‘I’m not a dog, to do your bidding,’ I said. ‘I must eat, and so should you.’
‘The tale,’ he said weakly, surprising me. ‘Finish the tale. Did Bryn ever drink from the cup, or did he doubt himself forever?’
I sat down again slowly.
‘He did,’ I said, finding the will to go on from somewhere deep within me, though it was quite an effort. ‘It was much, much later, and it crept up on him unnoticed, for after all his adventures, and the ill that befell so many others after they tried to use the cup of Isha, what did he do but put it on a shelf at the back of his cottage, and forget about it. There it sat, with its emeralds and rubies, amongst the old crocks and pewterware, and not a soul noticed it for many a long day. For Bryn stayed in his cottage, beside the enchanted forest with its tangle of thorns, and grew old there; and still he guarded its one entrance, and let none pass, neither man nor beast. There were plenty of young girls that would have wooed him away, if he’d have liked, but he refused them all politely. I’m just a humble man, he’d say, not good enough for the likes of you, fine ladies. And besides, my heart is given.
‘Over the years, there were plenty of chances to ride away – to a war with the soldiers, or to make a fortune with travellers, but he’d have none of it. This is my watch, he told them, and here I stay, though I die at my post. And when the three score years were up, and Bryn was an old, old man with a white beard down to his boot tops, the curse was lifted and the wall of thorns dissolved; and out came an old, old lady in a tattered white gown, with a face wrinkled like a prune. But Bryn knew her instantly for his beloved, and fell on his knees before her, giving thanks for her deliverance.
‘“I’m thirsty,” said the old woman in a cracked voice (but to Bryn it was the most heavenly sound he’d ever heard). “Fetch me a drink, if you please, soldier.” And since there was only one cup in his humble house fit for a lady of her standing, the old man fetched the cup of Isha from his dusty kitchen shelves and lo, it was full to the brim with fresh, clear water. With trembling hands he offered it to the lady.
‘“You must drink first,” she said, and he was powerless to go against her will. So he took a sip, and she took a sip, and the precious stones on the cup glowed bright as stars. When Bryn looked up, there was his sweetheart before him, as young and lovely as the day he’d lost her. And when he looked in the cup of Isha, his reflection showed curls of raven black and a dazzling, sunny smile. “But – but I thought …” he could scarce get a word out, for his heart was beating like a great drum. His sweetheart smiled, and took his hand. “You could have drunk from it all along,” she said, “for who but a man pure of heart could wait three score years for his beloved?” She put the cup down on a stone beside the road, and then they went into the little cottage together, and got on with the rest of their lives. And the cup of Isha? There it rests amongst the bracken and daisies, waiting for the next traveller to find it.’
The boy was almost asleep, his face nearer to repose than I’d seen it yet, but wary still. He spoke in a whisper.
‘If you’re not a witch,’ he said, ‘how did you know my name?’
One of the Fair Folk told me. That was the truth, but I could hardly expect him to believe it. I thought quickly. As I said before, lying was a skill I never came to grips with, being no better at it than my brother Finbar.
‘I will answer that when I see you on your feet and out in the air,’ was the best I could manage. ‘Now you must rest, while I see what food Father Brien has for us. The dog must be hungry too.’
But when I tried to call Linn to follow me, she lowered her whiskery muzzle onto her paws, and simply looked at me with liquid, doggy eyes. Simon’s hand rested on her back, fingers moving against her rough coat. And so I left the two of them, for a while.
There followed the strangest time of my young life, up till then at least, for what came later was not merely strange but almost outside mortal understanding. On that first night I did as the Lady had bid me, going out alone under the great oaks, and climbing up high to where the delicate net of goldenwood hung suspended like a constellation of stars between the massive boughs of the forest giant. I used a small sickle to cut down what I needed. Father Brien was somewhat concerned that I might fall, or cut myself instead of the plant. But I explained to him how this herb is sacred to those of the old faith. Indeed, it is so mystic and powerful that its true name is secret, neither to be spoken aloud nor given written form. We called it goldenwood, or birdlime, or some other name in place of its true title. It is a strange herb, outside the laws of nature, for it does not grow towards the light, as other plants do, but in what direction it will, up, down, to east or west as the fancy takes it. Nor does it root in the ground, but grows from the upper reaches of oak, apple, pine or poplar, twining itself around their limbs, resting in their canopies. It takes no account of the seasons, for it can bear both ripe and green berries, and flowers, and new leaves all at the same time. There are strict rules about cutting it, and I had followed them as well as I could, since it appeared I had been given permission.
Goldenwood could be used in many ways, and I employed most of them in my attempt to help the Briton. Woven in a circle and hung over his pallet, it had some efficacy in keeping his night terrors at bay. I made an infusion, and we all drank that, but sparingly. My cure relied partly on clearing Simon’s body of the herbal influences which had been so essential up till now; but this physic, the most powerful of all, he still needed. As I had gathered it under a waxing moon, I had seen an owl fly overhead, dipping and rising in the cold silence of the night sky. Maybe she was the one I knew, now again part of the dark world’s fabric.
The few days Conor had sanctioned came, and went, and so did Finbar. He rode up on a sturdy hill pony whose strong back could easily bear us both home. Father Brien was in his cottage, doing some fine work with pen and inks, while Simon and I sat (or lay, in his case) on the grass a little further down the hill. Moving him had been a nightmare, the first time. Every step was agony for him, but he refused to be carried by an old man and a scrawny brat who talked too much, as he put it. So he walked, and put his teeth through his lip keeping silent, and I felt the pain piercing through my own body as I held his arm and walked beside him.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Sorcha,’ said Father Brien. He looked anxious, but he was leaving the treatment in my hands. On the other side of Simon, the dog padded steadily along, curbing her usual high spirits, leaning in slightly to help him stay upright. His hand gripped her collar.
‘I do,’ I said, and Father Brien took my word for it.
So, on the day Finbar came there we were, the three of us, Simon, me and the dog, but she had left our side to sniff around under the trees, tail whipping from side to side as she scented rabbit. We’d talked a lot by then or rather, I’d talked and Simon listened, having little choice in the matter. I asked him nothing, and he gave away nothing; so I relied on the old tales, and snippets of song, and occasionally I talked about my forest and some of the strange things that happened there. He could be rude, and even cruel, and he was both when it suited him. I heard plenty about my people’s nature, and what they had done over the years to his own folk; and he was imaginative in his insults to me and to Father Brien. These I could handle well enough; the tales of war were harder for me, which is probably why I talked most of the time – at least that kept him quiet. His mood was changeable; it could snap from exhausted tolerance to fury to terror at a moment’s notice, and tending him drained my energy more than any other patient I had encountered. I dressed his wounds twice a day, for he would let Father Brien nowhere near him. This was one task I never got used to.
By then there was a sort of acceptance developing between us. Although he scoffed at the unlikeliness of it all, I knew he liked my tales. The fresh air and the walking, hard though it was for him, had brought a slightly better colour to his face, and the cornflower eyes were not quite so lifeless. I brushed his hair; he made more fuss about the pulling out of knots and tangles than he ever had about the cruel pain of his injuries. I took his general ill temper as a good sign; for anything was better than the blank-eyed despair with which he waited for the endless day to pass, the ashen-faced terror of his night waking.
Then