Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

Gull. Gull and Evan. Father and son? “Breathe,” Evan says. “Breathe.” I try. Who would have dreamed it could be so difficult?

    She was here. Stillness in person, telling me a story of trees and water and magical beings. She was here by my bed, her fingers gentle, her voice sweet and clear as a mountain stream. She was here, and now she is gone. Even the dog is gone.

    After a long time, I breathe more easily. Evan washes me and changes my clothing. I piss in the pan he holds. They move away to study the contents, their faces grave. Something wrong. Evan puts on a reassuring face and comes to feed me broth. It is light outside. A cold wind whispers under the door. He asks me the same questions again. A patient man. What is your name? Do you understand Irish? I have no answers.

    Time passes. Bright light: someone has opened the shutters. Outside the sun shines, but it is cold. I am always cold. The dog has not come back. I miss its small form next to me. Its breathing warmth, its sighs and grumbles remind me that I am alive. I think I am alive.

    The rustle of a skirt over by the bench. My heart jumps. She’s here! I manage to turn my head; the effort exhausts me. There is a woman, slight, dark, bending over a seated man. My heart plummets. Not Sibeal but the other one, the healer, wrapping a cloth around the fellow’s arm. I close my eyes. I want to speak. I want to ask. I rehearse it in my mind. Where is she? Where is she with her listening eyes and her truth-speaking voice? I will not ask, lest they tell me I only imagined her.

    I sleep. Waves crash, men scream, something rears huge and dark. I wake sweating, dizzy, the chamber moving around me. I must . . . I have to . . . Compulsion hammers in my blood and whips my heart to a breakneck gallop. Quick, quick, almost too late . . . The desperate images fade and are gone. By my bed sits the other sister, the one with flaming hair and skin like fresh cream. Perhaps I have been shouting. She dabs my face with a cloth, her eyes narrowed as she examines me.
    “Better now?” she asks with a little smile. “Do you remember me? My name is Clodagh. You seem much troubled by your dreams. Breathe slowly.”
    She sits there quietly while I struggle to obey. Pain attends each inward gasp; I consider the elements of it, the tight band around my chest, the raw, burned sensation in my throat, the twinge up my neck and at my temple.
    “You’re fortunate to be alive,” Clodagh says, touching her cool cloth to my brow. “Sibeal saved your life.”
    Sibeal! I don’t intend to speak the name aloud, but perhaps my lips form the shape of it, because her eyes widen.
    “You do understand,” she murmurs. “Sibeal thought you might have some Irish. She’s gone off for the day. To the seer’s cave, to pray and meditate. She will be back by supper time.”
    A dark-haired man enters, and Clodagh gets up to greet him. “Cathal!”
    I watch them as they talk. When Cathal looks at Clodagh, his eyes soften. She turns the same tender gaze on him. She is heavy with child. Husband and wife, I think. There is a strangeness about Cathal, a touch of the night forest, the mist over the lake, the forbidden well. He puts me in mind of Sibeal’s striking tale. Now he is telling his wife that she looks tired and should be resting, not tending to me.
    “Muirrin’s coming back soon,” she says calmly. “I’m fine, Cathal. You know how hard I find it to be idle.”
    Cathal glowers. He looks formidable. “What about the child?”
    “Women dig gardens and weave blankets and gather crops all the time, and the children they carry are none the worse for it,” Clodagh tells him, formidable in her turn. “I will do perfectly well here until Muirrin gets back. Don’t you have some work of your own to do, with these visitors due any day?”
    “Dear one,” Cathal says, putting his arms around her, “I’m sorry. I can’t help worrying.” He touches the place where her gown covers the shape