She did not know how deep she was, but all at once she became aware of the mass of the mountain above her, and herself beneath it, so small. So fragile by comparison.
Now she could hear the spirit within with dreadful clarity, telling her she had done a stupid thing, urging her feet to leave the Salt Mountain. She looked around uncertainly. Which way had she come? All the tunnels were so similar. She had not noticed the identifying marks notched in the salt, nor would she have known how to use them to find her way.
She was very far underground and she was lost.
She started to run. The salt crunched and slid beneath her and she heard an ominous rumble behind her. Looking back, she saw that her movements had dislodged a small slide, like a rockslide, and a heap of salt had fallen into the tunnel, partially blocking it. She ran back, fearful the tunnel would be blocked altogether, trapping her. She scrambled over the slide and went on more slowly, her breath rasping in her throat.
A turn and then a turn again … surely she had come this way. Was it familiar? Did it look like this? No, all the tunnels seemed the same, nothing but gleaming rock salt. All alike, all alike … she was too panicked now to listen for the spirit within, to trust it to guide her feet. She came to another salt slide, much larger than the first, big enough to trap a man beneath and kill him. She knew then that she had not come this way before. She retraced her steps, watching for any slight rise in the footing that might indicate she was going toward the surface. The air was thick and hard to breathe; her heart hammered in her chest. She was so intent on the lift of the salt underfoot she did not notice the largest slide of all until it came rumbling down on her.
Chapter 4
Esus, the Silver Bull, chief of the Marcomanni, had accompanied his sons and the sons of his kinsmen to the territory of the Kelti in search of wives. “If you are ready for women to tend your wifefires, be sure you choose them from among the daughters of the Salt Mountain,” he had counseled them. “We will arrive just after snowmelt, so as to have the pick of the ripening women, but don’t be too particular. The important thing here is to establish more alliances with Toutorix and the Kelti and get a better trading arrangement than we have had. If you find Kelti women of lifemaking age who are willing to marry, take them.”
The Marcomanni arrived in the village driving richly carved carts of polished wood and leading pack animals laden with gifts. No mention would be made of wives, not at first; their gifts were merely unworthy tokens of the respect in which Toutorix was held by their tribe.
A banquet of hospitality was quickly arranged and Tena built a great fire in the feasting pit at the edge of the commonground. Soon dusk would fall, and more meat was needed to supply the guests; Toutorix went to the magic house to speak to Kernunnos, and hunters were dispatched around the perimeter of the lake. Meanwhile, the women of the village prepared to serve the available food; Rigantona contributing a haunch of venison roasted with honey that she had intended for her husband’s meal.
Toutorix’s eyes followed the departing treat with mild regret; it was truly a chieftain’s portion, and he had not intended to share it.
“We don’t want the Marcomanni to think we are poor,” Rigantona reminded him.
“Poor! They will hardly think that. Just look at our people. They’re so weighted down by jewelry they clank when they walk, and as for you, I could support a whole tribe by bartering off your collection of ornaments.”
Rigantona’s eyes flashed. “It’s mine, not yours to barter! If I were widowed it would go with me, as much of it came with me.”
“Not that bronze buckle with the blue stones,” Toutorix commented. “For one example. I seem to remember your getting that in exchange for honey gathered in my hills.”
“Honey gathered from my bees.”
“Honey the children gathered for you from wild bees; you did not risk any stings to get it.”
“Those bees are not wild,” she told him, unwilling to let any point escape her. “I can command them as the shape-changer commands the game.”
“There is a fine distinction there, but for once I’m not in the mood to fight over it. These Marcomanni have brought a lot of gifts to exchange for the privilege of courting wives, and I want them to have a look at our Epona. Where is she?”
Rigantona glanced around the lodge. Three small boys played by the firepit, three little girls played by the loom. Of the older children, Alator and Okelos were working together on cutting up a leather hide, but Epona was nowhere to be seen.
Rigantona shrugged. “Out, I suppose.”
“Don’t you know?”
“I haven’t had time to watch her all day, no! She is a woman now; she comes and goes as she pleases.”
“I expected to see her on the commonground, staring at the strangers, for the girl is usually as curious as a raven, but she was not there,” Toutorix said. “And now she is not here. She should be at the guest lodge right now, serving red wine to the Marcomanni and heating cauldrons of water for their bathing. When another tribe of the people visits, our hospitality must be beyond any they could offer us in their own village.”
He opened the door of the lodge and gazed out, watching the women scurrying to prepare for the feast. Perhaps they would have to eat in the lodges; the sky was already darker than it should be, the wind had turned colder, and the clouds were beginning to pelt the earth with stinging particles of ice. “Where is that girl?” Toutorix muttered. The spirit within had an uneasy feeling.
He went for the second time that day to the magic house. The black birds in the pine trees made derisive noises as he approached; the air was thick with blue smoke. He found the priest stretched naked on his bedshelf, forearm across his eyes. Toutorix wrinkled his nose at the smell of the lodge but said nothing; it was shapechangers’ business, after all.
“The hunting is going well?” he asked to open the conversation.
“A great stag appeared and led a whole herd of deer to the lake,” Kernunnos reported with satisfaction. “There is more than enough meat now to feed your guests for many nights, and when they leave, the women will have meat to salt.”
“Surely we haven’t killed more than we need?” Toutorix asked with concern. Waste offended the spirits. To kill game unnecessarily would result in famine, the animals disappearing just when they were most needed.
“Of course not,” Kernunnos replied, insulted. He sat up, looking at the chief through slitted eyes. “You are worried, but not about meat. You know we do not overkill.”
Toutorix held his face immobile. It was unseemly for a chief of the Kelti to express excessive concern over one daughter, but Epona was his special favorite. He empathized with her reckless spirit and was touched by her occasional bouts of doelike shyness. Rigantona was all muscle and hard edges; Epona was the blaze of the fire and the soft sound of rain on thatch.
“My eldest daughter does not seem to be in the village, and I have asked everyone,” he said. “A storm is coming. And the Marcomanni are looking for wives.”
“Ah. Epona.” Kernunnos rolled off his bedshelf and walked, still naked, to the open door of his lodge. The wind was blowing harder now and raised the hackles on his skin; the cold shriveled his scrotum but he paid no notice. He stared out, his eyes filmed over.
The priest was already exhausted from his exertions in a way that only a shapechanger could understand, but his life belonged to his tribe. When his art was needed, there could be no hesitation, no limit to the giving. His obligations had been set forth many generations ago by the great druii who had first come to understand the ordered rhythms of life, death, and rebirth.
All forms of existence were subject to complex, immutable laws, even in the otherworlds. Everything was maintained in a delicate state of balance requiring absolute harmony. There were things that could not be changed; actions that, once taken, must always bring certain reactions. The druii were the gifted ones, born with a greater innate understanding of these laws than the rest of the people. With th
at understanding came the ability to manipulate some of the lesser forces of nature, but those powers must always be used for the benefit of the people.
Power misused made the practitioner vulnerable to the rage of the great fire of life and could mean the fragmentation of his own small spark from that fire. His individuality might be torn apart and scattered on the winds between the worlds, left to howl in baffled hunger in the darkness, never to be whole again.
“The girl is not in the village,” Kernunnos said at last. “I can feel her … far off. Very far,” he added, surprised. He turned back to Toutorix. “And something is wrong.”
“Find her!” roared the chief of the Kelti.
“Leave me,” said Kernunnos. “When I know, I will come and tell you.”
Toutorix returned, halfheartedly, to his guests and the preparations for feasting. Already the boasts and the contests had begun. Soon Bellenos, the most aggressive of Esus’ men, would be wrestling Okelos—or Goibban, if the smith could be talked into taking part—for the hero’s portion of first meat served. A boisterous gaiety had replaced the energetic industry of the community, and kin-fights were breaking out, wagers were being placed, dogs were barking, women were laughing. The first festival of the new sunseason had begun, ignoring the last icy blast of winter driving down from the peaks.
Alone in his lodge, Kernunnos crouched beside the firepit, speaking in the spirit language. He rocked back and forth on his haunches, reaching outward with his mind, exploring his psychic surround with invisible fingers. At last he nodded to himself and got to his feet. From his collection of animal hides he selected one of the most powerful and drew it over his shoulders as he began the song of incantation.
Epona woke. in absolute darkness. She knew a moment of disoriented terror, thinking she had gone blind. The darkness was so solid it was tangible, and she was alone in it with a monster that gasped and panted. Her head cleared a little and she recognized the sound as her own labored breathing.
She was alive, then; somewhere under the Salt Mountain.
She felt a tremendous weight pressing down upon her and tried to shift beneath it, only to be rewarded with a stab of pain. She gasped, inhaling air thick with particles of salt that made her choke and cough. Fire was running up her arm. Surely its light should enable her to see something …? No. It was not fire, but pain. The salt-fall had long since extinguished her torch, and she was partly buried under the slide, one badly injured arm pinned beneath her body, her legs numbed by the weight of the salt.
She forced herself to go limp, trying to rest and gather strength. All her life she had heard stories of mine disasters resulting from some thoughtless insult paid to the earth mother, but she had never thought to apply such risks to herself. Now those memories rushed back, larger than life.
More than one man had carried his pick and mallet into the mine and never returned.
It was unthinkable that she meet the same fate. She would not just lie there and die meekly. She moved her body in various directions by infinitesimal degrees, trying to learn just how she was trapped. The wrong move could bring more salt down on her, burying her completely and ending any chance for escape. It took all her will power to lie calmly and try to think, as she should have thought earlier, before any of this happened. She wanted to scream and struggle, but that would mean a sure death.
If she wriggled one muscle at a time, like a snake shedding its skin, she was able to ease the weight on her torso slightly and begin to worm her way out from under the salt-fall. The worst part of the process was in trying to move her injured arm. The darkness was a kindness, for it kept her from seeing just how badly the bone was broken.
She was shocked at her lack of strength. The smallest movements left her breathless and exhausted. Once she got free of the salt-fall itself, how could she ever find her way to the surface when she had been unable to do so while uninjured?
Better not think about that, urged the spirit within. Get free first. One step, then one more. Now she listened.
There was a distant sound. Epona froze, trying to lift her head and hear better. Was someone else in the mine with her? Usually all the miners returned home well before dark, and it must be night by now—or morning. How could she tell? She tried to call out but broke off in another fit of coughing. The salt-fall rumbled, threatening to move again.
Something was coming toward her through the tunnels. She could hear it clearly now. But there was no sound of human voices. Something seemed to be shuffling … or maybe that was the roaring in her own ears that was rising, drowning out all other sounds. Her head spun dizzily, and she faded in and out of consciousness.
She seemed to see a strange blue light moving through the heart of the Salt Mountain. It glowed through the crystalline walls. A giant, shambling shape moved darkly at its center. Down one gallery and then another, turning as if in search of something, a shaggy beast prowled through the mine, its heavy head swinging from side to side. Sometimes it walked on all fours, but where there was room it reared erect, gesturing with immense clawed paws, then dropped down again and continued its prowling.
Epona awakened with a jolt. She could see; the blue glow was in the corridor with her, outlining a huge bear that stood not six paces from her. Her mouth was as dry as sand. There was no way she could escape the beast, which must have been driven into the caves by the storm without and its own hunger within. She lay immobilized, staring up at it, expecting to die but still not resigned.
Never resigned.
She groped with her free, uninjured hand and found a chunk of salt the size of a kaman ball. If the bear came toward her she would throw the chunk and try to hurt his sensitive nose. There was little chance it would discourage him, but she had to try, she had to do something …
The big head turned from side to side and she caught a glimpse of glinting yellow eyes. Narrow, slitted, yellow eyes. The bear ambled closer, grunting, its hot breath swirling around her and becoming one with the pain and the thick salty air.
Darkness closed over her.
Kernunnos came to the feast, dressed in one of his ceremonial robes. Recognizing a shapechanger, even the rowdiest of the Marcomanni fell silent and concentrated on their food while the priest summoned Toutorix aside.
“The girl is trapped in the salt mine,” Kernunnos said simply.
“One of my family is lost in the mountains,” Toutorix cried to the feasters, his arms lifted in the sign of command. “Brave heroes that you are, prove your courage now. The priest tells me we must bring her back without waiting for the end of the storm or the daylight, or she will die. Come, warriors. Come, strong men. Show us your courage!”
The wind swirled and roared over the lake, making the last statement of snowseason, reminding puny man that the elements were not subdued, they chose to have a voice in his affairs. The men of the people, Kelti and Marcomanni together, equipped themselves with weapons and torches and prepared to search for Epona. The slopes were slippery with ice and the way was treacherous; the interior of the Salt Mountain was unknown territory to the Marcomanni, fabled but forbidding. Still, what member of the people could resist such a challenge to prove his valor?
Toutorix would lead the way. He had spent most of his life in the mines; there was not a corridor he did not know, a gallery he had not worked at one time. He almost jigged with impatience, waiting for the rest of them to get ready. It was not a job for one man alone, not in this weather.
Wrapped in furs, the three gutuiters accompanied the search party as far as the valley of the Kelti and waited there to care for the girl if she was brought, injured, out of the mine.
Below, in the magic house, Kernunnos once more retired to his bedshelf. His ribs stood up like lodgetimbers, pushing through his flesh, and he could see the hammering of his own heart beneath the taut skin. It would take him a long time to recover. He closed his eyes and sank wearily into the dreamworld, where nothing was demanded of him.
The Kelti led the way into the mine wi
th their lit torches, calling out to one another at frequent intervals. The priest had not been able to identify the exact corridor where Epona lay but had described its general size and shape, the turnings that led to it, and the approximate distance to the surface. Three or four areas might answer to those specifications, so Toutorix ordered the men to divide into groups and he took the most promising direction himself. He was not walking cautiously, as men learned to do underground, but trotting as if he ran in open air, careless of where he put his feet. “Epona!” he called again and again. “Answer me, girl. Where are you?”
His voice and the others, calling, echoed eerily through the salt caverns, distorting sound itself. Soon it was impossible to tell who was where.
Toutorix headed for the lowest level of the mine. His party could feel the oppressive weight of the mountain over them. The Marcomanni began to hang back, physically uncomfortable and emotionally uneasy. It seemed to them that they had entered a monster’s belly and the open mouth might close behind them, swallowing them up. If this was the price for working the Salt Mountain, let the Kelti pay it! Brave warriors though they were, the Marcomanni were out of their element now, and their thoughts yearned back toward light and air. The girl seemed unimportant, even if she was of the chief’s family. Proving themselves was less necessary than it had been. This was one of the otherworlds, and they liked no part of it.
“Come on, you!” Toutorix thundered at them. “Are you cowards? Hurry and we will find her soon.”
The accusation of cowardice, the epithet no man of the people would willingly suffer, forced them on, but they were muttering among themselves and making extravagant secret promises to their tribal spirits.
Suddenly Toutorix stopped, holding up his hand. “I thought I heard something.”
The men with him listened, but they heard only the blood roaring in their own ears and the faint crunching underfoot as they shifted weight on the salt.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 6
