Seer of Sevenwaters (5 page)

No time. No choice. As I made my way out along the narrow, high neck of land, a part of me was running through all the sensible arguments—
you’re too small to lift a man’s weight, the tide’s coming in, you didn’t even bring a cloak, what if you can’t reach him, what if . . . what if . . .
I took no heed. Someone was alive out here. I must find him.

The path grew narrower as it climbed, revealing dizzying drops to either side. Gulls wheeled above the rock stacks. There were white caps on the sea now. I could feel the wind’s bite through the wool of my gown. The sky was growing darker.

“Where are you?” I muttered, hardly daring search my mind for the little spark of life I had sensed before, lest I find it gone forever. How could anyone have survived so long? “Breathe! Stay alive! I’m nearly there.”

A gust caught me off guard and I teetered, fighting for balance. As I righted myself, heart pounding, I saw him. He lay far below me on a tiny strip of pebbles, sprawled out with his head toward the cliff face and the hungry tide lapping at his feet. Tattered dark clothing; tangled dark hair; a length of wood lying by his prone body. Perhaps it had helped buoy him until he made landfall on this unlikely shore. He looked limp, spent. So long in the water . . . He must be near death from cold and exhaustion.

I climbed down, my mind repeating the same words over and over.
Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.
The cliff was a nightmare of crumbling rock, of sudden crevices and uncertain ledges. I crept and sidled, slipped and slid, tearing my palms on the clumps of rough grass as I tried to control my wayward descent. I did not think too hard about what I was doing. If my instincts had drawn me here, I must be able to save him.

I jumped the last few feet and landed with a crunch on the pebbles beside the man. A wave washed up to his knees, drenching the hem of my gown, then retreated. Manannán’s curse, this tide was coming in with unnatural speed. As I crouched beside the fallen seafarer, a small gathering of gulls squawked derisive comments from the rocks nearby. I eased the man’s head to the side, pushing his hair away so I could put my fingers to his neck, feeling for signs of life. Gods, he was cold! Under my fingers, a weak pulse beat. He was chalk white, save for dark bruising around the fast-closed eyes.

“Up!” I slapped his cheek hard. “Help me!”

Another wave; in no time at all, the sea would reach the foot of this cliff and be up over the rocks.

“Wake up! You must help me!” I slapped him again. No response. Gritting my teeth, I tried to lift his upper body so I could get a grip around his chest, under the arms, and drag him up. Foolish. Some women might have done it, but I was of slight build.
You are a druid, Sibeal. Use your wits. Find a solution.

I scanned the rock face above us, searching for markers. There was the high tide point. Get the man onto the ledge just above it, and all I need do was keep him warm and wait for someone to come looking for me. As a plan it was somewhat lacking, but a definite improvement on waiting down here until we both drowned. I looked around the tiny strip of pebbles, seeking other answers, and my gaze fell on the length of wood I had noticed before. It had surely been part of the Norse ship, for carven along its elegant curve were runic signs, no doubt placed there to keep vessel and crew safe from harm. Today’s storm had been too strong for any protective talisman.

Runes. Divination. Hidden meanings. From one wave to the next, I fixed my eyes on the carven symbols. “Manannán, send me wisdom,” I prayed. “You’ve brought him this far. You must mean him to survive. Show me how to do my part.”

The next wave washed in. It moved the man forward on the strand and a sound came from him, a deep groan. The water retreated. It had scattered pebbles across the carven wood, touching
Lagu
,
Nyd, Eh
. Three runes, and only a heartbeat of time to interpret them. Water, tides. Inner strength. A problem to be solved, a tool to be found. I was too weak to lift a man, but the sea could do it for me. “Get up!” I shouted as the man stirred, shifting on the pebbles. “Quick!”

He dragged himself up to his knees. I crouched beside him and lifted his arm over my shoulders.
Let me be strong enough to hold him against the tide. Gods give me fortitude.

“Hold on. When the next wave comes we’re going to stand up. Ready?”

A sound from him, more of a grunt than a word.

“Here it comes. One, two—”

The wave caught us, drenching me to the waist as I struggled to my feet. The man hung on. We were standing.

“Move!” I screamed, for the next one was coming fast, and it was much bigger, surely powerful enough to smash us against the rocks. “Now!”

I staggered toward the place where I had climbed down, half-dragging him with me. “Quickly!” But he could not be quick; it was taking all his strength to move one foot before the other. No chance of getting there in time. It was coming. I heard its roar behind us.

“Breathe!” I shouted. I braced my legs and threw my arms around the man’s waist, holding on hard. No time to pray.

The wave hit us. I fought for purchase, clinging to my companion as the water crashed into me, chest-high, and spent itself on the rocks. All was swirling white around us, and then came the sucking undertow, and I did pray, a wordless, mindless plea. It was gone, and we were still here. He wheezed for air, the sound like a knife scraping iron. His legs were buckling. I fought to keep him on his feet.

“Well done!” I shouted. “Now up! Up, quick!”

I dragged him up, step by stumbling step onto the slippery rocks. His breathing vibrated through my body. “Up there. Next wave—up to that ledge. Higher! Up! Up!”
And let the next wave not smash my head into a boulder, or we’re both gone.

My legs ached. My shoulders felt like fire. Another step up, and another. Let me be right about how fast this uncanny tide was rising. Let this wave carry us up to the ledge. The voice of the sea thundered its challenge. Now, it was coming now.

I found a tree root between the stones and grabbed it with my left hand. My right arm was clamped around the man’s waist. “Breathe!” I ordered, then took a breath deep into my chest as I had been taught. The water came, chill and hard. It was in my face, up my nose, filling my ears. My head hit something. I surfaced, my shoulder smashing against the rocks. The man was slipping from my grip, down, down and away. “No!” I shrieked in defiance of the sea, and I grabbed his hair and held on like a barnacle to its rock. “No! You’re going to live!”

The wave subsided, leaving us just below the safe ledge.

“Up!” I croaked. His breathing screamed hurt. His face was ghastly white, his eyes dark hollows. I must be cruel. “Move! This way!” The next wave would get us there. It must. I got his arm around my shoulders again. He forced himself more or less upright.
Nyd
. Courage in the face of the impossible. “Good work,” I said. “Keep hold of me. I won’t let you go.”

We struggled over a patch of sliding stones and past a projecting boulder. As the next wave roared up behind us, we reached the ledge. The surge washed us up onto it, as if weary of the game we were playing. The water receded, and we were safe.

At first all I did was breathe. With every breath my spirit filled with thanks for the blessing of air, for the gift of survival. The man breathed, too, making a sound that suggested his lungs were half full of water. He lay flat on his back beside me. Bouts of shivering coursed through his body. He was wet through, and so was I. The strength he had summoned at the last was gone now. He wouldn’t be walking anywhere, even with my support. And I couldn’t leave him here on his own. How long would it be before anyone thought to look for me, and how long before they found us? I had left my basket up on the path. Eventually someone would spot it and call, and I would answer. But it was cold, and growing dark, and we could not afford to wait.

You are a druid, Sibeal. Use what is here. Use what you have.
What did I have? My seer’s gift was strong, but it did not allow me to mind-call as some of my kinsfolk could, communicating over distance without words. Ciarán was teaching me the language of creatures and the power to manipulate the elements, but I was only a beginner, and I could think of no way my limited skills could be put to use now. If my mentor had been here on the island, he’d have sensed something wrong and come to find me. If . . . but wait. What about Cathal? Clodagh’s husband was half-fey. Indeed, he was an adept in the magical arts, though he did not make use of them, having chosen to live his life as a man among men. Might Cathal sense a message of the mind, if I tried hard enough to send it?

The man was shivering so violently that he seemed likely to fall off the ledge into the water. Gods, I hoped I was right about the tide line.

“Here,” I said. “Move closer.” For, though I had been foolish enough to come out here without shawl, cape or cloak, I had the warmth of my own body. On second thought, warmth was hardly the right word. I was drenched and chilled to the bone. The man was too exhausted to sit up, so I pushed and pulled him to the back of the ledge, then lay down behind him, wrapping an arm over him and pressing my body against his. It was a little improper, but necessary under the circumstances. He mumbled something. His words were in no language I could understand—they did not even sound like Norse.

“That’s better,” I said. “Now pray that this works. I’ve no wish to stay out here all night.” If nobody came, we would be dead of cold before morning.

I shut my eyes and summoned the deep calm that must enter the body before one may attempt to open the eye of the mind. I set aside the perishing chill of the ledge, the dark, the restless sea. I ignored the pain in elbow, knee, hip. Water and stone had tested us hard as we performed our unlikely struggle up from the cove. Never mind that. The quiet groves of Sevenwaters were far away, but in my mind I could be there, under the great oaks, walking in dappled light. The realms of the spirit were many and wondrous. At the last point of exhaustion, one could always find a deeper strength. In time of greatest trouble, one could feel the gentle touch of peace. So I had learned.
Quiet your mind. Breathe in slowly; breathe out still more slowly. Feel the earth beneath you. You are part of the earth, she sustains and supports you. Breathe. Now let the grove open around you.

It had never been so difficult to take the time I needed for this practice, with a man perhaps dying in my arms and my body simply refusing to be still, but shaking and trembling like a leaf in an autumn wind. Eventually I detached my mind, swam into the place where I might call and bent all my will on Cathal. I pictured him seated in the dining hall, next to Clodagh, talking about the shipwreck; I imagined him running a long-fingered hand through his black hair, then gesturing as he explained something to his wife. I called him.
Cathal! We are here.
I tried to show him the path along the narrow neck of land, the precipitous way down. I made an image of the fallen sailor. I showed myself in this place without any of the things I needed such as a lantern or a blanket.

A spattering on the rocks around us; it was starting to rain. My concentration was gone. There were tears on my face, tears of sheer exhaustion. The roaring of the waves seemed menacing, as if Mac Dara himself was stirring, stirring, reaching out to suck us down. The water was right up to the ledge. From time to time a wavelet splashed over, teasing, as if it could not quite make up its mind whether to drown us. Thus far the sea had not reached the place where we were huddled. The rain grew heavier.

“It’s all right,” I said, more to myself than to the man pressed close to me, who likely knew no Irish. “You’ll be safe. Help is coming. This can’t be for nothing. I won’t believe it.” If I had been a different sort of person, I might have killed for a dry cloak.

He rolled over, surprising me. His arm came around me and tightened. He said something in that foreign tongue, perhaps
Thank you
. Or maybe
Don’t cry
. I pressed my cheek against the fabric of his tunic—wet through, a tear or two would make no difference—and shut my eyes. In time of trial, there is one weapon a druid always has, and that is the lore.

“How about a story?” I murmured. “I know plenty.” There in the growing dark, with the hungry sea washing in and out and our bodies sharing their last warmth, I told a tale of heroes and monsters, and a tale of a boy who accidentally tasted from the cauldron of knowledge, and then I related part of our own family story, for in our past there were brothers turned into swans, and a wicked sorceress whose son was now my beloved teacher, Ciarán. Since this stranger in whose arms I lay probably did not understand a word I was saying, it hardly mattered whether any part of that story might be considered too private to tell.

“But in the end, he turned it all to the good,” I said eventually. “And he taught me everything I know. Almost everything. When I go back I will make my final commitment to being a druid, and then I’ll live in the nemetons all the time, and only see my family on ritual days.”

“
Druide
,” said the man, showing that he had not only been listening, but might even have understood a word or two. Then we both tensed, for over the washing of the waves and the screaming of the gulls, another sound came: the shrill yapping of a little dog from the path above. Fang had found us.

I sat up abruptly, elbowing my companion in the chest. “Here!” I yelled. “Down here!”

Not long after, there were lanterns, and men coming down the precipitous path—Cathal followed by Gareth and Johnny—and the blissful warmth of a dry blanket around my shoulders. I wanted to climb up by myself, but Gareth lifted me and carried me to the top as if this were the easiest path in the world. The others brought the man up between them. At the top Fang was scampering about, mightily pleased with herself, and close by stood Clodagh, warmly wrapped, with a lantern in her hand and my basket of seaweed over her other arm. Gareth set me on my feet. Clodagh put down lantern and basket and threw her arms around me.