Dreamweaver

by Judie Chirichello

  “Aye.” Gareth clapped his hand on Tristan's shoulder. “We will both focus on her safety and all will be well."

  Tristan and Gareth joined the Dana People in the clearing, where long, wooden tables and benches had been set up for the feast. “Where be Seerah?” Tristan surveyed the immediate area.

  “She comes forth now.” Ecne pointed to a cluster of stone ring-forts and thatched-roofed cottages in the distance.

  Tristan saw two Dana women exit the center most dwelling, followed by Seerah. A woven crown of dried rowan and thistle adorned her head, and her blue-green eyes seemed to sparkle beneath the glorious sunlight. She walked slowly forward, her white, gossamer frock billowing gently about her. She appeared to float across the glen, her black hair glistening and wafting in the breeze, just like in Tristan's dream.

  Tristan froze. Then he swallowed so hard he literally croaked like a bullfrog.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seerah's gaze remained fixed on Tristan almost as if she was silently daring him to ignore her. He quickly realized that he couldn't have ignored her even if he'd tried—nor did he want to. In fact, he barely noticed the way all the Dana people grew silent, kneeling in honor of Seerah's presence. Awed by her regal poise and dazzled by her beauty, desire warmed his body like a fever. He could only stare as a profound sense of understanding washed over him; he didn't simply desire her—he needed her.

  “Bewitching, indeed,” Gareth whispered.

  Colin, Greum and Zeth walked over to stand by Tristan and Gareth. “A witch, and princess of the fairy people to boot,” Colin muttered.

  “And a rare beauty,” Colin said.

  “'Tis honored we should be, indeed,” Zeth whispered.

  Tristan remained silent as one important question gnawed at his gut. If forced to make a choice, which he would choose—his lust for revenge or Seerah?

  * * * *

  “You no longer fear her witch-magic, Zeth?” Greum asked

  Upon hearing Greum's remark, Seerah stopped and stood before the men.

  “Nay,” Zeth replied.

  “And why is that, Zeth?” Seerah prodded, curiously.

  “Well, I've heard tell that the people of Dana practice only white magic. Notice how the sun shines here like nowhere else in all of Eire?"

  Greum glanced up. “'Tis unusual, I grant you, but there be nothing magical about the rare occurrence of fair weather."

  Zeth shook his head. “But ‘tis na’ a rare occurrence. The Tuatha De Danann dwell in the spiritual land. They revel in eternal sunshine and are nourished by magic meat and ale that grant them ever-life. Notice the cow of Goibhniu.” He pointed to a lone cow resting in the shade of a large ash tree. “'Tis Glas Ghaibhleann, a spirit of Irish lore. He offers his disciples an exhaustible feast so they may continue their fight against the Fili. The Fili be the sworn enemy of the Shee, for their black magic is based on tyranny, cruelty, greed and moral darkness."

  “Aye, the Tuatha De Danann be a primitive people, Zeth,” Gareth interjected. “Like the Celtic Druids, they pray to their God, Dagdha, Lug, the god of light, and the Irish sea God, Mannanan. They also consider stones, wells, hills and trees to be holy. See the tree they call fairy thorn? When a branch falls from it, be it dead or no, they tie it back together with twine or ribbons to soothe the fairies who dwell in them."

  Seerah couldn't believe what she was hearing. She glanced curiously from Zeth to Gareth. “You both be quite knowledgeable in the ways of the Shee. How is it you know these things? Gareth?"

  “Our laird,” Gareth replied.

  “He believes?” Seerah gasped, her hopes soaring anew.

  Tristan grimaced. “Our laird received a serious wound to his head many years ago. When he came to us, he was near to death. He recovered fully, except ... he still has no memory of his past and he believes strongly in the mystical world."

  “So, you believe him to addle-brained, then?” Seerah charged.

  “Nay!” Tristan took a menacing step toward Seerah.

  “Of course Tristan does na’ believe such a thing.” Zeth rushed forward, stepping between them, too preoccupied with the duty of defending his laird to notice Tristan's outrage. “Cursed by evil our laird is,” Zeth said. “Told me himself he has visions of an enchanting sorceress who can break the spell. ‘Tis why he seeks the stone. He believes that when he finds it, the enchantress will set him free."

  “And that would be me?"

  “Perhaps.” Zeth shrugged. “You do own the amulet."

  Tristan grunted.

  Seerah ignored his obvious displeasure. So many questions came to her mind she didn't know what to ask first. Since the amulet had belonged to her mother, perhaps this laird was the key to finding her. Gareth and Zeth seemed so casual about their knowledge. Yet Colin and Greum acted less-than-interested. And Tristan...

  “How does such a man become laird over men, most of whom claim to have no belief in such things?” she asked.

  “He proved himself to be a fit leader,” Colin replied.

  “Aye,” Greum agreed.

  “What of you, Tristan?” she asked, peering past Zeth.

  Zeth cringed, his body seeming to shrink with apprehension, as if he'd suddenly realized that standing between Tristan and Seerah could be hazardous.

  “You claim to be loyal to your laird,” Seerah continued. “Yet you do na’ believe in his faith. And, apparently, you believe he suffers from delusions."

  “I believe no such thing!” Tristan practically growled. When Zeth ducked out of the way, Tristan took up the space so quickly Seerah gasped and instinctively took a step backward.

  Tristan followed. “He is an honorable warrior and me laird. Though I do na’ believe in his faith, I respect his authority and obey his commands. Enough questions. Come, fairy princess, your disciples await.” He abruptly grabbed Seerah by the arm and headed for the wooden tables, pulling her with him.

  Seerah tripped over her skirts as she practically ran to keep up with him. Then her foot hit a tree root and she stumbled. “Hell and the Devil. Slow down,” she muttered.

  * * * *

  Fairy maiden, indeed. God help us all. Tristan wagged his head and hauled Seerah to the nearest bench where he seated himself. “A colorful use of language, indeed, for such a virtuous maiden-fair. Saucy wench suits you much better, I'm thinking.” He pulled her down next to him.

  “Knave,” Seerah grumbled, pulling at her skirts and trying to readjusted her drooping headpiece.

  Tristan almost chuckled when he saw Gareth, Colin, Zeth and Greum disperse to a gathering of tables on the other side of the courtyard, though he couldn't blame them in the least.

  Ecne approached and cleared his throat, drawing Tristan's attention. The little man smiled as if he were amused, then he seated himself across from Seerah.

  The people of Dana served fish baked in vinegar and cumin, accompanied by watercress, water parsnips and laver bread. They supplied bowls of hazel nuts, assorted berries and apples aplenty. Ale flowed freely and the Dana children frolicked about gaily while the adults had their fill.

  A pretty, young serving girl walked over carrying a bowl of apples. She moved to Tristan's side. “Avalon?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  Tristan observed the rounded swell of her full bosom pressed against the rim of the bowl.

  He allowed his gaze to linger appreciatively at her generous cleavage.

  “They are considered the fruit of eternal life. They quench thirst and satisfy hunger,” she said, her seductive tone implying an offer of much more than apples.

  Aware of her full intent and Seerah's keen scrutiny, Tristan's mouth curved into a crooked half-smile. “Mmmm. ‘Twould be an honor to sample your ... fine wares. Unfortunately, as you can see, I'm ... otherwise occupied at the moment.” He gestured with his head toward Seerah.

  Seerah pinched him on the thigh. “'Tis the apples she speaks of, you rogue.” Then to the lass she said, “Please excuse his poor m
anners. He's a barbarian who obviously knows na’ how to accept a simple kindness."

  Looking disappointed and somewhat confused, the lass frowned.

  Tristan chuckled softly and lifted an apple from the bowl.

  “On the contrary. I wished only to graciously accept her generous offer.” He bit into the apple and winked at the lass. “Perhaps another time."

  “Aye.” A soft blush crept into her face as she fluttered her eyelashes at Tristan, then took her leave.

  “Gracious?” Seerah snorted.

  “I can be, when it serves me purpose. And you can be quite naive. The apples were merely a ploy.” Tristan's eyes settled on the feminine sway of the serving lass's hips. “'Tis quite obvious she enjoys me attention. Aye, she would have served me well."

  Seerah followed his gaze. “Wretch."

  “Ahem,” Ecne said. “We should be about the gift giving.” He stood.

  “Aye. Though the sun still shines bright...” Tristan frowned curiously. “Darkness will soon fall like a cloak and we should be well on our way before that."

  “Uh ... A-aye. So, you should—indeed,” Ecne stuttered, looking as if he beheld an amusing secret. Next, with great formality, he raised his hand high in the air. “Tristan, gather your men and horses at the south side of the clearing. We, the Tuatha De Danann, will bring forth to you the treasures of Dana.” Bowing low, Ecne took Seerah's hand in his own and brought it to his lips. “'Tis been an honor."

  * * * *

  When Ecne gazed up directly into Seerah's eyes, she felt a soothing energy enter her body through her fingertips. Like warm cider on a cold winter night, Ecne's thoughts seemed to flow through her body. Though he spoke not a word, Seerah heard his every thought as clearly as if he had been whispering in her ear. Soon you will assume your true destiny and return as the Princess of Dana. Be patient with Tristan—though he fights the power of magic, he will come to see. A satisfying feeling swept over Seerah, and, for an instant, she felt at one with Ecne. When she lowered her head in homage, he released her hand and stepped back.

  After Seerah, Tristan, and the warriors were all mounted on their horses, Ecne stood before them and waited as the people of Danann crowded behind him. Next, with great pomp and ceremony he began issuing the gifts of Danann. “First, to the young warrior, Zeth. A thirst for knowledge will keep your mind strong and help you grow into a fine warrior man. We present you with Dagdha's cauldron from Murias. No company has ever gone away from it unthankful."

  A boy handed the miniature black pot up to Zeth. Zeth accepted the gift with a low bow of his head, then strapped it to his pack. Ecne turned to Colin, next. “To Colin, a brave and honorable man. Behold this spear that Lug had. It comes from Gorias and no battle was ever won against he who held it in his hand."

  When the spear was handed up to Colin, he hefted it in the air. Obviously amazed by its light weight, he studied the narrow, sharp point, then frowned as if skeptical of its proficiency.

  “The power of knowledge over brute force,” Ecne said.

  Arching his brow as if duly impressed, Colin nodded.

  “To Greum, a man of thought and ponderance, who will do great things,” Ecne said. “I present you with this sandstone pillar. ‘Tis from the ancient Lia Fail, from Falias. The pillar, known as the stone of scone, or the stone of destiny, has roared beneath the hand of every true king to take the realm of Scotland. ‘Tis a reminder that all men must answer to a higher power."

  Greum nodded solemnly as he accepted the miniature pillar and placed it in a leather pouch.

  “To Gareth, whose honor and courage will one day live up to his great legacy, the invincible sword of Nuada, from Findias. When drawn from its deadly sheath by one who understands its power,” Ecne paused, his gaze growing intense with unspoken meaning, “'twill not fail those you cherish.” He flung the sword to the ground.

  Gareth frowned, unsure of what to do next.

  “'Tis a custom,” Seerah explained. “Many believe ill fate will come to those who pass sharp instruments from hand to hand."

  After retrieving the sword and sheath, Gareth issued a low, respectful bow to Ecne, and remounted his horse.

  Ecne turned his attention to Seerah, then. “Lastly, to Seerah, or Seer, meaning one who sees the future. I give you the Dagdha's harp. Its sweet strain will plunge thine enemies into a profound slumber.” Seerah accepted the harp and placed it inside her mantle.

  “I thank you most graciously. We all do.” She glanced at the warriors. “But...” Her smile faded. “What of Tristan? Have you nothing for him?"

  Suddenly, a harsh breeze stirred the air. Ecne held his robes to shield his face from the rising dust. “The Magi,” he announced.

  The Dana people gathered in a circle about the clearing and held hands as a lone, white cloud floated down from the sky. It hovered in mid-air, swelling and contracting, as colorful sparks of light glistening from within. At one point it glowed so brightly that all who looked upon it had to shield their eyes. When the fantastic light dimmed, Seerah noticed that the cloud had turned into a translucent orb of rolling mist—like the one in her vision. She watched carefully as an apparition began to develop.

  The ghostly figure appeared to be an ancient man dressed in layered robes of green and white. A golden, sorcerer's spire adorned his head. “With these treasures of the Tuatha De Danann,” he began, his resounding voice seeming to echo throughout the glen, “you will go with Dagdha and fulfill the prophecy. They will aide you well.” With a flourishing wave of his arm the Magi held his hand out and uncurled his fingers, holding his hand palm up.

  A vivid image of a slender willow shoot spouted from his palm. The shoot grew rapidly then twisted and shrank until it was transformed into a dry, curved twig resembling a primeval scepter. “Seerah, you alone must retrieve this alder wand from the Fin-gael's cave,” he said. “However, you must first open your heart to love. Only then will you achieve the true power of the light."

  Suddenly, the twig vanished. The Magi extended his index finger and pointed directly at Tristan. “Heed me now, Tristan, the mighty warrior. Fighting that which is destined only serves to darken your soul. In order to obtain all that is in your grasp, you must look deep inside yourself. ‘Tis there that you will find the demons you seek. Banish them from your soul forever. Only then, will your heart open, allowing your spirit to feel the magic.” The image began to fade, and brilliant, white light flashed, again.

  The light seemed to explode like a bursting star. It illuminated the clearing for a brief moment, then stark blackness fell, as if the sun had suddenly vanished. All that remained were tiny iridescent sparks. Like colorful embers caught on the wings of the breeze, the sparks fluttered in the air about Seerah, Tristan and the warriors.

  “Seeeer-rah!” Tristan growled.

  “Do na’ look to me. I am na’ yet capable of such complicated trickery.” Seerah glanced up at him. “Perhaps Ecne can explain..."

  “In case you have na’ noticed, Ecne is gone,” Tristan said. “So is the village. Only a heavy, gray mist remains. And, these peculiar insects.” Tristan swatted at the air.

  Leaning forward in Tristan's lap, Seerah peered into the darkness. She could still see shadowed outlines of figures and images through the shadowy mist. “Nay, Tristan they have na’ gone. ‘Tis we who have departed the spiritual land of the Tuatha De Danann. It appears as though the garden of Dagdha be a mystical shadow-land. A spiritual domain, if you will. Apparently only those who be chosen can achieve its wonder."

  Holding her hand out to the peculiar sparks she smiled. “These be fairy lights you strike at. Ecne sent them to guide us.” She issued a parting wave to Ecne and the people of Dana. “Ecne bids us farewell,” she informed.

  “I see nothing,” Tristan grumbled. “Colin, Greum, Zeth, Gareth, do you see anything?"

  “Nay.” Colin replied.

  “Me either,” said Greum.

  “Only mist, Tristan,” Zeth assured.

  Gareth st
ared straight ahead, looking somewhat bemused; his only reply was a slow, silent wag of his head like he couldn't believe what he'd just experienced.

  “Hmmm.” Seerah shrugged. “That must be because none of you be Shee."

  When Tristan reined his horse about, Seerah noticed the way Gareth glanced from the mist up at the sky. His puzzled-looking expression transformed into a reflective sort of awe as he appeared to gaze at the full moon in silent wonder. When he turned to follow, Seerah watched curiously as he glanced back over his shoulder. However, when Ecne waived and Gareth held his hand high, gesturing in a departing salute, Seerah knew he could still see the mystical land as well. The realization gave her pause to wonder. Her own words came back to her then. Apparently, only those who be chosen can achieve the wonder of the spiritual realm. It couldn't be that Gareth—nay. ‘Tis impossible. Or is it?

  * * * *

  Gairloch, Scotland

  Alone in his darkened bedchamber, the laird tossed and turned in the throes of fitful slumber as ghostly visions haunted his subconscious mind. Dark, dream-images of Norse warships developed in his mind's eye. Raiders armed with swords and dirks stood on the decks of the enemy vessels. But soon they swooped down on a small company of unarmed peasant crafts. With their swords held high, the Norsemen cried out as they boarded the defenseless skiffs and rafts with an evil air of intent. They attacked, murdering the innocent Celts with precision and arrogance.

  The dream grew so vivid that the laird could taste the familiar tinge of blood in his mouth. He also felt the forceful blows from his attackers as their weapons struck his body. He trembled with rage in response to the shrill cries around him. Then, he felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him as the stench of death permeated the air. It seemed so unimaginable—yet felt so real. He fought back with a vengeance, striking out at his attackers. He knew, deep in his heart, that if he failed, he would suffer a loss much worse than death,

  He woke with a start, threw back his covers and jumped up, poised to defend. His heart raced in his chest as he glanced anxiously about the room, but he saw no enemy raiders—only a lone ray of light cast through the open portal, from the full moon. He inhaled slowly, trying to ease his labored breathing. He shivered as the brisk night air caressed his sweat-soaked skin.