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Authors: Janeen O'Kerry
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light the lamp again.
She glanced over her shoulder at the window but saw only black sky and stars. Never had the moon traveled so slowly. It dawdled in the east, shining down only on the land, forcing Muriel to wait and wait as it made its slow journey across the clear night toward the sea.
Never, it seemed, had she spun such a great amount of thread as she had on this night.
When her lamp burned out again, she lit another—and when it went dark a third time, she got up and walked to the table beneath the window.
The high white moon was just beginning to show itself. The black sky around it was sprinkled with bright stars. Muriel reached below the table into the heap of rushes, pulled out her water mirror and her damp leather bag, and poured the seawater into the polished bronze basin.
Before the water had even settled, she held both hands over it and lowered her fingertips to touch its cool surface. As she did, the moonlight filtered down so that it shone directly through the window, casting a faint blue white glow over the water in the basin.
She let the water become still around her fingers. Brendan , she thought, closing her eyes for a moment. Brendan.
Muriel gazed down at the mirror and slowly lifted her hands. The water quivered and then became still, shining in the moon’s glow…and then the images began to form.
She saw a misty gray cloak in the darkness, moving softly as a tall man made his slow and aimless way around the inner wall of the dun. Apparently she was not the only one who could not sleep this night.
Muriel waited until she saw him walk out of the shadows and move across an open grassy space, a space that was lit by the radiant moon. Brendan , she thought to him again.
This time he slowed then stopped.
She placed her hands beneath the basin, feeling the cold of the seawater through its etched bronze sides. Show me who you are, she said in her mind, and stayed perfectly still as the moon shone down on both him and the water in her mirror.
In the bowl, a new image formed: Brendan’s face in the summer sunlight, framed by golden brown hair that was well past his shoulders, his one blue eye and one brown eye shining as he laughed. As he swung up onto a big gray horse, Muriel realized that he wore a heavy gold torque at his throat and golden armbands and rings at his wrists and fingers, all gleaming bright in the light of the sun.
Now his cloak was brilliant blue; now his tunic was blue and green and yellow and cream; now he wore a fine iron sword at his hip. He galloped away on that powerful horse, followed by twenty men who were equally well dressed and armed.
Now he looked like a prince…if not a king.
The image faded as the men rode off into the mists. But then she saw Brendan’s face again.
This time he was pale and exhausted, chilled and soaking wet, his hair cut short and dripping with water. He looked as he had when she had found him on the storm-racked sea, dressed in rags like a slave.
A slave.
Her fingers shifted slightly on the cold sides of her bronze basin. Show me who you are. Show me what you are!
Again came the image of Brendan as he was right now, all in gray and black, standing as still as stone, held in thrall by moonlight and magic. Then the vision wavered and dissolved into the form of a crying infant no more than a few months old, lying on a heap of straw in the corner of a rough shelter, dressed only in a tattered square of undyed wool tied around him with an old rough cord.
In a moment the infant was lifted up by a woman who was clearly a slave of the lowest class, for she wore only the poorest and roughest dark wool and had rusted iron bands around each wrist. The child rested its head on her shoulder and quieted, then opened its eyes and looked up—and Muriel saw one brown eye and one blue eye.
She jerked her hands away from her serving basin. The water inside wavered and darkened, and the
She glanced over her shoulder at the window but saw only black sky and stars. Never had the moon traveled so slowly. It dawdled in the east, shining down only on the land, forcing Muriel to wait and wait as it made its slow journey across the clear night toward the sea.
Never, it seemed, had she spun such a great amount of thread as she had on this night.
When her lamp burned out again, she lit another—and when it went dark a third time, she got up and walked to the table beneath the window.
The high white moon was just beginning to show itself. The black sky around it was sprinkled with bright stars. Muriel reached below the table into the heap of rushes, pulled out her water mirror and her damp leather bag, and poured the seawater into the polished bronze basin.
Before the water had even settled, she held both hands over it and lowered her fingertips to touch its cool surface. As she did, the moonlight filtered down so that it shone directly through the window, casting a faint blue white glow over the water in the basin.
She let the water become still around her fingers. Brendan , she thought, closing her eyes for a moment. Brendan.
Muriel gazed down at the mirror and slowly lifted her hands. The water quivered and then became still, shining in the moon’s glow…and then the images began to form.
She saw a misty gray cloak in the darkness, moving softly as a tall man made his slow and aimless way around the inner wall of the dun. Apparently she was not the only one who could not sleep this night.
Muriel waited until she saw him walk out of the shadows and move across an open grassy space, a space that was lit by the radiant moon. Brendan , she thought to him again.
This time he slowed then stopped.
She placed her hands beneath the basin, feeling the cold of the seawater through its etched bronze sides. Show me who you are, she said in her mind, and stayed perfectly still as the moon shone down on both him and the water in her mirror.
In the bowl, a new image formed: Brendan’s face in the summer sunlight, framed by golden brown hair that was well past his shoulders, his one blue eye and one brown eye shining as he laughed. As he swung up onto a big gray horse, Muriel realized that he wore a heavy gold torque at his throat and golden armbands and rings at his wrists and fingers, all gleaming bright in the light of the sun.
Now his cloak was brilliant blue; now his tunic was blue and green and yellow and cream; now he wore a fine iron sword at his hip. He galloped away on that powerful horse, followed by twenty men who were equally well dressed and armed.
Now he looked like a prince…if not a king.
The image faded as the men rode off into the mists. But then she saw Brendan’s face again.
This time he was pale and exhausted, chilled and soaking wet, his hair cut short and dripping with water. He looked as he had when she had found him on the storm-racked sea, dressed in rags like a slave.
A slave.
Her fingers shifted slightly on the cold sides of her bronze basin. Show me who you are. Show me what you are!
Again came the image of Brendan as he was right now, all in gray and black, standing as still as stone, held in thrall by moonlight and magic. Then the vision wavered and dissolved into the form of a crying infant no more than a few months old, lying on a heap of straw in the corner of a rough shelter, dressed only in a tattered square of undyed wool tied around him with an old rough cord.
In a moment the infant was lifted up by a woman who was clearly a slave of the lowest class, for she wore only the poorest and roughest dark wool and had rusted iron bands around each wrist. The child rested its head on her shoulder and quieted, then opened its eyes and looked up—and Muriel saw one brown eye and one blue eye.
She jerked her hands away from her serving basin. The water inside wavered and darkened, and the
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