Brocc
It has been the strangest of days: sad, frightening, testing, astonishing. I feel like an old cloth that’s been pounded on stones, plunged in and out of the stream, and wrung out to within an inch of its life. But after Eirne leaves me, I resist the urge to lie down on my pallet and let my mind drift. The song she wants from me will not write itself. I have made a promise and I must fulfil it.
I work for some while, plucking out tunes on the old harp, trying out phrases, murmuring snatches of verse that are never quite right. Visitors are few. Eirne’s people are quiet after the death of their little one. I do not think they will share more tales with me today. A hush falls over glade and clearing, pond and streamlet. Time passes; I have a good part of the verse down on my willow bark page when the silence is interrupted. A tiny bird alights on the windowsill, turns its head to one side and chirps at me as if asking a question. Not long afterwards, I hear someone playing the whistle. I drop my pen and jump to my feet. I know it’s Liobhan. Nobody else could possibly play ‘Artagan’s Leap’ at that ridiculous speed. She’s here! She’s come to find me! I’ve been so immersed in my task, and so shocked and saddened by what happened earlier, that I’ve barely spared a thought for what might be happening back at court.
I blunder out the door and walk straight into Eirne, nearly sending her flying. I grab her by the arms to steady her, then let go quickly. ‘I’m sorry – so sorry – that is my sister playing! She must be here, close by –’
‘I hear the tune. Your sister has been singing, too, outside our gate. She is a fine musician.’
‘Don’t let her in! I mean – Eirne – my lady – it may be better if my sister does not enter your realm. But I need to see her. To speak with her. To explain . . .’ The last thing I want is to draw Liobhan into danger. But I must tell her what’s going on.
‘She has come to steal you away from us. To take you back before the song is ready. Why else would she make this journey?’
The whistle has fallen silent. There’s quiet for a little, then I hear someone else singing, a man. This voice is not a musician’s. He is singing a song of my composition. What is this?
‘Follow me,’ Eirne says.
As I walk with her up the pathway to the gathering place, the unseen singer follows his first song with another, the silly one about a monster in a gown. Can that possibly be Dau? When
he is finished, Liobhan starts to sing. As Eirne and I emerge into the open area, where her folk are still sitting or standing all around under the trees, the sad melody of ‘The Farewell’ drifts over the wall. I glance at Eirne. Before, she sounded stern. But whatever shows on my face now, it touches her, for she reaches up a hand to brush my cheek, almost as a lover might.
‘Wait,’ she breathes.
Liobhan is a strong person; one of the strongest I know. But she’s tired. She’s taking breaths more often than she usually would, and the tone is less than its bright, rich self. I want to join in, to help her through. I can guess what she’s doing. We both know tales in which human folk are admitted to the Otherworld on the strength of a song. There’s even one about precisely the kind of rhyming game Eirne and I played when I came in here. There’s one in which small folk like Moth-Weed and Little-Cap cannot remember how a song ends, and a shepherd, overhearing them, supplies the last line, thus earning himself the surprise gift of a magic whistle.
I know what I’m hearing. I’m hearing the voice of someone who will never, ever give up. I’m hearing someone who will keep going until she drops from exhaustion. In her voice, I’m hearing the unbreakable will of a Swan Island warrior. Liobhan is here
by her own choice, and whatever it is she plans, it’s not for me to tell her she can’t do it. As she nears the final measures of the song and pauses to snatch a breath, I lift my own voice and finish the verse: ‘I’ll be beside you, though gone from your sight, I’ll love you and guard you till we meet in the light.’
A sigh rises from Eirne’s people, all around the clearing. Many wipe away tears. Liobhan could not know how apt the song was for this day, when they have lost one of their own.
‘What would you have me do, Brocc?’ Eirne asks. ‘You have promised to stay until the song is finished. I will not send you out there, for I see on your face that this sister has great power over you. If I let her in, will she help or hinder us? Will she stand in the way of our plan? The future of Breifne depends on this. On you. On the song.’
‘I need to speak with her. But she must be free to leave here.’
I realise how this sounds; Rowan looks as if he would be delighted to see me leave as well. ‘I should say, I respectfully request that you will let her leave your realm once I have had time to talk to her. And . . . while my sister is here, I would welcome more explanation of what you intend for this song. How it can change the tide of affairs in Breifne. That would be . . . useful. To her as well as to me.’
‘Can she keep her counsel? These are matters of utmost secrecy, Brocc. Matters we do not share with humankind.’
‘My sister may be fully human,’ I say, ‘but she is the daughter of a wise woman. Our father is a man of great heart. Both of them respect your people and understand them, to the extent human folk can. Of course she can keep her counsel. If you want her to promise, you must ask her, not me.’
‘True!’ calls Eirne, and the rock-being steps forward, creaking as he moves. ‘Open the doorway.’
Within moments, it seems, the wall opens and closes again, and Liobhan is here among the Fair Folk, bag on her back, cloak over one arm, holding herself tall though her face is wan with exhaustion and her hair is coming out of its plait in a hundred fiery strands. ‘Not my best performance ever,’ she says with a crooked smile. She doesn’t come running over to embrace me. She’s in Swan Island mode, taking in every detail without seeming to shift her gaze at all.
‘My lady, this is my sister.’ I hesitate, not knowing which name to give for her.
‘My name is Liobhan.’ My sister’s voice is steady. The shock of finding herself in this uncanny world has made no dent in her courage. ‘But as a minstrel here in Breifne, I go by Ciara.’
‘Then welcome to my realm, Ciara.’ Eirne, standing, does not come up to Liobhan’s shoulder. But her manner makes it clear who holds the authority here. ‘I am Eirne, queen of the Fair Folk in Breifne. Your brother is a rare musician. He is undertaking a task for me; a task whose gravity and significance are immeasurable. To complete this task, Brocc will need to remain with us for some time.’ When Liobhan makes to protest, Eirne lifts a hand to silence her. ‘Wait. There are yet some days until midsummer. Sufficient time to act wisely, in measured fashion, with each playing their part. Rowan, we will take our guests to the pavilion; I wish to have some private discussion with them. Nightshade, will you attend us too?’ She turns to the other folk. ‘No more songs now, my people. But be of good heart, dear ones. Tomorrow Brocc will sing and play for you, and we will be merry again.’
‘But –’ Liobhan starts, then stops herself. As we follow Eirne out of the gathering place and down a narrow path under willows, my sister turns a fierce countenance on me. She doesn’t need to speak aloud for me to understand the message. What in the name of all the gods are you doing? Don’t you know how much trouble you’ve made? What about the mission? I am a coward; I look away.
Further down, the path winds between bushes something akin to holly, with sharp-edged leaves, but these are covered with small five-petalled flowers of brightest blue, and more tiny birds are hopping from twig to twig. Finches? No, they can’t be. Their feathers are as bright as jewels.
Rowan walks beside the queen, Liobhan and I follow, and Nightshade comes last. We are silent, wrapped in our own thoughts.
At the end of this track stands a delicate pavilion crafted from twisted willow wattles. Ivy has clambered over it, its leaves forming a lush green canopy, and mosses creep across the walls. Within this structure is a pedestal-like table, and on that table stands a wide, shallow bowl. Beside this are set a jug of water and a candle, which has already been lit.
Eirne does not go in; instead she seats herself on the steps leading up to the pavilion, and motions for Liobhan and me to sit beside her. Nightshade stands back; Rowan assumes a guard-like posture.
‘I must ask you first, Ciara, what brought you here. Answer wisely.’
‘I’m here because I was worried about my brother. I thought the storyteller, Mistress Juniper, might know where he had gone.’
The little birds are flying in and out of the ivy, snapping up insects. I realise where I’ve seen creatures like them before. They were at the wise woman’s cottage. And . . . they were in the nemetons. One of them stood on Faelan’s foot. That gives me an odd feeling.
‘And did she know?’ Eirne asks Liobhan.
‘She had seen him. Without telling me much at all, she set me on the right path.’
‘And you knew how to gain admittance to my realm. That surprised me. You and your brother are not of the same kind.’
‘We’re both musicians,’ says Liobhan with iron in her voice. ‘We both grew up in a wise woman’s household. We both know our old tales.’
‘Does that include the tale of the Harp of Kings, Ciara?’
Liobhan is suddenly tense. ‘I’ve heard the tale, yes.’ She glances at me, brows up. I can think of no way to let her know that I haven’t told Eirne the harp is missing, or that I think Eirne knows anyway. Perhaps also that she had a hand in spiriting it out of the nemetons. I shake my head a little, hoping Liobhan will take it as a warning.
‘I face grave trouble, Ciara,’ Eirne says. ‘My people are few, and I have no heir. If I were gone, I do not think my clan would long survive. We lost one of our own today, to the Crow Folk, and if not for your brother’s remarkable talents, more would have perished.’
‘The Crow Folk,’ murmurs Liobhan. ‘So they strike even here, in the Otherworld?’
‘You have encountered them?’ Eirne asks.
‘Not face to face. But there was an attack on the regent’s men, not at the keep but away in the north, just last night. It sounded as if the crow-things might be to blame. They’re much feared. I think folk are in greater dread of an enemy when they can’t understand it. A plague of ordinary crows – that they’d find far easier to deal with.’ She hesitates. ‘There’s a reluctance to acknowledge that these things might be uncanny. Which is odd, considering there is a druid community right on the doorstep of Breifne’s court. But then, the brethren don’t come out often. Ordinary folk don’t see them.’
‘Your kind have forgotten the old ways,’ says Eirne. ‘You have forgotten the importance of the tales, the wisdom of the past, the strength that rises from tree and stone and stream, the bond between one world and the other. It is at such times of distrust and disruption that dark forces like these rise up to shadow our world.’
‘It’s rather harsh to include the whole of humankind in that statement,’ says Liobhan. ‘Brocc and I were brought up to respect all of those things you mention, as were many others. Our own community is often visited by wandering druids, who are happy to share a story or two. It’s different in Breifne, I know. Which makes it surprising that this midsummer ritual is still considered so important. The one where the harp is played to acknowledge the new king, I mean.’
Not subtle, but clever all the same – she’s moved the conversation quickly to what she needs to know.
‘Before I speak further,’ says Eirne, and I hear a new note in her voice, ‘I must explain that certain ancient laws govern my choices and my actions in this matter, as in every matter that requires me to involve myself or my people with the human world. Since you are bards, and since you have heard the tale of the Harp of Kings, you will understand what I mean. I cannot intervene directly in the affairs of human folk, even if the tide of those affairs flows against my own people. I cannot step into your world and direct that matters take a particular turn. Had I lived a hundred, two hundred years ago, Breifne might have had a human king or queen with whom I could speak openly. We might have met in council as Béibhinn did with the human monarch of her own time. This is not possible when the human folk of Breifne, including their leaders, do not respect us. Indeed, many doubt our very existence. Druids once played a far greater part; when they advised a king, he took heed of their wisdom. But that trust is greatly weakened now, and I fear we walk forward into a dark time indeed.’
Liobhan is sitting very still, hands clasped tight around her knees. I’m full of anticipation, hardly able to draw breath. Eirne seems on the verge of some revelation, perhaps the one I sought when I came here. I’m tempted to ask straight out about the Harp of Kings. It’s not as if I haven’t already broken the rules of the mission in more than one way. But I don’t ask the question: Is this why the harp was taken? If Eirne can’t intervene directly in human affairs, she can’t be responsible for that. I hold my tongue and wait.
‘So,’ Eirne continues, ‘I fear for the future. I see a possible solution, one that requires a high degree of trust, one that I and my people cannot carry out ourselves. I see you, Brocc, and you, Ciara, and perhaps others who came to Breifne with you, as instruments for good. I cannot act in this; all I can do is give the pot a little stir. Nudge matters in the right direction. But you are of that human world and you can act. To do so, to achieve the right end, you must put your trust in the old gods. And you must put your trust in me.’
‘How can you know who came to Breifne with us? How can you know we’re trustworthy when we are more or less strangers to you?’ Liobhan pushes her hair back from her brow; the gesture is angry. ‘And if you wanted cooperation, why did you keep me on the other side of the wall for so long?’
‘Everything in its right time.’ Eirne is perfectly calm. ‘You came to Breifne for a purpose that went beyond the making of music, yes? I see in you, Ciara, somewhat more than a bard; in Brocc, too, there is a fighting spirit.’
‘We’re bound by a promise.’ Liobhan’s doing her best to rein in her anger. ‘We can’t tell you everything. You spoke earlier about councils as a means to settle difficulties. But even in a council, I should think people hold things back.’
‘Exactly.’ Eirne smiles. ‘As I must do. But I do not ask for blind trust. As for cooperation, Brocc has already agreed to provide what I need from him. A song. He will write it and he will sing it. That is all I require.’
‘I need to be back at court tonight,’ says Liobhan. ‘By suppertime. Believe me, there is a very good reason for that. And Brocc – you suggested he would be staying here another night, maybe longer. That could make trouble for us. Serious trouble.’ She glances at the sky above the treetops, trying to guess how late it is. ‘What is it I’m supposed to do for you?’
‘From you, Ciara, I do not require a song. I need an ally in the court of Breifne. A person of brave heart and quick wits. A person who will place the future of this fair land above all else.
A person who will always choose the path of wisdom and justice. You were right to question my choice. In asking you to do this, I place a great deal of trust in one I know only through the reports of others.’
‘What others?’ demands Liobhan, not looking happy at all.
‘We have watchers in many places. Small folk, but wise. For the most part, wise. They do occasionally decide to take matters into their own hands. But we will not speak of that.’
‘We have a task at court already. A task that must be completed by Midsummer Day. What if that conflicts with your task?’ Liobhan asks.
‘Then I suppose we choose the path of wisdom and justice,’ I say, a little uncomfortable with my sister’s manner, though it is what I would expect from her.
‘I need more than this,’ says Liobhan. ‘Keep back information if you will, but just as I can’t be a bard without a song to sing or a dance to play, I can’t be this ally, a – a fighter, a warrior – if all I have is . . . philosophy. I need at least some idea of what you want me to do. A practical idea.’
Eirne rises to her feet; we do the same. Rowan and Nightshade haven’t said a word, but as Eirne leads us into the little pavilion, they follow. Nightshade motions to me and Liobhan to take up positions beside the queen, at the pedestal. Rowan stands apart, where he can watch both us and the pathway outside.
‘My friends,’ says the queen, ‘we must put trust in the gods and be
brave of heart. And yes, we must act swiftly. My task, too, must be completed before Midsummer Day is over. As for a conflict between the two, we must hope it can be resolved. For that, both wisdom and justice will be required. And strength of will. Great strength.’ Eirne turns her lambent grey eyes on mine; her gaze sends a shiver through me. It is not fear, or not entirely; it is a sense that something immense is at stake: lives, kingdoms, generations to come. How could I ever have imagined Eirne was like some village girl I might meet at a dance? She turns to look at Liobhan, and Liobhan gazes steadily back, with strength in every part of her.
‘Will you show us?’ my sister asks.
The shallow vessel that sits atop the pedestal is a scrying bowl. Our mother uses one very similar, though hers is of plain earthenware and this is carven from some delicate, shimmering substance, perhaps bone or shell.
‘For this you must hold your silence,’ Eirne says. ‘Save your questions until it is over. Though it may be wiser not to ask. Instead take time to consider what you have seen and find your own answers. Remember, do not speak or you risk breaking my trance, and we will lose the image.’
She takes up the jug and pours in the water, and it is surely not only my imagination that conjures a smoke or mist rising from the bowl, then dissipating in the quiet of the little shelter. Liobhan is so still she might have stopped breathing. My heart beats hard; I’m not sure what I expect. An image of the harp, perhaps? A clue to its whereabouts?
Eirne closes her eyes. She slows her breathing. She lifts her graceful hands above the bowl and traces patterns in the air. Quite soon, colours and shapes start to dance on the water, images not created by the flickering of the candle or the sunlight above the trees, but drawn from deep within. What a fine song this would make! But I would never write it. This is deep and mystical and surely secret.
‘Look now,’ murmurs Nightshade.
I look. What I see chills me deep in the bone. Liobhan makes a little sound of shock and dismay, which she instantly stifles.
The water shows Breifne in disarray. We see a chaos of blood and burning and once-fine things broken beyond repair. A king looks on, a king who is Rodan, though he is older, grey-haired, his features lined, his body coarsened by indulgent living. The lovely place where we stand now is a wasteland. Not a single great tree remains. Landslides have ruined the hillside and the forest road is no more. The scene in the water changes, and changes again, and each image hurts my heart more deeply. Folk beaten and driven from their homes. Men sent to war against a neighbouring kingdom, some dying on the field, some stumbling home wounded and despairing, to face the wrath of a king who lacked the courage to stand beside them in battle. Homes burning. Animals starving, neglected, forgotten. Children cowed, beaten, weeping. Where are Eirne’s folk in this vision? Driven away? Destroyed? Or in hiding, waiting for the time of darkness to end?
The water shivers and stills, and the vision is gone. What is Eirne telling us? That if Rodan is crowned king, the land of Breifne will be thrown into disaster? Liobhan and I are here to find the harp, to return it so this man can indeed become king. Why show us this portent of disaster when we’re powerless to act on it?
My sister and I exchange looks. She is pale, shocked; I imagine I look the same. How could we take this message back to Archu?
The water shivers again; Eirne lets out a long breath. Nightshade moves closer, so she, too, can see the reflective surface. Even Rowan is moving in now.
Eirne moves her hands above the bowl once more, and the water brightens, as with the touch of midday sun, though here we are in dappled light. The kingdom of Breifne appears in a series of images as before. But now all is as it should be. The fields are green, the dry-stone walls are in good repair, the cattle and sheep are healthy and content. Folk are out tending crops and stock, driving carts along the roads, stopping to talk to neighbours. I see a group of old men seated on a bench in the shade of an oak, and a robed druid leaning on his staff, chatting to them. On the hill, the great trees of this forest stand strong and proud, and around them the younger ones stretch out their limbs and display their summer raiment in myriad shades of green. Birds sing; insects hum; on stream banks frogs croak out their songs, and fish swim in water so clear you can see the patterns on the smooth stones beneath. Who could doubt that Eirne’s folk are still alive and well in such a lovely place?
The royal keep stands proud on its low hill, and within its protective wall folk go about the work of the court and its household much as they do now. Guards are on duty at the gate. A groom leads horses out to a grazing field. From the forge comes the steady ring of a hammer on iron. Women spread sheets on bushes to dry. Three men clad like scholars stand in the courtyard outside the keep’s main entry, deep in discussion. A dog runs about, with two laughing children alongside. And ah! Here is the king at last. He stands at a high window in the keep, looking out over his realm. We cannot see his face. It could be Rodan – this man is of similar height, though slighter build. His hair is of the same brown as the prince’s, but worn longer. No threads of grey in these wavy locks. Do these images show an earlier time than the others? Or is this a different man? Is it Rodan as he should be? As he could be, given the right guidance?
In the vision, beyond the tower window, the sun moves out from behind a cloud, and for an instant the king is a dark silhouette surrounded by golden light. The moment passes. He is an ordinary man again, with a man’s troubles and responsibilities. He sighs; squares his shoulders, then, surprising me, he calls out a name, and lifts a hand to wave. From down below, a child’s voice calls back. Papa, look! Curly can catch the ball! The king chuckles. And the image is gone. As it fades, I hear faint music. Not from the forest nearby. Not from the little hut where I left the borrowed harp. From somewhere else; perhaps from that fair future the scrying bowl revealed. It is only a fragment, a snatch of tune, a brief cascade of notes. But it is the loveliest thing I have ever heard.
It takes some while for Eirne to come back to herself, and when she does open her eyes she looks dazed. None of us speaks. Rowan comes forward with a stool and helps her to sit down. Nightshade brings a cup of water and puts it in her hand.
I look at Liobhan. She looks at me. We can’t ask what it meant. We can’t ask which was the true future, if indeed that is to be determined at all. We can’t ask if both men were Rodan, or if one was some other claimant to the kingship whom we have yet to meet. We can’t ask about the harp. At least, not in so many words.
‘My lady, may I speak?’ asks Liobhan when Eirne has sipped her water, and stretched, and seems more herself.
‘Speak wisely, warrior, or not at all,’ cautions Nightshade.
‘Speak, if you will.’ Eirne sounds exhausted. I feel a strange rush of tenderness. I wish I could pick her up in my arms. I wish I could lay her down to rest, then sit by her bedside and sing her a lullaby. Foolish Brocc.
‘May what we need to secure the future be won back in time? If so, can you tell us how that may be achieved?’ Liobhan has chosen her words with great care. Nobody would imagine she is known, back home, for a tendency to speak before she thinks.
‘I hope it can,’ Eirne says. ‘As for how, yes, I can tell you. But there is a price, and it is possible you may judge that price to be too high.’
‘We’re here for one purpose,’ Liobhan replies. I hear the edge in her voice. I should speak up. I should help her. But something holds me back. ‘An honourable purpose, which should be for the good of both kingdoms of Breifne, that of humankind and that of your own people, my lady. I could say that no price would be too high. But that would be the statement of a fool. Besides, I can’t think you would set a price beyond our reach, since you know, I believe, that we wish you nothing but good. Who would not want to see that fair future for Breifne?’
‘Before this is over,’ says Eirne, ‘you may discover the answer to that question.’ She rises, walks out of the pavilion and looks up at the sky above the forest canopy. ‘Time passes. You have a long walk home. We will return to the gathering place, and I will set out what I wish you to do. Come, follow me.’