Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier
“Ardal,” mused Gareth. “Means exceptional courage, doesn’t it? A man couldn’t complain about a name like that. He might have some trouble living up to it.”
“It’s a good choice,” Johnny said. “Better a name to aspire to than one that means little. We would all hope to be strong in adversity.”
The talk turned to practical matters, as the men discussed the impending arrival of their visitors and how arrangements for training and for security would be handled. Even invited guests on the island, it seemed, were more or less constantly watched.
“It’s done with some subtlety, Sibeal,” Gareth said, seeing my expression. “They won’t know there’s a guard over them.”
“Not unless someone steps beyond the boundaries of acceptable behavior,” added Johnny. “On the day our guests arrive, we set out the rules for them. And we generally give a display, an introduction to the kind of work we do here. It’s as much entertainment as education. We open up the training area to everyone for that.”
“Even druids are expected to come along and scream encouragement, Sibeal,” said Clodagh with a grin. It was good to see her smile. I had noticed how pale and tired she looked. Cathal was hardly better. There were dark smudges under his eyes.
“Sibeal’s hardly the screaming kind,” observed Sam. He was the island blacksmith and took after Biddy in looks, being big, solid and fair. His brother Clem had wed a mainland girl and now lived and worked in the settlement on the other side, looking after the transport of goods and men across the water.
“Ah, well,” I said, “I have seen your combat bouts at Sevenwaters, so I have an idea of what’s expected. But if you want an enthusiastic shouter, it’s a shame I didn’t bring my little sister with me.” Eilis, now twelve years old, had long been intensely interested in all matters of warcraft, and indeed had persuaded one or two of Johnny’s men to teach her various techniques when they were in our household on their yearly visits. Eilis did not so much scream as offer an expert commentary, complete with helpful suggestions.
Supper drew to a close; the dining hall began to empty. Biddy came to sit down beside Gull and have her own meal while her assistants moved around the tables, collecting the platters for washing. Johnny would stay here awhile, for it was customary for members of the community to bring their questions and disputes to him after the meal so everything could be sorted out fairly. One of his rules, a good one for a place like this where, in effect, there was no escaping the rest of the inhabitants, was that the sun should not set on anyone’s anger. Johnny would listen calmly, arbitrate, offer advice, sometimes give orders. There were one or two men standing by the open area where, on a happier night, musicians would gather to entertain the crowd. It was plain that they were waiting to be heard.
“I’ll bid you all good night,” I said, rising to my feet. The sooner I went to the infirmary, the sooner Evan could come down and have his supper. Perhaps I would get a little time alone with the sick man, so I could tell him his new name without an audience. “Biddy, is there anything you’d like taken over to the infirmary?”
“Ah, yes, Sibeal, thank you.” Biddy got up and fetched a small covered pot. “Not what I’d be wanting for my own supper, I must say; not even a bone boiled up in the brew to give it a bit of flavor. This is all the poor fellow can take, Gull tells me. You can warm it up on the infirmary fire.”
“Don’t try to feed it to him yourself, Sibeal,” cautioned Muirrin. “Wait for Gull. The man’s still having serious problems with his breathing, and that makes it hard for him to swallow without choking.”
The look in my sister’s eyes stayed with me as I walked to the infirmary, my path lit by torches that were set around the settlement on poles. I had seen in her expression that she thought the man—Ardal, I must start calling him that—would not survive. Remembering those sad, shrouded corpses laid to rest so far from home, I felt a sudden determination to prove her wrong.
As the invalid was asleep, Evan agreed to go for his own supper. I set the pot by the fire and settled myself on the bench nearby. In my mind, I rehearsed a lengthy passage of lore suited to the midsummer celebration. As I was the only druid on Inis Eala, it seemed likely I would be conducting the rite here. I would at least offer my services.
“Sibeal.”
A harsh whisper from the pallet. Not asleep then; not any longer. The deep blue eyes were on me, and the expression on the gaunt features so shocked me that for some moments I could neither move nor speak. Not fear; not confusion; nothing that I would have expected. He looked . . . transformed. As if, deathly sick as he was, my presence filled him with joy. No man had ever looked at me in that way before, and I found it deeply unsettling.
“Sibeal.” He spoke my name again, pronouncing it oddly. The one word cost him dear; he gasped for air.
“Don’t try to talk.” I moved at last, wondering if I had imagined what I saw, for that look was gone now, replaced by the fierce expression of someone whose whole mind is concentrated on breathing. “Here, I will move these pillows, make you more comfortable . . . ” I did so, slipping an arm behind his shoulders to lift him, wedging the pillows into place. I had hoped for time alone with him. Now I was all too aware that I was no healer, and that if he took a turn for the worse I would not be much help at all. A jug and cup stood on a shelf not far away. I should offer him water, at least.
I held the cup for him. He sipped, swallowed. Some went down; more spilled onto the bedding. A wheezing, painful breath. My own chest ached.
“More?” I asked.
He made a little sound, not speech, and took one more sip. The effort had worn him out. He sank back on the pillows.
“That’s good,” I said, though his weakness horrified me. “Breathe slowly if you can . . . in, two, three; out, two, three . . . ” I demonstrated, placing a hand on my ribs.
He managed a nod. No more words. I sat down on the stool by his pallet, reaching out to touch his hand. “You’re cold,” I said. “We need Fang. Little dog. Name, Fang.” I imitated her yap and pointed to the spot where she had lain in the curve of his knees to warm him. A faint smile appeared on his face. This, he had certainly understood. “Coming soon, with Gull, I expect.”
He was silent. He seemed to be waiting.
“You remembered my name,” I said, indicating myself. “Sibeal.” I pointed to him. “Can you tell me your name?”
No smile now. His long hands were restless, plucking at the woolen cloth of the blanket.
“Do you remember?” I asked on an impulse. “Do you remember the little cove, and how I came down and found you? The waves carrying us higher, the wood with the runic markings, the stories I told to hold back the darkness?”
No response. It seemed to me his gaze was turned inward now, though his eyes still rested on me. Too weary to think; too weary to listen. But I should try to explain about the name.
“I spent today in prayer and meditation.” I wished I knew whether it was necessary to keep illustrating with gestures; it did feel a little foolish. “I went to a cave, a place of the gods, where wisdom can be sought.”
Footsteps outside and Fang’s familiar yap—Gull was here. “I was told that I must give you a name,” I said. “I’ve chosen the name Ardal, if you agree to that. It means ‘unusual courage.’ We’ll use it only until you can tell us your own name, of course.” I went through the ritual of pointing once more. “My name, Sibeal. Your name, Ardal. For now.”
The door creaked open as I was speaking, and Gull came in with the dog at his heels. “Did you tell him what it means, Sibeal?” he asked.
That surprised me. “I did. Do you think he understands?”
“That’s what you believe, isn’t it? Knut said he was on the ship as a passenger, not crew. The fellow may be more scholar than warrior. Could be a scribe, maybe a cleric of some kind. I think I’ve seen some understanding on his face when you talk. Could be all manner of reasons why he’s not speaking to us, sheer exhaustion being the most likely. I’ll w
“I’ll do it.” I moved to the fire, wanting a little time to think. I could not forget the look Ardal had turned on me when he woke, as if the sight of me was a gift. It seemed quite wrong; and yet it had touched me, filling my heart with warmth. A strange day indeed: Finbar’s shade in the water, Svala with her fish and now this.
“This island is an odd place, Gull,” I said, stirring the little pot.
“Inis Eala changes folk.” He was hanging his cloak on a peg, his back to me. “Brings out the truth in them for better or worse. For some it’s quick. For some it takes far longer.” He removed his outdoor boots and set them at the foot of his own pallet. “You all right, Sibeal?”
“Me?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You’ve only been here a couple of days, and look at everything that’s happened. Wasn’t this supposed to be a time of rest for you, this summer on the island?”
“Well, yes.” My sisters had been talking, evidently. “But if there’s work for me to do, I should do it. Anything from conducting a burial rite to helping look after a sick man.”
“And rescuing folk from the sea.” There was kindness in Gull’s deep voice. “How old are you, sixteen?”
“I’m the same age Aunt Liadan was when she rescued Bran,” I pointed out. “I’m the same age Clodagh was when she went into the Otherworld to save Cathal. And I’m the same age my mother was when she married my father. I’m not a child who needs protecting.” But I am a seer who feels too much, and Ciarán thinks that makes me a liability. “Besides,” I added for my own benefit as much as anything, “I’ve spent a large part of the last four years in the nemetons.” I lifted the pot off the fire. “I’ve been trained to keep vigils, to go without food, to manage on very little sleep. I’m stronger than I look.”
“You’re young for that kind of life,” he said, his tone noncommittal.
“Too young, you think?”
“That’s not for me to say. I heard part of what you told him last night. You sound sure of yourself.”
“I’ve known for a long time that my feet would tread this path,” I said.
“Mm-hm. You’re lucky, then. For most of us it takes half a lifetime before we really know. You’ve only got to look at the fellows who end up here. Wasted their young years, most of them, taking one wrong turning after another. Some, fate’s treated harshly; some have only themselves to blame. But it’s never too late for a fellow to change, not even if he’s five-and-thirty with a weight of trouble on his shoulders. Or five-and-forty, for that matter. Now, we’d best feed this young man his supper, such as it is.” He poured a measure of the broth from pot to bowl, his dark eyes thoughtful. “It must be good to have that bright, straight path before you,” he said. “Walking forward under the gaze of the gods, and everything clean and certain.”
“Mm.” The path was not always so bright and straight, not when Ciarán had decided that after all those years of study and discipline I still was not ready.
Between us, Gull and I got half the bowl of soup into Ardal before it became plain he was too tired to go on. Gull took the bowl and set it down on the floor. Fang made short work of the leftovers.
I fetched a damp cloth and wiped Ardal’s face. In my mind, sharply, I saw Knut doing the same for Svala. It was sad that he felt shamed by her behavior. Of course it must be hard for him, here among strangers, trying to watch over her. I wondered if she had ever been able to speak. Had she once sat and plied distaff and needle with other women, exchanging tales of husbands and children, the domestic chatter of an ordinary settlement? Perhaps she should be offered that sort of companionship here. I might suggest it to Clodagh.
Fang had finished her unexpected meal, and now made a mighty leap onto the pallet. She circled three times, as was her habit, then settled by Ardal’s side with a contented sigh. His long fingers moved to rest on the small warmth of her curled-up body. There was a softening of his features as he watched her; a stirring of something in his eyes. The skin of his hand was scarcely darker than the dog’s white hair.
“A long day,” Gull observed.
“For all of us,” I said.
“No storytelling tonight?”
While I was giving this some thought, I saw Gull stifle a huge yawn.
“I’ll sit up with Ardal awhile,” I said. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll wake you if I need you.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“One or two things Ardal and I need to get done first. You’d best turn your back awhile.”
I took a candle and went to my chamber while Gull tended to Ardal’s personal needs. I set the candle down on the storage chest, where its flame guttered in the chill draft from under the door, illuminating the charcoal runes I had marked on the walls. Something nudged at my mind. It had been a rune-marked timber from the Norse ship that had borne Ardal to safe shore, that and Manannán’s mercy. Perhaps this was not a night for storytelling, but for a divination.
Moving the candle, I opened the chest and lifted out the bag that held my rune rods. There were twenty-four of them, crafted by my hands and consecrated with my blood. Folded around them in the bag was my ritual cloth of plain linen. Feeling the weight of them, the comforting solidity, I thought they might have some answers for me.
“Sibeal? We’re done here.”
Back in the infirmary, Gull was poring over the pan before taking it out to the privy. Ardal lay quiet, eyes open, hand curved around the little dog. His face was ash-pale.
“Any improvement?” I asked Gull in a murmur.
“Looks much the same. He needs to keep drinking water. The more the better. Washes the poisons out.” Another yawn. “I’ll just go and empty this, and then I’ll be off to bed. If you’re sure.”
“We’ll be fine.”
While he completed his errand, I took out the ritual cloth and spread it flat in front of the fire. I sat cross-legged before it, watching the shadows on the pale linen as the flames danced on the hearth. Gull came back in, barred the door, wished me good night and settled on his shelf bed. Ardal lay still; perhaps he too would sleep soon. I breathed in a slow rhythm. Inwardly, I repeated a short prayer. My mind gradually opened to a state in which it could receive the wisdom of the divination.
Time passed; perhaps a great deal of time, perhaps not so long. At length I reached into the bag again and wrapped my hands around the bundle of birch rods. I bunched them together over the cloth, feeling their power, the knowledge within. I closed my eyes and, in silence, asked my question. How best can I help this man whom I have named?
I let the rods go. The knocking music of their fall took me for a moment into the heart of Sevenwaters forest. I imagined I had been sitting all day by a still pool, deep in trance. I smelled the fresh scent of pine needles; a high chorus of birdsong sounded above me. The floor on which I sat became the earth of a Sevenwaters clearing; the hearth fire was a blaze kindled on flat stones in the grove where Ciarán loved to meditate.
Eyes fast shut, I reached out and took up one rod, a second, a third, letting instinct guide my choice. For a moment I held the three against my heart. I opened my eyes.
Os, Ger, Nyd. They settled in my mind, beginning to combine and shadow and influence one another. Some ideas came quickly. Nyd could be interpreted as the last extreme of courage, the kind of courage a man might show when death looked him in the face, perhaps in the form of a wild sea. I had seen the crossed lines of Nyd down on that cold shore, when pebbles had washed over certain runes carved on the ship’s timber. Immense, almost insane fortitude; deep inner strength.
Nyd with Os. Prophecy and revelation. Calm and wisdom. Perhaps the courage was deep inside, a conviction born of faith; perhaps it was my own courage and faith that were being called upon. I had asked how I could help.
But then there was Ger, which turned things on their heads. Ger could mean reversals, but it could also si
“Sibeal.”
I started so violently that I dropped the three rods into my lap. Ardal had turned his head to look at me. He was gesturing for me to come closer.
I gathered up the rods, the chosen three in my right hand, the others in my skirt, and rose to my feet. I felt shaky and sick. A meditative trance cannot be broken so abruptly without cost to the seer. I had not realized he was watching.
I approached the bed. “You startled me,” I said.
“Sibeal.” He spoke my name carefully; I could hear his effort to get it right. He added another word that I did not understand, then indicated the rods. Show me.
There was no special need for secrecy. The Norse lived in many parts of our land. Their signs appeared on door frames, on ships’ timbers, on weaponry, on protective talismans like the one Knut wore around his neck. Their interpretation might be an arcane art, but the signs were not in themselves forbidden. I fanned the rods out across the pallet beside Ardal, then helped him to sit up.
“Rune rods,” I said, keeping my voice to a murmur. “Used in divination. The signs that came to my hand indicated a mission ahead. Perhaps for you, perhaps for me, perhaps for the two of us together. Whatever it is, it will require great courage.”
Ardal was studying the rods closely. Now he began to move them around. I sat in silence, waiting. Gull lay still under his blankets, already asleep. Eventually Ardal took up one rod, another, a third. He held them on his open palm, showing me.
“Is. Ger. Lagu,” I indicated each in turn as a prickle of strangeness ran over my flesh. This was no random choice. Ger: reversal or completion, as in my own divination. Lagu: a sign of the moon, full of mystery. And whether it was my own preparation for the ritual, or whether it was my openness to the pain of others, I thought I knew why he had chosen these three.