‘Had you been present that day, what course of action would you have suggested, as a wise woman?’
Ah. This was not difficult. ‘I’d have said, consult the oldest person in the neighbourhood. Ask that person if they can remember a story about this kind of creature, something they heard from their grandmother or grandfather. Search in that story for clues. The lore holds all the wisdom we need; it’s just a matter of looking.’ And it came to me that I had done this myself, not so very long ago. That crone whose deathbed I had attended – she’d spoken of a wise woman named Holly, and Dreamer’s Pool, and pigs. A shiver passed through me. The lore holds all the wisdom we need. Had Grim and I been looking for solutions in the wrong place?
‘A good answer,’ said Lady Sochla. The little dog, absent during supper, had come back in; she had it on her knee.
‘Indeed, and I thank you for it, Mistress Blackthorn. Of course, they had already consulted their own wise woman, who had advised them against killing the creature. But although she was wise, she was not the oldest among them. That honour went to an ancient man who once, many years ago, had caught a gigantic salmon and let it go again. He’d sworn at the time that the fish had whispered a secret in his ear, but he’d never said what it was.
‘This old fellow lived on a rocky promontory up above the creature’s cave, in a hut he’d built himself, carrying stones from the fields. He was gnarled and crabbed, shrivelled and bowed, and over the years his life had become as solitary as the creature’s, since any time folk went up to check how he was faring, he’d greet them with a snarl or a curse. A lad took fish up each morning so the old fellow wouldn’t starve, and that lad learned so many oaths he could have used a different one every day, if his mother had let him.’
Some laughter at this. A pity Grim had left the hall straight after supper; he’d have liked the story.
‘The folk of the settlement discussed who would go up and ask the old fellow about the creature,’ Master Oisin went on, ‘and the wise woman was chosen. She took a flask of mead, a loaf of bread, a basket of pears and a fillet of fresh codfish, as well as a warm woollen blanket and a pair of boots. The lad carried this offering for her as far as the stone wall that marked off the old man’s land, and she took it the rest of the way on her own. Although it was daytime, she could hear the creature crying in the cave down below. It was a sound fit to freeze your heart, such was the sorrow in it.
‘It took a while for her to be let in the door, and even longer to get the old man talking, but a wise woman is nothing if not determined,’ – here, Master Oisin cast a glance at me – ‘and it did help that she offered to cook the fish for him right away, though that proved a challenge, since the hearth was cold and the only cook pot thick with grime. And if she used an uncanny trick or two to get the pot clean, and to bring in wood, and to start the fire burning, that was reasonable enough, since she was a wise woman, not a village wife. She bullied the old fellow into washing his face and changing his shirt, though the other one was as filthy as the first, then she sat him down with a platter of bread and fish and a cup of mead in front of him, and let him enjoy his meal in peace.
‘When he was done, she cut up a pear for him with her little knife, and set it out prettily on the platter, in the shape of a petalled flower. And she asked him if he knew any old stories that might shed light on the creature below, bellowing in its sadness.’
Master Oisin looked around the circle of listeners. All of us were rapt with attention. This time he did not pick me. ‘Prince Oran, although you are no druid, I know you are well versed in ancient tales. Have you a suggestion for me?’
Oran looked as startled as I had been when the druid had asked me for a contribution. But he gathered his composure quickly. ‘An existing tale, Master Oisin? Or may I devise one to suit?’
‘Devise all you wish, my lord. Is not a tale a living thing that grows and changes with every telling?’
The prince cleared his throat. This was a far more challenging task than mine. To come up with an appropriate story out of the blue before a waiting crowd required quick thinking. ‘The old man said, “I was telling tales before you were born, young woman. I was telling tales when I was two years old, and mighty fine ones they were, too.” ’
The crowd chuckled. It seemed Master Oisin was not the only one with a talent for storytelling.
‘ “But can you remember them?” challenged the wise woman.
‘The old fellow looked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “If I’ve a mind to. The time I caught the salmon and threw it back in. That’s a tale.”
‘It was indeed; all the folk of the settlement knew it, and the size of the salmon had grown a little with each telling. But every coastal village has its story of an unrivalled catch, be it the full net of herring or the one gigantic fish. The old man’s tale could surely have nothing to do with the sad creature in the cave.
‘On the other hand,’ Prince Oran went on, looking around his audience, ‘a wise woman’s instincts are usually sound. And this wise woman knew, in her heart, that if the old fisherman had brought up that story first, it was the one she needed. “I’d like to hear it,” she said.
‘ “What’ll you give me if I tell it?” said the old man, quick as a wink.
‘ “A hot dinner tomorrow, cooked by my own hand.” If he was quick, she was his match.
‘The old man laughed. The sound was like the creaking of a rusty old cartwheel. Then he told the tale of the mysterious salmon and of the magic pool where it swam. It was a creature of legend, so long had it been living there. Nobody had ever seen it, not properly; only the whisk of its graceful tail or the gleam of its great eyes from the shadows under the bank. The folk of that village – the place of the old man’s youth – gave the pool a wide berth, feeling the tinge of the uncanny on it. It was said the fey lived nearby, and the fey were not to be trusted.
‘By now the wise woman was fascinated,’ the prince continued. ‘In truth, she had thought the old fellow so hostile that even if he still had stories in his mind, he would refuse to tell them. This one, he both remembered and told well. “But you went to the pool,” she ventured.
‘ “Ah, well,” the ancient said, “I was young and foolish in those days. Took no heed of my elders and betters. Yes, I went there, every day I went, when I should by rights have been helping with the nets or digging the garden. Went and watched. Waited for that big old fish to come out and show himself.” ’
The shiver came again, a chill breath passing through me. This, like the tale mentioned by a dying woman, was a story about a creature. And a pool, a place of magic and mystery. I looked at Lady Flidais. She had seemed uncomfortable before. She was more so now, her hands clutched together on her lap, her gaze anywhere but on her betrothed as he told the story. I was not the only one watching her; the druid, too, had noticed her demeanour.
‘The old fellow had been patient; remarkably patient for a young lad, as he was then,’ said Prince Oran. ‘And after many turnings of the moon, as the trees around the mysterious pool grew to summer splendour, then to the golds and yellows of autumn, and then to the bare-branched austerity of winter, he found himself on the bank in a season of soft light and fresh new leaves, and at last he saw the great fish emerge from hiding to show itself beneath the water, graceful and strong, swift and beautiful. And, being a young lad, he baited a hook and dangled his line into the pool. To his amazement, in a trice the fish was caught and fighting hard.
‘It was only when he had hauled the monster out onto the bank, where it lay thrashing and gasping, that the young man heard its voice. For this, of course, was no ordinary fish. It was not only far bigger than others of its kind, but its home was a place of deep magic, and the creature possessed a wisdom far beyond the usual. “Spare me,” the fish pleaded, and the sound was the strangest thing the lad had ever heard, “and I will grant you a wish.” Not three wishes, you note, only the one; the
lad would have to think carefully.
‘Now that fish could have fed the entire village for a week or two, so this was not an easy choice. Not only that, but folk had been teasing the boy about the long days he’d been wasting up at the pool, for nobody had believed he would ever catch the thing. He’d have liked to carry it back and show them. Tell them, There, see? But he’d heard a few old tales of magic and mystery, and with the knife in his hand, ready to strike the blow that would end the creature’s life, he paused. “A wish? Why would I want a wish?”
‘ “Riches,” croaked the dying salmon. “A sweetheart. Admiration. Nobility. Happiness. A new cottage for your old mother. How would I know what you might want? I’m a fish.”
‘Something odd came over the lad then. For the rest of his life, he was never able to explain it. He saw how the bright eyes were fading, and the shining scales losing their lustre, and the gasps becoming more desperate. Then he eased the hook gently from the creature’s mouth. “Don’t bother about the wish,” he said, and with a certain amount of difficulty, since it was a very big fish and he was only an ordinary-sized lad, he threw the salmon back in the water, where it swam with surprising speed into the shadows and out of sight. Then he ran home with his story. And if there hadn’t happened to be a fellow taking his pigs into the wood that day to forage, who’d looked down between the trees at precisely the right moment and seen the whole thing unfold, nobody would ever have believed a word of it.’
There was a ripple of appreciation from the audience. Prince Oran glanced at the druid. ‘That was the tale the old man told the wise woman. And though she’d heard the story of the giant salmon before, more than once, she was surprised. This was the first time the old man had said anything about a wish.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Master Oisin said. ‘You have given us not only a fine story, but the clue to solving the dilemma of the sad creature in the cave. For the wise woman knew that a wish once offered, and refused with kindness for the right reasons, is a wish still waiting to be granted. She regarded the old fellow, and he looked back at her with his rheumy eyes. “That thing in the cave down below,” she said. “It needs your help. You’ve got a wish. Why not use it?”
‘ “To put the creature out of its misery?” the old man asked. “Are you saying that I spared that fish’s life as a young man so I can kill now? You want me to go to my deathbed with the weight of that on me?” ’
Don’t call on me to solve this for you, I willed the druid.
‘Lady Flidais,’ said Master Oisin, ‘how would you choose to end this tale?’
She started with some violence. Despite my dislike of the girl, for a moment I felt something akin to pity. ‘To tell you the truth, Master Oisin,’ she said, ‘I do not much care for the story; I do not really see the point of it. If you need so much help to tell it, why not choose another, one with which you are more familiar?’
Several people made to speak, the prince among them, but Master Oisin got in first. ‘Indeed, indeed, my lady.’ He sketched a little bow in Flidais’s direction and spread his hands out as if in apology. ‘Let me bring this tale swiftly to its conclusion.
“‘I am not sure exactly what you should do,” said the wise woman, “only that a wish is a chance, an opportunity, and now seems the right time to use it. Not to kill; a wish born out of a generous impulse should surely not be used in such a way. Use it to heal what is wounded. To mend what is broken.” And as she said this she looked not in the direction of the cave with its forlorn inhabitant but straight at the old man.
‘Worn and crooked and ill-tempered as he was, he was no fool. “Best on my own,” he growled. “Don’t need company. Can’t abide folk.”
‘ “Truly?” the wise woman asked. “For a solitary man, you tell a fine story. Shame if there’s nobody to listen. And it seems a waste for that lad who had the courage to go to the uncanny pool, and the patience to wait through the seasons, and the compassion to set the salmon free, to end up living on his own in a place like this, getting older and wearier every day, without even the will to scrub his own cook pot.”
‘ “Who cares about a cook pot?” the old man snarled, but the wise woman could see she’d got him thinking. “Anyway, that’s no selkie down there, to be turned into a beautiful girl as soon as a man makes a wish. It’s a grumly thing. A monster. And it can’t live on the land, not all the time. Nor in the sea.”
‘ “Men and women have it in them to be far more monstrous than this creature,” said the wise woman. “It’s lonely. Like you. As for the sea or the land, you’ll need to make your wish carefully. Now I’m off, since you don’t care for company. I’ll be back tomorrow with that hot dinner.”
‘But when she did come back, with a stew in a covered pot, she heard voices from inside the old man’s hut, so she left the pot on the doorstep and went away, not before noticing that there was a trail of watery slime stretching all the way from that very doorstep down to the cave, or as near as she could see. And there was a cloak dripping on the line outside the back door, a lovely thing that seemed fashioned of seaweed, in every shade of blue and green and brown a person could ever dream of and a few more besides.
‘There was no more moaning and crying from the cave. Not ever again. The folk of the settlement were wary for a while, knowing the old man had someone staying in his cottage with him, not sure exactly who or what that someone might be. But when, after quite a long time and a lot of dinners left on the doorstep, his guest allowed herself to be seen, she turned out to be nothing remarkable at all, only an old woman with raggedy white hair and steady eyes, who bade folk good day in a voice as soothing as the wash of wavelets on a summer shore. As for the old man, he stayed the same, bent and worn, crabbed and argumentative. Mostly. But he did open his door to some: the wise woman, the lad who used to bring fish, one or two others, and when supper was over he’d tell tales, and the old woman would sing songs, and those tales and those songs were the most wondrous and enchanting ever heard, from one end of Erin to the other. And that is the end of the story.’ The druid turned toward Lady Flidais. ‘As for the point of it, my lady, that’s likely to be different for every listener. But it is, in the end, both tale of magic and mystery and tale of transformation.’
Flidais seemed about to speak, but evidently thought better of it. She was looking pale and pinched, as if the headache had returned tenfold. Now, as various folk congratulated the druid and Prince Oran for the odd but satisfying story, the lady rose to her feet, swayed, then collapsed into a dead faint.
I reached her quickly and knelt by her side. Mhairi, on the other side, was rolling up a shawl to put under Flidais’s head, while Lady Sochla shooed people out of the way. And now Master Oisin was there, crouching down beside me, taking the lady’s wrist between his fingers.
‘She’ll be all right, it’s only a faint,’ I said. ‘Mhairi, did she take the draught I prepared for her? The one she sent Nuala to fetch?’
Mhairi scowled at me. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You are her maidservant. You must know.’
‘Yes, then. She took it because she was told to take it. And look at all the good it’s done.’
With admirable speed, Aedan organised a pair of men with a stretcher to carry the lady to the women’s quarters. It was notable that Prince Oran was not among those clustered around his unconscious betrothed. He came over belatedly, as the bearers were about to take her away, and regarded her with an expression that told me he thought she was pretending.
‘No need for concern, my lord,’ I said, wishing I could warn him to dissemble better. ‘The heat from the fire, the crowd . . . Lady Flidais should be herself again by morning.’ Hah! I could have expressed that better. ‘A good rest, a sleeping draught, that should be all she needs.’
‘I concur,’ said Master Oisin. ‘The lady is exhausted. We should leave her to Mistress Blackthorn’s excellent care.’
&nbs
p; ‘Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn,’ said the prince. ‘I know you will tend her well.’
I followed the stretcher out of the hall, feeling the temptation, while Flidais lay unconscious, to work a little spell that would make her tell the truth when she woke. That should lead to quick answers for the prince, and we surely needed those. But magic was perilous. It had a habit of coming back and biting you, especially if the reason for using it was selfish, destructive or otherwise flawed. Besides, hadn’t I promised Conmael I’d use my gifts only for good? While saving Prince Oran from a loveless marriage might be viewed as beneficial, robbing Lady Flidais of her secure future was less admirable, and the two went hand in hand. The fact that I thought the prince a good man and Lady Flidais ill-mannered and ignorant made no difference to that.
So, no spellcraft. Chances were I’d lost the knack anyway. I’d try kindness instead, if the lady would let me. She’d been disturbed tonight, not only by the prince’s public reprimand at the table, but also, badly, by Master Oisin’s story. A tale about a pool, and magic, and a transformation. Everything pointed to that day at Dreamer’s Pool when they’d gone bathing. That, surely, was the time when the sweet, scholarly Flidais of the letters became the abrasive, unhappy creature who would soon be marrying the prince. Wasn’t Dreamer’s Pool exactly the kind of mysterious, fey spot – like that cave in the druid’s story – where transformations took place?
This couldn’t be a simple impersonation. This woman was Flidais. Or, at least, she was Flidais in the flesh. What had apparently changed was her character. Seeing someone close to her drown would have been shocking, distressing. But it would not have been enough to change her entirely. Could this really be a magical transformation? The notion was enough to make my head spin. A spell that somehow switched the two women’s bodies, leaving their spirits and their awareness behind? That would be a most powerful enchantment. I did not doubt that there still existed in Erin certain places of deep magic; wells, caverns, waterfalls, crags whose power sang in the bones and beat in the blood. Could Dreamer’s Pool be such a place? I had felt the strangeness there, and I knew Grim had too.