by Beth Webb
Her lungs hurt, her head swam and the golem was almost on its feet once more. The birds closed in, scolding as they swam the air.
‘Go away!’ she gasped. ‘Leave me alone!’
They dived closer.
She ran.
The ground rose steadily. This was Lundein’s hill – she’d soon be safe.
Then she tripped, falling face down in the reeds. Her chest wheezed. She could not get up.
A pang shot through her belly. Her hand cradled her belly. ‘My baby,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, my baby!’
‘Tegen!’ a voice yelled. She raised her head. Owein was hobbling towards her.
Behind her, the golem was still struggling through the quagmire.
Owein thumped closer, holding out his hand. Tegen grabbed it. Together they climbed the final slope.
But the ravens followed.
‘Make them go away!’ she sobbed, ‘They’re worse than the golem!’
Owein raised his crutch and swung it at the birds, but more and more came tumbling out of the skies, screeching their cacophony of noise.
After a few moments, Owein laughed. ‘They’re not hunting you – they’re protecting you, run!’
Panting painfully, Tegen forced herself onwards with Owein struggling on behind. Only when she was at the top, standing in the centre of her ring of stones, did she dare to look back.
Owein was right. Now Tegen was safe, the birds were diving at the golem, driving it towards the river.
Caught in the sticky marshes, the hideous creature waded the incoming tide. As the waters swirled around it, they boiled, cloaking the golem in steam.
The Head of Bran
When Tegen woke, it was late morning and all was silent. She sat outside the roundhouse and looked back towards the woods where the prisoners of Londinium had been massacred.
How could I have been so stupid? She groaned. I forgot all about the poor prisoners. I summoned this evil – then handed it over to Boudica. I thought I’d been clever, but I wasn’t wise, and my magic wasn’t strong enough. I don’t know why I am the Star Dancer, I’m useless and naïve and causing terrible things.
Pulling out her knife, she stabbed the turf by her side.
If only I hadn’t believed the voice that told me to imagine. I should’ve known it was the demon, but it seemed so logical – and simple. Too simple now I think about it. I wasn’t listening to the web of magic.
The ravens gathered in the sky like huge black flakes of soot, then with the softest whisper of feathers, they settled around her. She stretched out a finger and stroked the breast of the nearest bird.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Did Goban send you, or was it Bran?’
The bird clacked its beak and bowed.
Just then, Owein’s voice called out, ‘Come inside. You need to eat. The people of Britain need our Star Dancer alive.’
‘Are you sure?’ Tegen muttered crossly.
‘Yes.’
The ravens called pruck pruck and nodded, as if agreeing.
Tegen clambered to her feet and went inside. She ate the pigeon stew Owein had prepared, then accepted his offer of dry breeches and a shirt. She settled down on rancid straw next to the hearth, but lay awake listening to the calls of the water birds that sounded too much like the screams of the tortured women.
All around the White Hill, the gleaming coal-rainbow birds roosted silently, their jet black eyes watching for their enemy.
The next time Tegen woke, it was night. The Watching Woman’s stars glittered brightly overhead. Tegen was stiff and aching as she walked to the sacred circle she had made the day before. At the northernmost point, she found Tonn’s egg. She picked it up and held it at arm’s length. If she screwed up her eyes, she could imagine the swirling colours made a face. This was Bran the Blessed, the Lord of the Britons who made the Cauldron of Re-birth and gave his life to rescue his people and his sister. His head was buried somewhere close by, ready to protect the Land for ever. Ready to give wisdom to all who sought it.
The features on the stone head were indistinct, but the eyes were alive and aware.
‘Bran, tell me what to do,’ she begged. ‘I made this golem to try to contain evil, but I was unwise. Now it only serves Boudica and I don’t know how to unmake it. I’ve brought the enemy within our camp – it’s about to destroy us all!’
Tegen held her breath and listened.
Only the soft hush of the rippling water caressing the shore as it flowed between the black, low-hilled banks.
‘Speak to me Lord Bran,’ Tegen whispered again.
And the dark red streaks on the stone turned into eyes and nose and mouth.
Tegen found herself seated at a great feast. She was seated between warriors and bards in ancient dress, singing songs she didn’t know. In the place of honour stood a throne piled high with cushions.
The heap was draped with a cloak as if it were a human torso. Settled between the folds at the top, was a head, crowned with silver hair.
There was no body, yet the face was fully alive, joining in the songs with a fine and hearty voice.
As Tegen stared, his dark eyes turned to her and he roared, ‘Ladies, gentlemen, we have a guest. I give you Tegen, druid of the Winter Seas.’
The hall erupted with applause and cheerful shouts.
‘Welcome to my Hall,’ said the head. ‘Eat, drink, rest, and then ask what you will.’
Tegen rose to her feet and bowed. ‘Lord Bran, I thank you, I need to know …’
But a rowdy song drowned her out. A woman handed her a mead horn and a thick slice of roast swan. ‘Eat and drink first, my dear,’ she whispered. ‘Rest and laughter bring wisdom.’
So Tegen ate and sang and danced. One by one, the feasting companions fell asleep with their faces in their platters or curled up under the table where lanky dogs chewed on the last of the bones.
When the hall was quiet, Bran called out, ‘Tegen, Star Dancer. Come and talk to me. Now you may ask what you will.’
Taking her mead horn, Tegen picked her way through the debris. She knelt before the throne and poured a little of her mead onto the floor.
‘Hail Bran,’ she said. ‘A thousand blessings on your hall and your warriors.’
‘And my blessings on you. Come and sit with me. Tell me your story.’
The head listened with attention to every word. At last he asked, ‘And what do you need from me?’
‘Huval the druid said my destiny wasn’t to defeat the Romans.’
‘So do you now understand? The Star Dancer’s work is to prevent hatred and vengeance becoming the song and the life-blood of our country’s future.’
‘I do.’
‘So, how will you make that come to pass?’
‘I need to begin by destroying the golem. I know the demon would have wormed its way into the rebellion with or without it – Boudica would have made sure of that, but the creature was a deadly mistake, I cannot control it.’
Bran smiled through his white beard. ‘And what is the golem made of?’
Tegen shrugged. ‘Ash, mud – maybe with some blood in it, rain, tears, and a framework of heather and withies.’
‘Then that is all it is – held together with intention and dreams. Nothing more. You have nothing to fear. Take courage Star Dancer. Your destiny is almost fulfilled, then you shall have the hearth and home you long for. Remember my head is buried here to protect Britain. For a short while, you are my hands and feet in the Land, but respite is coming. March on with Boudica a little longer. Your little girl will be born somewhere safe. You have my word.’
Aodh
Owein woke Tegen in the dawn and handed her fresh bread and cheese. ‘I heard you praying to Bran last night, did he speak?’
Tegen nodded. ‘Yes, but I need to think about what it means before I try and explain.’ She fell silent.
Owein sat down and cuddled her. ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t have to say anything, but I’m here when you need me.�
�� He gave her a friendly peck on her cheek.
Tegen rested her head on his shoulder and chewed her bread. ‘I must go and do my morning ritual,’ she said at last. ‘Will you join me? I need my magic to be strong now the golem serves Boudica.’
‘I’ll do anything to help. She’s worse than uncle Admidios because she’s clever and she has most of the tribes behind her. There’ll be more bloodshed when they realise how badly she has let the people down. There are no homes or crops to go back to for the winter.’ Owein stabbed his cheese with his knife. ‘In some ways, she’s destroyed our Land without the Romans having to lift a finger.’
Tegen nodded. ‘That fits in with what Bran told me – he said my destiny is to prevent vengeance becoming the song and the life-blood of the future.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Owein scowled.
‘There … there may be a way but I need time to think. I’ll explain everything,’ she promised, ‘but right now, we need to prepare some very strong magic. I fear Aodh’s spirit is walking.’
When they had finished eating, Tegen and Owein went to stand in the ring of pebbles. They drew sacred circles in the air with their staffs, then trickled fresh spring water on the grass. Tegen laid twigs end to end around the perimeter and commanded them to burn. Thus protected by all the elements, the two druids stood side by side, holding hands and looking towards Boudica’s camp.
Tegen began:
‘Lady Goddess and Lord Bran,
bring this terror to an end.’
‘Bring peace to your Land,’ Owein chanted in reply.
‘Give us strength to work with your hands,’ Tegen continued.
‘May healing be our song
and reconciliation, our life-blood.’
The words hung in the air as they looked across the muddy margins of the river to where the British camp squatted, scratching irritably at itself like a mangy dog. Clouds scurried across the sun and a rain-laden wind threatened to drench them.
‘I think that means go inside and get warm!’ Owein laughed.
Tegen raised her right hand and her fire-circle went out. ‘Enough. Let the flames rest until we need them again.’ She turned to run inside.
It was then she saw him.
Aodh.
Standing, grey and silent, unbothered by the wind and rain that sliced right through him.
Tegen’s blood roared in her ears. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Owein asked, staring right at the apparition.
‘Can’t you see him?’
‘Who?’
Tegen blinked. The figure was gone.
‘You get warm, Owein, there’s some dark magic going on. I need to face it.’
The rain lashed into Owein’s eyes but he didn’t move. ‘I want to help you.’
‘Then sit by the fire and pray for me.’ She handed him her cloak. ‘And warm this for when I come in.’
Alone within the circle, Tegen summoned fire in the twigs once more. Through chattering teeth, she called out, ‘Aodh! Where are you? Let me see you!’
There was no reply.
Why was this shade calling for her, and then hiding? What did he want?
Tegen closed her eyes. ‘Think: first I must protect myself, then seek wisdom. If one ghost has escaped Tir na nÓg, there’ll be others close behind.’
Despite the rain, Tegen decided to dance. It would keep her warm and she could work her strongest spells that way. Raising her arms and listening for the rhythm of the drummer boy in her head, she began to sway, slipping and sliding in the mud. A picture came into her head of the Goddess embracing the sacred hill. Spreading her arms wide, she did the same.
‘I hope you’re really here, Lady,’ she prayed. ‘Show me what’s happening.’
When she opened her eyes, Aodh was standing just beyond the ring of stone and fire. His face was deathly pale, his eyes and clothes the yellow-grey of the swollen river.
Tegen kept dancing. ‘Why are you here?’ she demanded.
The figure leaned towards her and without a breath, he whispered, ‘We are one, you and I.’
‘No. That’s not true.’ Tegen straightened her back and with fierce gestures, she fended off the shade. Her hands and feet swept and sprang in time to the pounding of her heart. She had to imagine this creature away. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be.
But every step she took, the grey figure shadowed and mimicked her beyond the circle. Knowing her next move before she did, persistent, closer than her own soul, leaping, landing, turning … Around and around the sacred stone and fire they danced.
Tegen inside, Aodh outside.
Suddenly, Tegen twisted around and took a swipe at Aodh’s face.
Her hand passed right through where a mouth should have been. Tegen’s momentum carried her forward. She slipped, stumbled and fell face down in the mud, sprawled across the magic flames, half in and half out of the sacred space.
The flames died, and Aodh was gone.
It is a ghost! She told herself, it has to be … what else could appear and disappear like that? Bran had told her not to be afraid, and at Sinodun she had walked in Tir na nÓg and come to no harm. She lifted her head towards where the apparition had last been.
Her heart missed a beat, for there was Admidios, staring contemptuously down at her.
Rubbing the dirt from her eyes she sat up. ‘Not you as well!’ The shade shimmered and shifted, melting slowly into Gorgans with his long, white hair, still wet from the caves where he had died. The albino stretched out his thin hands as if to embrace Tegen.
Shivering from cold and wet, she stared in horror as Gorgans shrank into Enid, her dark eyes pleading and angry at the same time.
‘Enid …?’ Tegen reached towards her old friend, but the woman’s eyes hardened accusingly.
Then Aodh was standing there again, yellow-grey and ghostly as before.
He laughed and stepped inside her fire circle. ‘Don’t you realise what I am yet, druid?’
‘You’re a ghost.’ Tegen stood. She raised her hand. ‘Go back to the Otherworld, you have no place here.’
Aodh shook his head and smirked.
It took all Tegen’s strength not to run to the warmth and security of Owein and his hearth.
I will not be afraid, she told herself firmly.
Her head swam as she tried to think, if he – it wasn’t a ghost – then what? Lowering her head, she raised a spirit shield around herself.
With one step, Aodh melted through it. He stood so close to Tegen they would have shared a breath – if he had life.
Aodh shook himself and became a raven that rose screeching into the air, then plummeted, clawing at Tegen’s face.
She screamed and hid her face.
The raven flipped a somersault and stood as Aodh once more. He pretended to brush dust from his robe. ‘I’m rather good at imitating faces. Boudica is quite intrigued by me.’
Tegen steadied her breathing and made herself calm down. ‘What does Boudica see?’
‘Oh, lots of things, but mostly the men who raped her daughters and the soldiers who flogged her.’ The shade span around, laughing in the rain that streamed right through his filmy body.
Tegen’s eyes widened. ‘You are my worst fears!’
Aodh bowed. ‘At your service – forever.’ The shade embraced Tegen and slid icily through her. ‘You thought you were pregnant with a baby,’ he taunted, ‘but someone with your powers is giving birth all the time. It’s in your nature. You have to create, to make – both good and evil. It’s bursting out of you and there is no way to stop it.’
The figure of Aodh whooshed around her. ‘And you will never destroy your creature or me because you can’t. We are also your babies. We terrify you. You made us. You worship us!’
‘That is where you are wrong.’ Tegen wiped the rain out of her eyes and thought of Goban, Brigid and Bran. ‘I have good spirits who love me and protect me. The golem will die, and you, liar, are not a pa
rt of me!’
Aodh looked shocked, then faded away.
‘Good riddance,’ Tegen muttered. ‘I’ve had enough of being afraid.’
‘Tegen?’ Owein’s voice broke in, ‘you’ll be catching your death of a cold. Hadn’t you better …?’ he broke off. ‘Admidios?’ he gasped in horror. ‘What are you …?’
Tegen span around. ‘I said, go!’ she roared.
Once more, the figure faded.
‘What was that?’ Owein asked, pale as linen.
‘Nothing to worry about,‘ she replied. ‘You imagined it.’
Owein rubbed his eyes. ‘I am very tired,’ he muttered. ‘Listen, it’s getting late, perhaps we should go back to camp after all?’ He wrapped Tegen’s warm cloak around her shoulders. ‘Come inside, you’re frozen.’
Tegen pulled the woollen folds closer as she followed him in. ‘I’m going back to camp. Boudica will move on in the morning and I must be near the golem. I need to work out how to destroy it.’
Owein’s jaw dropped. ‘But she’ll kill you.’
‘It’s what Bran told me to do. He has promised his help. I’ll hide – I’ll ride with the warriors’ families, but I must go.’
In the doorway, a coal black feather fluttered. Tegen picked it up and stuck it behind her cloak pin.
Ravens are sacred to Bran, she told herself. This’ll remind me of his protection. None of these visions can harm me – and nor can Boudica. I have Bran’s word.
I must leave the good spirits a thank-offering, but what? She looked around. The fire in the sagging hut was fading. Owein was packing his panniers ready to leave.
‘Is there any bread left?’ she asked.
He pointed to a small lump on the edge of the hearth. ‘It’s a bit dry, you could moisten it with ale.’
‘Perfect, thank you.’ Tegen took the bread and the ale flask and went outside to the remnants of her stone circle. Standing in the centre, she poured ale over the bread and tore the sodden mess into small knobs that she scattered on the ground.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Owein asked as he dragged his panniers through the mud towards his pony.
