The Fox (23 page)

“Marc?” I whispered.

“He went to get a cup of coffee.”

“Bowl?”

“It’s in Glasgow.”

I silently thanked God that it was ok.

“Camera?”

George broke into a smile. “Ah, the ever present scientist. We recovered the camera and the pictures are perfect. We had to pry open your hand to retrieve the piece of metal you went back in for. It seems to be two items that have become welded together over time. We’ll decipher them later.”

Marc came into the room with two steaming cups of coffee. “Sleeping Beauty is awake!” He handed the cups to George, came over to my bedside and took my hand. “God, I was scared. I don’t want to ever have to do that again. No more caves for you.” He leaned over and kissed me gently on my lips.

“Awakened by a prince,” I said and smiled. “When do I get out of here?”

“We can take you home to London tomorrow if we promise to give you proper time to recover,” Marc said.

“No! Not London, the inn. I don’t want to leave the site.”

A stormy look covered George’s face but Marc said, “Okay, okay. Calm down. I’ll call Mrs. Dingleberry and see if she’s fine with it. After all, you’ll be under her feet for a while. That way I can watch over you, too.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Marc.

“Good.”

I thought about the bronze bowl, its contents, and the whispered order to hold onto the acorn. I knew there was no way I could prove who was in the bowl to anyone else, but I knew. I had found Jahna.

What other secrets did she have hidden? The mountain almost killed me but I knew Jahna had more for me to find.

C
HAPTER
12

JAHNA

75 AD July

An ache settled deep in my leg. Dusk hazily descended as we sighted the meadow through the trees. Depths of hopelessness filled my heart and sank into my gut. I wanted to vomit as we rode into the open space and started across what was once a place of beauty for me.

Meadowsweet’s potent odor rose from the green, marshy lea, crushed by the weight of the ponies. I looked around. There, near the bend in the stream. Was I standing there? Yes. I was gathering the blossoms, reveling in the sunlight of the summer day, remembering a night of love with Lovern, when the arrow crippled my leg.

Panic caused my belly to fill with fire and pull against my backbone. The memories of my taking haunted me, but here I felt the fiendish presence of that man. My hand rested on my short sword, ready. I would never let myself be taken again.

The ponies entered a stand of alders just on the far edge of the meadow. This hot-burning, hard wood became charcoal for Finlay’s smithy. He whispered a greeting to the fire god, Bran, as we passed from the meadow into the cover of the trees. What god was I to thank for my despair?

The size of my world had increased, not by my choice, and would never be the same again. This line of trees was where, at my taking, I once crossed into a world of the dead. The grass trampled by the hooves of the ponies smelled sour to me. The sweetness of this formerly tranquil place had disappeared. Everything I had known beyond this meadow led to the battle of my spirits and the death of Beathan. The blood red setting sun and shrill call of the birds in the forest set the scene in my heart. Tears welled and fell onto my white dress, spotting it with grey grief.

“Piuthar Jahna,
why are you crying? Why are you not excited like me?” queried the small Logan as he shifted to pat me on my back with both small hands. He rustled behind me as I leaned forward in pain, both from my leg, and the heavy burden I carried.

“Quiet, pup. Let her be. Your aunt is grieving,” admonished Kenric. Kenric and I had been riding side-by-side, exchanging glances. We did not need words for our conversation. In the meadow, his eyes sympathized with me, and seemed to say,
I understand. Here, you were gathering the herbs. It was from here we followed the blood trail with the dogs.
Feelings of fear and suffocation were dredged from my memories. I choked back my tears, not wanting to frighten Logan.

“Do not make me unhappy we brought you along, little nephew,” Finlay said, following us. “We will be camping soon. Then you will hear the song of how Beathan captured the Autumn Bear.”

Logan began bouncing up and down in anticipation, almost knocking me off the pony.

“Sit still,
meanbh-chuileag.
You are as troublesome as the spring midges,” I teased as I semi-emerged from my cocoon of self-pity. Logan giggled with young exuberance. I imagined the size of his sky blue eyes and smiled as I realized I was jealous of his innocence.

My back ached and I groaned as I lifted my sore, swollen leg to allow the feeling to come back to my foot. I did not know whether I would be able to stand when I slid off the pony.

“Here is a good place to stop for the night,” said Kenric, in a small grove of rowan trees.

Logan slid off the pony to the ground and began to run as only a child can after a day on horseback. Finlay slowly lifted me down. My legs trembled as he supported me until I could feel the ground with both feet. As the men and Logan gathered wood for a fire, I hobbled and kneeled at the roots of the sacred rowans to pray.

“O Sucellus,” I called and knocked on the tree bark. “God of the Forest and Trees that are sacred to us, we thank you for the wood we use tonight. You, who ferries the dead across the river, be aware of Beathan. He was a mighty warrior and Father of my clan. I ask you to protect us, this small group, as we honor our dead. Keep us from the evil spirits who walk the night.” I searched my soul for a prayer for Morrigna. I asked only two things. “Take this panic from my heart and return Lovern safely to me.”

Mead flowed from my flask as a gift to the gods mixed with my tears. I was unaware of the roughness of the tree bark as I ran my hands over it, rubbing my prayers into the pith of the sacred tree’s heart. I pulled my hands away and small droplets of blood formed in my wounded palms. I grasped my chest. The dark crimson stain covered the bodice of my white dress, and I fell over, deep in the arms of Mother Earth. My heart could not continue to beat carrying this weight.

Kenric gently lifted and carried me to the fire, his eyes wise in a way I had not seen before. Sadness showed in their creases. He bore the weight of his family and our clan now. The air around him vibrated, a sign of a life filled with burdens of others.

“He will return. I have no doubt Lovern will return,” he assured as he laid me on my cloak near the fire. Logan was holding dried pork with both hands, pulling off bites with his small, white teeth. The deerhound, Mialchu, was peacefully curled up next to him, waiting for falling scraps. Finlay laid a large log on the fire and then spread his cape on the ground next to Logan.

“We have dried meat and bread for the meal. There is plenty of mead,” said Kenric. He handed me a full skin.

“Eat, and then we will sing of Beathan and the bear and the time he found a druid in the forest,” coaxed Finlay. “You can add words for the dance you did the night the druid came to our clan. Do you recall?”

I nodded, reached for the mead and was grateful I was with my cousins on this lonely night.

The next morning’s ride was uneventful. We traveled along a river, down into a valley littered by small grey boulders and few trees. Large and small stones lay scattered in the heather and bracken. The valley’s surrounding hills shook the stones off like water drops off a wet dog’s back.

Just after midday, Kenric stopped and unstrapped his shield and long sword from his pony’s rump. Remounting, he laid the sword across his lap and hung the leather and bronze shield from his shoulders. Finlay did the same. They readied themselves to fight as warriors, if needed. We were closing in on the village. My hand was on my short sword.

“If we have a reason to run the ponies, hang on tight to my dress. Do not fall,” I warned Logan.

A cleft midway down the valley was our goal. When we turned in, there stood four structures built using scattered stones. The slate-roofed lodges stood in a semi-circle around a central well.

“This is the clan of Beathan’s wife, Gavina,” said Kenric. “My mother. They are the
Mathan Sealgair
Clan. Beathan’s song contains a verse that tells this story.”

Finlay began to sing. “While hunting one fall, a young chieftain, Beathan, stopped to rest here and fell in love with a maiden, Gavina. To marry her he fashioned a truce with her father, the clan chieftain.”

The verse ended and we were silent remembering the times Beathan and Gavina laughed together. It was a good marriage. Now they are together on the other side.

“Beathan told me he loved coming here,” said Finlay. “Even after her death. It was a place he could be at peace. He drank mead and sang songs. The memory of Gavina, our mother, as a young girl made him smile. That is why we decided to carve his tomb nearby.”

After my rescue, Kenric and Finlay had carried Beathan’s body and me back to our clan. The next morning, while I lay unconscious, Kenric, and Finlay took Beathan to be buried. They had stopped at this village on their way home after they performed the ritual of entombing him.

At that visit, bringing news of Beathan’s death, Kenric swore to uphold the vow of peace Beathan fashioned with his wife’s clan. Clan Chieftain Haye, pleased they came, honored Beathan and the agreement of peace with a feast. It was here Finlay first sang Beathan’s death song. With the renewed vow of peace, Kenric had the bargaining tool that challenged our council to vote him the next chieftain of our clan.

Now, Kenric, Finlay, Logan, and I rode in among women grinding meal, boys feeding pigs in a small pen, and dogs chasing chickens. The tantalizing smells of evening meals floated on the air along with the sounds of the families gathered in shared lodges. My mouth watered as I followed the smell of fresh baked bread from this direction and roasted fowl from that. Our ponies paused in the center of the village; people stopped to watch, rakes or vegetable baskets in hand. I heard the laughter of children. Mistletoe and pine boughs hung in the doorways and lay in the windows. Respect for the gods and nature was visible. Alertness ruled the air. We sat at ease but with our hands on our weapons.

Kenric sat up straight and spoke loudly. “Kenric, mac Beathan is who I am. I am the
ceann-cinnidh
of my clan, son of the last
ceann-cinnidh.
I have come to honor the tomb of my father, Beathan. We ask for hospitality this night.”

I heard a murmur, a rustle of clothing, and then I watched a young warrior bend to enter the largest stone dwelling. Mialchu stood, hackles raised. All of us were unsure what the tone of the greeting would be.

A man stooped as he came outside and stood in the doorway. His shield was corded and laid across his back to allow him quick access, a long sword in his right hand and a spear in his left. He was the tallest man I had ever seen. Limewater stiffened his long black hair, and serpent tattoos crawled up his muscled bare arms. His tunic covered broad shoulders, and a wide, woven leather belt encircled his waist. The cloth they all wore as breeches and dresses was a simple weld yellow but a cape of dark blue wool hung from his neck. His skin was the brown color of working outdoors.

Behind him stood a blond woman holding a wriggling tawny-haired child, Logan’s age. Though tall herself, she was shadowed in the man’s height.

From behind the house stepped four warriors, arrows aimed at us, ready to shoot if commanded. Their chieftain, Haye, his face alert, addressed us in a deep, demanding voice.

“Good eve, Kenric mac Beathan. We have watched you ride through our valley. You have asked for a night’s hospitality? Tell me why we should give it.”

“Because you will honor the peace my father Beathan arranged and I renewed, Haye,” said Kenric. Our ponies did not know these people and were anxious, flickering, and sidestepping. We held our reins tightly, and he continued. “We will not stay if you do not wish us to. We are making a journey to honor Beathan’s grave. We will pass good words to his spirit if you let us bed here tonight. It would please him if you give us food and mead.”

“Hhhach,” growled Haye. “If there is a spirit I wish to please, it is Beathan’s. He would be a difficult one to appease if angry. Now, get off the ponies before they step on a child and I have to kill you!” He ordered the bowmen, “They are friends, let them come.”

Haye laughed as he took two steps and covered the distance that would have taken Kenric four. Kenric and Finlay bounced off their ponies and were instantly embraced in a bear hug. Haye then noticed me and turned to Finlay, his eyebrows raised.

Finlay answered the unasked question. “She is Jahna, the mate of our druid. She is carrying a gift for Beathan. He died during her rescue. She wishes to honor and thank him.”

Haye’s booming voice was directed to me. “You will stay the night. There is boar to carve and good, strong mead. Come.”

I handed Logan to Haye’s wife, the smiling, tall woman from the door.

“Logan, go with Mialchu and make sure he has food and water,” I reminded him as he scampered off to be with Haye’s son and the other children. I heard Logan’s words tell them that he was on his way to see his dead grandfather, the bear fighter. His giggles and Mialchu followed him, and they made quick friends as children and dogs do.