“Nay? Hmm.” She tilted her head considering Brenawyn. Apparently coming to the conclusion that she was just momentarily flummoxed, and deigning to be the epitome of unending patience she explained, “T’is the site o’ the Covenant drawn, when Amergin duped the Tuatha Dé and the Formorians both.”
Brenawyn thought back. What did she remember from Finvarra’s history lesson? It was after the third battle of Magh Tuireadh, “’I am the shield for every head. I am the tomb for every hope?[1]’ He told the gods to wait off shore and then used the time to weave a spell repelling them when they thought to advance if I remember correctly.”
“Aye. T’is what sent them ta the land o’ the sidhe, Tir-Na-Nog.”
“Tell me more about this place, the Mound in the Dark Grove.”
“Och, a henge and burial mound on the isle o’ Anglesey. T’is said that there are two passageways that meet in the mid, one from this world, and one from Tir-Na-Nog. I was taught the stories ta pass on ta my bairns when the time came. We were ta stand clear o’ it and the like; else we may be taken by the faerie. I always had a fair curiosity about it considering.
I suppose t’is good chance that t’is set for there. Out o’ the prying eyes o’ men. A dangerous task ye ha’,” she glanced around, lowering her voice so much that Brenawyn had to strain to hear. “They’ll brand ye a witch and anyone connected ta…”
She stopped, and bit her lip looking away.
“Didn’t exactly sign up for dancing naked around the oak under the full moon, did you?”
Isla gave no answer.
Putting her head against the trunk of the tree, “Well, welcome to the club…” Brenawyn muttered, more to herself than Isla. “We have cookies.”
They were on their way a little while later even though Liam hadn’t reappeared. Maybe it was because of his absence, Brenawyn and Isla were allowed to ride unencumbered. Angry bleeding lesions circled her wrists and jute fibers stuck out porcupine-like from having her hands bound to trees at night and the pommel during the day. It was good to be rid of them, but the abraided skin burned from contact with the air and occasional brushes with the edges of her clothing.
Isla was riding ahead, her horse’s harness tied to the lead guard. The three Brenawyn had accompany her surrounded her at a distance. Only the jiggling of the harnesses kept time as they picked their way through the woods until one of her guards, a relatively young man, took to whistling. She recognized the melody as one she heard at the Sinclair Keep, and soon Isla’s voice joined in timidly. Her voice grew stronger when she wasn’t immediately rebuked.
The sun was high overhead when the lead horse doubled back, the guard fumbling with the knot tying the horses together. The guard handed the end of the rope over.
“We are close. Follow a’ a distance.”
~ ~ ~
With the eye of the hawk and the olfactory senses of the wolf, Alex and Amergin found Tavish’s trail not too long after they embarked. He had six men with him, trackers all. Their collective footprint minimal, they might have gone unnoticed if not for the heightened senses.
They went without horses, easier to move silently amid the trees though there was a chance that their target would outdistance them. They were too near Bryn Celli Ddu and with the fire feast looming Alex thought it a bad decision. Liam might take a calculated risk to run the last stretch in the open, stealth be damned.
Amergin howled and Alex swooped down, shifting before his talons touched ground. Two wolves now advanced, crouching low. They topped a rise overlooking a gully, and in it a group of five horses gave wide berth to an open glen, opting to hug the far embankment. His heart leapt in his chest when the one rider turned her head and he caught a glimpse of Brenawyn’s profile.
The other woman in the party turned to glance in their direction and started singing. Alex looked to Amergin, but his eyes were fixed on a spot to their left. Alex sniffed the air: five, six, seven men lay within feet of them, one with his focus on their position. Tavish.
Lyrics drifted up. “Quadrupeds shine and wander. Birds nest on blossoming branches. I cry joy[2]…”
Tavish looked in her direction; an apparent signal worked out previously between the two. She knew that they were there.
Liam wasn’t among the group. He might have ridden on ahead to make sure all was in readiness. He could see the end of the woods from this vantage point, and beyond it laid Llanfair. He could smell the hearth smoke from here, distinctive as it mingled amongst the scents of the copse, rutting stags and the scat of various wildlife, human sweat and dried urine…and fear.
Alex was beginning to fear proximity might make any sort of rescue attempt dangerous. Any attack would be loud and so close to the village, likely to attract attention. Men would be collateral damage; regrettable, but sometimes a foregone conclusion. The thing that had him most concerned now was a tree stump in the center of the glen. On it was an abandoned plate mounded with food. Its presence was the answer to why the party avoided the area.
It was the night before Samhain, the night of the Dumb Supper. For all that it was a Christian country, the Scots were a superstitious lot and traditions died hard. As a boy he scoffed at the nonsense. The tradition called for setting an extra place at the head of the table, the only day of the year that his father would give up that honor. Supper would be served but the choicest pieces would be set at the empty seat. After the meal was served and consumed in complete silence, the matriarch, Mrs. Fordoun, after his step-mother’s death, would bring the plate to the woods as an offering—a bribe to the faerie. If the plate were empty by morning she’d know that her family was safe for the next cycle. It always was, except for that last year…
Now, Alex knew the utter futility of its observance. The gods were fickle and no amount of sacrifice would appease their wrath.
The veil was too thin between realms as the passageways opened heralding the coming of winter. Deities would be free to wander. Time folded in on itself; past, present, and future were one. If any gods were in the vicinity, and it was a good bet to say all of the more powerful ones and those of older ancestral lines, the truly frightening ones, were awaiting the Ban-Druidh ceremony. They were the ones who were called by name to reaffirm man’s adherence to the Auld Ways as dictated by the Covenant. And this was just the formalities of the night’s agenda.
The real intrigue of the night would be the successful navigation of the power play to which Brenawyn was just an unwitting pawn. She represented an unknown quantity; she was shrouded in mystery. Seers and even Aerten and Caer Ibormeith, the goddesses of fate and prophecy, could not discern her role. Fate could not be thwarted even by the gods, but here was a mere mortal woman who seemed to do just that. The powers of the high priestess aside, that was her real allure.
No. He’d have to hold back and wait, as much as he’d like to go in now and tear out the throats of the men who guarded her. He knew that they weren’t who he needed to best, though they’d be part of the casualties tonight; and he wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over it. Even Liam and Cormac were only middlemen. Bathing in their blood would give him personal satisfaction for amassed transgressions; but they were the key to unraveling the conspiracy to dissolve the agreement thus making the mortal realm the battlefield of the gods again.
Attacking now would attract unwanted attention from the village. Those that had no direct role in the war or comprehension as to what was at stake would come into contact with elemental colossi. There would be heavy casualties he suspected in the impending battle and in good conscience he couldn’t abide by more useless slaughter.
Alex was failing as Brenawyn’s protector.
~ ~ ~
Bryn Celli Ddu looked like the faerie mound in her mind her grandmother often told them of. Mounded hillocks covered with grass greener than the surrounds. She couldn’t see beyond the threshold, the darkness housed within seemed to consume the very sunlight.
Boulders lined the path pulling her toward the gaping maw of the Mou
nd of the Dark Grove. The ground became more uneven the closer she got, but her pace quickened as if she was on autopilot. Her footfalls remained uniform even though her consummate guards were stumbling trying to keep up.
She entered and the temperature dropped. She could see her breath on the air, and gooseflesh prickled her skin. Despite how it looked from the outside, some light made it in to the passageway, and she could see charred human remains. She reached down to scoop up some ash, saying a quick prayer for these nameless souls. Who better to show her the way? She blew on the ash reciting Taispeaín an solas dom. The phrase whispered in her mind by Finvarra, the last aid he gave her before she traveled back in time. The ash stirred in her open palm, whirling, it alighted. The ash raced out ahead of her, pinpricks of light, as far as she could see down the seemingly endless passageway.
She heard the others enter behind her but she paid them no mind. She was here. She knew what she had to do, best to get it done. Find Maggie, and then see if she could send her home before keeping her promise to Cernunnos.
Her leg muscles ached before the passageway opened up and expanded. The ash light looked like the night sky against the ceiling of the chamber. In contrast to the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel, the chamber was fashioned out of bedrock. Carved and polished, it reflected the lights, revealing the intricate friezes depicting the evolution of conquest: Fir Bolg, Formorians, Tuatha Dé Danann, and the Milesians.
Someone cleared a throat in the shadows in front of her.
Brenawyn nearly jumped out of her skin. “Whose there?”
A woman emerged, her posture and step straight and light, but when she approached, Brenawyn could see she was an old woman. The ash lights illuminated her face in bluish hues that made her look even older.
“Hello. I am…”
“Priestess, I ken who ye are. T’is ye who doonae ken my name. I am Caileach, Woman of Winter. I am ta assist ye in preparations for the Ban-Druidh. Come, ye must wash and adorn yerself proper.”
She led Brenawyn to a side antechamber that was markedly warmer because of the hot spring bubbling up in the center. Steam rose and curled invitingly and Brenawyn thought how good it would feel to wash away the grime of travel.
The woman left as she sank into its depths, reveling in the heat. The sand under her feet was coarse, and she used it to scrub her skin in the absence of soap. The woman returned too soon, with a folded garment in her arms. “When ye feel yerself ready.”
She emerged and the woman shook out the garment and Brenawyn’s mouth dropped open. She had seen this robe before. She’d worn it filling in for her grandmother at the summer solstice ceremony in Salem. She reached out to stroke the emerald green embroidery. How did it get here? Or the question really was how did it come to be in her grandmother’s possession?
“T’is how it was meant ta be.”
“What?”
“The answer ta yer question.”
Brenawyn stared blankly at her.
“Come, the time has come.”
Brenawyn followed her out and the woman led her to a pedestal carved into a niche in the wall. She indicated with her hand the other niches at locations equidistant in the chamber. She bowed and backed away.
Turning, Brenawyn looked at the new candle and knew what she had to do. It was the same set up as the Lughnasadh ritual. If she could remember the words:
“I acknowledge the North Spirit…who gives me true bearing, guiding and calling me to my true home both time and place.” With each word uttered, she gained more confidence. “I call to the wind, who lives companionably with the North giving me life-sustaining air to breathe. I summon both to this circle.” She touched the wick and it sparked to life. “Let the flame of the candle mark my prayer.”
Brenawyn moved to the second plinth. “I acknowledge the South Spirit, who awakens me to the promise and surprise of a new love, new life” she touched her abdomen, “a new day. I call to the Earth, who provides a continual food source and is the very ground I walk on.” She touched the wick and it sparked to life. “Let the flame stand as sentinel. I summon both to this circle. Come and reside with me, rejoicing in the coming winter.”
She moved to the third. “I acknowledge the West Spirit, who gives me comforting warmth and encourages me to seek new adventures—to craft my own destiny, to accept the mantle of priestess. I call to the Water, who quenches my thirst and heals my wounds.” She touched the wick and it sparked to life. “Let the flame stand as sentinel. I summon both to this circle. Come and rest, for the coming of winter is the cocoon that precedes rejuvenation.”
She moved to the last pedestal. “I acknowledge the East Spirit, who gives me rest for my weary body allowing me to replenish my mind, to seek out mentors to show me the Ways. I call to the Fire, who warms my hearth allowing me sight in the dark, and who is the full cycle of birth, destruction, and rebirth.” She touched the wick and it burst to life. “Let the flame stand as sentinel. I summon both to this circle. Come and reside with me, rejoicing in the cycle of life.”
Brenawyn moved to the center, raising her arms and voice. “I acknowledge the gods and goddesses of Old: Cernunnos, Epona, Belanus, Taranis, Blodevweld, Danu, and the Triple Mother Goddess. I offer my spirit to you. Let me be an extension of your will and of your Ways. Come join me in celebrating Samhain.”
Caileach came to her, taking her elbow and lead her to a cushion placed in the space between where she was and the wall, and instructing her to kneel with her head bowed.
She could hear approaching footsteps from the passageway beyond. Silent figures emerged and moved in formation to similar cushions at equidistant points around the room. Cernunnos, Finvarra, and Oghma filed in to take their places. They were Tuatha Dé: tall, lithe, smooth alabaster skin, even Oghma whose age was evident, without wrinkles and each so beautiful one would never tire from looking at them. Their hair was silky, straight, and coiffed. Their attire fit for the most formal occasion. Finvarra acknowledged her with a tilt of his head.
Three others followed, representatives of the Formorians. She didn’t recognize any of this group only their physical attributes seen in Finvarra’s telling of the history of conquest. They were bigger, not notably in height, but in girth and muscle mass. Their hair was loose over their shoulders with braids decorated with bones, beads, and feathers. They were layered under leather and pelts but were adorned with ceremonial jewelry, intricately worked diadems and cloak fasteners. They took their place in the circle.
The last to enter were the Fir Bolg. Their appearance was so startling, her reaction drew the attention of those near her. They entered the chamber and straightened to their full height, towering over the other faerie. The Formor were Sidhe, Brenawyn reminded herself. The Sidhe were faerie, but not all faerie were Sidhe. Nomenclature was paramount if she wished to avoid insult; she imagined it would be like throwing a spark on this powder keg of an assembly.
Grey skin covered the Fir Bolg’s muscle mass. The two males were bald except for a thick patch in the back that was slicked back and tied with a leather cord. They were naked except for a loincloth. The female had the side of her head facing Brenawyn plucked and tattooed. Most startling about her appearance was a puckered scar running along where her left breast should have been. Her dress or lack thereof, exposed this for all to see.
The last group, the Milesians, Brenawyn represented as their descendent. She was tiny in comparison, and woefully frailer; but yet the age of man ushered in by Amergin’s covenant spoke of the evolutionary importance of adaptability, intuition and cunning over brute strength.
There were others now who filed in behind filling the space. There was more movement from behind her. Glancing back she saw Liam enter with Cormac, with Maggie in tow. Brenawyn moved to rise but was held in place by Caileach’s stare. She looked back at both men who stood sneering, Liam adding insult to injury by inflicting pain. Maggie yelped and tried to squirm away, but he twisted her arm all the more and bent to lick her cheek—all for the bene
fit of Brenawyn’s rage.
She felt the magic in her rise to her growing anger, but focused on the next entrants. Amergin was the next to enter with Tavish and others she recognized from the original guard. Amergin moved to take the one remaining cushion at her left. The gods, both seated and standing, hissed their displeasure at his participation in this ceremony. The Formorians rose ready to either fight or leave but were mollified by those near to resume their place.
It was Caileach who finally called the gathering to order. “T’is been many years that we ha’ been a full contingent. The circle will be complete when the priestess declares herself.” Turning to her, “Stand and declare before all who ye are.”
Brenawyn stood, her height dwarfed by the faerie gathered, and she stammered, intimidated by their massive bulk. “My na..na. name is…” she panicked searching for a friendly face, but Maggie was engulfed by the crowds. Amergin was stone-faced, and then she caught a glimpse of Liam. She’d not declare herself a McAllister. She cast everything related to him away and found her strength. “My name is Brenawyn Margaret Leoncha Callahan.” Her words echoed in the cavernous chamber. “I am the high priestess come to restore balance.” There was a collective sigh, and a nod from Caileach.
“Name yer proxy, priestess.”
“My proxy? What do I need a…”
“I will serve as the priestess’ proxy.” A deep tenor behind her declared.
Brenawyn swung around, recognizing Alex’s voice. Tears sprang to her eyes, so happy and relieved she was to see him. He motioned for her to remain where she was. His declaration caused a murmur, and cries rose, undistinguishable at first, then Cormac’s deep baritone called out, “He cannae. He is already named as such by the Myrddin. He cannae be proxy ta both.”
“I must ask the court’s forgiveness and indulgence in this irregular matter. I am bound by word and vow willingly ta be her protector. I cannae serve two masters, and my vow supersedes my promise.”
Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 15
