The Last Stitch (The Chronicles of Eirie: 2) (13 page)

Chapter Twenty One

Phelim had fallen into a deep sleep, rocked by the boat like a
baby in its cradle. After observing the swan and realising land was close, the tension filling him had dissipated and he relaxed his head onto the bent arm as it draped over the tiller. As he drifted into sleep, he thought that perhaps Hy-Breasil was a blessing after all, having carried him safely against wave and wind to the north, to release him in a place where he could more easily find his way to the Venichese Gate.

Once, when a knocking at the planks a
t his feet had woken him, he lifted his head and in the light of the moon saw pairs of eyes gazing at him. Three roanes hung over the port side, the moon glinting in their silver hair, the night light casting up a phosphorescence from their creamy breasts. They murmured, a sultry seductive tone belying the downcast eyes. ‘Join us, handsome one. Let us take you away, let us spoil you, let us love you.’

Phelim shook his head. ‘Begone. I am not for you this night.’ He waved his arm so the dory lifted its port side to flick them away like a dog shaking off water. He watched them as they gazed back at him and heard their whispers,
‘Such a face, such a form,’
as they flicked up water and dived as one into the deeps.

He stared at what he hoped was a horizon, aware that Faeran mannerisms had once again come upon him unasked for and unexpected and was unable to r
econcile the thought with comfort. Unconvinced that passage into his Other life should occur so seamlessly, he tipped his head to the sky and marked off the constellation, charting his position to the far north; perhaps near the Marshes. He was mildly content and allowed the light breeze to push him on as he dozed again. Thus he did not see three avian shapes creating a black chevron against the dark sky.

The Ravens marked the tiny boat, saw a figure lying on its floor. From on high the hair was covered with a cap and the body concealed under a dark jacket but the scent of Faeran the birds could determine from miles away. They banked and headed east with their intelligence. They believed they had found the soul-stealing Other a matter of days from Veniche. The mortal woman would be content.

The moon had reached its zenith and was preparing to descend when the dory bit into the shingle of a beach as a gentle wave lifted to cast it ashore. Withdrawing, the water left half the boat dry but the stern still wallowed and it was the zigzag motion of the toying wave that finally woke Phelim. At the end of the beach, low wind-beaten tussocks led into a fens filled with salty water and seagrass, but the shepherd could determine little more by the light of the moon and decided it was more judicious to wait for dawn and a brighter perspective. He furled the sail and set about collecting wood for a fire, the pre-dawn air being chill. Leaning with his back to the dory, his feet to the flames, he chewed on some cheese and apples, sipping from a bladder of water from Hy-Breasil.

‘Thou art content, Phelim.’ He jumped up, grabbing the gaff hook and
holding it firmly. ‘No weapon is needed when thou talks to myself, Faeran.’ On the other side of the fire, a slim, black column of a woman stood warming her hands. ‘It is brisk. Winter approaches the northern climes with speed.’

‘A swan-maid,’ he gasped, struck by the woman’s white beauty. A black satin dress draped over her lissome form and a heavily feathered ebony cloak lay over her arm.

‘It is rewarding to know all thy senses are still intact. A swan-maid indeed. Thou hast Maeve in thy presence. She would talk with thee.’

‘It was you who flew over the boat earlier.’ He was about to say he was grateful for the hope she had given him that land was not far distant but in her habitual, dismissive and sibilant way, she cut in.

‘Thou art observant. But tell me Phelim of the Faeran, do you have a fellow passenger, a Faeran woman?’

‘She could not come with me.’ He replied and then asked his own question. ‘How do you know me, that I am Faeran? I hardly know myself.’

‘I saw thee with roanes. That thou art Faeran is obvious.’ But like the best interrogator, she returned to the subject of her concern. ‘Tell Maeve, Phelim, I ask thee again, where is Lhiannon? My sister heard thy stepmother and her urisk friend discussing the souls but they did not mention the Faeran woman.’

He looked at Maeve. The brightness of the flame hid her intent eyes from his gaze but she stood immobile, immutable it seemed. He took a breath. ‘Lhiannon is dead.’

The swan-maid hissed and her head turned to the side so that her long gleaming hair fell in a waterfall cascade over one shoulder. ‘How so?’ The words spat forth.

‘She was killed by a bite from a
seaspider on Maria Island. My stepmother and I tried to save her to no avail. As she died she said it was her bane and for us not to be grieved.’

Another hiss and she glided around the fire to stand between he and the flame. ‘Then hast thou something of value the girl carried?’

He forbore to reply. He had limited knowledge of swan-maids, apart from the legends Ebba had told him. They showed themselves rarely to mortals. Could they be malign? He hoped his newly acquired intuition would not desert him at this crucial moment.

The swan-maid laughed, a haunting cry like a waterbird. ‘Not so Faeran then. Thou art afraid to answer. Think thou I would take souls from thee? I who helped Lhiannon escape? Stupid man. Thou needs to be more at ease as thy new self, Maeve thinks.’

Her amusement, her condescension, bit into Phelim’s mood and he snapped back. ‘Yes, I have the souls. It was Lhiannon’s dying wish that they be taken to Jasper at the Venichese Gate.’ He sat down. ‘If the man is all-seeing, I don’t know why he doesn’t come here to me and retrieve the souls himself. Already the journey has cost a life and perhaps there will be more. I fail to see the value of happy dead souls when live ones are more important. The woman who wants them is sure to know they have left the Archipelago. She will no doubt be trying to track the boat down as we speak.’

The
look Maeve cast on him was filled with a disgusted impatience. ‘Phelim has not yet developed understanding of Others or he would be sympathetic to our needs. Maeve hopes thy maturing is not long in coming for if thou has thy soul stolen, then shall thee understand the black pain thy Faeran peers suffered, pain all Others would avoid or ameliorate, should it happen to loved ones. Elders say it is like pain of a thousand lashes or pain of constant suffocation. Some texts say it is like pain of disemboweling. Has Maeve made it clear for thee?’ She sneered, her beautiful mouth straightened to a dark red line. ‘Nevertheless, thou art correct in thy earlier thoughts because foul Ravens even now fly to the Soul Stealer with thy whereabouts. Maeve thinks they mistook thee for the girl in thy little boat. But as Maeve said - stupid man. Whether it is thou or Jasper who takes the souls from this point, even me let it be said, the Venichese Gate must be entered. Maeve thinks that is where Soul Stealer shall wait. Maeve has spoken to Jasper. But it shall be thee who carries the souls, Phelim. As it is deemed by the Fates. And it is fitting, because thou art Faeran, even if thou art ignorant of Faeran ways. Rest easy, half-time mortal, there shall be many Others there as well. The woman shall not win.’

‘Why don’t the Others just destroy
her? It seems you all require revenge.’

‘Indeed, it is what Maeve asks time and again.’ She sighed. ‘It is because a mortal has demanded the right to her death. The Threadlady...’

‘Adelina?’

‘I see thou is familiar with
story. Indeed, you are correct. It is Adelina. Maeve offered her help but she spurned it.’ The swan-maid snorted, an ugly sound from the beautiful visage. ‘Soul Stealer may well be killed by Adelina but she will not suffer. We would have her suffer deeply as a message to more of her ilk to leave what they can never understand alone. A warning, dost thou understand?’

Again the two sides of Phelim warred with each other. The mortal side cringed from the outrageous cruelty of the swan-maid’s revelations. The Other side calmly agreed with her. He remained silent as each side battled for supremacy.

Maeve laughed, a short hooting sound. ‘Thou art a deep one. Thy thoughts are thy own. So. I shall direct thee.’ She turned and pointed. ‘Behind thee is fens. There are streams and rivulets lacing through seagrasses. Take thy boat all the way into the Marshes. Better to leave the open sea now Ravens have located thee. Soul Stealer will not expect thee from Marshes. There thou can find a Veniche-bound boat and make for the Gate. The portal Phelim, is...’ she bent and pretended to whisper, the softness of her breath tickling and tantalizing and she finished by licking the cusp of his ear. She laughed as his head bent unconsciously to hers. ‘Dost thou think Maeve wants thee? Ah, sadly for thee, no. And dost thou think Maeve would know location of Faeran Gate? Huh, feckless Faeran trust no Others and will not share secret. Thou must find it thyself. As shall Maeve.’ She laughed again as he jerked his head away, cheeks flaming.

‘I...’

‘Thou are not yet comfortable in thy Faeran skin, Phelim, half-time mortal. It will happen. Now follow Maeve’s directions and trust her when she says Others will help.’

She rustled the cloak of feathers, like a bird shaking itself down and before his eyes she became a black swan and pushed herself into the brightening sky, uttering a call to usher in the dawn.

Chapter Twenty Two

Phelim set about unpacking the dory, unloading the food. Everything that would threaten the boat’s lightness and therefore its passage through the narrow channels of the fens was cast aside. Inevitably all that was left was an oar as he towed the boat along the shore to the opening of the channel where he tied the craft to a log.

He heaped the ditched goods and then stood wafting his hand over them, allowing whatever Faeran mesmer came into his head to do its job. The objects faded before his eyes - disappeared, no dust, nothing to indicate that they had even been and he could not help the flicker of surprise then pleasure, almost a conceit, that coursed through him. Huh, he thought, and was not unhappy. He listened to the ocean waves for the last time and pushed off inland, the reeds and brush closing over his secret path, insulating him from the crisp rattle of the coastal wash.

He poled the dory as if it were a punt, using the oar deftly off the stern of the boat, kneeling on the floor the better to conceal himself. The smell of the pale gold and green grasses and the peat that lined the banks wrapped itself around like a blanket as he ventured forward. Dragonflies and damselflies wafted in the early light, hovering, almost still and then darting sideways. Ahead fish leaped, concentric rings casting out, and underneath him a writhing shape undulated past. The sun warmed and he threw off his coat, holding it below the water until the sodden mass sank to the floor of the channel. The retrieved souls hung by his side under his shirt, a constant thorn, reminder of an endeavour he must bring to fruition.

He thought about himself in the quiet of the watery alleys. He was the same but different - like a boy who overnight has entered adolescence, awaking to find a cracked voice, a gawky body and pustules in amongst the stiffening hair which signifies whiskers. Inside, the youth still feels like the boy but moody, introspective moments remind him that a man is lurking beneath his uncomfortable skin. Part of him buzzes with excitement, part of him would rather meet a Red Cap than deal with it.

The air of the gentle shepherd still hung about him - one who had never traveled, whose hearth and fields were his world and all he wanted from life. The thought that he might dispatch Other spirits and mortals at will tightened his gullet. The shepherd’s side of him was afraid, afraid of all the Others he had ever heard of. At the same time, the Faeran would remember Hy-Breasil, the swan-maid and the souls resting as heavy and cold as iron against his chest as he headed towards Veniche and he would become excited by the challenge of the unknown.

A palate of pale greens, faded blues and golds stretched all around the dory. Colours that merged and blended so that far ahead, Phelim could hardly distinguish riverbank from water. River fowl clucked and called in chorus as he guided the craft along the varied watery lanes and the morning had almost drifted by before the landscape began to change.

The grasses and sedge disappeared. Twisted and broken crack-willows shaded inaccessible banks. There were signs of life; holes for water rats and otters and once a fisherman dressed in the green of the Marshes poled past. He raised a stumpy finger to his forehead by way of greeting. Otherwise no word was spoken and the peculiar quiet of the watery environs pervaded all.

Along a wider canal, even larger trees guarded the banks. Graceful willows and large ferns, mahoganies and bay trees shaded Phelim from the watery sun as the craft poled ever deeper into a thickening shadow and where cobweb-like skeins of marsh moss hung from the trees. The sound of a frog chorus, the secretive calls of wood pigeons, the occasional cooing of doves and a chittering which warned of Siofra filled the silence and reminded Phelim that he had entered the Marshes, an enchanted place.

Despite the cold ache at his side demanding he move on with speed, he drifted for a moment, glad of the sight of a tiny slip of river sand lit from above with an aureole of sun. Just wide enough for the dory, he pulled it on the shingle and sat with freshly washed hands against the bole of a myrtle tree, its starry white flowers dropping beside him. Tall water iris and plantain hid him and solitude surrounded him - until he heard voices - male and female. By the
frisson,
he guessed they were Faeran. Far from revealing himself, he sank back closer to the myrtle, allowing the shadows to completely conceal him.

‘You should not have left her mesmered. It was unkind and she could be prey to anything malign.’ The woman’s voice was well modulated and there was a tinge of disgust in the tones.

‘She shouldn’t have been fool enough to spurn the advances of a good-looking fellow like myself. And besides, it was only a partial mesmer.’

The man’s response showed a touch of self-mockery and Phelim suspected he teased the woman. He remained hidden and presently the voices moved o
ut of range, their horses’ hoofbeats fading into a faint thud and then nothing.

With a thickening temper, he realised t
hat somewhere close by, some poor mortal woman had been the butt of an idle game and left half-mesmered on the edge of a dangerous waterway, unable to move and at the whim of any malicious Other who passed. He turned to track along the way the specious couple had come, knowing they might have signed the girl’s death warrant…

Severine and Luther galloped through the dawn light of the Styx, speeding over the moors and into the Luned on their covetous hunt. As garnet coloured autumn leaves trailed in her wake, Countess Di Accia ignored the fact she was re-visiting the scenes of slaughter. In amongst shadow and subfusc in the Styx Forest, a grey stone statue of a gnome screamed into infinity with clawed hands shielding terrified eyes. In the Luned Forest by the side of an eldritch rill and where tricksy sprites spied with sly eyes, a dark rusty stain, legacy of a mortal death, was concealed by crisp, fallen leaves, and the place of Liam’s death was marked by a frost white shape burned into the ground.

On the other side of the Luned, two people ambled towards their destination. There was no doubt that if Ajax had not led, Bottom would never have followed. As Gallivant approached him early in the day, when the only sound had been the soft chirrup and whistle of forest birds, he wailed like a banshee until Adelina spoke to him, fondling the lop ears, kissing the velvet nose, explaining that the hob was gentle and kind.

‘Tell him while you are at it, that another wail like that could give us all away.’ Gallivant was miffed - Adelina’s ability with the animal irked him.

‘To whom? At best he sounds like some lost donkey, at worst a werewolf and as this is the Luned, it is what one would expect. Didn’t you hear the hobyahs just before dawn? They sounded perilously close.’

Huh! Hobyahs, he thought, creatures of nightmare that feed off fear. Oh indeed he had heard them. Waking him from a doze when he should have been alert and minding Adelina.

The fire of the evening had burnt to coals that flared as a sulky night breeze blew through their encampment. Gallivant dozed with his back against a tree, his body in shadow from the overhanging branches. Adelina stretched out under his riding coat and the bruised red glow from the coals lit the planes of her face. She tossed and turned although the hob was unaware, his eyes having drifted shut earlier.

She said later that she had been dreaming of Kholi, seeing him on that last day as he struggled in Luther’s grip, feeling the bite of the garotte as tiny beads of blood sparkled like rubies along the arched, taut line of the straining throat. Adelina wailed in her dream but around the encampme
nt it emerge as a strangled moan, as if something equally fatal had pressed against her own air-passage to throttle her. In the dream, Kholi’s throat was slowly sawed through as he yelled after Severine, ‘You’ll find out!’ As the dire woman strode away, Luther delivered a quick and final tug and Adelina screamed and screamed, feeling the pressure on her own throat increasing.

The hob woke as he heard Adelina threshing. Jumping up, he threw himself against the hobyahs who were trying to crush the throat of their victim. He thumped them about their heads, calling a mesmer so the rowan branch which he could not lift but which he could cause to fly through the air, beat hard against one head and then the other.

Adelina’s eyes flew open and the nightmare sped into the recesses of memory as fast as the howling hobyahs ran off to the trees and away. Sighing, her eyes closing again with a sleep mesmer from the hob, she slumbered, this time placidly because at great discomfort to himself, Gallivant had kept Adelina safe, surrounded by rowan and hazel twigs and chains of daisies and hypericum flower. He had slept little and was somewhat sour this morning.

And so they proceeded at an ambiguous pace - Ajax walking slowly, Bottom trotting along behind on his delicate hooves. Only Gallivant sensed the ugly shades of the Luned as memories drifted on the woody zephyrs, something he forbore to mention to Adelina.

He felt a need to hurry her on. To get to the safety of the Marshes where they could blend with the mortals there. A spasmodic welkin wind, cousin to the zephyrs, swirled on the outer edges of their trail, lifting leaves in a spiral and warning the hob, as it would have warned Ebba, that Severine was not far away.

‘See how the trees change, Gallivant?
’ Adelina asked. ‘They thicken and are decorated with veils of moss. And the ground is wetter with more streams and rivulets. The smell is richer as well, the air more humid. It’s a secret place.’ An air of contentment wrapped her in its care. After the grief and pain of her three months imprisonment, even allowing for the absence of Kholi, she felt lighter. Her legs stretched wide around the vast middle of her beloved Ajax and she felt more secure than she had for ninety-three days.

‘A safe place indeed.
’ Gallivant’s ever more serious voice hung under the misty moss.  ‘There are stables on the outskirts of the town and we can leave the animals hidden. I know the Marshers and they are kind.’

***

It was true. I did feel more at ease, as if the strange humid airs of the Marshes sustained me. Severine and memories of despair seemed far away on the other side of the world and I sank into my new equitable state, deliberately not drawing up unsettling thoughts, keeping calm, looking forward to Veniche and possibly seeing Lhiannon. But as I grew calmer, the hob became more edgy, as if a doom hung over his shoulder, and he would not talk to me about it and I confess I was glad.

But all that aside, you must search for the next books.

Look for the bees again and follow them to the Herb Robert that you will recognize from our medicinal and kitchen gardens. The three pink geranium flowers have eighteen separate wired petals and they hide two journals and the silky blue butterfly hides one. The butterfly is rendered in a fine, lustrous Faeran thread. It is a thread I compared to Liam a lifetime ago - superb but capricious and with a mind of its own.

Ah, my friend, I shall tell you this for free... should you ever reach a perilous stage in your life where you need to sort out the mind’s wanderings, write a journal, it helps sort the good from bad.