The Dark Mirror (8 page)

A chill draft was whispering in; Bridei’s toes could feel it. He shivered again. That something, whatever it was, the something that had woken him and brought him here
into the dark of a winter night, was telling him now that he must step outside. With careful fingers, slowly for quiet, Bridei slid the great bolt across. He opened the heavy oaken door on the blanketing snow, the midwinter hush, the blue moonlight. The landscape was indeed wondrous under that shining. All was touched by it, touched to magic. The dark oak trunks were sage old druids, stoic and strong
in the cold; the slender, graceful birches were forest spirits, dreaming of the fine cloaks of silver-green the springtime would give them to clothe their nakedness. In the distance, the pond gleamed like a mirror of polished silver, showing the moon an image of her own lovely face, remote and wise.

It was freezing cold. His toes were starting to go numb. They were probably turning blue. Bridei
glanced down to check them.

And there it was: what he had been called here to find. On the step, right by his bare feet, was a small basket somewhat like the one Mara used for storing hanks of wool. But this was no sturdy affair of willow wattles. This was made of all sorts of things, feathers, grasses, fragile skeleton leaves, a little
twiggy branch with red berries on it, bark and creepers
and flowers that had no business being here in the middle of winter. The basket was lined with swansdown and had a pair of handles of plaited reeds, with holed stones threaded on them in threes and fives and sevens. The basket was not a thing of human make. The person who lay tucked up in it was . . . very small. Extremely small, and probably very cold. Bridei knelt down on the step, scarcely breathing
as the moon gleamed on this gift as if to show him exactly what she had brought for him. The very small person seemed to be asleep. It wore a kind of bonnet with white fur all around, and had a wee blanket striped in many colors pulled up to its chin. Its face was pearly white, moon-white, as pale as the pelt of a winter hare. Weren’t little babies supposed to be red-faced and ugly? This one
had delicate dark lashes and a mouth that was pink and solemn-looking. Bridei stared, entranced. A brother. A little brother. He wouldn’t be by himself anymore. Heart pounding, he rose to his feet, looking up at that great, silver orb in the dark sky. His hands moved in the sign of acknowledgment and reverence; it was clear to him that he would be in her debt forever.

“Thank you,” he whispered,
bowing in the way his foster father had taught him. “I’ll look after him, I promise. I swear it on my life.”

He reached down to pick up the basket, and halted. The small person was awake. Its eyes, gazing up at him gravely, were moon-bright, star-clear, of no color and every color. They were eyes like a dream, like a deep well, like a magical tale with no ending. Perhaps they were blue, but it
was not like any other blue in the world. The small person stirred, and a hand no larger than an acorn came out from the striped blanket, reaching for something invisible.

“There,” Bridei said, bending to tuck the little creature’s arm back in, for if he was shivering from cold what must such a mite be feeling? The tiny hand fastened on his finger, holding tight. Bridei’s heart was acting strangely,
as if it were tumbling about in his breast. “You’ll be safe here, I promise.”

It was only after he had carried the basket and its occupant inside and bolted the door behind him that Bridei realized he would have to think fast. This was a place of order and discipline, a place where all moved to the tune of Broichan’s life and Broichan’s path. None of the people who lived here, Mara, Ferat, Donal
and the others, ever spoke of families. Even Fidich, who lived in his own small dwelling, had no wife, no sons to learn the patterns of farming. Broichan’s house was no place for children. This newborn would not be received with open arms. Indeed, it would be doubly unwelcome, for
there was no doubt at all it was a gift from
them
, from the Good Folk. The moon had guided them to Bridei’s door.
And while an ordinary foundling would be kept warm, fed milk, and probably passed on to a childless couple in one of the settlements for rearing, a child of the forest would not be treated so kindly. Bridei had heard folk talking; such a gift was considered more curse than blessing.

It was useful, at such times, to have begun a druidic education. The basket stood on the kitchen floor, a dark
oval. The face of the infant was a circle of white, translucent as if it bore some of the moonlight within. The eyes remained open, following Bridei calmly as he moved about, searching. A key, he needed a key. That charm was supposed to keep an infant safe; to keep it at home. If it stopped folk from stealing a baby away, wouldn’t it also make those inside want to keep the child? He prayed that it
was so. There had to be a key somewhere. He must be quick; if the baby began to cry, and someone woke up, they’d set the basket straight outside again and his little brother would freeze to death the way Uven nearly had. Quickly then, stop rummaging around and use his wits, as Broichan would have bid him do . . . Bridei stood still and concentrated. A key, he’d seen one, a tiny key with a curly bit
on top . . . Yes, the spice box, Ferat’s prized coffer of yew, that had such a key, and he knew where the cook hid it, it was right up there behind the oil jar. Bridei slipped it off its hook and, moving silently on his bare feet, put his hand down the side of the little basket, between the blanket and the soft, feathery lining. The key settled at the bottom, hidden, secret. Now nobody could send
the baby away.

What Bridei really wanted to do was go back to his own chamber, where nobody could see, and keep his remarkable gift safe for as long as possible. He could not stop looking at those tiny, perfect features, the strange eyes that were both innocent and knowing, the little fingers like delicate petals. But it was cold in his room. Besides, Bridei understood that newborn creatures,
such as early lambs, needed a lot of looking after. There’d need to be warm milk. How would they manage that in the middle of winter? There’d probably be all sorts of other things he knew nothing about. He carried the basket through into the hall and settled on the stone floor near the sleeping hounds. One of the dogs growled soft and low, and Bridei hushed it.

He reached into the basket, hands
careful as if gathering eggs, and lifted the infant out. It felt warm and relaxed and weighed no more than a rabbit. It was clad in a kind of cloak, fur-lined, and a gown underneath so fine-woven,
so lacy, the thread might have been spun from cobweb or thistledown. The child’s lower parts were swathed in a bulky and practical piece of woolen cloth. Though this was undeniably damp, Bridei didn’t
think he could do much about it, having no handy substitute. So he held the baby in his arms, rocking it a little, and the clear, strange eyes gazed up at him as if working out just what to make of him. A lock of hair had escaped the confines of the bonnet and curled, black as soot, over the pale brow.

“It’s all right,” Bridei said in an undertone, just for the two of them. “I won’t leave you
on your own. I’ll tell you a story every night, and play with you every day, and keep you safe from the Urisk. I promise.”

PERHAPS THE GOOD
Folk had made sure the infant’s belly was full of milk before they left the child for the moon to dispose of. At any rate, it was not until the late winter sunrise began to send its low
light through the chinks and crannies around the door that the child became suddenly hungry and began a shrill squalling that brought the whole household instantly awake. The dogs began to bark, the men groaned and stretched cramped limbs, and Mara, one hand to her head, got slowly to her feet and took two steps toward the spot where Bridei, startled from sleep, sat by the hearth with the red-faced,
bawling infant in his arms. Mara’s shrewd eyes took in the strange, small basket, the swansdown lining, the tiny robe edged in white fur; they moved to the child itself, now looking more like any other hungry newborn, yet still notable for the pale, clear eyes, the delicate hands, the curl of coal-black hair. Then Mara looked straight at Bridei. He held the child to him tightly and stared back.
They’d better not try to take his baby brother.

Mara moved her fingers in an age-old gesture, the sign to ward off evil. Behind her, the men were doing the same. “Black Crow save us,” she said, squatting down, “what have you been up to, Bridei? Here, give it to me.”

Bridei held on grimly.

“Come on, lad. Use your head. Can’t you see what that is? Just think what your foster father would say.
Give it to me, quick now. The longer it stays within these four walls the more ill it’s likely to bring down on all of us. And with Broichan close to death and far from home, that’s just what we don’t need here.”

Elpin reached down as if to take the child. The expression on his face was
that of a person forced to touch something he finds repulsive or dangerous, such as an adder.

Bridei edged
away. “He just wants milk,” he said over the racket. Who would have thought such a scrap of a thing could make so much din? He could feel the cries vibrating right through the child’s fragile body. “Shh, shh, you’ll be all right,” he whispered.

“Milk, is it?” inquired Mara. “And where do you think we’ll find that in the middle of winter, with the cows and sheep all dry as a bone?” She stood with
hands on hips, stolid as a big guard dog set on seeing an intruder off the premises.

“Best put it back out quick,” Elpin said. “They say if you do that, the—the Others, they’ll come and take such a child away again. If you don’t leave it too long, that is.”

“Pretty cold out there,” observed Uven doubtfully. “The babe’s very small.”

“What’s all this?” Ferat had been roused from his bed by the
noise, and now wandered in with tousled hair and the look of a man whose head aches mightily. “Where did that come from, lad? Here, give us a hold—that’s it—” And with a deft dip and lift, the cook scooped the infant from Bridei’s arms and moved nearer to the hall fire so he could examine it more closely. He seemed to know what he was doing; after a scrutiny of the red, crumpled features he put
the child against his shoulder, began a rhythmic patting of its back and, miraculously, the screaming died down to a thin, plaintive sobbing.

“It’s hungry, all right,” Ferat said. “And stinking like a midden—Mara, go and fetch some clean cloths, will you? Lad, stir up the kitchen fire for me, we need warm water.”

The others stood mute, staring at him. This morning he was definitely not himself.

“Go on, get a move on,” Ferat snapped in something closer to his usual tone. “Wee creature’s starving! What would Broichan say if he heard that fancies and superstitions made us treat a newborn babe worse than we would an orphan lamb? Shame on you!”

“That’s all very well,” said Mara, “but how are we to feed it? Besides, it’s not what Broichan would want. It’s not the right thing, and I can’t
believe you’d ever consider it—”

Bridei cleared his throat. “I was the one who brought him in. If my foster
father is angry, he can be angry with me. But you can’t put the baby out in the snow. He’d die.”

“Looks more like a lassie than a wee lad to me,” Ferat said, still patting. “And fey as they come, Mara’s right about that part. See how pale she is now she’s given up the shrieking for a bit?
Long lashes like a fine heifer’s, and a little rosebud mouth. She’s like a thing from a tale; a fine gift, is how I see it. Mara’ll tell you if it’s a girl when she changes these wrappings.”

“Me?” retorted Mara crossly, but she put the babe on the table and stripped off the dirty swaddling, and Ferat was right, it was a girl. Bridei was not at all sure how he felt about this. Duly washed and
rewrapped in the cloth Mara had fetched, the baby stayed in the housekeeper’s arms while Ferat did what he could with warm water and honey, and in a little, the tiny girl was being coaxed to suck the mixture from a rolled-up rag they dipped into the bowl, and was growing quieter. Uven and Elpin stood by watching; neither of them seemed in a hurry to be away. Ferat, in the kitchen, had summoned his
assistants and was busy cooking breakfast and talking the while.

“That won’t keep her happy long,” he called over the clanking of pots and pans. “Didn’t Cinioch say he’d a cousin that just lost a babe? You know the girl, went up to Black Isle to wed, but her man was killed while the child was still in her belly. She’s in the settlement down the lake, came back to her sister’s for the birthing.
The infant didn’t thrive; they buried him a day or two since. Can’t recall the girl’s name.”

“Brenna,” said Uven. “Shy little thing. Sad tale, that.”

“Aye,” said Mara, “sad indeed. But useful. That’s if we’re keeping this one.” She frowned at the infant, now cradled in Bridei’s arms once more as Mara squeezed a few more drops of the honeyed water into the small, neat mouth. The eyes gazed up
at her, pale and clear.

“Uven!” yelled Ferat. “Where’s Cinioch this morning?”

“On night watch.”

“Right. Get some breakfast into you then, and get up there as quick as you can. Tell him to come and talk to me before he does anything else. We need a wet-nurse; the longer we leave it, the more urgent it gets. Sounds like this Brenna might be just what we want.”