Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Neither Above the Earth Nor Below It, Not Then Nor Now
RORY
The journey across the star-studded sea was far shorter than Rory might have anticipated, possibly because she spent the duration of it bent low over the énbarr’s silk-blue mane, eyes squeezed shut, shaking with a fear the likes of which she had never before known.
She was barely even conscious of the boy’s arms wrapped tight around her waist, his skin so ice-cold that it bled through her doublet straight to her skin.
It didn’t bother her. Hers was just as cold, and always had been.
Not like Niall, a boy who had been crafted from the warmth of the summertime sun itself. Neither of them were anything like him, and yet somehow, they were all that remained of him.
All except whatever lingered on the shores that even now were fast approaching.
Magh Meall was infinite, she reminded herself, straightening so she could watch its fast-approaching sun-kissed shores, glistening pearl-white and flawless.
Infinite and vast, according to legend, from its white sandy beaches to the lush and verdant expanse of green-grassed fields.
Surely she could breach its borders without encountering the one solitary soul who the very thought of seeing caused her own soul to wither away into a frail, shivering husk.
The énbarr broke through the surf and cantered ashore, tossing his silver-blue head, reveling in the heat of the unfading summer sun.
She remained anchored to his back, even when she felt the boy’s arms slide away from her waist, vaguely aware of the way his bare feet sank into the wet sand, his face tipped back to take in the glorious sights around them with an expression of undisguised awe.
“It’s warm here,” he said, and she startled a bit at the sound of his voice, how childish and reedy it sounded.
He had said so little in their encounters before, and she had been distracted – first with her argument with Locke, then with their arrival in Ráth Cruachan and the subsequent confrontation with the lady of death.
She had been thinking of him incessantly as ‘the child’ or ‘the boy,’ but it struck her anew now, how young he was, how fragile and innocent he was, despite the unholy creature that slumbered within his chest. “How is it summer already?”
She cleared her throat, still astride the énbarr, who tossed his head again, impatiently this time. Go along, he seemed to say. On with it. “It is always summer in the realm of Tír na nóg,” she said. “Magh Meall boasts an eternity of sun and plenty.”
He looked up at her, wide blue eyes in a thin freckled face, and Rory’s heart seized tight in her chest. “How do you know? Have you been here?”
“No,” she said, at last relenting to the énbarr’s impatient stomps of his silvery hooves, and slid from his back to stand next to the boy.
“But there are the tales of mortals who have been granted passage across the star-studded sea to witness its wonders, and then return to the mortal realm afterwards.”
“Like whom?”
She smiled slightly, in spite of everything. “Like Oisín,” she said, thinking of Niall, once telling her the tale of the bárd loved by the queen of Magh Meall, and now here she stood, in that very realm, telling it now to his son. “The great warrior-bárd of the Fianna.”
His was silent for a moment, considering. “What happens, then? When I go back to my mother?”
“It is not for you to concern yourself with – what the future holds,” Rory said, tugging him forward, moving towards the cluster of willow trees lining the distant banks, their full-blossomed branches a dazzling canopy of pale greens and soft purples and bright brilliant yellows. “For now, let’s see you settled.”
“But –”
“Let me worry about the cailleach,” she said, without looking down at what she knew was his upturned face, his worried frown.
She didn’t have to see it to know that expression, every line and curve of it.
She had seen it a hundred times before. “I will take care of her – and you.” She paused, swallowing the sourness that rose in the back of her throat at the anticipation of her next words.
“I promise,” she said, forcing herself not to stumble over the words – the vow.
“All right,” the boy said after a few long moments of silence as they continued towards the river, the sand giving way to smooth blades of verdant green grasses that brushed against their ankles as they walked. “Where are we going now?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not very good at taking care of others, you see, so –”
“Perhaps,” the boy interrupted, “you might ask him.”
Rory looked sharply in the direction of his outstretched hand, and froze in her tracks, her hand falling away from his as her breath stuttered and caught in her suddenly too-tight chest.
There – as though he knew she was coming, as though he were waiting for her – there, next to the pale-watered river, the shadowy outline of a straw-haired figure leaned against the trunk of a willow tree.
Of course Niall would be there – would know that she had, at last, come home to him.
“What’s wrong?” The boy looked from her to the waiting figure before them. “Are you ill?”
She couldn’t bring herself to speak, as it overwhelmed her again, the way the sight of that familiar lean stole the air from her lungs and the strength from her knees, and she sank down to the ground with trembling hands.
The énbarr still stood in the surf far behind her, she knew, waiting, ready to return her to far distant shores and the land of the living.
All she had to do was turn away from that familiar, shadowy figure and leap onto his back, and this meeting, this reunion, that she had dreaded for so long, that she feared more than anything else in any world that might exist, would not happen.
It was better to never have that closure, never to be forced to hear the words of recrimination and accusation that he would no doubt have ready for her.
Better to live out the rest of her days shrouded in the dark clouds of her guilt and her sorrow, a thousand pinpricks of regret that stole her sleep and sundered any vestiges of inner peace which she once might have had.
Better to imagine how much he must despise her, she thought, heart twisting, rather than to hear it spoken aloud and to erase all doubt.
It might be the death of her, not just of her body, but of her soul, of every last piece of her, to have to hear those words from the shadowy remnants of the brother who had accepted her, liked her, loved her unconditionally, against all odds, despite her giving him every reason to reject her, to dismiss her, even from their very first meeting.
It was in the pale light of the morning following their arrival in her grandmother’s vale, the king of Connacht and his men, that they first spoke, her and her brother.
She had already decided, as she trudged down the stairs in search of her breakfast, that she would ignore all of them until they realized she had nothing to offer to them and went away to leave her in peace once more.
For now, thought, she had thought, she would have her porridge, with extra butter and cheese, and a generous helping of blood sausages, a hot cup of tea, and as for that boy, the one who had smiled at her yesterday, so big and wide and welcoming, perhaps, if they did happen to cross paths, she ought to show him once and for all, that Rory ó Conchúir was not a girl at whom one smiled, much less annoyed.
Perhaps he might need to learn that lesson the same way as Ionatán did.
She smiled to herself as she thought it, then rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt.
Because there he was, sitting in her spot.
She was immediately, thoroughly irked.
To be fair, it was the best spot in the entire hall, especially in winter, so close to the roaring fire in the great stone hearth.
And it was her spot, uncontested – uncle Kieran had never married, and uncle Ean had long since moved farther north with his bride from Ulaid, so there were no cousins to challenge her for her preferred seat.
It was only her, and the queen, her grandmother, and uncle Kieran, and Mamaí, and none of them cared if they sat in high-backed chairs further away from the fire.
They were grown-ups, and after all, being uncomfortable seemed a necessary evil to adulthood.
She stalked over to him and glared at him down the length of her nose. “Move,” she said, curt and sharp.
He peeked up at her through absurdly long lashes, his blue eyes wide and bright and irritatingly innocent. “Hullo,” he said.
She scowled. “Hullo,” she replied after a resentful moment, because no matter what, Mamaí would not allow her to be rude. “Now move.”
“Why?”
“That’s my seat. That is where I sit.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know that it was your seat.”
“Now you do.” She jerked her chin. “Move.”
Impossibly, he hesitated. “My da says – well, he says.” He licked at his lips, leaning forward. “Are you – are you a witch?”
Rory considered this for a moment. “Yes. Move or I’ll turn you into a newt.”
“I don’t think you’re that kind of witch.”
“I don’t think you ought be splitting hairs over what kind of witch I might be when you have annoyed me as you have.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“You are in,” she said, teeth clenched, “my seat.”
“But I didn’t know it was your seat, so why would you be annoyed?
” Still, he slid over, pulling his porridge with him, and Rory’s scowl deepened as she considered whether the comfort of her morning routine was worth the sacrifice of sitting next to this boy and enduring his chatter, but before she could decide, he looked up and smiled a bright, happy smile – so na?ve, she thought.
The smile of a fool. “Did you know,” he asked, “that your grandmother has all the tales of the Fianna in her solar? I went in this morning, with my da, and I saw them. I’d never seen so many tales of Oisín in one place. ”