Son of the Shadows

The druids made their way to the end of the line, finishing their greetings. The sun was low in the sky. In the field behind our home barn, in neat rows, the ploughs and forks and other implements of our new season’s work lay ready. We made our way down paths still slippery from spring rains to take up our places in a great circle around the field, our shadows long in the late afternoon light. I saw Aisling slip away from her brother and reappear slightly later at Sean’s side, as if by chance. If she thought her move unnoticed, she thought wrong, for her cloud of auburn hair drew the eye however she might try to tame its exuberance with ribbons. As she reached my brother’s side, the rising breeze whisked one long bright curl across her small face, and Sean reached out to tuck it gently behind her ear. I did not need to watch them further to feel her hand slip into his, and my brother’s fingers tighten around it possessively. Well, I thought, here’s someone who knows how to make up his mind. Perhaps it didn’t matter, after all, what Niamh decided, for it seemed the alliance would be made, one way or another.

The druids formed a semicircle around the rows of tools, and in the gap stood Conor, whose white robe bore an edging of gold. He had thrown back his hood, revealing the golden torc he wore around his neck, a sign of his leadership within this mystic brotherhood. He was young yet by their standards, but his face was an ancient face; his serene gaze held more than one lifetime’s knowledge in its depths. He had made a long journey, these eighteen years in the forest.

Now Liam stepped forward, as head of the household, and passed to his brother a silver chalice of our best mead, made from the finest honey and brewed with water from one particular spring whose exact location was a very well-guarded secret. Conor nodded gravely. Then he began a slow progress between the ploughs and sickles, the hay forks and heavy spades, the shears and shovels, and he sprinkled a few drops of the potent brew on each as he passed.

‘A fine calf in the belly of the breeding cow. A river of sweet milk from her teats. A warm coat on the backs of the sheep. A bountiful harvest from spring rains.’

Conor walked evenly, his white robe shifting and changing around him as if with its own life. He bore the silver chalice in one hand, his staff of birch in the other. There was a hush over all of us. Even the birds seemed to cease their chatter in the trees around. Behind me, a couple of horses leaned over the fence, their solemn, liquid eyes fixed on the man with the quiet voice.

‘Brighid’s blessing be on our fields this season. Brighid’s hand stretch out over our new growth. May she bring forth life; may our seed flourish. Heart of the earth; life of the heart; all is one.’

So he went on, and over each of the homely implements of toil he reached his hand and dropped a little of the precious mead. The light grew golden as the sun sank below the tops of the oaks. Last of all was the eight-ox plough, which the men had made under Iubdan’s instruction long years ago. With this, the stoniest of fields had been made soft and fertile. We had wreathed it in garlands of yellow tansy and fragrant heather, and Conor paused before it, raising his staff.

‘Let no ill fall on our labours,’ he said. ‘Let no blight touch our crops, no malady our flocks. Let the work of this plough, and of our hands, make a good harvest and a prosperous season. We give thanks for the earth that is our mother, for the rain that brings forth her life. We honour the wind that shakes the seed from the great oaks; we reverence the sun that warms the new growth. In all things, we honour you, Brighid, who kindles the fires of spring.’

The circle of druids echoed his last sentence, their voices deep and resonant. Then Conor walked back to his brother and put the cup into his hands, and Liam made a comment about maybe sharing what was left in the flask, after supper. The ceremony was almost over.

Conor turned and stepped forward, one, two, three steps. He stretched out his right hand. A tall young initiate with a head of curls the deepest red you ever saw came quickly forward and took his master’s staff. He stood to one side, watching Conor with a stare whose intensity sent a shiver down my spine. Conor raised his hands.

‘New life! New light! New fire!’ he said, and his voice was not quiet now but powerful and clear, ringing through the forest like some solemn bell. ‘New fire!’

His hands were above his head, reaching into the sky. There was a shimmering, and a strange humming sound, and suddenly above his hands was light, flame, a brightness that dazzled the eyes and shocked the senses. The druid lowered his arms slowly, and still between his cupped hands flared a fire, a fire so real I watched with awe, expecting to see his skin burn and blister under the intense heat. The young initiate walked up to him, an unlit torch in his hands. As we stared transfixed, Conor reached out and touched this torch with his fingers, and it flamed into rich golden light. And when Conor drew his hands away, they were just the hands of a man, and the mysterious fire was gone from them. The face of the youth was a picture of pride and awe as he bore his precious torch up to the house, where the fires of the hearth would be rekindled. The ceremony was complete. Tomorrow, the work of the new season would begin. I caught fragments of conversation as we made our way back to the house, where feasting would commence at sundown.

‘… was this wise? There were others, surely, that could be chosen for this task?’

‘It was time. He cannot be kept hidden for ever.’

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.’