Priestess of the Fire Temple (6 page)

5

T
hough I escaped outside to the open air outside the dun as often as I could, at times I felt I was dying. Once in each moontide a fever would come on me and then my lungs would burn. A Drui could have told me that my lungs were speaking, trying to push out the words that my mouth dared not utter. I would cough so loudly in the night that Deaglán was finally forced to move to another roundhouse. He soon found a plump, black-haired concubine to warm his furs.

Now the cough settled on me so deep within my body and spirit that I could hardly move. I was suffused with a kind of fire, and my lungs felt as if live coals burned within them. I took to my bed.

At the beginning I was grateful for my time spent under the linen sheets and furs. It gave me space to dream and a kind of privacy I had not known for a long time. I was like a wounded animal hiding deep in my lair. Some days I wouldn't even bother to light the candles or the brazier; I would just sleep, burrowing deeper and deeper into my inner landscapes. The mogae were not happy with this; they tripped over the hearth stones when they came in to bring me a tray of soup or an herbal brew from the kitchens.

When Breachnat came to visit, she would throw open the door and force me out of bed so she could change the sheets and bring me a fresh nightgown. “It smells like a barn in here!” she would say as she lit the beeswax candles and built up the peat fire on the hearth to clear the air.

After a few days I became restless, and I could feel the fires of life rekindling in my belly, chest, and head, and I began to wonder what was happening outside my walls.

Father Cearbhall came to visit and to sprinkle holy water upon me and all around the house.

“Good morning, Father, what news have you of Deaglán, of Íobar, and of the court? What's happening outside my door?” I asked as if he were a friend. I was suddenly delighted to have any visitor to divert attention from my own bare stone walls.

“
Silentum facite
!” he responded, willing me into silence with his beetling eyes and rough voice. I had forgotten how hard this man tried to keep away from women. It must have been a trial for him to see me like that, in my nightgown and with my hair undone.

“Sickness is visited upon us to test our faith. Your soul is in the bondage of Satan, but hidden within it are still the seeds of good. Awaken those seeds by turning to the one god, who made the world out of nothing. I know well that you are a Paganus at heart—and that you take every opportunity to roam the hills alone, with your hair wild and uncovered.

“Mend your ways, turn to the true faith, and you will be healed. Repeat after me:
Crist issum
(Christ below me),
Crist usasam
(Christ above me),
Crist im degaid
(Christ behind me),
Crist reum
(Christ before me),
Crist dessum
(Christ at my right),
Crist tuathum
(Christ at my left).”
2

I dutifully recited the words, but it didn't stop my coughing.

One day Breachnat asked the household bard to sing and play his harp for me. The Druid teach that music can heal the body and mind and lighten the burdens of the world. She had seen with her own eyes the way the bard could soothe the dying with his harp, even if he was an unrepentant Paganus and thus likely doomed to hell.

Conláed was a skinny young fellow with a beautiful voice who had begun his training as a Drui but had been unable to master the dry memorization of poems, alphabets, and languages that were needed to attain the high rank of fili. He was graduated with honors as a bard and finally let go.

He sang to me of the goddess Clíodna with her three bright birds that ease all sorrow and lull you to sleep with their song, and of Emain Ablach, the immortal land of apples, where endless feasting, sport, and merrymaking are found and where there is no death, evil, disease, decay, or aging—the place where the trees bear flowers and fruit in every season. He strove to bring harmony to my spirit with his harp.

But each night I had the same dream. I would sleep peacefully for a while, and then the sharp talons of a huge black bird would dig into my forehead. I could hear it screaming in raven tongue; somehow I understood the words: “You must come with me.
You must come with me!
”

And then the talons would pull on my scalp, up and up and up, until it seemed the bird was lifting the top of my skull. And then the world would turn red as blood, red as fire, and I would be floating over the dun, seeing everything through a crimson haze. The bird was pulling me away to somewhere unknown, someplace distant from where I was sleeping.

And then I would wake sweating and terrified in my bed, light my candle in the glowing brazier, and check my face for blood. I could still feel it streaming into my eyes from the force of the talons, but there was no blood on my face or on my pillows. Then I would fall back into a troubled sleep and rise again coughing in the morning.

At dawn I'd rise and dress in my warmest cloak and climb the outer stone wall before I broke my fast. On the top I would sing a prayer to Áine Clí, goddess of love and the sun:

Mother of the stars

Eye of the gods

Queen of the heavens

Sister of the moon

You who rise up and lie down

In the terrible ocean

Without fear

You who abide forever

Coming and going

Shining equally on all that is

Help me!

At dusk I would repeat my ritual, watching until she lowered her glowing form into the dark, distant waves.

I derived some comfort from this, as she was the only soul friend I could still count on. The sentries watched my movements but never made a move to stop me.

In those days I was careful to leave a small portion of every meal I was brought on my windowsill or on a rock outside the door as a gift for the Daoine Sidhe. I meant it as a signal that my house, at least, was prepared to be generous. Hopefully the Good Folk would be generous in return.

It had been drilled into me from childhood that the relationship with the spirits of place was of supreme importance—that they must be treated as honored relations in order that the people and the animals remain healthy. I was filled with concern for the land and the tribes, and there was little else I could offer in the way of Druid magic.

My offerings were paltry, I knew. They were hardly a fair recompense for the labors of the land spirits who grew the crops and fed the kingdom, but there was little more that I could do.

The folk of the tuaths still appeared at the gate with their carts full of the obligatory butter, milk, cheeses, berries, plums, apples, lambs, smoked hams, venison, and fish. They brought us their nettles and watercresses, cabbages, carrots, and onions, and the storerooms of the dun were filled with spelt, barley, and oats. Somehow there was always ample béoir for the warriors and honey for Íobar's table, but I knew without being told that the people outside the walls were suffering, even as they brought their best food to the king.

As the moontides wore on and I had no relations with Deaglán, my status in court diminished until even Íobar no longer asked for me.

“My lady, I bring news,” Conláed the bard said to me one morning as he ducked through the doorway of my roundhouse clutching his harp. “Deaglán's concubine is with child. And the tribes have begun raiding on the borders of In Medon once again!”

I knew that according to the laws, any child born to a concubine had the exact same rights as a child born of a chief wife. Deaglán's concubine could easily be the mother of the future king. With the peace broken, my only function in the court had been usurped and the reason for my marriage obliterated. Now I understood why I had become invisible. I was no longer of interest to Deaglán, Íobar, or the court.

[contents]

6

I
t was an unexpectedly warm morning, and the young priestess took me outside to sit on a little bench on the sunny side of the roundhouse. She tucked thick woolen blankets around my legs and shoulders and began to comb and braid my hair.

“Have I told you about the Beltaine Druid Council in that fateful year?” I asked her.

“No, my lady,” she replied.

It felt good to have my hair freshly combed and plaited, and I was grateful that the braids were loose and didn't pull my scalp.

“Well, then, I had a full account from those who were there. Let me tell you about it…”

The Druid Council was an event that was rotated yearly from district to district, in a sunwise spiral from kingdom to kingdom. Representatives were sent to the gathering from each province of the island, who would in turn report back to the Druid of their own kingdoms so that every Drui was kept current with the local politics of Ériu.

The Druid were able to travel across the borders because at that time they were still allowed the privilege of free movement across kingdoms, a remnant of the ancient respect once accorded their ranks. By tradition, the council always took place on the nearest full moon after the Beltaine festival, the time of green shoots, rising sap, and new growth—“The time of optimism and change, when the green sap causes new leaves to unfurl,” as Niamh put it.

That year it was Niamh and Dálach-gaes's turn to host the council. Their students helped them prepare for the event by gathering huge piles of firewood from trees outside of the rath and by cutting peat bricks from the nearby bogs, which they stacked neatly within the Druid enclosure, covered with straw and rushes against the rain. They also made soft beds of heather and straw, covered over with furs and woolen blankets borrowed from the stores of Barra Mac Mel, king of In Medon.

Dálach-gaes, Niamh, and their students and children moved into one house, giving over the children's house to the expected female guests. The schoolhouse was filled to bursting with extra beds and provisions for the men.

Ever conscious of the political value of hospitality, Barra Mac Mel was generous with his gifts of food and drink for the council. He donated a pair of mogae to carry hot water for baths and to shuttle daily cauldrons of stew, roasted meats, and platters of bread, butter, and cheese from the kitchens of the royal house. In anticipation of the event, Niamh had been hoarding honey, dried apples, plums, and hazelnuts since fall.

The meeting would take place in the nemed's outdoor ritual enclosure unless it rained, in which case it would have to move indoors.

The nemed of In Medon's Druid was far smaller than the nemed of former years. The elaborate Fire Altar was no more; that structure had been subsumed by the stone chapel of the Cristaidi, and the herb garden that had once surrounded the Fire Altar had become a graveyard. The sacred ash still stood, but it was right next to the stone church, so there was little chance of performing a sacred Druid rite under its sheltering branches.

But hidden behind the thick screen of yew was a round enclosure of soft, mossy earth that was covered with several inches of freshly cut grass when a ceremony was to be performed. In the north of the circle stood a tall carved wooden pole, the
bíle
, or world tree, emblem of the three realms of land, sea, and sky because it was buried deep in the ground, stood at ground level, and reached for the heavens.

The bíle was carved with intricate interlace patterns that symbolized the interconnectedness of all creation, and long white feathers hung by threads from the top. By watching the movement of the feathers, the Druid could read from which direction the wind was blowing—an all-important divination aid.

“The bíle is placed in the north because all magic comes from the north. It is easiest to read the currents of magic from that direction,” Dálach-gaes explained to the children, who were entranced by the feathers dancing in the breeze.

At the center of the space stood a simple stone altar: three rocks upon which lay a flat slab of stone. The altar was hallowed by a grave. Daire, a former prince of In Medon who had achieved initiation as a Drui, had asked to be buried there after he crossed over, to bless and guard the nemed in death as he had sought to defend it in life. In honor of the council, the altar was now covered with a white linen cloth, its edges embroidered with green and silver knotwork designs.

On the eastern side of the stone altar, in the direction of the sunrise, was a small Fire Altar that was a hole dug into the earth. It was square and lined with stone. On the western side, in the direction of the sunset, was a deep votive shaft into which offerings could be made to the underworld Sidhe realms.

Thick oiled-wool blankets were neatly folded and placed on the freshly cut grass for the guests to sit upon or to wrap around their shoulders in case of cold and damp.

Dálach-gaes studied the fluttering feathers at the top of the bíle for a few moments.

“The wind is blowing from the north just now, the direction of battle. Either there is important news coming from Irardacht or a conflict is already brewing there,” he mused out loud. “In any case, the spirits want our attention to go to battles and to the north for some reason—to the kingdom of the eagles.”

Everyone within hearing had a sick feeling; winds from the north always presaged some kind of deadly conflict, and they steeled themselves to receive bad news.

Dunlaing and Carmac from Oirthir were the first to arrive at the Council. As was usual for Druid of the Eastern Kingdom, the Oirthiri looked sleek, well dressed, and prosperous. Carmac was the shorter of the two; his dark hair was carefully braided and decorated with golden ornaments. Dunlaing was taller, with blond braids and bright gold glistening from the interlaced designs on his belt. Both wore golden torques and immaculately clean white fleece robes into which they had changed just before entering the dun.

Dunlaing presented Dálach-gaes with a gift for the school, a large bronze bell that he had carried with great effort in his backpack. Carmac had carried his personal lamdia, a portable bronze idol of a goddess with antlers that were removable from their sockets. The antlers were to be taken out in the dark half of the year, when the sun was on the wane, and put back in at Beltaine, at the start of summer.

On arrival, the very first thing Carmac did was to set up the lamdia in a place of honor under the yews. He reverently unwound the deerskin coverings and laid a silver plate and cup before the little statue so that everyone could make offerings to her each day of the gathering.

“He never goes anywhere without that statue. He is under a geis,” said Dunlaing stoically. He had been forced to “feed” the statue every day of their journey, at dawn and at dusk, or risk Carmac's displeasure. Carmac was a special devotee of the sun goddess in her deer form, and he always made sure that there were fresh flowers and food offerings at the feet of her statue at daybreak and again at twilight.

As soon as the statue was settled into a place of honor, he welcomed her with a song:

Beloved Goddess

Queen of the Sky

White deer of purity

You who guide the seekers

You who welcome the departed spirits

To your shining realm

Of immortality

We welcome you into this place

Be with us now!

Making a deep bow, he ceremoniously unwrapped the final silk coverings that covered the little goddess and began to dance in ecstasy before her as the others watched and smiled, clapping their hands to provide accompaniment.

When Carmac at last settled down, Dálach-gaes approached the two arrivals with brimming cups of mid to formally welcome them to the gathering.

“A cup of joy to welcome you to our tuath,” he said, beaming.

The next guests to appear were three ban-Druid from Torcrad. Bláthnait was a tall, willowy woman wearing green robes who carried a small harp packed into a sheepskin bag, with the wool side inward to protect the wood and strings.

Canair was a dark-haired, dark-eyed ban-liaig who wore practical brown robes “because they don't show the dirt,” as she would often say. Her daily forays into the fields looking for edible greens and medicinal herbs invariably left the hems of her robes stained and muddy.

Ita was the eldest of the three, a ban-fili in grey robes whose red hair was rapidly fading to white. All three wore thick bronze torques to advertise their rank, and Ita also wore a knob of polished amber on a string around her neck. Embedded within the amber was a dragonfly, the symbol of transformation.

“Dragonflies are dedicated warriors who will devour any obstacle in their path. Don't let their beauty fool you!” she told the children as they stared up at the magnificent necklace. Though Ita was small of stature and thin, she was as fierce as a feral cat when challenged.

Canair's sons, Finnlug and Garbhán, were warriors who accompanied the three ban-Druid as guides and protectors. They were both clean shaven save for their moustaches and their dark hair, which was neatly plaited into thick braids. They had deerskin trousers and tunics under their woolen capes, and each carried a sword on their belt and a shield on their back. Being sons of a ban-Drui, they were entitled to wear bronze torques.

The five were each handed a frothy cup of joy upon their arrival.

“Finnlug and Garbhán, you two will guard the perimeter of the nemed to prevent eavesdropping by curious folk of the rath,” Dálach-gaes announced. The yearly convocation of Druid was no place for warriors.

The brothers loped off willingly; they had become tired of listening to women day and night. The sights and sounds of the dun would be a welcome diversion.

Next to arrive from Murthracht were Cainleog and Alda, a newly handfasted pair who were clearly excited to be journeying so far together. Both had long black hair, blue eyes, and matching blue robes, and both of them were shanachies. They brought a small barrel of mid as a gift for the gathering.

“Left over from our honeymoon,” they said in unison as they handed it to Dálach-gaes.

“A couple!” exclaimed Niamh. “Where shall we put them to sleep?”

“We are happy to sleep outside, so long as we are together,” said Alda, giving his new wife a squeeze and a moist, tender look, a look that she returned with equal intensity and a deep blush.

“They are like a matched pair of fine horses,” Niamh later confided to Dálach-gaes in private.

Cainleog and Alda sipped their cups of joy side by side, seemingly more interested in each other than in the gathered Druid.

The last to arrive were three harried-looking Druid from Irardacht. Bárid was tall and thin, with auburn hair; Amlaim was shorter, with long grey hair; while Imar was tall and blond. All three wore patched and faded robes. They were painfully thin.

Seeing their condition and knowing that they had come from the north, Dálach-gaes determined to make their plight the first order of official business.

When everyone had chosen their beds and dropped their packs and anything else they were carrying, they washed in warm water to remove the dust of the road. Niamh had ordered the mogae to put chamomile and lavender oils into the wooden tubs of bathing water because their scents soothed the senses and removed the tensions of travel.

Everyone changed into comfortable deerskin slippers and clean robes and padded softly out to the grass-covered nemed.

“There will be a feast this evening,” said Dálach-gaes. “But first we must begin our council in the proper way. Just as the first task of every day is to light the hearth with a prayer of awakening, so must we light the Fire Altar to begin our work.”

The Fire Altar had been prepared beforehand with a mound of dry birch bark over which three bricks of peat, symbolic of the three worlds, were laid in a pyramid. To ensure a successful outcome at the fire lighting even if the weather turned damp, Niamh had taken the precaution of sprinkling melted tallow and beeswax over the peat logs. It wouldn't do to have the fire go out; that would be seen as a terrible omen for the meeting.

To one side of the fire pit was a small pile of nine sacred woods: willow, hazel, alder, birch, ash, yew, elm, oak, and pine. Each of these woods had its own unique energy to lend to the proceedings, and nine was a sacred number.

“Let each of you take one stick of a sacred wood and lay it on the fire while uttering a prayer of intent for this council,” Dálach-gaes announced.

One by one, the Druid approached the little Fire Altar and laid their sticks with respectful purpose upon the stack of peat. As they did so, each of them invoked the gods of their people and asked for a blessing on the work ahead. At the same time a student fed tufts of wool onto a fire drill as another briskly rubbed two pieces of oak to start a new fire by friction. A waft of smoke finally puffed from the drill and then, suddenly, a small spark of flame, which was carefully nurtured with straw. Gradually an entire sheaf of dried straw was set ablaze, then pushed under the birch bark until the pyramid of woods and peat ignited.

“May the Fire Altar bring warmth, light, and sanctification to our work in these next days; may our hearts be warmed to each other. May the warmth, light, and promise of our meeting radiate out to all the kingdoms and to every life on Ériu. May the gods watch over us and inspire us. May what we do here be a blessing for the people.”

Dálach-gaes bent over the stone altar, picking up a small silver escra, and held it aloft for a moment so that orange firelight glinted off its polished silver surface. Then he slowly poured a stream of uisge beatha from the cup onto the flames.

“A gift for the fire. May the fragrant essence of this liquid find its way to the sky gods above.”

As the smoke and flames reached cheerily for the sky, the next ritual act was to honor the Daoine Sidhe. Niamh bent to pick up a sky-blue clay pitcher from the stone altar.