Dirty Little Secrets

There was a Fae beauty in her singing and her voice with its sweet notes carried far into the hills and echoed ’round them. The air became filled with a breathless trembling, for twilight was full upon them, and the Windlass Mountains were a twilight place, where secrets lie deep and riddles are born.

As the wind swiftly whispered through the trees, some of the stars began to fall like a soft rain amid the hills. The two riders stopped and watched the rain of stars, their hearts filled with wonder, for neither of them had seen such a thing happen in many ages, though both had lived a very long time.

A glistening silvery blue light appeared in front of them on the hill. Within the light was a form which shifted and shimmered, at last coalescing into solidity. Before them knelt a being, slender as sap wood, yet full as the boughs of an alder tree. His face was heart shaped, his eyes the deep brown of the forest’s marrow, his ears curved back and pointed. His hair was the hue of the oaks, golden as boughs, dark as bark, the sweet green of leaves… all mingled and falling in tangled curls about his shoulders.

“The songs we have sung are countless,” he said in a gentle voice, “but for all we have sung and heard sung, surely there was never a fairer voice than what these old ears just heard. Well met, Fae lady, for mortal you could never be.” His words carried clearly the dozen or so feet that separated them, his voice filled with otherworldly nuances that had the unreal quality of a dream unwinding before them. Graí nickered softly and sniffed the air, it smelled of cedars and of oaks and of gathered dreams in the night’s birth. Áine could feel the blush warming her cheeks.

Lodan seemed to read her thoughts. “Well said, and contrary to my lady’s humility, to that I must agree.” Áine looked over at Lodan and smiled. She remembered a night by a riverbank, how the quiet was broken by the sound of his piping. She remembered too, that Lodan’s music had lightened her heart and kept her venturing deeper into these mountains. She turned to look at the stranger, still kneeling there on the ground in front of them.

She smiled again, and then noticed that she and Lodan seemed to be surrounded by similar kneeling folks though a bit further away, whose appearance had silently become manifest. “Arise, Daoine dé Reanna [people of the stars], for there is no need for deference among us, here on the Isle of Dreams,” she spoke softly in a musical voice to them.

With one motion both she and Lodan dismounted from the Eacha, and were greeted with warm handshakes which turned into hugs, for these were the Grey Elves of Twilight, who another storyteller had called the Sindar; They were born of the stars, and They would eventually return to the stars in their never-ending wheel of existence.

They camped that night on the hilltop around a blazing fire, sharing tales and singing songs and reciting poetry until it was nearly dawn. Then they rolled themselves up in their blankets and slept a deep peaceful sleep.

Áine chuckled. “Oh, that was a good one! I suppose it’s my turn now, eh?” Lodan nodded. “But what if I can’t come up with a story as good as that one?” He just smiled and gave her That Look. She knew what That Look meant. She thought for a few minutes while they were riding, then started speaking…

“Once upon a time, there was a young man named Triscatal. He was a mighty warrior, a broad-fronted, shaggy-haired man and his face was so fierce that it was said that in battle, he killed by his very glance. His two brothers, who were much more handsome fellows, teased him all his life about how ugly he was, that he would never find a wife, much less have children… they teased him so much, that he grew into a surly man who seemed always angry at everyone and everything. He especially wanted nothing whatsoever to do with women, and he made sure they knew that.

“It soon got so no one in his village could stand having him around, but everyone was afraid to tell him, and so they did their best to avoid having any sort of confrontations with him, for he was a very strong and muscular fellow. Eventually, though, his father mentioned that he’d likely be much better off if he stayed away from everyone, and so he took one-fourth of his father’s herd and moved to an island in the middle of a fierce river. Triscatal built himself a house of stone and wood, and made his living by cutting down trees and floating the huge logs downstream into town, where he could sell them for a good profit. He spoke to no one but the sawyer when he was in town, picked up whatever supplies he needed, and always went back to his island immediately after his business in town was finished. He didn’t even visit his mother and father, much less his brothers.

“He was alone in the world, and he liked it that way. He was free to be as wretched and miserable as his heart felt, and no one could complain about it if he was… and he often was. There was nothing he liked better than to stomp around and take out his anger towards the world with his ax on the trees. He was a very good tree cutter.

“One day, while he was in town conducting his business, however, a fair-haired young lass named Sinead, who had just the week before moved into the village, spotted him in the farmer’s market. Sinead noticed how everyone in town seemed to try to avoid Triscatal. She couldn’t understand how people could be so rude and unfriendly towards him just because he wasn’t handsome, though she didn’t think he looked that awful. And so she decided that she would follow him and try to get to know him, because everyone, after all, needs at least one friend in the world, even someone as disagreeable as Triscatal.

“She followed him back to where he crossed the river to get to his island, but she couldn’t cross the river as he did, it was too fast and the current was too strong… and she was a petite young thing, certainly not strong enough to fight the current in a boat by herself. Sinead called out to Triscatal. He turned around and saw the girl, waved her off, and with a grumbling voice like thunder he yelled, “Go home, I don’t need your kind here!” But she stood there on the bank of the river with her hands on her hips defiantly.

“Triscatal turned his back on her and made his way back to his house on the island. The next week, the same thing happened. “Go home!” he yelled, “You don’t belong out here!” Three or four times more she tried, but she got nowhere with Triscatal. And then she didn’t follow him anymore.

“The next week, however, when Triscatal was getting ready to bring the logs downstream to town, he found a crude little sailboat made of wood on the shore by his boat. It was just some sticks tied together into a raft shape, but in the center was a tiny mast with a sail made of paper. He picked it up and examined it closely. The sail was a note from the girl, Sinead. He didn’t think much of it, and tossed it aside.

“But the next week… there was another sailboat… and the next week, another. Each sail was a note from Sinead. In the notes, she talked about herself, her dreams, what her life was like… what she was doing each week… sometimes she wrote poetry… sometimes a story would be written on the sail. It got to the point where Sinead’s notes were something Triscatal looked forward to each week. He never saw her on the shore, but each week, there would be another boat with another note… and little by little, his heart softened towards Sinead. The sailboat notes went on for years, one each week. Triscatal could hardly wait until the next week to see what she would write.

“And then one day, the notes stopped coming. He thought that she must have forgotten, or something came up. But the next week, again, there was no sailboat with the note for a sail. Triscatal didn’t know what to think about that, but he was determined to find out what happened to the girl, so he ventured upstream along the shore to where he thought the notes might be coming from.

“Halfway there he found her, lying face down in the ice cold water. Sinead had drowned trying to use her father’s boat to come and see him. He turned the body of Sinead over and looked upon her beautiful face, and at once he felt a deep stabbing pain in his heart, for he realized that he loved her very deeply, but now she was dead.

“Triscatal unsheathed his sword, turned the blade towards himself and impaled himself on it and died, lying right next to Sinead. Triscatal’s father found him a few days later. And in Triscatal’s house, the friends of his mother and father found every sailboat Sinead had ever made… and they read every note… and they wept.

“They buried the bodies on the island together.”

Áine grew very quiet, and as the sun was setting, and the stars were just beginning to twinkle in the sky, she said, “This was the last note that Sinead had written.” And Áine began to sing a song.

The mountains are rugged and the clouds close in….
then…ahead…
the mists part and courage rises forth,
you are compelled to enter
for the sound of music
beckons to you.

There was a time… long ago… when speaking was a sacrament… a time before written laws and books and all the other little boxes Men have to put words into now.

There was a time when everything had a voice and a spirit… and it was of a wild nature… connecting all things without regard to matter or species… there were no boundaries between raven and woman and root and stream…

Spoken words carried weight in those days… perhaps it was the patterns of rhythm and sound… of music and poetry… what was spoken affected things for generations…

There were some in those days who spoke not of the world, but spoke it into being.

Those times seem to have passed away… yet every once in a while, something stirs those old times… and some words waken…and then, for that moment…

Anything can happen.

We are crossing the mountains of the hooded woman,
following the trail of her cloak.
Somewhere in the hills is a shining lake,
somewhere on the lake is a woman.
The sun rises earlier each day,
but it grows colder, colder,
Where is the season of my heart?

She grows into me like trees, like moss.
She becomes the season of my Heart.
I am a sunny lake, I am a cold sea mist.
I am darkness upon the wings of geese.
I breathe in the knowledge of my death.
And I remember all her names at once.

*Seasons of the Witch by Patricia Monaghan

The next few days were spent preparing for the journey to Akkadia. They prepared packs for the Eacha with their clothing, foodstuffs, blankets and other essentials. At last they were ready to depart on the morning of the third day. As they were leaving, they placed spells of enchantment and protection over their home and the surrounding lands and waters, so that it and the birds would remain safe until their return.

For several hours they rode through the mountains in silence. The Eacha were considerate of their riders and gave hardly a jostle as they traveled. They stopped by a stream at midday and spread a blanket on the grass under a willow tree, where they ate lunch. When they’d finished eating and had packed everything and were mounting up, Lodan said, “I have an idea. let’s tell stories to each other as we travel, it will make the journey go a little faster.”

Áine smiled, “Alright, you start, since it was your idea.”

“Ahhh… ye got me there, lass,” he laughed, “alright, I’ll start…

“Once upon a time, as all good stories start, there was a beautiful maiden named Sinánn who was crouched behind a hedge, secretly watching some wizards doing incantations in a grove of hazel trees near a water well made of crystal. As the wizards put the final touches on the ogham runes incised into the crystal well, the chief among them touched the base of the well with his long alder wand. Immediately water rose and fell in a graceful arc, fracturing into a million tiny diamonds in the first slanting rays of the dawn. He then touched each of the seven hazel trees that surrounded the fountain, linking them to it in a protective circle. The leaves on the trees began to shake violently, the berries pulsed and throbbed and almost before their eyes, the hazelnuts swelled and hardened.

“The chief wizard raised his arms and said, ‘See here, the Fruit of Knowledge.’ The other wizards murmured amongst themselves as the old man went from tree to tree inspecting the fruit. ‘They are all perfect; our task is complete.’ He leaned upon his long staff of alder and his hard grey eyes softened as they stared into the morning sun. ‘It is the beginning of the end,’ he said. With the sun at his back, he walked away from the small grove surrounding the crystal well.

“‘How long will it last?,’ asked one of the younger wizards. ‘Until humankind learns to breach its defenses,’ replied one of the older wizards. He gestured towards the grove. ‘We have gathered together the entire knowledge of the Sídhe in those seven trees and in the fruit they bear, we must not allow it to fall into the wrong hands…’ Their voices faded as they passed beyond the maiden and disappeared amongst the trees.

“Sinánn waited until she was sure they had gone before coming out from behind the hedge. The sun sparkled off her dark hair and she raised her hand and shielded her eyes from the sun. Slowly she walked towards the grove. Even from a distance it radiated magic and power. The trees were more delicate than normal hazels, their branches longer and the colors of their leaves more vibrant… only the fruit seemed the same. But the fruit of the trees contained the Seven Branches of Learning… the entire knowledge of the Sídhe.

“And it was hers for the taking.

“Sinánn grinned and thought to herself that if she only had all that Knowledge to herself, she could destroy the rest of the Sídhe folk and rule the younger race of Man. And she would be immortal. She stood beside the well, touching the crystal blocks. The well was surprisingly warm to her touch and soft, rather like skin, yet the water itself was cold, ice-cold. She knew that the wizards did not intend to leave the grove here; she knew that they intended to shift it beyond the world of Man to a place apart, where it would be accessible only to someone with great knowledge and magical power.

“She put her hand in the water, and felt delight at the tingling sensation that engulfed her hand and forearm. She could feel the power of the place crawl over her body. With a shiver she reached out her hand to pluck one of the hazelnuts… and the well seemed to erupt in all directions. An icy hand gripped the maiden and dashed her against the ground again and again. She retched as foul water forced its way into her lungs, choking her, drowning her.

“The maiden panicked, her arms thrashed wildly and her legs scrambled to keep her upright, but the grove was gone; the well was gone; there was nothing there but a world of ice-cold water, which burned her throat and eyes like fire. She was lifted higher and higher in the column of water. She tried to scream, but there was no sound. The water continued to rise, and rise… until suddenly, it fell. The huge wave carried the shattered lifeless body of Sinánn south and west, cutting a deep and wide swath through the lush countryside, until it reached the Western Ocean.” Lodan paused for effect.

“And then?” Áine asked.

“Oh,… it was a magnificent river… the Shannon,” Lodan grinned at her.

Later that evening Áine and Lodan were relaxing in the library, a warm fire burning in the small fireplace in the corner. Áine sat at the desk writing a list of items to bring with them on the trip to Akkadia. Lodan was comfortably seated in the overstuffed chair, smoking a clay pipe filled with aromatic tobacco.

“I think maybe we should take rooms at the Hart & Ale while we’re there, Lodan. I haven’t met the new DreamMistress or ShadowMistress yet, and I’d hate to impose on their hospitality before we’ve even had a chance to get to know each other.”

“Aye, I don’t know many folks there either,” he said, “I’ve kept away from the city for so long, I doubt anyone there would remember me… no telling how long has passed really… just the same, I’d rather not have a grand entrance or anything like that.” He puffed on his pipe and blew circles in the air that seemed to dance ’round the room.

“Well, we could probably skirt around that, if we put our minds to it,” Áine smiled, “there’s plenty of out-of-fashion clothes in this place, and with a little glamoury we could alter our appearances enough that we wouldn’t be easily recognized. Besides, it might be fun to see Akkadia like that.” She leaned back in her chair, thinking about it. As she did that, the chair slid a little ways backward and it’s leg became stuck in a crevice in the floor and nearly toppled her out of the chair.

“Whoa! What’s this?” she quickly recovered her balance and stood up and turned around. Looking down she noticed a patch in the floor where the boards appeared to be loose, the chair leg was stuck in there. Lodan came over, moved the chair aside, and had a look. He felt along the edges of the floor boards and lightly tugged at one, which caused a small section of the floor to lift up, revealing a hidden compartment below the floor.

“There appears to be something in there,” he said, as he reached down into the hole. He pulled out an ebony box with ornate filigree leaf designs of silver and gold inlaid in the wood. He placed the box on the desk and the two of them examined it carefully. On first appearance it seemed solid with no means of opening it. Áine traced the design with her fingertip, then suddenly pressed down on one of the leaves in the top, and the box sprung open. “How did you…?” Lodan looked at her, and she had this mischievous grin on her face. “I had a box something like this one when I was young,” she said, “it was a puzzle box, and this one seemed similar to that one, so it wasn’t difficult to find the secret to open it. Of course, if you’d never had a puzzle like this before, it might have taken a while to figure out the secret to it.”

Inside the box was a sheaf of parchments, quite yellowed with age. The writings were difficult to make out and were in an archaic language that Áine could only catch a few words of here and there. As she was examining the parchments, Lodan replaced the floor boards, and it was as if there had never been an opening in the floor at all.

“Hmmm… something about the crafting of a jewel…,” she said aloud.

“Well, read it!” Lodan said anxiously, “I want to know what it says, too!”

“I can’t make out all the words,… it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen this tongue in writing… but I’ll try,” she brought the parchments closer to the oil lamp and began to read…

“Long ago, when I was a… ummm… lad?… living in the… something Mountains… something or other… western region of… hmmm, I can’t make that part out… anyway … I heard a tale told… in the deep darkness of something, I think that’s the name of a moon phase… hard to tell… ’round the hearth fire on a cold winter’s night… something about the adults thinking I was asleep and they spoke in whispers?… no… hushed tones… about a jewelsmith who… lived deep within the mountains… whose name was… Gr… Grian… Grianánda? {sunny countenance]… the greatest of his something something craft… in all the Isles. Grianánda… the jewelsmith… loved all green things that grew… something something… hard to read this, it’s faded badly… his greatest joy was to see the sunlight through the… ummm… trees?… no… leaves of trees. It?… an idea!… came into his heart… to create a… jewel… something about capturing the light of the sun within it… so that it should… be lit within and… hmmm… sparkle with the light as green as the sun through the leaves… Grianánda labored for… something… years?… to make this jewel and… at last he succeeded… and all of the… other craftsmen?… for leagues around… something… admired and marvelled… over the jewel… It was said… that those who… looked through the stone?… no… gem… saw things that were…. withered?… or burned… healed again… or as they were in their youth… and that… the hands of anyone who… held it… could then heal… something… something… that they touched… healing from hurt… and then it goes on from there… as I grew in… years?… the tale was… as if stuck… in my head… and I had to know… something… something… tale was true… and so I snuck away one night and went in search of… any word of it or the jewelsmith … within the mountains… journeyed for several years… something… something… got lost… and then found myself in a valley of… deepest green… there’s more here but I can’t make it out until almost the end where it says… I came back to my village to find it burnt… everyone dead… the gem could not bring back the dead… something… something… and I was too late to help them… something… and I put the jewel in the box.”

“There’s nothing else written here. No name on the parchments… nothing,” Áine said. Under the parchments, inset in the bottom of the ebony box lay a small bag made of green silk.

“Let’s see what’s in the bag,” Lodan said, reaching for it.

“Do you think we should touch it?” asked Áine.

“Hmm… you’re right. What if we just pour it out onto the paper to look at it and not touch it? That way we can use the paper to put it back in the bag afterwards?” Lodan grinned at her.

Áine chuckled, then said, “You’re right, I can’t see any harm in that.” So Lodan opened the green silk bag and carefully poured the contents onto the parchment. The green jewel slid out of the bag, across the paper, along the desk and right into Áine’s hand, as if self-propelled. She almost dropped it with surprise, but managed to hang onto it. The stone was set in a silver and gold filigree leaf design, as if caged in leaves, and hung on a silver and gold necklace chain of intertwining leaves.

“Heh, too late, I’ve touched it now,” she said just as a bright green light shot out of the jewel and lit up the entire room for a moment. So blinding was the light that neither of them could see much of anything but green for a short while afterwards. Slowly the light faded and retreated back into the jewel so that it glowed faintly in the firelight.

“I’ve done it now, haven’t I?” Lodan whispered, a worried look on his face.

“Áine, are you alright?” Lodan whispered, for he could see tears welling up in her eyes, and he thought she must be hurt.

“Aye… I am alright, Lodan…” she sighed deeply, then turned and looked into the flames of the fireplace, her eyes flashing a deep blue-green color. “I am well acquainted with grief, not the least of which is my own,… yet at this moment, I weep not for myself, but for the World of Men… and for every wound that they have suffered… and for the nightmares that have marred their Dreaming…” she wiped her eyes. “In that moment of the green light of the sun coming through the leaves, the sound of mourning was foremost in the great Song, and I could hear it plainly just then… and I saw my place in that Song clearly, as well.”

Lodan was deeply touched, for he understood just what she meant. Áine, you bring strength to their spirits, and you turn their sorrow into wisdom, he said to her in mindspeak. She turned to him, a soft smile coming to her face through shining tears.

“Perhaps I make a small difference, eh?” she whispered, wiping her eyes again. He came over to her and knelt by her chair, then reached up and softly touched her face with his fingertips.

“You make more of a difference than you think, muirnín [beloved], though you hide behind a facade of stone sometimes… yet I can see why… I have hurt you deeply, as others have. It has been a long series of hurts for you,” he kissed her cheek and ran his fingers through her long hair, and then he whispered into her ear, “Is mór an méala é duine a ghrá. [It is very sad to love someone.]”

“Aye, sad and happy too…” she paused, “Níl níos fearr le fáil [There is nothing better to be had],” she whispered back to him, the firelight flickering on their faces. “We’d best get to our bed, my love, it is nearly daybreak,” she said, “and we have plenty to do tomorrow.”

He smiled, and helped her up from the chair. Áine placed the leaf necklace with it’s glowing green gem back into the green silk bag, and put it and the parchments back into the ebony box and closed it. The lid locked with a click. “I must bring this with us to show Dagoba, perhaps she knows more about it,” Áine said, “I’ll go and visit her after we’re settled in our rooms at the Hart & Ale.” Lodan nodded, and followed her out of the library and into the bedroom.