The Well of Shades (25 page)

Once or twice, as the afternoon wore on, Tuala felt her son’s mind pulling
against hers, as if he wanted to do more than she was permitting. She saw that he wanted to
be
a dog, chasing sparrows across the grass, drinking from the pond, rolling in the leaves and mud. But he held back from changing his form. Whether her skill was enough to
prevent him from taking that last step, or whether it was the child’s choice to obey his mother, Tuala could not tell. They tried
beetle
as well as
dog
, and Derelei wanted
bird
, but Tuala shook her head.

“Not yet. That one’s too dangerous. When you are older.”

Derelei gave an uncharacteristic squeal of complaint and lay down on the damp grass, rubbing his eyes.

“Time to stop now,” said Tuala firmly. “Let’s take Ban to the kitchen. Maybe there’s cake.”

The child squirmed away from her, protesting. He was overtired; she
must make this shorter next time. He was at the rim of the pond again, his head almost in the water. Tuala moved to pick him up and bear him indoors, but her pregnancy made her slower than usual and by the time she reached him, Derelei was on his belly, staring at the still surface with a familiar intensity. “Bawta,” he said. “See Bawta.”

She’d been unable to avoid a glimpse at the water, and
there had been a vision forming there. Such images came for her even when she didn’t want them. “Broichan’s gone, Derelei,” she said, kneeling beside him. “You know that.”

“Bawta in there.” He was emphatic.

She looked. There were trees and shadow: not a reflection of this orderly garden with its paved paths, its leafless plums and lilacs, but a forested place dark with pines and mazed with little
twisting footways. A thick mat of decaying leaf matter covered the ground, and on the massive trunks of the trees mosses glowed eerily. In the crooks of bare oaks sprouted a multitude of little ferns and creepers, and Tuala could see something moving among them, perhaps birds, perhaps something a great deal stranger. The light that filtered here and there through the dense canopy was white and
chill.

Keep hold of his hand
, she warned herself.
Don’t let go.
The power of this was strong; she might soon be oblivious to the here and now. It did not take long for a
child to drown. It could happen in a heartbeat, silent from start to finish.

“Bawta,” Derelei said again, and there the druid stood, a dark figure under the darker trees, obsidian eyes in marble face, his breath a cloud in the
winter air. He did not open his mouth, but Tuala heard words nonetheless.
A season of penitence. Guard him well.

Questions trembled on her lips:
Where are you? Are you all right? Can you see us?
, but the edges of the vision were already breaking up, and she knew there was not sufficient time to ask. Only a moment; only an instant… No time to think. She touched the tip of her fingers to her lips,
then held her hand out toward the image in the water. She thought maybe Broichan’s mouth twisted a little, its customary severity turning to a self-mocking smile. Then dark forest turned to still pond water, and the vision was gone.

Derelei sat frozen a moment, then began to cry. Piteous tears: the utter woe of an exhausted and disappointed infant. Gathering him into her arms, Tuala shed a tear
or two herself. One could not reassure such a little child by saying:
At least he is alive
, or,
I think he will be back in springtime.
His beloved mentor, his grandfather, had been here only an instant before vanishing, and it was as if the child had lost him all over again. “There, there,” Tuala murmured. “There, Derelei, it’s all right.”

“All gone,” he sobbed.

“He is alive and well,” Tuala
said, talking more to herself than to her son, who was momentarily beyond comforting. “He has revealed himself to us. It’s a great deal better than nothing. Derelei, you know what we’re going to do? Give Ban a bath before he gets his supper. Wash doggy?”

Through his tears, Derelei showed a spark of interest. He stretched out to dip his hands in the pond, an inquiring look breaking through the
woe. Thank the gods little children were so easily distracted.

“Not in the pond,” Tuala said firmly. “In the kitchen,
in a tub. With lots of bubbles. I’ll hold him while you scrub.”

“I’
M TOO TIRED
to carry you anymore,” Eile told Saraid.

“I know it’s dark, but it’s not much farther. Look, I can see lights down the hill there. That must be the place.”

Saraid took
three steps, stumbled, and sat down on the muddy path. It was so dark, Eile could see her daughter only as a small, exhausted shadow.

“Oh, come on, then. Not the sling; hold on to my shoulders and put your legs around my waist.” Eile gritted her teeth and heaved the child up, then rose slowly to her feet again. Her knees ached; she was so tired that each breath was an effort.
Let this be Fiddler’s
Crossing
, she thought.
Let me find them; let them not take one look and turn me away.
She made herself move on, the dog plodding behind her, tail down.

The settlement was bigger than the one at Cloud Hill, the cottages gathered around a grassy square. Lanterns shone here and there, illuminating whitewashed walls and neat patches of garden. A man was walking along the path. Eile cleared her throat
nervously. “Where is the brithem’s house?” she asked him.

“Conor’s? Down there, across the little bridge and up the bank—see the big place with the wall? That’s his house. It’s late to be knocking on doors. You in some kind of trouble?” He eyed her curiously.

“We’re fine. Thanks.” Eile turned her back and walked away quickly. No questions; no delays.
Let them open the door. Let them listen.

The brithem’s house was surrounded by a substantial stone wall, in which was set a heavy gate of ironwork. A leafless creeper grew extravagantly on the stones, branching here and there in a complex pattern of its own; in summer the place would be mantled in green. A lantern burned not far inside the gate, and Eile could see
lights in the house. The gate was locked. Eile rattled it, reluctant to
shout, and somewhere inside a dog began to bark, setting their own companion growling in response. This lawman was evidently wary of intruders.

The watchdog kept up its alarm, but nobody seemed to be coming. Eile contemplated a third night spent in the lee of a haystack or behind a pig pen, and raised her voice. “Is anyone there? Hello?” A pause; the barking had quieted. “Hello? Can someone let
me in?”

A woman was coming down the gravel path with a lamp in hand. By her side padded a big hound. The gray dog moved up to the gate, hair bristling, a rumble in his throat.

“Hush,” said Eile.

A pair of beautiful brown eyes examined them between the bars of the gate. The woman was youngish and not very tall. Eile felt a chill run up her spine. Even in the fitful lantern light, she could see
that this woman bore an uncanny resemblance to the Widow. That was wrong. These were supposed to be Faolan’s kinsfolk. They were meant to be friends.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. “What do you want?”

“My name is Eile. This is my daughter. I need to see the brithem. It’s urgent. Is he here?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s in another settlement hearing a case. Can you come back in the morning?”

Gods,
another night in the open. Eile hitched Saraid higher on her back. “I’ve walked all the way from Blackthorn Rise,” she said, annoyed that her voice was not quite steady.

The brown eyes sharpened. “Carrying the child? Is it just the two of you?”

Eile nodded. “And this dog. He’s harmless.”

“Blackthorn Rise. From Áine’s house?”

“Who?”

“My sister. She’s more commonly known as the Widow.”

“Your
sister?
But—” Something wrong here; something askew. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake. The man I’m looking for is Faolan’s father.”

The eyes went wide. The face paled. The woman looked as if she might faint from shock. “You know my brother?” she breathed. “You’ve seen him?” The lamp shook in her hand.

“If you mean Faolan, I have news of him. Wait a bit. Are you saying the Widow is Faolan’s sister,
too? That’s impossible. She never—I mean, she—” What kind of tangled web had they fallen into?

“Down, please?” Saraid’s little voice, through a yawn.

The woman moved swiftly to unlock the gates, using a key from a big bunch at her belt. The hound stood by her, watchful and obedient, as Eile, Saraid and the gray dog slipped through and the gates were secured behind them.

“I’m Líobhan,” the woman
said. “You look exhausted. Come inside; I’ll call the others. You really have some news of Faolan? He’s still alive?”

“Alive?” Eile was taken aback. She surely hoped he was. “He was a few days ago. But he may be in trouble. I really need to speak to the brithem—”

“Tell us tonight.” Líobhan’s voice, mellow and warm, was shaking with emotion. “Please. We’ve heard nothing of my brother since he
left Fiddler’s Crossing ten years ago. No news at all. This is—it’s unbelievable. You said a few days—does that mean he’s close at hand somewhere? That he’s coming home at last?”

She did not wait for an answer. Leading Eile along a covered way and in a door to a warm room with a big table and a broad stone hearth, she called out, “Donnan! Grandfather! There’s a girl here who’s seen Faolan!” At
the same time she was seating Eile on a bench by the damped-down fire, helping Saraid out of her cloak, filling a kettle; from a nook by the hearth a brindled cat emerged, stretching. The gray dog went under the bench.

“You’re freezing,” Líobhan said. “Let me stir up the fire, and I’ll find you something to eat. Your tale can wait
until my husband’s here, he was just finishing some work…”

Cautiously,
Eile looked about her. This was the coziest chamber she had ever seen, the firelight supplemented by various lamps set about in corners, the furnishings of mellow wood, the walls softened by hangings embroidered in bright wools: she saw Saraid eyeing the scenes depicted there, a bard playing a harp and people dancing in a line, hands linked; folk with pitchforks loading a cart with hay;
a child feeding chickens, with a dog standing watchfully by. Strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling and on a side table stood stacks of earthenware platters and bowls, as if this household were used to providing for unexpected guests. In a jug was a collection of winter twigs and foliage, silver and gray and black, lovingly arranged. A striped rug lay before the hearth, fiery red, golden
yellow, earthen brown. The cat had moved to sit in the very center of this, the firelight setting a mellow glow on its fur.

Líobhan was bustling about. At top speed, a basket of bannocks and a dish of preserves appeared on the well-scrubbed table, along with cheese, onions, and a useful knife.

“Can I do anything?” Eile felt uncomfortable. This lady should not be waiting on her.

“Sit and warm
yourself. If I don’t keep busy I’ll burst into tears or swamp you with questions before the others get here. I can’t believe we’ve heard from Faolan at last. It’s been so long. Oh, here’s my husband.”

A thickset man in his twenties came in, wiping his hands on a stained apron.

“Donnan, this young woman says she’s seen Faolan. She has some news for us.”

Donnan gave Eile a nod and seated himself
by the fire. The cat jumped immediately to his knee. Saraid’s attention was captured by the creature. Eile could feel her quivering to go and touch, but shyness held her by her mother’s side, all big eyes and silence.

“Her name’s Patch,” Donnan said to the child. “Would you like to stroke her? She doesn’t bite.”

But Saraid shook her head and buried her face in her mother’s sleeve.

Líobhan had
poured some kind of cordial into a jug and was topping it up with hot water. “This will warm you up, Eile,” she said. “My own brew: blackcurrant and crabapple.”

“My wife’s a cook of some renown,” observed Donnan with a smile.

“Thank you,” said Eile, accepting a cup. This was overwhelming. The kinder they were, the more desperately they sought news, the harder it would be to tell the truth. “I
should tell you first… I need to be sure you will still receive me in your house when you know about me…”

A tall old man with a shock of white hair entered the room, and after him a boy of six or seven, wearing a cloak over a nightrobe.

“Phadraig,” said Líobhan, frowning, “what are you doing out of bed?”

“You did shout, Mama.” The boy came over to the fire, scrutinizing first the shrinking
Saraid, then Eile, who met him in the eye. “And I wasn’t asleep, Great Grandfather was telling me a story. That’s our cat.” He addressed this straight to Saraid. “She’s having kittens soon; see her big belly? I’m going to keep one. I’m calling it Cu Chulainn, because he was a great fighter, and my cat’s going to be one, too, and catch all the rats in Father’s workshop. If you put your hand on Patch’s
stomach you can feel the kittens moving around. Want to try? Here.” And, without further ado, there was Saraid, putting her small hand beside Phadraig’s slightly larger one. Eile saw a smile of complete delight illuminate her daughter’s wan features. It seemed a small miracle; she had to blink back tears.