The Fox (50 page)

Jahna had not visited since the time we saw the baby. I hoped she was finally at peace.

I was editing the draft of my book.

“Marc,” I said as I walked into the kitchen. He was fixing dinner and Janel was already in bed for the night. “I want to give him a name.”

“Who?”

“The Treadwell Man. He needs a name. I can’t go on calling him TTM. Let’s give him a name.”

“Alright, a name. Hmmm. Well, you know how important animal names were to the Celts.”

“Most of his body was tattooed. He was a Pict,” I said.

“He wore a fur band around his arm. What was it?”

“Fox.”

“Right. Fox. A fox tail. I remember,” Marc said as he stirred our pasta to keep it from boiling over. “Toss the salad.”

I grabbed the oil and vinegar and began to lift lettuce and tomatoes around in a bowl. “He wouldn’t have been wearing it unless it meant something to him. He also had reddish hair, like a fox.”

“And the fox was important to the Celts or the Picts. It’s found inscribed in the earliest writings and some folk sword dancers still wear fox hats. Pasta’s ready.”

“Then it’s Lovernios or Lovern. The Fox. I’ll be right there. I have to wash my hands.” Actually, I had to wipe my eyes because tears started flowing as soon as I said the name Lovern. This was his story.

I walked into my study to write the name down and my stereo was on. I was listening to Scottish folk songs while I wrote, for inspiration. One, titled “Painted Men” by Steve McDonald, was playing and its words cut right through me.

With Spear and sword in their hand
People from far away land
Made their home here.

The Scotties did battle them so
They were a terrible foe
Knowing no fear.

I close my eyes, look deep inside,
I see them again
Pictures disguise, the fire in their eyes
Like stars in the sky, the painted men.

The last two lines rang so true.

Gone is the race, with the tattooed embrace
The storybook face of the painted men.

Lovern was a Painted Man, one who once had fire in his eyes.

Two days later, I asked Marc, “Why do you think he died?”

“I thought you had that figured out already. As you lifted the garrote from his neck you said you thought it was a sacrifice, not an execution.”

“Yes. I still believe that, but I want to talk it through so I can make sure my facts are straight in my book.”

“Well,” Marc said, “he was a sacrifice or ritual killing. Not a slave or prisoner forced to death. They didn’t tie his hands, and he had evidence of the ritual burned bread in his stomach, along with pieces of heather and mistletoe pollen,” Marc said. “He was recently shaved and was painted three colors.”

“We all agreed he was sacrificed to three gods. Esus, who required a stab or knife slash. His throat was cut. The burned bannock he ate just before death, which represented fire, and the three blows to his head honored Taranis, the god of family and clans. And because of the god Teutates, he was given a watery grave,” I said. “We found him in a bog that was once a sacred lake, the Black Lake according to local legend.”

“Remember his hands? Soft hands, not callused by physical work. He must have been a druid. Oh, and his toes? I compared them to yours when we took the x-ray of his foot.” Marc had a silly grin on his face.

“Okay, I remember. It’s not rare, just uncommon. But let’s stay focused. I wonder if the sacrifice had anything to do with the Roman invasion? They were marauding in the Highlands about that time.”

“Could have, but it’s all conjecture, theory. Unless he starts talking, that’s all we have.”

“Yes. But it makes sense. I mean for the sacrifice. But I still can’t understand how someone can give up his life, voluntarily, for something like that.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any more answers than you have.”

“Oh well, thanks. I’ll go work on my theory.” I went back to my computer.

Several months later, still mulling over the question that was always in the back of my mind, I looked out the window of the small room I called my office over a garden filled with various colors of ranunculus bulbs in full bloom. With the blue sky as a backdrop, the vista was vivid, yet calming. My book was about ready to go to the editors, but my mind was still trying to come to terms with Lovern’s sacrifice.

I knew his religious beliefs were strong. They were his reason for being a druid. He believed he would be going to live with the gods. It was hard for me to justify this as being enough to allow him to give his life so calmly as not to be tied up. Life was sacred. We fight for it subconsciously when in danger.

Marc and I, both lapsed Catholics, didn’t practice our religion, but I remembered as a child that I firmly believed the saints watched over me. Many a time when I played tricks on my brother, Donny, I asked forgiveness from them, knowing I would be forgiven and be able to go to heaven. Terrorists in today’s world claim religion as their reason for killing themselves and taking others with them. But can that be enough? Some of the so-called terrorists have to be tied into their cars made into bombs. How did Lovern give his life so calmly? And the thought still niggled the very dark recesses of my mind: how did Donny do what he did?

Our front door opened, and I heard Marc and Janel come in from their trip to the grocers. She was laughing, and he was talking about the big dog they had seen down the street.

“Woof. Woof. Doggy says woof.”

I smiled as I marveled how our language skills have grown to include baby talk. She had a good-sized vocabulary now, but we had a hard time getting out of the habit of the hobbit language.

“Down. Down.” I heard this and imagined her squirming in his arms, making it difficult to hold on to her.

“Okay, down,” said Marc.

Her fast steps came in my direction and I squatted so she could run into my waiting arms.

She came barreling around the corner, her face filled with her smile. She was looking for me, wanting to be sure her family was whole and she was safe. I waited to reassure her safety and kiss her dark hair as she fell into my arms. Marc stepped into the doorframe, smiling. “It’s a glorious day out there and we saw every cat and dog in the neighborhood, but she couldn’t wait to get home to you.”

The idea hit me so hard I sat down on the floor. He’d had a child! He’d had a family! Donny always said he joined the military to keep the fight away from his family, his kids, even before he had kids. I saw Lovern’s family in my mind. In my dream, they were standing on the path above the hill fort looking down over his home. He was the man standing with Jahna, a child’s hand in his.

It all fell into place. He’d died for his family. We’d give our lives for our loved ones, our blood. Now I understood the phrase in my prayer. “We died for you; we live through you. Blood of our blood.” He gave up his life to Teutates, god of the family, the tribe. He was trying to keep his child from the Romans. I would die for Janel if I needed to. Of course! He died for his child.

“Marc. He had a child! Maybe the little girl I saw in my vision. He traded his life to the gods so she could live. I know she lived. I saw her with her husband and a baby. His blood continued.”

“What? I thought druids were chaste. Like priests.”

“So we think. But, what if…. And how many Popes have we had who had families before, and who knows how many children after becoming Popes? Maybe he was an exception.”

“Exception or not, I don’t think any of this will fit into your book. You can’t prove it, it’s all based on your dreams and ghost visits.”

“Oh, I know. But now I understand how he could stand still and give his life without a fight. He must have done it to protect his child,” I said.

“Well, I have to admit, I’d step in front of a speeding car to stop Janel from being hurt. I’d easily trade my life for hers. So, if that’s what happened, I can understand that. I’ll start dinner. Coming soon?”

“Yes. Please take Janel and give her some milk. I’ll come give her some bananas in a few minutes.”

A blank document came up on my screen, and I started typing.

Lovern’s Sacrifice – Approx. AD 80

Mons Graupius – AD 84

Many early Picts or Celts were defeated and died during this battle between the naked painted men and the Romans. Those still alive after the battle ran to the hills or back to their villages. They killed, sacrificed loved ones, families, and themselves so the Romans couldn’t enslave them.

I am sure some escaped. I believed Lovern’s child escaped, and I saw her on a hill, maybe one on Skye, through Jahna’s eyes, grown and holding a baby. I remembered the child’s toes. I recalled the note from my ancestor describing the toes of his dead son after the battle of Glen Coe. I slipped off my shoe and looked at my toes, the same as Janel’s toes. He had succeeded! His blood still flowed through our veins.

My heart skipped a beat as I realized how hard it must have been for Jahna to tell me her story. She led me to the hill to find her, and to the bog to find Lovern. I will never be able to share how I felt when Jahna entered my mind and gave me the pictures I needed to find her. I hope she knows how hard I will try to get her story told. In my deepest belief, I know Jahna and the man in the bog, the one I named Lovern, were partners, maybe husband and wife.

I promise, Jahna and Lovern, Janel will know your story, our family story, and I will never forget you.

Blood of our blood.
Do not forget us.
In the darkest of the nights, buried we lie.
We dream to have our voices heard again.
We beg you to find us, to bring us back.
Blood of our blood.
Do not forget us.
Our souls continue with the gods.
We died for you, we live through you.
Tell our story so we may live again.
Blood of our blood.

I haven’t told Marc, but every once in a while, especially just before falling asleep, I feel her again. She’s a young soul, a strong soul and I know she wants me to find her. I’ve decided I will go back to Skye. I’m being pulled there. I’ve told Marc I want to find more about the young man in the note that had been handed down in my family, but most of all I have to try to find Crisi. I think she’s the first MacRae on Skye. My blood. Donny’s blood. Janel’s blood. She’s waiting for me to find her there, somewhere.

“One life, one love,
but I shall remember thee
from one life to the next,
for the memory of the living
is the dwelling place
of the dead.”

Steve McDonald

SPECIAL THANKS…

Lyrics used by permission in
The Fox

“I Will Return,” Steve McDonald, Sons of Somerled,
www.etherean.com
Variena,BMI