“We go, eat meat, drink more wine.” Kazhak joined in with enthusiasm, jumping to his feet. He left the guest house much more willingly than he had entered it.
Kernunnos regretted the change of locale. In the unrestrained atmosphere of a big outdoor banquet—the only way it was possible to accommodate everyone who wanted to take part—the Scythians would doubtless drink enough red wine to keep them harmless until nextday, but it would not be possible to talk to them on any meaningful level. And there was much Kernunnos wanted to find out about the horsemen.
This Kazhak was the representative of strange customs and troubling influences. Kernunnos was already certain his presence among the Kelti was a disruptive factor that might have far-reaching consequences. He had arrived too soon after the transition of a powerful chieftain and the introduction of a new ritual; the pattern had been strained and would take time to heal.
But there would be no time for healing. Kazhak was in the village now, and it was obvious the men of the Kelti were already mightily impressed with his saddle horses, his ornaments and weapons, the practicality of the garment he called “trousers,” the amount of gold he and his men possessed but undoubtedly had not earned through peaceful trade. Take and go. Kazhak’s description of his rapacious way of life had excited many of the young men, walled in by their eternal mountains.
Kernunnos thought it would be prudent to learn as much as possible about the intruders and make magic to counteract their influence before it became too strong, perhaps permanently damaging the pattern.
The center of the village was lit by the orange glow of a great feasting fire. The smell of roasting flesh and crisping fat hung on the air. The people came laughing from their lodges, dressed in their best linen tunics and robes, warm woolen cloaks in bright colors slung across their shoulders. It was proving to be a fine season for feasting.
Swaggering, brawny, boasting men, miners and craftsmen and stockmen, endowed with an enormous capacity for enjoyment and a boundless delight in the music of their own words, the men of the tribe milled around the fire exchanging anecdotes. Every adult male was a hero, at least in his own lodge, and had his personal following of half-bearded youths, jealous of their kinsman’s standing in the community. Their hands twitched above their knife hilts in hopes of a whispered insult that could give birth to a joyous brawl.
Framed by golden beards and flowing mustaches, the lips of the Kelti men shaped tales in a constant attempt to best one another. No man could let a good story go unchallenged by a better one; no fist could escape comparison with a larger one. Prowess with timber axe or miner’s pick was as much a source for bragging as skill with sword or sex, and the size and stamina of a man’s physical equipment was the subject of many a rowdy dialogue.
Laughing and winking, swaying their hips and arching their backs, the women moved freely among their men, as richly dressed as their mates, taking full part in the by-play and equally quick with tongue or fist. There were pinches and pattings; eyes that dared and teased.
The stories being told grew longer and more imaginative. The Kelti said of themselves that they did not lie, but they sometimes took a very long way around in getting to the truth, with frequent stops at interesting spots along the way. A straight road and a simply told story held no interest for them. They were mountain people, used to twisting, turning trails.
It was a splendid evening. Any excuse would do for a feast, and any festival was cause for celebrating all the pleasures of life. The air around them sparked with the outpouring of their energy, their exuberance, their matchless enthusiasm for living that was balanced by their utter disregard for death.
Kelti.
The Scythians blended easily into such a group. Like men finding lost brothers, they discovered a common thread of character that spanned the difference between their cultures. Both were passionate people, equally given to joy and melancholy, the one spicing the other.
A certain mistrust lingered, for these were not men to abandon the habit of wariness, but the occasion had a magic of its own that lowered barriers. The horsemen even began to accept the shocking sight of women taking part in a social occasion; their eyes followed the graceful figures admiringly, if furtively.
A brawny young Scythian called Dasadas, who had impressed everyone around him by drinking a truly phenomenal amount of wine, found himself explaining by gesture the Scythian rite of brotherhood. Demonstration seemed to be the only road to clarity, so Dasadas and a willing salt miner cut their arms and mingled their blood in wine, drinking it off to the Cheers of the crowd.
It was the kind of dramatic gesture the Kelti loved.
Soon each Scythian had his own circle around him, fingering his clothing, admiring the unfamiliar animalistic forms represented in his jewelry, eager to know the details of life lived at the gallop.
Kernunnos was visibly upset.
He went to Taranis. “I like nothing about these horsemen,” he said darkly. “They are dangerous.”
“How can they be dangerous? There are only four of them.”
“Four of them that we can see, here, but where are the rest? Surely four men alone would never have traveled all the way from the Black Sea region. Suppose they have an army at their backs, hiding in the mountains to come down on us when we least expect them?”
“Have you felt such an army?”
“No,” Kernunnos was forced to admit, “but these people are very strange to me; I have difficulty sorting out any clear impressions of them as yet. I know only that they should not be here.”
Taranis had already helped himself to the wine krater many times and was feeling more like a genial host than a newly elected chieftain still secretly unsure of himself. He was by nature an affable man, not given to mistrust. The thunder of his voice was a bluff that gave the impression of a more belligerent disposition than he possessed. He was beginning to like these Scythians; they were good companions around a feasting fire. He defended them by saying, “Kazhak tells me there were originally more of them, but only four are left. They have come across many territories, after all, and through the current holdings of the Cimmerians, who hate them.
“If they had warriors waiting in the hills, don’t you think they would try to take what they want, given their natures, rather than bartering gold for it? I believe Kazhak when he says they have traveled this long way as men of his tribe frequently do, looking for new pastureland or opportunities.”
“Pastureland … in the Blue Mountains?” Kernunnos was scornful of the suggestion. “They are not such fools as that, Taranis. They came for new opportunities, I agree with that much: opportunities to rob us and harm us.”
“Kazhak tells me they want only to trade for Goibban’s iron; he says its fame has spread like the rising sun, and as soon as they learned of it they abandoned their other goals and headed straight here.”
“If they had more men, they would have come prepared to kill us for it,” Kernunnos muttered. “Why do you believe everything this Kazhak tells you, Taranis? Do you see the truth in his eyes?”
Taranis hesitated. “No … I could not look him in the eyes, he always turned away, but there is a reason according to the custom of his race. Kazhak says no one among the Scythians looks into the eyes of another unless they are brothers. Near-kin or bloodkin, I suppose he means.”
“Kazhak says, Kazhak says!” The chief priest was swept by a cold fury. “I tell you what Kernunnos says: You should drive those horse riders out of here now, thisnight!”
“They have come for trade,” Taranis repeated stubbornly. “What will happen to the carefully developed reputation of the Kelti if we refuse to trade? Have you seen all the gold jewelry they carry? Magnificent pieces looted from wealthy Thracians and Hellenes. They have been displaying them freely and the people already lust for them; how can I send the Scythians away now?”
“Toutorix would do it. He was a strong chief,” Kernunnos said pointedly. Taranis clenched his jaw but the shapechanger continued by saying
, “Toutorix knew. there are more important things than trade.”
Taranis had grown to manhood in a family made prosperous by trade, in a wealthy village whose existence depended on the goods brought in to them from the outside world, not only the luxury goods but the grains and foodstuffs they could not grow in the Blue Mountains. Taranis could not remember a time when the tribe had to make do with less. Even more than Toutorix before him, he loved hearing the creaking wheels of the traders’ wagons coming up the road.
“You would have us starve then, priest?” he asked Kernunnos with scarcely veiled sarcasm.
The Priest of the Stag was insulted. “The tribe will never starve. I bring the game, always!”
Taranis backed down. This was a bad way to begin, antagonizing the most powerful of the spirit-traders. “Yes, of course you do, I realize my words were poorly chosen.”
“Very poorly. Beware of offending those you cannot see, Taranis. Your grip on the staff is not as strong as you think.” Kernunnos narrowed his eyes and stared fixedly at the chieftain, and Taranis found he had a strong desire to propitiate the chief priest. “What would you have me do? Should our warriors really drive them out?”
Kernunnos considered. “That would damage the pattern; we do not openly break the traditions of hospitality, and right now we must be particularly careful of keeping things in the proper balance.
“I will give a demonstration, very soon, at the feasting fire, to show these Scythians the power of the Kelti and convince them that they cannot stand against us. That is the best way; intimidation. When they are cowed by the sight of my magic, you will find them easy to barter with and quick to leave after, and I do not think they will urge others of their kind to come to us here. Let them go out from the Blue Mountains and tell strange tales of the Kelti to their savage kin.”
Satisfied, Taranis returned to the feast and Kernunnos withdrew to the magic house to prepare.
Aware of the night of the full moon drawing closer with every breath she took, Epona glanced often at the sky as she served the tribe’s guests. There was so little time left. She saw Goibban on the other side of the great firepit and tried once more to shape just the right words to approach him with, but then Taranis bellowed for more wine and her thread of thought came unraveled.
Mahka was not taking part in the feast at all. She had gone off with some of the boys approaching the time for their manmaking and was taking part in a mock battle with real injuries, having a wonderful time. Taranis was embarrassed by her defection. He had hoped to use this occasion to show his people how admirably suited his family was to their new station—“Every bit as good as Rigantona and those brats of hers” was the way Sirona put it—but now he had no senior daughter to sit behind his cup hand. Sirona sat behind his knife hand, in her proper place, and beside her there was a glaring emptiness.
“Sit here.” Taranis ordered Epona. “A man must show that he has strong women at his back.”
Kazhak glanced up when the yellow-haired woman was placed among the feasters in the area of honor. He saw her sit down and then look up at the night sky, as he so often did himself. When the feasting cup was next passed his eyes happened to meet hers again, and to his own surprise he smiled at her, as he would have smiled at a blood brother.
Though her thoughts were far away at the moment, Epona was caught and held in that smile like a netted bird. She returned the Scythian’s gaze. Those dark, dark eyes, and that beguiling grin. There was a kind of magic involved there … she was not thinking about Goibban; she was not even thinking about Kernunnos. She sat in confusion, looking at Kazhak. Somebody I know is looking at me out of this stranger’s face! she said to herself.
When the ceremonial feasting cup made its next round, Taranis rose and presented it to Kazhak. It was an extravagant gesture, worthy of a Kelt. The cup was of Hellene olivewood mounted in silver and ornamented with colored stones, and had cost Toutorix a cartload of furs.
Suddenly Kazhak sprang to his feet and ran from the circle of firelight. In a moment he was back, brandishing a damp felt bag.
“You give Kazhak silver cup,” he said. “Now Kazhak give gift in return.” Obviously delighted with his idea, he plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out a human head.
He held it up by the blood-matted hair so everyone could see it. The drained face was ashen in the firelight, the scummy eyeballs rolled back in the head, the tongue lolling from its mouth. A sword stroke had decapitated the man but left a tag end of bone and gristle protruding from the stump of the neck. He had been dead for many nights.
The indrawn breaths of the Kelti sounded like a rush of wind above the crackling of the feasting fire.
“This mighty warrior!” the Scythian announced to his shocked audience. “Kazhak collect many heads, tie around horse’s neck in battle to frighten enemies, but this best one yet. This man fight beautiful, kill many my brothers. Much smart man in here, almost beat Kazhak.” He tapped his knuckles on the pallid forehead. “Now Kazhak give this head to his friend Taranis. Cut off top, line with gold, make fine drinking cup, is it so?”
Taranis saw the elders rolling their eyes in his direction. He could expect no help from them at this unprecedented turn of events; everything was up to him. He tried surreptitiously to locate Kernunnos in the crowd, hoping against hope that the chief priest had returned from the magic house, but saw no sign of him. He must handle it alone, then.
He got to his feet a little unsteadily, regretting the last five or six cups of wine. “It is … a splendid gift,” he said to Kazhak. “An extraordinary gift. I … umm … I think no chief of the people has ever been given such a gift.”
Kazhak grinned, pleased, and there was a smattering of relieved handclapping. People were beginning to breathe normally again, but many still could not take their eyes off the Scythian’s gory trophy.
Kazhak slammed his open palm across Taranis’ back, almost knocking the wind out of the other man. The Scythian beamed his big smile and shook the head, sending droplets of congealed blood flying. “Power is in the head, is it so? Head is where man lives. You take, you possess now.” With that he thrust his present into his host’s face.
It took the experience of generations of warrior blood for Taranis to stand his ground and not step back, but in spite of himself his hands came up defensively—and Kazhak deposited the head in them.
“Now you have all power this mighty warrior. Kazhak give to you. If you want, hang head on your wood house, nobody bother you. Head warn them off. Protect you, protect all yours.
“We friends now; Taranis, Kazhak. Taranis have special good swords for his friend Kazhak, Kazhak give his friend Taranis much gold. All happy, is it so?” He flung his arms around the shoulders of the Thunderer and gave the startled lord of the tribe a bone-wrenching hug.
Taranis sat back down, carefully placing the head on the ground beside him. Sirona suddenly decided she was needed to carry another tray of bread to those beyond the first rank of feasters, but Epona did not move away. She looked at the dreadful thing and recalled the instruction of the druii. The head was only an empty shell, after all; the spirit had long since made its transition. There was nothing in that rotting flesh to fear except its very ability to inspire fear. Epona was tired of being frightened. She glared at the severed head and kept her place.
There was singing and storytelling, and one carcass after another was stripped to the bone by the hungry feasters. Roast venison and boiled mutton and stewed coney with littleberries; bread and cakes and cheese and wheat-beer; clotted cream atop dripping sections of honeycomb; onions stuffed with herbs and wrapped with strips of bacon; lumps of fat rolled in spices and pine nuts; wild strawberries simmered in clover tea; lambs’ livers on a silver dish.
And wine, wine, wine. It was a grand feast.
The sky was dark and the stars wheeled overhead and the power of the fire overrode the power of the night. At last, when all the songs were sung and the children lay curled asleep at their mothers’ f
eet, Poel stepped to the place of honor and began a long story-song, reciting the relationship of the tribe with the birds and animals of the forest. Sometimes he danced out a segment; sometimes he stood still, eyes closed, and chanted in the drui voice, its eerie music echoing from the surrounding peaks as if the mountains joined him.
The eyelids of the listeners grew heavy, as their bellies were heavy with food. The fire was warm, the night was old, the laughter and shouting had been replaced by a murmur of voices and the clatter of pots and bowls.
Then that too fell silent, as Poel finished his song and walked away from the fire.
The time had come for the art of the shapechanger.
Tena came walking through the circle of feasters. She was dressed in a thin gown of bleached linen, silhouetting her body against the firelight. The watching Scythians sat up a little straighter. She went to the edge of the firepit and threw a powder onto the glowing coals. Flame flashed; red smoke billowed out over the crowd, making some of them cough.
The smoke thinned into tatters and drifted away and Tena was gone with it. One of the Scythians, the darkest, who was called Basl, uttered a startled exclamation.
On the other side of the feasting fire something moved, swirled, drew light and color from the flames themselves and coalesced into a figure that might have been a man in a cloak of feathers. Arms extended and became wings. A hoarse cawing issued from the apparition. It moved back and forth with a curious hopping gait, calling out the name of first one person and then another, and those called answered in hushed tones, crouching low on the earth mother as the winged thing danced toward them and then flitted away.
The feathered figure was turning and turning, faster and faster, folding its arms about itself and becoming more compact until it seemed on the verge of dwindling away altogether. And then Tena was beside the fire again, tossing another powder into the flames, and the bird thing disappeared in a great gout of smoke.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 15
