“Mortal,” she fairly shrieked, “art thou crazed? I am a nymph!”

Father Al had heard that one before, too. “It matters not. There was never a thinking creature made to tear her secret self to bits, and toss the pieces out to passers-by; thus thou wouldst slowly shred thy secret self away, till nought was left, and thou didst not truly exist—only a walking shell would then be left. And this doth happen whenever thou dost open thy body to one who loves thee not, and whom thou dost not love. That breaks the wholeness of thy secret self, for we are made in such a wise that our inner selves and bodies are joined as one, and when the one doth open, the other should.

So if thou dost open thy body while keeping thy secret self enclosed, thou dost break the wholeness of thy self.”

“A thousand times have I so done,” she sneered, “yet I am whole within!”

“Nay, thou’it not. Each time, a tiny piece of thee hast gone, though thou didst strive to know it not.”

“Nay, not so—for ‘tis my nature to give my body and retain my self untouched! I am a nymph!”

“This is a thin excuse that thou didst first concoct, when first thy secret self was torn. Thou then didst say, ‘It matters not; I am untouched. This is my nature, to give of my body and not of my soul; mine only true desire is pleasure.’ And to prove it to thyself, thou didst seek to couple with every male that happened by—yet each time, thou wast more torn, and didst need to prove it more—so thou didst seek out more to pleasure thee, quite frantically—though in thy depths, thou knew it pleasured thee not at all. For in truth, ‘twas only an excuse.”

“And what of thee?” she demanded angrily. “Why dost thou rant thus at me? Why dost thou make me stay to listen, when I would turn away? Is not this thine own excuse, for the hot lust that doth throb within thee at the sight of me?”

Touché, Father Al thought. “It is indeed. Yet hath mine excuse done harm to thee? Or me?”

She frowned prettily, searching his eyes. “Nay…none to me. Yet I think that it doth harm to thee—for what is natural to thyself would be to grapple me, and couple here in wildness and in frenzy.”

“Thou dost read me shrewdly,” Father Al admitted. “Yet though ‘tis ‘natural,’ lass, it is not right—for thereby would a part of me be ripped away, even as a part of thee would.” He sighed. “It is a male conceit that a woman’s self may be rended by a one-night’s coupling, while the man’s is not—but ‘tis only a conceit. We, too, are made all of one piece, body and soul so shrewdly welded together that we cannot give of the one without giving of the other. And we, too, can be rended by a first coupling with a one who loves us not, and may seek to deny that hurt by seeking to lie with every maid we may. Thus is the legend born of prowess male, and many a young man’s soul is rended by the promiscuity that comes of thus attempting to prove himself a legend”—which is to say, a ghost. But if young men would speak the truth, they would own that there is little enough pleasure in it—for loveless coupling, at the moment when pleasure should transform itself to ecstasy, truly turns itself to ashes, and the taste of gall.”

“I think,” she said slowly, “that thou dost speak from hurt that thou hast known.”

He smiled ruefully. “All young men commit the same mistakes; all step upon the brush that covers o’er the pitfall, no matter how loudly their seniors blare the warnings in their ears. I was once young; and I was not always of the Cloth.”

Her eyes widened in horror. She leaped back, looking him up and down in one quick glance, and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Thou art a monk!”

He smiled. “Hadst thou only seen that I was male?”

She nodded, eyes huge.

“If thou hadst looked, thou wouldst have known that I did not walk the stream-banks in search of pleasure.”

“Nay, that follows not,” she said with a frown, “for I have known—Nay, never mind. Yet if thou didst not hither come for sport, why hast thou come?”

“Why, I do seek an husband, wife, and children three,” Father Al said slowly. “They would have come out from this wood some time ago, mayhap whilst sunlight shone. Wouldst thou have seen them?”

“Indeed I did,” the nymph said slowly, “they woke me from my daytime sleep—the wee ones made some noise, thou knowest.”

“I do indeed.” Father Al had delivered sermons at family churches. “Canst thou say which way they went?”

She shook her head. “I did not look so long. One quick glance sufficed to show a woman with them—and she was quite beautiful.” The nymph seemed irritated by the memory. “I saw no prospect of a satisfaction there, though the man and boys were comely—so I sought my watery bed again.”

“Out upon it!” Father Al glared up at the leaves, clenching a fist. “How can I tell which way to go?”

“If ‘tis a matter of so great an import to thee,” the nymph said slowly, “mayhap that I can aid. Do thou sit here, and wait, and I will quickly course the stream, and seek for sign of them.”

“Wouldst thou, then!” Father Al cried. “Now, there’s a wench for thee! Why, thank thee, lass! The blessings of…”

“I prithee, hold!” The nymph held up a hand. “Name not thy Deity, I beg thee! Do thou abide; I’ll search.” She ducked under the water, and was gone.

Father Al stared after her a moment; then he sighed, and lowered himself carefully to the river bank. Not so young as he had been—but still too young for comfort in some ways, eh? He wondered if his hectoring had done any good, if the nymph would even remember it. Probably not; the young never seemed to learn where sex was concerned, and she was eternally young. Nice of her to offer to help, though—or had it just been a convenient excuse for getting away from a garrulous old man?

With that thought in his head, he sat there on tenterhooks, tense in waiting, wondering if the nymph would even return.

Then, suddenly, the water clashed in front of him, and the nymph rose up, pushing her hair back from her face. “They come, good monk. Back up the stream-bank they do wander.” She pointed downstream. “Though why, I cannot say.”

“A thousand blessings on thee!” Father Al cried, surging to his feet. The nymph gasped in horror, and disappeared in a splash.

Father Al stared at the widening ripple-rings, biting his tongue in consternation at his faux pas. Well, no doubt she’d realize he’d just been carried away, and would credit him with good intentions.

Then he turned away, the nymph receding to the back of his mind, and plunged into the underbrush that lined the bank, heading back into the trees and downstream, excitement rising high within him at the thought of finally meeting the Gallowglasses.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They dodged through the silver woods, trusting to Gwen’s sense of direction, until they came out on the lake-shore. Rod sighed with relief. “Okay, into the water. If they’re tracking us with hounds, we want to break the trail.” He was about to jump in when he noticed his family all hanging back. “Hey, what’s the matter? Jump in!”

“My lord,” Gwen said delicately, “it doth occur to us to remember the Each Uisge…”

“What of it? It’s dead!”

“Aye; but it may not have been alone. We know so little of this land…”

Rod felt a sudden dislike of water, himself. “Uh… how about it, Elid… uh, Your Majesty? Are there other unfriendly beasties in the water?”

“Oh, aye!” Elidor said promptly. “There do be Fuathan of all sorts and shapes! Shelly coats, peallaidhs, fideal, urisks, melusines…”

“Uh, I think that’s enough,” Rod interrupted. “We’ll take our chances with the hounds.”

They moved along the lake-shore. It was quicker going; the trees didn’t come down right to the water’s edge; they generally had a path at least two feet wide.