The Caller Page 6

  But Silva would not. Weary to the bone, her face still wet with tears, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. ‘I must stay awake. That’s what Maeva would expect. It’s what the Lady would expect.’

  The next morning, the three of us returned to the place of the cairns. I waited with Silva while she spent some time in private, silent prayer. When she had finished, Whisper escorted her back to the ruined house. We hadn’t made much of a plan, but it was obvious we could not survive the winter here without Silva’s hospitality, and she in her turn would not consider leaving her duties of tending to the animals and maintaining the women’s rituals. Whisper and I would have to trust that the natural magic of this place would keep me safe. We were agreed that Silva should not be left on her own.

  When they were gone, I crept into the beehive hut. No sooner had I seated myself on the earthen floor and begun the slow sequence of breathing than a host of tiny presences swarmed down from somewhere in the arched roof to settle on me, their little lights painting the ancient stones with a many-coloured glow.

  ‘Ye hae a sorrow on ye,’ came the voice, softer today. ‘What is it that’s happened?’

  I told her, keeping to the facts, trying for a calm tone. ‘There’s only the one young girl left – Silva – but she’s sworn to keep the ritual going on her own,’ I said at the end.

  ‘The wee lassie, aye. She’ll be grievin’. ’Tis a sorry place, this Alban o’ yours, sad and sorry.’

  ‘And yours,’ I felt compelled to say. ‘It may be sad and sorry now, but it’s the same Alban where wise women once observed the high days openly; where they walked among their communities, teaching and healing, and were viewed with respect. My grandmother was one such. A herbalist.’

  ‘Oh, aye? And what became o’ her?’

  ‘An enthralment that went awry. She died less than a year later.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ I heard compassion in her voice. ‘And ye’d hae been a lassie around this one’s age when it happened?’

  ‘I was, yes.’

  ‘’Twillna be easy for ye, if ye must care for this lass and keep her safe, and follow your ain path, both at the same time.’

  I had not yet told Silva that as soon as my training was complete, we’d have to move on. ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, weel, ye willna be headin’ off tomorrow. There’s time for ye tae think things through. I see ye ken the five steps o’ breathin’. Wha showed ye that?’

  ‘The Hag of the Isles.’

  ‘That auld creature! Is that selkie fellow still by her side? Took up wi’ him when she wasna mair than a lassie, she did. But then, she always did gae her ain way.’

  Her words brought a smile to my lips. I pictured the Hag as a young woman, tall and strong, swimming in those turbulent western waters alongside her selkie lover. I had learned, over the spring, that he had hidden depths. He was a gentler soul than the Hag; they complemented each other. ‘Yes, Himself is still there with her. I spent a good part of last spring with the Hag, learning. The day I first met her, she put me and my companion out on a skerry and left us there. First the two of us, then only me. It was a testing introduction to the magic of water.’

  ‘Were ye no’ expectin’ tae be tested?’ I imagined the Lady raising her brows; the small bright beings made a sound like laughter.

  ‘I expected the learning to be difficult. But I thought I had proven my physical endurance by then. I discovered, rather too slowly for my peace of mind, that what the Hag needed from me was not a demonstration of strength, but a recognition of the power of water in all its forms.’

  ‘Oh, aye. And what then?’

  ‘After a few days on the skerry alone, I performed a ritual based on my understanding of water. It must have been good enough, because she came in her boat to collect me and take me back to my friends. Later, she taught me what I had travelled there to learn.’

  ‘Friends? Didna ye say there were twa o’ ye?’

  I felt my cheeks grow warm. ‘My guard and companion, Tali, one of the rebels. She had been on the skerry with me, but had been taken back to the bigger island while I slept. And . . . another friend.’

  ‘Ye dinna trust me enow tae tell me?’

  ‘Of course I do. But I’ve become accustomed to keeping secrets. It still feels odd to speak openly of the rebellion and of my past. My friend . . . he plays a particular part for the rebels, a part that puts him in constant danger.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said my unseen companion. ‘Tell me then, what did ye learn frae the Hag? What did the Lord o’ the North teach ye?’

  ‘From the Hag, I learned to make myself open to natural magic; to be the conduit through which it flows. When I use my Caller’s gift, it’s not my own power that brings the Good Folk to me and allows me to guide their actions, it’s the power of earth, fire, water and air. My openness to the natural world allows me to find uncanny folk and to speak to them in a particular way; the strength of the elements runs through me when I call.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Hag taught me to single out one among many. She taught me that sometimes my gift will result in harm to the one I call, and that I must accept those consequences if it’s for the greater good.’ I fell silent, remembering the small deaths in the sea around Far Isle as I worked with the magic of water. ‘I still find that difficult. Before I began training with her, I used my gift a few times without really understanding how it worked, and folk died because of what I did. That’s a heavy burden to bear.’

  ‘And yet, ye plan tae stand up before this king o’ yours and challenge him and his Enforcers tae a fight? Ye canna be sae simple that ye dinna ken how many would fa’ in such a battle. Or were ye thinkin’ the Guardians would come tae the rescue and set a’ tae rights wi’ a quick pass o’ the hands?’

  If only they could. ‘Not at all. This king is of humankind, and it is for humankind to pay the price of removing him from power. But he has workers of magic in his household, folk with canny skills. At the last midsummer Gathering, a man from the court set wood on fire with a simple gesture, or so it seemed. Imagine what harm that could do if unleashed against an enemy.’

  ‘Dinna your rebels hae canny folk also? Wouldna ye set their talents against whatever the king’s folk can offer?’

  ‘We have a few folk with canny skills, but nothing that would alter the course of a battle. Apart from my gift.’

  ‘Aye, a Caller’s gift. So your plan is tae use the Good Folk tae fight for ye. Fight and die for ye.’

  I had been presented with this argument almost every time I had explained the rebellion to a clan of Good Folk. ‘That’s why I am travelling to each Guardian in turn and asking for training. So that I can control my call. So that I can enlist the Good Folk as allies to our cause, not draw them into the conflict against their will.’

  ‘’Tisna natural for your kind and mine tae be allies,’ the Lady said. ‘Cooperation isna the way o’ the Good Folk. Ye must ken that by now.’

  ‘I do. But I have also discovered a will for change among your kind. Many have been helping us, spreading word of the rebellion, letting their clans all across Alban know what’s coming. The Lord of the North has promised the support of his fighters. Smaller beings are working beside us, too. Many have overcome their natural reluctance to work with other clans, and with human folk.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Then ye’ve wrought great change. Or is it that they canna say no tae ye, because o’ what ye are? Isna that the nature o’ a Caller?’

  ‘I don’t want to force anyone into anything. If I could learn to call only those willing to fight for the cause, that’s what I’d do. If learning the magic of air will help me refine my call further, or make it stronger, or ensure it does not draw beings who would be quickly destroyed by Keldec’s army, I will be deeply grateful.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘While I was in the Lord of the North�
��s hall, he had me work with his warriors. I am able to use the call more strategically now. I learned to call folk from a long distance, and to call beings I had not seen before, only imagined from a description. I practised directing the actions of several folk at once, in a mock combat, for instance. That was not so hard, given that the beings concerned were willing volunteers. The Lord’s folk have a good understanding of what is at stake for all of us.’

  ‘What o’ the south, and the magic o’ fire? If this king has a fellow can conjure wi’ flame, ye’ll need a defence against it.’

  ‘I intend to visit the Master of Shadows when I leave here, not only for that, but to ask for a defence against cold iron. Unless we can protect them, many of the smaller Good Folk, the forest dwellers in particular, will soon perish if they are part of our challenge to the king. We’ve planned it for the next midsummer Gathering. Every troop of Enforcers will be at Summerfort, along with the personal armies of the chieftains of Alban. Our own fighters would soon be cut down if they could not use their iron weaponry. If there were a spell that could be cast over all those who fought against the king . . .’

  ‘Ye dinna imagine,’ the Lady said, ‘that if the Master o’ Shadows had such a spell he would gie it tae ye for free?’

  ‘He seemed well disposed toward me,’ I ventured. ‘He is a volatile being, yes. Changeable, full of tricks. But . . . wouldn’t he consider the cause of freedom important enough? I must at least ask him.’

  ‘Ye’re crazy.’

  There was nothing I could say to this, so I sat quietly instead, practising slow breathing.

  ‘’Tis a lot for a lassie to take on herself,’ the Lady said eventually. ‘A grand big task, sae grand a body can hardly get a picture o’ it. Ye’ve got a stubborn streak in ye, that’s plain. Comes frae that grandmother o’ yours, nae doot.’

  Sudden tears sprang to my eyes. The wee bright folk murmured among themselves, and the one on my right shoulder flew up to brush my cheek with its wings.

  ‘Ye miss her.’

  ‘My family’s gone. I wouldn’t wish them back; not into Alban the way it is now.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Now, tae the matter o’ what I can teach ye. This rebellion, this challenge . . . at the Gatherin’, ye say? Wi’ a great army against ye, an army well trained and loyal tae the king. Hae ye considered what might happen when ye stand up, a wee lassie like yourself, and speak words o’ defiance before that crowd? Once they start tae fight it’ll be a’ stirred up like a pot o’ porridge boilin’ on the fire. Ye willna be able tae tell friend frae foe. Sheer bloody carnage, it’ll be. This king, he willna wait for ye tae finish your speech before he orders the killin’ tae start. As for callin’ in uncanny folk tae help ye, the best Caller in a’ the history o’ Alban wouldna be heard ower such a clamour.’

  I gritted my teeth, swallowing those weak tears. ‘We have allies,’ I said. ‘Human allies as well as Good Folk. Three chieftains of Alban and their men-at-arms. On the day, our uncanny allies will be close enough for me to be able to call them easily, but concealed by magic. I’ll need to get the timing exactly right.’

  ‘Let’s suppose ye get tae Summerfort in time,’ said the Lady. ‘Let’s imagine your folk are a’ in position as ye planned. Ye stand up and say your wee speech, and the king’s men attack ye. Your rebels rush intae battle, and find they canna prevail – there’s nae human army can beat the Enforcers. Ye ca’ the Good Folk tae help your rebels. They come to ye and join the fight; they use what magic they can. The king uses the magical abilities o’ his canny followers. Folk start tae fall. Folk start tae die. Humankind and Good Folk alike. And there ye are, the Caller, wi’ everyone waitin’ for ye tae act. But what ye see before ye isna a neat strategic plan. It’s a field o’ folk hackin’ and maimin’, a field of shouts and shrieks and sufferin’. What will ye dae?’

  By now I was cold with misgiving. ‘I must learn to see order in chaos,’ I said, thinking that might be impossible. ‘To see clearly . . .’ A sudden memory came to me. In the subterranean well where the Master of Shadows had tested my strength, I had heard the White Lady’s voice. ‘I must see with the clarity of air,’ I said, repeating her words.

  ‘Guid. Easy tae say, no’ sae easy tae put intae practice, o’ course. But mebbe there’s time enow. New ways o’ seein’, ye’ll work on. New ways o’ hearin’. And shapin’ the call tae the circumstances. Ye willna hae time, in this battle, tae look at ane fighter here and another ower there, and call tae each whatever will help him win. ’Tisna possible. The gift o’ callin’, ’tis a powerfu’ weapon, but nae the sharpest or most precise. We hae much work ahead o’ us, Neryn. When ye gae back tae the house o’ the wise women, ask the lassie if there’s a drum that survived burnin’. If there is, bring it wi’ ye in the mornin’.’

  ‘A drum?’

  ‘The magic o’ air isna only seein’ clear. There’s hearin’ the way a bird hears, or a dragonfly, or ane o’ my wee bein’s here. There’s understandin’ the moods o’ air, frae the gentle breeze stirrin’ the reeds tae the roarin’ gale that snaps an ancient oak like a twig. Air’s slow and quiet, and it’s quick and hard. Ane day it carries the lark on her flight; the next, it topples the tree wi’ her nest o’ wee ones in it. The drum will speak to ye o’ air, if ye open your ears tae its voice.’

  Our lives fell into a pattern. Silva and I spent the nights in the stillroom, with Whisper on watch in a tree outside. In the mornings we fed the animals, then made our way to the Beehives, where Whisper and Silva waited until I was safely down among the cairns before returning to the ruined house.

  All day, Silva tended the garden, planting, weeding, harvesting. She let the chickens out to roam. She cooked and stored food. We could only pray the smoke from her fire did not attract attention; with the winter weather setting in, we could not manage without it.

  Before dusk each day, the two of them returned to the Beehives to fetch me. Sometimes they came early, and I assisted Silva with a ritual while Whisper stayed on the rise with his head turned away. Silva taught me how to help her, and I carried offerings, chanted responses and paced formal paths with increasing confidence, honoured that I could be part of something so sacred and so old.

  We learned from Silva that Winterfort lay only a few days’ walk north from the Beehives. The border with Glenfalloch was further south. No messenger came from Tali – unsurprising, since it was winter and she did not know where we were – and I had no way to send word to her or to get in touch with the southern rebel group. Whisper was our protector and must stay with us. I could not ask the wee folk of the Beehives. It was inconceivable that a being so tiny and frail could endure a long flight out in the cold.

  It was a perishing season. As the days and nights passed, and Silva kept us alive with her little fires, her vegetable broths, her flat bread and onions, I knew we owed her a debt that might never be repaid. For the Lady could not save us from hunger and cold. She could not protect us from the intrusions of ordinary folk, should they choose to ride over here and investigate who was living in the burned-out house. She had once been a powerful presence. Now, it seemed she was reduced to the wise voice and the tiny bright beings who allowed it to be heard. I wished I knew what she had once been. And what of her people? Had they all faded away for want of folk who believed in them?

  Diminished the Lady might be, but she could still teach. I spent hours with the drum, watching a pinch of earth dance on its ox-hide surface in response to my gentle tapping. I sang and made the skin vibrate; the grains of earth bounced and made mysterious patterns there, answering my voice. By placing my ear close to the drum skin, I learned to understand the tiny high speech of the wee folk, who would fly above it as they spoke, though, in truth, they preferred to give me their opinions in dumb show, as on that first day. For approval, leaping and clapping of hands. For disapproval, hands placed dramatically over eyes, or the back turned, or simply flying away. For excitement, dancing,
somersaults, shrieks. I came to believe they were both independent of the White Lady and linked to her. After all, I thought, this was not so different from the household in the north, where the Lord was surrounded by retainers so loyal that they had waited three hundred years for him to wake from his enchanted sleep. Perhaps they, too, would die if they lost their Guardian. Perhaps it was the same in every Watch – the spirit of the Watch existed not only in its Guardian, but in every one of the folk who lived there, something that was shared among them, so although they were separate, they were at the same time one. That felt like a wondrous, deep knowledge; the thought filled me with awe.

  Winter advanced. Sombre clouds filled the sky. The wind beat on our modest refuge. The rain hurled itself against the walls as if to topple them, or came straight down in drenching sheets, turning the farmyard to a quagmire and forcing us to bring Snow and the chickens inside with us. The ducks were untroubled, finding shelter among the reeds that fringed the now-swollen stream.

  There was a brief dry spell, and Silva dashed out to pull the last of the root vegetables and dig her broken beanstalks into the soil. The respite was soon over. On a day of howling gales and heavy rain, a day when it would have been foolish to attempt a walk to the cairns, the three of us huddled in the biggest of the outhouses with the animals, waiting for the worst to pass. I had insisted Whisper join us; surely no-one would be abroad in such a storm. We had a little fire burning in a brazier, but the wind poked icy fingers between the shutters and under the door. The chickens perched in a row up on a shelf, muttering to each other and casting nervous glances at Whisper. Snow was bedded down on straw in a corner, content to be out of the weather.

  It was time to be more open with Silva. Whisper and I had agreed, earlier, that she should not be left on her own, and we had kept to that. But we could not stay here forever; when my training was complete, we would have to move on, and she would indeed be alone. Her hard work and generosity were allowing us to survive here; I owed her as much of the truth as I could risk telling.