Her tone changed markedly and became quiet. In direct opposition, the stones became warm, unnaturally warm; but I did not struggle as my mother guided my hands to cradle my growing child, and placed her own on the top of my belly.
With the last words of the incantation, it was as if the air and energy of the room expended itself in one burst of light and heat concentrated on the crystals. The crystals grew painfully bright, and I gasped for air several times, allowing a great whoosh of air into my lungs, and then all five stones burst into fine shimmering powder that was absorbed into my exposed skin.
Moving in slow motion, I tried wiping it from my skin, only to think bemusedly how pretty it looked glinting in the fading light of the room. I looked at my mother for explanation but she stared stupidly at me and crumbled to the floor. Panic-stricken now, I slid to the floor beside her but an intense gripping seized me and I huddled in a ball to wait its end. Groaning and crying out, I thought that this must be what a miscarriage felt like.
Flashes of memory are all I remember. Gentle hands lifting me, cool compresses on my forehead, calming words, fading in and out with long exaggerated spans of silence. I think I dreamed. More words, not so gentle now, crashing things, glass tinkling, gentle hands again. More strange dreams.
I awoke to changes. Gone was my mother’s room, replaced by a sterile hospital room, and Brian slumped in the corner chair, asleep. I was bone tired, and I lay back on the bed assessing. I felt tired but energized, lethargic but alive. I felt… you move!
I pulled up my nightgown to look at my belly. I was far enough along that I could see the movement, and I was immediately granted another look at the slow undulation as you resettled. I screamed my elation, and startled Brian. Bleary eyed, he rushed to the bed, not knowing what had roused him. He took a quick assessment of my condition, holding my head between his hands, then my belly, his eyes round at your strong kick, then his arms were around me, crushing me to his chest, crying.
He held me for endless minutes, and then I felt tension creep into his frame. His hands grabbed my upper arms in a vice-like grip, shaking me until my teeth rattled he spit, “You are never to see your mother again. I forbid it!
Chapter 8
Her grandmother said she was a Druid. Brenawyn knew this. How many times after she came to live with Leo had she seen things? But magic was supposed to be just trickery and sleight of hand stuff. She had never given it any thought otherwise; it was just cool tricks to occupy a child. But the magic was real? Was she honestly expected to believe that? What explanation was there for the glowing pattern on her grandmother’s arms? And the flower thing had astounded her, true. She hadn’t seen anything that would betray a trick, so if it were real, if she could make the wilted flowers bloom again… could she have done anything for Liam? Could she have saved him? Could she still? Brenawyn couldn’t bear an answer to that question.
Hooking the leash onto Spencer’s collar, Brenawyn quietly crept down the stairs, not wanting to face her grandmother yet. Her feelings were in turmoil and she didn’t trust herself to speak without saying something irrevocable. The dog, however, was eager to walk, and dragged Brenawyn down the stairs with all the stealth of a herd of elephants. The last thing she heard as she closed the door was her grandmother call, “Brenawyn, honey, do you want to talk?” Despite her heart’s pang, she locked the door and turned away without a word in response, her brain insisting on time to think.
The streets were quaintly lit by street lights that resembled gas lamps, and in the near distance she saw candle-led groups on the ghost tour. Laughter floated to her from a nearby late night bistro with café tables still out lining the wide sidewalk. As she walked past, a man looked up admiringly at her only to be chastised by his date for looking at another woman. She hurried along, not interested in being the immediate cause, albeit not the source, of the strangers’ argument.
Further down, only a few people dotted the street. She stopped at a window, peering in to look at the antiques and collectibles. Tomorrow she’d return to rummage through the articles in the store. Perhaps she’d see something that caught her eye. Before turning away she caught her reflection in the glass and was startled by it— hair severely pulled back in a ponytail and big eyes staring out of a face that was too pale. She looked like she was in desperate need of sleep, sun, and perhaps some make-up; she reached up to pinch her cheeks. A breeze blew and she shivered. It was unseasonably chilly for summer, even for Massachusetts.
Decision hesitantly made, she walked across the street and headed for home. She passed close to a tour group as they stood in front of the tavern that the witch trial victim, Bridget Bishop, was said to haunt. Brenawyn stopped to hear the tale for a moment, enamored with the telling. When it was done, she flashed a brilliant smile at the tour guide before he protested a non-paying listener. The smile seemed to placate him and he glanced back to look at her several times as he proceeded with his tour.
“Hello, beautiful.” A husky masculine voice behind her startled her out of her thoughts. Propelled backward by her dog, pulling on his collar enough to make him choke, she twisted, stumbling into Alex’s arms as the dog pranced at their feet. She could feel the blush rush into her cheeks as she realized her breasts were pressed against his chest and her bottom cupped in his hands. She planted both her hands on his chest and pushed off. He held on for a fraction of a second too long before he relinquished her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” as Brenawyn extricated herself from his embrace and lightly brushed at his shirt. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” At his perusal, she was made all too aware of her outfit— a white lacy top and beige shorts which revealed too much of her legs.
“Nay, o’ course no’. Think nothing o’ it. Are ye on yer way back home?”
“Yes, but just to get a sweater out of my car. I didn’t realize the night would be so chilly.”
At the mention of the weather, a strong breeze blew, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms, and even in the dim light shed by the street lamp, she knew he could make out the straining of nipples against the soft shirt. Unashamedly staring, he took his time tearing his eyes away and offered his arm, “Would ye like me to accompany ye back ta yer car then?”
“If you’re sure that I’m not keeping you from anything,” Brenawyn answered, unsure.
“Nothing that willna wait. So how are ye?”
“I’m fine, just out for a walk with the pooch, trying to clear my head.”
“Troubled? Having second thoughts about moving haur?”
“No, not that, but trying to…adjust to some new information.”
“New information?”
“Yeah, nothing really, just surprising is all.” Shaking her head, “It’s nothing of import.” Blatantly changing topics, Brenawyn asked, “So did you do anything fun after I saw you today?”
Alex laughed, “Well, no’ fun. I had ta work. I taught an evening class ta a bunch o’ sophomoric individuals who rained infantile questions at me about Beltaine rights, even though Lughnasadh is in a few days. Most o’ them will be at th’ park ta catch my bit at th’ beginning, since someone in th’ class found out I was a part o’ it.”
“And what are you doing for that?” Brenawyn asked, interested and half surprising herself, thrilled that she would be seeing him again so soon.
“I am going ta give some background history on th’ ceremony, explaining wha’ th’ feast celebrates, wha’ each part o’ th’ ceremony means, and its significance, as an introduction ta ye.” Rolling his eyes heavenward, “I even ha’ a costume tha’ I ha’ been persuaded ta wear.”
She laughed, “Oh, my friend, you will not be alone on that count. I have one too. Though I don’t mind wearing it, it’s beautiful.”
“Ye would make anything bonny.”
Brenawyn stopped in front of The Rising Moon and looked up at him, “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment, even though I know that you’re exaggerating.” Pausing to look at her car, then upstairs, she continued, “If y
ou have time, I’ll go and bring the dog upstairs, and we can continue our walk.”
Catching her hand, and caressing the back of it, he said, “I’ll wait; and Brenawyn, I was no’ exaggerating.”
Breath hitching in her throat she nodded dumbly at him and turned to unlock the door, trying to calm her hammering heart. “I’ll be right back.”
Running the dog upstairs, she unhooked his leash, and gently kissed her sleeping grandmother on the cheek. Covering her with the afghan from the couch, Brenawyn’s earlier concerns were temporarily forgotten. Spencer sniffed Leo’s hand and in her sleep she patted the dog’s head. He lay down, giving a doggie grunt as he settled himself at the base of the couch.
Brenawyn pulled at her restrained hair, quickly ran a brush through it, and grabbed a sweater from her room. She paused at the open door, looking back at Leo, and quietly whispered to her sleeping grandmother, “I’m not mad. I just have to digest it for a while. We will talk, but I’m not ready yet. I love you.”
Locking the door behind her, she wasn’t quite prepared for Alex leaning against her car. He was the picture of masculinity and sex, with rippling biceps and well-muscled thighs in form-fitting blue jeans that left little to the imagination. A full head of dark wavy hair fell to brush the collar of his shirt, too long to be professional, and a day or two’s growth of beard. Her mouth went dry with the thought of how it would feel against her skin. He smelled good too, of soap and sun and mmm… man, remembering in vivid detail her short stay in his arms. He gave her a sexy smile, noting her perusal. Pull yourself together and stop staring like you want to have him for dessert.
“Are ye sure ye’re going ta be warm enough in tha’?” nodding to her sweater.
“I’ll be fine as long as we keep walking.” Stepping down off the stairs, she took his hand and they began walking. “So, what stories did the students beg you to tell them?”
Alex looked sideways at her, “Are ye sure ye want ta hear tha’?”
“Yes, I love mythology, and it’s filled with risqué stories about the gods and goddesses. You’ll find that I am a rapt audience and won’t laugh and titter about every little innuendo.”
“Och, then it will truly be a change o’ pace. Just based on test scores, I think everyone is thaur ta hear those stories; no one listens ta me otherwise,” he responded, laughing at himself.
“Oh wait, you didn’t tell me that there would be an exam. Damn, let me think…” chiding him and stepping playfully closer so her hip and the length of her leg brushed him. “No, I still want to hear.”
“Aaricht, but I did warn ye.” Alex began, “Wait until we get to the park. The town finished setting up for th’ ceremony. It will be a good backdrop for auld stories.”
“Setting a mood, are you?”
“Wha’ storyteller doesna?” Squeezing her hand, he said, “Besides, I think ye’ll like it.”
They walked in companionable silence until the park came into view. “Haur we are.” He stood back to let her take it in.
Standing at the edge of the grassy park in the center of town, Brenawyn looked around and thought that the architect of the park had some forethought, with oaks and sycamores planted at intervals surrounding the grassy knoll. Stopping mid-step she whistled low and quipped, “Jeez, the residents do not take the tourist lure lightly here.”
At the center, new to the park’s landscape, standing stones stood as silent sentinels awaiting some ancient and sacred ritual. Come daylight, she suspected the surrounding backdrop complete with cars, buses, museum-style velvet ropes, and quaint stands selling the usual variety of souvenirs wouldn’t be enough to diminish the pull of the circle.
“Aye, tha’ is th’ truth o’ it.” Alex responded. “Though thaur are quite a few people haur tha’ are believers in Druidism and Wicca, ‘tis mainly in th’ observance o’ th’ high feasts: Beltane, Lughnasadh, Samhain, and Oimelc.
Brenawyn approached and held out a tentative hand to the nearest stone to assure herself that it was real. She turned to Alex, who trailed behind her, and asked, “They’re so beautiful,” running her hand along a vein, “Where did they come from?”
“Since th’ town has reclaimed its ugly history, they ha’ spared nay expense at cashing in on th’ commercialism. They were imported from Ireland—solid slabs o’ blue stone from th’ same deposit.” Indicating with his arm, “Look, ye can see th’ similarities in th’ stones.”
Brenawyn walked slowly around the interior of the circle, half day-dreaming, thinking about her grandmother and the wild implications of her story. Then turning back, “Alex, do you know anything about these circles? What were they used for?”
“Ceremonies, rituals, some say sacrifice, but they were built on points of power. Beyond th’ cutting and transport of th’ stones, thaur was geometry, astronomy, and astrology ta be considered afore th’ placement. Most circles are oriented with th’ rising and the setting of the sun, though only at certain times of th’ year does the sun align with th’ stones in perfect harmony. Next week is one. This one haur is oriented in such a way, but th’ effect is lost because civilization blocks th’ true vista of dawn and dusk.”
Pausing for a moment, Alex then continued, “Druidism is a nature-based religion. All ceremonies revolve around healing and protection. Spells—that’s a topic for another time, but generally, afore any ceremony th’ celebrant would go out th’ night afore or th’ morning o’ th’ ceremony and perform a private rite ta ask permission o’ th’ Earth ta cast on its ground.” Alex let go of her hand and stepped back.
Brenawyn looked up from inspecting the nearest stone, interest piqued, and asked, “Really, why do you think that was?”
“It was because,” he said, “th’ Earth and everything tha’ sprang from it were held sacred by th’ Druids. Th’ Earth is a live entity, and ta cast without permission was disrespectful.”
He walked around the center offertory pedestal, “Though thaur were, and still are, male Druids, usually th’ celebrants were women.” Looking back at Brenawyn to placate any question that she might have, “It may have had something ta dae with women’s ability ta bear children, th’ fertility of th’ woman symbolically representing th’ fertility o’ th’ Earth. The celebrant would cleanse herself ta wash away impurities and don a blessed garment with th’ help o’ her attendants, then prepare and perform th’ ceremony, fulfilling all th’ requirements for it. Then as an offering on specific holy days such as Beltane, th’ celebrant would willingly offer herself as a symbol of fertility.”
“Offered herself to anyone?”
“Tha’ was rarely th’ case, though at times it happened. It usually was th’ Shaman of the Order. The high priestess and the shaman were th’ two responsible for perpetuation o’ th’ beliefs. He was ta retain and protect all knowledge of th’ Order. Her responsibility was by far th’ weightier. She communed with nature and th’ spirits through ritual.”
“What of children that came about through these…um… liaisons?”
“Ah, sex was seen differently then. Any child tha’ was conceived from such a union led a blessed life. They were seen as nature’s blessing, and therefore received th’ adoration o’ th’ Druids.”
“What story did you tell your students in class today?”
“Aye, I did promise ye a tale.” Alex nodded and paced toward the nearest standing stone. He touched it and looked back at Brenawyn. “A while sin[2] this world was th’ home o’ th’ Celtic gods, but they decided ta retreat ta th’ realm o’ Tir-Na-Nog when faith was no’ enough for man anymore. Immortals all, they felt th’ loss o’ having mortal beings so close tha’ many o’ them would visit this realm ta be in th’ company of such radiance. Ye ken, mortal life gives off a vibrant aura. Watching them fight environmental conditions, illness, and starvation, and celebrate life and unions ta make their mark, made th’ gods envious. Their observations became interactions as they tried ta understand th’ mortals need ta be. In their search, they found tha’ mortals had emot
ion more profound than any god had experienced. They found through these interactions tha’ th’ vistas were more beautiful, food tasted sweeter, and th’ cries o’ their lovers were more arousing.
“Cernunnos, th’ god o’ th’ hunt, craved mortal com-panionship. He would disguise himself as a stag and move amongst th’ forest glades whaur a crystal clear stream flowed. Time and again, he would watch as women would come ta th’ stream ta collect water. For many moons, he would stand in th’ brush and just observe. Ta any who cared ta look, a stag would be all they would see.
“After a time, he grew tired o’ this and yearned for a closer connection ta th’ gaily dressed, laughing women who traveled together, sometimes ta get water, rarely ta bathe. These times were most desirous, for th’ obvious reasons, and one tha’ made him th’ most curious. Th’ women, after they had washed th’ dirt from their bodies, would relax with an easy companionship, moments he guessed were few and far between. Th’ episodes would always end too early, and he craved more.
“One day he got up enough courage ta step out of th’ thick underbrush as one single woman with auburn hair curling down ta her waist was bending ta get a bucketful o’ water. Bright copper and silver shone as th’ dappled sunlight fell on her glorious mane, paling th’ verdant surroundings. He longed ta touch it. She gasped when she saw him, an enormous twelve point buck, just on th’ other side o’ th’ stream.
“Water sloshed from th’ bucket as she picked it up with shaky hands ta place on th’ ground next ta her. She smoothed her damp skirts and tried to remain still, lowering her eyes ta th’ ground as she was taught. She was scared, more afraid than she ever had been, and when th’ buck stepped inta the water, she trembled.
“She risked a glance at its face after th’ initial shock wore off. Cernunnos stood thaur, falling in love with the brash sense of adventure tha’ made her leuk at him despite her childhood lessons. He was roused at th’ quick pulse at her throat, and th’ thought tha’ he alone could make it race.
Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy Page 6
