Son of the Shadows (5 page)

On the night of Imbolc, however, it was not one of our household who told the tale. My mother was asked for a story, but she excused herself.

"With such a learned company in our midst," she said sweetly, "I must decline for tonight.

Conor, we know the talent of your kind for such a task. Perhaps you will favor us with a tale for Brighid's day?"

I thought, looking at her, that she still seemed weary, with a trace of shadow around the luminous green eyes. She was always pale, but tonight her skin had a transparency that made me uneasy. She sat on a bench beside Iubdan, and her small hand was swallowed up by his large one.

His other arm was around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. The words came to me again, Let them keep this

, and I

flinched. I told myself sternly to stop this foolishness. What did I think I was, a seer? More likely just a girl with a fit of the vapors.

"Thank you," said Conor gravely, but he did not rise to his feet. Instead, he looked across the hall and gave the smallest of nods. And so it was the young druid, the one who had borne the torch the night before to rekindle our hearth fires, who stepped forward and readied himself to entertain us. He was, indeed, a well-made young fellow, quite tall and very straight backed with the discipline of his kind, his curling hair not the fiery red of my father's and Niamh's but a deeper shade, the color at the heart of a winter sunset. And his eyes were dark, the dark of ripe mulberries, and hard to read. There was a little cleft in his chin, and he had a pair of wicked dimples when he allowed them to show. Just as well, I

thought, that this is one of the brotherhood. If not, half the young girls of Sevenwaters would be fighting over him. I dare say he'd enjoy that.

"What better tale for Imbolc," began the young druid, "than that of Aengus Og and the fair Caer Ibormeith? A tale of love, and mystery, and transformation. By your leave, I will tell this tale tonight."

I had expected he might be nervous, but his voice was strong and confident. I supposed it came from years and years of privation and study. It takes a long time to learn what a druid must learn, and there are no books to help you. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Liam looking at Sorcha, a small frown on his face and a question in his eyes. She gave a little nod as if to say, never mind, let him go on. For this tale was one we did not tell here at Sevenwaters. It cut altogether too close to the bone. I imagined this young man knew little of our history, or he
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would never have chosen it. Conor, surely, could not have been aware of his intention, or he would tactfully have suggested a different story. But Conor was sitting quietly near his sister, apparently unperturbed.

"Even a son of the Tuatha De Danann," began the young man, "can fall sick for love. So it was with

Aengus. Young, strong, handsome, a warrior of some repute; one would not have thought him so easily unmanned. But one afternoon, out hunting for deer, he was overtaken suddenly by a deep weariness and stretched himself out to sleep on the grass in the shade spread by a grove of yew trees. He slept straightaway, and in his sleep he dreamed. Oh, how he dreamed. In his dream, there she was: a woman so beautiful she outshone the stars in the sky, a woman to tear your heart in pieces. He saw her walking barefoot by a remote shore, tall and straight, her breasts white as moonlight on snow where they swelled around above the dark folds of her gown, her hair like light on beech leaves in autumn, the bright red-gold of burnished copper. He saw the way she moved, the sweet allure of her body; and when he woke, he knew that he must have her or he would surely die."

This had, I thought, far too much of a personal touch. But when I looked around me, as the storyteller drew breath, it seemed only I had noticed the form of his words. I and one other; Sean stood by Aisling near the window, and they seemed to be listening as attentively as I, but I knew their thoughts were on each other, every scrap of awareness fixed on the way his hand lay casually at her waist, the way her fingers gently touched his sleeve. Iubdan was watching the young druid, but his gaze was abstracted; my mother had rested her head against his shoulder, and her eyes were closed. Conor looked serene; Liam remote. The rest of the household listened politely. Only Niamh sat mesmerized on the edge of her seat, a deep blush on her cheeks and her lovely blue eyes alight with fascination. He meant it for her, there was no doubt of it; was I the only other who could see this? It was almost as if he had the power to command our reactions with his words.

"Aengus suffered thus for a year and a day," the youth went on. "Every night in visions she would appear to him, sometimes close to his bedside, her fair body clothed in sheerest white, so close it seemed he could touch her with his hand. He fancied, when she bent over him, he felt the light touch of her long hair against his bare body. But when he reached out, lo! she was gone in an instant. He was eaten up with longing for her so that he fell into a fever, and his father, the Dagda, feared for his life, or at least for his sanity. Who was she? Was the maiden real or some creature summoned up from the depths of Aengus's spirit, never to be possessed in life?

"Aengus was dying; his body was burning up, his heart beat like a battle drum, his eyes were hot with fever. And so the Dagda solicited the help of the king of Munster. They sought to the east, and they sought to the west, and along all the highways and byways of Erin; and at length they learned the maiden's name. It was Caer Ibormeith, Yewberry, and she was the daughter of Eathal, a lord of the

Tuatha De, who dwelt in an Otherworld place in the province of Connacht.

"When they told Aengus this news, he rose up from his sickbed and went forth to find her. He made the long journey to the place called Mouth of the Dragon, the lake on whose remote shores he had first glimpsed his beloved. He waited there three days and three nights, taking neither food nor drink, and at length she came, walking along the sand barefoot as he had seen her in his vision, her long hair whipped around her by the wind over the lake, like coils of living fire. His desire threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to approach her politely and introduced himself as steadily as he could.

"The maiden, Caer Ibormeith, wore around her neck a collar of silver, and now he saw that a chain linked her to another maiden, and another, and all along the shore thrice fifty young women walked, each joined to the next by chains of wrought silver. But when Aengus asked
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Caer to be his, when he pleaded his longing for her, she slipped away as silently as she had appeared, and her maidens with her. And of them all, she was the tallest and the most lovely. She was indeed the woman of his heart."

He paused, but not a glance did he make in Niamh's direction, where she sat like some beautiful statue, her intense blue eyes full of wonderment. I had never seen her sit still so long.

"After this, the Dagda went to Caer's father where he dwelt in Connacht and demanded the truth. How could his son, Aengus, win this woman, for without her he would surely be unable to live? How might so strange a creature be had? Eathal was unwilling to cooperate; eventually, pressure was applied that he could not resist. The fair Caer, said her father, chose to spend every other year as a swan. From

Samhain she would resume her birdlike guise; and on the day she changed, Aengus must take her to him, for that was the time she was most vulnerable. But he must be ready, warned Eathal.

Winning her would not be without a cost.

"It came to pass as Eathal had said. On Samhain Eve, Aengus traveled back to the Dragon's Mouth, and there on the shore were thrice fifty beautiful swans, each with a collar of beaten silver. Thrice fifty and one, for he knew the swan with the proudest plumage, and the longest, most graceful neck, was his lovely

Caer Ibormeith. Aengus went up to her, and fell on his knees before her, and she laid her neck across his shoulder and raised her wide wings. At that moment he felt himself changing. A thrill went through his body, from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head, from his smallest finger to his beating heart; and then he saw his skin change and shimmer and his arms sprout forth snowy plumes, and his vision became clear and far seeing, and he knew he, too, was a swan.

"They flew three times around the lake, singing in their joy, and so sweet was that song that it lulled all for many leagues around into a peaceful sleep. After that, Caer Ibormeith returned home with Aengus, and whether they went in the form of man and woman, or of two swans, the stories do not make plain. But they do say, if on Samhain Eve you travel close to Loch Beal Dragan and stand very still on the shore at dusk, you will hear the sound of their voices calling out in the darkness over the lake. Once you have heard that song, you will never forget it. Not in all your living days."

The silence that followed was a sign of respect accorded only to the best storytellers. He had indeed told his tale with skill; almost as well as one of our own family might have done. I did not look at Niamh; I

hoped her red cheeks would not draw undue attention. At length it was my mother who spoke.

"Come forward, young man," she said softly, and she stood up, but her hand was still in my father's. The young druid stepped forward, somewhat paler in the face than before. Perhaps, for all his seeming confidence, this had been an ordeal for him. He was young enough, scarce twenty, I'd have thought.

"You tell your tale with spirit and imagination. Thank you for entertaining us so well tonight."

She smiled at him kindly, but I noticed the grip she kept on Iubdan's fingers behind her back, as if to steady herself.

The young man bowed his head briefly. "Thank you, my lady. Praise such as this, coming from a storyteller of your reputation, I value highly. I owe my skills to the best of teachers." He glanced at

Conor.

"What is your name, son?" This was Liam, from across the room where he sat among his men.

The boy turned.

"Ciaran, my lord."

Liam nodded. "You are welcome in my house, Ciaran, whenever my brother chooses to bring you here.

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We value our tales and our music, which once were all but lost from these halls. Welcome, indeed, all of the brotherhood and sisterhood who grace our fireside on Brighid's night. Now, who will play harp or flute or sing us a fine song of battles won and lost?"

My uncle was, I thought, deliberately moving them onto safer territory, like the master tactician he was.

The young man, Ciaran, melted back into the group of gray-robed figures seated quietly together in a corner; and with the passing around of mead jugs and the striking up of pipes and flute, the evening went on in perfect harmony.

After a while I told myself I was being foolish. An overactive imagination, that was all it was. It was natural for Niamh to flirt; she did it without thinking. There was no real intention in it. There she was now, laughing and joking with a couple of Liam's young warriors. As for the tale, it was not uncommon to base a description of a hero, or a lady, on someone you knew. A boy brought up in the sacred groves, far from the halls of lord and chieftain, might have precious little to go on when required to speak of a peerless beauty. Not surprising, then, that he fixed on the lovely daughter of the house as his model.

Harmless. I was stupid. The druids would go back to their forest, and Eamonn would return, and he would marry Niamh, and all would be as it should be. As it must be. I'd almost convinced myself, as it drew onto midnight and we made ready to retire to bed. Almost. As I reached the foot of the stairs, candle in hand, I happened to glance across the room, and met the steady gaze of my Uncle Conor. He

was standing still amid a bustle of people who talked, and laughed, and lit candles from the lamp there, so still he could have been made of stone, but for his eyes.

Remember, Liadan. It unfolds as it must. Follow your path with courage. That is all any of us can do.

But

—

but

—

He had moved away already, and I could no longer touch his thoughts. But I saw Sean turn his head sharply toward me, feeling my confusion without understanding it. It was too much.

Nameless feelings of ill; sudden bouts of shivering; cryptic warnings of the mind. I wanted my quiet room, and a drink of water, and a good night's sleep. Simple, safe things. I gripped my candleholder, picked up my skirts, and went upstairs to bed.

It's quite tricky making a tincture of celandine. The method is simple enough; it's getting the quantities just right that's the problem. My mother showed me how to do it both ways, with fresh leaves and dry, her small, capable hands grinding the dried leaves with mortar and pestle while I shredded the newly gathered ones, placing them in a shallow bowl, covering them barely with a little of the precious brew that was the same Conor had used to bring down the blessing of Brighid on our fields this growing season. I

followed her instructions, glad I was not one of those who suffered a painful swelling of the skin when working with this particular herb. My mother's hands were smooth and pale, for all her daily labors in the still-room, and delicately made. The only adornment she wore was the ring her husband had crafted for her many long years ago. Today she was clad in an ancient gown that had once been blue, and her long hair was tied back with a plain strip of linen. This gown, this ring, these hands each had their own tale;

and my mind was on them as I prepared my own bowl of steeping herbs.

"Good," said Mother, watching me. "I want you to learn this well and be able to apply it with other materials as aptly. This tincture will ease most maladies of the stomach, but it is strong.

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Use it on your patient but once, or you may do more harm than good. Now lay the muslin cloth over your bowl and put it away carefully. That's it. One and twenty nights let it rest, and then strain it and store it in the dark, corked tight. Such a tincture will keep well for many moons.