Child of the Prophecy

‘Why doesn’t he take you back to Sevenwaters?’ he asked one day, somewhat incautiously. ‘We’ve been there once or twice, you know. There’s an old auntie of my dad’s still lives there. You’ve got a whole family in those parts: uncles, aunts, cousins by the cartload. They’d make you welcome, I’ve no doubt of it.’

‘Why should he?’ I glared at him, finding any criticism of my father difficult, however indirectly expressed.

‘Because –’ Darragh seemed to struggle for words. ‘Because – well, because that’s the way of it, with families. You grow up together, you do things together, you learn from each other and look after each other and – and –’

‘I have my father. He has me. We don’t need anyone else.’

‘It’s no life,’ Darragh muttered. ‘It’s not a life for a girl.’

‘I’m not a girl, I’m a sorcerer’s daughter,’ I retorted, raising my brows at him. ‘There’s no need for me to go to Sevenwaters. My home is here.’

‘You’re doing it again,’ said Darragh after a moment.

‘What?’

‘That thing you do when you’re angry. Your eyes start glowing, and little flashes of light go through your hair, like flames. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’

‘Well, then,’ I said, thinking I had better exercise more control over my feelings.

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, that just goes to show. That I’m not just a girl. So you can stop planning my future for me. I can plan it myself.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He did not ask me for details. We sat silent for a while, watching the gulls wheel above the returning curraghs. The sea was dark as slate; there would be a storm before dusk. After a while he started to tell me about the white pony he’d brought down from the hills, and how his dad would be wanting him to sell her for a good price at the horse fair, but Darragh wasn’t sure he could part with her, for there was a rare understanding growing between the two of them. By the time he’d finished telling me I was rapt with attention, and had quite forgotten I was cross with him.

I was fourteen years old, and summer was nearly over. Father was pleased with me, I could see it in his eyes. The Glamour was tricky. It was possible to achieve some spectacular results. My father could turn himself into a different being entirely: a bright-eyed red fox, or a strange wraith-like creature most resembling an attenuated wisp of smoke. He gave me the words for this, but he would not allow me to attempt it. There was a danger in it, if used incautiously. The risk was that one might lack the necessary controls to reverse the spell. There was always the chance that one might never come back to oneself. Besides, Father told me, such a transformation caused a major drain on a sorcerer’s power. The further from one’s true self the semblance was, the more severe the resultant depletion. Say one became a ferocious sea-monster, or an eagle with razor-sharp talons, and then managed the return to oneself. For a while, after that, no exercise of the craft would be possible. It could be as long as a day and a night. During that time the sorcerer would be at his, or her, most vulnerable.

So I was forbidden to try the major variants of the spell, which dealt with non-human forms. But the other, the more subtle changing, that I discovered a talent for. At first it was hard work, leaving me exhausted and shaken. But I applied myself, and in time I could slip the Glamour on and off in the twinkle of an eye. I learned to conceal my weariness.

‘You understand,’ said Father gravely, ‘that what you create is simply a deception of others’ eyes. If your disguise is subtle, just a convenient alteration of yourself, folk will be unaware that things have changed. They will simply wonder why they did not notice, before, how utterly charming you were, or how trustworthy your expression. They will not know that they have been manipulated. And when you change back to yourself, they will not know they ever saw you differently. A complete disguise is another matter. That must be used most carefully. It can create difficulties. It is always best to keep your guise as close as possible to your own form. That way you can slip back easily and regain your strength quickly. Excuse me a moment.’ He turned away from me, suppressing a deep cough.

‘Are you unwell?’ I asked. It was unusual for him to have so much as a sniffle, even in the depths of winter.

‘I’m well, Fainne,’ he said. ‘Don’t fuss. Now remember what I said about the Glamour. If you use the major forms you take a great personal risk.’

‘But I could do it,’ I protested. ‘Change myself into a bird or a serpent. I’m sure I could. Can’t I try, just once?’

Father looked at me. ‘Be glad,’ he said, ‘that you have no need of it. Believe that it is perilous. A spell of last resort.’

It was no longer possible to take time off from my studies. I had scarcely seen the sun all summer, for Father had arranged to have our small supply of bread and fish and vegetables brought up to the Honeycomb by one of the local girls. There was a spring in one of the deep gullies, and it was Father himself who went with a bucket for water now. I stayed inside, working. I was training myself not to care. At first it hurt a lot, knowing Darragh would be out there somewhere looking for me, waiting for me. Later, when he gave up waiting, it hurt even more. I’d escape briefly to a high ledge above the water, a secret place accessible only from inside the vaulted passages of the Honeycomb. From this vantage point you could see the full sweep of the bay, from our end with its sheer cliffs and pounding breakers to the western end, where the far promontory sheltered the scattering of cottages and the bright, untidy camp of the travelling folk. You could see the boys and girls running on the shore, and hear their laughter borne on the breath of the west wind, mingled with the wild voices of sea birds. Darragh was there amongst them, taller now, for he had shot up this last winter away. His dark hair was thrown back from his face by the wind, and his grin was as crooked as ever. There was always a girl hanging around him now, sometimes two or three. One in particular I noticed, a little slip of a thing with skin brown from the sun, and a long plait down her back. Wherever Darragh went she wasn’t far away, white teeth flashing in a smile, hand on her hip, looking. With no good reason at all, I hated her.

The lads used to dive off the rocks down below the Honeycomb, unaware of my presence on the ledge above. They were of an age when a boy believes himself invincible, when every lad is a hero who can slay whatever monsters cross his path. The ledge they chose was narrow and slippery; the sea below dark, chill and treacherous. The dive must be calculated to the instant to avoid catching the force of an incoming wave that would crush you against the jagged rocks at the Honeycomb’s base. Again and again they did it, three or four of them, waiting for the moment, bare feet gripping the rock, bodies nut-brown in the sun, while the girls and the smaller children stood watching from the shore, silent in anticipation. Then, sudden and shocking no matter how often repeated, the plunge to the forbidding waters below.

Twice or three times that summer I saw them. The last time I went there, I saw Darragh leave the ledge and climb higher, nimble as a crab on the crevices of the stark cliffside, scrambling up to perch on the tiniest foothold far above the diving point. I caught my breath in shock. He could not intend – surely he did not intend –? I bit my lip and tasted salt blood; I screwed my hands into fists so tight my nails cut my palms. The fool. Why would he try such a thing? How could he possibly –?

He stood poised there a moment as his audience hushed and froze, feeling no doubt some of the same fascinated terror that gripped me. Far, far below the waves crashed and sucked, and far above the gulls screamed a warning. Darragh did not raise his arms for a dive. He simply leaned forward and plummeted down headfirst, straight as an arrow, hands by his sides, down and down until his body entered the water as neatly as a gannet diving for fish; and I watched one great wave wash over the spot where he had vanished, and another, and a third, while my heart hammered with fear, and then, much further in towards the shore, a sleek dark head emerged from the water and he began to swim, and a cheer went up from the boys on the ledge and the girls on the sand, and when he came out of the water, dripping, laughing, she was there to greet him and to offer him the shawl from her own shoulders to dry himself off with.

I did not concentrate very well that day, and Father gave me a sharp look, but said nothing. It was my own choice not to go back and watch them after that. What Father had taught me was right. A sorcerer, or a sorcerer’s daughter, could not perform the tasks required, could not practise the art to the full, if other things were allowed to get in the way.

It was close to Lugnasad and that summer’s end when my father told me his own story at last. We sat before the fire after a long day’s work, drinking our ale. At such times we were mostly silent, each absorbed with our own thoughts. I was watching Father as he stared into the flames, and I was thinking how he was losing weight, the bones of his face showing stark beneath the skin. He was even paler than usual. Teaching me must be a trial to him sometimes. No wonder he looked weary. I would have to try harder.

‘You know we are descended from a line of sorcerers, Fainne,’ he said suddenly, as if simply following a train of thought.

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And you understand what that means?’

I was puzzled that he should ask me this. ‘That we are not the same as ordinary folk, and never can be. We are set apart, neither one thing nor the other. We can exercise the craft, for what purpose we may choose. But some elements of magic are beyond us. We may touch the Otherworld, but are not truly of it. We live in this world, but we never really belong to it.’

‘Good, Fainne. You understand, in theory, very well. But it is not the same to go out into the world and discover what this means. You cannot know what pain this half-existence can bring. Tell me, do you remember your grandmother? It is a long time since she came here; ten years and more. Perhaps you have forgotten her.’

I frowned in concentration. ‘I think I can remember. She had eyes like ours, and she stared at me until my head hurt. She asked me what I’d learned, and when I told her, she laughed. I wanted her to go away.’

Father nodded grimly. ‘My mother does not choose to go abroad in the world. Not now. She keeps to the darker places; but we cannot dismiss her, nor her arts. We bear her legacy within us, you and I, whether we will or no, and it is through her that we are both less and more than ordinary folk. I had no wish to tell you more of this, but the time has come when I must. Will you listen to my story?’

‘Yes, Father,’ I whispered, shocked.

‘Very well. Know, then, that for eighteen years of my existence I grew up in the nemetons, under the protection and nurture of the wise ones. What came before that I cannot remember, for I dwelt deep in the great forest of Sevenwaters from little more than an infant. Oak and ash were my companions; I slept on wattles of rowan, the better to hear the voice of the spirit, and I wore the plain robe of the initiate. It was a childhood of discipline and order; frugal in the provision for bodily needs, but full of rich food for the mind and spirit, devoid of the baser elements of man’s existence, surrounded by the beauty of tree and stream, lake and mossy stone. I grew to love learning, Fainne. This love I have tried to impart to you, over the years of your own childhood.

‘The greater part of my training in the druid way I owed to a man called Conor, who became leader of the wise ones during my time there. He took a particular interest in my education. Conor was a hard taskmaster. He would never give a straight response to a question. Always, he would set me in the right direction, but leave me to work out the answers for myself. I learned quickly, and was eager for more. I progressed; I grew older, and was a young man. Conor did not give praise easily. But he was pleased with me, and just before I had completed my training, and might at last call myself a druid, he allowed me to accompany him to the great house of Sevenwaters to assist in the ritual of Imbolc.

‘It was the first time I had been outside the nemetons and the depths of the forest. It was the first time I had seen folk other than my brethren of the wise ones. Conor performed the ritual and lit the sacred fire, and I bore the torch for him. It was the culmination of the long years of training. After supper he allowed me to tell a tale to the assembled company. And he was proud of me: I could see it on his face, clever as he was at concealing his thoughts. There was a gladness in my heart that night, as if the hand of the goddess herself had touched my spirit and set my feet on a path I might follow joyfully for the rest of my days. From then on, I thought, I would be dedicated to the way of light.

‘Sevenwaters is a great house and a great túath. A man called Liam was the master there, Conor’s brother. And there was a sister, Sorcha, of whom wondrous things were said. She was herself a powerful storyteller and a famous healer, and her own tale was the strangest of all. Her brothers had been turned into swans by an evil enchantress, and Sorcha had won them back their human form through a deed of immense courage and sacrifice. Looking at her, it was hard to believe that it might be true, for she was such a little, fragile thing. But I knew it was true. Conor had told me; Conor who himself had taken the form of a wild creature for three long years. They are a family of considerable power and influence, and they possess skills beyond the ordinary.

‘That night everything was new to me. A great house; a feast with more food than I had ever seen before, platters of delicacies and ale flowing in abundance, lights and music and dancing. I found it – difficult. Alien. But I stood and watched. Watched a wonderful, beautiful girl dancing, whirling and laughing with her long copper-bright hair down her back, and her skin glowing gold in the flare of the torches. Later, in the great hall, it was for her I told my story. That night it was not of the goddess nor my fine ideals that I dreamed, but of Niamh, daughter of Sevenwaters, spinning and turning in her blue gown, and smiling at me as she glanced my way. This was not at all what Conor had intended in bringing me with him to the feast. But once it had begun there was no going back. I loved her; she loved me. We met in the forest, in secret. There was no doubt difficulties would be raised if we were to make our intentions known. A druid can marry if he wishes, but it is very unusual to make that choice. Besides, Conor had plans for me, and I knew he would not take the idea well. Niamh was not promised, but she said her family might take time to accept the idea of her wedded to a young man whose parentage was entirely unknown. She was, after all, the niece of Lord Liam himself. But for us there was no alternative. We could not envisage a future in which we were apart. So we met under the oaks, away from prying eyes, and while we were together the difficulties melted away. We were young. Then, it seemed as if we had all the time in the world.’

He paused to cough, and took a sip of his ale. I sensed that telling this tale was very difficult for him, and kept my silence.

‘In time we were discovered. How, it does not matter. Conor’s nephew came galloping into the nemetons and fetched his uncle away, and I heard enough to know Niamh was in trouble. When I reached Sevenwaters I was ushered into a small room and there was Conor himself, and his brother who was ruler of the túath, and Niamh’s father, the Briton. I expected to encounter some opposition. I hoped to be able to make a case for Niamh to become my wife; at least to present what credentials I had and be afforded a hearing. But this was not to be. There would be no marriage. They had no interest at all in what I had to say. That in itself seemed a fatal blow. But there was more. The reason this match was not allowed was not the one I had expected. It was not my lack of suitable breeding and resources. It was a matter of blood ties. For I was not, as I had believed, some lad of unknown parentage, adopted and nurtured by the wise ones. There had been a long lie told; a vital truth withheld. I was the offspring of a sorceress, an enemy of Sevenwaters. At the same time I was the seventh son of Lord Colum, once ruler of the túath.’

I stared at him. A chieftain’s son, of noble blood, and they had not told him; that was unfair. Lord Colum’s son; but … but that meant …

‘Yes,’ said my father, eyes grave as he studied my face, ‘I was half-brother to Conor, and to Lord Liam who now ruled there, and to Sorcha. I bore evil blood. And I was too close to Niamh. I was her mother’s half-brother. Our union was forbidden by law. So, at one blow, I lost both my beloved and my future. How could the son of a sorceress aspire to the ways of light? How could the offspring of such a one ever become a druid? It was bright vision blinded, pure hope sullied. As for Niamh, they had her future all worked out. She would marry another, some chieftain of influence who would take her conveniently far away, so they would not have to think about how close she had come to besmirching the family honour.’

There was a dark bitterness in his tone. He put his ale cup down on the hearth and twisted his hands together.

‘That’s terrible,’ I whispered. ‘Terrible and sad. Is that what happened? Did they send her away?’

‘She married, and travelled far north to Tirconnell. Her husband treated her cruelly. I knew nothing for a time, for I was gone far away in search of my past. That is another story. At last Niamh escaped. Her sister saw the truth of the situation and aided her. I was sent a message and came for her. But the damage was done, Fainne. She never really recovered from it.’

‘Father?’

‘What is it, Fainne?’ He sounded terribly tired; his voice faint and rasping.

‘Wasn’t my mother happy here in Kerry?’

For a while I thought he was not going to answer. It seemed to me he had to reach deep within himself for the words.

‘Happiness is relative. There were times of content; your birth was one. In that, Niamh believed she had at last done something right. I thought she was well again; I was ill-prepared for what happened in the end. It seems she never recaptured what she had lost. Perhaps her final answer was the only one she had left.’

‘It is a very sad story,’ I said. ‘But I’m glad you told me.’

‘It has been necessary to tell you, Fainne,’ Father said very quietly. ‘I’ve been giving some consideration to your future. I think the time has come for you to move on.’

‘What do you mean, move on?’ My heart began to thump in alarm. ‘Can I begin to learn some other branch of the craft? I am eager to progress, Father. I will work hard, I promise.’

‘No, Fainne, that is not what I mean. The time is coming when you must go away for a while, to make yourself known to the family of whom I told you, those who have by now completely forgotten that Niamh ever existed to cause them embarrassment and inconvenience. It is time for you to go to Sevenwaters.’

‘What!’ I was aghast. Leave Kerry, leave the cove, travel all that way, to end up in the midst of those who had treated my parents so abominably that they had never been able to return to their home? How could he suggest such a thing?

‘Now, Fainne, be calm and listen.’ Father looked very grave; the firelight showed me the hollows and lines of his face, a shadow of the old man to come. I bit back a flood of anxious questions. ‘You’re getting older,’ he said. ‘You are the granddaughter of a chieftain of Ulster, the other side of your lineage does not change that. Your mother would not have wished you to grow up alone here with me, knowing no more than this narrow circle of fisherfolk and travellers, spending your whole life in practice of the craft. There is a wider world, daughter, and you must go forward and take your place in it. The folk of the forest have a debt to repay, and they will do so.’

‘But, Father –’ His words made no sense to me; I knew nothing but the terror of being sent away, of leaving the only safe place I knew in all the world. ‘The craft, what are you telling me, the craft is the only important thing, I’ve spent so long learning and I’m good at it now, really good, you said so yourself –’

‘Hush, Fainne. Breathe slowly; make your mind calm. There is no need to distress yourself. Do not fear that you will lose your skills or lack the opportunity to use them once you are gone from here. I have prepared you too well for that to occur.’

‘But – Sevenwaters? A great house, with so many strangers – Father, I …’ I could not begin to explain how much that terrified me.

‘There is no need for such anxiety. It is true, Sevenwaters was a place of grief and loss both for me and for your mother. But the folk of that family are not all bad. I have no quarrel with your mother’s sister. Liadan did me a great favour once. If it were not for her, Niamh would never have escaped that travesty of a marriage. I have not forgotten it. Liadan followed her mother’s pattern in choosing to wed a Briton. She went against Conor’s will; she allied herself with an outlaw and took her child away from the forest. Both Liadan and her husband are good people, though it may be some time before you see them, for they dwell now at Harrowfield, across the water. It is appropriate that you should meet Conor. I want him to know of you. You will be ready, Fainne. You’ll go next summer; we have a full year to prepare. Those things which I cannot teach you, my mother will.’ His lips twisted in a mirthless smile.

‘Oh,’ I said in a small voice. ‘Is she coming here? My grandmother?’

‘Later,’ Father replied coolly. ‘It may not be greatly to your liking or mine, but my mother has a part to play in this, and there is no doubt she has many skills you’ll find helpful. In a place like Sevenwaters you must be able to conduct yourself in every way as the daughter of a chieftain would. That you can never learn from me. I acquired deep knowledge in the nemetons, but I never discovered how to go out into the world as Lord Colum’s son.’

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ I said, aware that my own distress was nothing beside his.

‘I had thought – I had thought one day I might become like you, a great scholar and mage. The lessons you have taught me, the long seasons of practice and study, won’t all that be wasted if I am sent away to be some kind of – fine lady?’

Father’s lips curved. ‘You will use all your skills at Sevenwaters, I think,’ he said. ‘I have taught you the craft as my mother taught me – oh, yes,’ he added, seeing my eyes widen in surprise, ‘she is an adept, unparalleled in certain branches of magic. And such as she is need not be present in body in order to teach.’

I thought of the locked chamber, the long times of silence. He had indeed kept his secrets well.

‘I don’t invite her here lightly, Fainne. My mother is a dangerous woman. I’ve kept her away from you as long as I could, but we need her now. It’s time. You should have no misgivings. You are my daughter, and I am proud of your skills and all you have achieved. That I send you away is a sign of the great faith I have in you, Fainne, faith in your talents, and trust in your ability to find the right purpose for them. I hope one day it will become clear to you what I mean. Now, it’s late, and we’ve work to do in the morning. Best get some sleep, daughter.’

I was deeply shocked by what my father had told me, and inwardly much troubled. Still, a year was a long time. Anything could happen in a year. Perhaps I would not have to go. Maybe he would change his mind. Meanwhile, there was nothing for it but to continue with the practice of the craft, for if the worst happened and my father did send me away by myself, I wanted as much skill as I could master to help me. I put aside my misgivings and applied myself to work.

The weather was quite warm, but Father still had a persistent cough and a shortness of breath. He tried to conceal it, but I heard him, late at night when I lay awake in the darkness.

I was practising without the mirror. Gradually I had reduced the incantation to a couple of words. I made my eyes blue, or green, or clear winter-sky grey. I shaped them long and slanted, or round as a cat’s, thick-lashed, bulbous, sunken and old. As the season passed I moved on to the other features: the nose, the mouth, the bones of the face. The hair. The garments. An old crone in tatters, myself in future guise, maybe. A fisher girl with her hand on her hip, and her come-hither smile, white teeth flashing. A Fainne who was like myself, almost a twin, but subtly changed. The lips sweeter, the brows more arched, the lashes longer. The figure slighter and more shapely. The skin pale and fine as translucent pearl. A dangerous Fainne.

‘Good,’ said my father, watching me as I slipped from one guise to the next. ‘You’ve an aptitude for this, there’s no doubt of it. The semblance is quite convincing. But can you sustain it, I wonder?’

‘Of course I can,’ I responded instantly. ‘Try me, if you will.’

‘I’ll do just that.’ Father was gathering up a bundle of scrolls and letters, and a tightly strapped goatskin bag whose contents might have been anything. ‘Here, carry this. The walk will be good for you.’

He was already making for the passageway to the outside, his sandalled feet noiseless on the stone floor.

‘Where are we going?’ I was taken aback, and hastened after him, still in the guise of not-myself.

‘Dan heads back north in the morning. I’ve business for him to conduct on my behalf, and messages to be delivered. Stay as you are. Act as you seem. Maintain this until we return. Let me see your strength.’

‘But – won’t they notice that I am – different?’

‘They’ve not seen you for a year. Girls grow up quickly. No cause for concern.’

‘But –’

Father glanced back over his shoulder as we came out of the Honeycomb onto the cliff path. His expression was neutral. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘No, Father.’ There was no problem. Only Dan and Peg and the other men and women with their sharp looks and their ready comments. Only the girls with their giggling whispers and the boys with their jokes. Only the fact that I had not once gone right into the encampment without Darragh by my side, not in all the long years Dan Walker’s folk had been spending their summers at the bay. Only that going amongst people still filled me with terror, even though I was a sorcerer’s daughter, for my clever tricks scarcely outweighed my limping, awkward gait and crippling shyness.

But then, I thought as I followed my father’s striding, dark-cloaked figure along the path and down the hillside towards the cove, today I was not that girl; not that Fainne. Instead, I was whatever I pleased. I was the other Fainne, the Glamour wrapping me in a soft raiment of gracefulness, smoothing my curls into a glossy flow of silk, making my walk straight and even, drawing the eye to my long curling lashes and my demure, pretty smile. They would see me, Dan and Peg and the others, and they would admire me, and never notice that anything had changed.

‘Ready?’ Father asked under his breath as we came along the path and caught sight of the cluster of folk preparing livestock and belongings for next morning’s early departure. Dogs were racing around yapping, and children chased each other in and out between carts and ponies and the legs of men and women about their tasks. As we came closer and were seen, people drew back as was their habit, leaving a neat untenanted space around my father. He was unperturbed, striding on forward until he spotted Dan Walker making some fine adjustments to a piece of harness. A couple of lads were bringing their ponies up from the shore, and they glanced my way. I put a hand on one hip, casually, and looked back at them under my lashes as I had seen that girl do, the one with the teeth. One lad looked down, as if abashed, and moved on past. The other one gave an appreciative whistle.

‘And drop this off at St Ronan’s,’ my father was telling Dan Walker. ‘I’m grateful to you, as always.’

‘It’s nothing. Got to go that way regardless, this year. It’s close enough to Sevenwaters. Can’t pass those parts without calling in on the old auntie, I’d never be forgiven. She’s getting long in the tooth, but she’s a sharp one, always has been. Got any messages for the folk up there?’ The question was thrown in as if quite by chance.

Father’s features tightened almost imperceptibly. ‘Not this time.’

I took a step forward, and then another, and I was aware that Peg and the other women were watching me from where they hung clothing on the bushes to dry, and I saw that now Dan’s eyes, too, were fixed on me, appraising. I looked away, down towards the sea.

‘Girl’s turned out a credit to you, Ciarán,’ Dan said. He had lowered his voice, but I heard him all the same. ‘Who’d have thought it? Right little beauty, she’s turning into; takes after her mother. You’d best be finding a husband for her before too long.’

There was a pause.

‘No offence,’ Dan added without emphasis.

‘The suggestion was inappropriate,’ my father said. ‘My daughter is a child.’

Dan made no comment, but I could feel his eyes following me as I walked over to the line of ponies tied up loosely in the shade under the trees, cropping at the rough grass. I could feel many eyes following me, and they were not amused or pitying or scornful, but curious, admiring, intrigued. It made me feel quite strange.