I fled, stopping only for a coat, scarf and my winter boots. After the warmth of the kitchen, the cold outside hit me like a physical blow. The sun, although high in the sky, yielded little warmth and I shivered even with my thick coat. I walked briskly, intending no particular destination.
Snow drifted down from the trees as a breeze danced through their branches, leaving them naked without their winter adornment. Blackthorn with its spiny branches that come spring would be covered with creamy-white buds. Hazel with its grey-brown bark, towering over its neighbours. Birch, its slender branches uncaring of appearance as it grew however it chose. In summer, these fields would be thick with lush grass which would cushion my feet as I walked. Now I trod on fresh snow, crisp and crunching with each step.
Freed of distractions, the visions came stronger, flooding my mind with a confusing array of images, until I hardly knew where, or when, I was. I could make no sense of them, not least the two I saw most often: the white dog covered in blood and the young man, hardly more than a boy, who cradled the dog as tenderly as if it was a child. Who were they? And what was my connection to them? Our link, whatever it was, must be strong for them to feature so frequently in my visions.
I had little control over the images and was ill inclined to spend any time learning such a thing. Still, today was one of the rare times I wished I could control them. I needed clearer information on what these visions meant to me and on what part I was to play in the forthcoming events. The visions had been more frequent of late and likely that meant something would happen very soon. If only I knew what.
Soon the sun began to sink and the air became even colder. As I headed for home, a figure appeared, some distance off to the side. I watched out of the corner of my eye for a while. It was a girl, I was certain of that. Long of both leg and hair, she easily kept pace with me. When I turned towards her, she disappeared, returning only when I looked away. One of the fey, no doubt.
The fey had long had a presence in my life. My earliest memories included a young girl, seemingly no older than myself, although the appearance of the fey can be misleading. She and I played together in a fall of autumn leaves, in the water of summer rivers, in the cool depths of the woods. She did everything I did: ran, swam, laughed, danced. We climbed trees together, sunbaked on rocks, and walked hand in hand.
As I grew up, she stayed the same and eventually she no longer came to me. I grieved the loss of my childhood friend and wondered why she absented herself from my world. Perhaps it was because the more adult pursuits now imposed on me were of no interest to her. Perhaps she found some other child to play with. Whatever the reason, I remembered her fondly although, strangely, I no longer recalled her name and with the passing of time, her once-familiar face had blurred in my memory.
Some time after my first fey friend left, another of her kind came into my life. He was thin and lithe with sticks in his hair and grass stains on his tattered trousers. He taunted me as I was kept indoors, learning to sew or read or cook. He knew I longed to be free, running through the fields and exploring the woods, and he teased me with images of the life I was now deprived of.
When I refused to yield to the outdoor delights dangled before me, he played tricks. Needles would suddenly embed themselves in my finger, causing bright drops of blood to ruin my embroidery. Pots overflowed and wriggling bugs appeared in the centre of the pies I baked. Rugs slid out from under my feet and footstools suddenly appeared in front of me as I walked. Many a scrape, bruise, burn and cut I endured before he left me.
Several years had passed since then and I thought the fey had finally stopped watching me. Now, in my twentieth year, they had returned. Well, the girl could walk beside me if she chose, provided that was all she did.
I ignored the fey girl and she seemed happy enough for me to do so. The sky was almost night-dark by the time I reached home and the light spilling from the windows, promising warmth and human companionship, was a welcome sight. I banished both fey and visions from my mind. I would not allow them to intrude tonight.
Sleep that night was long in coming and in the quiet of night, the visions lingered.
The man, the woman, the bloodstained terrier. A road stretches through unfamiliar fields and hills, winding ever onward out of my sight. The terrier stands in a dragon's den, surrounded by the creature's treasures. A man and a boy explore a barrow. The boy, now a man himself, and the dog sleep together beside a fire. Another man, large and with a kind face, strokes the little dog's head with a tenderness that makes my heart ache. A confrontation with the fey; I myself step forward and speak to their queen. And in the background of every vision, a raven with glossy, black plumage and blood dripping from its beak.
The images jumbled together and I had no sense of their order. The Sight could show past, present, future or maybe, and the only thing of which I could be sure was that these visions were connected to me. This future would collide with my future. This past would impact my present.
I woke with dry and gritty eyes and a head that felt like it was stuffed full of straw. Even in my sleep I couldn't escape the Sight's warning for blood and the ever-present raven filled my dreams.
I dressed and pulled a comb through my hair. The water in the bowl on my dresser was bitingly cold as I splashed my face.
Outside, the sun was rising into a clear sky. A far-off mountain was dazzling white against the sky's brilliant blue. Light breeze teased the branches of birch and blackthorn and kicked up the snow on the ground. If the fey girl watched, I couldn't sense her.
In the kitchen, the aroma of last night's soup lingered, competing with the fresh bread Mother was removing from the oven as I entered. She deposited the loaf on the scarred wooden table, which was set for breakfast, and sat. Her shoulders were slumped and her face haggard as she absently brushed the hair from her eyes. Did the visions plague her all night as they had me? I murmured a greeting, sat on a chair on the opposite side of the table, and served myself a bowl of porridge.
"You look tired," Mother said, echoing my own thoughts about her.
My gaze flicked up and met hers. I saw silent understanding. She knew. Even if I pretended I saw nothing, she knew.
"I'm fine," I said. "Don't worry about me."
It wasn't until I had finished my porridge and took my bowl to the sink that she spoke again.
"Oh but I do," she said softly. "I always do."
I pretended I didn't hear and spent a little longer at the sink than necessary, scrubbing my bowl until it was spotless. I dried it carefully and placed it on a shelf. Only once I was sure my voice wouldn't betray me did I speak again.
"What do you need me to do today?"
Mother gave me a wry look. "After your help yesterday, I'm not sure I need any more assistance from you."
"I feel bad about the peas. There must be something I can do. You look so tired."
Mother smiled and rubbed her temples. "If only this headache would go away. What you could do, I suppose, is take a compress down to Old Man Tam. He cut his foot last week. When he finally called for me yesterday, the wound was red and hot."
"An infection."
"Yes, but perhaps not too bad. If he had waited another day or two, it would have been more serious. I released pressure from the wound and used what herbs I had with me. But I promised I would take him a compress today."
"I'll look after that for you."
She gave me a look and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
"I promise I'll pay attention. Arnica and comfrey for the pain, and fenugreek or thyme to draw out the infection."
Mother smiled and if she seemed sad, I quickly dismissed it.
Noise from upstairs indicated my sisters were awake. Shrieks, giggles and a heavy thud as something, or someone, fell to the floor made me thankful I had risen early enough to avoid breakfast with them. Their exuberance was too much first thing in the morning, especially while I was still trying to shed lingering memories of visions and dreams I didn't understand.
As I set off for Old Man Tam's cottage some time later, I was confident I had honoured Mother's instructions. A jar containing the herbal concoction for the compress was safely tucked into a bag along with a few pears and a handful of eggs. Icy wind burned the bare skin on my face. I wrapped my scarf more snugly around my neck and hurried on.
Old Man Tam's lodge was small and looked like it had been built in haste. He answered promptly when I knocked on the door. His eyes, sunk deep within folds of skin, examined me for longer than seemed necessary to verify my identity.
"I was expecting your mother," he said. His face was so wrinkled I couldn't tell smile from frown, but I sensed disappointment.
I tried to make my voice pleasant. "She's feeling poorly today so she sent me instead."
He stared down at the bag in my hands and this time I received the distinct impression of a frown. "She promised she would bring a compress today."
"I have it right here." He didn't need to know it was I who made it.
"Well, I suppose you had better come in then," he said at length.
I swallowed the retort that sprang to my lips. Clearly I did not have my mother's ability to win people over with just a few words.
He led me into the living room and I winced at how he favoured his right leg. What would I do if the wound seemed beyond the aid of a compress? Old Man Tam lowered himself into a faded stuffed chair by the fireplace and propped his leg up on a footstool. When I removed the bandage, I was relieved to see no sign of the skin turning bad.
I heated a pot of water on the wood stove. The kitchen was somewhat bare but tidy enough. Plates and cups were neatly arranged on shelves, the bench was clean, and a small basket of cut wood sat on the floor next to the stove. If Old Man Tam had a servant who cleaned the house and looked after him, she didn't seem to be in attendance today. Once the water was hot, I showed him how to steep the herbs and then, once it had cooled somewhat, to soak a cloth in it. I wrapped the compress around his foot and Old Man Tam sighed.
"That does feel good, Missy," he said, somewhat begrudgingly.
"My name's Brigit."
"Sure it is, Missy." He sounded almost amenable. "Sure it is."
The house was quiet, the only other inhabitant seemingly a fat black cat who glared at me from a chair in the corner of the room. Old Man Tam's wife had died years ago. I remembered her but only barely. A squat, bad-tempered old woman who walked with a stoop and a walking stick. She had loathed children immensely, or at least, she had loathed me.
There was no reason to linger. I left Old Man Tam, murmuring some vague words about being sure my mother would call in to see him soon, and fled, tripping over my own feet and his cat in my eagerness to be gone.
This was the life ahead of me. An eternity of answering calls from folk who needed some simple medical treatment. Caring for those who clearly disliked me but had no other options. Sick children. Pregnant women seeking remedies to ease nausea or perhaps rid them of an unwanted babe. Old people whose bodies were beginning to fail. Some, I knew, Mother could help. For others, the best she could do was to ease their pain for a while.
There was no danger or adventure in this life. No romance or mystery. Just the mind-numbing monotony of visits to the sick and the old. Reassuring and soothing them, dispensing wisdom with compassion and understanding. There were girls who left their families to live with a wise woman in order to learn her craft.
But I didn't want a future I had no say in. I wanted to mount a horse and ride off over the far distant plains on some marvellous quest. I wanted to perform noble and heroic deeds, to seek treasures and save innocents and come riding back home in triumph. But that is not the life a woman aspires to. It is not the life a decent woman may lead. And yet, the visions suggested this sort of future was in store for me.
It seemed there were two fates ahead of me. The one Mother had tried to prepare me for and the one in the visions. Could the act of choosing determine which I lived? Were both fates open to me until I chose? Perhaps this was why the visions lingered, vivid and strong and compelling. They were urging me to choose.
I could follow the fate intended for me, become a wise woman, perhaps marry some day. My husband would likely be a farmer, or a soldier. I would live out my life in security, perhaps even in comfort if I was lucky. There would be children, and a life that was quiet, uneventful, and of use to my community. Or I could follow the visions and seek danger, romance, mystery, adventure. There would be blood and fear and pain, and if I survived all of that, I would know I had truly lived.
As I left Old Man Tam's house and strode along the dusty path that led home, hugging my coat tight against the cold wind, I chose. I wanted danger and adventure. I didn't want potions and possets, compresses and simple charms. I wanted mystery and romance. And if blood and pain came with that choice, I'd gladly take them too.
The night of my nineteenth Winter Solstice arrived far too swiftly. Winter kept a firm grip on Silver Downs. Frost strangled the ivy's attempt to creep up the house walls. The sky was bleak, heavy with the promise of snow and the tang of wood smoke, and empty without the trill of blackbird or robin. At night howling winds lashed the house and sought out every crack between window and pane.
I had found no opportunity to speak privately to Caedmon since the night we sat up late, drinking ale in front of the fire. I sought him out over and over but he was never where people said he had intended to go. For everyone else, the longest night of the year was cause for celebration, for the Solstice heralded the turn of winter and an end to the long darkness. For me, spring's pleasures seemed far away.