Priestess of the Fire Temple (13 page)

“Drink in life, and may your years on this earth plane be many,” he said, a way of formally welcoming her back from the spirit world, because in her present state she was not yet fully human.

Then he handed her the bowl of apple slices and nuts. “Enjoy the food of the living, made from the fruits of the living land.”

Niamh swallowed the cold spring water, savoring every drop, then she ate a few of the nuts and some apple slices. She could already feel her strength returning and her head clearing.

“Well?” Dálach-gaes asked when she had finished bathing and dressing.

“I had a visitor last night. It was a woman. Her name is Ethne, the former ard-ban-Drui,” Niamh replied. “She said she was very happy that we did this at such a sacred place. She said she is glad we are keeping the old ways alive.”

“But what did she say about Aislinn?” Dálach-gaes asked, a little impatiently.

“She showed me where to send her. I will explain it to you and Father Justan as we walk back to the nemed.”

Dálach-gaes knew better than to demand further details. Niamh had been touched by spirit, and she was still integrating the message. All would be revealed in good time.

[contents]

18

O
ne morning I had slept long past sunrise and I rolled over, thinking to stir the hearth fire and cook some breakfast, when I noticed by the sunlight slanting through the door that it was nearly afternoon.

At that exact moment, Father Justan ducked through the doorway wearing a broad smile. I had not seen him for nearly a week.

“Get up, sleepy bones. I have a surprise for you!” He gestured that something exciting was waiting for me on the other side of the door.

I rolled out of the blankets and groped for a comb because my hair was snarled. It still smelled faintly of lavender flowers. I took a few moments to tease out the worst of the knots and then splashed cold water on my face from a bronze basin, belted my wrinkled tunic, and slipped into the pair of borrowed sandals.

I was barely presentable when I eased through the door opening to see what surprise Father Justan had wrought.

Suddenly I was engulfed in ferocious hugs and kisses. Dálach-gaes, Niamh, Caoilfhionn, Deg, and the children all wrapped themselves around me in a tight ball. Everyone was laughing, crying, and jumping up and down in excitement.

“Hold on, hold on!” I laughed. “You are like a pack of wolves greeting a lost den mate!”

I stepped back to look at them, the people I loved. Almost two sun cycles had passed. The children were taller; Dálach-gaes's beard had gone grey. Niamh looked the same as she always would—as eternal as the sea surrounding Innis nan Druidneach, her spiritual home.

It seemed that everyone I cared about in this life had come together to wish me well. Only one beloved face and form was starkly absent, and I could still feel his hazel-leaf eyes gazing upon me.

“Artrach, these are my people,” I whispered silently to his spirit. My constant companion, I now felt him everywhere around and within me.

Dálach-gaes interrupted my thoughts. “Father Justan has told us of your adventures. I must say I am not surprised that the marriage was difficult. You have ever had a mind of your own. But your travels back to In Medon are worthy of an epic tale!”

“No one holds this against you,” said Niamh, touching my shoulder gently and soothing my spirit as she always did. “No matter what the Cristaidi say, the ancient laws permit you to walk away from an unhappy union, and you are free to seek your happiness elsewhere, though it might have made more sense to leave Irardacht with a retinue of warriors. And now you must undertake yet another journey.” She sighed as she looked at me, smiling with mingled pride at my courage and with concern for my lack of judgment.

“A journey?” I asked. “Where am I going this time?”

“Don't ask any questions. Just follow my directions, and all will be well.”

“But—!”

She looked into my eyes fiercely as she fingered my face. The caress was loving, but I knew by her expression that she would brook no opposition.

“Don't ask any questions; just go,” Father Justan commanded, echoing Niamh's tone.

“We have presents for you!” Caoilfhionn and Deg shouted excitedly. They each carried a leather sack, which they proceeded to empty out on the grass.

I surveyed the treasures spilled before me: woolen socks, stout boots for walking, a thick green oiled-wool cape, a beautiful blue woolen blanket, combs for my hair, a cauldron and a tripod for the fire, tinder and flint, a new léine and three tunics of different shades from pure white to green and blue, and a doeskin belt with golden knotwork embroidery.

There were fresh wheels of cheese encased in wax coatings, a bag of oats, a small bag of ground wheaten flour, dried apples, a sack of cracked hazelnuts, wooden plates and a wooden goblet, strips of dried deer meat bound in birch bark, and a bag of dried elderberries and mint leaves.

One of the children, Ergan, a boy who had miraculously sprouted from a knee-high elf to a strapping young man, shyly handed me a carved walking staff. An earnest-looking girl child named Slaine produced a small knife encased in a beautifully worked leather sheath. When I left, they had been mewling infants; now they were people.

“She worked the leather herself,” Niamh announced proudly.

It was everything I could possibly want for a journey in the wilderness, and I was speechless.

Just then I heard a sob coming from under a nearby apple tree. I looked up and saw yet one more beloved figure. It was Róisín, my old nurse, who had tagged along but stayed several paces behind the august company of Druid out of respect.

“Róisín!” I ran up to her and wrapped my arms around her plump middle.

Her face went crimson with emotion and tears.

“Oh my lady!” she cried, extricating herself from my embrace and handing me a package.

She had wrapped something in one of her best woolen cloths; it was a pair of plaid trousers.

“These are for you to wear so your legs don't chafe while you are riding,” she said.

“Riding?” I wondered what she meant.

Then I heard the tinkling sound of bells in the distance, bells that evidently hung from a horse's harness. We all turned and looked down the road where four riders were approaching at a stately pace, leading a beautiful white mare.

As the riders grew closer, I made out that the two on the outside were well-outfitted warriors sporting polished bronze shields, spears, and swords. One man in the middle was wearing bright red wool and silk and leading the white horse by a long tether. It was my father! My brother, Eógan, rode next to him, dressed all in blue, with bright silver embroidery on his cuffs and hems.

Incredulous, I stayed glued to the spot, my eyes brimming over with pride, love, and fear.

“Father Justan told me what you did—that you braved the wild forests alone to preserve my kingdom because you feared that your capture would spell ruin for us all,” my father said when he was close enough for hearing, beaming down at me from his tall brown stallion.

He and Eógan slid from their horses, and my father solemnly pulled a package from his saddle, handing it to me with a proud smile.

“These small gifts are but a token of thanks for what you did so bravely.”

I opened the wrappings carefully. Inside a green shawl of lambswool were an individually packed collection of precious objects, each within its own soft deerskin bag.

There were supple blue leather gloves embroidered with silver thread, a golden torque, a golden armband and ring, a golden fillet for my hair, a necklace of amber, and a pair of amber earrings. There was also a mysteriously heavy bag, which I reached into and found to be filled with coins.

“Those are séts; each of them is worth the value of half a cow. You should use them to pay for food, drink, and lodging for yourself and your retinue,” my father said.

“Your mother sent the earrings,” he added. “They are hers; they came all the way from Letha. Remember always that you are a princess and that your appearance reflects on us all.”

His last statement was slightly ironic, given my state of wrinkled disreputableness.

I wondered why my mother hadn't come with him, but I knew that I was ever a disappointment to her. I guessed that it was because once again I was without cattle or dun and thus not worth knowing.

“Oh, Father, it's so good to see you!” I cried as I put my arms about his neck and kissed his bushy beard. He blushed at the unaccustomed intimacy. My brother, in the way of brothers, showed little emotion, but he did give me a stiff hug. After all, I had saved his future kingdom, too.

“These warriors and the mare are for your own use, to see you safely to your new home,” my father said, still looking red-faced and flustered. “Bláth is a steady and gentle mount, and these two men have been with me for most of their lives; I trust them completely. You didn't think I would let my only daughter go alone into the wilderness again?”

“But where will they be they taking me?” I asked.

“Don't ask any questions; just go,” Father Justan ordered quickly, just as he had before.

It seemed that everyone was in on the plan. Maybe they were afraid I would melt back into the forest if I knew what was in store. I held my peace.

I went back into Father Justan's hut and changed into the blue tunic and the deerskin belt, and slipped into the riding trousers, adding the amber necklace as a final adornment. Róisín happily combed and braided my hair; for once, the braids were not too tight.

After many tearful hugs and goodbyes, I finally mounted the little white mare, ready to depart with my small retinue of warriors. Niamh stepped forward and faced us with open palms to intone the ancient blessing for a safe journey:

Bless the pathways on which you go

Bless the earth beneath your soles

As you go upon the road

Against misfortune, against peril, against spells

Against wounding, against fright

Nor brand shall burn thee

Nor arrow rend thee

You shall go and return triumphant

As the sun who rises victorious

From the dark sea of night.

“How strange life can be,” I mused as we took to the open road. “One moment I am a badger hiding in the wood. Now I am a princess once again. How swiftly the wheel of fate turns…”

I pulled out the little bronze triskell that hung next to my heart and remembered the hands that had made it. I could have sworn I heard a voice coming from beyond the trees, riding on the wind.
Aoibhgreíne
, it sighed.

[contents]

PART THREE

The Rising Sun

19

C
oreven and Alvinn were mostly silent for the first few days of our journey, under strict orders not to discuss our final destination. My father the ard-ri and Father Justan had agreed to this. I was confident that wherever I was being led, I could take care of myself; the last few years had shown me that much.

Three signs of wisdom: patience, closeness, the gift of prophecy
. The old triad popped into my head and gave me the courage to stay silent.

Brown and yellow leaves crunched under the hooves of our horses. Alvinn's Caur was a broad-chested, war-scarred chestnut who plodded steadily along the road, unfazed by blowing leaves and darting rabbits, while Coreven's Lasar was a thin, wiry mount who skittled and shied at any unexpected object or sound. Coreven adored the tall red horse because he had won him many a purse of séts at the Lugnasad fairs. Alvinn thought of Caur as his second right arm. Bláth, my own mount, was a dainty creature who enjoyed the company of the other horses and delighted in the freedom of the open road.

The narrow road stretched out endlessly before us like a carpet of speckled gold; the trees along the way were already standing naked, the brisk winds having recently stripped them of their finery. Above us the skies had been clear blue for days, and flocks of birds would overtake us from time to time, honking and calling in excitement as they began their winter migrations. Frosty nights lent urgency to the air, as if the pace of life had suddenly quickened in anticipation of the coming cold.

I enjoyed the sensation of riding high on a horse; we covered ground much more quickly than I ever had on foot, and the views of the hillsides and copses were spectacular from my lofty perch. But my joints were becoming stiff and sore. Each time we dismounted I found it hard to walk until I had worked out the stiffness in my legs.

“I don't want to be outdoors on this night,” Alvinn finally said, breaking his silence with a dark look.

Black haired and dour looking, he was a man without humor who hunched over the saddle as if the weight of the world lay upon his shoulders. Long dark curls obscured his features, a face growing thick with dark stubble from lack of shaving.

Coreven was his opposite, blond and blue eyed with a ready smile and an infectious laugh, his long blond tresses were held back in thick braids, lending an open expression to his face. Even when we were being silent he would turn to me for no reason other than good humor to give me a big grin and a wink.

And there I was in the middle. Protected and trapped, exposed yet well supplied.

“You mean because it's Samhain?” I asked innocently.

I was well aware of that fact but, knowing the superstitious nature of most warriors, I had said nothing. My plan was to leave a nice food offering at the next Sidhe mound we passed and hope that the spirits would be satisfied. I knew that if humans were not generous and failed to respect the Sidhe mounds at Samhain, it would only bring blight, bad weather, and disease. I had seen enough of those in Irardacht and would do my best to prevent such disasters any way that I could.

I shivered at the memory, even though I had on my oiled wool cape.

“It's no good to be outside on this night,” Alvinn repeated bleakly when we were a few more paces down the road. He shook his head slowly from side to side for emphasis and hunkered even lower in the saddle, as if Caur could somehow protect him from the malevolent forces abroad.

“Well, then, let's find a hostel or a farmhouse where we can find hospitality,” I suggested.

The sky was clear, and the prospect of yet another cold night sleeping on the ground was less than appealing. I had a bag full of séts, after all.

“No one will refuse us food and hospitality on this night,” Coreven chimed in gaily with his usual wink while straining to keep Lasar from bolting. A squirrel had hopped right in front of us.

We continued along the road, crossing a boggy area where someone had laid out planks of alder wood to prevent carts and horses from sinking. Taking a sharp turn around a rocky outcrop, we encountered a small tribal holding, a clutch of willow-thatched roundhouses surrounded by a stout wooden palisade. Boys had been set to guard the entrance, and one of them gave out a shrill blast on a small metal horn as another ran into the settlement to alert the warriors.

Within moments three grown men emerged from the gate, each carrying a round wooden shield and a bronze-tipped lance.

“I haven't seen spears like that since I was a young colt!” Coreven exclaimed.

Bronze lances were a relic of the distant past but still favored by the country folk because they didn't rust.

One of the three men stepped forward, trying to look fierce.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” His thick black brows beetled mightily as his blue eagle-eyes bored into us. The other two just looked scared.

“We come in peace; we are simply seeking hospitality for the night.
This
night,” I added for emphasis, hoping the men would understand.

The three looked at each other and then slowly lowered their spears. They understood. No prudent person would want to be abroad on Samhain.

“Leave your weapons at the entrance and make yourselves welcome,” the head man said gruffly.

We dismounted and carefully removed any sword, shield, or dirk we might possess, depositing each into a long wooden chest by the entrance; such a chest is used to store grain and weapons against the damp. I even laid in my walking staff, thinking they might consider it a danger. Alvinn and Coreven looked unhappy but resigned to giving up their weapons; it was the accepted practice, and they went along as gracefully as they were able.

The warriors of the village picked up the chest by the handles to carry it inside.

“The boys will see to your mounts,” the headman declared as we untied our bundles and bags from the backs of the horses. Lasar tried to bite the boy who led him to the stable, while Caur remained unfazed. Bláth went along sweetly as ever, daintily accepting the stub of a carrot held out by a boy as a gesture of friendship.

There were urgent cow sounds coming from one side of the settlement. The herds had been newly brought in from their summer pastures and were expressing their dismay at the suddenly cramped quarters. As is usual with these habitations, a veil of smoke hung low over everything—a distinct change from our days in the clear open air.

We picked up our bundles and followed the men into what appeared to be the main house of the farmstead, where the clan was already gathered to entertain and comfort each other throughout the long night. The one-room roundhouse was dark, save for a roaring fire in the hearth, and very smoky. Swirling tendrils of wood smoke drifted towards the ceiling, but closer to the ground the air was clearer, so everyone was huddled as low as possible on the furs, blankets, and pallets spread about on the floor. At least it was warm.

The spicy-sweet tang of boiled cider wafted from the hearthstones where a large cauldron of the drink, liberally laced with uisge beatha, lay waiting to be shared after supper. A huge báirín breac, speckled with currants and shiny with a honey glaze, lay on a wooden platter by the hearth, where a small pig and a goose were being turned together on a long iron spit by one of the grandmothers, who was sitting on a stool in the place of honor closest to the fire.

She was evidently the female head of the clan, based on the Cailleach sheaf that hung from her neck; the doll made from the last sheaf to be harvested was slung around to dangle down her back and away from the embers. Any time a youngster reached for the báirín breac, she would rap their hand smartly with a wooden spoon.

The close air was thick with other smells: the meaty scent of newly stuffed sausages that garlanded the roof tree, drying in the smoke, and fresh strings of round apple slices that hung from the rafters, slowly desiccating. Drops of fat dripped and sputtered onto the fire, and one could just hear the wind howling against the willow rods of the smoke-charred roof.

“I am so glad you are warm and safe inside,
mo muirne
,” a voice whispered into my ear.

I looked around to see who had spoken, but no one was speaking to me; all eyes were glued to the other side of the house, at the opposite side of the fire. I rubbed my ears, wondering.

At the start of the dark half of the year, everyone eagerly awaited the return of nightly storytelling, and a prosperous-looking shanachie was already in the midst of a ribald tale. It always amazes me how a tribe will pay almost any price for a story, even when their bellies are empty.

Alvinn, Coreven, and the three warriors stared straight ahead, straining to listen. No one seemed to have noticed our arrival as we stood quietly in the entrance.

“One Samhain night the Daghda, our good god of blessed memory, spied a woman bathing herself in the river Unius. She was naked and very beautiful. Her nine tresses of hair were shiny and black, and her skin was as pale as moonlight. Her eyes were as dark as the black door of midnight, and her lips were full red with the blush of elderberries. Her eyebrows, nails, and cheeks were stained dark crimson with the juice of crushed berries, and her teeth were as white as the pearls of the sea.

“Large she was, so large that she had one foot on the south bank of the river while her other foot rested on the northern shore. Does anyone here know her name?”

The shanachie swept his gaze regally from one side of the house to the other, scanning the crowd, waiting for an answer. The children stared, rapt, with eyes as round and wide as the apples that bobbed in a barrel near the fire.

“She was the Morrigu,” one small child finally offered.

Everyone gasped because he had dared to say her name, and to say her name out loud might call the fearful Great Queen of Battle to them on this night of all nights. A pleasant shiver of fear coursed through the throng as the shanachie continued the tale.

“Yes, and the great queen is as large and powerful as three mortal queens put together. The good god spoke with the beautiful lady and found her pleasing and soon laid his huge warm hands upon her. He drew her to him and made love to her, and she did not object, for he was just as large as she was. She knew that he would satisfy her because he was filled with lust, and he always had a hard time finding a woman who could satisfy his desire.”

The adults and older children giggled in appreciation, winking and elbowing each other. It was obvious that there were no Cristaidi in that room, a fact which I found refreshing.

The shanachie suddenly stopped speaking and rose slowly from his seat to greet us. He had finally noticed us across the fire. The room went silent.

“Who are the strangers that have appeared at our door on this night when the Sidhe mounds are opened?” he asked in rolling resonant tones. Evidently the man had some training as a bard.

The clan craned their necks to see, with wonder and fear playing in equal measure upon their faces.

“We are three travelers seeking shelter on this fearful night,” I offered.

“We will ask you no questions, for it would be rude to pester you before you have eaten. Please be seated and enjoy what hospitality we have to offer. Make yourselves comfortable by the fire, for forever it has been said ‘Often and often go the gods in the traveler's guise.'”

Heartened by his grand manner and kind invitation, we did as we were bidden, and the smells of roasting goose and pig soon made our bellies growl. A young tribeswoman filled wooden cups with the spicy cider brew and handed a steaming drink to each of us.

When we were comfortably settled on the hard clay floor with our packs as pillows, the head man who had met us at the entrance to the settlement rose and cleared his throat to speak.

“Now that we are all safely in for the night, the blessing can begin.”

A woman who appeared to be his wife handed him a bowl of dark liquid. The man gestured towards the fire and spoke again.

“We have set apart this goose and pig for six moontides. They have been treated with kindness and fed everything they could want and more. Then they were sent to the Otherworld with prayers and thanks for the gifts they will bestow upon us, and now they both grace the central hearth of our clan. They will soon honor us and our unexpected guests by giving us meat, but before they go into our bellies, we must purify our home with the blood they have shed on our behalf.”

He reached his fingers into the bowl and walked to the hearth, pouring a bit of blood reverently onto the embers as a gift to the gods. The drops of blood sizzled on the coals, adding a sweet metallic scent to the riot of smells already filling the air. Then he walked to each of the timber posts that circled the house, sprinkling fresh blood with his fingers to bless the farm and its people with the forces of life in the new sun cycle. Then he carefully sprinkled blood on the doorposts and across the threshold.

He poured the last of the blood into the hearth fire as a final offering to the spirits, wiped his hands on his dark tunic, and reached into a bag that was slung over his shoulder, pulling out freshly sharpened goose quills and handing one to each of the children. His wife passed around small ceramic bowls filled with another dark liquid and then scraps of snow-white birch bark.

“I want you to use this elderberry ink to paint a message to the gods onto each scrap of bark. Your parents and relations will help you do this. Then you can put your message into the fire to send it to the sky world.”

While the children and their relatives busied themselves scratching images of what they wanted for the new sun cycle onto strips of white bark, the grandmother and her daughters began carving the goose and the pig on huge wooden trenchers. The scent of warm meat was overwhelming, and I thanked whichever gods or spirits had brought me to the safety of this generous hearth.

Later that evening, when songs were being sung and everyone had eaten their fill, I took the chance to sidle up to the plump shanachie, who was just finishing his supper.