."

I gaped at him. "I cannot believe this! You, giving me advice on how to live my life? Besides, did I ever say I wanted fair words?"

"All women want to be nattered," he said dismissively.

"Not true. All I have ever wanted is honesty. Words of affection, words of—of love, such sweet words are meaningless if spoken merely to gain an end. I would know, if a man lied to me on such a matter."

"You have much experience in these things, I suppose." There was no way to tell if he were serious or not, save that I believed him incapable of humor.

"I would know. In my heart, I would know."

A day arrived when Evan could no longer keep anything at all in his stomach. His throat was cruelly swollen, his fever replaced by a hollow-cheeked lethargy that spelled the end for him.

Without my herbal infusions his pain must have been acute; but he had already moved one foot onto the final path, and being a strong man, he suffered without complaint. There was no easy sleep, made deeper by expert assistance, from which to drift peacefully on into the next world.

Not for him. He knew it was time and faced it open-eyed.

The day wore on slowly to afternoon, and it seemed to me the cool, dry air inside the old enclosure was full of subtle whisperings and rustlings, as if some ancient forces beckoned the smith away.

"Tell me straight," Evan said. "It's the end for me, isn't it?"

I was sitting on the ground by him, holding his hand. "The goddess calls you. It may be your time to move on. You bear it bravely."

"Been good. Been a good lass. Did your best."

"I tried. I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

"Oh, no. No, don't weep for me, lass . . ." His breath rattled. "Dry those tears. You've got time ahead of you. Don't waste your sorrow on a plain man like me."

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That only made the tears flow faster, not just for the loss of a good man, but for my mother who was on the same path, and for poor Niamh who had been denied her heart's desire, and for the world that made it necessary for men to waste their best years living a life of flight and concealment and killing. I wept because I did not know how to put it right. Evan was quiet for a long time. Later he began to talk of his woman, Biddy. Couple of boys, she had, another man's children. Fine lads, the pair of 'em. Their father had been a nasty piece of work, used to beat her black and blue. Hard life, she'd had. Well, the fellow had died. Best not to tell exactly how. And she was his now, waiting for him to give all this up and come back to her. They'd move on someplace, him and Biddy and the lads, set up a little forge in a village, perhaps in foreign parts.

There was always work for a skilled man, and Biddy, she'd turn her hand to anything. He'd teach the lads the trade, give 'em a future. Once or twice he spoke as if it were Biddy there holding his hand, and I nodded and smiled back at him.

There was a chance, later, to ask him that question, and I took it.

"Evan, I must speak to you plain, while you can understand me."

"What is it, lass?"

"There isn't a lot of time left. We both know that. You're in pain, and it will get worse. I was—I was going to offer you a very strong sleeping draft, one that would see you through to the end.

But you wouldn't be able to take it, not now. If you want—if you want to shorten this, I could ask Bran ... I could ask the chief to ... to. .. ." I found, after all, that these words were beyond me.

". . . know what I want. Call the chief in, tell you both . . . save the breath."

So I had to go outside and fetch Bran, after scrubbing my face with my hand in an attempt to erase the tears. He was not far away, leaning his back against the stone wall of the ancient barrow, staring far off into the distance, apparently deep in thought. His mouth was set in a grim line.

"Could—could you come inside, please?"

He started as if I had struck him, then followed me without a word.

"Got a couple of things to ask. Sit down, Chief. Not much breath left. Got to talk quiet."

"I'm here. We're both here."

"Know what she asked me?" There was a tiny, rattling ghost of a chuckle.

"I can't imagine."

"Said would I like you to finish me off? Seeing as she can't do it herself. Would you believe that?

What a girl."

I

They were both looking at me, their expressions identical. Sweet Brighid, why couldn't I stop these tears from flowing?

"Don't want that. Glad of the offer though. Never easy. Want—want to be outside. Under the stars. Little fire. Smell of pine cones burning, feel the night breeze on my face. Drop of strong drink, maybe, to keep the chill out. Tell a story. A good long one. That's what I want."

"I should think we can manage that." But it was at me Bran was looking, and there was that expression again, less fleeting this time. The gray eyes clear and true, the eyes of a trustworthy man. The mouth softened by concern and by something else. I sensed this unmasked Bran was infinitely more dangerous to me than the Painted Man could ever be.

"One more thing," whispered Evan. "Chief, about my woman. Gull knows where my stuff's hidden. Need to look after her and the lads. Been saving. Should be plenty. Gull knows where she is."

Bran nodded soberly. "Have no concerns on that score. I will make sure they are protected, and provided for. There are plans in place."

A faint grin lightened the smith's gaunt, gray features, and he was looking at me. "Good man, the chief,"

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he murmured.

"I know," I said.

Bran carried the smith outside with little apparent effort, despite Evan's far greater height and weight. I

fetched blankets, water, cloths. It was dusk at last, after an endless day. There was time to settle Evan, propped half sitting against the rocks, his body wrapped as warmly as possible. We chose a spot where he was well sheltered but still able to feel the movement in the night air. There was a scent of rain; I

hoped it would not come down before morning. Bran made a small fire, bordered by flat stones from the stream, and then he disappeared. Evan was silent now. The short move had taken most of his remaining strength.

I wondered what sort of tale was right for a dying man's last night in this world. A long one, he'd said, long enough. I sat with my hands around my knees, staring into the flames of the small fire.

A tale with hope in it. A tale I could get through without weeping. Bran came back as silently as he had left, holding something in the front of his shirt. He spilled the load on the ground. Pine cones. I collected one or two and tossed them on the fire, with a silent word to the goddess. It was a smell that held the promise of high mountains, of snow, and great birds circling in a pale sky.

"Chief." The voice was thready.

"I'm here." Bran settled on the smith's other side. This placed him somewhat closer to me than the three or four paces demanded by the code.

"The lass. Give me your promise. She's to go safe home when this is finished. Promise, Chief."

Bran did not reply. He was staring into the fire.

"I mean it, lad." Faint as it was, the smith's voice demanded an answer.

"I wonder what value can be placed on the promise of a man such as myself. But I will give you my word, Smith."

"Good. Tell the tale now, lass."

So while he sat there quietly, I began. I wove into this story as much wonder and magic and enchantment as I could. But I did not forget the ordinary things, the things that are wonderful in themselves, without being in any way unusual. The hero of this tale fell in love and married and held his firstborn son. He knew the friendship and loyalty of comrades in arms. He journeyed through far-off lands and mysterious seas, and he experienced the joy of homecoming. Mostly I looked at the flames as I talked, but sometimes I watched Evan's blunt, honest features and his wide-open eyes gazing up at the stars. Once or twice Bran took out the silver flask and put a little of its contents on his fingertip then touched it to the smith's lips. But after a while, he stoppered the flask and returned it to his pocket; and then he just sat there listening. The tale went on. Some of the adventures I borrowed, and some I made up as I went along. The waxing moon rose and spread a faint light over us, and still I talked steadily on. The breeze came up, with a scent of the sea in it, and the night became chill. Bran got up and fetched his coat.

"Here," he said diffidently, and dropped it neatly around my shoulders. Another time, he brought me a cup of water. It was a long, long tale. I could have done with Sean or Niamh or Conor to help me with it, but there was nobody. Careful, I must not begin to weep again. The stars were like bright jewels on a cloak of deepest velvet. But you could never sew a cloak so wondrously lovely.

"There came a time," I said at last, "when the goddess called Eoghan back to her. For it was the appointed day for him to move on, to let his spirit free from this life and send it forth into the next. When she calls you, there is no refusing. Still, Eoghan thought of his wife and his son who was still half grown,

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and he sat by the carven stones where he had heard this call and asked himself how could he leave them?

How would they manage without him? Who would chop the wood for his wife? Who would teach his son to hunt? Then the goddess sent her wisdom deep into his heart, and he understood.

Your wife will grieve for you, but her love will keep her strong. She will sew her love into every stitch of the gowns she makes (for his wife was a seamstress). Your son will learn his father's true self as he practices the craft you taught him. In time, he too will be a man, and he will love and be happy and take forward in his life the questing heart, the eager will he learned at your knee, when you told of your adventures. In time, your spirit will be with them again, perhaps in a great, spreading tree that shades the place where your grandchildren play. Maybe in a wide-winged eagle soaring aloft, watching as your dear one spreads her linen on the hawthorns to dry and looks suddenly to the sky, shading her eyes against the sunlight. You will be there, and they will know. I am not cruel. I take, and I give."

My fingers moved to Evan's wrist, feeling for the spot where the blood pulsed under the skin.

"He still breathes," said Bran softly. "But barely. I don't know if he can hear you."

A long tale, Evan had said; that meant I had to keep going. Not much longer. My whole body felt stiff and wretched; I was so tired I suspected I was talking nonsense.

"That same day Eoghan's son had been out checking on the sheep, and he chanced to come home by the carven stones, for he liked to trace the strange shapes on them with his finger. A long spiral, a chain of many curious links, a grinning wolfhound, a small cryptic face. But when he came to the place, there was his father, lying at peace on the earth with his eyes open to the sky. The boy was not yet twelve years old, but he was his father's son. So he crossed Eoghan's hands on his breast, and closed the sightless eyes, and he ran to the village and fetched two men and a board. Only then did he go in quietly and break the news to his mother. And it was as the goddess had spoken. They grieved, but they went on and built their lives. Eoghan's love had made them strong. It had wrapped them like a shining cloak to keep their hearts warm and their minds clear, and his passing only made it stronger. It remained also in the spirits of his true friends, who honored his memory in their brave deeds and their bold journeys of discovery.

Eoghan had moved on, through the Otherworld realms to his next life. But what he had done, and who he had been, that remained bright and true for many a year after his passing. Such is the legacy of a good man."

There was a rattling, rasping sound as Evan drew in a breath, and a spasm went through his body. Bran put an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him slightly.

"Turn him this way," I said. "Face the west." It was time. My tale had lasted just long enough. I stood up, looking into the star-washed sky.

"Manannan mac Lir, son of the sea!" I called with the last strength of my voice. "Take this man on his journey! He has worked long and hard and is ready to depart. Let him set sail now on his voyage, with favorable winds and fair seas." I raised my arms, stretching them out toward the west. A cloud moved across the moon, and the leaves stirred around us. I thought, as the gust of wind passed across the opening on top of the barrow, there was a faint, deep vibration, almost too low to hear, like the note of some giant instrument, like the ancient voice of the earth itself.

My hands made a sign of protection in the darkness.

Dana watch over us. The goddess guide our step

.

Beside me, Bran was lowering the smith back to the blanket. I had no need to ask, it was over.

Today was over. I would not think about tomorrow. My back ached, and my head was stuffy with unshed tears;

and I was so weary I did not think I could move from where I stood, still gazing westward but seeing nothing. What I needed was impossible. At home there would have been someone near to put loving arms around me, to say, all right, Liadan, it's finished now. You've done well. Cry if
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you want to. Here

there was nobody, only him. And that was unthinkable.

I forced myself to move. Evan lay tranquil, arms by his sides, his eyes closed. Perhaps the spirit was not quite fled, but it would be gone by dawn. I knelt by him and bent to brush my lips against his, to touch his cheek and marvel at the deep expression of peace that now spread across his exhausted face.

"Farewell," I whispered. "You died bravely, as you lived. Rest now."