Seer of Sevenwaters (11 page)

Knut managed a smile and a nod.

“Farewell, then. Farewell, Svala.”

I climbed up the path more briskly than was quite comfortable. At the top I whistled to Fang, then headed off toward the settlement without a backward glance.

“And so,” I told my family, “I chose a name for him.”

We were in the dining hall, where the Inis Eala community sat to supper at four long tables, in no particular order. Folk liked to mingle here. However, it was common for kin to sit together, and so here we were at the table nearest the cooking fire. Johnny sat with Gareth, who was his lover as well as his best friend and comrade in arms—this unusual arrangement was simply part of everyday life on Inis Eala, where folk were somewhat more tolerant than on the mainland. Clodagh and Cathal were here, along with Muirrin, Gull, Biddy’s son Sam and his wife, Brenna. Evan was in the infirmary where, I was told, our patient was still alive but no better. Biddy was occupied with supervising her assistants, who were coming to and fro with cauldrons of soup and platters of bread. She herself would eat later, when she had ensured everyone else was adequately fed.

I had given an abridged account of my day. A trip to the cave; quiet meditation; some insights gained, which I did not describe. A suggestion that I name the nameless survivor, at least until he started to talk to us. I made no mention of Finbar. I said nothing of my odd meeting with Knut and Svala. I had made a promise and would keep it. The two of them had come to supper well after me, and were sitting on the far side of the chamber next to Kalev. Svala had changed her gown and brushed her hair. I could not see if she had shoes on. Her eyes were downcast. She pushed the food around on her platter, but I did not see a morsel pass her lips. Knut was talking to the people seated around them, presumably exercising his few words of Irish. He had recovered from his embarrassment and was smiling; there was a ripple of laughter at his table. The only sign of unease was in his restless fingers, twisting and turning the amulet he wore around his neck.

“A name would certainly be useful,” Muirrin said, “at least until we know what his real one is. He seems reluctant to give it; he must understand our simple requests for him to tell us, even if he knows no more than a word or two of Irish. What have you chosen, Sibeal?”

“Ardal,” I said. “A man with so many challenges ahead of him needs a brave name.”

There was a little silence around me as my family considered this, while at the other tables the clank of spoons on platters, the chink of goblets and the convivial talk went on. In fact, the place was not as noisy as usual; on the night of my arrival it had been hard to make oneself heard. Tonight was different. We were consuming the food that had been prepared to feed shipwreck survivors. It would be some days, I thought, before the community returned to its nightly round of after-supper songs and tales.

“Ardal,” mused Gareth. “Means exceptional courage, doesn’t it? A man couldn’t complain about a name like that. He might have some trouble living up to it.”

“It’s a good choice,” Johnny said. “Better a name to aspire to than one that means little. We would all hope to be strong in adversity.”

The talk turned to practical matters, as the men discussed the impending arrival of their visitors and how arrangements for training and for security would be handled. Even invited guests on the island, it seemed, were more or less constantly watched.

“It’s done with some subtlety, Sibeal,” Gareth said, seeing my expression. “They won’t know there’s a guard over them.”

“Not unless someone steps beyond the boundaries of acceptable behavior,” added Johnny. “On the day our guests arrive, we set out the rules for them. And we generally give a display, an introduction to the kind of work we do here. It’s as much entertainment as education. We open up the training area to everyone for that.”

“Even druids are expected to come along and scream encouragement, Sibeal,” said Clodagh with a grin. It was good to see her smile. I had noticed how pale and tired she looked. Cathal was hardly better. There were dark smudges under his eyes.

“Sibeal’s hardly the screaming kind,” observed Sam. He was the island blacksmith and took after Biddy in looks, being big, solid and fair. His brother Clem had wed a mainland girl and now lived and worked in the settlement on the other side, looking after the transport of goods and men across the water.

“Ah, well,” I said, “I have seen your combat bouts at Sevenwaters, so I have an idea of what’s expected. But if you want an enthusiastic shouter, it’s a shame I didn’t bring my little sister with me.” Eilis, now twelve years old, had long been intensely interested in all matters of warcraft, and indeed had persuaded one or two of Johnny’s men to teach her various techniques when they were in our household on their yearly visits. Eilis did not so much scream as offer an expert commentary, complete with helpful suggestions.

Supper drew to a close; the dining hall began to empty. Biddy came to sit down beside Gull and have her own meal while her assistants moved around the tables, collecting the platters for washing. Johnny would stay here awhile, for it was customary for members of the community to bring their questions and disputes to him after the meal so everything could be sorted out fairly. One of his rules, a good one for a place like this where, in effect, there was no escaping the rest of the inhabitants, was that the sun should not set on anyone’s anger. Johnny would listen calmly, arbitrate, offer advice, sometimes give orders. There were one or two men standing by the open area where, on a happier night, musicians would gather to entertain the crowd. It was plain that they were waiting to be heard.

“I’ll bid you all good night,” I said, rising to my feet. The sooner I went to the infirmary, the sooner Evan could come down and have his supper. Perhaps I would get a little time alone with the sick man, so I could tell him his new name without an audience. “Biddy, is there anything you’d like taken over to the infirmary?”

“Ah, yes, Sibeal, thank you.” Biddy got up and fetched a small covered pot. “Not what I’d be wanting for my own supper, I must say; not even a bone boiled up in the brew to give it a bit of flavor. This is all the poor fellow can take, Gull tells me. You can warm it up on the infirmary fire.”

“Don’t try to feed it to him yourself, Sibeal,” cautioned Muirrin. “Wait for Gull. The man’s still having serious problems with his breathing, and that makes it hard for him to swallow without choking.”

The look in my sister’s eyes stayed with me as I walked to the infirmary, my path lit by torches that were set around the settlement on poles. I had seen in her expression that she thought the man—Ardal, I must start calling him that—would not survive. Remembering those sad, shrouded corpses laid to rest so far from home, I felt a sudden determination to prove her wrong.

As the invalid was asleep, Evan agreed to go for his own supper. I set the pot by the fire and settled myself on the bench nearby. In my mind, I rehearsed a lengthy passage of lore suited to the midsummer celebration. As I was the only druid on Inis Eala, it seemed likely I would be conducting the rite here. I would at least offer my services.

“Sibeal.”

A harsh whisper from the pallet. Not asleep then; not any longer. The deep blue eyes were on me, and the expression on the gaunt features so shocked me that for some moments I could neither move nor speak. Not fear; not confusion; nothing that I would have expected. He looked . . . transformed. As if, deathly sick as he was, my presence filled him with joy. No man had ever looked at me in that way before, and I found it deeply unsettling.

“Sibeal.” He spoke my name again, pronouncing it oddly. The one word cost him dear; he gasped for air.

“Don’t try to talk.” I moved at last, wondering if I had imagined what I saw, for that look was gone now, replaced by the fierce expression of someone whose whole mind is concentrated on breathing. “Here, I will move these pillows, make you more comfortable . . . ” I did so, slipping an arm behind his shoulders to lift him, wedging the pillows into place. I had hoped for time alone with him. Now I was all too aware that I was no healer, and that if he took a turn for the worse I would not be much help at all. A jug and cup stood on a shelf not far away. I should offer him water, at least.

I held the cup for him. He sipped, swallowed. Some went down; more spilled onto the bedding. A wheezing, painful breath. My own chest ached.

“More?” I asked.

He made a little sound, not speech, and took one more sip. The effort had worn him out. He sank back on the pillows.

“That’s good,” I said, though his weakness horrified me. “Breathe slowly if you can . . . in, two, three; out, two, three . . . ” I demonstrated, placing a hand on my ribs.

He managed a nod. No more words. I sat down on the stool by his pallet, reaching out to touch his hand. “You’re cold,” I said. “We need Fang. Little dog. Name, Fang.” I imitated her yap and pointed to the spot where she had lain in the curve of his knees to warm him. A faint smile appeared on his face. This, he had certainly understood. “Coming soon, with Gull, I expect.”

He was silent. He seemed to be waiting.

“You remembered my name,” I said, indicating myself. “Sibeal.” I pointed to him. “Can you tell me your name?”

No smile now. His long hands were restless, plucking at the woolen cloth of the blanket.

“Do you remember?” I asked on an impulse. “Do you remember the little cove, and how I came down and found you? The waves carrying us higher, the wood with the runic markings, the stories I told to hold back the darkness?”

No response. It seemed to me his gaze was turned inward now, though his eyes still rested on me. Too weary to think; too weary to listen. But I should try to explain about the name.

“I spent today in prayer and meditation.” I wished I knew whether it was necessary to keep illustrating with gestures; it did feel a little foolish. “I went to a cave, a place of the gods, where wisdom can be sought.”

Footsteps outside and Fang’s familiar yap—Gull was here. “I was told that I must give you a name,” I said. “I’ve chosen the name Ardal, if you agree to that. It means ‘unusual courage.’ We’ll use it only until you can tell us your own name, of course.” I went through the ritual of pointing once more. “My name, Sibeal. Your name, Ardal. For now.”

The door creaked open as I was speaking, and Gull came in with the dog at his heels. “Did you tell him what it means, Sibeal?” he asked.

That surprised me. “I did. Do you think he understands?”

“That’s what you believe, isn’t it? Knut said he was on the ship as a passenger, not crew. The fellow may be more scholar than warrior. Could be a scribe, maybe a cleric of some kind. I think I’ve seen some understanding on his face when you talk. Could be all manner of reasons why he’s not speaking to us, sheer exhaustion being the most likely. I’ll warm up the soup, shall I? Let’s get him fed before we worry about anything else.”

“I’ll do it.” I moved to the fire, wanting a little time to think. I could not forget the look Ardal had turned on me when he woke, as if the sight of me was a gift. It seemed quite wrong; and yet it had touched me, filling my heart with warmth. A strange day indeed: Finbar’s shade in the water, Svala with her fish and now this.

“This island is an odd place, Gull,” I said, stirring the little pot.

“Inis Eala changes folk.” He was hanging his cloak on a peg, his back to me. “Brings out the truth in them for better or worse. For some it’s quick. For some it takes far longer.” He removed his outdoor boots and set them at the foot of his own pallet. “You all right, Sibeal?”

“Me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You’ve only been here a couple of days, and look at everything that’s happened. Wasn’t this supposed to be a time of rest for you, this summer on the island?”

“Well, yes.” My sisters had been talking, evidently. “But if there’s work for me to do, I should do it. Anything from conducting a burial rite to helping look after a sick man.”

“And rescuing folk from the sea.” There was kindness in Gull’s deep voice. “How old are you, sixteen?”

“I’m the same age Aunt Liadan was when she rescued Bran,” I pointed out. “I’m the same age Clodagh was when she went into the Otherworld to save Cathal. And I’m the same age my mother was when she married my father. I’m not a child who needs protecting.”
But I am a seer who feels too much, and Ciarán thinks that makes me a liability.
“Besides,” I added for my own benefit as much as anything, “I’ve spent a large part of the last four years in the nemetons.” I lifted the pot off the fire. “I’ve been trained to keep vigils, to go without food, to manage on very little sleep. I’m stronger than I look.”

“You’re young for that kind of life,” he said, his tone noncommittal.

“Too young, you think?”

“That’s not for me to say. I heard part of what you told him last night. You sound sure of yourself.”

“I’ve known for a long time that my feet would tread this path,” I said.

“Mm-hm. You’re lucky, then. For most of us it takes half a lifetime before we really know. You’ve only got to look at the fellows who end up here. Wasted their young years, most of them, taking one wrong turning after another. Some, fate’s treated harshly; some have only themselves to blame. But it’s never too late for a fellow to change, not even if he’s five-and-thirty with a weight of trouble on his shoulders. Or five-and-forty, for that matter. Now, we’d best feed this young man his supper, such as it is.” He poured a measure of the broth from pot to bowl, his dark eyes thoughtful. “It must be good to have that bright, straight path before you,” he said. “Walking forward under the gaze of the gods, and everything clean and certain.”

“Mm.” The path was not always so bright and straight, not when Ciarán had decided that after all those years of study and discipline I still was not ready.

Between us, Gull and I got half the bowl of soup into Ardal before it became plain he was too tired to go on. Gull took the bowl and set it down on the floor. Fang made short work of the leftovers.

I fetched a damp cloth and wiped Ardal’s face. In my mind, sharply, I saw Knut doing the same for Svala. It was sad that he felt shamed by her behavior. Of course it must be hard for him, here among strangers, trying to watch over her. I wondered if she had ever been able to speak. Had she once sat and plied distaff and needle with other women, exchanging tales of husbands and children, the domestic chatter of an ordinary settlement? Perhaps she should be offered that sort of companionship here. I might suggest it to Clodagh.