The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  Struggling to see, to move, she crawled to the centre of the hollow as the wind tore at her. Below, the valleys were hidden by clouds, and she and Cahir were alone on a pillar of rock in the whirling white. He knelt, the wind whipping his hair over his face. ‘But there is nothing here!’

  She shook her head, still able to see into the other world. There the sun was hanging low and red in a summer sky, and the hollow on which they now knelt was bathed in a still dusk. The rowan tree was young, its feathered leaves green and fresh.

  And hearts were breaking there.

  With a soft cry, Minna held out a hand, her eyes glazed. There was a dark-haired man weeping piteously, and a woman in a hooded cloak who held him. Beside them a hole had been delved by the man’s sword, and now he straightened, hugging a tiny bundle wrapped in the same blue cloth of his blood-stained tunic. In spite of his grief, she could see the man had a noble face, and though he was young his eyes were old. Minna couldn’t see the woman, for she turned with the bundle in her arms and laid it in the hole with a graceful tenderness.

  Minna flinched as the grief impaled her, sharp and despairing. She spun towards Cahir. ‘Dig! Dig here!’ He crouched beside her, and she plucked at the sword on his belt. ‘It’s not far beneath. Hurry!’

  Gazing into her wild eyes, Cahir didn’t question. The ground was pebbled and icy, but he pressed his weight over his sword-hilt until the surface broke, and after a time the soil became softer and more disturbed. Minna pulled off her mittens and began scraping the earth away from the point, until she touched something and paused. Cahir dropped the sword and together they dug around the object. She knew what they would find before they saw it, her fingers instinctively shaping the ridges and curves.

  There was a tiny cage of ribs rising in a delicate arch from the soil, and a small yellowed skull, eyeholes darkened with earth. The legs and arms were no bigger than Cahir’s fingers, the hands tucked under the chin. A miniature scrap of tattered cloth still covered the lower body, blackened by frost.

  For a moment Minna stared at it.

  And suddenly her body was borne down and down, until her cheek was pressed into the icy soil next to the baby’s skull. Its eye-holes gazed directly into her own. ‘Mother … Lady … Christos … M–Mamo …’

  Cahir seized her shoulder. ‘Who is this? Speak to me!’

  Her fingers curled up under her chin as words were torn free from inside her, one by one. She didn’t know what she’d said until they all hung there together like a shredded banner in the wind.

  ‘It … is …me.’

  Chapter 30

  Minna shuddered all over, staring into her own dead eyes.

  ‘It is me,’ she whispered again, and when she said the words they sank through her body as a chant, kindling all the ancient, buried parts of her, like stars flaring into life as darkness fell. ‘It was my body once in another life. I saw it.’

  ‘Minna,’ Cahir breathed, then knelt and drew her head to his chest, sheltering her with his cloak. But she barely felt him, seeing only the dark man’s haunted eyes as he held the baby. Father. And the woman … she had disappeared before Minna saw her clearly. Her lips moved, tasting the word. Mother.

  ‘Then …’ Cahir murmured, awe-struck, ‘you are one of the many-born.’

  Many-born. His words spun among the stars inside her, forming a pattern. The baby was dead, but Minna had come back, she had been born again. She saw again the spirals carved into the rocks above Dunadd; the endless cycle.

  All the years of her life seemed to wheel around the ledge. The place where she had ended was also her new beginning.

  Trembling, she dragged herself upright. In the vision, the man had pulled something from his neck and placed it with the baby, and the woman added something else from her finger. Minna stared into Cahir’s eyes. Their sheen was dulled by the grey light, but they were full of questions, his mouth warm, alive. His light drew her back. ‘Look on the baby,’ she whispered. ‘Look what is there.’

  As Cahir bent over the grave, feeling in the earth with his fingers, Minna tentatively reached out to touch the baby’s skull. She closed her eyes at the cold feel of bone, exhaling in a rush.

  ‘Here!’ Something was caught in the rotted wool at the child’s neck, a black stone disc, shiny with moisture. As Cahir lifted it, remnants of its leather thong fell away. Brushing it with his thumb, he scrutinized the stone. ‘It has carvings on it.’

  Minna hardly heard him, for where the soil had crumbled away from the baby’s finger joints a ring had fallen free. Hesitantly, she picked it up. It was gold. The disk on top was cast with an unusual design: two crescents set back to back, linked with a circle in the middle. The cycles of the moon. The three faces of the Goddess.

  As she knew the herbs, so she knew this. The new moon crescent was for the Maiden; fresh and rising into life. The full moon was for the Mother; round and fertile with child. The waning crescent was for the death Crone, as the moon slides into its dark time. A woman’s sign, for the moon’s tides are female.

  Cahir glanced up now, face tense with excitement. ‘There are animals here. One is an eagle, I think – but the other appears to be a boar. The Boar. The sign of the royal house of Dalriada.’

  They both stared down at the stone, but the pitch of the wind was rising now as if to hurry them along, and ice was invading Minna’s veins. ‘We must go now,’ Cahir decided, touching her cheek with a frown. He paused. ‘Do you want to take the child, Minna?’

  She shivered, shaking her head: the baby had been placed here with love and honour, in a cradle dug by her father’s sword. So while Cahir filled in the hole, Minna huddled against the rock under the rowan, out of the wind. Its twisted branches arched over her protectively as it had stood sentinel all these years over the grave. But how many years? And who were those people?

  Filled with the grace of the Source, she only had to form the thought when her mind was flooded by pictures.

  In a gilded hall three people stood by a throne. Above the throne, a hanging bore the design of a great eagle in gold on blue. One man was an ageing king with gold-brown hair and a striking hawk nose, and he was holding out the stone disk to the dark-haired young man Minna had seen weeping over the grave. Father.

  Then the woman moved into the torchlight and Minna’s vision was filled by that heart-stopping face: copper hair, a wide mouth and long, imperious nose, its severity softened by the upwards tilt of cat-like eyes. Mother. The ring shone on her finger.

  ‘This boar stone is not gold,’ the old king said. ‘For gold is soft. It is of stone: hard, unbending, true and unchanging.’ He looked at the young man. ‘It represents my bond to you, for that will be eternal, and never falter. My totem, and yours, joined together on a message stone. This declares to all who see it that we are allied in soul for ever.’

  The young man’s eyes shone. ‘What does the writing say?’ There was a lilt to his speech that Minna found familiar.

  The old king looked at the woman, and she held the stone up to her grave, blue eyes. Her voice was deep and musical. ‘It says: Calgacus of the Caledonii pledges allegiance and brotherhood to Eremon of Dalriada.’

  Minna’s head reared back against the rock. Eremon, her father. And that made her, the woman … Rhiann, the Epidii princess. Cahir’s ancestor.

  ‘No untruth can ever be written this way,’ Calgacus said. ‘So no man will ever be able to dispute that you speak in my name.’

  His face glowing, Eremon took the stone and drew the thong over his head. ‘I thank you, lord.’ His voice was husky with emotion. ‘I have no gift in return but that of my own oath. Yet I tell you now: it is as eternal as this stone.’

  The scene faded and Cahir was on his knees before her, sheltered from the driving wind. Choking, Minna held out the ring and stone, a storm of confusion roaring through her. ‘They are yours – take them, take them!’

  He stowed the stone under his tunic, but looking intently at her closed her fingers over the ring. �
��In my heart I know the boar is meant for me, but this is a noblewoman’s ring, Minna. It was given to the child. If what you say is true …’ he swallowed, as shaken as she, ‘… surely it’s yours, not mine.’

  The ring vibrated in Minna’s fist, but with that tingle of power came dread. She couldn’t wear this, couldn’t be this. It was a seer’s ring.

  ‘Go on,’ Cahir urged her softly, his eyes grave. ‘You must put it on, for the gods brought us here and gave it to you.’

  When she still didn’t move he took her left hand and slipped the ring on, and it nestled into her skin as if it belonged there. A seer’s ring; her mother’s ring.

  Minna’s ring.

  Night had fallen.

  In a cave in the valley below Minna lay wrapped in furs, staring into the shadows, seeing nothing of the walls or the men squeezed into the narrow cleft of rock.

  Cahir had allowed them to build a fire this time, for after he carried her down the path from the peak she could not stop shuddering. Now she was safe, the men all ignored her and crowded about their king, firing questions at him.

  Her eyes sank closed as their urgent voices enveloped Cahir. She couldn’t think beyond her father’s face, weeping, and her mother cradling them both. She kept seeing the gaping eye-holes of the skull. Loss burned her throat, her chest.

  Gobÿn had taken the stone and was tilting it to the firelight. ‘Gods, what is this?’

  Swiftly, Cahir told them how the grave had been found. His voice boomed off the rocks around Minna, yanking her awake.

  ‘So it’s an eagle,’ Brogan said, extracting the stone from Gobán and holding it to his narrow, clever face.

  ‘And there are lines around the edge,’ Mellan added, peering over his shoulder.

  ‘It is ogham.’ Cahir strode to them eagerly. ‘The sacred druid language, I am sure of it.’

  Ruarc frowned. ‘But what does it all mean?’

  There was silence, because no one knew. But Minna did. Now the Source drew her up, poured warmth in so she could be strong; the Source woke her mind, would not allow her the sleep of exhaustion. ‘I know.’ All the heads turned towards her. ‘I know what the stone says, and who made it.’

  Cahir stepped forward. ‘Minna …’

  Looking up, she could see a corona of light about Cahir’s head and shoulders that followed him as he moved. The crown. She shifted her gaze to the men, and saw into them, one by one. The bloodlust that could kill a man and revel in the honour, of course. But also the flutters of softer memories, of swords polished, and the glow of home fires; babes held in rough hands and the joy of a carefully honed point piercing a stag’s flank. And over all, young and old, a heavy cloud of bitter disappointment that was the weight of the Roman yoke.

  She glanced at Donal. There she glimpsed a woman’s face, drawn and dying, and afterwards nothing to fill Donal’s hands once her flesh had withered; nothing to make him look down the years ahead and rejoice – only his king and a wild hope he had never even voiced to himself. That something might change.

  Minna rose to her feet, clutching the furs about her, and words were drawn up from her belly as if they were not her own. Holding Cahir’s golden eyes, she told them of Calgacus of the Caledonii and Eremon of Erin.

  Her voice was faint at first, faltering, but as they listened and there was no mockery in their faces, it strengthened. The men’s expressions gradually changed, too, as she spoke, until she was surrounded by a ring of eyes shining in the firelight with awe and wonder. Wonder, from hardened warriors, when men had only ever sneered at her before? But that was her life before. Before Dalriada.

  For Minna remembered these men listening to Davin’s tales of dreams and legends in the hall with rapt faces. And in the wind and rain it had been Tiernan’s stories of gods and great deeds that kept them warm with no fire, and young Ardal’s soft singing that sent them to sleep. The sight was a gift, Cahir had said, and so these blooded warriors hearkened to a slave-girl simply because she was god-spoken, and because she had won their king’s respect. In the cave, they gave her theirs.

  The light around Cahir had been leaping higher with every word of hers, like a bonfire. Now it glowed about the men as Minna sank back to the hides, exhausted, and Cahir walked slowly to the far side of the cave, his head down.

  ‘But,’ a bewildered Mellan asked, ‘who is this Calgacus?’

  No one answered, until Cahir spun around, his eyes glittering. ‘I know. I sat night after night with Darach and the druids around their fires, wanting to know everything about our past that was still remembered. When Eremon walked this land the tribes in the east were not all one people known as Picts – they had separate names and separate kings. The Caledonii were the strongest, and their most revered king was Calgacus. Since then, those eastern tribes have merged under one ruler, Gede son of Urp.’ He glanced at Minna, and she felt it as a touch on her face. ‘What I did not know is that Calgacus was allied with Eremon in the most binding way possible.’

  The air rippled. Ardal frowned. ‘The Picts and … us?’

  Cahir spread a hand on the damp cave wall, looking at the cracks as if they held answers. ‘Our ancestors fought the Romans at the Hill of a Thousand Spears. Now a thought whispers to me …’ he took a deep breath and it rushed out, ‘… that Eremon fought with the Picts under Calgacus at that very battle.’

  ‘It could not be!’ Ruarc burst out. ‘We sing of that place; we drink to that memory!’

  ‘I think it is.’

  Minna’s hands were pressed across her heart. The dream she had had the first night at Dunadd of a man in battle, his despair as hordes of Romans poured down a slope towards him. ‘My prince, look to the east. More Romans have come!’ Eremon. Her father.

  ‘How could we have been allied with the Picts?’ Tiernan pulled at his long moustache in agitation. ‘They are our enemy – I have spilt their blood with my own sword.’

  ‘Now we are enemies.’ Cahir’s face was blazing. ‘But perhaps not always. Perhaps we and the Picts fought together once; faced the Romans and nearly won.’

  Minna braced her hands on the earth floor, for the shimmering light around the men had risen up into flames behind her eyes, the currents shifting towards an unknown future. She sensed the paths of fate wavering, twisting.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Ruarc demanded of his king, clenching his fists.

  Cahir looked at each of his warriors in turn: Ruarc, Ardal and the young firebrands, and his steady men, Tiernan, Góban, Fergal and Donal. The sparks leaped between them, the silent communication of warriors and hunters, and Minna found herself urging them, Give him his honour; let him take it up with you behind him!

  ‘It is time,’ Cahir said deliberately, ‘to free ourselves of our oppressors, lest we die of shame in our beds. Our ancestors call us: it is time to fight Rome once more.’

  They were all silent with astonishment, the atmosphere taut, on the edge. Then Donal suddenly blew out his breath, his eyes alight. ‘We thought you’d never ask.’

  Cahir blinked, and a grin dawned over his face. ‘I never thought I would either.’

  Ruarc and Mellan looked at each other, stunned, and then a babble of voices and laughter broke out as it all spilled from them at once, voices young and old rising together. Yes, heed the gods! Take up arms! Mount an attack to force the Romans to battle, to wrest back Dalriadan honour, Dalriadan life-blood!

  And as Cahir’s warriors demanded what he most wanted to give – his secret desire to redeem himself – he stood in their midst with hungry eyes and said nothing, drinking in their acclaim as a man who has thirsted and nearly died of it. The cave rang with their shouts, the grate of swords drawn, the tips thrust together.

  Minna sat still amid the furs, gazing into the fire as the rock walls sang. The paths of fate settled around her, taking up their new form.

  Chapter 31

  Cahir sat at the cave mouth beneath the stars while the others slept. He was exhausted after the hours of discussion, but he
would not miss this night for slumber. It still wasn’t clear what to do with this stone, but right now he didn’t care, for every hour that passed took him towards a new hope.

  He could just hear the muted murmur of Ardal and Ruarc down the slope, standing watch, but when a light pad of feet sounded behind him he did not immediately turn. He had to brace himself first, and only then could he look at Minna as she knelt and gazed up at the stars, her breath misting the mountain air.

  The tension tightened as the silence drew out. ‘Minna,’ he murmured at last. He tried to speak, then shook his head. ‘You are of our blood.’

  Her throat was outlined by starlight, so he saw her swallow with difficulty. ‘It’s more than blood. My soul was here with them. If the stone was theirs, then so was I.’

  ‘But you are of my lineage.’ He struggled to think through the storm in his body, for after the calls for war he felt alive as never before, and with her beside him again the pull in his belly was exquisite. He had repeated the litany in his head so many times: there were great barriers between them. Only suddenly, there were not, and he had nothing sure to cling to any more.

  The anguish in Minna’s eyes stopped his thoughts. ‘I’ve known this ever since I stepped on to Alba’s soil. Nothing felt right inside me.’ She grasped the slave-ring around her neck. ‘But now I am caught … between.’

  Without thinking Cahir reached to uncurl her tight fingers from the metal, and the jolt of that touch ran up his arm. ‘You are Alban now, because of what you’ve done as well as what you are. You have proven your allegiance—’

  ‘But I did not mean to leave them, Broc and my …’ Her face twisted, her waves of dark hair shadowing her white cheeks. ‘Are they my people any more? I don’t know.’

  He caught both of her hands, making her look up at him. ‘Minna, we are your people now, as you are ours. It is beyond my comprehension … but it is true.’