Page 118 of The Changeling

‘What happens now?’

Suddenly, he laughed. ‘Who knows? We’ve never been uncursed.

I imagine it’ll take time for us to adjust.’

He reached a hand to me, and I grasped it between both of mine. Like a flash of steel, the vision struck me.

A house built of stone and shining diamonds of glass, with tall pointed turrets that looked in all directions, a garden full of wild roses and foxgloves, a white dovecote with white birds flying in and out, bees humming in the thyme and the sage. A field being ploughed, apples being plucked, soup being made with the best seasoning of all. Young men and women with wild black hair and eyes dark as sloes setting out to see the world and seek their fortune. An old man with a withered foot rocking back and forth on the porch, and telling tales to a circle of wide-eyed children. Two wee bairns with tousled red heads curled up asleep against the flank of a gaunt old dog with a wispy grey moustache and eyes as clear and golden as amber. Robbie and me, dancing in a twilight meadow, stars emblazoned above. Under the shadow of the Knock, a tall standing stone with a bunch of wildflowers laid at its foot.

I saw other things too. Danger, discord, darkness. A young king raised to believe his mother was a witch and a whore, hunting down what he called ‘these detestable slaves of the devil’. Cruel torture, garrottings, burnings.

Then a falling star, a ship with sails billowing with wind, a black fathomless sea, a far journey, a quest to build a new world, a realm where men and women were sovereign of their own destinies.

‘And other bodies in new worlds we’ll find,’ I said.

My father smiled. His cheeks were sunken and grey.

‘Come for dinner tomorrow,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘I’ll cook for you.’

‘I’d be honoured.’ He bowed, then released my hand.

I put my arm about Robbie’s waist, and together we limped up the long passage to the bright upper world.

A long train of faeries followed us, some curious and eager, some afraid and hesitant. They came out of the narrow cleft in the rock, and lifted their wondering faces to the shining vaulted sky.

Never had I seen such a dawn. Mist over frosted fields like cloth- of-silver. Distant mountains rising into a sky as pure and clear as glass. Trees like dark spears. Birds singing as if it was the very first day. The sun gilding our faces.

It struck such a bell-like note on my soul because I saw the dawn with their eyes, those thin beauty-starved shadow-haunted souls freed by my mother’s swift fearless cut.

Carlin frisked about us as if she was a puppy again, and the faery maidens and youths ran out and began to dance, spinning barefoot in the frost-silvered grass. They laughed and sang, and lifted their arms above their heads as if stretching high for the first time in their lives.

In my pocket I carried a dead robin. I would cook it for my love, and after three bites he would be as well as he ever was.

Or so my mother had promised me, and I trusted she had told me true.

What must it have been like, to be her? Would I have been so cruel? Could I have been so strong?

I had always thought my Sight a curse. Again and again, I had fought against it. What purpose does it have, when I could never save those whom I loved?

I had wanted to gouge out my own eyes to stop myself from seeing. It was only now, as I watched those faeries dance exultant in the dawn – those faeries I had hated – that I understood. My gift was not to save people from their future. My gift was to bear witness, to watch while most people turned their eyes away. It took strength, it took courage, it took silence to honour and know another’s pain.

Sleep now, dear one, away with your sorrow, I said silently to my lost loved ones.

Sleep now, dear one, we’ll meet on the morrow, the ghostly whisper replied.

I put my arm about Robbie and helped him climb into the saddle. Apollo walked slowly, as if knowing it took all my strength to keep him steady. Carlin slunk behind us, as weary as me. We came across the drawbridge into Inchbrakie Castle, and this time the whole tower house was awake and alive, released from the spell of sleep.

They clamoured to know what had happened.

‘Not now!’ I said sharply. ‘Leave us be.’

I took Robbie to his room, each slow step leaving bloody marks on the stone.

I undressed him gently, washed him, threw his sweat-damp clothes and broken boots through the door, and locked it. I let him lie down and rest, while I knelt by the hearth and plucked the robin bare. I pierced its soft breast, buttered it well, and put it to roast on a spit above the fire.

While the robin cooked, I drew out my bag of fabric scraps. I had decided to make another square for my quilt. One with hawthorn flowers, a hare and a raven, six white birds, and a spiralling nettle string. I began to cut and piece and sew, while slowly a delicious aroma stole through the room.

Robbie roused, and lifted himself onto one elbow. ‘That smells so good. I wish I could have a bite of that wee birdie.’