“Brigid grant she does!” Joram said fervently.
“For your sakes, I hope so,” Gar said, “hope so indeed. But surely the Wee Folk don’t really need human caretakers for their hills!”
“I suppose not,” Joram said, “but they do need someone to speak for them to the clansfolk now and again, and we New Folk have need of someone to keep good relations with the Old Ones, whether our kin know it or not.”
“I have heard they can drive a mortal mad,” Kerlew said, his voice low and shaking.
“They can indeed,” Maeve assured him, “though it takes a whole band of fairies to wrench at the mind of one single person. Naetheless, given time enough, they could drive us all mad, and therefore do our clans honor our sanctuary, so that someone may be near to convince fairies and elves alike that not all New Folk are villains.”
“A hard task that is, when we are so busy slaying one another,” Kerlew said darkly.
“Surely not all the Keepers are outcast lovers,” Gar said tentatively.
“They are not,” Maeve confirmed. “The Wee Folk tell us that, most are couples in their middle years, who have lost several of their children—some even all—to the constant battles that are ever brewing. When they can no longer endure it, they speak out against the feuds and are therefore cast out of their clans.”
“It sounds as though many clansfolk hate the fighting,” Gar said.
“Very many indeed.” Maeve nodded. “But few have the courage to speak up.”
Gar and Kerlew slept that night in the moon shadow of the mound, and perhaps it was the fairy folk who put the dreams into Gar’s head, or perhaps it was simply the talk with the Keepers, but Gar dreamt indeed, dreamt all night through, of aged and wrinkled faces, of younger faces slashed with the scars of war, of people of all ages whose bodies bore horrid wounds—and they spoke.
First came an old man, gaunt and grim, who swam out of the darkness behind Gar’s eyes and glared down at him, demanding, “Why do you sleep here when there is work for you to do?”
“Because I’ll work much better if I’m rested,” Gar answered reasonably, “but what work is this you speak of?”
“Peace!” the old man thundered. “My great-great-great-grand-children are still dying because of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s stupid mistake and more stupid pride! You have the ideas and the knowledge to stop the feuds—why do you lie here idle?”
“These things take time,” Gar temporized. “Besides, I don’t have the ideas and I’m not sure I have the knowledge.”
“You have both!” It was a young woman, a ragged, darkrimmed hole in her jacket over the heart, eyes blazing. “You know enough about us all and our clans, you know enough about the Wee Folk, and your own guardian will aid them! I never had children because this idiotic feud killed me too soon! Stop it and give a chance of life to what are left of my kin!”
She turned away, revealing the huge, horrible exit wound, and another face swam up in her place—an old man with a nutcracker chin and grim, accusing eye. “You’ve heard of the Druids, the Old Ones have pledged to aid you, and your own guardian spirit will work with them to aid your cause!”
“What guardian spirit?” Gar asked, frowning.
The ghost went on as though he hadn’t heard. “You know the feuds started because there was no law! You know the clans all honor some laws!”
“Yes, but not the ones that punish murderers,” Gar pointed out.
A fourth face swam near, a woman in middle years with a mole in the center of her forehead. Looking again, Gar could see it was a bullet hole. “You only need to find some sort of law they will all embrace!” she cried.
“What law could that be?”
She, too, didn’t seem to hear his question. “Make your law, then, and send the outlaws to bear word of it to all the clans!”
“The outlaws? They’ll be shot on sight! And who will enforce this law?”
“The Old Ones, as they have pledged to aid you-and it is they who shall protect your outlaw couriers!”
She started to turn away; Gar shuddered at the thought of seeing the exit wound, but a young man’s face swam up in place of hers, his eyes burning, a raw gash furrowing his cheek—fortunately, his chest wasn’t visible. “I never lived to see my baby born! From beyond the grave I watched him grow and saw him cut down in battle before he was twenty! How many more fatherless sons must there be before you will act?”
“But I don’t know enough yet—”
“See what will happen if you don’t!” The young man’s face swept aside, revealing a meadow surrounded by evergreens, morning mist rising from the long grass. Three clansfolk stepped out into it, warily, looking about them, rifles poised.
A volley of gunfire erupted from the trees ahead of them. They screamed and fell, blood thinning with the dew. Rifle fire blasted from the forest behind them; one or two people screamed from the far side of the meadow and rose into view, spinning about, hands clasped to their chests, and fell. “Murderers!” cried a voice from the far side. “You’ve slain our children!”
“Assassins! You’ve slain our young!” someone called nearby. “Retreat or be blasted!”
But the enemy had reloaded and another volley shattered the peace of the forest. The near clan answered it, and in minutes the meadow was filled with gun smoke. Clansfolk came charging through it, dimly seen, only to be slammed back by rifle fire from the near side. But the bullets were spent now, and clansfolk came charging out to batter at each other with rifle stocks. Here and there, reloaded rifles roared, one or two pistols lit the smoke with lurid flashes, men and women screamed, and dimly seen bodies fell as the smoke thickened, hiding all from Gar’s sight, muffling the gunshots and the screams, making them dwindle away.
“That’s what will happen if you do not act!” a chorus of ghostly voices called. “That’s what will happen again and again and again, thousands upon thousands of times!” With a shudder, Gar sat up.
He looked about him at the gray light of false dawn and realized he’d slept the night through, if you could call that sleep. On the other side of the campfire, Kerlew was sitting up, staring at Gar warily. “You cried out in your sleep.”
“Did I really?” Gar pushed himself to his feet. “Only a bad dream.” At least, he hoped it was only a dream. He shoved sticks into the coals and blew on them until flames licked up along the bark. “Let’s have a hot drink and a little food and be on our way.”
They ate, then thanked their hosts the Keepers and set out along a game trail.
“What did you dream?” Kerlew asked. “You don’t want to know,” Gar said.
“Perhaps not, but I think I must.” Kerlew paled perceptibly, but his chin firmed.
Gar gave him a speculative glance, then said, “As you wish. I dreamed of the ghosts of people who died in this feuding.” Kerlew paled further. “Of which clans?”
“Many,” Gar said, “and every single one of them told me to stop dawdling and start making peace, so that their descendants wouldn’t have to undergo the misery they had suffered.”
“A strong argument.”
“Not so strong as the wounds each bore, and the scene of battle they showed me, one of the many battles that would happen if I couldn’t stop the fighting.” He turned to frown at Kerlew. “How do you suppose they could guess what such a battle would be like?”
Kerlew shrugged. “Memory, I suppose. I don’t reckon things have changed much since our ancestors started shooting at one another.”