Son of the Shadows (72 page)

"It requires great courage to interfere in the affairs of a man such as Rory. Big, strong, vicious, a man with a reputation. All feared him. Simon knew nothing of this at the time. Had he known, he might perhaps have taken some action to intervene. But he had his own problems. I feel the responsibility for this, Liadan, feel it as a heavy weight. That John's son was subjected to such cruelty so close to home, is unforgivable. And so, you see, your man was right when he blamed me. If he has become an outcast, he may well lay the responsibility at my feet. I could not have prevented his mother's death. But I could have protected him."

"The past cannot be rewritten, Father."

"That's true. But the future can be shaped—if he survives."

"He will survive. He need only recognize that once he was loved, that once he was the child of a man and woman of great integrity who would have given anything to see him grow up safe and happy and make something of his life. He need only see that, and he will be set free."

"I cannot believe that he has heard us."

"You will need to tell it to him again. You will need to tell him what this means to you. Perhaps he hears.

At least, our words fill the silence. What of the next part of the story?"

"Rory was killed. Nobody wept for him. All they wanted was the cottage, and the chickens. Did the boy kill him?"

"He administered punishment. Efficiently, as with everything he does. He waited until he was a man, and then he took control and walked away from the nightmare. But it was still there, seared like a brand on his spirit. Even now he carries it with him."

"A man? Was he not barely nine years old?"

I nodded. "Old enough to walk his own path. Why wasn't your brother able to find out what had become of him after that?"

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"He tried, but his resources were limited. Simon was beset with difficulties. Edwin had taken a firm grip on Northwoods by then, and the feud was alive again. My defection, as they saw it, certainly made it no easier for Harrowfield to remain neutral. And Simon was not trained to run the estate as I was. He had to learn quickly. Elaine helped him a great deal; she has more of a head for it than he ever will. But folk remember. I was not forgiven for what I did, and the demands on my brother were heavy. Even now, these long years later, his path is less than smooth."

"What do you mean?"

"He took the news of Sorcha's death very hard. Although he has a wife and his people's respect, his heart always belonged to your mother. The whole of that tale has never been told and never will be. I

thought him close to despair. He asked me to stay, but clearly that was not possible. I fear for him, Liadan. Harrowfield has no heirs, and Edwin of Northwoods watches closely."

"No heirs?"

"They have no sons. The closest of the blood are myself and Sean. And—this man." He glanced down at

Bran's hollow-cheeked face.

"Your words disturb me, Father. Would you go back? Would you lay claim to Harrowfield again?"

"My brother needs help. He needs someone with a strong hand and a clear head; someone who can reestablish his defenses, and make it plain to Northwoods that Harrowfield is not for the taking. Had

Liam lived, my path would have been plain. But I cannot leave Sean to deal with the affairs of Sevenwaters alone. He is young yet and overhasty, for all his strengths. In time he will be a fine and capable leader, but for now he needs my help to rebuild his alliances and establish his place.

We must start again with the Ui Neill. My first duty is with my son. Nor have I forgotten my daughters. I wish to see you safe and settled. And Niamh, I did not do well by her, and I must be sure her future is in good hands."

"But what of your brother? Might not Harrowfield be lost if you wait? If Edwin moved to grasp Simon's holdings, our campaign for the Islands would surely be doomed."

"Indeed. It is a dilemma, for it would be folly for me, or for Sean, to try to hold estates on both sides of the water. But there is another possibility." He was looking at the unconscious man again.

"Bran?" I whispered, shocked. "That's—it's unthinkable, surely."

"I would suspect," said Iubdan evenly, "that for a man such as this, nothing is unthinkable and nothing impossible. Isn't that what they say about him?"

"Yes, but—"

"This man is my kinsman's son; he was born in the valley. He is, to all accounts, both strong and resourceful, if somewhat misguided. It could be argued that Harrowfield is his destiny, Liadan, and yours."

"He has so much to come to terms with; he could not be faced with that, not yet."

"You think he would lack the courage to return there, to the place of his nightmare? That does not tally with the leader his men speak of with such respect, a man who rises to every challenge.

It does not tally with the love and loyalty you give him."

I swallowed. His words both terrified and enthralled me. This was a mission: a bright future. But first, the fetters of the past must be broken.

"Father," I said, "I need to be alone now, alone with Bran. Gull will find you a place to rest. Just tell me one more thing."

"What is it, Daughter?"

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"Tell me quickly, give me a picture of John and Margery, before these horrors overwhelmed them. How it was with them and their little son."

"John thought Margery the finest thing in the world. The most precious. Saw her on her father's farm, gathering honey. Brought her north with him. The love between them shone bright from the first. He was a man of few words; some called him taciturn. But you could see it in his eyes when he watched her. You could see it in the way they touched one another. She lost one child soon after birth, and they grieved together. Then Johnny was born, and lived. John was so proud. He was not ashamed to play with his small son, to throw him up in the air, and catch him in strong hands as the child squealed with excitement.

There was a fire in the house once, and I'll never forget John's expression as he raced upstairs to rescue

his son, nor the look in Margery's eyes as the two of them came out safe. Margery watched over the child and loved him. Folk said he was very quick to learn. Early to crawl, early to walk, early to form words. Margery was teaching him to count. She'd put a row of white stones out on the floor and play a little game: one, two, three. There was never a child raised with such love, Liadan."

"Thank you, Father," I said. "It is these things, perhaps, that have guided him through the shadows thus far. Tonight, I will tell him this. Now you should go."

"This man is indeed fortunate, as I was," said my father quietly. "To gain the love of such a woman is a priceless gift. I hope he understands its value."

II

"We have both received such a gift, he and I," I said.

"I've one more small tale to tell, and then I will do as you bid. There was something Margery said, something she told me before I left Harrow-field. Her son was born on Midwinter Day, just before dawn. I have good cause to remember that. She said, a child born at midwinter comes into the world on the shortest day of the year. From that point on, the days stretch out.

And so a child born at midwinter walks always toward the light, all his life. The child was there, in her arms, when she told me this.

Remember that, Johnny, she said to him. Sorcha, also, was a midwinter child, and for her this small prophecy was surely true. But it seems this man has forgotten and seeks out only the darkness."

"It seems so. That is the surface. Deep inside, there is a small light that still burns. Tonight I will find it."

"You are very certain."

"Third rule of combat. Never doubt yourself. Now be off with you, for time runs short."

"Liadan."

"What is it?"

"You make this seem so simple."

"The world is simple, I think, in its essence: Life, death, love, hate. Desire, fulfillment. Magic.

That, perhaps, is the only complicated part."

He frowned. "You seek to heal his wounds, to reach him, and somehow change his vision of the past.

That is dangerous, Liadan. Besides, did you not say yourself, the past cannot be rewritten?"

"I know the dangers. I am armed against them. Armed with love, Father. I do not seek to make these wounds vanish as if they had never been. I know he will always bear the scars. I cannot make his path grow broad and straight. It will always twist and turn and offer new difficulties.

But I can take his hand and walk by his side."

Gull had put out the fire and quenched his lantern. I suspected both he and my father stood
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guard not far off in the blackness. Shivering in the autumn air, I took off my boots, gown, shift, smallclothes. Then I

slipped under the blankets and lay down next to Bran. On his other side, Johnny slept on, a small, warm presence tucked close to his father. The darkness was profound, blotting out all signs, all landmarks. Up, down, left, right, all were gone. You could not tell if the walls were out there or right beside you, shutting you in tight.

Closer

, breathed the ancient voices.

Closer

. So I entwined my body with Bran's, flesh on naked flesh, and I clasped my arms tight around him. I could feel his heart beating against mine; my breath kept pace with his own.

That's better

, the voices seemed to murmur.

Stay dose. Don't let go. Tonight there is no light but you

.

And this time I heard him straightaway, almost as if he had been waiting for me.

. . .

dark . . . too dark . . . one, two, three . . . too dark . .

.

Tonight is dark of the moon. There have been such nights before. This one is different. I am here with you.

. . . too dark . . . can't. . . too long. . .

She said she would come back for you, but she couldn't come back, Johnny. She couldn't come, though she wanted to more than anything. I have come for you instead. Did you ever ask why didn't she come?

His heart began to race, and I stroked his skin with the tips of my fingers and willed us both to stay calm.

His mind was full of images of darkness: hurt, pain, pictures half complete, distorted, jumbled together;

knife, blood, screams, hands letting go. Death. Loss. . . .

she never came back . . . she never came . .

.

She loved you. She gave her life so that you would be safe. She did not abandon you, Johnny.

. . .gutter scum . . . slattern's mongrel. . . my own mother didn't want me . . . scarce fit for the midden . . .

Those are lies. Let me show you. Take me back, Bran. Take me back before.

There is no before. She left me. Be very quiet, Johnny. . . quiet as a little mouse, sweetheart, no matter what you hear . . . wait for me ... I will come back for you as soon as I can . . . her hands, pushing me down, down where it's dark. Her hands letting go. Shutting the door. She never came back. That is all there is. There is nothing else.

Ah, but I have come for you. She could not, but she loved you and wished you safe. Take my hand, Bran. I'm very close. Stretch out your hand to me.

Outside the shelter, around the pool, the trees rustled, but there was no wind.

. . .

it's dark. I can't see you . .

.

Take me back before. Do it, Bran, do it.

I told you, there is nothing before that. Her hands, letting go . . . nothing more.

Who taught you to count, one, two, three, all the way to ten'? A clever child. A child like your
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own son, eager for knowledge, thirsty for adventure. Who set out the white stones for you and taught you numbers'?

. . . one, two, three, four . . . her fingers pointing, her nails scrubbed clean, her hands small and fine . . . I reach ten, and she claps her hands. I look up, pleased with myself, and she's smiling.

Her hair is like sunshine; her eyes full of brightness. Good, Johnny, good. What a clever boy!

Shall we do it again? Let's put our little pigs in two rows; that's right. Now the farmer's going to count them, half to go to market, half to fatten up for the winter. How many in this row . . . one, two,

three . . . but she went away . . . she let me go . . .

She would never have left you willingly. She hid you, and then she gave her life for you. Didn't you hear the story my father told'? Tour mother was the bravest of women. She wanted a life of joy and purpose for her small, midwinter son; she wished him to walk ever toward the light. As for your father, his pride in you shone from his face as he held you high in his strong hands. . .

you're going up, up into the sky . . .going up so high, knowing those hands will always catch you.

... I

cannot

... I...

Always, he would catch you. Every time. His eyes were as gray and steady as your own, and as true. Go back, Johnny. Go back before.

Up, up, and down. Up, up and down. Flying up in the sky. Falling into his hands. He smiles.

Curling hair, weathered face. Eyes alight with pride. I shriek with excitement. No more, son, he grins. You'll wear me out. One last time, up, up and down. Then arms around me, warm, strong.

I

put my head on his shoulder, thumb in mouth. Good. Safe.

I felt a drop of water on my face, warm in the chill of the night. But it was not I who was weeping. I

dared not lift my head to look. I dared not move away from where I lay pressed close against him, lest I

destroy something as fragile as a single filament of cobweb. I drew a deep breath and felt the weight of utter exhaustion descend on me, near overwhelming. Around us the whole grove was stirring, foliage rustling, twigs cracking, water rippling; the very stones seemed to cry out in the blackness of the night.

"Help me," I whispered into the dark. And I hummed a little of the old tune, just the refrain with its small arch of melody. The strange wind gusted over the top of the barrow, releasing a powerful voice, a deep sound that lay on the margins of hearing, a cry older than the oldest memory of humankind. Ringing from the great mound, sounding from the depths of the earth, vibrating forth from the standing stones, a call that could not be ignored.