Flame of Sevenwaters (14 page)

“The crone threw back her head and cackled. Birds flew up in alarm from the dark trees all around. ‘Taught that they must remember?’ she mocked. ‘And who will do that, when you have forgotten the most important thing of all, the wisdom observed by generation after generation until some foolish chieftain neglected to pass it on to his children, and another dismissed is as old wives’
rubbish? How can I trust you when you have forgotten the geis?’ As she spoke the word, the old woman grew tall, and her shabby clothes became a robe the hue of midnight, and her eyes were so full of power that Baine and Finn wondered if they might be burned to ashes right where they stood.

“Finn found his voice first. ‘A geis? I have heard nothing of this.’

“‘Will you tell us what it is, please?’ asked Baine. Under the courteous tone, her voice was shaking. A geis could not be good. Not when so much ill had been done.

“‘It is simple enough,’ the sorceress said, for there was no doubt that was what she was, now that she had revealed herself. ‘I would have thought even humankind could remember such a simple thing, but at some point it seems it was forgotten. It is a double geis, like that laid upon the hero Cú Chulainn.
Cross the Silverwash in enmity and death will be quick to find you. Drink of its waters and you will never be the same again.
’

“Finn and Baine looked at each other. There were many questions to ask and neither was confident that the sorceress would answer all of them. Which should they ask first?” Ciarán turned to look at us, his mulberry eyes intense, his face pale in the firelight. I thought he was going to speak to Finbar again—my brother sat so still beside me, he might have been in a trance—but he chose me. “What question would you have asked, Maeve?”

I hesitated, not especially happy to be singled out, since it meant every person in the hall was looking at me, but pleased that he thought my opinion worth having. “It seems to me the most important thing to know was: On whom was the geis laid?” I said. “If only on the chieftains of those two domains, then their children would be able to start setting things right. If on every person who lived in the valley, then all the men who’d been drawn into the fighting would soon die and the community would fall apart. I do not know if Finn took part in the battle, but if he did, he would be cursed along with his father, and I don’t suppose Baine could have wrought a miracle on her own, though no doubt she would have tried her best.”

I was rewarded by Ciarán’s smile, a smile with no trace of condescension in it. He was genuinely pleased by my answer.

“That was the question Baine asked, and the sorceress was happy to provide an answer. The geis had been laid on the chieftains of those two domains and on their descendants. It therefore affected Maelan and Torna, and it also lay over Finn and Baine. How fortunate that despite his father’s accusations of cowardice Finn had refused to fight.

“‘My father—’ Baine said, and at the same time Finn said, ‘But—’

“‘A geis is a geis,’ said the sorceress. The young people heard a terrible sorrow in her voice and knew that it gave her no pleasure to mete out this ancient justice. ‘These warring chieftains will fight no more. Guilt and sorrow have claimed Torna; you, Finn, are already chieftain in all but name. Baine, you must be brave. You will not see your father alive again.’

“White as a sheet, with Finn’s arm around her, Baine managed to find words. ‘My father has no heir,’ she said. ‘My sister and I are unwed. The law forbids that a woman become chieftain.’

“The sorceress of the Nameless Wood looked from Baine to Finn and back again. ‘The future is in your hands,’ she said. ‘Live your lives wisely. Teach your children the geis. Do not forget. And be glad you disregarded your parents’ warning when you were children playing in my clear waters and climbing my trees and singing songs with my birds. Be glad you drank of the Silverwash, for you will need every drop of the strength it gave you. Walk home now, and as you pass through my woods and over my fields, draw courage from them. If you are brave, good and wise you can face any challenge.’

“There was no need for her to spell out the obvious: that the two territories could become one through marriage, and that the geis had delivered both doom and priceless gift. Finn bowed low; Baine dropped a deep curtsy. ‘You are a being of great power,’ Finn said, ‘and rightly feared in these parts. Yet instead of harsh and cruel punishment, you have given us justice and kindness.’

“The sorceress looked him straight in his honest blue eyes, and she said, ‘The punishment your fathers have brought down on their land and their people is far crueler than anything I could
devise. Besides, you are children of the Silverwash. Off with you now, or you won’t be home by morning.’

“Oddly, the path through the Nameless Wood seemed far shorter on the way back, and the moon that had shunned them earlier now lit their path. When Baine and Finn reached the spot where they had left their boat, it was to find the vessel lying aslant on dry ground. The lake was gone; the Silverwash ran as it had in times of old, a lovely, splashing stream, bright under the soft moonlight. Hand in hand, Finn and Baine began the long walk home across the sodden fields. There would be a funeral, perhaps two. There would be explanations to make and alliances to rebuild. There would be a wedding. There would be hard work and renewal. And when there were children, they would be taught the geis, and there would be peace.”

The story was ended. Ciarán’s audience afforded him the respect due to a great storyteller, which was a few moments utter silence before they showed their appreciation with the clapping of hands, the drumming of feet and shouts of acclaim. As for Ciarán himself, I could see he was exhausted, though he concealed it well. His eyes held a wish to be somewhere else, somewhere as quiet and peaceful and hopeful as the valley of the Silverwash had been that night when the young couple had walked home by moonlight. I looked at Ciarán as I might look at a troubled creature, and I saw beyond his strength and composure.

“Finbar,” I whispered in my brother’s ear, “make room for Uncle Ciarán here. And don’t ask him too many questions.” As Finbar squeezed up toward Rhian, I caught my uncle’s eye and signaled that he should come and sit beside us on our bench.

He did so readily. My instincts were likely correct; they had never failed me yet, though they were more commonly applied in the case of horse or dog than man or woman.

“Uncle Ciarán, would you care for some mead?”

Rhian was off to fetch it before he finished nodding his head. I sat beside him quietly until she returned with a full goblet and put it in his hands. “That was a very fine story, Master Ciarán,” she said, blushing a little.

“Thank you. As I said, it was one of my brother’s favorites.”

“A good lesson,” I said. “An important tale to keep telling, I think. Uncle, I was asked to pass on a respectful greeting to you from Aunt Liadan. Uncle Bran also sent his regards. He said to tell you he remains forever in your debt.” There was a tangled story in their past; the debt went both ways.

“I am happy to meet you again, Maeve. Ten years, is it not? That is a long time to be away from Sevenwaters. Did you feel the pull of the place from over the sea in Britain?”

He had the same approach to questions as Finbar, though he was somewhat subtler in the manner of asking. I spoke quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “Perhaps I should have done; I know this place has its own magic. But the honest answer is no. My feelings about Sevenwaters have been colored by what happened to me. I understand the magic, but I do not feel it, Uncle Ciarán.” Seeing that Finbar was saying something to Rhian, I added, “Those ten years have made me a stranger here.”

Ciarán considered this a moment, looking down at the goblet in his long, graceful fingers. “I should say, you are family, and family are never strangers here. But that is not true for everyone, as you have discovered. We might speak more of this another time.” He glanced at Finbar, who had stopped talking and was quite plainly waiting to ask a question. “What is it, Finbar?”

“Uncle Ciarán, what if Finn died before any children were born? What if Baine was too sad to remember about the geis? Or what if another chieftain attacked them and Finn had no choice but to cross the Silverwash in enmity? What if…” He glanced at me and fell silent.

“Finbar,” said Ciarán calmly, “I am sure Luachan has explained to you the difference between factual truth and symbolic truth. Figurative truth, that is.”

If he had explained that, I thought, my brother was getting a remarkable education.

“So it isn’t a true story,” Finbar said. He spoke flatly, as if unsurprised to find that happy endings exist only in the imagination.

Before I could say anything, Ciarán spoke. “Ah! I did not say
that at all. Perhaps the events of the story did once happen just as I told them. And perhaps not. A story may be pure imagining, yet at the same time be truer than fact. A tale exists in as many forms as there are folk to hear it. Finbar, shut your eyes and take two deep breaths with me—slowly, slowly, that’s good. Now open your eyes again and tell me, what is the learning in this tale? Give me a short answer, not a long one.”

There was a small pool of quiet around us, though in the rest of the hall the crowd enjoyed its mead and exchanged its news with robust good humor. Luachan had detached himself from the main group and had come to stand by us, still and silent.

Finbar opened his mouth and shut it again with not a word spoken. I put my arm around his shoulders, heedless of who might be looking at my hands.

“That we should respect the earth,” my brother said.

“And you, young lady?” Ciarán looked at Rhian.

Rhian was no ordinary maid; she flushed a little, surprised that he would include her, but found a ready answer. “Never disregard a geis, Master Ciarán.”

“Good, good,” he said, smiling again.

“And more,” I said, though he had not asked me for a contribution. Looking at Finbar, I went on. “The story teaches us that love can heal the most terrible ills. And that even in times of death, destruction and ignorance, there are still good people who can make a difference. If that answer is too long, I apologize.”

“It is not too long, Maeve. Say more if you wish.”

“What I liked best were the words the sorceress spoke to Finn and Baine.
If you are brave, good and wise you can meet any challenge.
The story is worth hearing for that alone. I understand why Uncle Conor loved it, and I thank you for telling it in his honor, Uncle Ciarán.”

“Thank you, Maeve.” He inclined his head gravely. “You speak straight from the heart, with courage. I should not be surprised by that, knowing you were fostered by Liadan and her remarkable husband. She is a brave and forthright woman. He is what he is: one of a kind. You will miss them.”

I said nothing. If I chose to stay at Sevenwaters, I would miss them badly. If I made the choice to return to Harrowfield, I would bring down further sorrow on my parents. No easy choice lay before me. As for being brave, good and wise, there were times when I failed on all three.

“Finbar,” Luachan was speaking in my brother’s ear, “you know the rule: you must sit with me in the dining hall, and when I am not here, you stay close to Doran.”

“It was my fault,” I said. “I asked Finbar to sit beside me; he did explain the rule. If I’ve transgressed I apologize.”

“The rule is for his safety,” Luachan said. “Your father…” He did not finish the sentence.

I wanted to argue the point, but this was not the time. Finbar was too good at seeing the shadow at the heart of every story.

“I understand,” I said. “I’ll have a word with Father on the matter.” Let Luachan make what he liked of that. “Uncle Ciarán, will you be staying here at the keep for a few days?” He seemed a wise and interesting man. In many ways he reminded me of Conor, but there was more to him, I thought. Mysteries, secrets; always that inner reserve. I would like to talk to him alone sometime.

“Luachan and I will both be returning to the nemetons in the morning. He’ll be back here in a few days, as usual. I have some duties among my brethren that cannot wait. But I hope to speak with you again soon. You are welcome to visit us there, provided someone accompanies you—we have our eyes open to danger these days. Luachan tells me you are a keen walker.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him about the grazing fields and Swift, but on that matter, Luachan had been right: it was best that my father do the asking. “Thank you, Uncle. I’d like that.”

“Uncle Ciarán?” It seemed Finbar was not finished with his questions yet. “You know what you said at the start, about Cú Chulainn? I know that story. He was a great hero. He knew about the geis on him, but he can’t have been frightened by it, or he wouldn’t have kept doing brave deeds. Geasa always come true, don’t they? Wouldn’t he have been thinking about it every day,
wondering when it was going to happen, maybe trying to make sure it didn’t catch up with him?”

Ciarán took his time in answering this. A little frown had appeared on his brow. “It seems not, in Cú Chulainn’s case. But he was somewhat exceptional. As you say, a great hero. Perhaps he
was
afraid, Finbar. Or maybe, being so fond of heroic deeds, he simply made sure he performed as many of them as he could before the terms of the geis came to pass. The tales do not give us the answer.”

Later, in our chamber, Rhian brushed out my hair, over which I’d worn a veil at suppertime. Rhian had observed, not for the first time, that it was a shame to cover up such lovely hair—many was the girl, my maid said, who’d kill for a head of red-gold curls like mine. That might be true, I’d told her flatly, but the head of curls needed a pretty face to carry it off, or at least a face not marked by livid scars. I might be prepared to visit the stables with those scars on display, but making my first appearance at my parents’ table was a different matter.
Brave, wise and good.
In this decision I had perhaps not been as brave as I could have been, but I had almost certainly made the wise choice. When I had bid Mother goodnight, before Rhian and I made our exit from the dining hall, she had put her hands on my shoulders, kissed me on either cheek, and murmured, “Well done, Maeve.” So she did understand one thing at least: that even after so long, I must screw up my courage before I stepped out in front of strangers.