“That understood, you won’t be surprised to hear that Albha went about achieving her goal quite coldly. She had no desire to couple with a mortal, but she knew this was her best chance to have her own baby. So she selected a suitable man, choosing him not for his high birth or wisdom or power in the mortal world, but for his strong body and pleasing features. It was an easy job to persuade him to perform the duty she required of him—like all her kind, Albha had a beauty far beyond that of the most comely of mortal women. She stayed with the fellow as long as she needed to. When she felt her belly beginning to swell, she left her lover and returned to the realm of the Tuatha De. She had what she wanted.”
A brief silence. “What about the man?” I asked. “What happened to him?”
Willow smiled, lifting her brows. “He plays no further part in this story, Clodagh. Albha cared nothing for him beyond his capacity to give her a child. Perhaps he became wiser as a result of his experience and was careful to stay away from fairy women after that. Perhaps, like so many men in the tales, he wore himself to death searching for his Otherworld lover. Maybe he killed himself from grief.” She sounded as if this was of no matter.
“But—” I said, then fell silent. It was only a story, after all. If it seemed unjust, perhaps that was a reflection of real life, especially where dealings with the Fair Folk were concerned.
“In due course the wee girl was born, and she was every bit as lovely and fey as her mother, for all she was half human. Her mother called her Saorla, and loved her as well as the Tuatha De have it in them to love. Time passed. Saorla grew into a beautiful young woman. Up till her fifteenth birthday, she had never asked who her father might be. Indeed, she had always assumed it was Mac Dara, who made no secret of his virility and laid claim to parentage of more children than any man could have had the time or energy to sire, be he human or Tuatha De. But we know Mac Dara’s capacity for mischief. One day he took it into his head to meddle. He told Saorla who her real father was and how Albha had used a mortal man the way a stud bull might be used, solely to engender a healthy child.”
“I thought you said Mac Dara wouldn’t be in this story,” said Coll.
“Don’t interrupt,” Johnny told his little brother. “Mac Dara makes his way into stories whether people want him there or not. I’m sure that’s what Willow would tell you.”
“That’s indeed so, my lord,” Willow said. “Be glad your own parentage is beyond question. And yours, young man.” She gave Coll a penetrating look and my irrepressible young cousin wilted under it. “Whether or not we can say the same of every man and woman in this hall remains a mystery. So, back to Saorla. In the moment that Mac Dara told her the uncomfortable truth, the girl determined to return to the mortal world and to find the father who had been so wronged. Saorla was disgusted by what Albha had done. It explained everything, she thought—the way she had always felt out of place; her fascination with the idea of a world beyond her own; her distaste for the machinations of folk such as the all-powerful Mac Dara. Saorla decided she would turn her back on the Fair Folk. She would walk away and never return to the Otherworld.
“It was not so easy, of course. Albha got wind of what her daughter intended and pursued her through that realm, using all her considerable power to stop her. But Saorla had not wasted the fifteen years she’d spent growing up amongst the Fair Folk. She’d learned a few tricks of her own. Out through a little wee portal she slipped and away into the human world, and there was no holding her back.”
The tale expanded into a long and dangerous duel between mother and daughter, as time and again Albha tricked Saorla onto the margins of the Otherworld only to be bested at the last moment when Saorla sensed she was in danger and maneuvered her way out again. I could not guess how it would end.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Sibeal politely at a certain point. “But the Fair Folk in your stories seem rather different from the ones we know of. This family has had wise advice over the years from the Tuatha De Danann, especially the one we call the Lady of the Forest. They have guided our decisions and helped us with difficult choices. These folk you speak of, Mac Dara and Albha, sound like lesser beings, caught up in their own deceit and selfishness. Is it only at Sevenwaters that the Fair Folk can be wise and good?”
“An interesting question, which I might debate with you at length, Sibeal, had we the time for it.” There was respect in Willow’s eyes as they rested on my sister. “Of course, it is only a tale. But Mac Dara is in many tales. They say he’s a creature of Connacht, in the west. Of course, the realm of the Tuatha De stretches across the length and breadth of Erin, and it’s laid out much as our own land is, so there’s no reason why Mac Dara should not turn up at Sevenwaters if he chooses, nor any bar on your Lady of the Forest paying him a visit in his home territory. It’s said that the Tuatha De are fading before a great tide of change. Sevenwaters is old. It’s housed such folk long after their havens in other parts have disappeared. But the grand ones, the noble ones, are passing away, perhaps to the isles of the west, perhaps into memory, child. And when the wise ones depart, what’s left is Mac Dara and his like. The realm of the Fair Folk is a darker place than it once was. A little seer might go out to seek wisdom in the clear water of a forest pool, and instead of the lovely lady who used to appear to give her guidance, all she might get is a selfish creature like Albha. You should take care. We should all take care.”
Sibeal said nothing, but she looked stricken. Perhaps there was truth in those odd rumors after all.
Willow told of a time when the fey woman and her half-human daughter came almost face-to-face, so close that as Saorla fled away toward the nearest settlement of men, she could hear her mother’s voice behind her, sharp as glass, as Albha cast a spell:
“Cross the river left then right
Mortal world fades out of sight
Step into the field of time
Fall so far you cannot climb
Sorrow’s pathway tread in tears
Paved with sadness, doubts and fears
At the gate of thorn entwined
Say farewell to humankind
Set your foot inside the door
You’ll be mine forever more . . .”
The tale was not yet finished, but I saw Muirrin at the back of the hall beckoning to me, and I excused myself.
Mother had asked to see me. When I reached her chamber she was feeding the baby. Finbar was beating time to an inaudible tune against the pearly flesh of her breast, all the time sucking busily. I drew up a stool beside the bed, and with an effort Mother took her eyes off the child and turned them on me.
“I wanted to thank you, Clodagh. This is the first day I’ve felt strong enough to do much more than lie here and let Muirrin look after me, I’m afraid. It feels so wrong. When you girls were born I was up and about again within a day or two. Maybe boys are different. And I’m older, of course, as everyone keeps reminding me.”
“Thank me? For what?” I was heartened, for her manner had something of its old spirit, and the waxy, wan look was almost gone from her face. Maybe, finally, I could allow the possibility of happy endings into my mind.
“For handling the household arrangements so capably while I’ve been indisposed. Everyone tells me how much energy you’ve put into keeping everything the way I like it to be. I know how much work it is. With Deirdre gone there is really nobody to share the load. Your father is deeply concerned over this trouble with the northern chieftains, although he’s good at hiding how much these things worry him. It helps very much, my dear, that you have been able to spare him the need to think about domestic issues during this time. You’ll make someone a fine wife when your turn comes.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Her words warmed me even as I thought how sad it would be if this was the best anyone would ever be able to say about me. “It’s no trouble.”
“Despite what you may have believed, I had noticed how tired and anxious you were becoming. You’re doing a wonderful job, Cl
odagh. Your father and I are both proud of you.”
Tears flooded my eyes. My mother did not often praise me. Her standards were high; she assumed other folk’s were the same. “I’ll keep trying my best,” I said shakily. “He’s a lovely baby, Mother. You should have seen the look in Father’s eyes when he first held him. He didn’t expect—I mean—”
“The gods have been kind,” Mother said quietly, stroking Finbar’s thatch of dark hair with her free hand as he continued to suckle. “It’s more than I deserve.”
“You deserve every bit of happiness, Mother,” I told her. “It’s going to be interesting having a little boy growing up at Sevenwaters after all of us girls. I wonder if he’ll be like Coll?”
Mother’s eyes went distant. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said, and I remembered that she had never entirely approved of Bran of Harrowfield, father of both Coll and Johnny. The question of inheritance was like a dim shadow in my mind, something that would remain there until the issue was resolved one way or the other. Maybe Finbar was only a tiny scrap right now, but nobody would be able to put aside what he might one day become.
“That’s probably just as well,” I said briskly. “Coll’s a bright boy, but he seems to take up far more than his share of space. Now I’d best leave you to rest.”
“No doubt Muirrin will be back in a moment to ply me with herbal potions. Clodagh, before you go, I’ve a favor to ask.”
“Of course, Mother.”
“Your father may have forgotten to send word to Deirdre and Illann about Finbar’s arrival. Between worrying about me and concern over the northerners, I suspect it was the last thing in his mind. I know you can convey the good news to your sister in a much quicker way. I would be pleased if you could do so. Deirdre would want to know.”
The request caught me by surprise. Suggestions of treachery and betrayal came sharply back to me, as unwelcome as they’d been when first spoken, and for a moment I could not answer. I knew that, whatever the circumstances, I would no longer be able to speak with Deirdre mind to mind without feeling constant suspicion. Wretched Cathal, for planting the seed of distrust in my thoughts!
“I don’t know if I can, Mother,” I said. “Deirdre told me she wouldn’t speak to me that way anymore, not now she’s married and away from home.”
“Deirdre would want to know she has a little brother, Clodagh.” There was a note of reproach in Mother’s voice now.
“Of course.” No doubt she would, now that it seemed the gods had not required our mother’s life as the price of the longed-for son. “I’ll try, of course. And I’ll make sure a messenger goes as well. I should have thought of it.”
Mother smiled. She was looking tired now. The baby had fallen asleep at the breast. “You can’t think of everything, Clodagh. Thank you for all you’ve done. You are a good daughter.”
I lay awake that night planning what I would say, how much I would tell Deirdre and what I would hold back. I would try in the morning while I was taking my turn to sit with the baby. The quiet and solitude of the nursery should allow me to focus my thoughts on my twin and perhaps reestablish the link she had broken. If Deirdre was prepared to let me in, I would ask her how it felt to be running her own household and whether she might pay a visit to Sevenwaters now it seemed her worst fear would not be realized. If I did not offer any news save that of Finbar’s birth and Mother’s improving health, Cathal’s stupid theory need not even be put to the test.
Finbar was asleep. He had recently been fed and now lay rolled tightly in a shawl, tucked into his basket of willow. The chamber was warm; a little fire burned on the hearth. I had scattered dried berries of rowan and juniper on the flames, for these herbs had a power to clarify the mind. It was the first time I had felt the need for such aids.
Deirdre?
She did not answer. I sat very still, concentrating all my thoughts on her. She would hear me; I had no doubt of that. When we were younger, we had been so closely in tune with each other that the least whisper in the mind had been enough to alert us to a query, a feeling, a plan to be shared. As we had grown older, each of us had learned the skill of closing that portal between our minds, slipping a shutter over it to conceal our own thoughts. One did not always want to share what was in one’s mind, even with a beloved twin. I wished I had spoken to Father more about this bond, since he still used the same link with his own twin, Liadan. No doubt his sister had already heard about the birth of a son and had passed the news on to the household at Harrowfield, including my sister Maeve. Mother was right. It wasn’t fair that Deirdre be kept in ignorance.
Deirdre? I have some news for you.
I could feel nothing of her; nothing at all.
Good news. Let me in, Deirdre. It’s a message from Mother.
And then, abruptly, she was with me. I told you, Clodagh! I told you I wouldn’t do this—
We have a baby brother, Deirdre. And Mother is well.
Nothing for a little, though I could sense that she was bursting with feelings, a swirl of emotions in which relief and pleasure formed only part of the picture.
This is true? I thought she hardly dared believe it.
Of course it’s true! The baby came early. Everything seems to be all right. His name’s Finbar. Mother asked me to tell you. I wouldn’t have broken our agreement otherwise.
Another silence, then I felt her say, Are you sure, Clodagh? This is . . . It’s hard to take in. I don’t know what to say.
There were tears in my eyes. It was so good to talk to her again. Muirrin says the baby is strong and well even though he came early. And Mother seems to be recovering, though she’s tired. I can’t predict the future, Deirdre. Even a seer can’t do that accurately. But this is cause for happiness. You can forget all those terrible things you were saying before you left, about never coming back to Sevenwaters. You’ll want to see baby Finbar. He’s lovely. You must come and visit us. I glanced across at the basket, where all that was visible of my brother was a roll of woollen blanket with a tuft of dark hair sticking out the end.
Please tell Mother I’m very happy for her.
She seemed rather cool. Perhaps she was finding it hard to absorb the unexpected good news. I miss you, Deirdre.
A silence, then, I miss you too, Clodagh. More than I ever expected. Was she perhaps crying?
Oh, Deirdre. Is everything all right?
For a moment her presence wavered, as if she were about to withdraw beyond my reach, then she said, Of course it’s all right. Why wouldn’t it be? Only it’s . . . different. There’s so much to do, and . . . I didn’t realize how used I was to having you always there. You should come and visit me. There are lots of eligible men here. You might find a sweetheart, someone better than Aidan. He is only a younger son, after all.
It was just as well she couldn’t see my expression. I might visit some time, but you can forget about the sweetheart. Besides, there’s no shortage of young men at Sevenwaters while Johnny’s here.
He’s still with you, then?
For now, anyway.
He doesn’t mind about the baby being a boy? Won’t that cut him out of his inheritance?
Perhaps, I told her. But Finbar’s only a baby. Johnny doesn’t seem at all upset. Besides, he has other things on his mind.
Don’t tell me our cousin has finally become interested in a girl.
It’s nothing to do with women. Just an issue with one of the local chieftains, you know the kind of thing. Johnny’s a little edgy and so is Father. It’s nothing important.
One of the chieftains? Which one?
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could almost hear Cathal whispering in my ear, I told you.
I’m not sure, I lied. You know Father expected this. That the northern leaders might see your marriage to Illann as an affront, I mean.
You must be able to remember which chieftain it is.
I can’t, Deirdre. I really have no idea.
But you’re always so interested in thes
e things, Clodagh.
And you’re not, I thought. Or weren’t before. I’ve been too busy to take much notice, I told her. Finbar’s arrival has set the household upside down. I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about. I did not mention Father’s furrowed brow, or the serious conversations the men seemed to be having all the time now, talk that often included the name Eoin of Lough Gall.
Really? I hate to think of Father riding out to battle with a new baby at home.
He’s not riding out to battle, Deirdre. It’s nothing like that, only Gareth and some other men going north with a message, that’s all. My heart was thumping now. Either Cathal was right and I’d already said more than I should, or he was wrong and I would upset my sister for no good reason by refusing to answer perfectly reasonable questions. Suddenly, talking to Deirdre was like balancing along a very thin line indeed. I have to go, I said. I’m supposed to be looking after Finbar and I can hear him crying. As if to prevent me from lying, the baby stirred, making a small sleepy sound, then fell silent once more.
Oh. So he’s right there with you? Where are you? Who else is there?
Deirdre, I have to go.
A little silence, then she said, Can we do this again, Clodagh? I know what I said before, but I didn’t realize how much I was going to miss you. It would make such a difference, just being able to talk to you sometimes, exchange our news, find out how everyone is . . . Can we?