Son of the Shadows (18 page)

And he promised, for she was his mother. So, unwittingly, did she seal his doom, who sought only to keep him safe."

There was utter silence, save for a little breeze stirring the shadowy trees above us. It was dark of the moon.

"Across the sea from Alba, across the land of Erin came Conlai, all the way to Ulster, and at last to the home of his father, the great hero Cü Chulainn. He was a tall, strong boy, and in his helm and battle raiment none could tell him from a seasoned warrior. He rode up to the gates and raised his sword in challenge; and out came Conall, foster brother of Cu Chulainn, in answer.

"'What name have you, bold upstart?' shouted Conall. 'Tell me so that I may know whose son lies vanquished at my feet when this duel is over!'

"But Conlai answered not a word, for he kept his promise to his mother. A short, sharp fight ensued, watched with interest by Cu Chulainn and his warriors from the ramparts high above.

And it was not the challenger who lay defeated at the end of it."

Then I told how the lad vanquished each man who went forth with sword or staff or dagger, until Cü

Chulainn himself determined to meet the challenge, for he liked the set of the young man's shoulders, and the neatness of his footwork, seeing something of himself in it, no doubt.

"'I will go down and take on this fellow myself,' he said. 'He seems a worthy opponent, if somewhat arrogant. We shall see what he makes of Cu Chulainn's battle craft. If he can withstand me until the sun sinks beyond those elms there, I will welcome him to my house and to my band of warriors, should he be so inclined.'

"Down he went and out before die gates, and he told the lad who he was and what he intended.

Father

, whispered Conlai to himself, but he said not a word for he had promised his mother, and he would not break his oath. Cu Chulainn was offended that the challenger had not the courtesy to give his name, and so he started the encounter already angered, which is never good."

There was a murmur of agreement from the men. I was watching Bran; I could not avoid it, for he sat quite near me, face lit by the fire into which he gazed, his expression very odd indeed.

There was something about this story that had caught his attention where the others had not; and had I not known the kind of man he was, I would have said I saw something akin to fear in his expression. Must be a trick of the light, I told myself, and went on.

"Well, that was a combat such as you see but rarely: the hardened, experienced swordsman against die quick, impetuous youth. They fought with sword and dagger, circling, to and fro, around and about, ducking and weav ing; leaping and twisting so that at times it was hard to see which of them was which.

One of the men watching from above commented that in stature, the two men were as like as peas in a pod. The sun sank lower and lower and touched the tip of the tallest elm. Cü Chulainn thought of calling it a day, for he was, in truth, merely playing with the upstart challenger. His own skills were far superior, and he had always planned to test the other only until the allotted time was up, and then to offer him the hand of friendship.

"But Conlai, desperate to prove himself, gave a nifty little flick of the sword and lo! there in his hand lay a fiery lock of Cu Chulainn's hair, neatly cut from his scalp. For a moment, just a moment, battle fury overcame Cü Chulainn, and before he knew what he did, he gave a great roar and plunged his sword deep into his opponent's vitals."

There was a murmur around me; some in my audience had seen this coming, but all felt the
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sudden weight of such a horror.

"As soon as he had done this, Cu Chulainn came to himself. He wrenched the sword out, and Conlai's lifeblood began to spill crimson on the ground. Cü Chulainn's men came down and took off the stranger's helmet, and there he was, just a boy, a youngster whose eyes already darkened with the shadow of death, whose face paled and paled as the sun sank behind the elms.

Then Cu Chulainn loosened the boy's garments, trying to make his end more comfortable. And he saw the little ring hanging on its chain around Conlai's neck, the ring he had given Aoife nearly fifteen years before."

Bran had a hand over his brow, concealing his eyes, Still he stared into the flames. What had I said?

"He killed his own son," somebody whispered.

"His boy," said someone. "His own boy."

"It was too late," I said soberly, "too late to make amends. Too late to say farewell, for at the moment Cü

Chulainn recognized what he had done, the last breath of life left his son, and Conlai's spirit fled from his body."

"That's terrible," said Dog, in shocked tones.

"It is a sad story," I agreed, wondering if even one of them might relate the tale in any way to their own activities. "They say Cü Chulainn carried the boy inside in his own arms and later buried him with full ceremony. Of how he felt, and what he said, the tale does not tell."

"A man could not do such a deed and put it behind him," said Gull very quietly. "It would be with him always, whether he wished it or no."

"What about his mother?" asked Dog. "What did she have to say about it?"

"She was a woman," I said dryly. "The tale does not concern itself further with her. I suppose she bore her loss and went on, as women do."

"In a way it was her fault," somebody offered. "If he'd been able to give his name, they'd have welcomed him instead of fighting."

"It was a man's hand that drove the sword through his bod}'. It was a man's pride that made Cu Chulainn strike. You cannot blame the mother. She sought but to protect her son, for she knew what men are."

My words were greeted with silence. At least the tale had made them think. After the earlier jollity, the mood was somber indeed.

"You believe I judge you too harshly?" I asked, getting up.

"None of us has ever killed his own son," said Spider, outraged.

"You have killed another man's son," I said quietly. "Every man that falls to your knife, or your hands, or your little loop of cord is some woman's sweetheart, some woman's son. Every one."

No one said anything. I thought I had offended them. After a while somebody went around refilling cups with ale, and somebody threw more wood on the fire, but nobody was talking. I was waiting for Bran to speak, maybe to tell me I should shut my mouth and stop upsetting his fine band of warriors. Instead, he got up, turned on his heel, and went off with never a word. I stared after him, but he had disappeared like a shadow under the trees. The night was very dark.

Slowly, the men began to talk again among themselves in low voices.

"Sit down awhile, Liadan," said Gull kindly. "Have another cup of ale."

I sat down slowly. "What's wrong with him?" I whispered, looking beyond the circle. "What did I say?"

"Best left alone," mumbled Dog, who had overheard. "He'll be standing guard tonight."

"What?"

"Dark of the moon," said Gull. "Always takes the watch, those nights. Told us both to get our rest. He'll have gone up to relieve Snake now. Stands to reason. If he's going to be awake
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anyhow, he may as well do it."

"Why doesn't he sleep? You're not going to tell me he turns into some sort of monster with the quenching of the moon, I hope—half man, half wolf maybe?"

Gull chuckled. "Not him. Just doesn't sleep. Can't tell you why. Been like that as long as I've known him.

Six, seven years. Keeps himself awake until the dawn comes."

"Is he afraid to sleep?"

"Him? Afraid?" It seemed the very idea was laughable.

Gull walked back up to the shelter with me and left me there. Bran was inside, his hand on the smith's brow, speaking quietly. There was one lantern lit, and it spread a golden glow over the rock walls and the man lying on the pallet there. It touched Bran's patterned features with light and shadow, softening the grim set of the mouth.

"He's awake," he said, as I came in. "Is there anything you require help with before I go outside?"

"I'll manage," I said. Snake, on my instructions, had prepared a bowl of water with some of the dwindling stock of healing herbs, and I placed this on the stool by the bed.

"You're a good lass," Evan said weakly. "Told you that before, but I will again."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I said, unbuttoning his sweat-soaked shirt.

"Don't know about that." He managed a crooked grin. "Not every day I find a fine woman like yourself undressing me. Almost worth losing an arm for, that is."

"Get away with you!" I said, wiping the damp cloth over his body. He had lost flesh alarmingly; I could feel the ribs stark under the skin and see the deep hollows at the base of the neck. "You're too skinny for my tastes, anyway," I told him. "Have to fatten you up, I will. You know what that means. More broth, before I let you sleep."

His eyes were as trusting as those of a faithful hound as I sponged his brow.

"Bran, Snake will have left the pot of broth to cool by the little brazier. Could you fetch me some in a cup?"

"Broth," said Evan in disgust. "Broth! Can't you give a man a proper meal?"

But in the event, it was hard enough for him to swallow even the mouthful or two he took. And I did have to ask Bran to help me, his arm lifting the smith's head as I spooned the mixture little by little between his lips. Evan gagged, despite his best efforts.

"Breathe slowly, as I told you," I said quietly. "You must try to keep this down. One more spoonful."

He was soon exhausted. And he had swallowed so little. Beads of sweat were already breaking out on his brow. I would need to burn some aromatic herbs for there was no way I could get enough of a sleeping draft into him to give any relief. He never spoke of the pain, save in jest, but I knew it was extreme.

"Could you move the little brazier farther in?"

Bran said nothing, but carried out my orders. He watched me in silence as I got what I needed from my pack and sprinkled the mixture onto the still-glowing coals. There was not much left.

But then, three days was not long. I did not allow myself to think beyond that point. The pungent smell rose into the night air:

juniper, pine, hemp leaves. If only I could have gotten some tea into the man, for a mere half cup of lavender and birch-leaf infusion can give good relief from pain and bring healing sleep. But I had not the

ingredients to make such a brew, nor would Evan have had the energy to swallow it. Besides, it was past midsummer. Birch leaves are only good for this purpose used fresh and plucked in spring. I wished my mother was there. She would have known what to do. The smith grew quiet,
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eyes closed to slits, but his breathing was labored. I wrung out the cloth and began to tidy up.

"What if Conlai had never learned his father's name?" said Bran suddenly from the entrance.

"What if he had grown up, say, in the family of a farmer, or with holy brothers in a house of prayer? What then?"

I was so surprised, I said nothing at all, my hands still working automatically as I emptied the bowl and wiped it out and unrolled my blanket on the hard earth.

"You said it was his father's blood flowed in his veins, his father's will to be a warrior that ran deep in him. But his mother trained him in the warlike arts, set him on that path, before ever he knew what Cu

Chulainn was. Do you say that whatever his upbringing, this boy was destined to be another in his father's mold? Almost that the manner of his death was set out the moment he was born?"

"Oh no!" His words shocked me. "To say that is to say we have no choice at all in how our path unfolds.

I do not say that. Only that we are made by our mothers and our fathers, and we bear something of them in our deepest selves, no matter what. If Conlai had grown up as a holy brother, it may have been much longer before his father's courage and his wild, warlike spirit awoke in him. But he would have found it in himself, one way or another. That was the man he was, and nothing could change it."

Bran leaned against the rock wall, his figure in shadow.

"What if. . . ," he said, "the—the essence, the spark, whatever it is, the little part of his father that he bore within him—that could be lost, destroyed, before he knew it was there. It could be . .it could be taken from him."

I felt a strange sort of chill, and the little hairs rose on my neck. It was like a darkness stretching out over me, over the two of us. Images passed before my eyes so rapidly I could scarcely make them out before they were gone.

. . .

dark, so dark. The door shuts. I cannot breathe. Keep quiet, choke back your tears, not a sound.

Pain, cramp like fire. I have to move. I dare not move; they will hear me . . . Where are you'?

Where are you . . . where did you go

?

I wrenched myself back to the real world, shaking. My heart was hammering.

"What is it?" Bran stepped out of the shadows, eyes fixed intently on my face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I whispered. "Nothing." And I turned away, for I did not want to look into his eyes.

Whatever the dark vision was, it was from him it had come. Beneath his surface there were deep, uncharted waters, realms strange and perilous.

"You'll be needing your sleep," he said, and when at length I turned around, he was gone. The brazier burned low. I made the lamp dim, but did not quench it, lest the smith should wake and need me Then I

lay down to rest.

Something woke me. I sat up abruptly, heart thumping. The fire in the brazier had gone out; the lantern burned low, casting a circle of faint light. Outside it was completely dark. Everything was still I got up and went over to the pallet, lantern in hand. Evan was sleeping. I tucked the covers over him and turned to go back to bed. For a summer night, it was quite chill.

Then I heard it. A sound like a stifled gasp, the merest indrawn breath. Could such a little thing have woken me so instantly? I went out, hesitant in my bare feet and the borrowed undershirt I wore for sleeping, shivering slightly and not just from cold. It was a deep, deep darkness, intense in its presence.