“It’s not enough,” I muttered.
They gathered around me then, all of them. A clawlike hand stretched toward me, holding a golden feather plucked from an exuberant, plumy cape. Another held out a chip of stone shaped like a heart, a third a sharp spine from its hedgehog coat. Each in turn made an offering, and each gift in turn I sewed or wove into Becan’s body, making him stronger and more beautiful. Dog Mask did not give me a token, but when the others were done it gestured toward Finbar, who had finished drinking and lay somnolent on the small creature’s knee. I used my little knife to snip a lock of my brother’s fine hair and twined it carefully in. The watery being reached out and dribbled a handful of liquid onto the changeling. “Grow, burgeon, bloom,” it murmured.
All was hushed. Nothing stirred in the darkness of the forest; nothing moved beyond the safe boundaries of the hedge of thorn. The Old Ones sat in a circle around me, waiting. The mending was done; Becan was whole again. Whole, but stiff and lifeless. Not breathing. And somewhere out there, his mother was watching me.
I stroked his leafy brow with my fingers, and then I put my lips to his and breathed for him, as I had once before. One, two. A pause. One, two again. Live, I willed him. There are folk here who love you. Live. Live! As I breathed, the Old Ones sang, their voices making an eerie music that filled the safe place with its throbbing, humming, gurgling beauty. It was a music old and mysterious, a music like the heartbeat of the earth, timeless and deep. I shivered to hear it, even as I kept breathing, breathing, holding onto the thread that still bound my baby to this life. A thread of story so old it stretched to the time of our first ancestors. A thread of love so strong that not even a prince of the Fair Folk could break it. Live!
The song died down. I could not tell how long we had been there, I breathing, they singing, but I sensed, all of a sudden, that over at the other side of the enclosure, just beyond the gate, someone was standing in complete silence. When I lifted my head to look, Becan’s chest continued its slight rise and fall. He was breathing on his own.
“Ahhh,” said the Old Ones in chorus, and turned toward the gate. Dog Mask still held my brother in its arms.
The gate creaked open without challenge. She stood in the gap, a figure of about the same size and shape as myself, clad in a trailing garment of leaves and vines and flowers, with her hair cascading over it in dark, tangled tendrils. The torch nearest the gate flared. She shrank back before it, trembling, terrified. The flame illuminated wide, wary eyes in a face that was both sweet and strange, for she was no human woman, but a creature of woods and thickets, hedges and coppices, her body a lovely female shape built from all the wildest and most secret materials of the forest. To come so close to humankind must set a great fear in her. But then, I had her child. And now, so soon after I had brought him back from the brink of death, I must give him up again.
This time I did not hesitate. Her great eyes, fixed on me in terror and wonderment, filled with bright tears as I approached with her baby held against my breast. I could feel him breathing now; I could sense the life returning to his body with every step I took. His mother gave a cry, not an eerie shriek of pain this time, but a low, yearning call from deep inside her.
And Becan answered. He opened his mouth and let out the hungry, uncomplicated squall of a healthy child who has had a fright and now wants his supper. My own eyes brimming, I took my last step forward and laid him in his mother’s reaching arms.
“I’m so sorry I let him be hurt,” I said. “But he’s better now. He just needs feeding.” The lump in my throat made further words impossible.
She held him before her, examining him as closely as I had Finbar, back in Mac Dara’s hall when I had still believed the Lord of the Oak capable of making an honest bargain. She looked into Becan’s pebble eyes, inspected his gaping, squalling mouth, smiled with wonder at the scrap of iridescent fabric and the bright feather, the strands of hair and the soft shawl in which her son was wrapped. She bowed to me, courteous despite the fear that shook her body like a birch in an autumn wind. Then she pressed her child to her and kissed his odd little head, and her tears poured down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “He’s a fine baby, sweet and good. He didn’t deserve this, and neither did you. I looked after him as well as I could.” And I thought of that young nursemaid in Mac Dara’s hall and her false assurances.
The forest woman made no sound. She only nodded, then turned with Becan in her arms and moved away on silent feet. Before she reached the first rank of oaks she was lost in the shadows. For a little I could still hear Becan crying, but soon enough that, too, had faded to nothing.
“Here,” said Dog Mask into the quiet, and reached up to put Finbar in my arms. “You have room for him now. Take him home; leave this place forever. Your quest is done.”
The rocky being rumbled as if clearing its throat. “Wait,” it cautioned, its patchy lichen eyes fixed on me. “Ask. Seek.”
“Soothe poor skin,” hooted the owl-masked being.
“Smoothing, salving, healing,” rippled the watery one.
“By ask and seek,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, making an abrupt turn toward the fire and coming perilously close to spiking Dog Mask with its luxuriant prickles, “my friend here means now would be the time for you to request explanations if you need them. Advice, too, if you believe we can help you. And you need rest. Time enough to go on in the morning.”
Dog Mask shrugged, evidently outvoted, and we returned to the fireside. Finbar felt heavy in my arms; he was almost asleep. I would have to get used to the weight, the substance, the realness of my brother. Looking down into his unusual eyes, I felt I owed him an apology. I don’t think I can love you as I did Becan, I told him silently. But there’s more than enough love waiting for you back home.
I sat down and let the Old Ones tend to my burned hands. The watery one put on some kind of salve, its insubstantial fingers cool and light on my skin. The angry throbbing of the burns was immediately gone. The cat-masked one dabbed the same curative material on my face with soft paws, following the lines of my cuts. My heart could barely contain my sadness as I remembered the gentle touch of Cathal’s fingers.
“How long will it take us to reach a portal back to my world?” I made myself ask, though the moment I had sat down a weariness had come over me that made it difficult to think straight. All I wanted to do was wrap myself up in the blankets, with Finbar tucked in next to me, and sleep. “If we start at dawn, when will I reach Sevenwaters? Finbar is so little, and—”
“You will be there soon enough,” said Dog Mask. “We will provide milk for the journey home.” The owl-masked creature was already filling a squat earthenware jug. “It will not be difficult. I do not believe Mac Dara will pursue you. Likely he has already forgotten you.”
“But I must—” I began.
“Once you are among your own people, you and the child will be safe and cared for. You can put this misadventure behind you.”
“But I won’t be staying—”
“Sleep,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, spreading a blanket beside the fire. Its prickles glinted fiery red in the light. Its hands were just like small human ones, save for the nails, which were long, strong and sharp, as if designed for digging. “No ill dreams tonight, only rest.”
“I need to explain something first.” My head was fuzzy with tiredness, but there was one thing that must be said. “After I take Finbar home, I’ll be coming back here straightaway. I have to rescue Cathal.”
There was a sudden, frozen silence. Then Dog Mask said, “Oh, no. No, no, no. A daughter of Sevenwaters does not associate with the son of the Lord of the Oak. Walk out, walk away, have nothing more to do with his kind. They are harmful. They are full of tricks and lies. Throw in your lot with Mac Dara’s son and you face a lifetime of sorrow.”
“You’re wrong,” I said firmly. “I love him and he loves me. Yes, he’s Mac Dara’s son; he carries that legacy and I’m not trying to deny it. But
he is his mother’s son, too. And he’s tried all his life to be his own man. He is a warrior of exceptional skills. He can be a good person, I know it, he just needs to . . . he just needs to find his way home.”
There was a pause, and then they sighed as one, gathering close around me in a circle. I sensed a thaw in the air.
“Oh, dear,” said Dog Mask. “What is it that makes the folk of Sevenwaters love so fiercely and with such determination? We have seen it before, over and over. A foolish thing, a perilous thing. But what can we do?”
“If not for that,” pointed out the hedgehog-dwarf, “the child of the prophecy would never have been born. That was not so foolish. And but for Johnny, Mac Dara’s son would not have evaded his father’s clutches for so long. Perhaps this is meant to be. The young man has acquitted himself well thus far.”
“Strong,” said the rocky being emphatically, and it thumped its chest with a fist in illustration. The sharp knocking sound made birds twitter with fright in the trees all around. “Tough. Bold.”
“Twisty, tricky,” added the watery one, as if these were admirable qualities.
The eyes behind the dog mask glinted with annoyance. “He is Mac Dara’s son,” the creature said, as if it thought its companions fools.
“True love!” hooted Owl Mask. “Pure! Good!”
Dog Mask hissed softly. “Mac Dara’s get can never be a good man,” it said. “Blood will out.”
“That isn’t true,” I said, remembering something. “What about my father’s uncle Ciarán? His mother came from a dark branch of the Fair Folk. From what I’ve heard, she was just as wicked as Mac Dara. But Ciarán is expected to be chief druid after Conor. If that isn’t good, I don’t know what is.”
There was a ripple of amusement around the circle.
“I vowed to Cathal that I would come back for him,” I said, encouraged. “I won’t abandon him here. But on my own I won’t be able to manage the way we came in. If there’s another portal I need to know where it is.”
“Finding a portal is the least of your worries,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “Do you imagine Mac Dara is going to let his son wander about freely to be found and led away by anyone who happens along? The Lord of the Oak may not believe you would willingly return to his realm, but he’ll have protections in place all the same. He’s been trying to get his only son back since the boy was seven years old and ready to begin learning. To win this Cathal of yours, you would have to out-trick the trickster.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ve promised. I don’t expect help; you’ve aided me a great deal already and I’m deeply grateful for it.” They could have helped a lot more, I thought, if they had given me better information from the start. But it was plain that their kind despised the Tuatha De and that they considered Cathal as bad as his father. “Somehow I’ll find a way.”
“Ripple-green,” murmured the watery being, which was stroking my hand with its cool fingers. “His ring?”
I nodded, remembering. “It belonged to his mother. Cathal gave me all his talismans. He should have kept them for himself.”
“Then you would not have saved your brother, Clodagh,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “There are surprises in this story. For love, the son of Mac Dara sacrificed his own freedom. He gave up his life in the human world. A selfless act. This man is no copy of his father.”
“Hah!” snorted Dog Mask. “His father read him perfectly. Mac Dara predicted what his son would do from the first moment the young man clapped eyes on you, Clodagh. Perhaps the Lord of the Oak even set you in his son’s path, who knows?”
I remembered the day I had first met Cathal, when I had sensed an uncanny presence in the forest watching me, something that had sent me running out of the woods in panic and straight into Aidan’s arms. “That idea troubles me,” I said.
“The Fair Folk like to meddle, and some of them have great power,” Dog Mask said. “They have played a part in the history of your family for more years than you could count, Clodagh. Many a forebear of yours has danced to their tune.”
“But not all,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “From time to time, one will crop up who doesn’t play by the rules. Your Aunt Liadan was one such. It looks as if you’re set to become another. That is a surprise. I had thought you cut from simpler cloth. If you get Mac Dara’s son out of here safely, you will impress all of us.”
“Such a task is beyond any human woman,” said Dog Mask flatly.
“Didn’t Aunt Liadan stand up to the Tuatha De when she chose to take Johnny away from Sevenwaters?” I asked. “Isn’t that the same?” My aunt had defied the Fair Folk to wed her Painted Man and go with him to Britain, where their child would grow up safely.
“This is not Deirdre of the Forest or her Fire Lord,” said Dog Mask. “It’s Mac Dara. Nobody can outwit him. Try it, and he will destroy you as easily and with as little thought as he might snap a twig or swat a troublesome fly. Go home, Clodagh. This is beyond your abilities. Do not inflict yet another loss on your family.” Its tone was final.
“What happened to the Lady of the Forest and those others my sister used to see?” I asked. “Where did they go? Why does the Lord of the Oak rule here now?”
Dog Mask shrugged. “What do we care for the doings of their kind?” it said.
“Drifting, shifting, away, away . . .” The watery creature’s vague gesture set a spray of droplets dancing in the air.
The hedgehog-dwarf shook itself, making a rattling sound, then said, “When your cousin Fainne went to the Islands to stand as guardian to their mysteries, the Lady of the Forest and her companions retreated from this land. I do not think they will return here before your grandchild’s grandchild is an old woman, Clodagh.”
“Gone, gone,” said Owl Mask dolefully.
I had been told the strange story of Fainne, only a few years my elder, who had lived with us briefly, then had gone away to be custodian of a sacred cave. When he had related the tale my father had provided scant detail, and after a while my sisters and I had stopped asking questions. “Gone,” I echoed. “And all that’s left is him. That can’t be right. The forest of Sevenwaters can’t stay under Mac Dara’s control. Our ancestor, the one who gave us the task of looking after it, would feel betrayed.”
“One thing at a time, Clodagh,” said the cat-being, and the elongated eyes behind its golden mask were warm. “Save your sweetheart before you take on the Tuatha De in their entirety. Mend your broken heart before you attempt to change the course of history. Show us this ring.”
I held out my hand, and three or four of them bent close to examine the green glass ring. They looked at it; they looked at each other. They turned grave eyes on me.
“What?” I asked, suddenly feeling very tired again.
“It’s old,” said one.
“It’s very old,” said another.
“It’s as old as we are,” added a third.
“Who exactly was this young man’s mother?” asked the hedgehog-dwarf.
“An ordinary woman, low-born, a fisherman’s daughter, I think. Cathal didn’t say much about her except that she was very beautiful and that she waited years and years for Mac Dara to come back.”
“She was from the west?”
“That’s right. A place called Whiteshore, on the coast of Connacht.”
“A fisherman’s daughter,” mused the hedgehog-dwarf. “There is a good magic in this, Clodagh, a powerful old sea magic. Your young man did well to put it on your finger before you faced the Lord of the Oak.”
“If he had worn it himself—”
“No, no,” put in the owl-creature. “You, you!”
“It is a woman’s ring,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, “and meant for your finger. As for Cathal, if you attempt a rescue you must wear this. Do not be tempted to give it back to him. He will require his own talisman of protection, and it is up to you to determine what that may be. Does this young man not understand his mother’s legacy?”
“Her legacy? What do
you mean?”
“Ah. He dismisses her, perhaps, as someone he loved, who failed him. If she owned this ring, she was far more than that. There is a strength in such folk that runs very deep, Clodagh. He is her son; it runs also in him. He has shown it by passing the ring to you; by ensuring your safety at the price of his own.”
“All he said about his mother was that she loved Mac Dara and that she killed herself from despair when he didn’t come back. If there’s more, I’m certain he doesn’t know. He was only seven when she died.” Seven. He’s been trying to get his only son back since the boy was seven years old. Without being quite sure why, I felt suddenly chill. “Are you saying this could be the key to getting him out? That it is possible?”
“Possible, maybe,” said Dog Mask a little sourly. “Not probable, and not at all advisable. Now sleep. Husband your strength. Tomorrow you will be home among your own.”
“Will you tell him about this? If there’s something he doesn’t know about his mother, something he can use—”
“Our kind does not speak to his kind,” said Dog Mask predictably. “Now sleep.”
“But . . .” I could not bear the idea that there was a clue that might help Cathal escape, and that there was no way I could tell him about it.
“If he is what you believe him to be,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, “he will seek his own answers.”
I lay down with Finbar nestled against me and a blanket over the two of us. Around me the Old Ones went about various tasks, banking up the fire, checking the torches that lit the enclosure, feeding the goat. Two stayed by the gate; two more patrolled the perimeter. Beyond the hedge of thorn, all was quiet.