Dreaming the Eagle

by Manda Scott

  “Gods, what is he doing?”

  Gwyddhien grimaced. “Bear-dancing. It is a tradition among the Caledonii, apparently, handed down from the ancestors; they dance with the bear and ask it to leave them in peace and it does so.” She spoke softly, with the singing lilt of the west. Even shouting above the noise of battle practise it was the same. It was this that had first drawn Airmid to her, that and her outstanding skill.

  They watched the dancing warrior together. Breaca said, “He’s mad.”

  “Or supremely courageous. If he dies, they will say it is the former. If he lives…” The tall warrior grinned and spread her hands, as a garner might at a lost bet when the contest has been hard and fast. “We dare not interfere. If we go down, we will break the bond between them and he will die. All we can do is stand and watch.”

  Venutios jumped the height of the rock and stood beside her. He alone gripped his spear. Whatever he might become, he was still the Warrior and no-one had the power to tell him to abandon his weapons. He leaned on the haft and watched the dance as bear and man edged sideways, away from the crag.

  Breaca watched Venutios rather than the bear. She had reached him last in the round of waking and had found him sitting by his fire, honing the blade of his hunting knife. He had not asked why she came.

  “Were you expecting this?” she asked.

  “Something like it.”

  “Is it always a bear?”

  He ran his tongue round his teeth, considering the limits of what he could reveal. “No,” he said, eventually. “Not always.”

  She wanted to ask what else they could expect but he would not have been permitted to answer and to ask did him no honour. She stared out into the night. The more Ardacos danced, the harder he was to see. Starlight made him grey, the colour of rocks, and the bear the same. She felt the others gather behind her, scaling the crag slowly. Not all of them saw Ardacos. Twice, Breaca had to hold back a warrior who thought to take on the bear alone.

  She was holding the arm of Braint, the girl-cousin of the Brigantes, when she saw the other shapes, smaller and more ghostly, that followed the larger.

  “Cubs!” She let go of the girl. “Gwyddhien, Ardacos must be warned. He can’t take his eyes from the she-bear but either of the cubs is big enough to kill him.”

  She spoke too late. The boy-cousin of the Brigantes had acted even as she let go of his cousin’s arm. He sprinted down from the crag, yelling his war shout and hurling the stones he had carried. Seeing him, the smaller cub turned. The bigger reared up like its dam and advanced on Ardacos. He may have seen it, but a man can only dance with one bear at a time. He made no move to turn, to engage it or to defend himself.

  “No!” Breaca was already running. She held the two rocks she had collected and she had Hail. It was not enough. She felt Caradoc at her left side, the place of the oath-bound, and was glad of him. Gwyddhien joined on the right. Others ran, strung out behind. Venutios stayed on the rocks, observing.

  “Go!” With a prayer for his life, she sent Hail to harry the she-bear. From a distance beyond spear-throw, she cast the first of the two stones. With the gods’ aid, it bounced on a rock by the bigger cub and shattered, spitting debris. The cub yelped and fell to all fours. Ardacos turned, letting go of the dance. The she-bear reared higher and slashed the air. Hail launched at her from behind, ripping a mouthful of pelt and turning away before the claws could smash him to rags. The bear yarled, a small noise for one so vast, and spun to face the new threat.

  Breaca shouted, “Ardacos! To your right. There’s another cub!” and knew she was too late.

  There were six of them within striking distance and all had hurled their stones. One of the younger warriors had a fire-club and threw that, too, but all of them had aimed for the adult or the bigger cub; none had taken heed of the smaller as it threw down the youth of the Brigantes and came to the aid of its dam. It was not large for a bear, but Ardacos was not large for a man and he had no defence but his guile. He rolled away from the strike as he had rolled from the boar and so was not disembowelled. The claws caught him on the shoulder where the boar-tusk had already struck. With a crack like breaking greenwood, they broke his arm and ripped the flesh beneath. He fell without a sound.

  ——

  “Ardacos?”

  He lay belly down on a bed of moss and green bracken with his head to the west in case he should die. The boycousin of the Brigantes was already dead. Venutios had spoken the invocation to Briga to accept the soul of one lost in the hunt, although it was his own fault and the god would know it as well as they. His cousin mourned him alone and silently. Of the rest, three had been wounded such that they could not walk unaided. The remains of the thirty had made a crescent about the fallen bodies and driven the bears off with the noise of stones clashed on rocks and the fire-clubs spun in the air to make rings of flame. Hail had harried the beasts into the distance and had not been injured. For that Breaca gave thanks, privately, even as she was sending others to search for the plants she needed to begin the treatment of the wounded. In the time it had taken to make a drag-litter to carry Ardacos safely to camp, she had found she was the one with the most knowledge of healing. Three years with the elder grandmother was worth a lifetime of others’ teaching. She had described what she needed and where it might be found, and half of the thirty had run at her bidding.

  By the time she had made him comfortable, she found that three years of anyone’s teaching made no difference when those looking searched in the dark at the start of winter on the far western edge of the world. None of the plants she wanted had been found and she had to make do with green moss, lifted whole from the rocks and laid in the wound as Ardacos had done in the morning. She was binding it in place on the warrior’s back when she felt him move.

  “Ardacos?” His head was turned away from her. She moved round and bent to look. His eye was open and held a question. “You succeeded,” she said. “The bears have gone. The boy of the Brigantes died, out of recklessness. All the rest are alive. You were wounded and have bled greatly but you will—” The eye closed. She was saved from speaking platitudes that might yet prove untrue.

  She looked up. To Gwyddhien, sitting on the rock above, she said, “I have done what I can. His arm is set and bound. The wound is closed but still bleeding. He needs Airmid or Talla if he is to live. We should leave now.”

  “Do you think so?” The tall warrior was silent a moment, then shook her head. “We can’t move out yet. It’s already too dark and clouds are moving in from the east. We will have rain soon, or mist. The route back to the great-house is not without its own dangers, and none of us knows the way well enough to find it at night. We had better wait until daylight.”

  “We can’t. It’s too long.” Urgency gave a bite to her tone.

  Gwyddhien smiled, halfway to the peace of the Warrior. “I think not. It’s past midnight. Morning is not far.”

  “But still too far. If we leave now, we will reach the great-house at dawn. If we wait until dawn before we move, we won’t get there before mid-morning and he will be dead by then.”

  “Better one dies than many. We have three who are weak and will need to be carried, and there is a body that cannot be left—”

  “We can leave it. If we bury him with rocks, the bears will not take him. I will come back with others tomorrow—”

  “No.”

  They faced each other across the injured man. Breaca found she was shaking. The blood coursed hot in her veins and her palm-scar ached again. She drew a breath and hissed it back through closed teeth. With careful clarity she said, “Then I will run alone to the great-house and bring a healer back with horses and a litter. We will be here before dawn. He cannot be left longer.”

  “No.” Venutios shook his head. “You can’t go alone. The thirty must not be separated. It is the law of the choosing.”

  He was still Warrior. She would have trusted him with her life. But Ardacos had been a friend and had woken Breaca when
he could have danced with the bear alone and perhaps succeeded.

  “Who will stop me?” she asked.

  “I will.” Venutios sat on a rock with his spear held loosely across his knees. His quiet eyes promised death if she defied him. He shrugged an apology. “I’m sorry. I would let you go if I could but the law on this is certain and not open to discussion. Either all of you go or none.”

  Breaca was breathing too fast to think clearly. She slowed and thought of Eburovic, who had always counselled calm and the need to find the reasons behind the words in any conflict. To Gwyddhien, she said, “This is not about finding or losing a path. We have all hunted here at night many times, you more than any. We could find our way blindfolded if we had to. Why do you not want us to go?”

  The warrior nodded, the heat going out of her. “I have lived here ten years,” she said. “There are no bears on Mona.”

  Breaca said, “There were bears tonight. We saw them.”

  “This is the night of the Warrior’s choosing. What we see may not be there. Only with daylight will we see the truth. We have lost only one of our group, maybe two if Ardacos dies. The elders predicted three or four times that number. If we walk through the night, we risk more than him alone. Dreams come in other shapes than bears.”

  “Ardacos was not wounded by a dream-shape.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Hail does not see dreams. There may have been no bears on Mona before, but there are three now. We will deal with them later, or leave them to live in peace.”

  As she spoke, she vaulted up onto the crag beside Gwyddhien. Her knife was in her belt, a better weapon than none. Hail would follow her, if no-one else. She stepped round to the side, putting Gwyddhien between herself and Venutios. Clearly, so it could be heard by the full group, she said, “If the dreamers are sending dream-shapes, they will send them to us here as much as on the walk back. Ardacos needs help and the laws are not fit if they condemn a man to death for no reason. Those who agree with me may follow. I am leaving, now.”

  She jumped. She ran. Hail bounded beside her, so close she could smell the heat of his breath and the bear-stench on it. In three strides, Caradoc was shielding her left. By ten, Braint, the girl-cousin of the Brigantes, was on her right with Cumal of the Cornovii just beyond. By the foot of the hill, there were more running behind her than she could readily count, certainly more than were left up above. She paused and looked back. On the crag top, Venutios raised the Warrior’s horn and blew the recall. Breaca knew a moment’s exultation, as she had done on the day when she broke his blade. Taking only Caradoc and Braint, she ran back up the hill. Venutios met her, his face still as an elder’s pronouncing law.

  “You may not go alone but the greater number have chosen to leave. It is Gwyddhien, then, who must follow.”

  The tall warrior stood behind him. In her hand she carried her own spear and Breaca’s. She passed the latter over, butt first, in the sign of good faith. “I am ready.” The lilt to her voice made it a prayer.

  Breaca offered her hand in the warrior’s greeting. She said, “If we are to carry the wounded, we will need more wood for stretchers. Give me half of the thirty and I will get it.”

  “You have them.” The clasp was accepted and returned. Gwyddhien grinned. “Get a new pole for the boar also,” she said. “We will halve the carcass and it will be less weight to carry. We can go faster like that.”

  They ran through the night; not fast, but fast enough. No dream-shapes threatened and they made good time. Clouds covered the sky but did not shed rain. Without stars to guide them, they sought for and found a hunter’s path marked with cleft sticks and followed it. Gwyddhien ran at the head of the column, checking the route. Venutios ran at the back, keeping pace with the stragglers to ensure the group was not split. Breaca and Caradoc made a team with Braint, who needed work to keep her from grieving the loss of her cousin. Between the three of them they carried Ardacos, rotating so that two carried and one ran, and they swapped places often to keep fresh. The injured man passed in and out of consciousness as they ran but even when awake he lay silently and did not cry out when they stumbled or had to pass him hand over hand across a stream.

  They were on a downhill slope, taking care to keep Ardacos level, when Breaca realized she could see the outline of her hand and her foot beneath it and that dawn must be coming. She looked for Caradoc and saw his hair, pale as waving corn. He smiled and his teeth showed white. Black-haired Braint, at the far end of the stretcher, was still too dark to be seen.

  At the foot of the slope, Gwyddhien gathered them. “We will be at the gates by full light. Even with wounded, we must make a good entrance.”

  They were tired and untidy, a ragged cluster of halfseen shapes. She sharpened them into three rows, ranked by age and experience, with spears slung behind in the sign of peace. Of Ardacos, she said, “We will stop at the oak before the gateway. Bring him forward then. He is still the greatest of us. He should enter first.”

  It was an act of honour worthy of them both. In the eyes of some, he may have been greatest when they left, but Gwyddhien was returning as the Warrior, none of them doubted it. Breaca bent down to the stretcher and found the wounded man awake. He winked as he had once before. She kept her hand on her spear and did not let down her guard.

  The remaining ground was known to them all: a brief run of rolling gorse-covered hills and minor valleys filled with willow and hazel. Of the two streams, the nearer was crossed with stepping-stones and the farther by a bridge.

  The first of the spears fell as they passed Ardacos across the stones. Breaca heard the grunt and wheeze of a hit and jumped the last two steps to the far bank without thinking. Caradoc, who held the back end of the stretcher, jumped with her and ran as she did. They sprinted untidily for the shelter of a hawthorn. Braint dashed to join them, hurling herself facedown in the turf.

  “Venutios is hit,” she said.

  “What?”

  Caradoc said, “I saw him go down. The spears were aimed at him.”

  “Gods. Why?” Breaca stretched out from the hiding place and tried to count heads. On the open ground, she might have seen them. Here, in the shelter of the valley with the trees still in autumn leaf and the remains of night still upon them, it was impossible. Only Gwyddhien was visible, lying flat in the poor shelter of a rock. Breaca put her cupped hands to her mouth and blew the cry of the night owl, the call of the warriors of Mona. Gwyddhien returned it and ran to join them.

  Breaca said, “Venutios is down.”

  “I know. I saw. You were last to cross apart from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then at least we are all on the right side of the river.”

  Gwyddhien made the owl’s cry, louder. Others answered in twos and threes and gathered, slowly.

  Cumal of the Cornovii arrived first behind the rock. “Ordovices!” He spat on the ground at Caradoc’s feet. Their peoples were ancient enemies. “I would know their spears anywhere. Did you know of this?”

  Caradoc stared at the other man. With quiet deliberation, he turned to look across the river at the fallen shape of Venutios. The Warrior lay sprawled on his back, his limbs at unhinged angles. The shaft of a single spear rose above him. Turning back, Caradoc was stiffly formal. “Forgive me. The light is too poor to see from here but I was close when the spears fell and I believe they bore the mark of the horned god on the haft.”

  “No, they were Coritani,” said Breaca. “Unless the Cornovii have taken the mark of the red hawk for their own?”

  Braint said, “Votadini. They mark them black and use poison stewed from mushrooms on the points. I have known them since childhood. They killed my mother’s uncle.”

  There was silence. A jackdaw flew down to Venutios and was scared away by a flung branch.

  Stone-white, Gwyddhien said, “Then the spears are sent by the dreamers, as were the bears. Why would the dreamers kill their own?” Unspoken, but more clearly, was, Why would Airmid?


  Breaca said, harshly, “Ask Venutios if you should happen to meet him in the lands of the dead. He must have known of the risk and we should have thought of it. Many more died in other years than would have been killed by a bear.” She blamed herself, because it was safer than blaming anyone else, even a dreamer who had taken a bet when she might instead have given a warning. A bitter anguish curdled her guts, but dully, as if, once faced, it might prove overwhelming.

  “Then what now?” asked Gwyddhien. “We can’t kill the dreamers.”

  “Can we not if they can kill us?” Breaca rounded on the group. Two dozen faces doubted her. In the grey light, even Caradoc looked uncertain. She had thought him immune to fear and was shocked to find it not so. The dreamers of Mona were sacred, bound in a web of peace; they could walk through war from one side to the other and no warrior would lift a blade against them. She felt the unravelling of the weave that had made the thirty whole and prayed to Briga, and to Nemain, who cared most closely for Airmid. In answer, she saw only Ardacos, dying, and the Warrior already dead, and the wrongness of it chilled her to the core. She called for Eburovic and the elder grandmother and neither came. Despairing, she called for Airmid, not for the living dreamer, but for the sense of her that enfolded like a second skin and gave support when it most was needed. The night gave nothing back, and less than nothing; in the dark was an echoing silence that leached at her will. Here on the gods’ isle, on a night warped by the gods’ touch, she was alone, abandoned by those she trusted most, who wielded instead the gods’ power against her.

  The knowledge of betrayal was crippling. She stared out beyond the stretch of hawthorn to the willows that flanked the second stream. A fine mist drifted forward at knee height, coldly insidious. She had never craved death, as ’Tagos had done in the first months after he lost his arm, but she saw it approach and did not have the will to resist.