"Papa, why do you never tell any tales?" I asked. For if I, as the seventh son of a seventh son, was destined to be a bard, surely my father was too.
"I have told enough tales in my lifetime." His words hung heavily in the air. "More than enough. I care little to tell them anymore."
We adjourned to the living room. The room had looked a lot bigger back then and the stone fireplace towered higher than I stood. There was an assortment of both soft chairs and wooden benches, enough to seat a family of ten plus a few guests. The late summer evening was warm enough that we had no need for a fire, but we gathered in our accustomed places by the hearth.
Papa leaned back into his chair and stared into the empty grate for some time before he finally turned to me. "You may as well give us your tale, Diarmuid."
I had imagined this moment over and over. Myself standing before my family, back straight and head held high as I regaled them with my tale of love and loss and lessons learnt. They would gasp at the daring of its ending, for I would tell no tales with flaccid happy resolutions. No, if I was to be a bard, I would teach people, help them become better than they were. My tales would educate, enlighten, illuminate. I would be a bard without peer.
I stood and positioned myself in front of the fireplace and told the tale that had been playing through my mind during those final hazy days of summer. I poured all of my emotions into my words. My sadness at Caedmon's imminent departure. Fear that he might never come home again. Anxiety that he would be injured, or worse, in battle. Loneliness. Abandonment. Heartbreak. As I spoke, the pain eased. The act of tale telling soothed my soul and my heart soared. I had a destiny. I would be the most famous bard ever, for I was
meant
to tell tales.
My tale was about a young bard obsessed with his imagined muse, thinking of nothing but her with every waking moment and dreaming of her at night. Eventually, through some arcane spell or other mystery — I left that unexplained — he brings her to life, only to discover his fantasy made flesh and blood is some evil twist on the creature of his dreams. And thus the poor bard realises he must destroy his muse. I left the story there, with the bard setting out on his grand quest to track down the creature that was once his muse.
I had been so absorbed in my tale, I paid scant attention to my audience. In truth, I did not expect anything but adoration and praise. I emerged to discover my family sitting in silence. Not a single person met my eyes, not parent, nor brother, nor sister. Mother fled with a sob, one trembling hand pressed over her mouth.
The silence stretched until eventually Papa cleared his throat. "Well, Diarmuid," was all he said.
I left, my eyes so filled with tears, I tripped over an errant rug. I didn't want to go to my room, to remain in the same house as those who couldn't, or wouldn't, appreciate my tale, so I fled out the back door and somehow made my way into Eithne's herb garden.
Its inhabitants were nearing the end of their summer blooms and preparing for the cold months ahead. I recognised few of them: blackthorn, basil, mint. Others I knew would be there but couldn't identify: chamomile, juniper, sorrel. There would be rosemary and lavender, although I was hard pressed to tell between them, and many others whose names and uses were a mystery to me.
I sat on a wooden bench and let my tears flow. As they subsided, I inhaled the mingled aromas of herbs, finding solace in their sweetness. They would be pruned soon, by Eithne if she was well, or by a servant. Their stems and leaves, flowers and seeds would be gathered and dried for use in the coming season of illness and fevers.
Movement through the garden indicated that I was no longer alone. In the darkness of the moon's ebb, I could not tell who came to offer comfort until Papa sat beside me.
"Diarmuid," he said and then sighed. "What a fine mess this is."
"I don't understand." I sniffed and wiped my nose on the back of my hand. "Why did they hate my tale?"
"It was a fine tale. We are just surprised you have come to this so young."
"I'm ten summers old. Caedmon has known all of his life he would be a soldier."
"But Caedmon is sixteen summers and only now about to become a soldier."
Although his words were reasonable, it was hard to acknowledge this when my heart felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of cows.
"Why did nobody tell me I was to be a bard? It is a noble profession, not something terrible."
Papa sighed again and shifted slightly.
"Tell me. Why did I not know?"
"We did what we thought was best for you." He spoke slowly and hesitated often. "Your mother and I thought to let you choose your own path. There are sons enough in this family who have had their futures dictated to them. We wanted you to decide for yourself whether you would be a bard or something else."
"Is it true? That every seventh son of a seventh son is a bard?"
"In our family, yes. You are descended from an unbroken line of seventh sons through many generations. And every one a bard."
"Then it seems I never had a choice," I said and now I made no attempt to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Beside me, Papa shook his head. "No. It seems not."
He was silent for some time before he spoke next. "Diarmuid, I must warn you. Be careful of the tales you tell."
I waited. The seat creaked as Papa shifted and I thought he might leave without speaking further. At length he continued.
"As the seventh son of a seventh son, you have a special ability. You must be very careful. Sometimes… sometimes the things you say, the tales you tell, may come true."
A laugh bubbled up from inside of me. Relief, for I had thought he intended to tell me something terrible, but it was merely a joke.
"Absurd," I said. "And impossible."
I felt, rather than heard, him sigh. "I wish it were so."
I am. But I am not alone.
This place is confusing. There are terrors in here, demons he keeps well hidden. Nightmares and horror. Darkness and desolation. Despair. I crave… something. I don't know what. It is something… else. Radiance. Lightness. Beauty, symmetry, colour.
Now he is confused. Resentful. Lonely. Interesting. His heart pounds, his breath quickens. His thoughts are dark and lingering. The one he looks up to above all others has disappointed him. Oh, how he despairs now.
I whisper to myself, a sly comment intended for my own amusement. He hears me. And not only does he hear, but he understands. He weaves my comment into his own thoughts, braiding our words together until I can barely tell which were his and which were mine. He probably never knew.
I whisper again about the one he loves and his heart hardens. He believes me.
No longer am I confused or alone for he is here with me. Or I am here with him. Day after day, I speak to him. Commentary about those around him, thoughts that bury themselves deep in his heart. My words resonate with him. I feel power, intimacy, companionship. I feel alive.
He fancies himself a bard so I whisper ideas. He takes them greedily and begs for more. I see myself take shape in his mind. A woman's form. He gives me long white hair and eyes the blue of a frozen river. A slender figure, dainty hands. Have I ever before had a form? I don't know. As I continue to whisper, his image of me grows firmer.
More and more, his thoughts linger on me. Now, with every event, every conversation, it is me to whom his thinking turns first. He wonders what I would make of it, how I would respond. He names me: Ida. I don't know whether I have ever had a name before. Ida will do as well as any.
I soon learn how to make him feed me. And feed me he does. The flow of power, at first hesitant and intermittent, becomes a steady stream. As I feed, he weakens. Not so he would notice; physically he is no different. It is in his mind the changes occur. For I have learnt the type of thoughts he must have for me to draw power from him. As he sinks into melancholy, his loneliness and bitterness strengthen me. And, gradually, I forget I ever longed for something else.
I anticipate that he will realise what is happening, but day after day, week after week, he doesn't. Eventually I stop expecting it. And indeed I hope he does not realise. At least, not until I am strong enough to leave. After that, it won't matter. But for now, I need him. He will be my freedom.
"Brigit, are you shelling those peas or mashing them?" Mother's tone was sharp and her face said clearly that she despaired of trying to teach me anything.
I removed my sticky hands from the bowl and wiped them on my apron, leaving green streaks against its crisp whiteness. While lost in my thoughts, I had been crushing the pods.
"I'm sorry."
Mother sighed and turned back to the herbal concoction she was preparing. I studied her profile, silhouetted in the late afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. My thick, dark hair that frizzed out of control in humid weather was a match for hers, as were my dark eyes and sharp chin. I envied the roundness of my younger sisters who were all dimples and soft features. I was angles and sharp lines with neither bust nor waist. Only my hair marked me as female although I never wore it with the ribbons and pretty braids of my sisters. Instead I pulled it back at the nape of my neck and secured it with a plain string. Even so, it continuously escaped.
I brushed a few strands away from my face and turned to the window, longing to be outside, despite the bleak landscape. The thick stone walls of our lodge kept the heat in and by mid afternoon, the warmth in the kitchen was stifling. Outside, the snow was thin on the ground and the wind rustling the leaves of the fir trees promised adventure. Inside was comfortable and familiar but hardly exciting. A worn work bench at which Mother and I stood. Shelves of plates, cups and cooking implements hung from the grey stone walls. A stack of firewood sat tidily in the corner. A pot of soup bubbled on the wood stove. The hardy scent of herbs and vegetables mingled with the yeasty aroma of baking bread, making my mouth water.
"No point wasting good peas," Mother said. "We can use them in the soup. Just remove the pods. And, Brigit dear, try not to mash the rest."
"Yes, Mother." I bent my head over the bowl and tried hard to focus on my task. But soon I was again lost in my thoughts, my hands moving of their own accord as visions swirled before my eyes.
A man: young, dark haired, with a shadowy raven clinging to his shoulder. A small dog, its white hair streaked with blood and eyes filled with pain. A woman: pale, thin, her eyes shining with steely strength.
The Sight ran in the blood of our female line. My mother was a wise woman, as was her mother, and her mother before. I too was expected to become a wise woman, steeped in knowledge of herbs and cures. But I had never been very good at doing what I was told. Rather than a calm, comfortable life, I wanted adventure, mystery, danger, yes even romance. Of course, there was no reason why I couldn't have all of that as a wise woman, or perhaps before, but a quiet life dedicated to healing and wisdom was not what I wanted. The visions told me that my path led in another direction.
Mother must have spoken several times before her voice again intruded on my world.
"Brigit!"
"Mother?"
I followed her eyes to my bowl to find I had done no more than mash the remaining peas in their pods. Guilt flooded through me. We couldn't afford to waste food this late in winter and these were the last of the fresh peas. There would be only dried peas now until the new season.
Mother sighed. Did she truly think she could make a wise woman, or even a competent wife, out of me? Perhaps she was unwilling to concede that I was not suited for the destiny intended for me. Certainly she didn't know how much of a wise woman's talent I possessed, for I never spoke of the visions or of how easily I retained knowledge of herbs and their uses. I paid little enough attention to her instructions because one glance was all it took for a recipe to imprint on my mind.
I hid my abilities as best I could for fear my fate would be irreversibly fixed if I revealed them. I never deliberately ruined a recipe any more than I had intended to mash today's peas. How could I focus on shelling peas or distilling herbs when my head was full of the dark visions that might be my future? How much longer would I wait before the visions became reality?
"Brigit, please, remove the pods and then leave them. I'll add them to the soup when I finish here."
Mother hunched over her bowl, adding a handful of herb and a sprinkle of powder. A cough mixture, it seemed.
"Who is that for?" I began picking pods out of the bowl, leaving what I could of the mashed peas. I rarely asked about Mother's duties for fear that a question might be mistaken for interest, but I needed to atone for today's carelessness.
"One of the villagers has a sick child," Mother said with a sigh, pausing to brush back the hair escaping from her bun. It stubbornly sprang back, just like mine did. Her face was lined and her eyes tired. Likely, my presence today had only made more work for her.
With a pang, I regretted my inattention. My fate was not her fault and Mother had no more choice in her future than I did. All she had ever done was try to prepare me against the day when she wouldn't be here. Still, she had a more accommodating nature than I. She wasn't stubborn like me. That's a word I've heard applied to myself more times than I can count. My father was oft described as stubborn too, and it caused his death. Perhaps that's why Mother perseveres with me. She's hoping I won't make the same mistakes as he did.
"Can I help you with something else?" I asked and, for once, I sincerely meant it.
Mother gave me a brief smile. "No, my dear, you run along. I can manage here on my own."