Son of the Shadows (53 page)

"Then he would make his way homeward," said Liam, who had moved up on the other side, next to

Sean, "and when he went indoors, instead of lighting his small lantern, he would leave his door open and let the moonlight flood into the little hut where he lived on the rocky headland. And sometimes he would sit on the steps below the door and gaze across the shining pathway, wondering how it would be to live there in the depths of the great ocean, a child of Manannan mac Lir."

"Nobody quite knew what happened to him in the end." I could hear from Sean's voice that he had been crying; but like the rest of them, he kept his tone as steady as he could. It seemed to me he had grown up quickly this last season. "Folk said he'd been seen wandering on the shore in the darkness late at night.

Others told of seeing him swimming out to sea, far, far beyond the farthest stretch of safe water, and heading steadily westward. His daughters were at their grandmother's. The cottage was tidy and everything as it should be. But one day he simply wasn't there anymore."

"And they say, if you visit those parts," Finbar spoke from where he still stood by the window with his back to us, "that you'll see him, close to midnight, when the moon is full. If you go down quietly to the shore and sit very still on the tumbled boulders there, there'll be a splashing and a turmoil out in the water, and you'll see the forms of the sea people, swimming and playing close to the margin of ocean and land.

Folk say Toby will be there among them, his white body touched to silver in the moonlight, and the water slipping by him as easily as it caresses the fine scales of a fish. But whether he be man or creature of the deep, nobody knows."

She was gone. We all knew it. But nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Still my father held her tight in his arms, as if he might preserve that last moment of life, as long as he stayed completely still.

His lips were

against her hair, and his eyes were closed.

Outside, the breeze came up, sending a gust of cool air in through the window, lifting Finbar's dark curls off his brow, stirring the snowy expanse of fine feathers at his side. And then, out in the trees, the birds began to sing again, their calls rising and blending, greeting and farewell, celebration and mourning, the voice of the forest itself as it saluted the moment of Sorcha's passing.

She had not held on until dusk. Maybe that was deliberate, for when we were able to move, when we could make ourselves move, each of us went in turn to kiss her cheek, to touch her hair, and then we went silently from the room in ones and twos and left my father alone with her. There
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was time for that before the sun slipped below the horizon. Time for me to reclaim Johnny from the nursemaid and feed him once more, wondering how many tears I could shed before there would be no more left. Time for

Sean and Aisling to slip away quietly, and maybe seek comfort in each other's arms. Time for the uncles to retreat to the family's private chamber, share a jug or two of strong ale and exchange tales of the childhood they had shared in the forest of Sevenwaters, the six brothers and their one small sister. Now only the four of them were left.

It was as she had requested. At dusk we gathered on the lake shore in a place where a beautiful birch tree grew. There were flaming torches placed around on poles, casting a glowing light on the faces of my uncles as they stood in a circle about the tree. Liam gave a nod to Sean, and my brother went in his turn to join them.

Come, Liadan

. Two silent voices summoned me, Conor's, Finbar's. I went to stand between them. The circle was almost complete.

Down by the water, where the lake laid gentle fingers on the shore, a small boat was drawn up.

My

Uncle Padriac, who was expert in these things, had constructed this craft with meticulous care. It was just long enough to serve its purpose. At the prow was a torch waiting to be lit, and all along the length of the boat were festooned flowers, and leaves, and feathers, and many small offerings from the forest, to see her on her way. My mother lay ready in the boat, pale and still in her white gown, on a bed of soft cushions.

Samara had woven a little wreath of heather and hawthorn, of clover and marigold, and this Sorcha wore on her dark, curling hair. She looked no more than sixteen years old.

My father stood on the shore alone, gazing out over the darkening waters of the lake.

"Iubdan." Liam spoke quietly.

There was no response.

"Iubdan, it is time." Padriac's voice was louder. "You are needed here."

But my father ignored them, and the set of his shoulders was forbidding Still, Liam was not lord of

Sevenwaters for nothing. Now he stepped out of the solemn circle and walked over to the Big Man, putting a hand on his shoulder. Father moved slightly, and the hand fell away.

"Come, Iubdan, it's time to let her go. Already the sun sinks below the trees."

Father turned then, his eyes full of anguish. Gone was the control he had showed, telling her that last story. "Do it without me," he said, with a bitterness I had never heard in his voice before.

"There is no place for me here. It's finished. I am not one of you, and I never will be."

Then Liam put out his hand again, very deliberately, and clasped my father by the shoulder; and this time

he did not allow himself to be shaken off.

"You are our brother," he said quietly. "We need your help. Come."

So the circle was complete, and we made our farewells according to the old tradition. In an outer ring stood the druids and the men and women of the household, and from time to time they echoed Conor's solemn words Sometimes other voices could be heard, stranger voices that whispered in the wind from the trees, and murmured in the ripples of the lake, and sang deep from the rocks and hollows of the land itself. And once, when I looked toward the place where the green sward ended and the great mysterious forms of oak and ash and beech began, complex and shadowy in the velvet twilight, I saw figures standing there, half concealed under the spreading branches. A tall woman, white faced, with a cloak of blue and a curtain of dark hair. A man crowned with bright flames, taller than am mortal. And others, jeweled, winged, half seen amid the dark tracery of leaf and twig.

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The ritual completed, Conor led the way down to the water's edge; and there he cupped his hands and blew into them, quite gently, and a little flame glowed sudden and golden between his curving fingers. He walked into the water, heedless of his long robe, and put his hands to the torch that was fixed in the prow of Sorcha's little boat. The torch flared, and a bright pathway appeared before the small craft, gleaming on the inky surface of the lake. Farther up the sward, a lone piper stood ready. My spine tingled as the voice of the pipes reached out over the silent trees, the still water, on and upward into the night.

"It is time," Conor said quietly. Then each of us put a hand to the stern of the little curragh, and my father was between Liam and Conor. We gave the craft the gentlest of pushes, but it was hardly necessary, for already the water was rippling by the prow, as if the boat were anxious to be on its journey; and as it swung out from the bank and the current took it, I could see long, pale hands reaching up from beneath, guiding my mother's vessel on its way, and I could hear liquid voices, singing her name, Sorcha, Sorcha

.

"Go safe, little owl," said Conor, in a voice I hardly recognized. And Finbar pushed back his dark cloak and spread his single wing so that the glorious expanse of shining feathers glowed rose and orange and gold in the torchlight, a brave banner of farewell. But my father stood motionless and silent, frozen by his loss as the piper's lament sang on across the forest.

I strained my eyes to keep her in sight as far as I could, for I, too, grieved, though I understood my mother was not gone, only moved on to another life, another turn of the wheel. She had wanted it thus.

Why not lie at rest in the heart of the forest where you belong? Conor had asked. Why not remain here at Sevenwaters, Liam had said, for you are the daughter of the forest? But Padriac had said, Let Sorcha choose. And what she wanted most of all was to take the path of that river, to be borne along on its current, away from the lake, as she had once done long ago. For, she had said, smiling, that very waterway had deposited her, quite by chance, in the hands of a red-haired Briton, and had not he become her true love and her heart's delight? So she would choose that path again and see where it took her. I stood and stared into the darkness as the music wept and an owl cried in the night.

Folk began to disperse, heading back to the house. My father, his head bowed, shepherded by the uncles. Sean hand in hand with Aisling. Janis and her assistants hastening to make the final preparations for the feast, since a good feast, with music, is an essential part of such a farewell. I went to thank the piper. He was surely a man of near-magical skills, for that lament had echoed my innermost thoughts; its lilting melody had conjured up Sorcha's courage, her strength of spirit, and her deep love for the forest and its People.

II

The piper was packing his instrument away neatly in a goatskin bag. He was a thin man, dark bearded,

with a little gold ring in his ear. His assistant, taller, hooded, held the bag open for him. The piper gave me a polite nod.

"I wanted to thank you," I said. "I don't know who invited you to play here, but it was a good choice.

Your music comes from the heart."

"Thank you, my lady. A great teller of tales such as your mother deserves a fitting farewell."

He had stowed the pipes and now lifted the bag onto his shoulder.

"You're welcome to return to the house for food and ale," I told him. "Have you far to travel home?"

The man gave a crooked grin. "A tidy old step," he said. "The ale wouldn't go amiss. But—" He glanced at his silent companion. It was only then that I noticed, in the near darkness, the large,
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black bird perched on this man's shoulder, claws gripping tight, small, sharp eye fixed on me, appraising. A raven. "Seems to me," said the piper, setting off in the direction of the house as if something had been decided between the two of them without the need for words, "a drink or two wouldn't hurt. And I have to catch up with the old auntie. Can't very well visit these parts without doing that. She'd never forgive me."

"Auntie?" I queried, having to move briskly to keep up with him, for he set a fair pace. Behind us, the hooded man walked in silence. I realized, as we made our way back through the forest, that the piper was one of Janis's tribe of far-flung connections. A traveling man, Danny Walker they called him. It was a little odd. Hadn't she once said Dan was from Kerry? That surely was a long way to come, even for this.

We reached the path that led up to the main door of the keep. From within, there was a sound of voices, and lanterns burned outside to light the way.

"Your friend is welcome, too," I said to the piper, and I looked over my shoulder. The hooded man, dark bird on shoulder, had halted a few paces away. Clearly, he did not intend to follow us inside. "Will you come in?" I asked him politely.

"I think not."

I froze where I stood. Surely I had heard this voice before. Yet if it were so, it was terribly changed.

Before, it had been young, passionate, and full of hurt. Now it seemed a far older man's voice and cold with restraint.

He spoke again. "Go in, Dan. Take this night to visit your kinfolk and rest yourself. I'll speak with the lady in the morning."

And with that, he turned and disappeared down the path beyond the hedge.

"He'll not come in," said Dan flatly.

I blinked. Perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. "Does he mean me?" I asked hesitantly. "The lady, he said. Myself?"

"As to that," said Dan, "you'd need to ask him. I'd be down early in the morning if I were you.

He won't stay here long. Doesn't like to leave her, you understand?"

There was no chance to ask him any more. I had duties as the lady of the house; I must offer support to all those who grieved, and share in the songs and tales with which we sent my mother on her way with honor and love. There was ale and mead and spiced cakes; music and talk and fellowship. There were smiles and tears. At length I made my way to bed, thinking the hooded stranger would be gone in the

morning, and the whole thing might simply be blamed on the Sight leading me astray.

Still, I was up early and out in the herb garden, knowing it would be hard, this first day without my mother; aware I must come here and be among her special things, in the midst of her quiet domain, if I

were to teach myself that life would go on without her loving presence, her gentle guiding hand.

I had left

Johnny with the nursemaid; it was too cold for him to be out of doors. I walked along the path, plucking a small weed here and a smaller one there, knowing I was waiting. It was barely dawn.

I sensed him just before I saw him. A cold feeling went up my spine, and I turned toward the archway.

He stood immobile in the shadows, a tall figure, still cloaked and hooded in black. The bird sat on his shoulder like some creature carven in dark stone.

"Will you come in?" I asked him, still doubting the accuracy of my memory. Then he stepped forward, and slipped the hood back, revealing a pale, intense face, and the darkest of eyes, and a head of hair the deep color at the heart of a winter sunset.

"Ciaran," I breathed, "it is you. Why did you not show yourself? Conor is here; he would want to
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see you—will you not come inside and speak to him?"

"No." The chilling finality of his tone silenced me. The great bird reached down with a beak like a butcher's knife to adjust its plumage. Its eye was feral. "I am not come for that. No show of family spirit.

I am not fool enough to believe that chasm can be bridged. I'm here to bring a message."

"What message?" I asked quietly.