Druids (4 page)

“You are gifted!” Menua shouted at me. “Didn’t you know? At your birth, our seer saw portents of talent in you that would be of great benefit to the tribe and would involve a long journey. So you were named Ainvar, meaning ‘he who travels far.’ We thought at the time you would be a great warrior who would attack some distant tribe and bring back its wealth to the Camutes.

‘ ‘We were wrong though, weren’t we? You journey in a very different way. This morning you traveled to the Otherworid and brought back your grandmother.”

The idea was so incredible I stopped breathing for a moment. But he was the chief druid. He knew more than all the kings. If he thought such a thing was possible, perhaps it was.

Suddenly the strength went out of my legs.

Menua caught me before I fell to the floor. He guided me over to sit on his bench by the fire, and stood watching me narrowly until I summoned enough spit into my mouth to speak. “Do you think that I… ?”

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“What I think isn’t the issue. Do you think you did it?” He was relentless, the chief druid.

Be careful, my bruised brain warned me. If you brought Rosmerta back to life you acted in defiance of the druids, who meant her to die.

Menua must want me to admit it, thus confirming that his potion had killed Rosmerta in the first place. But such an admis—

sion would condemn me.

I could think of no defense, so fell back on honesty. “If I did what you suggest it was accidental,” I told him. “Truly.” My ears were ringing; my bones felt hollow.

Menua continued to fix me with an unblinking stare. “Ain-var,” he said as If bemused. “Young Ainvar, who is to travel.

“We harbored too small an ambition for you, I think.” Sighing, he rubbed the high bald dome of his forehead with his fingertips. “You shall need to be properly trained, of course … ,” he said as if to himself.

He was not going to kill me? Or turn me into a toad?

“Even with training you may have nothing to contribute,” he went on. “Still, the omens are undeniable. The sun is back.”

“You did that,” I said quickly.

His gaze softened, “Ah yes. I did that. We did that, we druids working together.

“You just might be worth some effort, young Ainvar. Bul listen to me. Right now people are busy “celebrating, they won’t think deeply. But when they crawl into their beds tonight some may recall that you were with us when we returned from the grove, and wonder what part you played.”

The dark shelf of his eyebrows met in a frown over Menua’s nose. “Druids answer only the questions they choose to answer,” he told me. “Remember that. If you are asked about what happened today, look through your questioner’s eyes to the back of his skull and say nothing. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” He is including you with the druids, my head told me. My heart leaped-

“You will live with me for a time and we will leam together what talents you may possess, Ainvar. Whatever they may be, it appears your gifts are of the head, not of the arm.”

“Gifts of the head?”

“Powers of the mind. Those who have them may, if they sub-mit to the necessary years of study and discipline, aspire to entering the Order of the Wise. They may have an aptitude for reading omens or memorizing the poems that contain our histories. Or

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they may be sacrificers, or healers, or teachers like myself. Each of us has an invisible ability, you understand, unlike obvious gifts of the arm such as swordwielding or craftsmanship.”

Cautiously I raised my hand and fingered my head; the head that Celts held sacred.

“Am I to be a druid?” 1 dared to whisper.

Menua assumed a dubious expression. “There is the remotest possibility. Very remote, mind you. Druids must be obedient to the law and you showed a shocking disregard for the law today. If that is the way you intend to proceed we should have Dian Cet as chief judge declare you a criminal now and be done with it.”

Knowing the use to which druids could put criminals, I shook my head violently. “I’ll never again break the smallest prohibition, not as long as I live.”

Menua’s eyelids crinkled at the edges. “Ah, I think you are going to cause me seven kinds of trouble, no matter what you say. But you may just be worth it if we can tolerate each other long enough to find out. Now go collect your bedding from Rosmerta’s lodge. 1 have no provisions for guests.”

That night I slept in the home of the chief druid. Our old lodge would be assigned to the first couple to marry and conceive a child after Beltaine, the festival of spring and fertility.

In the darkness I lay wondering.

Was it possible I had somehow worked the greatest magic of all, the magic reserved for the Source of All Being? In ignorance and passion, had I struck the spark of life?

OMETIMES I CAUGHT Menua watching me narrow-eyed, stroking his lower lip, and knew he was wondering, too. My formal instruction began with criticism of every as—

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pect of my being. Nothing I was or did, it seemed, was right. For example, I was unforgivably awkward, an insult to Menua’s eyes.

“Look to nature,” he advised me- “Every creature that emerges from the Cauldron of Creation is as graceful as it can be according to its physical abilities. Thus do willow tree and water rat alike honor the life within themselves. Life is sacred, a spark from the Source of All Being.

“But you blunder about as if your joints were untied, Ainvar. You bump into this and stumble over that, you spill your precious food and tear clothing it took someone much effort to make. As you come from a line of warriors, I assume you began learning how to handle weapons in your ninth summer. Tell me; Are you as inept with a spear as you are clumsy in my lodge?”

My ears burned hot. “I’m good with a spear. And a sling. And last summer I became tall enough for a sword.”

“Aha!” Menua pounced. “So we must assume you have some control over your muscles if you choose. Then why isn’t every gesture you make, in public or private, a way of thanking the Source for an able body?”

Pointing his forefinger at me, Menua roared in a voice like thunder, “Celebrate yourself!”

My bones obeyed. My spine, slumped in the customary curve of growing boys, straightened itself. My hand, which had been grabbing for a lump of Damona’s bread, stopped itself, men reached out slowly and with restraint. My eyes observed for the first time how cleverly hand and wrist could work together to create a harmonious line.

Menua nodded approval. “Now you no longer resemble a pig rooting through a midden heap. That is appropriate for pigs but not for people. From now on, you will take pleasure in human grace.”

The chief druid never made an awkward gesture, even when he scratched himself. Every movement was fluid, celebrating the ability to move.

I was so impressed I even believed he farted musically.

Nantorus, king of the Camutes—we always called the tribal chieftains kings—came north from his stronghold at Cenabum to congratulate the druids on the success of the new ritual. I had seen him before, for he was a frequent visitor to the sacred grove. To maintain his position a king needed the support of the Otherworld. He was not born to kingship but elected to it by the elders and the druids, and needed all the support he could get.

Though he did not impress me as Menua did, Nantorus was

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splendid and fierce-looking in a crested bronze helmet and coat of leather incised with lozenge shapes picked out in red. Tall and broad, with a flowing brown moustache, he was the symbol of Camule manhood. Also he moved with a kingly grace, my head observed.

Menua entertained him in our lodge. I hovered in the shadows beyond the hearth, trying to keep my mouth closed and my ears open.

Nantorus asked about me. “What plans have you for this tall lad, Menua? Shouldn’t he be out training to replace his father on the battlefield?”

Menua chuckled. “Perhaps I’m saving him to eat when our supplies run low again.”

Nanlorus laughed too, then sobered. “I hope you don’t say things like that when the Roman traders are around. They don’t understand druid humor; they might carry back tales of Camutian man-eaters.”

“Romans.” Menua twisted his mouth with distaste. “The Greeks were better. I remember those we used to see in my youth, long-headed men with a nice appreciation for irony and sarcasm. I would no more joke with a Roman than I would with

a bear. Who could understand me better,” he added.

“I see you still dislike the Romans.”

“I merely meant I would be careful what I said around them, as you yourself just advised,” Menua replied. My ears had grown sensitive to his tone; I detected the faintest stiffness, a guarded quality that had not been there before.

Nantorus turned toward me.’ ‘Your father was a good man with a shortsword. Are you?”

“Ainvar may have other gifts,” Menua interjected smoothly. “He is apprenticed to me, for now.”

” You intend to make a druid out of a potential warrior?” Nantorus did not sound pleased.

“We have a number of warriors. But every generation there are fewer druids.”

Nantorus fixed me with his eyes. “I revere the druids as must we all, Ainvar, but surely you are aware that honors and status within the tribe are won in battle. You might aspire to be a prince someday with men of your own at your command.

“The value of a druid is the equal of a prince, because of his worth to the tribe,” I replied.

Menua’s face remained impassive, but there was a smile in his

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voice when he said, “The lad knows the law. I’ve beaten it into his head.”

“Have you? And is there anything else in that head? Or is it, as I begin to suspect, solid rock? If it is rock I want him for a warrior, Menua; hardheaded men are worth their weight in salt when someone tries to bash in their skulls.” Suddenly Nantorus reached out and caught me by the ears. He pulled me toward him until he could look deep into my eyes.

I made myself meet his scrutiny without flinching.

“Those eyes!” He released me and passed a hand across his face as if to wipe out the sight of me. “Those eyes!” he repeated. “They are like doorways opening onto endless vis-tas, Menua. …”

“Extraordinary eyes,” the chief druid agreed. “I think whatever is in him is worth exploring before it is lost to a spear thrust or a sword slash. Don’t you agree?”

The king nodded slowly. He still seemed shaken. “Perhaps. Still … he will be a big man, and he comes from the blood of fighters … Tell me, Ainvar: Is there nothing about being a warrior mat interests you?”

“There is one question I would like to ask.”

“Yes?” said Nantorus eagerly. “What is it?”

“You are a champion with both sword and sling,” I reminded Nantorus. Young as I was, I knew that kings never object to flat-tery.

“I am.” He stroked his moustache.

“Then you are the person to tell me. Why is a stone thrown from a leather sling so much more deadly than one thrown by hand? I’ve always wondered.”

“Why?” Nantorus opened his eyes very wide. Once or twice he started to say something, then stopped. He shook his head, a rueful smile forming beneath the brown moustache. ‘ “This one is all yours, chief druid,” he said. “I should never have questioned your decision to keep him.”

But be did not answer my sincerely meant question. He was just a warrior. He did not know,

The two men shared cups far into the night, discussing tribal matters and the concerns of men. As I had not passed my manmaking, I was not invited to join mem.

I resented being excluded. There was hair in my groin, my voice had deepened, my penis could stiffen like a stallion’s. What more, I wondered, was necessary for manhood?

As my studies continued, spring blossomed with a radiance all

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the more welcome after such a bitter winter. Our sunseason songs were blended from the rustle of new leaves, the liquid outpourings of the nightingale, the drumming of the woodpecker. Beyond the gate of the fort we began building a tower of timber to feed the great bone-fire that would herald Beltaine. Beltaine, Festival of the Fire of Creation.

From Menua I learned that the Source of All Being is the single and singular force of creation, yet has many faces. Mountain and forest and river, bird and bear and boar, each reveals a different mood of the Creator, a different aspect. Each is therefore a sym-bol of the one Source, but we reverence these nature gods separately with individual rites, showing that we understand and respect the diversity of creation.

Every entity must be free to be itself.

The sun is called the Fire of Creation and is the most powerful of symbols, because without light there is no life. Life is both Creator and creation, Menua explained; the closing of the sacred circle.

For this reason we Celts made our temples the living groves.

As the days grew longer, we carried the last gnawed bones of winter out of the fort to pile on the bone-fire, which would be a

sacrificing of the old, a cleansing and a preparation for the new. It was an exciting time. Some mornings when I awoke I thought I would burst from my skin for sheer exuberance. Then I thought of Rosmerta, who would not see this spring… .

I said nothing of this to Menua, but druids do not need words. One evening, when the twilight shadows were long and blue and my mroat closed up with melancholy, he took the net of dried borage down from the rafters. From the herb he prepared a drink sweetened with the last of the stored honey.

“Drink this, Ainvar. Borage eases a sorrowful spirit. Your long face is not appropriate for the season, and soon we shall go out to the bone-fire and begin the singing.”

I recalled Beltaines of other years, and Rosmerta’s cracked but enthusiastic voice, and her arm around my shoulders. In one long gulp I drained the cup.

The beverage was musty tasting, but it cleared my head. By this simple magic my sadness was eased, and I was grateful.

Some of the kindest magics are small ones.

We went out together to sing at the bone-fire.