Shadowmagic - Sons of Macha (17 page)

‘Where are we?' I asked, trying to sound more conversational and less confrontational.

‘This is Ba Toirniúil.'

Ba Toirniúil means Thunder Bay. I had heard of this place. This is where immortals come when they no longer wish to live. This is where you go when you want to sail away into old age.

‘Whose boats are they?' I asked.

When he didn't answer, I figured this was going to be one of those I-ask-the-questions-around-here type situations but then he said, ‘I make them for whomever needs them.'

‘Wait a minute … are you the Hermit of Thunder Bay?'

He kept looking out to sea but I could see a small smile. ‘I suppose I am a hermit and I do live here in Thunder Bay. You have heard of me?'

‘I heard one of my guards say that his companion looked like the Hermit of Thunder Bay when he hadn't shaved.'

He thought about this for a long while before he said, ‘So I'm famous in Duir for not shaving?'

‘Apparently so,' I said.

After another long pause he whispered, almost to himself, ‘I suppose it is better than being entirely forgotten.'

I didn't like the tone in his voice and decided that this line of conversation might bring us to morose musings that I wanted to avoid. So I said, ‘Should I call you Hermy? Or do you have a real name?'

He actually looked at me then. It's unsettling when a guy as crazy looking as this one gives you a look like
you're
the crazy one. ‘Hermy? Why would you call me Hermy?'

‘Everyone needs a name.'

The long pause kicked in again. I was starting to realise that chats with Hermy were about waiting a lot. Eventually he said, ‘A name is not something I require. One only needs a name if one is going to converse. I have not spoken to anyone but you, Conor of Duir, since … well, since long before you were born.'

‘But you're talking to me now.'

Wait … ‘Yes, it appears I am.'

‘Were you the one who knocked me out so I would drift into the Yewlands?'

… ‘Yes.'

‘And did you throw that homing
rothlú
that brought me here?'

… ‘Yes.'

‘Why?' He didn't answer, or was taking his usual sweet time so I pressed him. ‘Why, Hermy?'

‘My mother instructed me.'

‘Your mother?' I said looking around. ‘I thought the idea of being a hermit is that you live alone. You're a hermit who lives with his mother?'

Hermy laughed at that. It was a sweet little chuckle, like he had only just remembered how to do it. ‘No, my mother is long dead.'

‘Oh, sorry.'

‘You should be. Your family holds the guilt of her murder.'

That reply made my stomach do a little flip-flop. Had he brought a son of Duir here to avenge his mother's death? I looked down at the hundred foot drop and scooted over – out of shoving range.

‘Someone in my family killed your mother?'

Hermy nodded once.

‘Let me guess – Cialtie?'

Showing no emotion, Hermy nodded again.

Cialtie murdered his mother and this long-dead mother is leaving him instructions. I rattled that riddle around in my noggin and in less than the time it took for Hermy to say, ‘Hello,' I came up with the answer.

‘You're Ona's son?'

… ‘I am,' he said.

‘So why did Ona want me to enter the Yewlands?'

In reply he stood and walked over to a corner of his cave, picked up a long banta stick and handed it to me before re-sitting.

The wood was smooth and sticky, with the smell of fresh beeswax polish. ‘Is this the branch the yew gave me?'

… ‘It is.'

‘You finished it for me?'

… ‘I did.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘Why does … did your mother want me to have this?'

… ‘You of all people, Son of the One-Handed Prince, should know that Ona's will comes without explanation.'

‘I'm no longer the Son of the One-Handed Prince,' I said quickly.

… ‘My point exactly,' he said, standing. ‘Excuse my manners but it has been very long since I have had a guest. Would you like tea?'

‘Thank you,' I said and watched him start a small fire with a fire coin then fill a kettle from a rain barrel.

‘If you haven't talked to anybody in so long, how did you know I was the Son of the One-Handed Prince?'

My host placed a frying pan on the fire next to the kettle and then reached into a jar and pulled out a dripping handful of some seaweedy type stuff and threw it sizzling into the pan. ‘Would you like some …' he stood frozen, looking up to the ceiling, then finally said, ‘I do not think I ever heard a word for what this is.'

I looked at whatever it was steaming in the pan and decided that it was probably better that it remained unnamed.

‘I have heard about your many exploits, Conor, from the beeches. Beech trees do love to gossip.'

‘I've heard that. So what did Ona say about me, exactly?'

I had to wait until Hermy finished making tea out of some sort of moss. When he handed it to me I was relieved to find that my fingers worked fine. It tasted exactly like tea made from moss.

‘She never mentioned you specifically.'

‘Wait, I thought you said Ona told you that I was to get a yew staff?'

… ‘No, Ona knew someone was to receive a yew staff – I just guessed it was you.'

‘You sent me into the Yewlands on a guess?'

In reply he shrugged.

‘And what if the yews had killed me?'

‘That would have been – unfortunate.'

‘Yeah, especially for me.'

He nodded in agreement like it was the first time it occurred to him. He stirred the dinner and then slid a portion into each of two wooden bowls. ‘Would you like some …'

‘Shall we call it gloop?'

He sighed in that exasperated way that made me realise he was getting to know me. ‘If we must.'

After tasting it, I decided that gloop was the perfect name for this stuff. It's rare to get a dull meal in The Land but Hermy succeeded in cooking one.

‘Do you know what happened to my friends?'

‘The archer and the woman both survived their judgement. If that is what you wish to know. The archer exited the Yewlands not long after you. He held wood suitable for a bow.'

I hadn't realised how much subconscious tension I had been holding in my shoulders until they relaxed with that news. ‘I must get to them – they will be worried about me.'

‘There is no need for them to worry, Conor. I will not harm you.'

‘They don't know that.'

‘That your disappearance may cause your companions to fret is the least of your worries.'

‘So tell me, oh great bearded one who seems to know everything, if my friends are the least of my worries what is the worst of my worries?'

If Hermy noticed my annoyance it didn't make him hurry up with his reply but when he did, he sure got my attention.

‘I would say your biggest worry should be – the blind child.'

‘What do you know about Ruby?'

This time the pregnant pause before his answer was unacceptable. I didn't care if this guy had gadgets on him that could make me as limp as a Salvador Dali painting, I grabbed him by the arm and spun him to face me. ‘Tell me.'

‘Ruby,' he said, ‘is that her name?'

‘What do you know?'

‘I, Conor, only know what my mother has written.'

‘And what did your mother say?'

‘Ona never spoke of these things, all of her prophecies were written.'

I stood. ‘Don't screw with me, Hermy. What did your mother write?'

I had to take deep breaths while waiting for him to answer; otherwise, I think I would have stabbed him.

‘She said, “The blind child will need help from the bearer of the yew staff.”'

It took me a moment to realise he was talking about me. ‘Where is she?'

‘… According to the poplar trees your grandmother, Lugh and Cialtie are holding her in Castle Onn in the Gorselands.'

‘I have to get to Duir and put a rescue party together.' I paced around the room looking for an exit. ‘How do I get out of here?'

Without looking at me, Hermy made a gesture with his right hand and another one of those damn flying amulets flew out and boomeranged into my neck. This time my whole body went limp and I crumpled to the ground, not even able to move my eyeballs. The hermit rolled me over on my back. His long beard swept over my face but I couldn't feel it. He placed my new yew staff in my hand and said, ‘Ona did not write about a rescue party. She only mentioned you. I'm sorry if the paralysing amulet is uncomfortable but in the long run it speeds up the recovery from the
rothlú
. You will thank me later.'

He pulled a chain from round his neck and then from the hundreds of amulets hanging from it, he picked a tiny gold twin tornado. He looped it onto a chain and hung it around my neck. ‘If you find her, this will bring you home.' Then he pulled a single twister from his collection, placed it in my palm and closed my fingers around it.

‘I have been thinking,' he said, ‘and I do not like the name Hermy. If I must have a name then let it be the one I owned when I lived in Castle Duir. Call me Eth.' Then he held my closed fist next to his mouth and incanted, ‘
Rothlú
.'

E
th? Eth? I knew that name and I had almost figured out where I had heard it when my brain was disassembled and scattered halfway across the land. By the time it got reassembled, that thought and any other was replaced by pain and unconsciousness.

Eth was right about one thing: this
rothlú
spell didn't seem to hurt as much as usual. When I finally came to I had specific pains in my legs, wrists and neck but not the usual all-over pain that comes from being magically disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. It wasn't until I attempted to sit up that I realised why I had pains in my wrists, neck and legs. I was hog-tied. I didn't like waking up in bondage the first time it happened. Now that it seemed to be occurring with regularity, I really, really didn't like it.

I was in a tent. Not an opulent dwelling that took a dozen servants to hump around and erect, like Cialtie had. No, this was a thin silken thing, designed to be light and small to carry. I rolled over – not easy with my legs tied bent and attached to a cord around my neck. I quickly learned that my binder knew what he was doing. I tried a couple of times to test my bonds but soon realised that every time I struggled, the rope tightened around my neck. So I decided to think rather than squirm.

Through the flap of the tent I saw a campfire. The smoke coming from the fire rose to a screen dome where it disappeared. This was a fire that belonged to someone who didn't want anyone else to know he or she was here. Outside, the sound of approaching horses had my captors on their feet. I could see the shoes and dark leggings – my captors were Brownies.

I couldn't quite hear all the conversation but my guard's diction was as good as his knotsmanship. ‘Yes sir, I found him just lying unconscious in the middle of the field,' he said but then added a coda to that sentence that sent a chill down my spine. He finished by saying, ‘Your Highness.'

On no, I thought, and began to struggle even if it was going to strangle me. The last time I had seen the Brownie King I had delivered to him the body of his dead son. He promised that the next time he saw me he would kill me. I rolled over and pushed up against the side of the tent almost knocking it over. I heard the footsteps as they entered but the noose around my neck was now so tight I could no longer turn my head. I heard a voice exclaim, ‘You!' Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath. I was wheezing, gasping for breath as the rope cut into my neck but that was the least of my problems. I closed my eyes and waited for the pain of the knife entering my back.

The knife cut through the rope in a spot that released everything. My legs dropped straight and my hands were freed. I immediately worked on loosening the rope around my neck and rolled on my back gasping for breath. My vision was blurry; I had been seconds away from passing out. I was expecting a view of Bwika, the hulking King of the Brownies, but as my vision cleared I was rewarded by the smiling face of his son Codna.

‘Conor?' he said in a voice that changed an octave in the middle of a word. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Choking,' I replied.

I tried sitting up as the prince motioned for the guard to leave us alone. Then he closed the tent flap, plopped down next to me and clumsily wrapped his arms around me. ‘I'm so glad to see you,' he said.

I was a bit surprised by the attack hug but I returned it. ‘Hey Jesse,' I said, using the nickname I had given him the first time we had met. ‘How you doing?'