Saoirse and Smithy travelled in silence and had for some time, both jogging lightly across the rough bog of the Otherworld terrain, swords and round shields at their back, daggers at their sides, avoiding the forest. It was a strategy they’d adopted by unspoken consent the moment they’d arrived on the Otherworld banks, crossing over just past noon that morning. But now, the dark forest which was nearly a kilometre away, still seemed to rise up in front of them, along with the question. The question that now hung in the air, that question Saoirse knew had to be answered sooner or later. She would just rather have it later. Later would be best. It was the risk they took coming now, earlier than the others. But there was much to do, much to prepare for, and Airmed to see.
They could have made the swords back in Gort na Tubrid, at Smithy’s forge there, but the carrying of them, that was it, the carrying of them would have been too much. That’s what Saoirse told herself. And sure, they probably hadn’t enough materials there for fashioning who knows how many swords. For they needed the count from Daghda. Your ones who didn’t have magic swords, because they were lost, gone, stolen, as well as your ones who’d never had a sword in the first place types of statistics that would give Smithy and her a goal. She hoped that was the reasoning, in any case. Sure, it was a sound reasoning. Smithy was better now, maybe a little wobbly with it, but he could do it, they could do it. Together they would create the swords, fashion them out of the silver, steel and magic. And the swords they made would be the best that had ever been forged, Retaliator aside. These swords would battle until every enemy was down. That she knew, deep inside her. Sure, Smithy knew it, didn’t he? Couldn’t he feel it?
Smithy started to slow down and she drew in her pace as well when she saw the approaching mounted figure ahead.
“Do you know who it is?” she asked.
Smithy shook his head. “He doesn’t seem familiar, no.”
She studied him. His horse was nothing of note, a pony that functioned well on the rough terrain. He wore a thick cloak that obscured the rest of his clothes, though it wasn’t that cold, or at least it didn’t feel so to Saoirse. His boots, dark and scuffed with age, were tucked securely into the stirrups. On his head he wore a stocking cap that seemed out of place and only accentuated the long beak like nose and the bushy beard that adorned his chin.
As Saoirse and Smithy closed in on the man, he looked up, smiled and raised his hand in greeting. It was then that Saoirse noticed his humped back under the cloak, and it was sympathy that overwhelmed her rather than caution.
He spoke quickly, his words tumbling into each other, gesturing expressively with his hands and at first Saoirse just didn’t bother listening. Sure, she had no clue about Irish, let alone the old language most commonly spoken here. Why would she understand? So it was only gradually, after he’d spoken for a few minutes and more, that she realised she did understand him. He was asking if they were stopping soon, if he could share their fire and their fare and he would return the favour with a tale.
Smithy looked surprised, rather than wary, or even confused. It took a moment for her to realise that they both understood the man. And not because he was speaking English. No, it wasn’t that strange. Well, it was strange enough, because it was the old language the man spoke and the strange part was that they both understood him. At least it appeared so.
“You’re welcome of course,” said Smithy.
She needed no other confirmation before the joy, the amazement washed through her and it was all she could do not to shove Smithy as hard as she could with all the “would you feckin’ believe it” strength in the motion. What is this? What the feck? And all of it. All of the words of disbelief poured out in one big shoving match of joy But she didn’t because all of the Bríd, the Bríd that was her swelled forth and uttered the formal words of hospitality that told the world and Smithy “Bríd has returned”.
It seemed impossible that, for this moment, she was wearing jeans, T-shirt and a leather jacket, when she felt she was wearing a shimmery flowing gown with long billowing sleeves, hair cascading, not in some plait tucked tidily underneath her jacket. A Saoirse thought, but derived from Bríd. Her two selves. Herselves.
Smithy grinned at her, as if sensing her feelings. “We will break our journey here, and as my companion said, we’d be happy to have your company.”
It was a good place to break the journey. There was no doubt, she thought as she spied a sheltered outcropping nearby and thought of the food in their packs. Dusk was approaching. All the ingredients, those elements were. She glanced over at Smithy, just to check, only from habit. Yes, habit, and also because it seemed right. No reassurance needed, that hadn’t prompted her, no it hadn’t indeed. Still, when Smithy’s answering warm smile came, she felt a bit of easing. The man was harmless, hunched back or no. In fact more harmless, with that to burden his body, it must be a crippling disease to cause such a back, sure it had to be.
“Turlough,” the man said, giving a graceful bow.
“Turlough?” She glanced at Smithy and smiled. “Like the blind harper?”
“Exactly like him,” he said. “Only not blind. Not here.”
The remark was cryptic but Saoirse shrugged it off and grinned. “Only not blind and not a harper with it.”
He chuckled. “Ah, no.” He started to remove his cloak, like some magician in his “abracadabra” moment and there on his back was not a hump but a leather bag. Harp shaped.
Saoirse laughed. “A harper then. But not blind.”
He grinned at her. “Not blind.”
“So we’ve stories and music to look forward to after the meal,” said Smithy.
“Oh certainly.”
Joy rushed through Saoirse at the prospect. An evening’s respite from the tension and sense of imminent battle, of testing her strength and the dilemma of who she was.
The joy carried her through helping to establish the camp and spreading out the fare for all of them. Smithy had introduced the two of them to Turlough as Saoirse and Smithy, thankfully going for the simple approach that required no extra explanation or potential demands. Poetry might be the least of them, and sure she would be happy to offer some, but that would now be only if the moment moved her to do so.
Darkness had fallen by the time they’d settled into that mode, that frame of mind that said “I’m comfortable, ready and listening just for the love of it, the wonder of it”. And whether there was good craic to be had or not, she was certainly ready and comfortable.
The small fire they’d lit gave a soft glow to their faces. Smithy leaned against a large rock, Saoirse reclining against his chest, as if she was a puzzle piece interlocking with his. A perfect fit.
Turlough took the harp in hand and rested it on his lap. Twenty-six strings gave it enough of a range, each one ringing out purely as he tested them for tuning. Saoirse marvelled at it, until she reminded herself where she was. Still, she felt the beauty and clarity of the sound, allowing it to envelop her, cloaking her in the fullness of the sound of each string as Turlough plucked it.
Tuning complete, he struck up a chord. It was a “get your attention” chord and completely unnecessary in Saoirse’s case. She was already riveted, drawn to him, her eyes following every movement and her ears alert and receptive. Smithy’s arms came around her then, pulling her closer, feeling the connection, too.
It was a tale, the language’s fadó, fadó, fadó beginning it, signalling the long ago that started every old tale. It made her smile and gave even more warmth to the words and the atmosphere. A warrior and his lady, he told them, which made her smile even more. Sure weren’t they all a warrior and his lady, a knight and his damsel? She could feel Smithy’s amusement and enjoyment as much as her own.
The tale took them to a king’s hall where the warrior was one of his men. The lady, treasured by all, most especially her father, the wise and great leader of the land, and worshiped afar by the warrior, a fierce and noble fighter who had a way with swords.
Smithy’s hand absently stroked her shoulder, a gesture both reassuring and loving. She leaned her head against his chest as a response.
“The warrior’s skill with the sword,” continued Turlough, plucking and strumming the harp to create sounds that illustrated and enhanced the story, “was such that he began to fashion them, because in his hands the sword took on different properties, a finer edge, a better balance. Metal became his strength, his power, and all admired it. Especially the lady, for she found herself drawn to metal just as she was drawn to him.”
Smithy’s hand froze on her arm and Saoirse stiffened. What was this, who was this man? Surely a coincidence, surely it was just a tale that had grown and twisted in the multiple tellings to somehow sound like their tale.
She reached up and took Smithy’s hand in hers needing his touch so that she could continue to look at this harper and pretend that all was well. Just a tale. Fadó, fadó and all that.
“It came to be that everyone wanted this warrior’s swords and his place in the hall became so elevated that few preceded him. Even the king’s champion carried one of his swords, demonstrating how well wrought they were, how perfect they were. And in the time, when war seemed to be on the horizon, such an honour was important. All these accolades gave the warrior cause to hope. Hope that the lady who favoured him with her visits, her conversation, and he had even cause to think, admiring glances, might somehow indicate that she would someday look upon him as more than a warrior, or even friend. But her gifts were many. Beyond her incomparable beauty, was her skill at healing, music, poetry. She was the pearl of the hall, the shining star. But still the warrior hoped. He made her a bowl to mix her healing herbs and plants, a special bowl that would lend its own power to the mixture, and she received the gift with an abundance of gratitude that fed the hope even more. Later, when he was fashioning a sword, the lady appeared, wanting to watch, to learn, and even to take part in the fashioning that so intrigued her. He welcomed her, thrilled to her touch when he guided her there, and helped her forge a small piece, just a little dagger that would be hers.
“It was after that meeting, when they’d fashioned the dagger together, and a small delicate handle worked in silver to go with it, that he dared to kiss her. And she responded. The joy that filled him made his hopes soar. He was certain then. The two of them would be together. They were meant to be. In that moment they both understood that.
“They parted on the understanding that he would approach her father and ask that they be wed, forever a couple. Nothing would separate them. His certainty carried him to her father’s presence and there he made his case known. Her father nodded solemnly, said he understood, but that it was impossible. She was newly promised elsewhere. To the king.”
Smithy’s arms tightened around her. She could feel the tension in his body, the deep emotion held in check, even as she struggled with her own. The rage, the grief that suddenly rose up as the memories flooded her mind. The awful, awful memories, but also the joy of that first kiss, his lips on hers, all the love that had poured out in that one kiss.
“This is a sad tale, harper,” said Smithy, his voice tight.
“It’s full of trials and tribulations assuredly,” said the harper. “As is any good tale. To test the two lovers. To see if they’re worthy of a happy ending.”
“A happy ending,” murmured Smithy. “Are you saying there’s a happy ending?”
A clatter interrupted their conversation and the tale. The harper struck a few dissonant chords. A group of figures appeared in front of them shadowed in the low flames. One stepped forward, the light playing off the planes of his face, the angry expression, the dark eyes, dark hair. There was no height on him, but he carried a spear.
The Hunters had found them.