Brighid's Quest

Chapter 4

The first hybrid Brighid saw was doing something totally unexpected. He was laughing. The Huntress heard him before she saw him. His laughter rolled up the trail to meet them, punctuated by mock growls and youthful snarls.

“They like Fand,” Cuchulainn muttered in explanation.

The warrior and the Huntress finally stepped onto level ground and walked around a rough out-cropping of rock to see a winged man sprawled on his back in the middle of the trail. Tongue lolling and mouth open as if she were smiling, the young wolf cub’s paws were planted squarely on his chest.

“Fand rolled me, Cuchulainn. She’s growing so fast that in no time she’ll be a proper wolf,” he said, chuckling and scratching the cub’s scruff. When he glanced up and saw the centaur by Cu’s side, his eyes rounded in shock.

“Fand, here!” Cuchulainn ordered. This time the wolf chose to obey, hopping off the hybrid’s chest and loping back to her master.

The winged man stood quickly, brushing dirt and snow from his tunic, all the while keeping his large eyes fixed on Brighid.

“Gareth, this is—”

Gareth’s excited voice cut him off. “The Huntress, Brighid! It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Gareth. This is MacCallan’s Huntress, Brighid Dhianna.”

Gareth executed a quick, awkward bow, and Brighid realized that he was really just a tall, gangly youth who stared at her with open, awestruck delight.

“Well met, Brighid!” Gareth gushed, his voice cracking on her name.

Brighid could hear Cuchulainn’s sigh and she stifled a smile.

“Well met, Gareth,” she returned the greeting.

“Wait till I tell the others! They won’t believe it. You’re even more beautiful than Curran and Nevin described.”

Gareth started to rush away, then stopped, turned back and bowed sheepishly to Brighid again. The Huntress could have sworn that the youth’s cheeks were reddened with an embarrassed blush.

“Pardon me, Huntress. I’ll go tell the others that we have a visitor. Another one!” Then he turned and, with wings spread, all but flew down the path.

“Foolish boy,” Cuchulainn muttered.

Brighid raised a brow at the warrior. “I’m even more beautiful than Curran and Nevin described?”

Cuchulainn lifted his hands in a gesture of quiet frustration. “The twins tell stories in the evenings. You are a favorite subject.”

“Me? How can that be? Curran and Nevin hardly know me.”

“Apparently they put the short time they spent at MacCallan Castle to excellent use. They listened and observed. A lot. You know how the Clan likes to talk, and the more they talk, the more deeds grow. You didn’t just track Elphame in the night through the forest to find where she had fallen—you did it all in a lashing storm, too,” he said.

“I did nothing of the sort. The storm began on our way home. And it wasn’t full dark until after we found Elphame.”

Brighid tried to sound annoyed, but she couldn’t help the smile that played at the corner of her lips.

“And then there’s the story of Fand,” Cuchulainn said, shifting in the saddle as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.

Brighid’s brows went up. “And who told them about that, Cu?”

Cuchulainn shrugged and kneed the gelding to follow Gareth’s path. “They asked. And they can be very persistent when they want to know something.”

“They being Curran and Nevin?” Brighid asked his broad back.

“No. They being the children.”

And then a noise drifted to the Huntress’s acute hearing. She thought it sounded like the chattering of many birds.

Cuchulainn’s horse’s ears pricked forward. “Remember that I forewarned you about the children,” he called over his shoulder.

Brighid frowned severely at the warrior’s back. Forewarned her? He hadn’t forewarned her about anything—he’d just asked if she liked children. What in the darkest realm of the Underworld was going on here?

They took another turn in the path and the trail opened up. Brighid moved quickly so that she was beside Cuchulainn. The road widened and led straight into the heart of the neat little settlement, which was currently filled with small winged bodies chattering excitedly. When they caught sight of her, the children’s talking was instantly replaced by a collective gasp that reminded Brighid of the coo of doves.

“Oh, great merciful Goddess,” the Huntress murmured. “There are so many of them.”

“I tried to tell you,” Cuchulainn said under his breath. “Prepare yourself. They are as energetic as they are small.”

“But how can there be so many?” Her eyes were roving the group as she tried to get an accurate count…ten…twenty…forty. There were at least forty young bodies. “I thought you said there were less than one hundred hybrids in total. Do they have multiple births?”

“No. Not usually. Most of these children no longer have parents,” the warrior said grimly.

“But—”

“Later,” Cuchulainn said. “I’ll explain it all later. They won’t stay still much longer.”

“What are they going to do?” Brighid asked warily.

The warrior gave her the briefest of smiles. “Nothing you can defend yourself against, believe me.”

The waiting group rippled and Cuchulainn caught sight of Ciara’s dark head.

“Come on. It’s best to face them head-on.”

Side by side Cu and Brighid came to a halt before the waiting group just as a lovely winged woman stepped out to greet them.

Cuchulainn made hasty introductions. “Ciara, this is MacCallan’s Huntress, Brighid Dhianna. Brighid, Ciara is Shaman for the New Fomorians.” He gestured at the two winged men who had followed Ciara through the children. “And, you will remember Curran and Nevin.”

The twins nodded their heads, smiling widely at her. She was instantly struck by how well they looked. The last time she’d seen them their wings had been dreadfully torn. Now they looked whole and healthy, with only pale pink lines scarring the delicate membranes. One of the twins spoke, but Brighid had no idea whether it was Curran or Nevin.

“It is good to see you again, Huntress.”

“We are all so pleased that you have come, Brighid Dhianna, famed Huntress of the MacCallans,” Ciara said.

Brighid tried not to be distracted by the horde of watching children, even though her eyes were drawn to their small faces. All different sizes and shapes, they were beaming sharp-toothed smiles at her as their wings quivered with barely suppressed excitement. Puppies, she thought. They looked like a wriggling mass of healthy, happy, winged puppies.

Pulling her gaze from the children she nodded politely first to Ciara and then the twins. “The MacCallan thought you might need a Huntress to ease the burden of feeding your people during your journey. I was glad to be of service to her,” Brighid said.

“And now I understand why I have dreamed of a silver hawk with gold-tipped wings these past several nights,” Ciara said, looking from the Huntress’s silver-white hair to the golden gleam of her equine coat.

Brighid kept her face carefully neutral, but the mention of the Shaman’s dream was like a fist to her gut. Even here, in the far off Wastelands, she could not escape her childhood.

“Oooh, you are even more beautiful than I imagined!”

The Huntress’s eyes sought and found the miniature speaker—a small girl child standing near Ciara. Her wings were an unusual silver-gray, like the breast of a dove. Her large eyes were bright with intelligence.

“Thank you,” Brighid said.

“That is Kyna,” Cuchulainn said.

At the mention of her name the child bobbed excitedly on her tiptoes.

“Cuchulainn, can I come closer? Please! Pllllease!”

Cu looked questioningly at the Huntress. Not knowing what else to do, Brighid shrugged.

“Come on then,” Cu said. As the child sprinted forward with several of the other children close behind, Cuchulainn lifted his hand and said sternly, “Remember your manners!”

Kyna’s headlong rush instantly slowed and the children jostling behind her almost knocked her over. Brighid had to be careful not to laugh when the girl elbowed one of her friends and ordered, “Remember your manners!” sounding unerringly like Cuchulainn. She folded her little wings and walked much more sedately to stand in front of Brighid.

“You’re the famous Huntress Cuchulainn’s told us stories about, aren’t you?” The little girl’s face was bright with more than just the Fomorian’s distinctive luminous skin. She was a beautiful, fey-looking little thing, sparkling with intelligence and curiosity.

“Well, I am the Huntress Brighid. I don’t know how famous I am, though,” Brighid said, throwing Cuchulainn a look of mild annoyance.

“Oh, we do! We’ve heard all about you!”

“Really? You’ll have to share those stories with me,” Brighid said.

“Not now,” Cuchulainn said brusquely. “Now there is dinner to prepare.” He dismounted and began unlacing the ties that held the fresh meat behind his saddle.

“Did you get another deer, Cuchulainn?” Kyna asked, bouncing up and down.

“A wild, white sheep this time, Ky. And you can thank the Huntress for it. She is the one who brought the beast down,” he said, neatly turning the child’s attention back to Brighid.

Dozens of sets of round little eyes refocused on the Huntress.

Brighid shrugged. “I just beat him to the shot.”

“No, you’re special. We already know,” Kyna said. “May…may I touch you?”

Brighid looked helplessly at Cu, who was suddenly oh-so-busy handing the wrapped meat to Curran and Nevin.

“Please?” the child asked. “I’ve always wanted to meet a centaur.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be fine,” the Huntress said helplessly.

Kyna walked closer to Brighid and then reverently stretched out her hand and touched the Huntress’s gleaming golden coat. “You’re soft like water. And your hair is so pretty, just like Cuchulainn said. I think he’s right. It’s good that you keep it long even though most Huntresses cut theirs short.”

“I—I’ve never felt the need to cut it,” Brighid stuttered, completely take aback by the child’s comment. Cuchulainn talked about her hair?

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“I want to be a Huntress when I grow up!” shouted a voice from the throng.

Kyna rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You can’t be a Huntress, Liam. You’re not a centaur and you’re not a female.”

Brighid watched one of the taller children’s faces fall and she felt a panicky knot within her when his eyes filled with tears.

“You could still be a hunter, Liam,” Brighid said. “Some centaurs agree to train humans in the ways of a Huntress.” As soon as she said it she realized her ridiculous error. The little winged male was definitely not human. He’d probably really cry now. What if he started the rest of them crying? But Liam didn’t notice anything wrong with what she’d said. His fanged smile was radiant.

“Do you really mean it? Would you teach me?” The boy rushed up to her and soon his small, warm hand was patting her sleek side.

Teach him? She had no intention of teaching him or anyone—especially anyone whose head didn’t reach her shoulder. Brighid’s panic expanded. She had just been trying to keep the child from crying.

“If she’s going to teach Liam I want her to teach me, too!” Another child disengaged from the group and skipped up to Brighid, hero worship shining in his big blue eyes.

“Me, too!” said a little girl with hair the color of daisies.

Brighid had no idea how it had happened, but she was surrounded by small, winged beings who were chattering away about their lives as Huntresses. Warm little hands patted her legs and flanks while Kyna asked never-ending questions about how Brighid kept her hair out of her eyes while she hunted, and what she rinsed it with to make it shine so, and did she use the same rinse on the horse part of her, and…

Brighid would’ve rather been thrust into a pack of angry wolves, at least she could kick her way clear and escape.

“Perhaps we should give the Huntress time to unload her packs and fill her stomach before we ask more of her,” Ciara’s firm voice cut through the high-pitched, childish jabbering.

Little hands reluctantly dropped from the centaur’s body.

Undaunted, Kyna still chirped with excitement. “Can Brighid stay at our lodge?”

To Brighid’s intense relief, Cuchulainn spoke up. “I think it would be best if the Huntress lodged with me. She’s part of my Clan, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Kyna said softly, kicking at a dirt clod with bare feet that Brighid noticed ended in remarkably sharplooking talons.

They are such anomalies, the Huntress thought. Not really human and yet obviously not Fomorian. How will they ever find their place in Partholon?

“Cuchulainn, why don’t you show Brighid to your lodge. I’ll send for you when it is time for the evening meal.”

Cu surprised Brighid by tossing the reins of his gelding to little Kyna.

“Take care of him for me.”

“Of course I will, Cu! You know I’m his favorite.” The child giggled. “Bye, Brighid. I’ll see you again at the evening meal,” she said before clucking and tugging fussily at the big gelding’s reins. The horse blew through his nose into the child’s hair and then plodded docilely after her.

“Go on now, the rest of you! You have chores to finish before we eat,” Ciara told the children.

In clusters of two and three, they rushed off like darting fish, calling goodbyes to Brighid and Cuchulainn.

“I think they were better this time,” Ciara said to the warrior.

“Well, at least there was a lot less jumping and dancing,” Cu said.

“Better than what?” Brighid asked.

Ciara smiled. “Better than when they first met Cuchulainn.”

Brighid snorted.

“You laugh, but we’re serious,” Cu said.

“I didn’t laugh. I scoffed disbelievingly. There is a distinct difference,” the Huntress said, wiping at a smudgy handprint that had been left on her golden coat.

“You’ll get used to them,” Ciara said. And at the look on the centaur’s face she laughed.

Brighid thought she had never heard such a lovely, musical sound.

Cuchulainn harrumphed. “Now it’s my turn to scoff.”

“Oh, Cuchulainn, you’re getting along with the children just fine. They adore you!” Ciara said.

“I’m not interested in their adoration. I just want to be sure they arrive safely at MacCallan Castle,” Cuchulainn said sharply, his face hardening into a blank, emotionless mask.

“Of course,” Ciara said, her smile never wavering.

It was interesting, Brighid thought, to watch how familiarly the beautiful winged woman spoke to Cu. And how she ignored the way he had turned cold and withdrawn.

“I’ll leave you with Cuchulainn. He knows his way around. If there is anything you need, he will know if we can provide it. We do not have much here, Brighid, but what we have we willingly share.”

“Thank you,” Brighid said, automatically responding to Ciara’s openness and warmth.

“Cuchulainn, the evening meal will be in the longhouse, as usual, after the dusk blessing ceremony. Please bring Brighid. And it would be nice if this time you chose to stay and share the meal with us.” Ciara nodded politely to Brighid before she turned and gracefully walked away.

Chapter 5

Cuchulainn motioned for Brighid to enter the small building ahead of him. She ducked through the thick animal skin that served as a doorway and was pleasantly surprised to feel warm, still air instead of constant cold wind. The lodge was circular, and the walls were made of the red shale that was so plentiful in the Wastelands. It was patched snugly together with a mixture of mud and sand. There was a hearth that wrapped around almost half of the curving room. Two small windows were covered, so there was little light, but it was bright enough for Brighid to see that the roof was unusual. It appeared to be mesh, woven of reeds or thin branches. Placed over the matting was a substance Brighid couldn’t identify. It had been firmly pressed into the weave, but now it appeared to be hard and dry.

“It’s moss,” Cuchulainn said. “They cut it from the ground and while it’s still pliant they press it into the web of woven tubers. When it dies it hardens until it’s like rock, only lighter. Nothing can get through it.”

“What’s this on the floor?” Brighid bent and picked up a handful of short, fragrant grass.

“They call it dwarf heather. It only grows to about hockhigh, but there’s a lot of it, especially in canyon areas like this. It makes for good insulation. The ground here is damnably cold and hard.” Cuchulainn motioned to the other side of the room, opposite the stretched animal skin hammock that served as a bed. “You can put your packs there. Ciara will have pelts brought in for you to sleep on. You should be comfortable and warm enough—and anyway we’ll be traveling in just a few days.”

“Cuchulainn, what’s going on here?”

“I’m preparing to lead the hybrids back to Partholon, of course. The snow has almost thawed enough for the pass to be open again—as you know better than I,” he finished curtly.

Brighid shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. I counted at least forty children. I saw only three adults. What is going on here?” she repeated slowly.

Cuchulainn pulled off his cloak and ran a hand through his hair, which Brighid noticed was uncharacteristically long and unkempt.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he said.

“Not sure?”

Cuchulainn scowled at her. “That’s right. They’re not what you think. The only thing I know for sure is that the New Fomorians are different.”

“Well, of course they’re different!” Brighid wanted to shake Cu. “They’re a mixture of human and Fomorian. There has never been a race like them.”

Cuchulainn walked over to the hearth. Stirring the glowing embers to life, he fed them blocks of dried peat from the stack nearby and the coals flamed into a lively, crackling fire. Then he turned and gave Brighid a weary, resigned look.

“Take off your packs. Relax. It isn’t much, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

As Cuchulainn helped her unload she watched him carefully. Grief and guilt had aged and hardened him, but there was something else about him, something that tickled the edge of her mind but which she couldn’t quite understand.

Had the hybrids cast some kind of spell over him? Cuchulainn shunned the spirit realm, and he would have little protection against a magical attack. Though Brighid did not have the training and experience of her mother, she was not a stranger to the powers of the spirit world. Nor was she a stranger to the ways in which powers granted by the Goddess could be twisted and misused. Silently she promised herself that later, when she was free to concentrate, she would see if she could detect any malevolent energy hovering around the settlement. Until then all she could do was what she was best at—finding a trail and following it.

“Here,” she said, tossing the warrior a fat skin from her last pack. “Your sister sent you this.”

Cuchulainn uncapped the skin, sniffed the liquid within, grunted in pleasure and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and settled onto his cot. “It’s been too long since I’ve tasted wine from Epona’s Temple. My mother would say there is no excuse for living like a barbarian.”

“That’s exactly what your sister said.”

Cu’s smile looked almost normal for an instant. “I miss her.”

“She misses you, too.”

He nodded and took another drink of the rich red wine.

“Cu, why are there so few adult hybrids?” Brighid asked softly.

He met her eyes. “Here’s what I know. I have counted twenty-two full-grown, adult hybrids—twelve females, one of whom has just announced that she is pregnant, and ten males. And there are seventy children ranging in age from infants to young adults. Ciara and the others say that everyone else is dead.”

“How?” Brighid’s head reeled at the disparity in numbers.

“It was the madness. Ciara says it was more difficult to withstand the older they became. Of the original hybrids born of human mothers only Lochlan, Nevin, Curran, Keir and Fallon remain.” Cuchulainn paused, clenching his jaw. “Of them Fallon is mad.”

Brighid nodded. “Her jailors at Guardian Castle say she remains mad. Elphame’s sacrifice didn’t touch her.”

“It was too late. She had already accepted the darkness of her father when El drank Lochlan’s blood and took on their madness. Apparently there is no reversing it once it has taken hold.” His stomach tightened as he remembered the horrific scene when Elphame had slit her own wrists, forcing Lochlan to share his blood to save her life. With the hybrid’s blood she had taken within her the madness of a race of demons. “It should have driven El mad, too. It was only through Epona’s power that she remains sane even though the madness lies dormant within her blood.”

“But accepting the madness didn’t kill your sister, and it didn’t kill Fallon. How did it kill the other adults?”

“Suicide. Ciara says that when a hybrid was no longer able to bear the pain of withstanding the evil within him, he chose suicide rather than a life of violence and hatred.”

The Huntress tilted her head and sent him an incredulous look. “So what she’s saying is that someone who has pretty much decided to accept hatred and evil has the capacity to make the ultimate sacrifice of taking his or her own life?”

“Yes. As a last act of humanity.”

“And you’re believing all of this?”

Instead of the anger with which Brighid expected him to respond, Cuchulainn’s expression turned introspective. He took another drink from the wineskin.

“At first I didn’t believe any of it. For days I walked around armed, expecting winged demons to jump out at me from behind every rock.” His brows tilted up and some of his old sparkle lit his eyes. “Demons failed to appear. But can you guess what did jump out at me?”