A Dance with Fate Page 17
The ferryman holds the craft in the shallows. True steps on. “Sit,” says the clurichaun, or whatever he is. “Careful, now.”
True sits. The boat is dwarfed by his huge form. It seems impossible that it will stay intact under his weight, let alone remain floating. But it does. The ferryman pushes it further out, not seeming to exert himself much, though he utters a few choice oaths under his breath. True is staying extremely still, as if he fears the least movement will see him and his small ones sink and drown. With every dip of the pole, with every move forward, the lake seems to grow broader, darker, more mysterious. It’s taking them a long time to cross. And now . . . now I see an island. It’s all overgrown with brambles and briars, and beneath that tangling wild abundance there’s a tumbledown house of some kind, or maybe a rocky outcrop with a door-like opening.
It’s not until they reach the shore of that isle and the stony man, with difficulty, rises and steps onto dry land that I can unclench my fists and breathe again. The ferry returns, while True waits on the island. The boatman holds his craft out on the water; it is two long strides from the shore where I stand.
“I’ll be wanting payment now,” the little fellow says, eyeing the bag I have set down while I waited. “That’s the way these things are done. We don’t give something for nothing. And we don’t take without giving back. Fair’s fair in our world, if not in yours, fellow.”
I count silently to five, thanking my sister for recommending this trick. When I speak, my voice sounds reasonably calm. “This is my world, ferryman,” I say. “As is the other. I do not care for tricks. But fair payment is something I understand. What is your price for our crossing both ways? When we have found what we seek, we wish to return to Eirne’s realm.”
The little man narrows his eyes, then looks down and fiddles with the acorns on his necklace. “For the crossing, the price is not high. For the wisdom you seek, it may be much higher.”
“We’ll deal with that when we find it.” I’m watching True, who is moving awkwardly from one foot to the other, as if he may be in pain. We need to move on. “What price for the ferry?”
“A little bit of yourself,” says the ferryman. “Just something small. A finger, maybe. A tooth, white and shiny.”
Morrigan’s curse! It’s all too easy to imagine my finger attached to the clurichaun’s necklace, among the leaves and acorns. I think of asking True to wrench out one of my teeth. “A song,” I say. “I will make it up, I will sing it for you, I can craft it to suit your wishes. That is the only fee I will pay, but I will make sure it is the finest possible. I am the queen’s bard.”
“And another on the way back,” the ferryman answers, quick as a flash.
“Done.”
We are over the lake in a trice, but he won’t let me disembark before I sing the song. It would seem that being the queen’s bard is no guarantee of trustworthiness. On the way across I have distracted myself from the erratic passage and the possibility of getting very wet by writing verse and refrain in my mind. I’d like to put the boatman’s name into the song. But I know better than to ask him for it.
Oh, who will guard the Long Path, and who will guard it true
Oh, who will be the ferryman, so evil can’t come through?
Not I, said one and two and three, Not I, said many more
’Tis a right hard job to pole the boat all day from shore to shore.
With a fa-la-deedle-deedle lift up your pole now
Fa-la-deedle-deedle glide to the shore.
By the end of that verse and refrain, the ferryman is grinning. As I sing, True keeps time with a gentle drumbeat, hand on stony knee, and the tiny folk punctuate the song with rhythmic squeaks.
They asked the folk of Ulaid and they asked the men of Creagh
Oh, who will be the ferryman, forever and a day?
A hundred men, two hundred, and none of them agreed
Till up there stepped a Green Man, saying, “I’m the one you need.”
With a fa-la-deedle-deedle lift up your pole now
Fa-la-deedle-deedle glide to the shore.
As I reach the end of this verse, the ferryman digs in the pole and gives the craft one last push, and we do indeed glide to the shore. I know better than to rise and step off before the song is done. By bringing me to land, the little man has shown trust. I must return that trust.
They thought he was not strong enough because he was so slight
The Green Man took the pole in hand and pushed with all his might
The ferry shot from shore to shore, so swift and straight and clean
The finest boatman in the realm was that small man in green.
This time, as I sing the fa-la-deedle refrain the boatman joins in, adding his husky but tuneful voice to mine. When I do not begin a fourth verse, he says, “And what happened next?”
“Ah,” I say. He’s smiling. He’s pleased with the song, so maybe I can take a risk here. “I’ll sing you that part on the way back.”
There’s a moment of silence. Things hang in the balance. Then the ferryman gestures me off the boat. “Go your ways, then,” he says. “I’ll be waiting. Three more verses, that’s the price.”
“With pleasure,” I say, stepping onto the shore, and I’m not lying. I enjoy the challenge of making a verse quickly—one could hardly call it crafting when there’s no time to think it through—and indeed when I first met Eirne it was over just such a challenge. That seems so long ago. Long ago in a time when I was filled with wonder. Long ago when I fell in love without needing to think. And yet, less than a year ago. “All right to walk on?” I ask True.
“I can walk, yes.” As we move away from the water and under the dark trees, True adds, “The queen would like that song. It would make her smile.”
I say nothing. I do not know if I will ever make her smile again.
18
LIOBHAN
Berrach moves me around from one task to another, always with a different crew. Perhaps he doesn’t want me to make friends. Most folk are welcoming once they realize how hard I can work. So although I don’t ask questions about Dau and his wretched family, I start to learn a few things. One of them is that when people talk about Master Seanan’s men, they mean a small group that answers only to Seanan. They’re spread across guards and house servants and folk like Berrach, who has the authority to interfere in anyone’s work provided it’s out of doors. The way I understand it, if you’re one of Seanan’s men, you’re outside Lord Scannal’s control and that of Lord Scannal’s own folk, such as Iarla the steward, whom people speak of with respect, or Mongan the stable master. The stables seem to be an area where Seanan has no influence, which is just as well or I’d have died of thirst or starved or been eaten up by insects by now. Although Naithí the councilor and Beanón the lawman both came to Hawthorn House with Seanan, I think they are both Lord Scannal’s men, and while they took a hard line in the discussions, they might be approachable. Not that I’m likely to get an opportunity.
The only woman I’ve spoken to is Fionn’s wife, Íonait, who came out to the stables one evening with a plum cake for us to share. Íonait is an assistant cook. She greeted me courteously while giving me a good look-over. I wasn’t exactly at my best, since there’d been precious little opportunity to keep myself or my clothes clean and in good repair. When you look and feel and smell like something the cat dragged in, you need a whole lot of pride and hope to go on standing tall.
Íonait didn’t comment on my appearance, but the next night, when I went up to the stables to wash my hands and face under the pump and collect my supper of leftovers, there was a bundle waiting for me. “This and that,” Fionn said, offhand. “Things that would have been thrown away or used for rags. If anyone asks questions, you found it by the midden. Íonait says if you want your things washed, bundle them up tomorrow and leave them with
me. She’ll see to it.”
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” I said.
“Then don’t mention any names.”
“I won’t, Fionn. Thank you. And please thank Íonait from me. I’m truly grateful to you both.”
When I went back to the hut that night, the stable hands carried down two buckets of water for me, one hot, one cold, and left me a cloth and a scrap of hard soap. In the chill of the small damp dwelling I gave myself the best wash I’d had in many days. When I was done, the water was dark with dirt. The bundle of clothes contained not only a skirt, a shirt, a tunic, and a pair of stockings, but also a much-laundered old night-robe. I put this on with my own shawl over the top, brushed my wet hair until my scalp stung, and went to bed feeling, if not like a queen, then at least like a semblance of my old self. I wondered how long it would be before this act of kindness made its way to Berrach’s ears. How long would it be before he made someone pay for treating me like a human being and not a piece of dirt to be ground under his heel? Or might such a man not even notice the difference?
* * *
* * *
I’m working with the wall-mending crew again, closer to the main house, in a spot where sheep graze under apple trees and there’s a good view of the gates leading out of Lord Scannal’s domain. We’re closer to that walled garden, and I see folk come out from time to time to work there. Mostly I keep my head down and concentrate on the job we’re doing, which is taking down a whole section of drystone wall that has become unsafe after heavy rain shifted the earth around it. When it’s all down we’ll do some backbreaking digging then re-lay the stones.
Niall gives us breaks. I get a share of the food. Small kindnesses; I’m realizing how important they are, and I resolve to offer them to others when I can. We’re sitting there eating when we see a plume of smoke rising from somewhere beyond the fortress wall but not very far off. As we look, the plume becomes a cloud, and the cloud darkens and becomes a fire, with leaping flames visible at the base.
“St. Padraig’s,” Niall mutters. “Those poor fellows. Maybe we—”
A bell begins to ring, its resonant note a cry for help. Someone shouts from the top of the field where we’ve been working. Now men are running in from everywhere, collecting buckets, streaming down toward the gates, which are being opened by a team of guards.
“They want us,” Niall says, gesturing toward the man who shouted. “Down tools, we’ll finish this later. Pick up a bucket if you can, or a sack, and get out there.” When I rise to my feet, ready to join the crew, he adds, “Not you, Liobhan.”
I want to help. I’m strong. I’d be useful. But Niall’s right. Rush down there to help and certain people would assume I was making a run for it. At the very least I’d draw a lot of attention to myself. So I stay and watch as the flames grow higher and the voice of the bell is like a scream of panic. An army of men pours out of Lord Scannal’s domain, while women gather on the sward by the house in anxious small groups. That’s a big fire, and men with buckets can do only so much. I try to remember if a river flows nearby. Did I see a lake or pond on the way in here? I was concentrating so hard on the exhausted Dau that I wasn’t as observant as I should have been. If they’re relying on a single well, they haven’t a hope of quenching that fire before it consumes the place.
Everyone’s looking at one thing only. I can’t go out there and save lives. I can’t get on with the drystone wall on my own. But I can do something else. The women who were working in that garden are gone now. I can go up there and take a look around. Find a stillroom if there is one. Find the healer, perhaps, since that person surely won’t have rushed off to fight the fire. Ask the healer about Dau.
I don’t give myself time to think too hard, because deep down I know this is not the most sensible idea I’ve ever had. I move in the way Eabha taught us, darting from one point of cover to the next. The clothing Íonait gave me is in practical dark colors, gray shirt, brown skirt, dusky blue tunic—useful at such times. The skirt comes only halfway down my shins, no surprise as I have yet to meet any woman as tall as me, but at least I can move quickly without tripping over it. I’m in the walled garden before anyone’s so much as turned their head in my direction. So far so good.
I stay in the garden only long enough to observe that there’s a big bed of medicinal herbs set out in orderly fashion. Someone has left a basket behind; the contents are suited to the brewing of restorative teas. At one end of the garden is a door into the eastern part of the house, and I don’t see a guard—I suppose they’re all fighting the fire. I go in, working out what I’ll say if I bump into some senior member of the household. I could tell them I feel ill. Collapse in a faint. With luck nobody’s thoughts will be on me right now.
I hear muffled crying. It’s coming from the chamber directly inside and it sounds like a man. I walk quietly to the open door. It’s the stillroom; there’s a steaming pot on the hearth and various herbs are strewn across the table. Seated at that table is a young man—a very young man, fourteen at most—with his head in his hands, sobbing. I tap gently on the door.
He starts as if struck. His head comes up, and I see the face of someone who is at his wits’ end. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. He’s deathly pale, with shadows around his eyes, and those eyes are reddened and swollen. His right hand is red, too; that looks like a burn.
“I was looking for the healer,” I say, keeping my voice low as I move into the chamber. “I hoped he—or she—might be here. My name is Liobhan.” And when the young man stares at me wordless, a lock of brown hair falling over his brow, I add, “Is everything all right?”
He sniffs, then wipes his nose on his sleeve. “There’s no healer,” he says in a thread of a voice. “Only me. And I can’t do it. I can’t keep on doing it, I can’t . . .”
“Take a deep breath,” I say. He’s trembling. Lack of sleep can do that to you. “Please. I mean you no harm.” He draws in a shuddering breath and lets it out in a sigh. He won’t meet my eye. “What were you making? May I help?” I cast a glance over the untidy table. I can do something simple with what’s there. Chamomile and lavender; a soothing mix.
“Nothing works,” the boy mumbles. “Nothing’s any good. I’ve been trying my best, truly . . .”
I finish shredding the dried flowers, find a jug, fill it with hot water—at least there was a kettle ready on the fire—and tip the fragrant blend in. I look for honey, find a jar, add a spoonful. It smells quite good, considering the makeshift method. I let the boy weep undisturbed. As I’m stirring the brew I hear another voice. It’s coming from further along the hallway. Not a sob this time, more of a low-pitched groan, quickly cut off. I freeze where I stand. “What was that?”
The boy shakes his head, then puts his hands over his ears and lowers his brow to the tabletop. I fill a cup and set it by him, warning him that it’s hot. Then I’m out the door and along the hallway. The next chamber’s empty. The one after it has its door shut, and the sounds of distress are coming from inside. What if I barge in and it’s not Dau? What if I walk in on some complete stranger lying sick in bed? But it is Dau. I know his voice.
I open the door. The room is in darkness. The light from the hallway shows me a disordered pallet, and on it a man curled up on himself, with his arms shielding his eyes. He groans again, a sound of such awful pain that it’s like a knife going through me. My shadow lies across the floor, and now it’s joined by another.
“I tried my best,” the boy says from behind me. His voice is still shaky, but he’s pulled himself together. “For a bit, he wasn’t too bad. But he kept on rubbing his eyes and saying his head hurt, and I didn’t know the right way to help him, and nobody would explain . . . He got worse and worse. He can’t sleep, and it makes him crazy. He screams and crashes about and hurts himself. When I try to help he fights me. He’s really strong.”
I won’t waste time asking ques
tions. “Fetch a lamp,” I say. “Or some candles. And be quick. You’re not in trouble. I know how to help. What’s your name?”
“Corb, mistress.” There’s a note of profound relief in his voice now.
“Call me Liobhan. In this household I’m a servant like you. Hurry, please.”
I prop the door open, praying nobody else will come until I’ve found out what in the name of the gods is wrong. I must stay calm, though anger is building in me every moment I look at Dau curled up there like a beaten child. The stink tells me he’s been vomiting and voiding his bowels and hasn’t been cleaned up properly for some time. I can’t be angry with Corb. He said he’s done his best and I believe him. I’m angry at whoever thought his inexpert ministrations would be enough.
I sit down on the edge of the pallet, cautious after what Corb said earlier. “Dau,” I say softly. “Dau, it’s me, Liobhan. Are you in pain? Can you talk to me?”
He squeezes himself up as tightly as his long limbs allow. He’s still hiding his face.
“Dau, it’s all right. I’ll help you.” And a pox on anyone who dares try to stop me. “Turn this way, Dau. Turn toward me. Please.” I want to see those eyes, though I dread it at the same time. “Dau?”
He doesn’t move.
I reach out, put a hand on his shoulder, shake him gently. “Dau!”
In a heartbeat he’s sitting up and his hands are reaching for my throat. I block him with my forearms just in time. “Get away!” he shouts. His voice is hoarse, but the words are unmistakable. “Don’t touch me!”
I push him back onto the bed and keep him there, my arms across his chest, my weight pinning him down. He’s writhing and kicking, fighting to get free of me. Corb was right: sick as Dau is, he’s still strong. I hold him down while Corb comes in with a lamp, sets it on a chest, then dithers by my side, not sure what to do. “A clean damp cloth,” I snap. “And some water for him to drink. Do you have anything to give him for the pain?” Then, as Dau lets fly a stream of foul oaths, arching his back so hard he’s likely to hurt himself, I say, “Never mind now, fetch the cloth and some water.” I can’t have the lad playing around with any of the herbs I’d use for a soporific draft. You need to know what you’re doing for that. I have to get Dau calmed down some other way.