The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (34 page)

Cul en cupped her face with one battle-scarred hand. “I hate you,” he whispered tenderly.

His goddess smiled up at him. “I hate you, too.”

“Aye,” her warrior laughed, “but you wil always love me.”

Eternal Strife

Dara England

Conmaicne Rein, Ireland – 800 AD

Sinead shivered in the early morning cold, tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she peered into the gloomy grey world ahead. Her breath hung in pale clouds on the air and mingled with the wispy mists rol ing in off the water. Here along the lakeshore the earth was soggy and made wet sucking noises each time she pul ed a booted foot free of the clinging mud.

Heart pounding, she held on tightly to the clay pitcher in her hands and searched for the resolve that had seemed so strong when she set out. She thought of her mother lying il and alone in the draughty little cottage she had left behind. That was enough to bolster her determination.

It didn’t matter that Mother would have forbidden this desperate act had she been aware of the plan her daughter had in mind to save her. Al that mattered was that Sinead was final y taking action.

Courage temporarily renewed, she walked with confidence, stepping free of the cover of the overhanging wil ow branches and wading through the waist-high grasses leading down to the edge of the waters. She refused to think of what might be crouching, slithering or lurking among the weeds, as she knelt to peer into the murky depths below.

Tiny minnows darted away from her shadow. The light was stil too dim for her face to look back at her from the mirrored surface but she knew what she would have seen if it had: a thin young girl of eighteen, with hip-length hair as dark as the feathers of the raven. Somewhere amid that mass of wild, unruly hair would be a plain face, unremarkable but for its pale, tightly drawn features. Her wide green eyes – her most predominant feature – were doubtless large with apprehension at the moment. Yes, perhaps it was as wel she couldn’t see.

Reluctantly, she inched further forwards until her toes were near the water and her skirts dragged in the filthy mud, so that she could scoop the pitcher into the deeper water.

She moved gingerly, making certain nothing save the pitcher touched the waters. Al knew the folk of the lake guarded their watery home jealously and hated to be disturbed. Moreover, they could move as swiftly and silently as the fog; in one breath a man or woman might think themselves alone, in the next they appeared from nowhere to drag an unsuspecting victim down, screaming, into the icy depths of the lake.

Sinead flinched at the thought.

Her pitcher came up fil ed with cloudy, brown water carrying the stench of the lake. Twigs and bits of decaying leaves floated in the water so that the liquid looked more likely to sicken the person who drank from it than heal them. Nevertheless, a tea made with the special waters of the lake combined with the petals of the joyflower, which grew in the near meadow, and a little fever-wort from the nearby forest, was famed for its healing powers.

Certainly Sinead had tried everything else. Her new-found confidence about as substantial as the shifting fog swirling around her, she hugged her brimming pitcher to her breast and began backing away from the water’s edge.

An instant later, she col ided with something solid and damp at her back. With a startled shriek, she dropped the pitcher, its precious contents spil ing out across the ground.

She had no thought to spare for it.

Whirling, she found herself confronted with a vision from a nightmare – a creature of scale and fin, yet standing upright on human-shaped legs. One of the lake folk.

Sinead trembled, too terrified even to flee as the creature looked down on her. Its form was vaguely akin to that of a woman but not even the quickest of glances could have mistaken this creature for a human being. Long slitted gil s ran up either side of her neck, a broad, pale fin covered the length of her spine, and iridescent scales dotted her skin. Intertwined with her fair hair were long strands of green lake weed, which clung damply from the crown of her head down to her waist.

It was her eyes that most horrified Sinead: two orbs of water, clear and colourless, without any hint of feeling or life.

Sinead might have stood forever, paralysed by fright, had she not suddenly become aware of that dreaded icy touch. The lake woman had stretched out a long hand to clasp clammy fingers tightly around Sinead’s wrist.

“Come . . . come . . .” The liquid whisper that poured forth from her lips was not a voice, but rather a thin, trickling sound like the dribble of water running downhil .

“Come . . . come with us . . .” Others took up the chanted command and Sinead abruptly became aware of other lake folk creeping in from the water’s banks to surround her.

She bit back a squeal as one crept in and wound its slender fingers through her loose hair.

“Join us, join us,” the lake folk chanted.

Sinead, cringing, slapped their hands away and tried to back away from the water’s edge. She knew it was a futile gesture; few were those who escaped once they had felt the icy grip of these otherworldly beings and looked into their cold, watery eyes.

“No! Leave me alone,” she cried. “I don’t want to go with you!” But even as she spoke the words she knew it was no use. Wasn’t this what was said always to happen to those unwary enough to al ow themselves to be taken captive by the lake folk? They were dragged down into the icy depths never to return; whether their fate was to drown or become one of the folk themselves no one knew.

Sinead did not want to suffer the horror of either fate.

As if reading her thoughts, the first lake woman spoke. “You have taken that which is ours,” she hissed, her voice at once as soft as lapping water and as firm as a roaring sea. “Those who partake of the magic, belong to the magic. It is the law of the Sídhe and we abide by it.” Sinead attempted to stumble backwards but found herself hemmed in on every side. The shelter of the wil ow trees might as wel have been miles away.

Desperately, she tried to reason with the folk.

“Please, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean to offend the Sídhe – or you – but I
have
to take the water. My mother is very il ; the healing properties of the lake could save her. I must have the water and I must return alive to nurse my mother back to health. There is no one else to look after her any more, no one but me to sit with her. She lies awake every night, you see, burning with fever and struggling for every breath. There . . . there is no one else.” She could think of nothing more to add to the plea. As simply as this, her whole life had been boiled down to a few sentences, yet what a load of burden and responsibility those few words carried. Truly, there was no one else.

She might have claimed she had a lover she couldn’t bear to leave behind. But she hadn’t. She might say she had smal children who depended upon her or friends who would miss her. But the truth was, she had none of those either.

At her impassioned plea, the lake woman’s eyes had grown even more opaque. “Your mother is not our concern. If you want the water, you must pay the price. It is the law of the Sídhe,” she repeated. “We must obey.”

Sinead didn’t al ow herself to despair yet. A terrible inspiration dawning on her, she summoned what courage she could.
I have to do this. I am Mother’s only hope.

Aloud she said, “Very wel . I wil pay whatever price you set and wil ingly. Only let me return to my mother first. Let me brew the needed potion and feed her, so that she may recover. Afterwards, if you stil want me . . . I am yours.” She had to choke out those final words, so great was the sense of doom that accompanied them.

She did not know what she expected from the lake folk, or why they should care for her bargain when they could easily drag her off right then with or without her permission.

She could only feel surprise and then a vague sense of the inevitable as she watched them hesitate – given pause by her brave offer.

Can it be they harbour something akin to human feeling or pity?

The lake woman’s face remained as chil and expressionless as ever but Sinead imagined she could see a foaming turmoil within her eyes.

From behind, one of the other creatures whispered, “It is best if she succumbs wil ingly.” The lake woman seemed to agree. After a moment of studying Sinead, she said simply, “The bargain is struck. You have until the rising of the morrow’s sun before the magic wil come for you.

Until then, take what you need and go.”

As simply as that, she faded away – she and the others disappearing into the mist.

If the grey fog near the lake had held one sort of terror for Sinead, her next destination held an altogether different kind of danger. Certainly the peaceful meadow stretched out before her
looked
safe enough. There was none of the marshy land or the wispy tendrils of mist to speak of gloom and danger.

But Sinead was wel familiar with the tales. She knew of the more al uring danger that the beautiful meadow before her possessed: the temptations of the Fae. The local tales were tangled and confused. Who could trust them? But on one point they al agreed. To enter into the chosen realm of the Fae was madness.

And yet, as she had done at the lake, Sinead focused her thoughts on the price of failure and the reward of victory as she forced herself to tread through the tal grasses in search of the bright little blossoms of the joyflower.

The flower was not difficult to find; the meadow was abundant with them and their bright colour combined with their sweet, heady scent led her to a thick patch al too quickly. Sinead gathered the yel ow blossoms by the handful, stuffing them into a wool en pouch hanging from her belt. Then, relieved at finishing so quickly, she began to depart.

How stil it was here. How peaceful. The sun had now risen to its place in the sky, il uminating the meadow with warm rays of gold. A soft breeze stirred wisps of Sinead’s unbound hair against her bared neck and cheek. Her arms were now feeling heavy from the weight of the pitcher of water carried on one hip.
Whatever had possessed her to fetch the water first rather than last?

If she had not been strongly aware of the need to remain alert how easy it would be to stop right where she stood, to lie down and rest amid the meadow grass and wildflowers, to gaze up at the drifting clouds in the cheery blue sky overhead.

She shook away the temptation as soon as she became aware it had entered her head. She had come here with a mission. She had accomplished her purpose as swiftly as possible and must be on her way.

With thoughts such as these, so caught up did she become in the need to be alert towards what lay to her left and right that she forgot to look where her feet tread . . . Until the moment she realized she was no longer walking amid waist-deep grass. She trod instead on a circular path of wel -worn earth, a heavily beaten ring in the centre of an otherwise grassy field.

A faery ring.

Horrified, she froze where she stood, her sudden, clumsy halt causing a smal amount of water to splash out over the side of the pitcher and dampen her skirt. She scarcely noticed.

How could she have been so careless?
The very thing she had set out to avoid was now surrounding her. There was no spot in the earth fil ed with more powerful magic than a faery ring.

Moistening her lips with her tongue, she clutched the pitcher more firmly to her side and tiptoed backwards – making her way to the edge of the ring. She almost thought she had made it, almost dared to hope her trespass had escaped their notice.

But such was not her fortune.

“Who is this, brother? Who is this that has come to dance with us?” Sinead flinched at the light, musical voice coming from beyond her shoulder. Heart heavy with dread, she forced herself to turn and meet the fearful y charming sight.

A pair of Fae folk stood a short distance away, perusing her as though she were some unfamiliar object, some curious, foreign bird or flower that had suddenly appeared where it did not belong.

They were male and female, the pair of Fae, and a very handsome sight they might have been to the unknowledgable eye. Youthful and attractively featured, they were similar enough to have been twins – save that one was a young man, the other a girl. Their clothing was al of gold and silk, their hair as yel ow as freshly churned butter. Their very skin seemed to shimmer and sparkle under the light of the sun, as though gold dust powdered them from head to toe. Sinead did not doubt that it did.

“I cannot tel you her name, sister, for it has not yet been given to me.” The young male’s voice was as tinkling and beautiful as that of the girl. He arched one fair eyebrow at Sinead. “Tel me, maiden, what is your name and why do you come here to steal away our secrets?” Sinead thought she detected a hint of mockery in those tawny eyes and her back stiffened. “I do not come here for your secrets but for your joyflower. My mother is gravely il and a potion containing your joyflower may save her.”

He appeared not to have heard that last. “Our joyflower? Why, that is even worse, is it not, sister? We would not have one fewer sweet blossom in this meadow than that we already have.” Despite her fright, Sinead found herself staring the pair of them down combatively. “That’s the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard,” she said sharply. “This field is drowning with wildflowers and a few less cannot make any difference to you at al and might help me a great deal.” His response was quick. “Ah, but suppose it is not our wish to help anybody but ourselves?

Therein lies the trouble. For Fae folk, as you must know, care very little for others and very much for themselves.”