Son of the Shadows

This was Liam, and his brother. Then I saw my mother and my father as they walked up the path together. Her foot slipped in the mud, and she stumbled; he caught her instantly, almost before it happened, he was so quick. His arm went around her shoulders, and she looked up at him. I sensed a shadow over the two of them, and I was suddenly ill at ease. Sean ran past me, grinning, with Aisling not far behind. They were following the tall young man who bore the torch. My brother did not speak, but in my mind I caught his happiness as he passed me. Just for tonight, he was only sixteen years old, and he was in love, and all was right in his world. And I felt that sudden chill again. What was wrong with me? It was as if I were wishing ill on my family, on a fine spring day when everything was bright and strong. I told myself to stop being foolish. But the shadow was still there, on the edge of my thoughts.

You feel it too.

I froze. There was only one person I could speak to this way, without words, and that was Sean. But it was not my brother’s inner voice that touched my mind now.

Don’t be alarmed, Liadan. I will not intrude on your thoughts. If I have learned anything these long years, it is to discipline this skill. You are unhappy. Uneasy. What happens will not be your doing. You must remember that. Each of us chooses his own path.

Still I walked towards the house, the crowd around me chattering and laughing, young men holding their scythes over a shoulder, young women helping to carry spade or sickle. Here and there hands met and clasped, and one or two stragglers disappeared quietly into the forest, about their own business. On the path ahead, my uncle walked slowly, the golden border of his robe catching the last rays of setting sun.

I – I don’t know what I feel, Uncle. A darkness – something terribly wrong. And yet, it’s as if I were wishing it on us, by thinking of it. How can I do this, when everything is so good, when they are all so happy?

It’s time. Not by so much as a turning of the head did my uncle show that he spoke with me thus. You wonder at my ability to read you? You should talk to Sorcha, if you can make her answer. It was she, and Finbar, who excelled in this once. But it may pain her to recall it.

You said it’s time. Time for what?

If there was a way to sigh without making a sound, that was what Conor communicated to me. Time for their hands to stir the pot. Time for their fingers to weave a little more into the pattern. Time for their voices to take up the song. You need feel no guilt, Liadan. They use us all, and there is not much we can do about it. I discovered that the hard way. And so will you, I fear.

What do you mean?

You’ll find out soon enough. Why not enjoy yourself, and be young, while there is still time?

And that was it. He shut off his thoughts from me as suddenly and surely as if a trapdoor had slammed closed. Ahead, I saw him pause, waiting for my mother and Iubdan to catch up, and the three of them went into the house together. I was left none the wiser for this strange conversation.

My sister was very beautiful that night. The hearth fires of the house had been rekindled, and there was a bonfire out of doors, and cider, and dancing. It was quite cool. I had wrapped a shawl around me, and still I shivered. But Niamh’s shoulders were bare above her deep blue gown, and her golden hair was cunningly woven with silk ribbons and little early violets. As she danced, her skin glowed in the firelight and her eyes spoke a challenge. The young men could scarce keep their eyes off her, as she whirled first with one and then another. Even the young druids, I thought, were having difficulty in keeping their feet from tapping and their gaze suitably sober. Seamus had brought the musicians. They were good; a piper, a fiddler, and one who excelled at anything he put his hand to, bodhrán or whistle or flute. There were tables set out in the courtyard, and benches, and the older druids sat with the household there, talking and exchanging tales, watching as the young folk enjoyed themselves.

There was one who stood apart, and that was the young druid, him with the dark red hair, who had held the torch rekindled with a mystical fire. He alone had not partaken of food and drink. He showed no sign of enjoyment, as the household exploded in merriment around him. His foot would not be tapping to an old tune, his voice would not be raised in song. Instead, he stood upright and silent behind the main party, watchful. I thought that only common sense. It was wise to have a few who did not partake of strong ale, a few who would listen for unwanted intruders, who would be alert to sounds of danger. I knew Liam had posted men to watch at strategic points around the house, in addition to his usual sentries and forward guards. An attack on Sevenwaters tonight could wipe out not just the lords of the three most powerful families in the northeast, but their spiritual leaders as well. So, no chances were taken.

But this young man was no guard, or if he were meant to be, he was a pretty poor one. For his dark eyes were fixed on one thing only, and that was my lovely, laughing sister Niamh as she danced in the firelight with her curtain of red-gold hair swirling around her. I saw how still he was, and how his eyes devoured her, and then I looked away, telling myself not to be stupid. This was a druid, after all; I supposed they must have desires, like any other man, and so his interest was natural enough. Dealing with such things was no doubt part of the discipline they learned. And it was none of my business. Then I looked at my sister, and I saw the glance she sent his way, from under her long beautiful lashes. Dance with Eamonn, you stupid girl, I told her, but she had never been able to hear my inner voice.

The music changed from a reel to a slow, graceful lament. It had words, and the crowd had drunk enough by now to sing along with the piper.

‘Will you dance with me, Liadan?’

‘Oh.’ Eamonn had startled me, suddenly there beside me in the darkness. The firelight showed his face as gravely composed as ever. If he were enjoying the party, he gave no sign of it. Now that I thought about it, I had not seen him dancing.

‘Oh. If you – but perhaps you should ask my sister. She dances far better than I.’ It came out sounding awkward, almost rude. Both of us looked across the sea of dancing youths and girls, to where Niamh stood smiling, running a careless hand through her hair, surrounded by admirers. A tall, golden figure in the flickering light.

‘I’m asking you.’ There was no sign of a smile on Eamonn’s lips. I was glad he was not able to read my thoughts as my uncle Conor could. I had been quick enough to assess him, earlier that evening. It made my cheeks burn to think of it. I reminded myself that I was a daughter of Sevenwaters, and must observe certain courtesies. I got up, and slipped off my shawl, and Eamonn surprised me by taking it from me and folding it neatly before he laid it on a nearby table. Then he took my hand and led me into the circle of dancers.

It was a slow dance, couples meeting and parting, circling back to back, touching hands and letting go. A dance well suited to Brighid’s festival which is, after all, about new life and the stirring of the blood that gives it form. I could see Sean and Aisling moving round one another in perfect step, as if the two of them breathed the one breath. The wonderment in their eyes made my heart stop. I found myself saying silently, Let them keep this. Let them keep it. But to whom I said this, I did not know.

‘What is it, Liadan?’ Eamonn had seen the change in my face as he came towards me, took my right hand in his, turned me under his arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘Nothing. I suppose I’m tired, that’s all. We were up early, gathering flowers, preparing food for the feast, the usual things.’

He gave an approving nod.

‘Liadan –’ He started to say something, but was interrupted by an exuberant couple who threatened to bowl us over as they spun wildly past. Adroitly, my partner whisked me out of harm’s way, and for a moment both his arms were around my waist, and my face close to his.

‘Liadan. I need to speak with you. I wish to tell you something.’

The moment was over; the music played on, and he let go as we were drawn back into the circle.

‘Well, talk then,’ I said rather ungraciously. I could not see Niamh; surely she had not retired already. ‘What is it you want to say?’

There was a lengthy pause. We reached the top of the line; he put one hand on my waist and I put one on his shoulder, and we executed a few turns as we made our way to the bottom under an arch of outstretched arms. Then suddenly it seemed Eamonn had had enough of dancing. He kept my hand in his, and drew me to the edge of the circle.

‘Not here,’ he said. ‘This is not the time, nor the place. Tomorrow. I want to talk with you alone.’

‘But –’

I felt his hands on my shoulders, briefly, as he placed the shawl about me. He was very close. Something within me sounded a sort of warning; but still I did not understand.

‘In the morning,’ he said. ‘You work in your garden early, do you not? I will come to you there. Thank you for the dance, Liadan. You should perhaps let me be the judge of your skills.’

I looked up at him, trying to work out what he meant, but his face gave nothing away. Then somebody called his name, and with a brief nod he was gone.

I worked in the garden next morning, for the weather was fine, though cold, and there was always plenty to do between herb beds and stillroom. My mother did not come out to join me, which was unusual. Perhaps, I thought, she was tired after the festivities. I weeded and cleaned and swept, and I made up a coltsfoot tea to take to the village later, and I bundled flowering heather for drying. It was a busy morning. I forgot all about Eamonn until my father came into the stillroom near midday, ducking his head under the lintel, then seating himself on the wide window embrasure, long legs stretched out before him. He, too, had been working, and had not yet shed his outdoor boots, which bore substantial traces of newly ploughed soil. It would sweep up easily enough.

‘Busy day?’ he asked, observing the well-ordered bundles of drying herbs, the flasks ready for delivery, the tools of my trade still laid out on the workbench.

‘Busy enough,’ I said, bending to wash my hands in the bucket I kept by the outer door. ‘I missed Mother today. Was she resting?’

A little frown appeared on his face. ‘She was up early. Talking to Conor, at first. Later with Liam as well. She needs to rest.’

I tidied the knives, the mortar and pestle, the scoops and twine away onto their shelves. ‘She won’t,’ I said. ‘You know that. It’s like this, when Conor comes. It’s as if there’s never enough time for them, always too much to be said. As if they can never make up for the years they lost.’

Father nodded, but he didn’t say anything. I got out the millet broom and began to sweep.

‘I’ll go to the village later,’ I told him. ‘She need not do that. Perhaps, if you tell her to, she’ll try to sleep.’

Iubdan’s mouth quirked up at one corner in a half-smile.

‘I never tell your mother what to do,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

I grinned at him. ‘Well then, I’ll tell her. The druids are here for a day or two. She has time enough for talking.’

‘That reminds me,’ said Father, lifting his booted feet as I swept the floor beneath them. When he put them down again, a new shower of earth fell onto the flagstones. ‘I had a message to give you.’

‘Oh?’

‘From Eamonn. He asked me to say, he’s been called home urgently. He left very early this morning, too early to come and see you with any decency, was how he put it. He said to tell you he would speak with you when he returned. Does that make sense to you?’

‘Not a lot,’ I said, sweeping the last of the debris out the door and down the steps. ‘He never did tell me what it was all about. Why was he called away? What was so urgent? Has Aisling gone as well?’

‘Aisling is still here; she is safer under our protection. It was a matter calling for leadership, and quick decisions. He has taken his grandfather and those of his men that could be made ready to ride. I understand there was some new attack on his border positions. By whom, nobody seemed sure. An enemy that came by stealth and killed without scruples, as efficiently as a bird of prey, was the description. The man who brought the tale seemed almost crazed with fear. I suppose we will hear more, when Eamonn returns.’

We went out into the garden. At this chill time of year, spring was not much more than a thought; the tiniest of fragile crocus shoots emerging from the hard ground, a hint of buds swelling on the branches of the young oak. Early-flowering tansy made a note of vibrant yellow against the grey green of wormwood and lavender. The air smelt cool and clean. Each stone path was swept bare, the herb beds tidy under their straw mulching.

‘Sit here awhile with me, Liadan,’ said my father. ‘We are not needed yet. It will be hard enough to persuade your mother and her brothers to come inside for some food and drink. I have something to ask you.’

‘You too?’ I said as we sat down together on the stone bench. ‘It sounds as if everyone has something to ask me.’

‘Mine is a general sort of question. Have you given any thought to marriage? To your future?’

I was not expecting this.

‘Not really. I suppose – I suppose I hoped, as the youngest, for a couple more years at home,’ I said, feeling suddenly cold. ‘I am in no hurry to leave Sevenwaters. Maybe – maybe I thought I might remain here, you know, tend to my ancient parents in their failing years. Perhaps not seek a husband at all. After all, both Niamh and Sean will make good matches, strong alliances. Need I be wed as well?’

Father looked at me very directly. His eyes were a light, intense blue; he was working out just how much of what I said was serious, and how much a joke.

‘You know I would gladly keep you here with us, sweetheart,’ he said slowly. ‘Saying farewell to you would not be easy for me. But there will be offers. I would not have you narrow your pathway, because of us.’

I frowned. ‘Maybe we could leave it for a while. After all, Niamh will wed first. Surely there won’t be any offers until after that.’ My mind drew up the image of my sister, glowing and golden in her blue gown by firelight, tossing her bright hair, surrounded by comely young men. ‘Niamh should wed first,’ I added firmly. It seemed to me that this was important, but I could not tell him why.

There was a pause, as if he were waiting for me to make some connection I could not quite grasp.

‘Why do you say that? That there will be no offers for you until your sister weds?’

This was becoming difficult, more difficult than it should have been, for my father and I were very close and always spoke directly and honestly to each other.

‘What man would offer for me, when he could have Niamh?’ I asked. There was no sense of envy in my question. It just seemed to me so obvious I found it hard to believe it had not occurred to him.

My father raised his brows. ‘Perhaps, if Eamonn makes you an offer of marriage, you should ask him that question,’ he said quite gently. There was a hint of amusement in his tone.

I was stunned. ‘Eamonn? Offer for me? I don’t think so. Is he not intended for Niamh? You’re wrong, I’m sure.’ But in the back of my mind, last night’s episode played itself out again, the way he had spoken to me, the way we had danced together, and a little seed of doubt was sown. I shook my head, not wanting to believe it was possible. ‘It wouldn’t be right, Father. Eamonn should wed Niamh. That’s what everyone expects. And – and Niamh needs somebody like him. A man that will – that will take a firm hand, but be fair as well. Niamh should be the one.’ Then I thought, with relief, of something else. ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘Eamonn would never ask a girl such a thing without seeking her father’s permission first. He was to have spoken with me early this morning. It must have been about something else.’

‘What if I told you,’ said Iubdan carefully, ‘that your young friend had planned a meeting with me as well, this morning? He was prevented from keeping this appointment only by the sudden call home to defend his border.’

I was silent.

‘What sort of man would you choose for yourself, Liadan?’ he asked me.

‘One who is trustworthy and true to himself,’ I answered straight away. ‘One who speaks his mind without fear. One who can be a friend as well as a husband. I would be contented with that.’

‘You would wed an ugly old man with not a scrap of silver to his name, if he met your description?’ asked my father, amused. ‘You are an unusual young woman, daughter.’

‘To be honest,’ I said wryly, ‘if he were also young, handsome and wealthy, it would not go unappreciated. But such things are less important. If I were lucky enough – if I were fortunate enough to wed for love, as you did … but that is unlikely, I know.’ I thought of my brother and Aisling, dancing in a charmed circle all their own. It was too much to expect the same thing for myself.

‘It brings a contentment like no other,’ said Iubdan softly. ‘And with it a fear that strikes when you least expect it. When you love thus, you give hostages to fortune. It becomes harder with time, to accept what fate brings. We have been lucky, so far.’

I nodded. I knew what he was talking about. It was a matter we did not speak of openly; not yet.

We got up and walked slowly out through the garden archway and along the path towards the main courtyard. Further away, in the shelter of a tall hedge of blackthorn, my mother was seated on the low stone wall, a small, slight figure, her pale features framed by a mass of dark curls. Liam stood on one side, booted foot on the wall, elbow on knee, explaining something with economical gestures. On her other side sat Conor, very still in his white robe, listening intently. We did not disturb them.

‘I suppose you will find out, when Eamonn returns, whether I am right,’ my father said. ‘There is no doubt he would be a very suitable match for your sister, or for yourself. You should at least give thought to it, in the meantime.’

I did not answer.

‘You must understand that I would never force you into any decision, Liadan, and neither would your mother. When you take a husband, the choice will be yours. We would ask only that you think about it, and prepare yourself, and consider any offers that are made. We know you will choose wisely.’

‘What about Liam? You know what he would want. There is our estate to consider, and the strength of our alliances.’

‘You are your mother’s daughter and mine, not Liam’s,’ said my father. ‘He will be content enough that Sean has chosen the one woman Liam would most have wanted for him. Your choice will be your own, little one.’

I had the strangest feeling at that moment. It was as if a silent voice whispered, These words will come back to haunt him. A chill, dark feeling. It was over in a moment, and when I glanced at Father, his face was calm and unperturbed. Whatever it was, it had passed by him unheard.

The druids remained at Sevenwaters for several days. Conor spoke at length with his sister and brother, or sometimes I would see him with my mother alone, the two of them standing or sitting together in total silence. At such times they communicated secretly, with the language of the mind, and there was no telling what passed between them. Thus had she spoken once with Finbar, the brother closest to her heart, him who returned from the years away with the wing of a swan instead of an arm, and something not quite right with his mind. She had shared the same bond with him as I had with Sean. I knew my brother’s pain and his joy without the need for words. I could reach him, however far he might go, with a message nobody but he would ever hear. And so I understood how it must be for my mother, for Sorcha, having lost that other who was so close that he was like a part of herself. For, the tale went, Finbar could never become a man again, not quite. There was a part of him, when he came back, that was still wild, attuned to the needs and instincts of a creature of the wide sky and the bottomless deep. And so, one night, he had simply walked down to the lake shore and on into the cold embrace of the water. His body had never been found, but there was no doubt, folk said, that he drowned that night. How could such a creature swim, with the right arm of a young man and on the left side a spreading, white-feathered wing?

I understood my mother’s grief, the empty place she must carry inside her even after so long, although she never spoke of these things, not even to Iubdan. But I believed she shared it with Conor, during those long silent times. I thought they used their gift to strengthen one another, as if by sharing the pain they could make it a little easier to bear, each for the other.

The whole household would gather together for supper when the long day’s work was over, and after supper for singing and drinking and the telling of tales. In our family there was an ability for storytelling that was widely known and respected. Of us all, my mother was the best, her gift with words such that she could, for a time, take you right out of this world and into another. But the rest of us were no mean wordsmiths either. Conor was a wonderful storyteller. Even Liam on occasion would contribute some hero tale containing detailed descriptions of battles and the technicalities of armed and unarmed combat. There was a strong following for these among the men. Iubdan, as I have said, never told a tale, though he listened attentively. At such times, folk were reminded that he was a Briton, but he was well respected for his fairness, his generosity and above all his capacity for hard work, and so they did not hold his ancestry against him.

On the night of Imbolc, however, it was not one of our household who told the tale. My mother was asked for a story, but she excused herself.

‘With such a learned company in our midst,’ she said sweetly, ‘I must decline, for tonight. Conor, we know the talent of your kind for such a task. Perhaps you will favour us with a tale for Brighid’s day?’

I thought, looking at her, that she still seemed weary, with a trace of shadow around the luminous green eyes. She was always pale, but tonight her skin had a transparency which made me uneasy. She sat on a bench beside Iubdan, and her small hand was swallowed up by his large one. His other arm was around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. The words came to me again, Let them keep this, and I flinched. I told myself sternly to stop this foolishness. What did I think I was, a seer? More likely just a girl with a fit of the vapours.

‘Thank you,’ said Conor gravely, but he did not rise to his feet. Instead, he looked across the hall and gave the smallest of nods. And so it was the young druid, the one who had borne the torch the night before to rekindle our hearth fires, who stepped forward and readied himself to entertain us. He was, indeed, a well-made young fellow, quite tall and very straight backed with the discipline of his kind, his curling hair not the fiery red of my father’s and Niamh’s, but a deeper shade, the colour at the heart of a winter sunset. And his eyes were dark, the dark of ripe mulberries, and hard to read. There was a little cleft in his chin, and he had a pair of wicked dimples, when he allowed them to show. Just as well, I thought, that this is one of the brotherhood. If not, half the young girls of Sevenwaters would be fighting over him. I dare say he’d enjoy that.

‘What better tale for Imbolc,’ began the young druid, ‘than that of Aengus Óg and the fair Caer Ibormeith? A tale of love, and mystery, and transformation. By your leave, I will tell this tale tonight.’

I had expected he might be nervous, but his voice was strong and confident. I supposed it came from years and years of privation and study. It takes a long time to learn what a druid must learn, and there are no books to help you. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Liam looking at Sorcha, a small frown on his face and a question in his eyes. She gave a little nod, as if to say, never mind, let him go on. For this tale was one we did not tell, here at Sevenwaters. It cut altogether too close to the bone. I imagined this young man knew little of our history, or he would never have chosen it. Conor, surely, could not have been aware of his intention, or he would tactfully have suggested a different story. But Conor was sitting quietly near his sister, apparently unperturbed.

‘Even a son of the Túatha Dé Danann,’ began the young man, ‘can fall sick for love. So it was with Aengus. Young, strong, handsome, a warrior of some repute, one would not have thought him so easily unmanned. But one afternoon, out hunting for deer, he was overtaken suddenly by a deep weariness, and stretched himself out to sleep on the grass in the shade spread by a grove of yew trees. He slept straight away, and in his sleep he dreamed. Oh, how he dreamed. In his dream, there she was: a woman so beautiful she outshone the stars in the sky. A woman to tear your heart in pieces. He saw her walking barefoot by a remote shore, tall and straight, her breasts white as moonlight on snow, where they swelled round above the dark folds of her gown, her hair like light on beech leaves in autumn, the bright red-gold of burnished copper. He saw the way she moved, the sweet allure of her body, and when he woke, he knew that he must have her or he would surely die.’

This had, I thought, far too much of a personal touch. But when I looked around me, as the storyteller drew breath, it seemed only I had noticed the form of his words. I and one other. Sean stood by Aisling near the window, and they seemed to be listening as attentively as I, but I knew their thoughts were on each other, every scrap of awareness fixed on the way his hand lay casually at her waist, the way her fingers gently touched his sleeve. Iubdan was watching the young druid, but his gaze was abstracted; my mother had rested her head against his shoulder, and her eyes were closed. Conor looked serene, Liam remote. The rest of the household listened politely. Only my sister Niamh sat mesmerised, on the edge of her seat, a deep blush on her cheeks and her lovely blue eyes alight with fascination. He meant it for her, there was no doubt of it; was I the only other who could see this? It was almost as if he had the power to command our reactions with his words.

‘Aengus suffered thus for a year and a day,’ the youth went on. ‘Every night in visions she would appear to him, sometimes close to his bedside, her fair body clothed in sheerest white, so close it seemed he could touch her with his hand. He fancied, when she bent over him, he felt the light touch of her long hair against his bare body. But when he reached out, lo! she was gone in an instant. He was eaten up with longing for her, so that he fell into a fever, and his father, the Dagda, feared for his life, or at least for his sanity. Who was she? Was the maiden real, or some creature summoned up from the depths of Aengus’s spirit, never to be possessed in life?

‘Aengus was dying; his body was burning up, his heart beat like a battle drum, his eyes were hot with fever. And so the Dagda solicited the help of the King of Munster. They sought to the east, and they sought to the west, and along all the highways and byways of Erin, and at length they learned the maiden’s name. It was Caer Ibormeith, Yewberry, and she was the daughter of Eathal, a lord of the Túatha Dé, who dwelt in an Otherworld place in the province of Connacht.

‘When they told Aengus this news, he rose up from his sick bed and went forth to find her. He made the long journey to the place called Mouth of the Dragon, the lake on whose remote shores he had first glimpsed his beloved. He waited there three days and three nights, taking neither food nor drink, and at length she came, walking along the sand barefoot as he had seen her in his vision, her long hair whipped around her by the wind over the lake, like coils of living fire. His desire threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to approach her politely, and introduced himself as steadily as he could.

‘The maiden, Caer Ibormeith, wore around her neck a collar of silver, and now he saw that a chain linked her to another maiden, and another, and all along the shore thrice fifty young women walked, each joined to the next by chains of wrought silver. But when Aengus asked Caer to be his, when he pleaded his longing for her, she slipped away as silently as she had appeared, and her maidens with her. And of them all, she was the tallest and the most lovely. She was indeed the woman of his heart.’

He paused, but not a glance did he make in Niamh’s direction, where she sat like some beautiful statue, her intense blue eyes full of wonderment. I had never seen her sit still so long.

‘After this, the Dagda went to Caer’s father where he dwelt in Connacht, and demanded the truth. How could his son Aengus win this woman, for without her he would surely be unable to live? How might so strange a creature be had? Eathal was unwilling to cooperate; eventually, pressure was applied that he could not resist. The fair Caer, said her father, chose to spend every other year as a swan. From Samhain she would resume her birdlike guise, and on the day she changed, Aengus must take her to him, for that was the time she was most vulnerable. But he must be ready, warned Eathal. Winning her would not be without a cost.