I scrutinised the hermit’s serene face, now pallid with tiredness.
‘He won’t wake for a while yet,’ I said, glancing at the cocooned figure. ‘Let me sit here with him, and you go and get some sleep.’
‘You should not be alone with him,’ he said. ‘He’s unpredictable, and though I need your help, I’m under strict orders not to put you at any risk, Sorcha.’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied, settling down on the three-legged stool at the rear of the chamber. ‘There’s your little bell there; and I have a loud voice. Besides, haven’t I six brothers to keep in line? Be off with you; a short sleep at least, or you’ll be precious little use to anyone.’
Father Brien smiled ruefully, for indeed he was near dropping from exhaustion. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but make sure you call me immediately he wakes. Those brothers of yours were very firm.’
He’d said I would know what to do, when I saw the boy. Well, there he was, and a sorry sight to be sure, curled up like a chastised dog, sleeping the dead sleep of one punished almost beyond endurance. His lids were heavy, and there wasn’t a lot of spring left in the sunny curls. I tried to imagine him waking; maybe staring at me with the vacant eyes of an idiot, or the mad ones of a wild creature cornered; but all that came into my mind was one of the old stories, and the picture of the hero, Culhan the Venturer, stepping through the woods silent as a deer. I leaned my back against the rock wall and rehearsed his tale quietly to myself. This was a story often told, one of those tales which have a tendency to grow and change from one telling to the next. Culhan had a lot of adventures; he endured many trials to win his lady and regain his honour. It took a while to tell them all out loud, and the boy slept on.
I got up to the part where Culhan must cross the bridge of spears to reach the magical island where his love is imprisoned. While he has faith in his ability, his feet can tread the needle-sharp span of the bridge without harm. But let any seed of doubt take root in his heart, and the spears will slice his feet in two.
‘So Culhan took a step, and another. His eyes were like a blue fire, and he fixed them on the distant shore. Before him, the bridge rose in a single, glittering span, and the rays of the sun, catching the spear-points, dazzled his sight.’
I was drowsy myself, with the fumes from Father Brien’s tiny brazier; in its lidded compartment, the small supply of soporific herbs must be nearly gone, and the air was starting to clear.
‘From her high window, the lady Edan watched the step of his bare feet as they moved with sure and steady grace over the bridge. Then the sun was blotted out as a huge bird of prey swooped down towards the hero.’
I was not so absorbed in my story as to miss the faintest of movements from the pallet beside me. His eyes were firmly closed, but he was awake. I went on, conscious only then in what tongue I had been speaking.
‘Shrieking with rage, the enchanter Brieden in birdlike form, struck out at Culhan again and again with talons of iron, with cruel beak and venomous will. For but an instant, the hero faltered, and three drops of bright blood fell from his foot into the swirling waters of the lake. Instantly they changed into the form of three red fishes, that darted away amongst the reeds. The bird gave a harsh cry of triumph. But Culhan drew a deep breath and, never looking down, moved on across the span; and the great bird, shrieking with despair, plunged into the water itself. What became of the enchanter Brieden nobody knows; but in that lake it is rumoured a huge fish lives, of unspeakably foul appearance and exceptional strength. So Culhan came across the bridge of spears, and took back the lady Edan. But ever after, his right foot bore the scar, deep along the length of it, of his moment of doubt. And in his children, and his children’s children, this mark can still be found.’
The tale was finished, until its next telling. I got up for the pitcher of water from the table, and saw him watching me from slitted eyes, deep blue and hostile. There was still the faintest shadow of the defiant fury he’d shown in my father’s hall, but his skin was pallid and his eyes sunken. I didn’t like the look of him much at all.
‘Drink,’ I said in his own tongue, kneeling down beside the pallet and holding out the cup I’d filled. It was plain water this time; he would just have to live with the consequences, for I knew the signs of one who had been too long under the drugging influence of certain herbs, and I must at least taper off the dosage. He stared at me, silent.
‘Drink it,’ I repeated. ‘You’ve been asleep a long time; your body needs this. It’s just water.’
I took a sip myself, to reassure him. He must be intensely thirsty, there was no doubt of it, after the best part of a day’s sleep with the brazier burning; but his only movement was to edge a little away from me, never taking his eyes off my face. I held the cup out towards his lips, my hand brushing his arm as I did so. He started violently, clutching the blanket tightly around him and pressing back hard against the wall, as far away from me as he could get. I could smell the fear and feel the fine vibration that ran through every part of his body. It was like the trembling of a high-bred horse that has been mistreated.
My hand was still steady; I hadn’t spilt a drop, though my heart was pounding. I put the cup down by the bed and retreated to my stool.
‘Well then, drink it when you’re ready,’ I said, settling down and folding my hands in my lap. ‘Did you ever hear the story of the cup of Isha now? It was a strange one indeed, for when Bryn found it, after he bested the three-headed giant and entered the castle of fire, it spoke to him as he reached out to take it, dazzled by the emeralds and silver ornaments on it. He who is pure of heart may drink from me, it said in a voice that was small but terrible. And Bryn was afraid then to take it, but the voice fell silent, and he took the cup and hid it deep in his cloak.’
I watched him carefully as I spoke; he was still hunched, half-sitting, against the far wall, hugging the blanket around him.
‘It wasn’t until much later that Bryn came to a little stream and, remembering the cup, took it out to get himself a drink. But strangely, when he drew the goblet from his cloak, it was already full with clear water. He set it on the ground, wondering much, and before he could stop it, his horse bent down its neck and took a long drink. Stranger still, no matter how deep the beast drank, the cup of Isha remained full to the brim. There seemed to be no ill effect on the horse; still, Bryn himself did not use the cup, but dipped his hands into the stream and quenched his thirst that way. For, he reasoned, a dumb animal must be pure of heart, for it knows no different, but plainly this cup is deeply enchanted and must be meant for the greatest man on earth, and I am but a lowly traveller. How could I be worthy enough to drink from such a magical vessel?’
The boy moved one hand; his fingers made a weak semblance of the sign used to ward off evil. I’d seen it sometimes, when travellers passed through, but never before directed at myself.
‘I’m no sorceress,’ I said. ‘I’m a healer; and I’m here to help you get better. That might be hard for you to believe, but it’s the truth. I don’t lie. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, or of Father Brien. We mean you no harm.’
The boy coughed, and tried to moisten his lips with a parched tongue.
‘Playing games,’ he managed, and the bitterness of his slurred speech was shocking. ‘Cat and mouse. Why not just finish me off?’
He had to force the words out, and I could hardly understand him. Still, the fact that