The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (36 page)

“Very wel .” The declaration was sudden; she had the impression that even he was startled by it.

“I wil grant your request, but only in half.” His lips twisted in an attempt at a human smile that was both ghastly and vaguely appealing. “We do everything by halves here, as you see.” Sinead was too uneasy about her circumstances and too shaken by the sudden and strange pul she felt towards this half-human, half-animal creature to spare patience for his odd bit of humour. Her heart, which had leaped a little at his first words, sank as the last sunk in. “What do you mean you wil grant only half?”

The stag-man’s tone hardened. “I offer you a bargain. I and the others wil grant you safe passage through the forest and wil lead you out of this spel -wrought snare, but only on the condition that you must return to this place tomorrow morning. Take the fever-wort to your mother and make your healing potion. Tend her through the night but, at the dawn of the morrow, the magic wil cal you to us again.”

Sinead knew in her heart nothing she could say would persuade him to change his mind. He had been generous in his way. Unexpectedly, she found herself admiring what humanity was left in him. She no longer thought of him as a horrifying creature. There was something unusual y graceful and somehow
right
in the blend of animal and man before her. What would it be like to be transformed as he – to lead a half-woman, half-beast existence?

She shook her head, it was not a possibility she was comfortable entertaining. Al the same, she found herself speaking words of agreement. As easily as that, the dread bargain was sealed.

She shuddered as the reality of that sank in and tried to comfort herself.
At least out of all of
this, I may yet save Mother.

Back at home in the little cottage nestled at the foot of the hil s, Sinead brewed up a strong tea over the hearth, using the lake water, the joyflower and the fever-wort herb.

Her mother was scarcely conscious and it was with difficulty that Sinead managed to trickle a portion of the tea into her mouth.

Then she crawled into a pal et of straw on the floor and fel asleep wondering if al she had done would be enough.
What if she had bargained away her life to the creatures of the lake, meadow
and wood for nothing?

She awoke early to find her mother’s fever-induced sleep had gone in the night, to be replaced by the deeper slumber of true rest. She had passed the point of crisis and was on the mend. Sinead rejoiced at the healthy pink glow in the formerly pale cheeks and was relieved on pressing a palm to the lined forehead to find it cool to the touch, the fever fading like the last stars of the night.

Fading stars.
Sinead recal ed the awful events of the day before, the rash promises she had made. She wondered which magic would come and claim her first – that of the lake folk, the Fae of the meadow or the half-beast creatures of the wood.

Reluctantly, fearful y, she stepped out of the cottage and into the grey light of early morning.

There was a chil in the air. The grass under her feet was stil heavy with dew and on the horizon a faint tint of rose lightened the sky.

How like yesterday it al seemed! Almost she could believe she had simply dreamed the events of the previous morning and afternoon. Almost she could
wish
she had.

It was just as the tip of the bright sun appeared over the far treetops that Sinead became aware of the magics. She could not be sure which of them she first sensed.

A great rushing sound, like the roar of a river overflowing its bank, came sweeping down over the hil s from the north. It seemed to carry on it the cal of the lake folk: a multitude of watery echoes flooding her way.

Instantaneously, another sort of magic began to wel up from the opposite direction. This magic was visible to her eyes as a bright ray of sunlight, a shining, golden stream gleaming over the hil top and flashing down towards the cottage in the val ey. Sinead could almost hear the laughter of the faeries riding on the sunbeam, could almost smel the overpowering scent of meadow flowers and hear the drumming tread of delicate feet pounding out a steady, endless dance of mirth and madness.

And final y, at that very moment, a third magic came pouring towards her from the western hil s.

This magic took the form, not of a sight or an audible cal to her ears, but of a silent urging, a pulsing of the earth beneath her, an insistent tugging of the wind, on which was borne the scent of moss-covered bark, rotting leaves and fertile earth. Sinead had but to close her eyes and she could envision the peaceful clearing with the babbling brook, the soothing shade of the overhead canopy and the strangely compassionate half-stag awaiting her coming. Oddly, the scene was no longer a dreaded or troubling one.

Onwards al three streams of magic travel ed down the hil s, racing towards her – competing, Sinead imagined, to see which would claim her from the other, for clearly she could not belong to the water, the meadow
and
the wood.

She could do no more than stand motionless and wait to discover her fate. Running would have been fruitless. Dashing into the frail little cottage? What good could that do? No, she summoned her courage and waited, waited.

They were al but simultaneous, the magics, as they slammed into her. It was impossible to guess which had reached her first. Caught up in the heart of the roaring whirlwind of the clashing powers of lake, meadow and forest, Sinead was knocked to her knees.

The gale whipped her hair into her face, showering her in a hail of forest leaves, of forest sights and scents.

She sensed invisible torrents of water beating at her, tossing her helplessly about like a twig in a stream.

The brightness of the sunlight was blinding, burning, scorching through her.

With angry fury the three magics fought over her, until Sinead thought surely when they were done there would be no scraps of her left for any to have.
Perhaps that was their intention?

And then suddenly . . . The storm abated. As swiftly as they had descended upon her the three magics now abandoned their fight. The torrent of lake voices seeped away, back into the northern hil s. The bright beams of sunlight faded back to the dul grey of early morning. The powerful gale of forest magic died down to a whisper of a breeze, then swirled away back over the hil s to the wood beyond.

At last Sinead was left alone.

Exhausted after the ordeal, it seemed to require a great amount of effort for her to pul herself upright. Yet when she stood and looked down it was to discover herself stil very much a living human being. There were no scales or gil s, no delicate feet worn frail and bloody with endless dancing, no antlers or fur. She had not been transformed into anything mad or grotesque but remained simply . . . herself – which suddenly seemed like a very plain thing to be.

Why did none of them take me? I don’t understand.

And then, she did.
It is left to be mine. My choice.
Since none of the magics could prevail they had struck a compromise, had left their victim to choose the manner of her doom.

Yet oddly enough, it hardly felt like any doom at al . Not any more. Her decision was al too easily made.

As she made her way lightly up the hil path towards her destination, she looked ahead to her new life in a different, exciting home. She even found herself envisioning a particular figure awaiting her and felt an unexpected thril of anticipation.

Over the passing years, the poor widow living in the little cottage at the foot of the hil s found her life markedly improved. Once she had been an impoverished woman. Her health had been poor.

She and her only child had dressed shabbily and often gone hungry.

Al of that changed the morning she awoke to find her poor young daughter had disappeared, stolen away for ever by some cruel fate.

And yet . . . life suddenly became so much easier once her beloved Sinead was gone. Little piles of food suddenly began appearing on her doorstep at odd hours. Heaps of berries and dry twigs for her fire were often found nearby, left by an invisible hand. Fever-wort was a frequent gift from the widow’s mysterious visitors; great bunches of the stuff decorated her windows and grew along the edges of the cottage.

And sometimes . . . sometimes when she rose in the early hours of the morning she would step outside to find two beautiful deer grazing on the dew-soaked grass at the edge of her garden – a mighty stag and a graceful doe. Strangely, from a distance there was something almost . . .

human
about the pair.

Quicksilver

Cindy Holby

Ireland – 545

Conn Daithi ignored the mist that swirled around him and kept on riding. Even though he was wel seasoned in the art of war, he knew his sword and shield would not be of much help for him against the undead spirits that hid in the shadows of the fog. ’Twas Samhain and the air around him swirled as the veil between his world and the next threatened to split apart. Those who lingered at the edge were anxious to show their displeasure at the prospect of Christianity coming to their kingdom even though the stones of the abbey at Sligo were only recently placed.

The mountains of Ben Bulbin were long behind him. He made for Imleach Iseal on the coast. He had seen the festival bonfires earlier but they had long since disappeared into the mist. Niul tossed his head as if to shed the water that dampened his dark-as-night coat and Conn placed a reassuring hand against the stal ion’s neck. They were both weary of travel and of the ceaseless battles that raged across the Isle. Conn wanted nothing more than to escape the demands put upon him by the highest bidder for his sword arm yet he was forever trapped by the sea. He’d lost too many brothers, too many friends and too much time to war. Mayhap here, in this smal fishing vil age, he could find a boat that would take him and Niul away from this place. Mayhap then, he would find some peace.

Conn could smel the sea and he took deep gulping breaths, hoping it would cleanse his lungs of the scents of death. He trusted Niul and gave the horse his head as they picked their way among the boulders that lined the slope between field and shore. As they moved downwards, the mist cleared somewhat, revealing thin lines of clouds that partial y shadowed the ful moon. Even though the air was chil , his skin felt moist beneath his leather jerkin and linen
chainse
, as if it were the middle of summer instead of the end of the harvest season. Stranger stil , jagged flashes of light danced across the sky even though there was no sign of rain. Conn saw the outline of a tower in the distance.

Túr Rí. The tower was old and legends surrounded it. It was built by the Fomorian king, Conan, who then slaughtered the workers when the task was done. Wars had been raged and the Nemedians had defeated them, but it was said that the Fomorians were once more in possession of the island. There was also talk of a mighty warrior cal ed Balor who could kil just by staring at his opponent with the one eye centred in his forehead. Conn put more trust in his sword than in whispered legends. If someone could kil him with a look he would have been dead long ago.

Niul snorted and jerked against the reins as they reached the packed sand that rol ed into the sea. The wind strengthened and swirled about him, tossing his cloak in tandem with the thick mane of Niul. A shiver ran down his spine, a warrior’s intuition that he always obeyed. Conn urged Niul into a quick gait and his eyes ran over the sand to see if there were, indeed, a threat.

He saw something rol ing in the waves. Niul danced sideways as Conn urged him onwards. He drew his sword from its sheath and held it easily in one hand while he grasped Niul’s reins with the other. A wave crashed on to the shore and with it came a body. Conn leaped over Niul’s neck and landed in the sand on the bal s of his feet with his sword held before him.

The clouds suddenly parted from the moon and cast light down upon the beach as the waves carried the body back out. Conn waded into the surf and grabbed an arm. As he dragged the victim to shore, he realized that the body was that of a woman. She was completely nude except for her long pale hair, which was the same colour as the moonlight. It tangled about her hips and thighs like seaweed.

Conn buried his sword, point down, into the sand and knelt beside her. He leaned in close to hear her heart beat. She was tal and thin with smal breasts and narrow hips but he paid no mind to her form beyond wanting to know if she was alive or dead. A gasping breath gurgled in her throat, which gave him hope. Conn pul ed her up by the shoulders and bent her over his arm before giving her back a sound thump. She gagged and coughed and then spewed forth water from the sea.

“There, lass,” he said. “’Twil be better once it is gone.” She nodded as she clung to his arm. Her back was to him, revealing a long knobby spine and the definition of her ribs. It was obvious she had not eaten for a good long while. Amidst the tangle of her hair he saw a symbol etched into her shoulder. He pushed her hair aside and examined a double blue triangle formed by three curving lines. He traced it with his fingertip.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glanced quickly over her shoulder. He caught the flash of her quicksilver eyes and saw the tips of her ears jutting though her hair. In the next moment he was flat on his back, lying in the sand, and the point of his sword was at his throat.

“Sidh.” He watched her warily. The Sidh were known for moving quicker than men and being deceptively strong despite their slim and wil owy builds. It was the first time he’d ever met one face to face. “Until now, I did not think ye truly existed.”