“Well, let’s look at it in reverse. Your powers were already manifesting by the time Spencer was stabbed,” said Leo, referring to the attack by the Order on Brenawyn in the backyard of her grandmother’s shop in Salem which had occurred a few weeks before. Spencer had gallantly defended her from the attacker, but had been stabbed in the process.
“Your interlace allowed you to save him, even though you were not trained in healing. It was no random attack. That man was coming for you, so the interlace had manifested enough for the Oracle to have a vision of you,” Leo explained. “The Lughnasadh ceremony, I suspect, is when it happened. By offering to take my place because I had injured my leg, the pantheon saw you as their willing participant. That is the first requirement from officiant to sacrifice, whether temporary or permanent.”
Brenawyn thought about what her grandmother had just said and nodded. Her memories of the Lughnasadh ceremony were hazy; she had been possessed by the spirit of Aine, the goddess of fertility. Even though her memories weren’t clear, her face grew red at the thought of the steamy interlude with Alex that had followed the ceremony, and she quickly changed the subject.
“What of visions and omens?”
“You should know better, Brenawyn, than to ask that. Is it so different than Catholicism that people have visions? It is written in the Bible on several occasions.”
“That’s true.”
“And as far as omens go, people have always tried to interpret meaning from their environment. Is it so farfetched to try to determine when it’s going to rain, or if the storm will be a severe one? I mean, the method may seem odd, watching for changes in animal behavior, but animals are more sensitive to things like that.”
“Now that you mention it, I think there were studies done on horses being able to predict earthquakes.”
“See, not so weird.”
“But some methods are extreme. Do not tell me you hold with evisceration as a means of prediction?” Her pointed question brought up vivid scenes of horror. Though she hadn’t seen Barbara’s body herself, the kindly bakery owner across the street from her grandmother’s place, the scene had been described to her in minute detail by the police the night of her murder. That, combined with the blood stained cobblestones left after the crime scene had been fully processed, left her with night terrors. If imagination was a poor substitute for actual sight, she’d rather stick to imagination for it filled in the gaps of what was a drawn-out, grisly death.
Barbara had been killed by the Vate to help the Order locate Brenawyn. Brenawyn, despite all she had seen in the past few weeks, was still finding it difficult to accept that her twenty-eight years of living in a normal, fact-based, scientific world were at an end; that she now lived in a world where gods and goddesses and magic were real, and that she was some kind of reincarnation of a long-lost high priestess.
“Brenawyn, honey, look at me. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t go there. You’ll just be beating yourself up trying to make sense of her death. To these people, her life meant nothing. There is no reason. They will stop at nothing to get to you. As for your question, no, of course I don’t hold with it. But these people do very much believe in it and you have to accept that so you can ward yourself against it.”
Brenawyn stifled back tears and nodded her head.
“It is an ancient custom. Back then, you have to understand, it was a different time, savage, harrowing, people unsure of where the next threat would originate. I can understand why they did anything they could to gain some information on what the future might hold for them. They were trying to carve out an existence, some stability and surety in a time when nothing was constant. Blood offerings do offer some clarity; they just don’t have to be as vicious as what was done to Barbara.”
She opened her hands and showed them to Brenawyn, a scabbed over slice to the meaty part of her palm showed red. “Why do you think my hands are so scarred?”
Tears welled in Brenawyn’s eyes as she took her grandmother’s hand and covered it with her own, “When did you do this?”
“The night that Barbara was murdered. Alex asked me to scry for a location of the Oracle.”
“And what did it do?”
“Visions are like dreams. They don’t adhere to the linear. They are illogical and are often full of symbols. The blood is like wearing goggles when you swim underwater in the ocean. It makes things clearer; there is still the murk to wade through, but it makes it much less disorienting.”
“Is it just human blood that makes things clearer?”
“In ancient times animal blood was used more frequently, but it depended on the situation and what vision the seer was seeking. I’ve used animal blood.
“Ugh. Nana! But why?”
“Listen Brenawyn, I didn’t go out to slaughter an animal for the sole purpose of using its blood in a ritual. You seem to forget I was a farmer’s wife. If we wanted to eat, we had to kill the chicken or lamb. That’s the truth of it. We have moved so far away from the way things were. You go to the grocery store to buy chicken cutlets, but do you ever think of how those cutlets got there? Someone had to kill the chicken, cut it up, package it, and send it to the store. Don’t look at me with that disgust on your face,” Leo said indignantly.
“I’m sorry, Nana.”
“It’s okay. Mine is not the first religion to do this. There are Old Testament stories that refer to acts of sacrifice, but little thought is given to how things must have been. Animals were scarce and expensive. If a sacrifice was to be made, the people sacrificed according to their beliefs, but likely retained the meat to feed themselves and only sacrificed the inedible. Greek and Roman accounts made mention of this too.”
“Will I be expected to … ?”
“I think you know the answer to that already, but we’re a long way from that. I think we got off track here.”
Brenawyn nodded, took a breath, and said, “So, willingness is the first requirement. What is the second? How many others are there?”
“The second is precision. You took the time to study the ritual; you said the proper words giving thanks to all the gods. How did you prepare?”
“I heard you practice it so many times, saw you perform it for years.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, not that I can remember … wait.”
“What?”
“Wait, wait. Let me think.” Brenawyn got up from the table and paced away, muttering to herself.
“Your grandfather did that.”
Brenawyn looked up, “Huh?”
“He mumbled to himself when he was thinking about something important. You reminded me of him just now.”
She smiled. “Nana, do you remember the night you told me that you were a Druid? A few days before the ceremony? I stormed out of the house to clear my head.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I ran into Alex and we ended up taking a walk to the ceremonial grounds. He was telling me stories about the ritual and what the officiant would do the night before.”
“Ah, did it have something to do with asking permission?”
“Yes, that was it.”
Leo nodded her head, “The picture is becoming clearer. Did you by chance ask permission?”
“Ugh, yes, I didn’t know what I was doing. I was so swept up in the story, that I didn’t even think that in so doing it might be seen as disrespectful.”
“Well, now it makes more sense that your latent abilities were activated by the thanksgiving ceremony. Brenawyn, would you do me a favor? Really think about this before you make a decision. Your life has become more complicated and dangerous, but I think it’s manageable yet. If you choose this you will own the danger. Choosing this lifestyle, you will be trained to use your magic and will be able to defend yourself. But make no mistake, if you accept this destiny, they will come for you, and there will be no going back.”
“So, no pressure then. Thanks.”
“Brenawyn. Just think about it. Please
. Spend some time with Alexander. He knows all of the history; he can teach you the basics before you have to decide anything.”
“Speaking of Alexander. He’s a history professor, a priest, an occult connoisseur, a magic man and a werewolf?”
“A werewolf! Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a shape-shifter.”
“Oh, that clears everything up then.”
“Brenawyn, he’s the Shaman—a teacher and defender of the Old Ways.”
“The same Shaman that would have sex with the high priestess on Beltaine, to what—represent the fertility of the Earth? I’m supposed to be this high priestess? So, are you telling me that we are, what, fated to fall in love or something?
“Not that he’s decrepit and has leprosy or anything, he’s rather, well … extremely handsome, but really! You’re my grandmother for God’s sake. Aren’t you supposed to be guarding my virtue or something?”
“I am so glad I rate so high in yer esteem, Brenawyn.”
She turned to find Alexander standing directly behind her. Where had he come from? How had he approached so silently? Shit, why was he always here whenever she turned around? She felt the color creep up her neck, abashed, “I didn’t mean … I don’t think of you … I, I, I know I asked … well I don’t know what to think. Excuse me.” She brushed by him as if on a mission, wishing that she was back in Jersey, in her house. Life was so simple, so ordinary then.
She headed for her bedroom and softly clicked the door closed, although she wanted to slam it repeatedly to clear some frustration. She thought better of it, slamming the door was childish. Where was the dog? Oh, Maggie had him. Figures, just when she needed some canine comfort. Spencer didn’t want to turn her world upside down; he didn’t want her to discard her faith for a new one, so strangely different. He didn’t ask anything of her besides a belly rub and some doggie treats.
She flopped on the bed and crammed the sham under her chin. She lay like this for a while, looking at the pattern of the headboard’s wood grain but not seeing it. She sighed and turned her head to face the nightstand, the blue cloth of her mother’s journal stood out as a beacon. Perhaps, I can get some comfort from Mom. She reached for the journal and opened to a random page in the middle of the book.
August, 1982
Awake with a start. Smoke? Yanked forcibly from bed. Rescued? No … captured. No sense. Why wasn’t it making any sense? Hands like vices held my arms pinned to my sides as unseen faces shoved and pinched. Fighting and trying to protect my swollen stomach, I didn’t try to fend off the punches that landed anywhere else. Tears streaming down my face as punches rained down on my head. Off balance and unprepared for the boot to the lower back, I found myself sprawled over the front threshold landing on my hands and knees in the mud. Peering over her shoulder struggling to see past the massed bodies, I could just see the newly carved trundle splintered, pieces strewn across the floor through the small space of the common room. Searching hopelessly around for help, flames licked at the edges of the curtains. The house was gone. Several men nearby tossed their torches onto the thatched roof. Thrust to my feet and dragged away, just before the cloth bag covered my face, the roof smoldered for endless moments and then in a big whoosh, it was consumed.
Lost to the passage of time, was today the third day or just the second? The clouds were a lighter gray interspersed at times with clear blue sky, even though it was still misting. I could hear the morning stirring of my neighbors; the jingle of a horse’s bridle and clop of its hooves as it passed, the clatter of shutters thrown open, soon a new volley of taunts and missiles would be sent my way.
Mud-splattered and chilled to the bone, I hugged the wall in a vain attempt to get some protection from the icy rain as it continued to patter down. Exposure allowed my gore to settle and with pity I observed the worms leach from the walls of the prison only to plop into a watery grave. I bent down to scoop up a worm from the nearly shin deep water and stuffed it in my mouth, barely chewing. I gagged but fought the reflex to vomit by quickly swallowing. I would be damned if I would eat the filth that had been thrown upon me. Stale and moldy bread, meat infested with maggots—fare not even fit for vermin. Worms were more appetizing given the options. I had to remain strong if for only a little while to see.
The first of my tormentors for the day arrived shortly after, a group of children. The children were the worst, fed lies and superstitions by their ignorant parents from birth; they knew no better and were merciless. Thinking of new forms of torment, these children, who I could picture in my mind because I knew each of them, threw a live snake into the pit with me. They laughed maniacally as I splashed to get away from it. I dug at the walls pulling at errant roots trying to climb above the water level. The roots gave and the rain-softened earth offered no holds as it oozed between my fingers. I turned, armed with a sharp stone I had dislodged, desperately trying to locate the serpent in the gloom. In one motion I pounced on it, finding myself on my knees in the muck grasping the writhing snake in my hand; I bashed it repeatedly until it no longer struggled. Screaming obscenities, I stood shakily and flung the bloody remains away from me.
August 23, 1982
He tells me that he found me out in the garden, mud stained and drenched, scribbling in my journal. He tells me it was a dream.
It was just a dream.
A nightmare.
But why I can still taste the worm?
September 15, 1982
I sleep alone now locked in our bedroom. The bolt he installed himself on the outside. Every time that bolt slides home, a little more of my hope dies with it.
Chapter 4
Brenawyn looked around room; the door was closed, and all she could think of was to get out. She needed to get away. She cracked the door and listened, no sound, good to slip out unnoticed. She tied her hikers on and with a glimpse down the hallway skirted out, only to find Alexander and her grandmother huddled in the corner whispering.
Her curiosity was peaked, but she had too much pride to ask what they were talking about, even though she was very sure it had something to do with her. Instead she announced, “I’m going out.”
Alexander looked up. “Wait, lass. We ha’ found another bundle, the same that I burned at the Salem house.” He offered it for Brenawyn to see.
“So?”
“T’was amongst yer effects haur in the attic. T’is meant for ye.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Ye doona ken, lass. This is a memory binding. This is the second o’ three.”
“I’m still not following.”
“Brenawyn, right now, tell me about yer husband.”
Looking askance at him, “Why?”
“A happy memory. Detailed.”
“Um, let’s see, there was the time he took me to see a play—what was it? It was … hmm? That’s funny.”
“What is?”
“I can’t recall it.”
“Just as I thought.”
“What? Just as you thought about what? Because I can’t remember the name of the play? You asked me out of the blue. That’s why I can’t remember. It would be like I asked you to say something funny. You wouldn’t be able to do it.”
“A’richt, but humor me for a minute.” Alex strode passed her and into the kitchen, Nana following on his heels. “Sit doon, Brenawyn. Leo, stay by her just in case.”
He pulled a copper pot off the overhead rack placing it on the stovetop with a bang. A lit match was introduced to the dried twigs of the sachet and thrown into the pot. The bits caught instantly, that same strange smell pervading the room. Once the smell was in her nostrils, she was back in Salem prying the first bundle from Spencer’s jaws on the staircase. Feeling the saliva-wet velvet bag, loosening its strings, and pouring out the dried herbs into her hand. Alex knew what it was then too, as he snatched it from her. His reaction was the same as it was now, to burn the sachet.
It was too much to bear. Brenawyn could feel tension behind her eyes build, the
onset of a headache. She pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging the area above futilely to try to relieve the pressure. “Put yer head doon, but continue ta breathe, Brenawyn. Help her, Leo.”
The intensity of the headache increased so the fading light of the setting sun burned her eyes and the overhead lights felt as if they pounded on her head. Brenawyn gave in; the tabletop looked like a welcome place, at least a place to keep her head from rolling off her shoulders.
I woke with a start back in my bedroom, the coverlet and sheets twisted in knots around my legs. Sweat drenched my body, but my hands went automatically to my swollen belly. A healthy kick answered back. I smiled.
The movement made getting up a necessity so I shuffled out of bed, and padded down to the bathroom. My back was turned to Liam, when he called out. I turned as I reached the bathroom door. The smile on my face disappeared when I saw the scowl on his. “
“What did I tell you about making the bed as soon as you get up?”
“I was just going to the bathroom; the baby is … ”
He ran his hands through his hair, and grunted. “It’s always the baby. I’m tired of you using him as an excuse to be lazy.”
“Liam, Please. I’ll make the bed just let me go … ”
He hesitated for a moment, but the decision was visible on his face as soon as he made it. It happened so quickly, he turned and punched the wall bellowing, and stalked down the hall to me grabbing my arm painfully. “No. You will do it now!”
I cringed, covering my stomach with my free hand, and tried to pull away to retreat into the safety of the bathroom, “Please, I have to go.”
He pulled me along, urine trickled down my legs. Panic set in. It would make him angrier. I tried to stop it, but only succeeded in resisting his pull. He turned on me, nostrils flaring, and looked down. I tried to hide it, tried to cover the wetness, but he saw.
He turned up his nose in disgust, and yanked on my arm.
Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy Page 3
