thing, Fainne."
"Yes, Grandmother."
We walked out of the Honeycomb to the point where the cliff path stretched ahead all the way down to the shore and along to the western end of the cove, where Dan Walker and his folk would be making ready for departure. And there, dark-cloaked, ashen-faced, stood my father, staring silent out over the sea. My heart gave a great lurch.
"I might walk down with you," Grandmother said. "See you on your way."
It's not easy to cast a spell over a fellow practitioner of the art. You need to be quick or you'll encounter a barrier or counter-spell, and your efforts will be entirely wasted. This was exceptionally quick. In an instant, without so much as a glance at each other, both Father and I threw nets of immobility over Grandmother, so that she was held there in place from both left and right, feet rooted to the rock, mouth slightly open, eyes frozen in piercing annoyance.
"She'll be angry," I remarked to Father as we set off down the path, he carrying my small wooden chest on his shoulder, I clutching a roll of bedding for the journey. Fiacha flew overhead.
"I'll deal with it," Father said calmly. I glanced at him and thought I detected a shadow of amusement in his dark eyes. But he was thin, so thin, and he seemed far older than he had last autumn, his cheeks hollow, his severe mouth bracketed by new lines of pain. "Now, Fainne, we don't have long. Are you well? This will have been a difficult time for you, a time of great change. It was hard for me to leave you thus; hard but necessary. Are you ready for this journey now, daughter?"
I picked my way with caution down the narrow, steep pathway. It had been raining, and the surface was treacherous. Questions raced through my head. How could you let your own mother do this to you? And, Why didn't you tell me the truth? And, strongest of all, Will I ever see you again? I could not ask any of them, for Grandmother would know, and it would be my father who was punished for it. I longed to throw my arms around him and blurt out the whole truth, and be a child again in a world where the rules made sense. I could not tell him anything.
"Yes, I'm ready," I said, feeling an odd sensation behind my eyes, as if I were about to cry.
"Sure?"
"Yes, Father."
So we walked on in silence, and it seemed to me that although we walked quite slowly, as if reluctant to reach the end, we were very soon down on the level track that skirted the strand, and Dan and Peg and the jostle of bright-clad folk were in sight along the path.
"Father," I said abruptly.
"Yes, Fainne?"
"I want to say—I want to thank you for being such a good teacher. To thank you for your wisdom and your patience—and— and for letting me find things out for myself. For trusting me."
He said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, his voice was a touch unsteady. "Fainne, it is difficult for me to say this to you."
"What, Father?"
"I - you need not go, if you do not wish to do so. If, in your heart, you feel this way is not for you, you have that choice."
"Not go?" My heart thumped. Now, now that it was too late, he told me I could stay, and I was forbidden to say yes. I cleared my throat. I had never lied to him before. "When we have come so far, not do this for you? Do I not owe it to my mother to go back to Sevenwaters and become what she would wish me to be? Surely I must go." And, oh, how I longed to tell him I would give anything to stay with him in Kerry, and have things be as they once were. But he was my father, and for his own sake I must find the courage to leave him.
"I wished—I simply wished you to understand that ultimately, what occurs, what develops, is for you to determine. And—and, Fainne, this may be a far greater, a far more momentous unfolding of events than either you or I have ever envisaged. So important that I would not dare put it into words for you. We are what we are by birth and by blood. Over that, we have no control.
"Yes, Grandmother."
We walked out of the Honeycomb to the point where the cliff path stretched ahead all the way down to the shore and along to the western end of the cove, where Dan Walker and his folk would be making ready for departure. And there, dark-cloaked, ashen-faced, stood my father, staring silent out over the sea. My heart gave a great lurch.
"I might walk down with you," Grandmother said. "See you on your way."
It's not easy to cast a spell over a fellow practitioner of the art. You need to be quick or you'll encounter a barrier or counter-spell, and your efforts will be entirely wasted. This was exceptionally quick. In an instant, without so much as a glance at each other, both Father and I threw nets of immobility over Grandmother, so that she was held there in place from both left and right, feet rooted to the rock, mouth slightly open, eyes frozen in piercing annoyance.
"She'll be angry," I remarked to Father as we set off down the path, he carrying my small wooden chest on his shoulder, I clutching a roll of bedding for the journey. Fiacha flew overhead.
"I'll deal with it," Father said calmly. I glanced at him and thought I detected a shadow of amusement in his dark eyes. But he was thin, so thin, and he seemed far older than he had last autumn, his cheeks hollow, his severe mouth bracketed by new lines of pain. "Now, Fainne, we don't have long. Are you well? This will have been a difficult time for you, a time of great change. It was hard for me to leave you thus; hard but necessary. Are you ready for this journey now, daughter?"
I picked my way with caution down the narrow, steep pathway. It had been raining, and the surface was treacherous. Questions raced through my head. How could you let your own mother do this to you? And, Why didn't you tell me the truth? And, strongest of all, Will I ever see you again? I could not ask any of them, for Grandmother would know, and it would be my father who was punished for it. I longed to throw my arms around him and blurt out the whole truth, and be a child again in a world where the rules made sense. I could not tell him anything.
"Yes, I'm ready," I said, feeling an odd sensation behind my eyes, as if I were about to cry.
"Sure?"
"Yes, Father."
So we walked on in silence, and it seemed to me that although we walked quite slowly, as if reluctant to reach the end, we were very soon down on the level track that skirted the strand, and Dan and Peg and the jostle of bright-clad folk were in sight along the path.
"Father," I said abruptly.
"Yes, Fainne?"
"I want to say—I want to thank you for being such a good teacher. To thank you for your wisdom and your patience—and— and for letting me find things out for myself. For trusting me."
He said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, his voice was a touch unsteady. "Fainne, it is difficult for me to say this to you."
"What, Father?"
"I - you need not go, if you do not wish to do so. If, in your heart, you feel this way is not for you, you have that choice."
"Not go?" My heart thumped. Now, now that it was too late, he told me I could stay, and I was forbidden to say yes. I cleared my throat. I had never lied to him before. "When we have come so far, not do this for you? Do I not owe it to my mother to go back to Sevenwaters and become what she would wish me to be? Surely I must go." And, oh, how I longed to tell him I would give anything to stay with him in Kerry, and have things be as they once were. But he was my father, and for his own sake I must find the courage to leave him.
"I wished—I simply wished you to understand that ultimately, what occurs, what develops, is for you to determine. And—and, Fainne, this may be a far greater, a far more momentous unfolding of events than either you or I have ever envisaged. So important that I would not dare put it into words for you. We are what we are by birth and by blood. Over that, we have no control.
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