And finally, at that very moment, a third magic came pouring towards her from the western hills. This magic took the form, not of a sight or an audible call to her ears, but of a silent urging, a pulsing of the earth beneath her, an insistent tugging of the wind, on which was borne the scent of moss-covered bark, rotting leaves and fertile earth. Sinead had but to close her eyes and she could envision the peaceful clearing with the babbling brook, the soothing shade of the overhead canopy and the strangely compassionate half-stag awaiting her coming. Oddly, the scene was no longer a dreaded or troubling one.

Onwards all three streams of magic travelled down the hills, racing towards her — competing, Sinead imagined, to see which would claim her from the other, for clearly she could not belong to the water, the meadow and the wood.

She could do no more than stand motionless and wait to discover her fate. Running would have been fruitless. Dashing into the frail little cottage? What good could that do? No, she summoned her courage and waited, waited.

They were all but simultaneous, the magics, as they slammed into her. It was impossible to guess which had reached her first. Caught up in the heart of the roaring whirlwind of the clashing powers of lake, meadow and forest, Sinead was knocked to her knees.

The gale whipped her hair into her face, showering her in a hail of forest leaves, of forest sights and scents.

She sensed invisible torrents of water beating at her, tossing her helplessly about like a twig in a stream.

The brightness of the sunlight was blinding, burning, scorching through her.

With angry fury the three magics fought over her, until Sinead thought surely when they were done there would be no scraps of her left for any to have. Perhaps that was their intention?

And then suddenly. The storm abated. As swiftly as they had descended upon her the three magics now abandoned their fight. The torrent of lake voices seeped away, back into the northern hills. The bright beams of sunlight faded back to the dull grey of early morning. The powerful gale of forest magic died down to a whisper of a breeze, then swirled away back over the hills to the wood beyond.

At last Sinead was left alone.

Exhausted after the ordeal, it seemed to require a great amount of effort for her to pull herself upright. Yet when she stood and looked down it was to discover herself still very much a living human being. There were no scales or gills, no delicate feet worn frail and bloody with endless dancing, no antlers or fur. She had not been transformed into anything mad or grotesque but remained simply. herself — which suddenly seemed like a very plain thing to be.

Why did none of them take me? I don’t understand.

And then, she did. It is left to be mine. My choice. Since none of the magics could prevail they had struck a compromise, had left their victim to choose the manner of her doom.

Yet oddly enough, it hardly felt like any doom at all. Not any more. Her decision was all too easily made.

As she made her way lightly up the hill path towards her destination, she looked ahead to her new life in a different, exciting home. She even found herself envisioning a particular figure awaiting her and felt an unexpected thrill of anticipation.

Over the passing years, the poor widow living in the little cottage at the foot of the hills found her life markedly improved. Once she had been an impoverished woman. Her health had been poor. She and her only child had dressed shabbily and often gone hungry.

All of that changed the morning she awoke to find her poor young daughter had disappeared, stolen away for ever by some cruel fate.

And yet. life suddenly became so much easier once her beloved Sinead was gone. Little piles of food suddenly began appearing on her doorstep at odd hours. Heaps of berries and dry twigs for her fire were often found nearby, left by an invisible hand. Fever-wort was a frequent gift from the widow’s mysterious visitors; great bunches of the stuff decorated her windows and grew along the edges of the cottage.

And sometimes. sometimes when she rose in the early hours of the morning she would step outside to find two beautiful deer grazing on the dew-soaked grass at the edge of her garden — a mighty stag and a graceful doe. Strangely, from a distance there was something almost. human about the pair.

Cindy Holby

Quicksilver

Ireland — 545


Conn Daithi ignored the mist that swirled around him and kept on riding. Even though he was well seasoned in the art of war, he knew his sword and shield would not be of much help for him against the undead spirits that hid in the shadows of the fog. ’Twas Samhain and the air around him swirled as the veil between his world and the next threatened to split apart. Those who lingered at the edge were anxious to show their displeasure at the prospect of Christianity coming to their kingdom even though the stones of the abbey at Sligo were only recently placed.

The mountains of Ben Bulbin were long behind him. He made for Imleach Iseal on the coast. He had seen the festival bonfires earlier but they had long since disappeared into the mist. Niul tossed his head as if to shed the water that dampened his dark-as-night coat and Conn placed a reassuring hand against the stallion’s neck. They were both weary of travel and of the ceaseless battles that raged across the Isle. Conn wanted nothing more than to escape the demands put upon him by the highest bidder for his sword arm yet he was forever trapped by the sea. He’d lost too many brothers, too many friends and too much time to war. Mayhap here, in this small fishing village, he could find a boat that would take him and Niul away from this place. Mayhap then, he would find some peace.

Conn could smell the sea and he took deep gulping breaths, hoping it would cleanse his lungs of the scents of death. He trusted Niul and gave the horse his head as they picked their way among the boulders that lined the slope between field and shore. As they moved downwards, the mist cleared somewhat, revealing thin lines of clouds that partially shadowed the full moon. Even though the air was chill, his skin felt moist beneath his leather jerkin and linen chainse, as if it were the middle of summer instead of the end of the harvest season. Stranger still, jagged flashes of light danced across the sky even though there was no sign of rain. Conn saw the outline of a tower in the distance.

Túr Rí. The tower was old and legends surrounded it. It was built by the Fomorian king, Conan, who then slaughtered the workers when the task was done. Wars had been raged and the Nemedians had defeated them, but it was said that the Fomorians were once more in possession of the island. There was also talk of a mighty warrior called Balor who could kill just by staring at his opponent with the one eye centred in his forehead. Conn put more trust in his sword than in whispered legends. If someone could kill him with a look he would have been dead long ago.

Niul snorted and jerked against the reins as they reached the packed sand that rolled into the sea. The wind strengthened and swirled about him, tossing his cloak in tandem with the thick mane of Niul. A shiver ran down his spine, a warrior’s intuition that he always obeyed. Conn urged Niul into a quick gait and his eyes ran over the sand to see if there were, indeed, a threat.

He saw something rolling in the waves. Niul danced sideways as Conn urged him onwards. He drew his sword from its sheath and held it easily in one hand while he grasped Niul’s reins with the other. A wave crashed on to the shore and with it came a body. Conn leaped over Niul’s neck and landed in the sand on the balls of his feet with his sword held before him.

The clouds suddenly parted from the moon and cast light down upon the beach as the waves carried the body back out. Conn waded into the surf and grabbed an arm. As he dragged the victim to shore, he realized that the body was that of a woman. She was completely nude except for her long pale hair, which was the same colour as the moonlight. It tangled about her hips and thighs like seaweed.

Conn buried his sword, point down, into the sand and knelt beside her. He leaned in close to hear her heart beat. She was tall and thin with small breasts and narrow hips but he paid no mind to her form beyond wanting to know if she was alive or dead. A gasping breath gurgled in her throat, which gave him hope. Conn pulled her up by the shoulders and bent her over his arm before giving her back a sound thump. She gagged and coughed and then spewed forth water from the sea.

«There, lass,» he said. «’Twill be better once it is gone.»

She nodded as she clung to his arm. Her back was to him, revealing a long knobby spine and the definition of her ribs. It was obvious she had not eaten for a good long while. Amidst the tangle of her hair he saw a symbol etched into her shoulder. He pushed her hair aside and examined a double blue triangle formed by three curving lines. He traced it with his fingertip.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glanced quickly over her shoulder. He caught the flash of her quicksilver eyes and saw the tips of her ears jutting though her hair. In the next moment he was flat on his back, lying in the sand, and the point of his sword was at his throat.

«Sidh.» He watched her warily. The Sidh were known for moving quicker than men and being deceptively strong despite their slim and willowy builds. It was the first time he’d ever met one face to face. «Until now, I did not think ye truly existed.»