“Liadan, I need to speak with you. I wish to tell you something.”
The moment was over. The music played on, and he let go as we were drawn back into the circle.
“Well, talk then,” I said, rather ungraciously. I could not see Niamh; surely she had not retired already. “What is it you want to say?”
There was a lengthy pause. We reached the top of the line; he put one hand on my waist and I put one on his shoulder, and we executed a few turns as we made our way to the bottom under an arch of outstretched arms. Then suddenly it seemed Eamonn had had enough of dancing. He kept my hand in his and drew me to the edge of the circle.
“Not here,” he said. “This is not the time nor the place. Tomorrow. I want to talk with you alone.”
“But—”
I felt his hands on my shoulders briefly as he placed the shawl about me. He was very close. Something within me sounded a sort of warning, but still I did not understand.
“In the morning,” he said. “You work in your garden early, do you not? I will come to you there. Thank you for the dance, Liadan. You should perhaps let me be the judge of your skills.”
I looked up at him, trying to work out what he meant, but his face gave nothing away. Then somebody called his name, and with a brief nod he was gone.
I worked in the garden next morning, for the weather was fine, though cold, and there was always plenty to do between herb beds and stillroom. My mother did not come out to join me, which was unusual. Perhaps, I thought, she was tired after the festivities. I weeded and cleaned and swept, and I made up a coltsfoot tea to take to the village later, and I bundled flowering heather for drying. It was a busy morning. I forgot all about Eamonn until my father came into the stillroom near midday, ducking his head under the lintel, then seating himself on the wide window embrasure, long legs stretched out before him. He, too, had been working and had not yet shed his outdoor boots, which bore substantial traces of newly plowed soil. It would sweep up easily enough.
“Busy day?” he asked, observing the well-ordered bundles of drying herbs, the flasks ready for delivery, the tools of my trade still laid out on the workbench.
“Busy enough,” I said, bending to wash my hands in the bucket I kept by the outer door. “I missed Mother today. Was she resting?”
A little frown appeared on his face. “She was up early, talking to Conor, at first. Later with Liam as well. She needs to rest.”
I tidied the knives, the mortar and pestle, the scoops and twine away onto their shelves. “She won’t,” I said. “You know that. It’s like this when Conor comes. It’s as if there’s never enough time for them, always too much to be said, as if they can never make up for the years they lost.”
Father nodded, but he didn’t say anything. I got out the millet broom and began to sweep.
“I’ll go to the village later,” I told him. “She need not do that. Perhaps, if you tell her to, she’ll try to sleep.”
Iubdan’s mouth quirked up at one corner in a half smile. “I never tell your mother what to do,” he said. “You know that.”
I grinned at him. “Well then, I’ll tell her. The druids are here for a day or two. She has time enough for talking.”
“That reminds me,” said Father, lifting his booted feet as I swept the floor beneath them. When he put them down again, a new shower of earth fell onto the flagstones. “I had a message to give you.”
“Oh?”
“From Eamonn. He asked me to say he’s been called home urgently. He left very early this morning, too early to come and see you with any decency, was how he put it. He said to tell you he would speak with you when he returned. Does that make sense to you?”
“Not a lot,” I said, sweeping the last of the debris out the door and down the steps. “He never did tell me what it was all about. Why was he called away? What was so urgent? Has Aisling gone as well?”
“Aisling is still here; she is safer under our protection. It was a matter calling for leadership and quick decisions. He has taken his grandfather and those of his men who could be made ready to ride. I understand there was some new attack on his border positions. By whom, nobody seemed sure. An enemy who came by stealth and killed without scruple, as efficiently as a bird of prey, was the description. The man who brought the tale seemed almost crazed with fear. I suppose we will hear more when Eamonn returns.”
We went out into the garden. At this chill time of year, spring was not much more than a thought; the tiniest of fragile crocus shoots emerging from the hard ground, a hint of buds swelling on the branches of the young oak. Early flowering tansy made a note of vibrant yellow against the gray-green of wormwood and lavender. The air smelled cool and clean. Each stone path was swept bare, the herb beds tidy under their straw mulching.
“Sit here awhile with me, Liadan,” said my father. “We are not needed yet. It will be hard enough to persuade your mother and her brothers to come inside for some food and drink. I have something to ask you.”
“You, too?” I said, as we sat down together on the stone bench. “It sounds as if everyone has something to ask me.”
“Mine is a general sort of question. Have you given any thought to marriage? To your future?”
I was not expecting this.
“Not really. I suppose—I suppose I hoped, as the youngest, for a couple more years at home,” I said, feeling suddenly cold. “I am in no hurry to leave Sevenwaters. Maybe—maybe I thought I might remain here, you know, tend to my ancient parents in their failing years. Perhaps not seek a husband at all. After all, both Niamh and Sean will make good matches, strong alliances. Need I be wed as well?”
Father looked at me very directly. His eyes were a light, intense blue; he was working out just how much of what I said was serious and how much a joke.
“You know I would gladly keep you here with us, sweetheart,” he said slowly. “Saying farewell to you would not be easy for me. But there will be offers. I would not have you narrow your pathway because of us.”
I frowned. “Maybe we could leave it for a while. After all, Niamh will wed first. Surely there won’t be any offers until after that.” My mind drew up the image of my sister, glowing and golden in her blue gown by firelight, tossing her bright hair, surrounded by comely young men. “Niamh should wed first,” I added firmly. It seemed to me that this was important, but I could not tell him why.
There was a pause, as if he were waiting for me to make some connection I could not quite grasp.
“Why do you say that? That there will be no offers for you until your sister weds?”
This was becoming difficult, more difficult than it should have been, for my father and I were very close and always spoke directly and honestly to each other.
“What man would offer for me when he could have Niamh?” I asked. There was no sense of envy in my question. It just seemed to me so obvious I found it hard to believe it had not occurred to him.
My father raised his brows. “Perhaps, if Eamonn makes you an offer of marriage, you should ask him that question,” he said quite gently. There was a hint of amusement in his tone.
I was stunned. “Eamonn? Offer for me? I don’t think so. Is he not intended for Niamh? You’re wrong, I’m sure.” But in the back of my mind, last night’s episode played itself out again: the way he had spoken to me, the way we had danced together, and a little seed of doubt was sown. I shook my head, not wanting to believe it was possible. “It wouldn’t be right, Father. Eamonn should wed Niamh. That’s what everyone expects. And—Niamh needs somebody like him. A man who will—take a firm hand but be fair as well. Niamh should be the one.” Then I thought, with relief, of something else. “Besides,” I added, “Eamonn would never ask a girl such a thing without seeking her father’s permission first. He was to have spoken with me early this morning. It must have been about something else.”
“What if I told you,” said Iubdan carefully, “that your young friend had planned a meeting with me as well this morning? He was pr
evented from keeping this appointment only by the sudden call home to defend his border.”
I was silent.
“What sort of man would you choose for yourself, Liadan?” he asked me.
“One who is trustworthy and true to himself,” I answered straightaway. “One who speaks his mind without fear. One who can be a friend as well as a husband. I would be contented with that.”
“You would wed an ugly, old man with not a scrap of silver to his name if he met your description?” asked my father, amused. “You are an unusual young woman, Daughter.”
“To be honest,” I said wryly, “if he were also young, handsome, and wealthy, it would not go unappreciated. But such things are less important. If I was lucky enough—if I was fortunate enough to wed for love, as you did … but that is unlikely, I know.” I thought of my brother and Aisling, dancing in a charmed circle all their own. It was too much to expect the same thing for myself.
“It brings a contentment like no other,” said Iubdan softly. “And with it a fear that strikes when you least expect it. When you love thus, you give hostages to fortune. It becomes harder with time to accept what fate brings. We have been lucky so far.”
I nodded. I knew what he was talking about. It was a matter we did not speak of openly, not yet.
We got up and walked slowly out through the garden archway and along the path toward the main courtyard. Farther away, in the shelter of a tall hedge of blackthorn, my mother was seated on the low, stone wall, a small, slight figure, her pale features framed by a mass of dark curls. Liam stood on one side, booted foot on the wall, elbow on knee, explaining something with economical gestures. On her other side sat Conor, very still in his white robe, listening intently. We did not disturb them.
“I suppose you will find out when Eamonn returns whether I am right,” my father said. “There is no doubt he would be a very suitable match for your sister or for yourself. You should at least give thought to it in the meantime.”
I did not answer.
“You must understand that I would never force you into any decision, Liadan, and neither would your mother. When you take a husband, the choice will be yours. We would ask only that you think about it, and prepare yourself, and consider any offers that are made. We know you will choose wisely.”
“What about Liam? You know what he would want. There is our estate to consider and the strength of our alliances.”
“You are your mother’s daughter and mine, not Liam’s,” said my father. “He will be content enough that Sean has chosen the one woman Liam would most have wanted for him. Your choice will be your own, little one.”
I had the strangest feeling at that moment. It was as if a silent voice whispered, These words will come back to haunt him. A chill, dark feeling. It was over in a moment, and when I glanced at Father, his face was calm and unperturbed. Whatever it was, it had passed by him unheard.
The druids remained at Sevenwaters for several days. Conor spoke at length with his sister and brother, or sometimes I would see him with my mother alone, the two of them standing or sitting together in total silence. At such times they communicated secretly, with the language of the mind, and there was no telling what passed between them. Thus had she spoken once with Finbar, the brother closest to her heart, him who returned from the years away with the wing of a swan instead of an arm and something not quite right with his mind. She had shared the same bond with him as I did with Sean. I knew my brother’s pain and his joy without the need for words. I could reach him, however far he might go, with a message nobody but he would ever hear. And so I understood how it must be for my mother, for Sorcha, having lost that other who was so close that he was like a part of herself. For, the tale went, Finbar could never become a man again, not quite. There was a part of him, when he came back, that was still wild, attuned to the needs and instincts of a creature of the wide sky and the bottomless deep. And so, one night, he had simply walked down to the lake shore and on into the cold embrace of the water. His body had never been found, but there was no doubt, folk said, that he drowned that night. How could such a creature swim, with the right arm of a young man and on the left side a spreading, white-feathered wing?
I understood my mother’s grief, the empty place she must carry inside her even after so long, although she never spoke of these things, not even to Iubdan. But I believed she shared it with Conor during those long, silent times. I thought they used their gift to strengthen one another, as if by sharing the pain they could make it a little easier. to bear, each for the other.
The whole household would gather together for supper when the long day’s work was over, and after supper for singing and drinking and the telling of tales. In our family there was an ability for storytelling that was widely known and respected. Of us all, my mother was the best, her gift with words such that she could, for a time, take you right out of this world and into another. But the rest of us were no mean wordsmiths either. Conor was a wonderful storyteller. Even Liam, on occasion, would contribute some heroic tale containing detailed descriptions of battles and the technicalities of armed and unarmed combat. There was a strong following for these among the men. Iubdan, as I have said, never told a tale, though he listened attentively. At such times folk were reminded that he was a Briton, but he was well respected for his fairness, his generosity, and above all his capacity for hard work; and so they did not hold his ancestry against him.
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 Óg 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 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 Dé 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 round 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?