Chapter Five

The lady of the Forest had chosen our refuge well. It was close to the northern shore of the lake, at a spot where the curve of a small wooded promontory sheltered a tiny bay from view. Where the land rose above this bay there was a cave which owed as much to artful engineering as to nature. Although it was so near the shore, gnarled rowans and overhanging creepers concealed it completely from view, so it would be invisible from any track or thoroughfare. Some way further up the hill, in a small clearing, a tiny spring welled, and here herbs grew half wild, where once they had been cultivated by some solitary wanderer such as I. And all along the stream bed, all the way down to the lake, grew the strong stems and feathery leaves of starwort. This plant does not die down in winter, but remains green even in the coldest time. So I could start right away.

The cave itself had been a surprise. Its walls bore marks of careful excavation, and here and there they were engraved with mysterious symbols whose meaning I guessed at only dimly. I thought Conor would have known what warning or protection they gave, what tale they told. There were cavities in the walls, and not all were empty. I found blankets in an oiled wrapping, and several old cloaks, and a couple of knives with decorated bone handles and remarkably well-preserved blades. It seemed others had sheltered here before me, perhaps protected by the Fair Folk. More useful still, there was oatmeal in a crock, and a store of sweet, wrinkled apples.

The blankets were the best discovery, for it was close to midwinter, and I did not feel safe enough to light more than the smallest fire, lest my presence be detected. I was always cold, chill to the bone during the long nights, aching and slow on frosty mornings. I wrapped the blankets around myself and tried not to feel it.

Perhaps I was stupid to believe I could lift the spell. Too many stories, you might say, a head too full of old tales, where it’s just a matter of completing the tasks, and then the hero wins his heart’s desire. But I was not so foolish, even then. I had once told Simon he could make his tale end any way he liked. But this was not strictly true. I set my path straight ahead; but there were others that influenced its course, that diverted and changed and confused it. And as the Forest Lady had warned me, even at the start it would be very hard. Far harder than I had believed it could be when I had first listened white-faced to her description of my task.

Perhaps you have tried spinning or weaving, with flax maybe, or fine wool. It takes a toll on the hands, as the combing and twisting rubs and blisters the fingers, as the movement of the spindle starts to wear a deep aching into the joints. You can tell a spinner by her hands. As they give beauty to their work, the hands grow gnarled and twisted and old. The noble ladies of the ancient tales, Etain, and Sadb, who became a deer, and Niamh of the golden hair, whose name my mother had shared, they cannot have been spinners and weavers, for their hands are described as white and fair, decorated with silver rings, hands for a brave warrior to kiss when he returns victorious from battle. Hands suited to fine embroidery, or playing the harp. Slender fingers for masking a delicate yawn, or touching a lover’s cheek. The ladies in the old tales had never heard of starwort.