by Manda Scott
“She won’t leave you. She came to you at your dreaming. She will be with you in that, always.”
Airmid had changed, as if something inside her had broken and she needed comfort, more than she had done in the past. They sat together, joined, and wept for what they had lost that none who had not served the elder grandmother could understand. Presently, Macha bade them move and take their places by the fire and pick up the lost threads of the ceremony of one returning. Had Breaca followed the tradition, she would have met with the elder grandmother and the other dreamers and told them her story so that they might understand it and bring out the truth it held. But there was no elder grandmother and it was not right to keep the old woman’s last words from the others who had loved her, so Breaca sat at the head of the fire and told them all the tale of her long-nights, from the empty desolation of the cold and the mist to the journey across the river and the meeting with the water rat and all that had happened on the other side of the mound.
She ended in silence. One of the older women spoke—Eburovic’s mother’s sister, who was the oldest amongst them, next to the elder grandmother, which made her, when one thought about it, the new elder grandmother. She was a maker, not a dreamer; she wrought her magic with leather and wood, and took things that Eburovic made and gave them a meaning and presence that silver and gold alone did not. In the last year, arthritis had set into her hips and she was losing the power in her legs. Breaca listened to the rhythms of her voice, not the words she was saying, and wondered if it was a requirement of the elder grandmother that she need the eyes and limbs of another to help her and, if so, who it would be. For the first time, she was glad that she had crossed out of childhood and become a woman so it could not be asked of her.
“Breaca?” Macha had said her name twice and she had not heard. She lifted her head. The world swam, slowly, and her thoughts took too long to catch up. She made herself watch the shape of Macha’s mouth and, that way, made out the words. “Breaca, you must paint your shield now, before you sleep. We will find the dye and help you, but you must draw the serpent-spear as you saw it. Can you do that?”
Breaca closed her eyes and saw the warriors of the ancestors with the serpent-spear painted on their bodies. In her mind, they stepped closer so she could see all the detail. She opened her eyes again. “I think so, yes.”
“What colour do you need?” That was what the elder grandmother—the new elder grandmother—had been asking. She knew the dyes better than anyone; she would have whatever colour was required, did Breaca only know the answer. But she did not. “The men drew it on themselves with woad—the blue woad mixed with egg white, not the silver mixed with bear grease.”
“So then did the—Were you told that you should draw it in blue?” Airmid was at her side again, no longer weeping but speaking slowly, with care, because she had been this way most recently and knew what it was like and also, perhaps, because she cared most that it be done right.
Breaca shook her head. “She didn’t say. Only that I should ask Bán how he saw it in his vision. But we can’t do that now. He’s a boy and we can’t bring him in to ask him…”
Her words fell in silence. All eyes turned to Macha, who moved her shoulders, flexing them as if testing a new weight. She was the oldest of the dreamers now, and the position carried responsibilities all its own. She stared into the dark at the back of the room, frowning. In time, she said, “He was born at the autumn equinox. That has not passed and so he is still only eight years old and is permitted to enter the women’s place. It will not be the first time this year. Airmid, would you find him and say I asked him to come? He will be helping Eburovic and Sinochos to make the death platform for the elder grandmother. They are in the barn just outside the gate.”
Bán might still be only eight years old but it was half a year since he had last been in the women’s place and his life had changed immeasurably since then. Last time, he had been a frightened, disoriented child, with the dream still heavy about him, seeking comfort from his mother and the new life on the floor. Now he followed Airmid with dignity and respect, keeping his eyes level and his back straight. Breaca watched him walk in through the flap and take his place by the fire as if born to it. His eyes swept the circle, resting on his mother, on the new elder grandmother and finally, in a sudden blaze of recognition, on Breaca. Airmid had not told him, then, that Breaca was home. She made herself smile for him, watching as he took in the full measure of her: the tangled hair and the recent weeping, the cuts on her legs and bruises on her arms, the tears on her tunic. Whatever else of her long-nights had been a vision, the crawl through the gorse had been real, and something, at some point, had hammered into her arm to leave a mark such as might be made by a spear-haft, falling. His smile folded as he saw it so that he frowned, like his mother, with a creased line over each eye. She leaned across the circle and touched his arm. “I am well. I will come and talk to you later. Now, the elder grandmother would ask you some questions.”
His eyes flared wide in alarm. He knew, as well as anyone, the taboo that forbade one to mention the name of the dead. Breaca nodded sideways and he settled. Word had passed already: She who was the elder grandmother is with us no longer. There is a new one in her place. It would take a while, though, for everyone to adjust. Even amongst those who knew and had had longest to come to terms, it took a moment for all eyes to turn the right way. When she was sure of their attention, the new elder grandmother nodded, slowly.
“Bán harehunter.” Her voice was quite unlike her predecessor’s. She still spoke as Macha did, or Nemma or any of the other women—with the song and lilt and laughter and sorrow of everyday living. She had not yet learned the lift to the tone, the weight to the words that meant everyone stopped their own talk to listen. Still, they could hear the beginnings of it as she spoke, and it came through more at the end. “This will be hard for you and we do not ask you lightly, but it is necessary for your sister, for the completion of her dreaming. I have some questions to ask you. For her sake, will you answer them?”
Bán grew very still. Breaca saw his fingers flicker in the sign that gave thanks to Nemain and, at the same time, asked her help. “Yes,” he said, “I will answer.”
“Thank you. This summer, at the midsummer gathering, you had a vision in which the war host of the Eceni returned from battle. You saw your sister in the van, dressed for war, is this correct?”
He nodded. When it was clear he was required to speak, he said, “Yes.”
“Good. Thank you. How well do you remember the vision?”
He closed his eyes. His head moved, as if someone beside him had spoken, or waved to catch his attention. When he faced front again, he opened his eyes and said, “I remember it well.”
“Good.” The new elder grandmother gestured to Airmid. The shield which had hung over Breaca’s bed was brought forward, still in its covering. They passed it round the fire to its rightful owner. Bán watched his sister take it and saw on her face the same relief he felt whenever he came again to Hail after a time apart. She slid off the calf’s-hide cover with its painted symbols of she-bear and wren, and underneath, painted brightly in blue, he saw the serpent-spear as the elder grandmother had drawn it back in the summer, for Breaca to meet Togodubnos.
“That’s not right!” He had spoken without thinking and knew himself out of turn. He sat back, apologizing before the words were truly out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …it didn’t look like that in the vision. This is not the one I saw.”
“That’s good. Can you draw for us the one you did see?”
The new elder grandmother was less abrupt than the old one had been. When Bán looked puzzled, she smiled and gestured to the ashes at the side of the hearth. He picked a small stick from the pile and broke it, to make a clean end. Closing his eyes to check the vision, he bent forward and drew in the ash. His new drawing was not so different from the old one, but there was more of a curve on the tail of the serpent and both ends had a head. He sat
up and looked at them both, shield and sketch, comparing one to the other and then both to the picture in his head. His likeness was better. He nodded to let them know; no need to make too much of it. “And it was red,” he said, “dark red, like Breaca’s hair when it’s in shade. As if it had been drawn in horse blood that never dried.”
The new elder grandmother smiled for him, warmly. “Thank you. You have done well. You may go now. Tell Eburovic that his daughter the warrior has become a woman.”
II
WINTER-SPRING A.D. 37
CHAPTER 8
Luain mac Calma, known to the world as the Hibernian merchant, dropped to his knees on the heaving deck of the Greylag and felt his stomach invert. His guts looped and twisted and wrung themselves dry as they had been doing for as long as he could remember. The boat wallowed drunkenly on the swell and the vomiting started again. He put his head down and retched until his chest ached and his head burned and the sweat ran from his body and all he brought up was a spit’s worth of green froth that barely touched the sides of his throat on the way. It had been the same the last time and the time before that; his stomach had long since emptied and all that came back now was the brine he had swallowed the last time. Bile dribbled between his fingers and he watched it puddle on the deck before another wave smashed over the bulwark, slamming him into solid oak, drenching him, pouring cold into his throat and eyes and nose and down into the marrow. A second wave followed the first, lifting his body and swirling him back towards the stern. He nearly let go of the guard rope then and let the ocean take him over the side. It was fear that kept him holding on. Luain the Hibernian was not afraid of death, even death by drowning, but he was very afraid indeed of not keeping the oaths he had made to the gods he believed in, and the thought of facing them prematurely with his life’s work unfinished made him grab at the twist of hemp and hold on.
The boat rose higher, fighting the wave. The deck tilted further, rearing like a colt in a temper until it seemed likely that the whole ship would go over backwards. In the hold, the horses screamed and no-one was there to tend them. He took a step towards the forward hatch and stopped. The thought of losing the red Thessalian mare hurt more than the pounding of the sea but going down to her would not save either of them. He was forming the prayer for lost souls, his and the mare’s, when the sea subsided and the Greylag slapped back on the water and rolled in a backwash of swell. He lay still where he had fallen and let his guts do their worst. Somewhere down in the darkness, a mare with a foal in her belly made all the noises he wanted to make.
Mac Calma had believed himself a good seaman. For two years he had sailed the trading route between the south coast of Britannia and the markets of Gaul, taking great brindled war dogs, ripe corn and raw, uncured hides south to the continent where the prices were best. On the return journey, he brought back all that newly Romanized Gaul had to offer: fine wheel-turned tableware, green glass, tanned leather and—better than all these—good vintage wine from the warm vineyards of Rome. He sailed his goods into the ports on the banks of the great river and carted them inland to sell in the courts of Cunobelin, the Sun Hound, half a day’s ride to the north, and Berikos of the Atrebates, three days south. These two wanted the luxuries of Rome if the rest of their world did not and Luain the merchant had a reputation as the man who could get hold of anything—almost anything—if you asked him right and he liked the colour of your money. It was, perhaps, surprising that he had been asked to transport horses only once before and that had been in high summer, sailing them across the short half-day stretch from the river mouth to the port of Gesoriacum in Gaul. Even so, one of the mares had panicked and kicked a hole in the planking not far above the waterline and the entire crew, mac Calma included, had been called to put their backs into baling to keep the merchantman afloat for the last leagues of the journey. It occurred to him now that a kick below the waterline might be the fastest and cleanest way to end the current voyage, but he had bound the horses’ feet at the start of the journey to keep them from harming themselves or the Greylag. Even had he not, there was not one of them left with the strength to kick a hole in an eggshell, still less a foundering ship.
The retching stopped. Luain rose, sweeping the water from his face, and fought for a foothold on the swilling deck. To his right, Segoventos, ship’s master, grinned a rueful greeting. The Hibernian waved back, yelling, “Will we make it to the shore?”
The master stared at him, uncomprehending. Luain cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted again. The gale took the sound of his voice and ripped it to shreds, hurling it back in his face with a fresh thrashing of brine. Segoventos of the Osismi, free man and ship’s master of Gaul, shrugged and ran his thumb in an eloquent, slicing line across his throat before turning his attention back to the rigging, which had already snapped in two places, to the mast, which had not, and to the seas ahead, that he might keep his ship—his heart’s joy—from breaking her back on the next running wave. It was not an even match. Even as he turned, a wave crashed over the prow, swamping the decks. The ship bucked and kicked. Segoventos fought with the steering oar. Down in the hold, a yearling colt squealed in terror and was cut off, sickeningly fast. Luain cursed and let go of his guard rope. He took a single sliding step towards the helm and cupped a hand round the ear of the master.
“I’ll see to the horses…” Even this close he had to scream it against the wind.
Segoventos shook his head. “Forget it. They’re sea mad. You’ll not get near them…. Hold on, for the gods’ sake, man…”
The master flung him a fresh rope and he caught it by instinct. Another wave bore in from a different angle and caught them broadside. The ship screamed this time, louder than the horses. The timbers gave out noises Luain had not known they could make and three ropes snapped together in the rigging. High overhead, the sail cracked free in the wind. Even in the heart of the storm, with the wind and the sea doing their best to deafen them, every man on the ship heard the crack and looked up, knowing what it meant. All of them, to a man, looked back to Segoventos to save them. The big man stood stunned for a moment longer than he should have done and then braced his feet on the side board and bent his full weight on the steering oar, striving to bring the ship round out of the wind.
The Greylag was his wife, his mistress and his daughter. He loved her as Luain loved his red Thessalian mare and he had lived with her, slept with her, trained her for lifetimes longer than the merchant had his horse. Now he brought the whole of his considerable strength to bear on the helm, forcing her by will and weight to turn. For a single, shuddering moment, there was a chance he might do it. Luain prayed as he had never prayed before and knew he was joined by the rest of the ship. The horses fell silent. Even the rain held off for a moment as the tiny, brave peapod of wood fought to give her master what he wanted—and failed. The gods of the sea are not so readily diverted. With a snap like a breaking armbone, they reached up from the depths and broke the steering oar in mid-shaft. Freed of the sea, the end of it swung wildly and the master cracked back on the foot boards, striking his head as the Greylag, honouring the voice of her new masters, turned broadside on to the sea and ploughed into the murdering waves.
“Segoventos!”
The call came from near the bow but Luain was already there, kneeling at the master’s side, lifting his head away from the oak, running his fingers through the salt-matted hair, feeling for breaks and finding none. The big man shook him off and hauled himself upright.
“We’re dead.” The words came through the dark on gusts of wind. The broad, bearded face of the master was turned to him. In two dozen hard crossings and ten times that many nights spent mired in drink on shore, Luain had never seen the man weep. He was weeping now, so that the tears washed the sea from his face. “She’ll go now till she breaks and that will be long before we see land. I’ve lost you your horses. I’m sorry.”
There was nothing to say. It was always the risk and drowning was not the worst of deaths. L
uain the Hibernian, who was not exclusively a merchant, felt the proximity of his life’s end and changed the manner of his prayer. In the maw of the storm, with the salt-laden rain whipping the skin from his face and the vaulting deck doing its best to break his legbones, he did what he could to make peace with himself and his gods. Because he was going to die and it didn’t matter, because it was dark and the noise of the storm was overwhelming and somewhere up beyond the clouds there was a moon he would have liked to have seen, he spoke out loud and weathered the level stare of the master.
Pulling on an arm rope, he found that he could stand. The square rig of the sail flapped in the storm above his head. Once, it had shone white, with its black goose gliding out from the masthead so that they would be known long before they reached port. Now the rain had turned all of it black and the outline of the goose had blurred and merged with the rest. Still, it was something he could pray to and he let the full range of his voice out into the weight of the storm. He had a good voice, better when he let the tones loose and began to sing. Around the ship, men stopped their own praying to listen. Somewhere, a higher, lighter voice joined his. In the back of his mind, he tried to work out whose and was only partially surprised at the answer.
He was singing still when the lad at the bow cried out. At first, thinking the other had been washed overboard, Luain enlarged his prayer to include the newly dead. Then another voice joined the boy’s, louder and saying the same things. To his right, the singer saw the master drag his gaze away from the thundering seas and crimp his eyes free of water and then do it again as if what he saw was not possible.
