Andrew Offutt - The Sign of the Moonbow

“Brian,” Cormac said. “Is there… another Brian here?”

“No.”

Brian gasped and jerked as though struck.

“He put to sea three years agone, the skullface said, “and has never been seen since. Indeed he never will, as he was slain on the coast of Alba by Picts-”

“Dead!” Brian said in a broken croak, and held up his hand before his face. It shook. He stared at that quivering hand, as though for assurance that he indeed lived.

“Then all ye need do,” Bas reminded the youth, “is pretend a bit-and return to the bosom of an overjoyed family! Any errors ye make, in memory, can be laid to captivity or some sea battle.

“That,” Brian said very quietly, “I have experienced.”

They were silent, gazing upon the youth from Killevy up in Airgialla. All remembered how he’d had to do death on his best friend Ros, another youth whose mind was possessed by Thulsa Doom and who’d been striving to slay Bas. Cormac, whose mind bore scars, knew that act had etched one into Brian’s brain, too, and Cormac felt both remorse and guilt, for it was in following him that Brian had come upon such horror and had manhood thrust upon him, ten or so years all at once.

“And Wulfhere?” Cormac asked.

“Aye-has Thorleif slain me here-my, uh, other self, I mean? Odin’s god-like patience but this is a thorny matter to think on-even to try to talk on!”

The death’s-head moved slightly to face the giant. “It is true. And aye, was Thorleif of Norge slew you, years past. There is no other Wulfhere here.”

Wulfhere stared, then rose and stalked aft, to mutter to Brian that it was his turn at watch and tiller.

“And… myself?” Cormac was asking.

“Another Cormac mac Art exists in this plane,” Thulsa Doom said, and it was as if the words were a palpable force that rocked Cormac where he sat, on a rowing bench. “No less scarred, no less skilled with weapons, no less deadly, this Cormac mac Art of Connacht. He is you; you are he.”

After a time of silence while he thought on that, hardly with understanding, Cormac glanced at Samaire. He looked again at Thulsa Doom. “I would know whether-”

“Cormac!”

At her cry, Cormac broke off to look at Samaire.

“Ask no more about yourself. It is… eerie. Awful. Please.”

After a moment, he nodded. “And yourself, dairlin girl. Are ye wanting to know about yourself?”

“I-I-” She bit her lip, looked at Thulsa Doom. “Aye!” she said, of a sudden. “I must know, and then it’s no more questions I’ll be asking. It is possible that here I am married yet to that prince who was my husband, in Osraigh… or that I died in childbirth… or… was slain by those Norse who, captured me from the shores of Leinster. Such things are possible, wizard?”

“Aye, all such things are possible,” Thulsa Doom said. “But-”

“Hold!” She thrust out a stopping hand. “Tell me only if there is another Samaire Ceannselaigh here, daughter of Leinster’s dead king.”

“Aye.”

Again her teeth worried her lip. “And… my brother?”

“Feredach your brother rules Leinster, him who is called an Dubh -the Dark.”

“My-other brother. Ceann of the Red Hair.”

“He was slain by those Norse ye spoke of, on the soil of Eirrin near the coast, whilst he resisted his kidnaping-and yours. They carried you away, once they’d knocked away your sword and overpowered you-and threw him into the sea along the Leinsterish coast.”

“Ceann!”

And even though Ceann mong Ruadh was alive in her own dimension, Samaire wept, mourning him, and commenced the keening in the manner of her people. Wulfhere turned, cast anxious looks about as if seeking escape. He’d had to give listen afore to the Eirrish mourn-keening; Samaire did it too well for his sensitive ears. Brian and Bas both looked as if they wanted to go to her; both looked at Cormac, with anxiousness on them.

The Gael said, “Weapon-companion!” and his voice was sharp.

Samaire stiffened and firmed her mouth. She stilled her laments for the Ceann of this dimension, a Ceann she had never known-and for that Ceann of the other plane, whom she’d never see again. And him waiting at Tara for their return with spoils to finance his plotting against his murderous brother!

“There is that which I must know,” Cormac said, “despite Samaire’s warning and my agreement. Thulsa Doom, blackhearted monster and my slave -answer. Am I welcome in this Eirrin, by the High-king on Tara Hill?”

The mage’s single word was the most awful and shattering he had uttered; the ugliest word in any language. “No.”

Then for a long while the ship scudded over the plain of the sea, and there were no words spoken aboard her. Only the sun smiled; only the waves rippling past the hull chuckled. Samaire turned her back, and began to weep, though quietly. Cormac merely stared at the decking beneath his feet. Brian managed to look anguished and angry all at once.

At last Cormac mac Art began to speak, in a low, disconsolate voice.

“I’ll not be asking if here I am trenfher na Eirrain , Champion of Eirrin, which I won by such great effort-in my own dimension from which ye’ve stolen me, scum of the ancient world! It’s for Eirrin we’re bound, and to Eirrin we go. Once again must I be someone else-and not my old ‘Partha mac Othna’ either, lest that name betray me. It’s directly to one of the Doorways to the Tuatha de Danann I must take Thulsa Doom.”

“Oh, Cormac!”

He nodded. “I know, dairlin girl-but it’s unwelcome in my own land I’ve been, for a dozen years of my life. Blows to the spirit I’ve taken before, as well. I shall abide; I shall survive. As to yourself-” He looked about at his little group of friends; weapon-companions, all. “Ye others can and will go to Tara. Wulfhere, ye can be taking Odin’s Eye , though it follows us with such docility. Though… once the High-king knows who ye be, Samaire, for your cousin Aine Cumalswife will recognize ye o’course, all will be well for ye. And for Bas, and Brian, aye and for Wulfhere, your friend from among the Danes who became friend of Eirrin by rescuing ye from the Norsemen, ye see!”

“In your company,” she said. “Aye. Mayhap then you too will be welcome at Tara Hill, my love.”

Cormac tightened his jaw and stiffened a bit, for she had not used those words to him afore, with others present. “Bas, of course, will… no mind. No matter. That be the way of it. It is what must be done.”

And again there was silence, for all knew he was right, and firm on it. Nor did any dare ask the enslaved mage where that other Cormac, that Cormac of this dimension was, or what he did. It was Wulfhere who broke the somber quiet that overshadowed them like brooding thunderclouds.

“Ye’ve taken leave of your senses, son of-Eirrin.”

Cormac swung to stare; all followed his gaze, looking at the giant Dane who stood astern with his fiery beard moving restlessly in the breeze.

“Blood-brother! I’ll not be going to the hall of Eirrin’s High-king, and I a Dane, in anyone’s company! Likely I’d never leave alive-and that means I’d be taking twenty or forty of Eirrin with me into death! Oh no, Wolf. Nor this time will I be taking a fine ship in quest of a crew-whilst ye go alone with… that , seeking a Doorway ye may not find, to people who may not exist, who may or may not be ruled by a woman!”

“Wulfhere-”

“Call me blood-brother!” Wulfhere snapped. “I go with you. This time aye, I will suffer these feet to tread the soil of your land. It was in a filthy prison we met, you and I, and we broke free together, and we took ship together, and we sailed together after. I owe you my life-and you owe me yours, for it’s more than once or even twice each of us had only just saved the other from ax or sword. But for you I’d have ridden a Valkyrie’s horse long ago.” Wulfhere stood solidly, stared and spoke stolidly. “ We take Thulsa Doom to the Doorway, Cormac mac Art an cliuin -blood-brother!”