to heal; God knows I have tried, and made some ground. But he needs something now which I cannot give him.’
‘You want me to help? To make an infusion, a decoction?’
Father Brien sighed, looking down at his hands.
‘I wish it were so simple,’ he said. ‘Brews and potions I have tried, some with good effect. I have employed many elements you have taught me, and some of my own. I have prayed, and talked, and counselled. I can do no more, and he is slipping away from me.’
I did not need to ask who this patient was.
‘I’ll help, of course. But I don’t know if I’ll be much use. My skills are mainly with medicines. You make it sound as if something more is needed?’
There was no way I was going to ask him directly what was wrong with the boy; this was dangerous ground. I had no idea how much he knew, or what I was supposed to tell him.
‘You will see for yourself,’ he said, picking up the reins. ‘In any event, we must go straight back, once you collect your things. I’ve given him a sleeping draught, and that will keep him quiet for most of today, but we must be there when he wakes, or he may do himself ill.’
‘I’m not sure Conor will let me go,’ I said.
‘Why don’t we ask him now?’ said Father Brien.
We found Conor alone, writing. There was no mention of Britons, nor of escaped prisoners; Father Brien explained simply that he needed to consult me about a patient, and Conor showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to the details. He seemed almost to have expected the request, and agreed on the condition that it was only for a few days, and that I would come home as soon as he sent Finbar to collect me. I left the two of them talking, and went to pack a small bundle, wondering as I scanned the stillroom shelves what we might be dealing with: burns, bruises, fever, shock? Father Brien had not been very specific. I took some clothing for myself and small necessities, enough for a few days. I left my wet cloak steaming gently before the kitchen fires. I took a larger one belonging to one of the boys. Regretfully, I was forced to admit that the onset of autumn required me to go shod outdoors, and I thrust my cold feet into a pair of boots which were somewhat too big for them. It was handy being the youngest, and smallest.
‘A few days only, mind,’ Conor was saying as I made my way back to the cart. ‘I’ll send Finbar up for her. And take care on the road; it’ll be slick going up that last hill.’
Father Brien was already seated, and despite the brevity of the stop, there was a basket from our kitchens, with bread and cheese and vegetables, tucked in behind him. He gave my brother a grave nod. Conor lifted me up, none too gently, and we were away before I could say a word.
The rain slowly abated to a drizzle. We made our way under bare-branched willows, between the first outcrops of rock, beside the bleakly grey waters of the lake, where not a bird could be seen.
‘You know who this boy is, I take it?’ said Father Brien casually, never taking his eyes off the track ahead.
‘I know what he is,’ I corrected cautiously. ‘Not who. I have an idea of what happened to him. What I don’t know is what I’m supposed to do for him. You’d better tell me that before we get there, if I’m to be of some use.’
He glanced at me sideways, apparently amused.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘The boy had some injuries. Serious injuries. He’d likely have died, if your brother hadn’t got him away.’
‘With a bit of help from me,’ I said, somewhat miffed that my part in the rescue was forgotten already.
‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said the learned Father. ‘Took a bit of a risk, didn’t you?’
‘I know my dosages,’ I said.
‘You do, better than most of us, Sorcha. But as I said, this patient has been dosed, and anointed, and prayed over. He was – he had a number of hurts, and these I have attended to as well as I could. Although he will never be quite as he was, his body is healing well enough. His mind is another matter.’
‘You mean – he went crazy because of what they did to him? Like that man that used to work in the mill, Fergal his name was – he turned very odd after the little people had him overnight. Is that what you mean?’ I remembered the miller, slack-mouthed, trembling, crouched by the hearth covered in dirt.
Father Brien sighed. ‘Crazy – no, not quite. This one is of stronger fabric than the Fergals of this world. He may be young, but he is a warrior; it’s in his nature to fight back. He resisted his tormentors all through that long night, and I don’t doubt that not one word escaped his lips. He’s been very sick. He had a raging fever, and some of his injuries might have killed a weaker man outright. He fought death hard, and for a while I thought he had won. But his next battle is the hardest; the battle against himself. He is, after all, not much more than a boy, and the strongest of men suffers damage when his own kind turns against him in evil. The lad will not admit that he is hurt and frightened; instead, he turns his anguish inwards and torments himself.’
I tried to get my mind around this.
‘You mean he wants to die?’
‘I don’t think he knows what he wants. What he needs is peace of mind, a space of time without hate, to put body and spirit together again. I thought to send him to the brothers in the west; but he is too weak to be moved, and cannot yet be trusted in other hands.’
There was quiet for a time, save for the gentle thudding of hooves and a sigh of wind amongst the rocks. We were getting closer now. The track grew narrow and steep, and the trees closed in. Up here there were great oaks, their upper reaches bare of leaves, but shawled with goldenwood, and the depths of the forest were dark with ancient growth. The old horse knew his way, and ambled steadily on.
‘Father, if you couldn’t heal this boy, I’m sure I can’t. As my brothers keep telling me, I’m only a child. Maybe I can fix a wheezy chest, or a case of nettle rash, but this – I hardly know where to start.’
The cart jolted over a stone, and Father Brien’s hand shot out to steady me.
‘Nonetheless,’ he said in his measured way, ‘if you cannot, none here can. Conor was sure you were the one to help me. I believe you will know what to do, when you see him. I also believe he will not fear you as he does me. And fear is a great barrier to healing.’
‘Conor was sure?’ I said, taken aback. ‘Conor knew about the boy? But –’
‘You need not trouble yourself about Conor,’ said Father Brien. ‘He will not betray your secret.’
We turned under a rock wall and he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. He swung himself down and reached to help me.
‘I hope, while you are here, that we can talk of a number of things. But let us tend to this boy, first of all. And you can decide for yourself what you can do, and what you cannot.’
The air inside the cave was heavy with the smell of curative herbs. My nose told me he’d been burning a mixture to keep the boy longer in the peace of an oblivious sleep; calamint for protection and courage, thyme to keep night terrors away. Also, harder to detect, the spores of a plant we called wolf’s claw, and I wondered how he’d known about that one, the use of which was extremely dangerous. A person could not be left under its influence for too long. Wake the sleeper must, and confront his fears, or risk being lost in the dark places of the mind forever.
The outer cave was cool and dry, with openings high in the rock walls. This was Father Brien’s healing place. There were many shelves, crowded with dried herbs and spices, bowls and jars and neat piles of folded cloth. A pair of huge oak planks, supported by great stones, served as a working table. An inner chamber opened off this orderly space, and here there was a straw pallet on which lay his charge, rolled deep in a blanket and curled up on himself in protection. Father Brien himself ate and slept in the tiny stone cottage, little more than a cell, nestled under rowan trees not