Seer of Sevenwaters (9 page)

I went to sit by the pallet. The man’s eyes were open: windows of deepest blue. There were shadows around them, hollows in his cheeks. His skin was as pale as an underwater creature’s, something that never saw the sun. His arms lay limp on the covers, the long fingers splayed. Fang had her nose pressed against his right hand. I curled my fingers around his left. Something altered in his eyes.

“I saw you were awake,” I said. “My name is Sibeal. I am a druid; a wise woman.” It seemed necessary to talk, even if he could not understand the words, simply to reassure him. But I could not speak of the shipwreck, the drowned, the burial, the disruption to today’s ritual. He was deathly sick, and weak as a newborn lamb. I must say nothing to distress him. A story. I would tell a story.

“I don’t live here on the island,” I told him, “but far to the south, at Sevenwaters, where my father is chieftain. When I leave here at the end of the summer, I will not be going home to my parents and the sister and baby brother who still live there. I’ll finally be making my commitment as a druid, if my mentor thinks I’m ready. I’ll be living out in the Sevenwaters forest as a member of the druid community that is housed there.”

Sevenwaters: its image was never far from my mind. The dappled forest paths, the seven streams in all their moods, the rocks by the lake where generations of children had sat and dreamed. The grove of young oaks. The solitary birch. Everything had a story. The keep itself, with the stone steps up to the roof where a child could sit and look out over the vast sweep of the forest. And that forest, with its capricious pathways and its hidden places, secret places housing portals to a world stranger than the strangest tale. Sevenwaters, home not only to man and woman, but to uncanny races of ancient story . . . How could mere words explain something so wondrous, so beautiful, so utterly different?

“But I’m not sad to be leaving my family,” I went on, taking encouragement from the fact that my audience was watching me with apparent interest. “I’ve known since I was quite small that I was destined for a spiritual life. When I feel confused or distressed, when things worry me, I remind myself of the day I first learned that. I should explain that Sevenwaters, my home, is a place of many stories: tales of family, tales of mystery and magic, tales of uncanny folk. We belong to the old faith. Around us, many other families are Christian now. Increasingly that sets us apart. My father’s fortifications defend not only our household and our settlements, but also the druids and . . . certain others.

“Of course, as a little girl I did not understand all this. I just knew Uncle Conor came to visit each festival day, wearing his white robe and his golden torc, and conducted the ritual. Sometimes, if we were lucky, one of us girls would be asked to help in some small way, perhaps carrying an item in a procession or joining in the singing of a prayer. I have five sisters in all, four older, one younger, as well as my baby brother. When we reached a certain age, each of us in turn had the opportunity to dance at Meán Earraigh, the spring celebration, where a young girl takes the part of the Maiden in the ritual.”

I faltered, realizing this was not quite true. Maeve had not had a turn. When she was only ten years old Maeve had been burned in a terrible accident, and soon after that she had gone away to live with Aunt Liadan in Britain. My aunt’s remarkable gift as a healer made her best suited to help a girl with crippled hands and a scarred face. And Clodagh had missed her turn as well, for the year that would have been hers was the year that disaster happened. The ritual had passed a grieving Sevenwaters by.

“Long before I was old enough to perform this dance myself,” I said, thinking how complicated was the web of family sorrows and joys and shared experience, “I discovered the gods had a particular path in mind for me. Up until then, I don’t believe the rest of my family knew how differently I saw the world. My eyes should have given it away. My sisters have green eyes, but mine, as you see, are a light blue-gray. Such eyes are shared only by those members of my family with a powerful seer’s gift.” I paused, an image of my little brother in my mind, with his tangle of dark hair and his clear, unswerving stare. At four years old, Finbar had the manner of a wise hermit, which was more than a little disconcerting. His eyes were like those of his namesake, the man with the swan’s wing; and they were like mine. “Such a gift manifests itself in many of my kin. Some are able to speak mind to mind, without words. Some have prophetic dreams. Some are gifted in the interpretation of signs and portents. In a few of us the gift is . . . more powerful. Perilous, if not well governed.

“I knew quite early that I was not like my sisters. I never wanted to race about and play and make lots of noise. I preferred to sit quietly, watching and thinking. I had a thirst for learning; I was pestering Father’s scribe to teach me reading and writing before I was three years old. I found that creatures trusted me. Observing them, I discovered I could feel, inside myself, the ways their bodies worked, their different manners of seeing and hearing, their small secrets. I did not like to be cooped up indoors too long; I needed the earth beneath my feet and the wind in my hair. But all of those things could have meant simply that I was a thoughtful, scholarly, quiet sort of child. Then, when I was five years old, I saw her.”

I had learned the art of storytelling in the nemetons, and I let the silence draw out. He did understand, surely; how could such an intent expression mean anything else?

“I was alone on the rocks by the lake, close to home,” I went on. “The others had gone to gather cress at the mouth of a stream. I was looking into the water, wondering why it was I always saw something that I knew couldn’t really be there—a ship on the sea, a crowd of strange, small creatures, a tower with a banner at the top—when someone spoke behind me. ‘Sibeal. Turn around, child.’

“Such a voice! It was honey and sunlight, and it was stream and oak, a voice I knew was that of no human woman. I stood up and faced her. She wore a blue gown and a cloak that seemed to move of itself, wood-smoke and water and drifting cloud. Her hair was dark, her skin pale. She was taller than any woman I had ever seen, towering over my five-year-old self. How had she come here, so silently? Nobody came to Sevenwaters without my father’s permission. Nobody came uninvited.

“ ‘Sibeal. Let me look at you.’ Her lustrous eyes were fixed on me in careful examination. ‘Child, I am Deirdre of the Forest. I am a friend; you need not fear me.’

“ ‘My lady,’ I croaked nervously, ‘welcome,’ for my mother had taught me good manners. At the back of my mind were the tales I had heard of the Tuatha De Danann, the Fair Folk, some of whom were said to dwell deep in the forest of Sevenwaters. It seemed to me this lovely woman could only belong to that ancient and noble race. Indeed, I knew the name Deirdre of the Forest already, from one of our family stories.

“ ‘Come, Sibeal,’ she said, and motioned me back to the water’s edge. Already, as I moved, I could see images dancing there, warriors and horses and eagles flying. ‘Tell me what you see. Do not be afraid.’ She knelt down beside me in her flowing gown, and I could smell summer breezes and dew on the hawthorn. I told her about the men in the water, the creatures, the strange things for which I had no names. Frightening things, sometimes. The Lady explained what it meant to see thus, and how I might start to make sense of it all. She spoke to me simply, in keeping with my age, but she did not shrink from the truth. That was the first of my lessons in being a seer. Later came learning of a different kind, Ciarán’s learning, rigorous and challenging as befitted the druidic discipline, for which many years must be spent in study of the lore and other elements. Ciarán is my kinsman and mentor. I honor and respect him. But in those early years Deirdre came to me often in the forest, and her guidance formed the foundation of my quest to become a druid. I never ceased to feel wonder that she chose me, little Sibeal, to be the recipient of such wisdom.”

I remembered how I had held the tremendous secret of that first visit to myself for what had seemed an absolute age at the time, but was probably only from midday to supper time, when Maeve winkled it out of me.

“In old times, folk thought of the Tuatha De Danaan as gods, or something close to gods,” I told him. “The druids debate exactly what they are, and find various answers. Over the years the Fair Folk have shaped the path for the Sevenwaters family, for good or ill. Sometimes they seem a mouthpiece for the gods; more often they have their own intentions for human folk, their own plans. They are an older race than we are—wiser, subtler, longer-lived. But not so different, for they have sometimes formed bonds with men or women, and there have been children born in whom the two races are blended. Another night, I will tell you a tale of such folk.” No need to explain that Cathal, who lived here at Inis Eala and was married to my sister Clodagh, was one such person, and that Ciarán was another. While we did not exactly keep such information secret—it was known on the island that Cathal’s parentage was somewhat unusual—neither did we go out of our way to spread it abroad. “But for now, my story is complete, and I have kept you awake too long. Time for sleep.”

I got up, reaching to tuck in the blankets. As I straightened, a fleeting smile crossed the man’s wan features, and for a moment I saw him as he must be when well and happy—a fine-looking person with a sensitive mouth and thoughtful eyes. I imagined him throwing a ball for a dog, or painting a picture, or playing games with his friends. Or writing; those were not the hands of a farmer, a fisherman, a builder.

“I’ll bid you good night,” I said, suddenly awkward. Whatever the man was, wherever he had come from, it was for him to tell us his own tale, in his own time.

In my little chamber, huddled under my blankets as the draft seeped in under the door, I prayed that he would survive to do so. And I thought of Deirdre of the Forest, who had guided me so wisely, and whom I had not seen now for many years.
She is gone
, Ciarán had said.
Gone away over the sea, never to return
. Many of her kind had departed this shore as humankind stamped its authority on the green land of Erin. And when the wise ones are gone, oftentimes those left in their place are a lesser breed, folk for whom ambition and the lust for power overrule justice and compassion. Such a one was Mac Dara, father of Cathal. In time, this devious prince could do untold harm among the various races that shared that place, and to our kind as well. I wondered who might have the power to stop him.

CHAPTER 3

~Felix~

F
alling men, crashing seas, gaping, long-toothed jaws. I wake. I cannot breathe. I gasp, struggling to sit up, but my body refuses to obey. Nothing works. I wheeze out a sound, the pathetic cry of a small creature in a trap. They come, one at each side of the bed, a pair of watchful spirits. They lift me, hold me, speak in gentle voices. They are dark, quiet, tall. Their names are . . . Gull. Gull and Evan. Father and son? “Breathe,” Evan says. “Breathe.” I try. Who would have dreamed it could be so difficult?

She was here. Stillness in person, telling me a story of trees and water and magical beings. She was here by my bed, her fingers gentle, her voice sweet and clear as a mountain stream. She was here, and now she is gone. Even the dog is gone.

After a long time, I breathe more easily. Evan washes me and changes my clothing. I piss in the pan he holds. They move away to study the contents, their faces grave. Something wrong. Evan puts on a reassuring face and comes to feed me broth. It is light outside. A cold wind whispers under the door. He asks me the same questions again. A patient man.
What is your name? Do you understand Irish?
I have no answers.

Time passes. Bright light: someone has opened the shutters. Outside the sun shines, but it is cold. I am always cold. The dog has not come back. I miss its small form next to me. Its breathing warmth, its sighs and grumbles remind me that I am alive. I think I am alive.

The rustle of a skirt over by the bench. My heart jumps. She’s here! I manage to turn my head; the effort exhausts me. There is a woman, slight, dark, bending over a seated man. My heart plummets. Not Sibeal but the other one, the healer, wrapping a cloth around the fellow’s arm. I close my eyes. I want to speak. I want to ask. I rehearse it in my mind.
Where is she? Where is she with her listening eyes and her truth-speaking voice?
I will not ask, lest they tell me I only imagined her.

I sleep. Waves crash, men scream, something rears huge and dark. I wake sweating, dizzy, the chamber moving around me.
I must . . . I have to . . .
Compulsion hammers in my blood and whips my heart to a breakneck gallop.
Quick, quick, almost too late . . .
The desperate images fade and are gone. By my bed sits the other sister, the one with flaming hair and skin like fresh cream. Perhaps I have been shouting. She dabs my face with a cloth, her eyes narrowed as she examines me.

“Better now?” she asks with a little smile. “Do you remember me? My name is Clodagh. You seem much troubled by your dreams. Breathe slowly.”

She sits there quietly while I struggle to obey. Pain attends each inward gasp; I consider the elements of it, the tight band around my chest, the raw, burned sensation in my throat, the twinge up my neck and at my temple.

“You’re fortunate to be alive,” Clodagh says, touching her cool cloth to my brow. “Sibeal saved your life.”

Sibeal!
I don’t intend to speak the name aloud, but perhaps my lips form the shape of it, because her eyes widen.

“You do understand,” she murmurs. “Sibeal thought you might have some Irish. She’s gone off for the day. To the seer’s cave, to pray and meditate. She will be back by supper time.”

A dark-haired man enters, and Clodagh gets up to greet him. “Cathal!”

I watch them as they talk. When Cathal looks at Clodagh, his eyes soften. She turns the same tender gaze on him. She is heavy with child. Husband and wife, I think. There is a strangeness about Cathal, a touch of the night forest, the mist over the lake, the forbidden well. He puts me in mind of Sibeal’s striking tale. Now he is telling his wife that she looks tired and should be resting, not tending to me.

“Muirrin’s coming back soon,” she says calmly. “I’m fine, Cathal. You know how hard I find it to be idle.”

Cathal glowers. He looks formidable. “What about the child?”

“Women dig gardens and weave blankets and gather crops all the time, and the children they carry are none the worse for it,” Clodagh tells him, formidable in her turn. “I will do perfectly well here until Muirrin gets back. Don’t you have some work of your own to do, with these visitors due any day?”

“Dear one,” Cathal says, putting his arms around her, “I’m sorry. I can’t help worrying.” He touches the place where her gown covers the shape of the child. “I’d keep guard over the two of you day and night if I could.”

She returns the embrace, and I avert my gaze. The moment is tender, beautiful. It is not for my eyes.

“Go on, Cathal,” Clodagh says to her husband. “Johnny needs you.”

With some reluctance, he goes. Clodagh approaches with a bowl of the brew they’ve been spooning into my mouth as if I were an infant. She feeds me a few mouthfuls, a wretched process for both of us. I swallow obediently and am soon exhausted. She helps me lie back. “Sleep now,” she says. She mimes it, head pillowed on hands. “I’ll be here if you need anything. Rest well.”

Her manner is that of a person used to giving orders and accustomed to being obeyed. I close my eyes and lie still as she bustles around the chamber performing various tasks. I play games with fate.
If I can hold my breath to a slow count of thirty, Sibeal will come. If she tells another story tonight, I will start to remember . . .

~Sibeal~

The seer’s cave was at the northern point of Inis Eala. I reached the place through a narrow aperture in the rocky headland, from which a dark tunnel wound further and further in. Eventually I rounded a corner and stepped out into a hidden cavern. The walls curved up and in; it felt like standing inside a flower. In the center of the floor lay a still pool. Light entered through an opening at the roof’s apex and the cloudless sky turned the water beneath to a sweet blue. I stood for some time, looking, sensing. Here was profound quiet, deepest serenity. I could feel a presence, something wise, old and somehow sad.

I set down the bag I had carried, spread out my cloak on the flat stones by the pool and sat there, cross-legged. I would meditate. I would pray. Perhaps I would scry. I was certain my kinsman Finbar, the one after whom my little brother had been named, must have used the water of this pool as a dark mirror, a tool for the seer’s eye. He had dwelt here alone for many years, sheltered on Inis Eala by the kindness of Bran and Liadan. It was commonly believed that the forces of good that kept the island safe were centered in this cavern. Long before the coming of Bran and his band of outlaws, Inis Eala had been spoken of as a sacred place, a place of old gods. But it seemed to me, as to all my family, that Finbar’s tenancy had strengthened the spiritual power of the cave and indeed of the island itself.

His story was a sad one. As young men, he and his brothers had been turned into swans by a vindictive stepmother. After three years they had been saved by their sister, but Finbar had been left with a wing in place of one arm. He was condemned to live between worlds.

I owed Finbar a great debt. He had died saving Ciarán’s life. Without that sacrifice, my mentor would not have lived to return to the druid community. In time I thought others, too, would understand just what Finbar’s selfless act had achieved. I had seen something in Ciarán’s future that was so momentous, so terrifying, that I was hardly prepared to think about it, let alone tell him what I suspected might lie in store for him. The seer’s gift let in both light and shadow; not for nothing were we trained to caution and reserve. I wondered, sometimes, how much Ciarán had gleaned of his own destiny, and whether he ever suspected that I, his young protégé, might have insights beyond his knowledge.

I would spend the day alone in this cavern that had been Finbar’s home for so long. Fang had settled to wait at the tunnel entry, everything about her pose suggesting duty, not inclination. It was only when I was in the cave that I remembered something Uncle Conor had told me: that in his man-bird form, Finbar had been terrified of dogs. Just as well Fang would not come in, for it seemed to me that lonely man’s presence lingered here, long after his death. I could sense his sorrow, his quiet, his deep thoughts. I could feel the courage that had drawn him out of his sanctuary, perhaps knowing that he would never return.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured to Finbar’s shade. “Sorry that your life was not happier; sorry that I came close to disrespecting the memories in this place. I welcome your presence. I honor your courage. I hope your wisdom will guide me to right choices.” But the only answer was the restless whispering of the sea.

It was not until I had spent some hours in meditation that I felt ready to seek wisdom in the calm pool. I drank from the water skin I had brought, considering what insights I most keenly sought today. Cathal, with the blood of the Tuatha De Danann running in his veins, could command a particular vision to the scrying vessel when he needed it—he would either see what he sought or nothing at all. A person such as myself, with two human parents, was unlikely to possess such ability, but what I could do was still considerable. I had been a seer since my childhood, born with an unusual talent. I could not wish I had no such skill, for it was god-given. I only wished I were better able to control it, and better able to withstand the difficulties it created.

As with rune rods, the usual practice with scrying was to request an answer to a particular question, or clarification of a puzzle or quandary. What the seer then saw in the scrying vessel might be an answer to that question or to any other. It might seem to have no relevance at all to what one wanted to know. The vision might be of past, present or future, or might deal with the difficult
may be
or the heart-wrenching
might have been
. I had seen things that made me sick; I had seen things that made me weep. I had seen things that made me desperately afraid. Much of what I had seen, I had not spoken of to anyone.

I took time to sink into a trance. The long meditation had not quite wiped the last two days’ upheaval from my mind. As the sun moved across the sky and the light from the opening in the cave roof shifted and changed, I asked the first of my questions.

I feel Svala’s pain. I feel her cry for help. How can she be reached?
For a long time the water of the pool showed only a series of ripples, a subtle, deep pattern. Then all at once waves were crashing over my head, crushing the breath from my body; hands were clamped around my arms like iron bands, something was dragging me over gritty sand, and I was screaming, screaming . . . no, that was not my voice but the shouting of men,
Don’t leave us! What are you doing? For pity’s sake, don’t leave us!
The hands heaved me up, threw me down. My head struck something, and all went dark in the still pool. I breathed, and breathed again, and the nightmare vision was gone.

I took time to recover, using long-practiced techniques to calm myself. Gods, that had been so real! I would not try to interpret it now. I drank from my water skin. I listened to the cries of gulls beyond the opening in the cave roof, and the endless wash of the sea. I thought of the man brought to me by those chill waves. When my heart had ceased to hammer, when my breathing was slow and even, I asked my second question. Not,
Will he survive?
I did not want an answer to that; I needed hope.

Thanks to Manannán’s mercy, I saved a man from the sea. What is it he needs most?

I waited, keeping my mind open and empty. I breathed. The pool lay still before me, not a ripple on its glassy surface, now darkening under the sky of late afternoon.

Start with a name.
The words reached my mind as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. Where my own reflection had been in the water, I now saw a man’s. He was a disheveled person with hair of every color from black to white, and a long, thin face, and eyes just like mine. He wore an ancient garment, tattered and torn, and in place of his left arm he had a swan’s wing.
A man needs a name.

Finbar. By all the gods. My instincts had been right; some part of him still lingered in this place where he had been almost content. Could I ask more, or would he vanish the moment I spoke?