The Forbidden Land (17 page)

‘But can no’ all power be turned to evil ends?’ Finn asked.

‘Aye,’ Enit cried, startling them all. ‘And sometimes the greatest evil can be done in the name o’ good. The Yedda were honoured and celebrated for what they did, yet I have seen the sea black with the bodies o’ a hundred drowned Fairgean. I have seen mere babes loosen their grip on their mother’s hair and sink away below the waves, their gills closed, water filling their lungs. Do ye think I wish to use my powers in such a way? My dreams are haunted by the fear that I may have to sing the song o’ death, that I may cast a spell like the Yedda used to cast. Eà save me from ever having to do so again.’

There was a wrought silence, then Finn whispered, ‘Ye have sung the song o’ death afore?’

Her contorted fingers gripping the arms of her chair, Enit slowly nodded. ‘Aye, I have,’ she answered, ‘and I swore I should never do so again.’

All that day the
Speedwell
crept through the islands, the lead-line constantly being checked to make sure deep water still lay under her hull. In some places they had to drop most of the sails, seize oars and slowly manoeuvre their way through a narrow channel of water, surrounded by wide stretches of sand on either side. Several times they saw Fairgean basking in the sun on the sand, or sporting about in the shallow lagoons formed by the retreat of the tides. They were never close enough to see more than their black heads, though once or twice male Fairgean swam after their ship, shaking their tridents and whistling mockingly.

Finn grew used to the shout of the fathoms’ depth and was taught to recognise the feel of the different markers sewn along the lead-line’s length so that even in the blackest night she could tell how deep the water was under the ship. No-one wanted to run aground on a sandbank when the Fairgean were there.

Close on sunset they sailed past a tall island that reared out of the lesser islands about it like a carthorse among ponies. Crowned with a tall square tower set behind a great crenellated rampart, its steep cliffs rose straight out of an expanse of white sand that stretched for miles in all directions. Scattered across the sand were a few ancient walls, encrusted with dried seaweed and barnacles.

‘That be the Tower o’ First Landing,’ one of the sailors told Finn and Bran as they leant over the bulwark, staring up at its stern grey height. ‘They say when we first came to Eileanan, the people built down on the shores o’ the island, not realising that the tides would sweep in and drown them all. When the autumn tides did come, it brought with it the Fairgean and those that were no’ drowned were murdered. If they had no’ built the tower they all might have died.’

‘Does anyone live there now?’ Finn asked in curiosity, for the walls were stout still and the tower reared up straight and tall.

‘Och, I doubt it,’ the sailor answered. ‘All the towers were torn down by the Ensorcellor, were they no’? Besides, I’ve heard tell it be haunted by the ghost o’ Cuinn Lionheart. His grave is in there, ye ken, all covered in white heather, the only place where heather grows in all o’ Eileanan. That be a flower from the Other World, ye ken. They say he carried it in his buttonhole and when they laid him down on the bank after his ship was wrecked on the rocks, it fell out o’ his lapel and took root there where he lay.’

‘What a storm that must have been,’ Bran said dreamily, ‘to carry a ship across the entire universe. No wonder they called her Storm-Rider.’

Finn made sure the sailor had stepped out of hearing before whispering crossly, ‘Well, your ancestor may have conjured the storm but it was mine that found Eileanan on the star-map!’

Unexpectedly, Bran smiled at her. ‘Aye, they all must have been amazingly powerful witches indeed,’ she whispered. ‘What a feat that First Crossing must have been! And what courage. It makes this journey seem somewhat less dangerous and foolhardy in comparison, doesn’t it?’

Finn grinned. ‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘Though I still hit myself over my head sometimes, wondering what I be doing here when I could be safe in Castle Rurach.’

Bran immediately sobered. ‘If Castle Rurach be still safe.’

Finn’s smile faded and her face grew troubled. ‘Och, I do so hope they are all safe,’ she whispered, stroking Goblin’s silky head. ‘I wish …’

After a long pause Bran prompted her. ‘What?’

‘Och, naught. I sure they all be fine. Come, where be the lads? I want to challenge Ashlin to another game o’ trictrac. He’s been winning far too many lately.’

‘Ye should no’ say “lads” like that,’ Bran reprimanded Finn as she followed her down the ladder towards the galley. ‘We’re meant to be lads too, remember.’

Finn took a breath to say something scathing, then bit the words back. ‘Aye, I ken. Sorry, Bran.’ She said the boy’s name with a subtle stress.

‘It’s hard to remember sometimes, I ken,’ Bran answered with a little giggle. ‘Harder for me, ’cause I’m used to seeing ye looking all ragged and brown. It should be easy for ye to remember, seeing me look like
this
.’ She lifted the short end of her pigtail with a grimace.

‘It’s odd how quickly I’ve got used to it,’ Finn answered. ‘I find it hard to remember ye all pretty and girly.’

Bran gave her a little pinch in retaliation as they came into the galley, as always crowded with the men who were not on watch. ‘I’ll give ye all pretty and girly if ye do no’ watch it,’ she hissed. ‘We’ll see who punches more like a lass!’

As Finn turned a surprised face towards her, Bran chuckled and sauntered away, mimicking Finn’s boyish swagger perfectly.

Under the cover of darkness that night, the
Speedwell
changed course, setting sail for the deep uncluttered ocean beyond the hundreds of islands scattered along the coastline. When Finn was roused by the bosun’s whistle the next morning, it was to find the little caravel racing along a deep swell, the coastline a mere shadowy blur along the horizon. The sun was rising red above an ocean the colour of tarnished silver, turning the sails to pink. The only sign of life was the sea birds soaring ahead of the ship, their wings stained the same colour as the sails.

With the ship under full sail, it was hard work for all the sailors that day. The bosun shouted himself hoarse with the captain’s orders, the deckhands were kept busy trimming the sails as the helmsman fought to keep the ship running as close to the wind as possible. ‘We’ll have left that blaygird sea serpent miles behind,’ Finn said to Dillon with great satisfaction that evening as she examined her red, sore palms, rubbed raw from hauling on ropes all day.

‘I hope so,’ he answered without conviction. ‘I have no wish to be drawing blade against a sea serpent.’

Finn glanced up at him in puzzlement. ‘Once ye would have thought this a high adventure,’ she said, finding it hard to speak the words. This stern-faced, broad-shouldered man was so unlike the Scruffy she had known that speaking to him was worse than making conversation with a stranger.

‘Would I have?’ Dillon answered, gently fingering the curiously wrought hilt of the sword he wore always at his side. ‘I suppose I would have, when I was a bairn, with no more sense than a newly hatched chick. I ken better now.’

Finn hesitated, then said with a little burst of words, ‘It must have been so awful for ye, Scruffy, having Jorge captured and burnt, and having Antoinn, Artair and Parlan all die like that, right in front o’ ye.’

He said nothing for a long time and Finn shrank back a little, sorry she had spoken. Then he said, ‘Ye should no’ call me “Scruffy”, Finn. Scruffy died a long time ago.’

With an attempt at humour, Finn said, ‘O’ course, ye’re Dillon the Bold now, are ye no’? I keep on forgetting.’

‘Dillon the Bold is dead too,’ he answered, and his hands caressed the sword as if it were flesh. ‘They call me Dillon o’ the Joyful Sword now.’

Finn stared at him, her skin creeping. He looked up at her, a strange half-smile on his face. ‘This be a magical sword, did ye ken that, Finn? Do ye remember when I found her that day in the ruin o’ the Tower o’ Two Moons? I did no’ ken then, I did no’ ken that she was a magical sword.’ He stroked it lovingly. ‘She be a thirsty sword, thirsty for blood. Once ye draw her, ye canna sheathe her again until her thirst is slaked. And she will drink and drink until there is no more blood to drink, till all are dead …’

Jed gave a little whine and crept closer, pushing his rough black-patched head against Dillon’s arm. Dillon ignored him. ‘Her name is
Joyeuse
, Finn.
Joyeuse
, the Joyful Sword. For she takes joy only in killing.’

Finn could not look away, fascinated and horrified. He was smiling, his hands stroking the sword’s coiled hilt, stroking, stroking. Then he looked up at her again and she saw his eyes were bright with tears. ‘So ye see why I dread battle, Finn. I never want to draw her again, though she quivers under my hand like a woman. She quivers now, scenting blood. She smells the fear o’ battle.’

Finn’s hand crept within her pocket, where the elven cat slept curled on a small black parcel of silk. As her fingers brushed the magical cloak, her skin prickled and stung. ‘Happen the gifts we chose that day in the Tower o’ Two Moons were no’ so wisely chosen,’ she said.

Dillon gave a bitter laugh. ‘Happen no’. At least for me. Did ye no’ choose the MacRuraich war-horn, that called up the ghosts o’ your clan? That worked out for the best, at least, even though it’s no’ a horn ye’d want to be blowing every day.’

Finn’s fingers brushed back and forth along the silk, electricity darting up her nerves. She almost told Dillon that she still had the cloak of invisibility, that the longing to wear it sometimes almost overcame her, even though she had no need of hiding within its magical folds. She wanted to tell him how cold it made her feel, inside and out, how remote, severed from the rest of the world. If he had looked at her and smiled, or rapped out one of his orders like he used to, she would have told him. But he was stroking his sword again, that peculiar half-smile on his lips, and she said nothing.

That afternoon the sea serpent was sighted again, following their wake. Although all the sailors hung over the stern of the ship, they could see nothing and most relaxed, sure they would lose the sea serpent again. A double watch was called that night, however, the ship kept straining under a full load of sails despite the blackness of the night. In the morning all could see the sea serpent in the distance, and by noon the ship was being rocked by the great waves it threw up with the speed of its motion. Finn climbed up into the rigging again to get a better view. Even though she had seen the monster through the spyglass before, she was shocked at the size of it. It was large enough to coil around the ship three times, cracking the timbers asunder with a gentle squeeze of its coils. If it reared up out of the water it would have towered over the topgallant mast, taller by far than any tree Finn had ever seen.

By late afternoon the ship was floundering in enormous waves that broke over the bow and swept across the decks in a fury of white swirling foam. The helmsman was lashed to the wheel, and all the sailors had ropes knotted around their waists so that if they were swept overboard, they could be hauled back up to safety. All hands were on deck, fighting to keep the ship from keeling over. It was an odd experience, to have the sky so fair and blue, the breeze so warm and steady, and the ship thrown about like a leaf in a rapid. Finn was flung to her knees, unable to keep her footing on the wet deck, and only managing to keep from being thrown down into the angry sea by her terror-strong grip on the ropes. Ignoring the pain in her bleeding palms, she fought her way to the forecastle where Enit sat in her chair, drenched to the skin, her hair plastered to her skull. Dide, Jay and Ashlin had tied themselves to the foremast, all three holding their musical instruments high to avoid them being ruined by the water. Dide had his battered old guitar, all hung with ribbons, Jay had his viola with the handle carved in the shape of a blindfolded woman, and Ashlin had his wooden flute.

Captain Tobias and the first mate, Arvin the Just, were both up in the forecastle with them, shouting angrily at Enit. Bran clung beside Finn, her white face streaked with tears, her lip red with blood where she had bitten it.

‘Sing, for God’s sake, sing!’ the captain cried. ‘Do ye wish us all to die?’

Finn could hear a strange, melodic whistling that swelled on all sides, rising up to a taunting shriek, echoing eerily all around. Then suddenly the sea serpent reared up next to the ship, its throat and belly silvery-pale, its golden-green back spotted with purple. A Fairgean warrior rode its neck, a long, wickedly sharp trident in his hand, and all about the ship more Fairgean rode astride the slimy-green shoulders of horse-eels. Finn stared about terrified, as webbed hands reached out to seize any dangling rope that should help them swarm over the railing. Many of those ropes were attached to sailors, who shouted in fear as they were dragged towards the bulwark. They drew their daggers and tried to fight off the sea-faeries, who were all armed with cruel-looking tridents.

‘Sing, auld woman!’ the first mate shouted. ‘Sing, else I’ll cut your throat myself.’

Enit took a deep, shuddering breath, opened her mouth and began to sing.

Pure, sweet, melodic, her voice soared over the crash of waves, the shouts and screams of the sailors, the slap of the sails and the ear-piercing whistles of the Fairgean. Crouching against the bulwark, clinging to the ropes, Finn felt a stab of pure joy. She felt rather than saw the look Dide and Jay exchanged, a look of surprise and amazed comprehension. They braced themselves against the foremast and began to play.

All over the ship sailors stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. The ship plunged on, its sails flapping wildly, no-one running to haul on the ropes or tighten the tackle. The helmsman let the wheel spin, entranced. The Fairgean paused in their climb up the ropes, turning their sleek black heads to listen. Even the sea serpent seemed to listen, swaying from side to side, while the tumult of waves slowly subsided.

Deep as the throb of the ocean, passionate as the whisper of a lover, tender as a mother’s lullaby, warm as the blaze of a winter fire, the viola’s contralto voice wove crimson ribbons of sound through the silver gauze of Enit’s song. The fragile lilt of the flute, the warm rhythm of the guitar, Dide’s strong, young voice, all gave the music depth and harmony, but it was these two voices, the haunting ethereal sound of the old woman’s voice and the passionate strength of the viola’s song, that cast a spell over all who heard.