She was perhaps a year or two older than me and wore a long grey work dress with scuffed boots. Her dark hair was coming loose from its bun and wisping around her face. This was the woman I had seen from time to time, the one I had hoped to find the courage to speak to. The one I had thought of when Caedmon asked whether there was someone he should meet while he was home.
I backed away. My legs were weak and my face hot. Secrets I had shared with her flashed through my mind. She knew everything about me, things I had never said to another person, things I said only because she was just a dog. I never expected to one day be face to face with a person — a woman — who knew those secrets.
She was strong, this woman who used to be Bramble. Ida was sending out her power, trying to weave a hold around her, but if the woman noticed, she didn't show it. At first she held herself uncertainly, as if still figuring out what form she inhabited. I recognised the moment she realised she was human again, the moment she decided to fight. She straightened her shoulders and stood tall. Then she glared at me and I saw Bramble in those wide, unblinking eyes.
"You needn't worry," she said in a voice that sounded unused to human speech. "I'll keep your secrets. But first we need to deal with her."
I turned back to Ida. It was time to be strong but, expectedly, I found myself pitying her. This would be the end of her freedom, here in this room with its work bench and its sturdy chairs. This was where her tale ended.
"Ida, it's time to finish this," I said, gently. "I'm going to tell you a tale. It's the tale of a bard who brings his muse to life. Somehow, she draws from him enough power to escape out of his head, and she goes off into the world. But something is wrong with the muse. She is dark, twisted."
"She is what she is," Ida said, "because everything she knows comes from the bard's head."
Her power swirled around me, seeking, burrowing. I pushed it aside and concentrated on my story.
"When his muse leaves, the bard knows he has done something very wrong and is determined to make things right again. So he goes in search of her, and when he finds her, he tells another tale, a new tale about how the muse returns to the bard's head. And as he speaks, his muse, just like the one in his tale, is drawn back inside of him."
I waited, bracing myself for the intrusion. But Ida continued to sit in her chair, an almost bored look on her face.
"What's wrong?" asked the woman who used to be Bramble. "Why isn't it working?"
"I don't know," I said through gritted teeth. How could it not work? Even Fiachra thought this was what I needed to do.
"Think," not-Bramble said urgently. "Think of when you created her. What was different about that tale?"
Ida laughed. "Oh Diarmuid, have you
still
not figured it out? We are in for a long day, aren't we?"
"Ignore her," the woman said. "Focus."
I cast my mind back, trying to ignore the welling panic. When I told my very first tale, the one in which I created Ida, it had been the night before Caedmon was leaving to become a soldier. I remembered that the days ahead without him had seemed long and empty.
"I was lonely," I said. "Despondent. I was afraid that Caedmon might never return. And afraid he would return changed."
"How is that different from when you told other tales?" the woman asked.
I hesitated but as the words started to flow, the pieces came together and I began to understand. "I am nervous before I tell a tale, anxious that my audience won't like it. But once the tale begins, I am calm. All other emotion disappears. The words flow from somewhere deep inside of me. That first time, I didn't know that folk would hate my tales. I was fully focused on the tale, on my words, on how I felt. My feelings are the key."
"Try it," the woman said. "Let the emotions fill you and overwhelm you, then tell your tale."
Perhaps she was right. I had nothing to lose if she wasn't.
Ida laughed. "Oh Diarmuid, so silly. You're never going to figure it out at this pace."
I blocked out her words, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. I thought about the reasons for my journey, my desire to make up for what I had done. I thought about the journey itself and what we had gone through to get this far. I thought about my friends, one by one. Owain, a killer by trade but a kind, gentle man who had saved both my life and Bramble's. Rhiwallon, a woman fleeing the man she feared would take her child. And then there was Bramble. My smallest companion. The one who lay beside me night after night while I poured out my fears and my hopes. The one who stood beside me as we faced down the fey, a dragon, and Ida. The one who was really a woman, trapped in another form, and I never even realised. And now here I was, alone. Betrayed by my companions, one by one. None of them was who I thought they were.
A warm hand grasped mine and held it firmly. No, not alone. I still had Bramble. In a different form, perhaps, but still, she was here.
I began to tell my tale again and this time I let my emotions infuse my words. I wove all of my hope and horror, heartbreak and happiness into the tale. I let myself feel — really feel — the devastation of realising that my tales were responsible for such awful things. I opened myself to the hurt and abandonment of Caedmon leaving to become a soldier. I felt the jealousy I had hidden away when he handfasted, the resentment that he had everything: a destiny, a career, a beautiful wife. The envy at his confidence, his ability to talk so easily to women, his bravery.
I felt the horror of climbing up the rock pile to rescue Rhiwallon and being pursued by the beast that had stolen her away. The terror of facing the dragon, the awful hopelessness of realising that our fate would depend on the ability of each of my companions to answer a riddle. The frustration of knowing I had gotten us into such a situation but that I would need help to get us back out.
All of these emotions welled up inside of me, filling my heart and my limbs and my head, until I thought I would either burst or lose my mind. I poured it all into my tale. It was still a dark tale but now there was also hope. There was wonder and beauty and love. It was unlike any tale I had ever told before.
As I reached the end of the tale, where the muse is drawn back into the bard's head, I opened my eyes. Ida still sat in her chair but her face was pale and her eyes wide. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white and straining. I could feel her struggling, still trying to control my thoughts, still trying to influence Bramble. Her power had little strength over me while the woman who used to be Bramble held my hand, but still she tried.
My mind began to fill with a presence both strange and also instantly familiar. I kept my eyes on Ida as she faded, her essence drawn back into my head. I said my final words. The tale was ended. For the first time in many weeks, I saw her in my mind. Her delicate figure, the translucent skin, her long white hair.
Ida began to writhe and scream. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I imagined the wooden box, its lid already open in preparation. Remembering Fiachra's instructions, I exhaled and somehow
pushed
at Ida, shoving her in the direction of the box. At first she didn't seem to notice. I managed to push her right up against the box before she realised what I was doing. Then she fought me. I clenched my teeth and blood filled my mouth as I bit my tongue.
As Ida struggled, the pain was as real as if she beat a hammer against the inside of my brain. My head pounded but I fought to ignore the pain and stay focused. Already my legs trembled and I panted from exertion. No matter how hard I pushed, Ida was always a little bit stronger. Then she was gone and instead I fought a black raven that somehow seemed to be both inside my mind and right in front of me. Wings beat against my face and sharp claws raked my arm. There was something inside my mind that I recognised as my self, my own essence, and it was being pushed towards the box. Panic grew, sharp and nauseating.
"Fiachra," I screamed. "Help me."
Then he was there with me in my head.
"This is
your
mind, Diarmuid," he said. "
You
control what happens in here."
His presence calmed me, focused me. I resisted, pushed back, managed to get away from the box. The raven disappeared and Ida returned. We grappled, struggled, fought. Then, so suddenly that I wasn't even sure how it had happened, Ida was in the box. I slammed down the lid.
The box trembled and I held the lid secure. My mind-self had hands now and they gripped the lid so tightly that the edges cut into my fingers and my own blood stained the wood. Surely the box would break apart from the force of Ida's anger. But, somehow, it held and gradually Ida's resistance lessened.
Eventually I thought I could probably make my way back to the inn while still holding down the lid. Fiachra was gone. I hadn't even noticed when he left.
I opened my eyes to find the room dark. The woman who used to be Bramble was curled up on the chair in which Ida had sat. She looked at me, a question in her dark eyes.
"Don't speak," I said. I finally noticed how my legs trembled and sweat dripped down my back. "I can't…"
We left Ida's house. I barely noticed the dark skies or the empty streets as I stumbled back to the inn. Beside me, Bramble was silent. All of my attention was focused on the box in my mind. Ida had settled for now but it was likely a trick to lure me into thinking she had given up. As soon as my attention wandered, she would spring from the box and take over my mind. The possibility of being trapped and helpless in my own body kept me focused, despite my fatigue.
Owain and Rhiwallon were in the common room when I reached the inn. I didn't look at them, couldn't risk being distracted by talking to anyone. I focused on the stairs, making my way up them with such single-mindedness that I hardly noticed when I crashed right into someone. He swore at me and Bramble muttered a soft apology, tugging my arm to lead me away. I reached our bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed, my weary body sinking into the softness of the straw mattress. Exhaustion flooded my limbs, making them heavy, and my concentration wavered.
Suddenly Ida sprang out of the box in my mind. Again, I grappled with her, pushing her back towards the box. She gained the upper hand and I gritted my teeth, pushing harder. This was my mind and I would
not
be a prisoner in it.
I eventually managed to confine her again. By that time, my hands trembled and I was dizzy with exhaustion. Then someone sat beside me on the bed, someone who smelled like sunny days tinged with lavender. A hand gently touched mine and the scent of fresh bread filled my nostrils. Something pressed against my lips and when I opened my mouth, a small piece of bread was deposited in it.
I hadn't realised how hungry I was. I kept my attention on Ida's box and when I opened my empty mouth, more bread appeared. Bramble didn't speak as she fed me, piece by piece. Once I had eaten my fill, she held a mug to my mouth and cool ale trickled down my throat.
I moved from the bed to a wooden chair. All through the night, I kept my attention focused on the box. Ida struggled for a while but eventually she stopped. Perhaps she slept, or perhaps she wanted me to think she slept.
Bramble, Owain and Rhiwallon took turns to sit up with me through the night. From time to time, someone would hold a mug to my lips or offer me some bread. I ate and drank to maintain my strength, feeling neither hunger nor thirst. Ida stirred occasionally, pushing at the lid of the box for a while but then settling again.
When eventually, I was sure I could keep part of my attention on the box, I opened my eyes. Daylight filled the bedchamber. Bramble sat cross-legged on the bed. Owain and Rhiwallon were absent.
"I think she is contained," I said, with a yawn. I was exhausted and drained, both physically and mentally.
"Does she still fight?"
"Sometimes. Mostly, she's just waiting."
I stood and stretched. My back was stiff and my legs cramped from spending the night in the wooden chair. Ida moved, cautiously, testing my attention. She found the lid of her box securely fastened and sank back down into stillness.
"There's water here if you want to wash," Bramble said.
I nodded, too exhausted to speak if words weren't necessary.
"I'll wait downstairs," she said.
I pulled off my shirt, which was stiff and sticky, and washed the sweat from my body. The shirt reeked but my spare was still covered in Davin's blood.
The common room was mostly empty of patrons. My companions were gathered around one table and a sole man sat at another. He was hunched over, almost asleep, a mug of ale by his hand. He looked like he had been there all night. The scent of yesterday's mutton still lingered in the air, mixed with the stench of stale ale.
"Thank you," I said. "I couldn't have done this without you."
"Is she really back in your head again?" Rhiwallon asked. She held herself stiffly and didn't look at me. I couldn't tell whether she was still mad at me or afraid.
"She's still fighting but I'm learning how to keep part of my attention on her. It's getting easier."
I turned to Bramble. "Who are you? How did you come to be a dog?"
"I was stubborn," she said with a hint of a smile. "I refused a task from the fey and that was my punishment."
"What was the task?"
"A journey. They wanted me to go somewhere but wouldn't tell me where or why."
I hesitated. Was the journey she took the one they intended? She guessed where my thoughts led.
"Yes," she said. "I think this is where they meant for me to be."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "They have their own reasons, and are unlikely to share them with me. It doesn't matter. They achieved their aim."
"What was that?"
She shook her head and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. "It doesn't matter."