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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

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“E-po-na, E-po-na,” the women chanted. They began to move, dancing, bending, forming a circle around the pair in the center, holding them within its magic ring. Circling, circling.
“Epona!” they cried. “Mother to daughter to mother to daughter, open the way. Open the way!” The
gutuiters
danced faster and Kernunnos began to dance too, turning with them, always holding the sharpened prong before Epona’s eyes as if he were using it to lead her. She followed him because there seemed nothing else to do. Her feet had no will of their own, moving in an ancient pattern her flesh and blood knew but her mind did not. Kernunnos understood. His hot eyes smiled at her across the antler; through the smoke. He lowered his hand and the prong touched her breast, just pressing the skin at first and then digging in hard, drawing blood. Kernunnos danced and turned and darted at her again and again, seeking out the tender parts of her body, watching with his feral eyes to see how she reacted.
He could kill her easily. He could tear open her unprotected body with that horn and kill her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Who could question a sacred ritual? Who knew what the spirits might direct him to do? Epona had walked into mystery; no one who returned from the lodge of Kernunnos ever spoke of the ceremonies performed there. It was forbidden.
With balled fists held tight to her sides, she faced the priest and waited with all the dwindling courage she possessed,
aware of her bravado draining out of her like urine trickling down her legs. Never before in her life had she, eldest daughter in the lodge of the chief, been hurt; only skinned knees and stone-bruised heels, and a kick from one of Kwelon’s oxen. She was unprepared for pain; hot, lancing pain. She fought to keep herself from shrinking away from the stabbing antler.
The dancing unit, with Kernunnos and the girl still held in its center, moved closer to the firepit in the middle of the lodge. The youngest and fairest of the
gutuiters,
Tena, She Who Summons Fire, took a pottery jar from the stone hearth and shook its contents over the flames, murmuring an invocation. A gout of greenish smoke belched up from the coals, filling the lodge with a smell like overripe fruit.
The smoke swirled around Epona, caressing her. It filled her lungs and her brain and permeated her being, and with it came a sort of ecstasy, a drunkenness such as affected those who drank too much wine. Nothing seemed so important anymore. Her blanket was gone, and with it her mother’s precious brooch … so? Kernunnos whirled and gibbered and the pain came … but? It did not matter. It was hard to remember that she had ever been afraid. Her newly grown breasts felt heavy for the first time, and there was a heat at the bottom of her belly that had not been there before. Not so much a heat as an ache, a needing …
She turned and turned like a hungry child seeking the mother’s nipple, and the ache went with her. She surrendered to it. She collapsed into this wonderful soft swirling sensation with its colors and odors and a faraway ringing of bells—were they the little bronze bells the women wore on their ankles? Did it matter? How delightful to be cushioned in this new way and feel a reasonless happiness glowing through her flesh. She smiled. She laughed softly to herself. She shook her head so the weight of her braids whipped around her and she was not afraid.
The hot smoky air felt good on her bare skin, and the lightning flashes of pain as the antler kissed her meant nothing; they could not hurt her. She was sweating profusely and the
close air of the lodge made her wish she had more clothes to take off, take off her very skin, break free of whatever it was that was pressing in on her, pressing …
She was very dizzy. The drum was beating and the bells were tinkling and the
gutuiters
were singing in faraway voices. A wave of nausea shook her and she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, feeling her balance desert her as she did so. She stumbled forward, throwing out her hands, expecting the priest to break her fall, but Kernunnos was no longer there. He was behind her now, prodding cruelly between her legs, and the pain was too intense to be denied. She was on her hands and knees and he was hurting her, hurting her … she chewed her lips to keep from crying out. With an incredible effort she managed to stagger to her feet and face him, refusing to be savaged from behind.
The prong slashed like a knife across her breasts.
The shapechanger stared at her. His lips were drawn back from his teeth into an animal’s snarl, and he was singing a high-pitched ululation that changed and became the cry of wolves on a winter night, far off in some snow-filled valley. No one who heard that cry could escape the thrill of fear that followed the wolf’s passage down countless generations. The wolf sang of wisdom, of loneliness and freedom, reminding men huddled in their lodges that there were wiser spirits in the world—and better hunters.
The shapechanger looked at Epona through a wolf’s face. The animal itself seemed to stand before her, marking her for its prey. To her surprise, in that desperate moment some inner prompting came to her, as clear and sharp as a human voice speaking. With a nod of understanding, Epona looked into the terrifying visage of the shapechanger and drew her own lips back from her teeth, matching him snarl for snarl.
Kernunnos laughed.
The women seized her and lowered her to the ground. One sat on her chest and the other two spread her legs wide so the priest could dance between them. The chanting became muted as Kernunnos invoked the names of the spirits of tree and stone and earth, calling on them all to witness the ritual
and accept the girl’s passage to the nextlife. When he sang the names of the water spirits the women wailed in chorus, spitting into the palms of their hands and rubbing the liquid on Epona’s skin. When he called upon the fire Tena gave a great cry and light blazed up in the lodge.
Epona felt very far away from herself. She waited passively now, almost indifferently, as Kernunnos squatted between her spread legs and deftly guided the sacred horn to the entrance of her body. The priest closed his eyes and sang the song of the gateway; he demanded admittance for the spirit of life. As the chant rose in power the women moaned and fell silent. The voice of Kernunnos shrilled upward into a final ringing note and one exquisite stab of pain lanced through Epona.
The women shouted in triumph.
The girl lay panting on the floor. They did not hold her now; they stood at a respectful distance, smiling down, and Nematona extended a hand to help her to her feet. Tena and Uiska, Voice of the Waters, came closer to caress her fondly. It hurt to move but she would not let them see her wince. Why give way to pain now, when the worst was over? She was surprised to realize the smoke had cleared away completely, and the lodge of the priest was just a warm room with a friendly fire blazing in the circular firepit.
She stood swaying, vaguely aware that the women were sponging her body with heated water. As her vision cleared, she realized the priest’s lodge was far different from the luxuriously furnished home of the lord of the tribe. The dwelling of Kernunnos resembled an animal’s lair.
Every bedshelf was covered, not with soft fur robes, but with whole skins bearing feet and tails. The heads had polished pebbles for eyes. The hides of larger animals, such as stag and bear, were pulled into lifelike postures by leather thongs suspended from the lodgepoles that supported the thatched roof. Dead birds, their bodies gutted and packed with salt, roosted in every crevice and spread their wings against the walls in startlingly lifelike flight. Rams’ horns and stags’ antlers were fastened on every available surface, creating a forest of horns. Boars’ tusks and the bleached skulls of
wolves were lined up around the hearthstone, crowded amid the pots and jars.
Only the priest was missing. Epona could not remember his leaving; he was just not there anymore.
The three women moved around her, kneading her flesh with melted fat, making little clucking sounds when her thighs quivered involuntarily. “You will be all right now,” said Tena in her hot quick voice. “You are a woman thisnight, and from now on your spirit will guide you wisely. You passed your test very well.”
It was the first time one of the priesthood had spoken to her as an adult. She tried to answer in a voice too quavery to trust, then cleared her throat and tried again.
“It wasn’t bad. It didn’t hurt,” she told them.
The
gutuiters
exchanged glances of approval.
“You are brave,” said Nematona. “You have proven fit to be the mother of warriors.”
What was it Suleva had said? “You must not show fear. An awful thing will happen.” Suleva, She Who Bears Only Daughters.
Epona flushed with pride, but the insatiable curiosity that was part of her nature prompted her to ask, “Why is it so important to bear warriors? We are never attacked here in the Blue Mountains.”
“Not in your lifetime, no.” Nematona passed her knife hand across her eyes in the classic sign of negation. “But that is only because the battle reputation of Toutorix discourages other tribes from trying to capture the Salt Mountain. Yet we have fought before, and doubtless will again. We must all be capable of defending what is ours.
“But the children you bear will never have to fight for the Salt Mountain, Epona, because they will not be born here. Men will come from distant tribes of the people and give Toutorix many gifts in order to ask for you as wife. You will be highly prized, not only because you come from the chief’s lodge but also because you are a strong, healthy young woman with courage to pass on to your sons—sons who will take their first meat from the tip of your husband’s sword and
serve as warriors in his tribe, wherever that may be.”
Nematona’s words reminded the girl of another cause for concern, now that the ritual of woman-making was completed. Like all women of the people, she was free to choose her own husband from among any who might ask for her, but the man she selected would make her part of his tribe in some place far from the Blue Mountains.
No,
Epona said silently, stubbornly, inside herself.
Not me. It will be different for me; I have my own plans.
It
WILL
be different for me. I will make it so!
Nematona brought her a thick fur robe and folded it around her body. Pale-haired Uiska, of the colorless eyes and snowy skin, pinned the robe closed with Rigantona’s brooch, a massive bronze circle incised with a curvilinear design that drew the eye along the endless turnings of existence. It was a favorite pattern of the people, the representation of life flowing into life.
Redheaded Tena stroked the fur robe. “This was made from the hide of a pregnant she-bear,” she told Epona. “Very strong magic. It has been saved for a long time for the daughter of Rigantona.”
The robe was heavy and had a rank smell. When Epona wrinkled her nose, Tena chuckled. “Awful, isn’t it? I suspect it needs airing, Epona. When the Hellene traders come after snowmelt, get some kinnamon from them and rub into the fur. Until then, you really don’t have to wear it; it’s just a symbol of your new status.”
“By now everyone in the village knows my new status,” Epona replied. “But I will wear it, in spite of the smell. It isn’t as bad as the odor of the squatting pit or the dye cauldrons, and as you say, fresh air will help.” She could imagine the way her sisters’ eyes would shine when she came home wearing that splendid fur, and the fun they would have dressing up in it. Even Rigantona had nothing better.
Nematona opened the door of the lodge and Epona was astonished to see pearlescent dawn above the mountains. Had the night passed so quickly?
Of course—one must never forget the power of the spirits.
Mindful of the responsibilities of her profession, one of the
gutuiters
took Epona by the shoulders and faced her toward the rising sun. It was time for the final phase of her initiation into womanhood.
Uiska began it, in the solemn teaching voice all
druii
employed when giving instruction. “The sacrifice has been offered and accepted; the portents are good. You will be a fertile woman. The gateway of life has been opened within you, so you can enjoy bedsports and lifemaking with a man without fear of pain, and your children will begin with pleasure and enter thisworld smiling.
“But another gateway has been opened as well. You are now an adult member of the people, which means the spirit within you has been awakened. From now on you must always have an ear turned inward to listen for its voice, the voice that speaks without words. When it commands, you must always obey. That is wisdom.
“We do not encourage a child to listen to its spirit, because the spirit of a child, newly housed in flesh after living in the otherworlds, is playful and giddy, like one who drinks too much wine for the first time. It lacks good judgment. We do not call to awaken that spirit until both it and the body have had time to mature. For you that season is at hand, and now your spirit is fully awake. You have become a free woman of the Kelti, Epona, daughter of Rigantona. Never forget!” Her voice lashed the whip of command.
She continued, “There are times when the spirit will warn you for no reason you can see, but always pay heed to such warnings. To be deaf to the voice of the spirit within is to be crippled, a burden to others for as long as you live. It is better to have been born with a physical deformity and been exposed on the mountainside so your spirit could seek better housing. But you are not crippled, Epona; you can hear the voice. Like sight and smell, touch and taste and hearing, it is a sense to guide you. Use it well.”

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