Son of the Shadows

‘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.

‘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.

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