Despite her determination, images of Maelan, Cadhla, and Odhar swam in her mind, even the kindly abbot. However, Airtre’s face kept appearing, his expression contorted in rage. She shrunk from his menace, even in her imagination. The blows she’d received both from him and from others rained upon her memory. She tried to escape, to hide from the red-hot pain and bestial rage. She had no escape, and she screamed as blow after blow fell upon her mind.
When Odhar returned with a large sack of her things, he found her whimpering, curled into a tight, quivering ball of terror under the hay.
He placed his hand on her back, but she twisted away from him with an animal scream, raking at his face with her nails. “Étaín? Étaín, what happened? He didn’t come here, he couldn’t have. He’s well-tended, and you’re safe. Étaín! Please, come out.” A sob whispered in his voice.
She moaned and whimpered, rocking back and forth while hugging her knees. Odhar laid a mug of sweet wine and some bread by her. “I’ll fetch Cadhla, Étaín. He’ll be finished with his ministrations on Airtre.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, she lashed out, knocking the bread away. It skittered across the stone floor. Odhar silently retrieved the loaf and brought it back. Then he left on his mission.
He’s left. He’s left me alone. I must run away, run far away, run from this place, with the pain and the anger and the fear. He should never come with me. He would violate all his holy vows. I can’t allow him to do that, not for me.
She snatched up the mug, gulped the wine, and tied the mug to her belt. She retrieved the bread and the bag with her belongings. After a quick check to ensure Odhar had, in fact, brought her brooch, she slung the whole bag over her shoulder. He’d also brought her cloak, bless the man. He may be hopelessly naïve and young, but he treated her with kindness and respect. With a brief thought to how nice it would be to marry him in a new life, she pushed it away from her mind. She didn’t deserve such riches.
A quick glimpse outside the storage house showed the deep night. No moon gave her light to show her the way. No one stirred within her sight. With quick, determined strides, she walked toward the abbey gates, her head held high. Guards were less likely to stop her if she looked like she had purpose. One monk nodded to her as she passed, and she nodded back, breathing easily only after he’d turned the corner behind a chapel.
This late at night, the gates had been closed, but the small side door remained unlocked. With only a little fumbling with the latch, Étaín wrestled the small door open. The creak of the hinge echoed in the silent darkness, but no challenge came. She escaped with none the wiser.
Étaín glanced back at the abbey, the walls silent in the deep of the night. She would never see her beloved Maelan again. She’d never hold him in her arms, or answer his endless questions. Odhar would never ask her intriguing questions about the old gods. Cadhla would never treat her wounds again. Airtre would never beat her again.
The moment for choices had passed. The moment for leaving, the moment for her untamed soul flying to the beckoning hills was upon her.
Which direction should she go now? Her life before this had been in the north, and before that in the south. Perhaps she should return to the west. It had been so many years since she’d lived in the west.
Taking slow, deep breaths, she pushed away from the relative safety and surety of the familiar, the solid stone abbey walls, away from the life she’d known for thirty winters, and walked.
PART III
Chapter 8
North Munster, midsummer, 1055AD
Étaín didn’t dare keep to the river.
If she kept to the river, Airtre would surely find her easily. Better if no one along the route saw her. Instead, she charged off into the thick woods south of the river. The faint light of the moon finally showing her face gave Étaín confidence. The moon had always been her savior. The woods acted kinder to those who must hide. As long as she had food and drink, she’d survive more readily and more safely in the woods than anywhere else.
She’d learned this many lifetimes ago.
The first time she’d had to escape her life, she’d almost died. Her first husband had died a natural death, but his daughter from his first wife threw Étaín out immediately. When she escaped his household, she’d met the first love of her life. Étaín’s life had, for once, been rosy and sweet.
When she didn’t age as she should, though, he got suspicious, and the accusations flew. She hadn’t yet realized the brooch’s magic, but she quickly learned.
Étaín had needed to leave in the night with little but her brooch and her clothing. She’d shivered in the forest with no knowledge of how to trap game, forage for edibles or craft a new life. Several transitions later, she’d nearly perfected the practice.
When the Sionann turned east, she crossed it at a small ford. Legend said Saint Patrick crossed the river here. Now she, a humble female, stepped where that great man once stepped. Luckily the clouds mostly hid the moon so she wouldn’t be seen. Still, the pale velvet of dawn threatened the eastern sky. She had no way to cross the river without a bridge or a ford, and the only other bridge stood near the abbey.
Once across the river, she stopped to rest. Her energy flagged hard. She’d been walking for two hours, unused to such exertion. She looked up to find the half-full moon. The light still filled her with delight and wonder, and strength returned to her, albeit slowly.
While nibbling on the loaf Odhar had brought her, she thought about her destination.
When she’d been young, she’d lived in Connacht, near Gaillimh. It had been over seventy winters since she knew anyone alive there. Perhaps it would be safe enough to return. Gaillimh was a thriving fishing town, and many people meant many risks. Perhaps it would be better to find a smaller place for her next life.
Still, it would be nice to live by the ocean once again.
She considered finding an island off the coast she’d heard of all her life. There had been a monastic community who lived on the small island, away from daily life. Would she, a single female, be welcome in such a place? If things turned sour, how would she escape from an island? No, best to remain on the mainland. Perhaps she would leave her final destination to fate, and head west until she found a place which spoke to her soul.
When she’d finished her meal, she stood, dusted the crumbs from her clothing, and walked along the path.
The night of sleeplessness and emotions of the day before had left her drained, and now fatigue hit her all at once. Étaín wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a fortnight. Still, she didn’t feel safe in this open area. All around her, she spied flat land and farmsteads. No forest, no hills, nothing to shelter or hide her from prying eyes or searching warriors. No, she must plod on, and find herself a safer place.
The shell-pink dawn crept across the western sky, heralding the coming of the day. The clouds pulsed awash with peach, pink and purple, brightening with each moment. She watched the sun punch through the low clouds on the horizon, bathing the ground with the warm, golden promise of morning.
The beauty sustained her for several more hours when, as the heat of the midsummer day became oppressive, she stopped to rest for a few hours. A small village sat at a ford across the smaller river. After many lifetimes of wandering, she remembered the shape of the land.
Étaín’s legs grew wooden, and her sight grew dim. She’d exhausted all her energy and desperately needed a place to rest before she took one more step. On the far side of the river, she found an abandoned roundhouse. The roof thatching rotted away on one side, but moss grew on the remaining thatch and hay piled in the corner. She made a small nest for herself. She covered her body with more hay so a casual observer wouldn’t notice someone inside. The darkness became a warm, living comfort. It wrapped her in loving arms and kept her safe. Within its mesmerizing embrace, she finally succumbed to a long-needed, deep sleep.
It might have been the next morning when she woke. It might have been
a moon later. She had no idea, but she woke rested, sore, stiff, and starving. Her bladder demanded immediate attention.
After taking care of the necessities, she broke her fast with cheese and another chunk of bread. Taking a drink from her waterskin to wash it down, she almost choked. Odhar had put wine in the skin, not water. Gently, she sipped again. Good wine, at that. She’d not tasted such a delightful drink for many winters. What a sweet young man. She almost regretted not letting him take her away, but her frenzy last night had been inarguable. She’d been in danger and needed to escape, despite all of Odhar’s protestations of protection. Besides, he remained a monk vowed to celibacy. If he’d helped her escape, and come with her, it might have become a problem.
It would be better this way.
She took a deep breath and prepared to pull on her magic to touch up her aging, but stopped. She didn’t need to age herself any longer. In fact, she might actually let the magic fade, and she’d be allowed to be young again.
With that freedom in mind, and with renewed energy and hope, she practically skipped along the trail. When it started to drizzle, rather than grouse at the weather, she danced as the sweet droplets caressed her. She spun in place, her face up to the sky and her hands outstretched, reveling in her new-found freedom from painful days and anxious nights.
She only prayed Cadhla would be true to his task and find Maelan a safe haven.
The path from the ford led more southwest than due west, but she followed it anyhow. Perhaps it would lead to an interesting town, someplace she might settle for a little while.
What might she do to earn her keep? Étaín had been in this situation many times before. She usually worked as a servant or herbwoman until she found a local husband to protect her. Sometimes she found a lord to cook for. However, many women cooked. Such prime positions didn’t come available often and rarely when she went wandering.
The easiest thing would be to set up as a herbwoman. A couple days of scouring the countryside for herbs, plants, and trees, someplace to dry them properly, and a market to sell them in would start her off. However, it would take a fortnight to get up a proper stock, so she’d need to do piecework in the meantime. At least she enjoyed both the work of preparing the herbs and of selling them.
With a sigh, she examined the plants she passed, pausing now and then to collect roots, bulbs, flowers, or seeds. Luckily, the growing season bloomed full, and she found plenty to collect. It also meant she had several moons before the weather turned harsh and required her to find shelter.
Other than Maelan not yet being out of harm’s way, this truly had been the ideal time to have made her break. She spared a prayer for her grandson, hoping against hope Cadhla would settle the fostering arrangement for the lad. Where would it be? Étaín seemed to remember Bressel talking about Ceann-Coradh, farther south along the Sionann in discussion with Airtre. Any place would be a good place for him, away from his grandfather’s temper and heavy fists. He would learn to be a proper warrior. Perhaps, just perhaps, she’d instilled some sympathy in the child for those with differing beliefs.
The empty plains led to another forest, and she grew easier once again. Within the woods, she saw several small farmholds. They became more frequent as she approached a crossroads. The village she found there seemed tiny after Cluain Mhic Nóis, but large enough for a regular market. It rested on Loch Riach, a small lake with several paths leading in all directions. Several abandoned crannogs rested on small islands in the lake, their deterioration visible from the shore.
It seemed a reasonable place to stop, at least for now.
* * *
Étaín entered the simple, stone chapel on the shore of Loch Riach. It didn’t have the grand splendor of the cathedral at Cluain Mhic Nóis, but for all its simplicity, it held an intimate charm, a naïve comfort which made her seem at home.
The square building offered no window, but a held simple wooden altar at the east end of the church, opposite the door. No carved stone decorated the lintel, nor the pillars at each corner. Instead, a subtle variation in the colors of the stones gave the walls a natural beauty Étaín appreciated.
She knelt alone in her ablutions this afternoon. The forty people who lived in the village proper usually attended church in the early mornings, as did she. To skip service would be to court suspicion. However, she also needed to come alone, to commune with God on her own terms.
“May I help you, child?”
She spun around to find the young deacon standing in the doorway, blocking the afternoon sun.
He smiled and put a hand up. “I had no intention of interrupting your devotions, but if you need anything, I’m just next door.”
She shook her head. “I’m just here for the peace, Deacon. If you need me to leave, I can.”
“No need to leave. Please, stay as long as you wish.” He left, and the sunlight poured in through the doorway once again. Étaín only lingered a few more minutes before she left, shutting the chapel door firmly behind her. She walked the short distance out of town to her lean-to.
Perhaps it would be wise to befriend the deacon. She’d found no husband to protect her yet. She’d been in town for two fortnights now and had amassed a decent amount of stock for the market.
The first day, she had little to sell. Some dried mosses for flavor and brewing, some mallow root, and plenty of chamomile. The marigolds and sorrel still needed drying, like the woodbine. Still, she sold enough to buy food to last her several days and some materials to construct a lean-to in the woods. It kept her mostly dry.
The second fortnight’s take had allowed her to get some preserved foods, such as dried apples and dried fish, some hard sausage and cheese. Her next goal would be to secure more permanent lodgings for the coming winter.
After pulling out the short wooden table she’d fashioned from three abandoned wooden planks, she prepared some of her now-dried herbs for the market the next day. She looked over her drying rack and chose the sorrel, gently squeezing it to test the texture. A quick sniff verified the herbs could be used. She pulled out her mortar and pestle and crushed the leaves.
Étaín knew she must have a place against the cold and wind of winter, but for the moment, she reveled in her relative freedom. She had nobody to take care of save herself. Nobody required her time, nor her obedience. With very few expenses, she might go whenever she pleased. It became an epiphany of freedom whenever she reached this point in her cycle of travels.
It never lasted. The local bully would decide he wanted her affections, or a priest would decide she must be a loose woman who should be taught a lesson. No matter what village, town, or hamlet she lived in, someone always tried to tame her freedom.
Before that happened, she would need to secure a protector. The best way to attract a good protector would be to have property or at least a cow.
Étaín always imagined herself a resourceful woman. After living with Airtre for so many winters, she’d all but forgotten how effective and determined she’d once been. While she missed her grandson like someone had cut off her left arm, she did not miss her husband in the slightest. Not the man he‘d become, anyhow. The younger Airtre, he’d still possessed a kind heart, and she missed the man he’d been.
She used her anger to pound the pestle into her mortar, grinding up the herbs she processed. Soon, the dried sorrel leaves were nothing but dust, and she scraped out the mortar into the small wooden box she’d carved. If she mixed it into a lotion, it would make a decent skin ointment. Mixed in tea, it helped a grousing gut. Since autumn approached, she decided the former would be most beneficial. Cooler air meant drier skin. Any lotion would be valuable and command a premium price.
The cooler air concerned Étaín. The lean-to would be horribly insufficient for the winter. She must secure better lodgings or risk losing fingers and toes to frostbite on bitter nights. There may come a morning when she never woke.
While she felt freer than she had for winters without the burdens of family or prop
erty, at the same time it meant she could draw on no resources if things went wrong. A single disaster might be her death of exposure, starvation, or violence.
Throughout history, people traded freedom for safety. In order to have resources, a person must have friends, family, or community. Those friends, family, and community acted as both chains and support. One cut them with dire consequences. Most people could call upon someone in times of desperate need. Whether it be family, community, or the church, they had a place to call their own. Étaín had no such place.
She vaguely remembered her mother speaking once of druids, a place where she’d spent time as a child. An oak grove of some sort. But Étaín had been so young when her mother died, she had no idea where she might even find such a place, much less if they’d accept her.
When something brush by her leg, she glanced down. The ginger tom cat who’d been pestering her had returned.
“Silly creature. Here, have a bite of fish and go away. I’ve no wish to trip over you today.” She flicked a morsel of dried fish from her midday meal at the cat, and he leapt into the air to catch it. After he batted it around, he ate it, hunching over and growling as he chewed. Étaín chuckled and finished her preparations.
When the next day dawned cold and windy, Étaín cursed her luck, but gathered her goods anyhow. There wouldn’t be many more market days before the cold weather came. Equinox approached quickly, and market days only came once a moon after that. She’d need to sell as much as possible before then.
First, she pulled her makeshift sledge with her wooden table, bags of herbs, boxes of lotions, and oiled hide for a temporary roof. After locating a spot, she set up under one of the spreading oaks along the main road through town. Not an ideal spot, as those would be all taken by the long-established vendors. Farmers and artisans who lived in this area their whole lives guarded their premium locations with vicious enthusiasm.
Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6 Page 13
