Son of the Shadows. Juliet Marillier
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.
‘It came to pass as Eathal had said. On Samhain eve, Aengus travelled back to the Dragon’s Mouth, and there on the shore were thrice fifty beautiful swans, each with a collar of beaten silver. Thrice fifty and one, for he knew the swan with the proudest plumage, and the longest, most graceful neck, was his lovely Caer Ibormeith. Aengus went up to her, and fell on his knees before her, and she laid her neck across his shoulder and raised her wide wings. At that moment he felt himself changing. A thrill went through his body, from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head, from his smallest finger to his beating heart, and then he saw his skin change and shimmer, and his arms sprout forth snowy plumes, and his vision became clear and far seeing, and he knew he, too, was a swan.
‘They flew three times around the lake, singing in their joy, and so sweet was that song that it lulled all for many leagues around into a peaceful sleep. After that, Caer Ibormeith returned home with Aengus, and whether they went in the form of man and woman, or of two swans, the stories do not make plain. But they do say, if on Samhain eve you travel close to Loch Béal Dragan, and stand very still on the shore at dusk, you will hear the sound of their voices calling, out in the darkness over the lake. Once you have heard that song, you will never forget it. Not in all your living days.’
The silence that followed was a sign of respect accorded only to the best storytellers. He had indeed told his tale with skill; almost as well as one of our own family might have done. I did not look at Niamh; I hoped her red cheeks would not draw undue attention. At length it was my mother who spoke.
‘Come forward, young man,’ she said softly, and she stood up, but her hand was still in my father’s. The young druid stepped forward, somewhat paler in the face than before. Perhaps, for all his seeming confidence, this had been an ordeal for him. He was young enough, scarce twenty, I’d have thought.
‘You tell your tale with spirit and imagination. Thank you for entertaining us so well tonight.’ She smiled at him kindly, but I noticed the grip she kept on Iubdan’s fingers behind her back, as if to steady herself.
The young man bowed his head briefly. ‘Thank you, my lady. Praise such as this, coming from a storyteller of your reputation, I value highly. I owe my skills to the best of teachers.’ He glanced at Conor.
‘What is your name, son?’ This was Liam, from across the room where he sat amongst his men. The boy turned.
‘Ciarán, my lord.’
Liam nodded. ‘You are welcome in my house, Ciarán, whenever my brother chooses to bring you here. We value our tales and our music, which once were all but lost from these halls. Welcome, indeed, all of the brotherhood, and sisterhood, who grace our fireside on Brighid’s night. Now, who will play harp or flute, or sing us a fine song of battles won and lost?’
My uncle was, I thought, deliberately moving them on to safer territory, like the master tactician he was. The young man Ciarán melted back into the group of grey-robed figures, seated quietly together in a corner, and with the passing round of mead jugs and the striking up of pipes and fiddle, the evening went on in perfect harmony.
After a while, I told myself I was being foolish. An overactive imagination, that was all it was. It was natural for Niamh to flirt, she did it without thinking. There was no real intention in it. There she was now, laughing and joking with a couple of Liam’s young warriors. As for the tale, it was not uncommon to base a description of a hero, or a lady, on someone you knew. A boy brought up in the sacred groves, far from the halls of lord and chieftain, might have precious little to go on when required to speak of a peerless beauty. Not surprising, then, that he fixed on the lovely daughter of the house as his model. Harmless. I was stupid. The druids would go back to their forest, and Eamonn would return, and he would marry Niamh, and all would be as it should be. As it must be. I almost convinced myself, as it drew on to midnight and we made ready to retire to bed. Almost. As I reached the foot of the stairs, candle in hand, I happened to glance across the room, and met the steady gaze of my uncle Conor. He was standing still amidst a bustle of people who talked, and laughed, and lit candles from the lamp there. So still he could have been made of stone, but for his eyes.
Remember, Liadan. It unfolds as it must. Follow your path with courage. That is all any of us can do.
But – but –
He had moved away already, and I could no longer touch his thoughts. But I saw Sean turn his head sharply towards me, feeling my confusion without understanding it. It was too much. Nameless feelings of ill; sudden bouts of shivering; cryptic warnings of the mind. I wanted my quiet room, and a drink of water, and a good night’s sleep. Simple, safe things. I gripped my candle holder, picked up my skirts, and went upstairs to bed.
It’s quite tricky making a tincture of celandine. The method is simple enough; it’s getting the quantities just right that’s the problem. My mother showed me how to do it both ways, with fresh leaves and dry, her small, capable hands grinding the dried leaves with mortar and pestle while I shredded the newly gathered ones, placing them in a shallow bowl, covering them barely with a little of the precious brew which was the same Conor had used to bring down the blessing of Brighid on our fields this growing season. I followed her instructions, glad I was not one of those who suffered a painful swelling of the skin when working with this particular herb. My mother’s hands were smooth and pale, for all her daily labours in the stillroom, and delicately made. The only adornment she wore was the ring her husband had crafted for her, many long years ago. Today she was clad in an ancient gown that had once been blue, and her long hair was tied back with a plain strip of linen. This gown, this ring, these hands each had their own tale, and my mind was on them as I prepared my bowl of steeping herbs.
‘Good,’ said Mother, watching me. ‘I want you to learn this well, and be able to apply it with other materials as aptly. This tincture will ease most maladies of the stomach, but it is strong. Use it on your patient but once, or you may do more harm than good. Now lay the muslin cloth over your bowl, and put it away carefully. That’s it. One and twenty nights let it rest, and then strain it and store it in the dark, corked tight. Such a tincture will keep well for many moons. This will see you through the winter.’
‘Why don’t you sit down for a while, Mother?’ The pot was boiling on the small fire; I took down two earthenware cups, opened jars of dried leaves.
‘You’re spoiling me, Liadan,’ she said, smiling, but she did sit down, a slight figure in her old working dress. The sun streamed in the window behind her, showing me how pale she was. In the strong light, you could see the traces of faded embroidery at the neckline and hem of her gown. Ivy leaves, little flowers, here and there a tiny winged insect. I poured hot water carefully into each cup.
‘Is