Origin of Druid (Druid's Path Book 1)

by Mark Philipson

  Origin of Druid

  Written and Published by Mark Philipson

  Copyright 2017 Mark Philipson

  License Notes

  Non-Digital Rights Management publication.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  One

  The Dream of the White Stone

  A MAN, DRESSED in long, flowing robes of a gray color so light from a distance seemed white, stepped onto the hardened dirt pathway. The man followed the path beyond a cluster of roundhouses. The village fell behind and the path sloped down the side of a steep hill.

  The path widened at the bottom of the hill then branched off. The man followed the forking path in the direction aligning with his right arm.

  The morning sun climbed. The man shielded his eyes and peered into the distance. As he continued, the silhouettes on the horizon gradually took the form of a cluster of shacks. The young man realized upon seeing the rough hewn timber and the raw thatched roofs he was at the fishing village of Bredon on the hill. The shacks on the shore were temporary structures. Fisherman erected buildings on the beach quickly—storm driven howling winds and crashing surf could strip a beach in minutes. It was easier and faster to rebuild the crude shacks.

  The man followed the path as it snaked around the village and headed uphill. On the summit of the hill is where the fisherman of Bredon made their homes—they worked by the sea at the foot of the hill and lived on the top.

  “Are you Kermode the druid?” a man asked.

  “Yes,” Kermode, apprentice to Brisius, Master Druid of the South, answered. “Are you Judocus?”

  “Right and I’ve been expecting you,” the Judocus said. He set a pair of long iron pins on a nearby stump. Judocus folded a net in a neat bundle and placed it next to the mending tools.

  Judocus led Kermode to his roundhouse. Three fishing boats, the last one with a hole splintering the curved ribbing, lined the stone walkway.

  “My son,”Judocus said. “He is stricken with fever that won’t break. Can you help me?”

  “Take me to the boy,” Kermode said. He added, “I’ll do everything in my power,” seeing the desperate look on the fisherman’s weather worn face.

  Kermode and the fisherman entered a door set into a circular array of thick stones. A woman stood at the top of a loft made from the same wooden planks used to build the fishing boats.

  “He’s up there.” Judocus looked at the woman standing at the opening.

  “Are you the boy’s mother?” Kermode asked as he climbed up the angled ladder.

  “Yes, my name is Grania and this is my son, Pert,” the fisherman’s wife replied. “He’s been fighting a fever for two days now.”

  Kermode approached the boy. He placed his hand across his forehead. Kermode turned the boy’s hand over and set two fingers on the veins in his wrist. The pulse is strong, Kermode thought. A good sign. Kermode leaned in closer. The boy’s breathing was slow and rhythmic. Kermode set his ear on the boy’s chest and listened.

  “The boy’s pulse is strong and his breathing is sound,” Kermode said.

  “Is that a good thing?” Grania asked. She seemed puzzled.

  “It is a good thing,” Kermode reassured Grania. “The boy will be able to take the next treatment.”

  “I see,” Grania said. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’ll need some plants,” Kermode said. “A handful of male willow stamens, the leaves and flowers of a full gown meadowsweet plant, and a strip of birch bark.”

  “How do I know a female from a male willow?” Grania, eyebrows raised, asked.

  “Only the females have flowers,” Kermode answered. “Tell your husband I need to see him,” Kermode said as Grania climbed down to the first floor.

  “My wife said you wanted to see me?” Judocus asked.

  “I need to get a kettle of water boiling and I need to get the boy near the kettle.”

  “The cooking pot is on the bottom floor,” Judocus said. “Can the boy be moved?” Judocus squinted when he asked the question.

  “The boy is well enough to be moved,” Kermode answered. Kermode understood how the man felt—an open flame on a wooden deck with a thatched roof overhead was an invitation for a fire.

  Judocus lifted the boy off the straw. Kermode carried the mat to the first floor. Judocus backed halfway down the ladder. Kermode took his son in his arms. He placed the boy on the mat. Judocus climbed down the ladder. He placed pieces of chopped firewood under a round, black kettle.

  Grania returned just as the first bubbles broke the surface of the water. She handed Kermode the herbs. Kermode went to work. He cut the willow into small sections. Kermode diced the prickly purple cylindrical flower of the willow tree. The mottled white birch strip Kermode cut into thin ribbons. From his leather pouch he removed a stone mortar. The cut herbs went into the mortar. Kermode used a polished stone pistil to crush and grind the herbs into a fine powder.

  Kermode was about to dump the contents of the mortar into the boiling water. “I need a blanket placed over the boiling pot and the boy,” Kermode said.

  Grania fetched a wool blanket. Judocus used pieces of planking to hold the wool blanket in place over the bubbling kettle and the boy.

  Kermode lifted the blanket. He poured the powder from the mortar into the boiling water. He set the blanket back in place just as yellow vapor rose off the kettle. “We’ll need to put a fresh mix into the boiling water every hour.”

  The boy cried out at first then settled down as his body became accustomed to the heat of the flame and the vapors coming off the boiling herbs. Kermode spent the rest of the day cutting and grinding. When the full moon was high in the night sky Kermode lifted the wool blanket. He set his hand on the boy’s forehead. The fever was gone. The boy was sleeping.

  “I think the boy is fine,” Kermode told Grania.

  “Many thanks,” Grania said, pressing Kermode’s hands together with her own.

  “If it wasn’t for you my son would be dead,” Judocus said to Kermode as they stood by the front door. “The fishing has been poor as of late. I barely have enough to feed my family. I don’t have enough coin to pay you.”

  “I understand,” Kermode nodded. “If you see my master tell him you were happy with my work.”

  Kermode turned to leave. “Wait,” Judocus said.

  Kermode and the fisherman stood on the walkway in front of the roundhouse. Stars filled the night sky. Bright flashes danced across the waves. Flickering light from a torch hanging on the door lit up Judocus’ face as he said, “Druid, there is something I can give you.”

  Kermode was relieved. Perhaps the man had a spare basket of fresh cod or a copper coin. At least Kermode wouldn’t return to Brisius empty handed. The master wouldn’t consider his investment of Kermode’s time and effort a complete waste.

  “I can give you this.” Judocus extended his hand and opened it. A small teardrop shaped stone, shining like polished silver, sat in his palm.

  The stone caught reflections of moonlit clouds rushing by overhead. “Is that silver?” Kermode asked.

  “It looks to be in this light,
but, I don’t think it is.” Judocus shook his head.

  “What do you think it is?” Kermode, intrigued by the optical properties inherent in the stone, asked.

  “I don’t know,” Judocus replied. He shook his head. “I only know how it makes me feel when I hold it in my hand.” Judocus said the last words with a far off look in his eyes. As if he was staring at something in the distance.

  “And how is that?” Kermode said. “I mean, how does it make you feel?”

  “It sets my mind to wandering.” Judocus sighed, returning his gaze back to Kermode. “With a family to feed I need to keep my eyes pointed in the right direction.”

  It would be light soon. Kermode still had a chance to get in some sleep before returning to his village in the morning. He needed to get out of Bredon soon. He decided to accept the stone as payment. “I’ll take it.” Kermode reached out. Judocus made a fist, covering the stone.

  “Now you don’t want to part with it?” Kermode laughed. Was the fisherman going to give up the stone or had he changed his mind? Kermode asked himself.

  A blank stare came across Judocus’ face as he said, “A fisherman was caught in a storm. Winds blew the fisherman’s boat far to the north. The next day, when the winds died, the fisherman found he’d been blown up on a big shoal of shallow water and rocks breaking the surface. He wound his way through the rocks and came upon a small island. He beached his boat and walked onto shore. As the fisherman walked across the beach he saw a cave among a pile of big boulders. He went to take cover and sleep for a while.

  “In the mouth of the cave, lit up by the sunlight pouring in, the fisherman saw the leg bones of a long skeleton. As the fisherman stepped inside he saw that bleached leg bones of the skeleton seemed to be the height of a man.

  “Up ahead, at the rear of the cave, the fisherman saw a glinting light. He moved even further into the cave. Sitting in the open bony hand of the skeleton was the stone you see before you now.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  Judocus snapped out of the daze he seemed to be in. “I won it in a game of dice,” he said. “It’s yours now.” He opened his hand. Reaching out, Judocus pressed the stone into Kermode’s hands.

  Kermode walked back down the hill. The fisherman’s wild story ran through his mind. A colorful tale, Kermode thought. How many tankards of ale did it take to come up with that insanity?

  Kermode couldn’t deny the fact that there was something unique about the stone: the way it reflected light and radiated warmth in his hand.

  When Kermode reached the path on the shoreline he sat on a fallen log. The sound of the surf crashing on the rocky beach echoed across his ears. The rich scent of the ocean bloomed like wildflowers in his nostrils.

  Kermode opened his hand. He stared at reflections bouncing off the edges the stone. He grew weary and he wanted to sleep. Kermode clenched his fist to trap the light. It leaked through the cracks between his fingers. Kermode closed his eyes. His head fell forward as he dozed off.

  The sound of the surf faded as a deep sleep overcame Kermode.

  He woke with a start. Kermode stood up. The sun was high. He stood on the beach in a shroud of silence. The smell of the sea had vanished. Kermode stared at the sea. He squinted, looking beyond the waves hitting the shore. He saw the choppy seas near the beach become great swells rippling across a trackless ocean.

  On the other side of the ocean, where the land began again, Kermode saw a a man wearing purple robes and riding a white horse. For some reason, Kermode knew the man was a Roman Emperor. The man gave the order to attack. Generals behind the emperor passed the order to centurions. Centurions passed the order to the soldiers.

  The only thing the soldiers could possibly attack was the sea. Nobody moved.

  The Emperor called out to his generals, “If the men are too cowardly to attack the sea, let them collect shells in honor of Neptune and bring to tribute back to Rome.”

  The soldiers rooted around in the sand, stuffing seashells into their pouches.

  Kermode woke up again. The stone had fallen out of his hand. He realized then he must have been sleeping. The vision of a Roman army standing on the shoreline collecting sea shells had to be a dream. The stiffness Kermode felt in his neck and shoulders told him he was awake in the real world.

  Kermode stood up. He slipped the stone into a pocket sewn into the folds of his robes. Kermode left the fishing village of Bredon on the hill and the strange dream of the Roman army on the other side of the water behind him as he made his way back to his village.

  Two

  Silver for a Dragon

  KERMODE FOLLOWED THE path edging the sea-side until he came to an intersection. A tall oak tree towered over the fork of the two paths. Kermode turned away from the breakers on the beach and made his way inland.

  As Kermode continued walking, the path steepened and the forest thickened on both sides, forming a canopy of tangled branches. A green tunnel led up the hill.

  At the top of the hill, in his village, Kermode stood at the roundhouse of the Master Druid, Brisius. For a few minutes Kermode toyed with the idea of giving the stone he carried in his pouch to the Master Druid. When Kermode realized he was clutching the pouch so hard his knuckles whitened, he decided to leave. The tension in his hand relaxed as soon as he put some distance between himself and Brisius’ dwelling..

  Kermode returned to the roundhouse he shared with two other apprentices of Brisius. The house was quiet when he opened the door. In the kitchen, only a few smoldering embers glowed under the cooking pot..

  Kermode stripped off his robes and hung them on a rack. He went out back. He pulled a long-handled ax out of a stump sitting on the grass. A wooden cart, piled high with cut logs, had been placed near the stump.

  Kermode grabbed a log and set it upright on the stump. Stepping back, he swung the ax high then let the weight of the head fall. Kermode made slight adjustments to the handle, centering the blade on the log on the way down. The sharpened blade split the log in half. Pieces of kindling fell and rolled off the stump. Kermode used the side of the blade to clear the kindling away from his feet.

  By the time the wooden cart was empty of logs, a pile of freshly cut kindling lay stacked up neatly next to the stump. Kermode refilled the wooden cart and pushed it up to the back door. He walked to the stone well, drew a bucket of water, then poured it over his head.

  Kermode dried off with a large cloth. He put his robes back on and picked up his pouch. Rooting around, he found a piece of species — a copper coin minted by the nearby Trinovantes tribe.

  The sharp hunger that had been gnawing at Kermode’s gut seemed to fade. Kermode felt a warmth coming through the leather. He reached into the sleeve the stone sat in. When he touched it every trace of hunger vanished in an instant.

  Kermode pulled the stone out of the pouch. A wave of heat touched his face. The shadows of the kitchen were lit up from the glow coming off the stone. Kermode looked around. The stone picked up rays of sunlight pouring in through the windows and reflected on the walls.

  I’ve never seen anything quite like this, Kermode thought. I’m going to keep this as long as I live. As those thoughts left his mind Kermode began to realize something—exposure to the stone made him feel stronger. Thoughts seemed clearer. Senses became heightened.

  Kermode made up his mind to carry the stone at all times. There was one catch—carrying the stone in a pouch was impractical. Kermode could see the stone dropping out of the pouch as he put things in and took things out. Losing the stone was a prospect Kermode didn’t want to face.

  The thought of losing the stone prompted the next idea to come to Kermode: the stone could be cast into an amulet. Worn around his neck, the stone would be near at all times.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode stood in the metal worker’s shop. Osker, the master craftsman and proprietor, inspected the stone. “And you say you don’t know what this is?” Osker asked, knitting his bushy eyebrows.

 
“I don’t know what it is,” Kermode shrugged. “I was counting on you to know that.”

  “Can you tell me where it came from?” Osker asked.

  “A deserted island, far to the north . . . is all I know,” Kermode answered.

  “Hmm …” Osker grunted. “That doesn’t tell me much. What do you want to do with it, Druid?”

  Kermode didn’t answer.

  “I can take it off your hands for two pieces of silver,” Osker said.

  “I don’t want to sell or trade,” Kermode shook his head.

  “What do you want done with it?”

  “I want the stone cast into an amulet,” Kermode blurted it out.

  “You’re going to bury the stone in an amulet?” Osker asked. He added, scratching his chin, “The stone may be worth more if cut and polished.”

  “I want it cast—as is—into an amulet of my design,” Kermode insisted. He reached across the table and took the stone out of Osker’s big hand.

  It was Osker’s turn to remain silent now.

  “I can find another metal worker,” Kermode said. He was about to turn around and walk out the door.

  “We have a bargain,” Osker said.

  Relieved, Kermode turned to face Osker. He didn’t relish the thought of traveling to the next village to find a craftsman to build the amulet. Even more, how would Kermode, an apprentice druid, pay for the amulet?

  “When can you begin?” Kermode asked. In his mind’s eye he could see the stone mounted and hanging around his neck.

  “Slow down, Drui—” Osker trailed off and asked, “What’s your given name?”

  “Kermode.”

  “Kermode, we have to determine two things: what type of metal do you want the piece cast in and what shape do you want the amulet to be?” Osker nodded.

  “I want something strong enough to provide protection,” Kermode said. “At the same time, I want the piece to take on a living form.”

  “I see,” Osker scratched the side of his face. “What you want can be done. It will take a skilled hand to build a piece like that.

  “Can you do it?” Kermode asked.

  “It won’t be me working on this,” Osker shook his head. “It will be my daughter.”