Moonheart (18 page)

The beauty of the scene held her spellbound for long moments. The wind brought the tang of salt to her nostrils and she breathed deeply. The rude wooden club that she was still holding fell from limp fingers.

At length, something tugged at her and she headed to the right, south along the coast. She passed cliffs laden with wild rose bushes, more spruce, some cedar. The feeling of being drawn grew stronger and she began to hurry again. There was a sound in the air that she couldn't recognize. It was soft and distant, but as insistent as a summoning bell. The clarity of its tone was bell-like as well, but it wasn't a bell. Not until she reached a long sweep of shingled beach did she recognize it for what it was. Harping.

She paused to listen. The sound of the sea, waves lapping gently to shore, mingled with the bittersweet lament of the harp notes. She saw in the distance a large lump of limestone lifting from the beach and suddenly knew where she was. She and Jamie had spent a few weeks down here one summer. That was Percé Rock, supposedly named by Champlain, a great shiplike rock that surveyed the Gulf of St. Lawrence like a beached whale. She remembered seeing the Rock by day and being impressed. By moonlight, it filled her with awe.

By moonlight. It wasn't just that. It was the feeling that had been growing in her all day, that subtle heightening of her senses, now mixed with the strangeness of her dream. She listened to the harping. It was fey and resonant, and she thought of Alan Stivell's rendition of "Ys," complete with the sounds of the sea— but this was deeper, more solemn, more magical.

She wasn't frightened anymore. Heading across the shingles she never gave a thought to why she couldn't see the lights of Percé village or the statue of the saint on top of Mont Saint-Anne that was a landmark for fishermen at sea. She saw only the Rock and the sea and the play of moonlight on the shore. Heard only the sound of the waves and the soft, fey harping. Sought only the harper.

She found him at the foot of the Rock, seated with his back against that limestone monolith. Nearby was a leather coracle like the kind she'd seen in old picture books of historical Ireland. At his feet was a thin dog, all fur and eyes. It lifted its head as she approached and whined softly. The harper let his hands fall from the strings of his instrument and looked up.

With a shock, Sara recognized him. It was the man from her painting. Younger, but the same man. She paused where she stood, suddenly shy, and a little frightened.

The harper's eyes had narrowed as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was clear and ringing, but the words were in no language that Sara knew. She shook her head, then took a step back as the harper laid his instrument aside and stood up. He held his hands open before him in the universal gesture of peace. His hands said, Look, I have no weapons. I offer only peace.

Still unsure, Sara let him approach, He lifted his hands towards her— slowly so as not to startle her— and laid a palm on either side of her head. A pain like fire pierced her mind. She reeled and would have fallen, but he supported her, eyes suddenly filled with concern.

"Easy," he said. "I meant no harm. It was just—"

Sara tore herself free of his grip and staggered backward. She shook her head slowly. The pain was gone, but she was still a little shaky. Then suddenly she realized something.

"I... I can understand you," she said.

"I am a bard," he said as though that explained it all. When she said nothing, he added: "We have the gift of tongues. It is a gift that can also be given to another."

"A gift of..." Sara repeated in a murmur.

She looked away from him, back to the cliffs, and saw for the first time that there was nothing there but the wild headlands. No village, no statue, nothing.

"Percé," she said almost to herself. "What happened to the village?"

"I saw no village," the harper replied. "You are the first I have met in this land, m'lady. What is its name?"

"Its name?" She looked from him to his coracle. "You didn't arrive here in that, did you? From across the sea?"

The harper nodded. "It was a long journey, and not one of my own choosing. My gifts sustained me, but only barely. If there is shelter near...?"

It's just a dream, Sara told herself. Nothing to panic about. Percé doesn't have to be here in a dream. Men who looked like they stepped from a history book can cross the ocean in a coracle with nothing but a harp and a dog. Why not?

"Are you ill?" the harper asked. "The giving of the gift of tongues is not a powerful spell, but had I known it would pain you so..."

"No. I'm fine. I mean, I appreciate being able to understand what you're saying and all. It's just that... the last time I was here it was ...different."

For one thing, she'd been awake.

"Different? How so?"

He was still having some trouble understanding her, Sara decided. Must be her accent or something. God! Her accent? She was worrying about accents? Why not just wake up instead? Or should she tell him that she was dreaming him, complete with harp, coracle and dog. And magic gifts. Maybe she should have taken up writing fantasy novels instead of the mystery she was working on.

He was still waiting for her answer. She swallowed, but with difficulty. Her throat was too dry.

"It's hard to explain," she said at last. "I'm not from around here, you see."

"Then why are you here? A maid alone on a deserted shore. Is this land so peaceful that such a thing can be?"

Maybe not the land, Sara thought, but in my dream, yes. Why not? It's my dream isn't it? Unless this was someone else's dream and— No. She didn't want to start thinking along those lines.

"My name's Sara," she said to change the subject. "Sara Kendell. What's yours?"

"Sara," the harper repeated, saying her name as though he was tasting it. "It is an unfamiliar name, but has a lovely ring to it." He smiled. "You do not guard your names here, as we do in my homeland. But as you have entrusted me with yours, so will I give you mine. I am called Taliesin, once of Gwynedd, for all the long roads I've trod, but now of no land. Or of all lands."

"Taliesin."

She knew the name, but before she could remember from where, her gaze lit on the ring finger of his left hand. There, all gold and bright, was a twin to the ring on her own finger. She held up her hand to compare them, then felt herself grow dizzy. She remembered who Taliesin was. He was the most famous of all the Welsh bards— a magician as well as a harper who supposedly wrote the druidical "Battle of the Trees" that Robert Graves had based his book
The White Goddess
on.

"How can this be?" Taliesin said, echoing Sara's thoughts, though he referred to the ring on her hand and not what his name meant to her.

Too weird, Sara thought and her dizziness grew. She felt a touch on her arm, as though the harper had reached for her, but that touch turned to mist, or she did, for it was gone, and the spinning grew fiercer. She lost all sense of equilibrium. Darkness swelled and then—

Sara was someplace else.

Her dream was still too jumbled to make sense out of. She blinked, feeling that sensation of dislocation that comes when you don't wake up in your own bed, but she wasn't quite sure what bed she'd gone to sleep in last night, so she couldn't even tell herself to relax. Her eyes opened and she gave a small cry of dismay.

It was starting all over again. The pines and larches reared about her. The smell of resin was thick in the air. She was lying on a thick carpet of pine needles and the air was very still, except for high above where the wind murmured through the treetops.

She sat up, willing her surroundings away. But with a sense of déja vu that set her nerves on edge, the forest stayed where it was, and she stayed in it. Alone, except for the sound of the wind and— Sitting up, her hand brushed something that was neither pine branch nor cone. Pulse drumming, she looked down upon the still white features of Kieran Foy.

He lay stretched out on the pine needles beside her, face ashen. There was a rude bandage on his side through which a faint red stain of dried blood could be seen. Sara remembered the scene in the restaurant, the flash of the monster's talons... And if Kieran was here, and she was here, and that wound was here— then might it not all be real?

She started to shake all over. Backing away from Kieran's still form, she knocked something over. Twisting with surprise, she discovered it was only a clay jug. Water spilled from it and soaked into the pine needles until she had enough presence of mind to pick it up and set it upright. Beside the jug, on a rudely woven and dyed cloth, were strips of dried meat and flat things that looked like unleavened cornbread or cakes.

Who had left these things? Who had bound Kieran's wound? She stared wildly through the trees, but found no answer in them. It's morning, she realized then, sensing the sun more than seeing it through the thick canopy of pine boughs above them. Morning where? At that moment, Kieran stirred.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. At first he didn't seem to focus on anything. Then his gaze cleared and he looked directly into Sara's eyes, his own confusion mirroring hers. His lips parted, but no sound issued forth. He reached for her hand, but when their skin touched, Sara knew a dizzying surge of displacement. Suddenly they were sharing minds again. His sickness and confusion became her own and she saw herself through his eyes.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, tugging her hand free. "Don't ever touch me!" She couldn't bear to feel that again, and she backed away from him.

"W-water," Kieran croaked. "Please..."

The jug was right behind her. She picked it up and edged closer. His jacket lay beside him, neatly folded. Careful not to touch him, she bunched up his jacket and managed to work it under his head, and then she was able to trickle water into his mouth. More fell down his chin than went in, but it was enough. His eyes began to clear. Sara sat back on her heels and regarded him critically.

"How're you feeling?" she asked.

Close up as she was, she could see the changes that the few years since she'd seen him playing with Toby Finnegan's band had brought. Beyond the chalky pallor of his face, she saw strong lines. It was the face of a man who was usually sure of himself, a determined face, but not without a touch of gentleness. He returned her look with frank curiosity.

"Not so good," he said at last.

He sat up. One hand went to his side at the effort.

"
Nom de tout!
I feel like I was hit by a truck."

When his fingers came in contact with his bandage, he looked down, shocked. His own memory of what had happened in Patty's Place flooded his mind. Physically, he was feeling stronger by the minute. But his head reeled with the images that came to him. Lord dying Jesus!

"A shaper," he murmured, fingering his bandage.

"A what?"

"A shape changer. That's what gave me this."

"Do you know what's going on?"

There was an edge to Sara's voice that brought Kieran's gaze sharply to her. He remembered through the haze of his confused waking her crying something about not touching her.

"I didn't try to... take advantage of you or something, did I?"

"What?" Then Sara realized what he was talking about. She shook her head. "It's when you caught hold of my hand... when you were waking. All of a sudden I wasn't in myself anymore. I was seeing everything through you..."

Not the best of explanations, she realized as she was speaking. But lucidity was beyond her reach just now.

"You must be an empath," Kieran said. "When people are under stress, they tend to project more strongly than usual. Physical contact heightens it— feeds it directly to you. I'll damp my projecting so it won't happen again." He concentrated for a moment then reached out his hand. "Give it a try now."

Sara shook her head. "No, thank you." She paused, then added: "It's never happened to me before."

Kieran shrugged and dropped his hand. He still felt weak. Just the effort of holding out his hand had drained him.

"How did you get us out of the restaurant?" he asked. Looking around, he added: "And where did you get us to?"

"Me? I didn't have anything to do with it. I thought it was you. You or those weird drummers. Don't
you
know what's going on?"

Kieran seemed to be accepting all of it fairly calmly, Sara thought. But then, after what she'd seen him do in the restaurant... why shouldn't he?

"Who are you?" she asked. "I mean, I know your name— it's Kieran Foy— but
who
is Kieran Foy? Why are the RCMP looking for you— for you and that old man?"

"You seem to know as much as I do already."

"I don't know anything. All I know is that in the last couple of days, my whole world's been turned topsy-turvy and I haven't a clue what's going on."

Kieran wasn't prepared to go into anything with her, at least not until he understood a little more himself. But he saw that Sara wasn't going to be satisfied with some vague answer.

"Let's start with this," he said. "You know who I am. Who are you? Maybe if we pool what we know, we can come up with something."

It wouldn't hurt, she decided. "My name's Sara Kendell." She had a faint flash of her dream harper as she spoke. She almost wished she was back under the Rock with him. At least then she'd
known
she was dreaming. Right now she wasn't sure of anything.

Kieran regarded her strangely. Sara Kendell. She was Jamie Tams' niece. He recalled the feeling he'd had looking at Tamson House the other night— was it only last night?— that sense of some evil presence that had showed up again at Patty's Place. He couldn't sense it now, so perhaps it wasn't directly tied to her, but she was still involved. In some way. Now all he had to do was discover in what way.

"The ring," he said. "Where did you get it?"

Sara looked down at her hand. She traced the ribbonwork with a finger, then glanced up.

"I think that's where it all began," she said. "It's an inheritance of sorts, I suppose. A man named Evans— Aled Evans— left it to my uncle in a box of other junk. I found it a few days ago and that's when it all started."