by J. M. Hofer
Softened by her tears, Bran pulled her into his arms. Her blame made the blame he carried within himself all the more terrible to bear. She’s right. I should have forced her to come home – but I didn’t—I left her there, in the hands of the savages who violated our home. I’ve failed her, I’ve failed my daughter... Such thoughts assailed him, but he spoke only the words he knew would comfort his wife. “Taliesin is with her. He’ll watch over her.”
Lucia stood up straight, her composure regained.
Bran looked her in the eyes. “This is no easier for me than it is for you. Can’t you see that? Has your suffering blinded you to mine? You’ve barred the doors of your heart to me. Are you so cruel, that you would deny me my wife, now, as well as my daughter?”
Lucia shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No. I’m sorry. At least our daughter lives, and she’s living the life she chose for herself. I’ve been selfish. I’m ashamed…I just miss her…so much.”
Bran felt a wave of relief. He took her hands and kissed them, and then her face and her lips. She relaxed in his arms, returning his affection, pulling him toward her. Soon, he felt his blood rising, driving him to rescue his wife from the abyss that had separated them over the past week. He carried her off to a patch of grass beneath a tree, laid her down, and reclaimed every inch of her with his kiss.
“Don’t ever leave me like that again,” he whispered in her ear. “I don’t have much of a heart left, but what’s there belongs to you—it can’t beat without you by my side.”
***
Lucia came back to the village acting like the queen her clan was used to. She threw herself into the ample work there was to do, laboring at it longer than anyone else. Bran finally had to insist she quit and come to bed. Gratitude overcame him that night, as she nestled into the crook of his shoulder and her red curls spilled across his chest. Thank you, Great Mother, for giving me my wife back. I swear, I’ll be a better husband. He lay awake for some time, thinking of what the raid had done to his family and how unexpected the outcome had been. Gareth was much changed from his time among the Jutes. He had always been quiet, but now, his silence had a different quality. Bran knew from experience the battlefield did one of two things to every young man—it either turned him back into a fearful child or forged him into a man. He thanked the gods that, with Gareth, it was the latter. And then, there was Arhianna. Nothing had been more painful or unexpected than that. Great Mother, watch over her. Please. Please protect my daughter. Please.
***
Slowly, days turned to moons. The days grew shorter, and the weather colder. Each day was different, but Lucia seemed to be returning to her former self, at least on the outside. Most days she seemed content, but at times, Bran caught her gazing east with a wistful look in her eyes. He knew she was thinking about Arhianna. He knew, because he often did the same thing.
Gareth spent much of his time with Brokkr at the forge and with Brokkr’s children, Laust and Inga. Their friendship seemed to be a salve that eased the pain of losing Arhianna and Taliesin, and Bran felt glad he had agreed to let them come. At least, that was a good decision.
In an effort to make them feel welcome, Lucia often invited them to sup with their family. Though long silences were common, they could all engage in simple conversation. The girl, Inga, was the most animated of the three. She reminded Bran of Arhianna, so he was not surprised that Lucia quickly grew attached to her.
“Inga,” she said one night, “I have something for you.”
Inga’s eyes opened wide as Lucia produced Arhianna’s old tablet and stylus and patted the seat next to her. She ran over and sat beside her, eager to see what it was. Lucia showed her how to draw pictures in the soft wax, smiling as Inga giggled at the animal figures she sketched for her.
“Next, I’ll teach you how to write letters, and make words,” Lucia promised.
Inga had been fascinated. From then on, she was never without her tablet and always squeezed Lucia tight upon greeting her. Inga soon became a surrogate daughter for Lucia, taking some of the sting out of Arhianna’s absence.
At first, there had been many who had not approved of his decision to allow Brokkr and his family to join the clan, but they had grown fewer as the moons had passed. Inga deserved some of the credit, for she was endearing and ever-friendly, but it was her father’s tremendous skill as a blacksmith that had secured their acceptance. Einon simply could not swing a hammer like he used to, and the other smiths had died in the attack. Gareth would have been left to handle the impossible demands of the clan alone. With Brokkr and Laust, however, the forge was turning out blades and spearheads of exceptional quality, as well as numerous practical everyday items such as tools, horseshoes, nails and spikes. They were a formidable trio, and good work counted for much among the Oaks. Come midsummer, they would have much to trade, and that had been the one hope in an otherwise bleak season.
Now, if we can only manage to feed ourselves until then, Bran thought. Neirin and Eirwen had brought back less than half as much grain as the clan was accustomed to eating through the winter, as it was all the other clans could spare. His hatred for Aelhaearn grew with the mounting hunger of his people. For the first time, he began to think leaving Arhianna behind might have been the right decision, after all—at least she would be fed through the winter.
CHAPTER TWO
Nimue
No longer bound to Hraban, Taliesin left the village of the Jutes to live beneath the Ash. There, he built a small hut for himself, like the one he had lived in with Islwyn.
Moons passed, and he learned the magic of the Ash was very different from the magic of the Oak. The Oak was slow-growing and stalwart. She stood wide and deep, gnarled and twisted, with thick, hard limbs. She had taught him to be patient, insisting good work took time, and true knowledge only took root and bore good fruit after many seasons.
The Ash was far less content to settle so deeply into the earth. A slender beauty, she reached shamelessly toward the heavens with her branches, stretching up to touch the clouds and brush them away for glimpses of the gods. She challenged him to think not only of his roots, but of what beckoned from above. What are you reaching for, my friend? she whispered to him.
Through the Ash’s prompting, Taliesin found he was almost as gifted a healer as he was a musician. He could lay his hands upon someone and feel where their ailment was, in the same way he could touch his harp and know if a string was out of tune. Thanks to Islwyn and Lucia, he had learned the herblore to restore balance in the body so it could sing again. Setting bones and stitching wounds were things he left to others, but for common ailments—fever, stomach problems, skin rashes, women’s aches, boils, gout—none could compare. He drove them all away.
Arhianna regularly brought him the sick from the village, both human and animal. He would keep them under his care until they were healed and send them back whole again. In return, the village provided him with everything he needed.
He and Arhianna grew closer. Each morning, he heard her footsteps on the path to the spring where she had built an altar to Freya. She would spend an hour washing and praying, and then stop to visit with him on her return.
“Freya speaks to me all the time,” she confided one day. “Sometimes by the spring, sometimes in my dreams. I don’t always remember what she teaches me but, when I do, it always proves helpful and wise. Do the gods speak to you like that?”
Taliesin was unsure how to answer. “They speak to me through music and pictures in my mind—as if I’m dreaming while I’m awake. I see what they want to show me. Sometimes I don’t understand right away. Sometimes, it’s moons later before I realize what they were trying to teach me.”
Arhianna nodded. “I know what you mean. She doesn’t use words with me, either. It’s as if I’m thinking what she wishes to teach me, but as my own thoughts…” Arhianna wrinkled her nose. “But I know they’re not my own thoughts. Does that make any sense?”
“Oh, yes.” Very much so. H
e smiled. Arhianna had flourished in her position within the clan. Though still playful and fond of teasing, her former petulance was gone. Her love for Jørren had much to do with it, he knew, but it was her daily worship and reflection that he suspected deserved most of the credit.
Through the fall and winter, Taliesin came to deeply appreciate the beauty of the land fate had led him to. It sat deep within the Lim Fjord, sheltered from the harsh winds that battered the western coastline, providing access to both the North and Kattegat Seas. It was flat, full of rich soil and regal trees, and surrounded by nothing more difficult to navigate than calm waters and gentle rolling hills. They enjoyed cool summers and mild winters, good fishing, and the sweetest oysters Taliesin had ever eaten. It was not hard to see why the Danes wanted it.
When spring came, Taliesin began to hear something other than the sounds of the forest—a song, drifting faintly upon the winds. Day and night, it haunted him. Sometimes, it came when he listened for it, and sometimes, it came unbidden. It sounded different by moonlight than by sunlight, and it made him both smile and weep.
He grew to know the song by heart. He sang it often, until his fingers knew its melody intimately upon his harp, feeling their way into its promise. He was humming it softly one day while gazing into the Brisingamen, when something new stirred within the amber. The stone responded to the song, pulling him inward, each phrase leading him deeper within the worlds it held, until a willow tree appeared. She stood on a silent bank, veiled by soft mist. Deer grazed nearby. They looked up and met his eyes as if they knew he was watching them. The world of the Willow called to his soul, and he ached for it the same way he had ached for the Oak as a small boy. Soon, he promised the Willow. One day, very soon, I’ll come—but not today. He knew when he left, he would likely never return. He could not do that without saying farewell to Arhianna.
***
One morning, when Arhianna stopped to visit, Taliesin told her about the song and the world of the Willow.
“You saw all of that within the Brisingamen?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the stone with envy. “Can I try again?”
Taliesin took the pendant from around his neck and held it out. She held it between her thumb and forefinger and gazed into it with hopeful eyes. After ten minutes, she heaved a sigh of disappointment and handed it back. “I see nothing.” She stared at the stone with longing and shook her head. “The place you described sounds so beautiful—I wish I could see it.”
“I wish you could, too.” He had shared the secret of the Brisingamen with Arhianna soon after discovering it, fully expecting her to be able to see what he could. At his suggestion, she had tried scrying into the stone many times, but, sadly, never saw anything within its depths except its tiny ancient bubbles. One day, she gave up. “Maybe it only works for those it wants to,” she reasoned. She had taken it from around her neck and handed it to him. The moment Taliesin touched it, it jumped to life, glowing like a hot coal. Fiery colors danced inside it, threads of them reaching out into the air like the tentacles of a jellyfish. She had been so envious, it had made him feel terrible.
He turned the stone over and over in his hands, now, thinking about how hard it must have been for her to give it up. The pendant had always been her most-prized possession. He would never forget the afternoon it fell from her neck while they were out riding. He had never seen her so distraught. He and Gareth had helped her search the meadow for hours until they found it.
He reached over and took her hand. “I want to show you something.” As he had done before with Lucia, he used the Brisingamen to show her how the Ash was connected to the Oak, transporting them to the Sacred Grove.
After the forest solidified around them, Arhianna whispered, “Are we really here?”
“Yes. We’re here.”
Arhianna took her hand from her knee and touched the ground, digging her fingers into the soil beside her. “No, it can’t be.”
“You could stay if you wanted.”
“No.” Arhianna jerked her hand away from the soil. “I’m frightened. What if we can’t get back again? I don’t like this…please, take me back.”
Taliesin had not considered the possibility that they might not be able to return. Not wanting to risk it, he focused his efforts on getting them back to the Ash. When they had safely arrived, Arhianna sat beside him in silence, in awe of what had just happened.
“So, now, you know—if ever you want to go home, you can use the Ash to get to the Sacred Grove.” He looked her in the eyes, took her hand, and put the Brisingamen into her palm. “If ever you’re in trouble, ask Freya to help you as she helped your grandmother. I know she will.”
Arhianna shook her head and gave him back the pendant. “No. I’ve made my choice, as you’ve made yours.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “I know you’re going away.”
He felt sheepish. “You do?”
She nodded. “Please don’t feel bad. I never expected you to stay here forever.”
He felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. He knew how much she missed Gareth, and now he was leaving her as well. “I can’t help but feel I’m abandoning you.”
Arhianna shook her head. “No. Take the Brisingamen and go where you’ve been called. I know you’ve been staying here for me, but you needn’t worry—I’m happy. I have no plans to go home, through the Ash or any other way. I love Jørren. And Freya watches over me.”
She even speaks like a queen, now. Taliesin felt melancholic. He embraced her, listening to the breeze shake the leaves on the Ash. “I pray our paths will cross again.”
“Of course they will.” She squeezed him tightly, pulled away and gave him a smile. “Farewell, for now.”
They both stood up. She gave him a parting kiss on the cheek and returned to the life she had chosen.
He watched her walk back toward the village until she disappeared into the trees.
***
Taliesin sought the Willow on the next new moon. Once night fell, he sat beneath the Ash with nothing but his knife, his harp, and the Brisingamen.
He soon discovered that finding his way to the Willow proved far more difficult than finding his way back to the Oak. He had never been to the land of the Willow, so could not picture his destination as vividly. He had to rely solely on the images the Brisingamen revealed to him, imagining himself deep inside of them. He clung to the images like a child to his mother, humming the song he had come to know so well. For hours, he sang, gazing into the stone, willing himself beneath the Willow.
At last, he felt the telltale buzz of energy come upon him. It filled his body with its vibration, flowing through him like the current of a river. When he felt ready, he surrendered to the warm power of the current and let it carry him where it wished. Again, his surroundings began to fade in and out, but this time, when the world around him solidified, he was sitting beneath the Willow. A new world.
Birds were just beginning to herald the first rays of the sun. Their melodies beckoned him out of his trance. He dared not move for a moment, fearing the scene around him might disappear. Instead, he concentrated on the birdsong, the long waving trails of leaves in front of him, and his breath, until he felt every part of him was committed and present. He then looked up at his new queen, the Willow. Feeling more confident, he wiggled his fingers and hands, reacquainting himself with his body. He summoned the courage to stand up. His legs were as shaky as a newborn lamb’s, but he set out to explore his surroundings anyway. He knew nothing about where he was or who he might encounter, but felt no fear. He gratefully shed his pelts, embracing the milder weather, and wandered until a ravenous hunger overcame him. He searched with new eyes, focusing solely on things he could eat. He found patches of mushrooms and a thick clump of tangled berry bushes to ease the pain in his stomach. The bushes grew over a brook, where he stooped to drink. Thirst and hunger sated, he followed it to see where it flowed. It led him up a hillside and through a verdant field of meadowsweet. There, he fo
und the source of the brook—a clear, wide pond, brimming with fish, frogs and birds. From there, the mist occasionally thinned and granted a stunning view of a wide, misty marsh below, the edges of which he could not see. He stayed there atop the hill, marveling at its views, until night began to fall.
A thin crescent moon was rising by the time he returned to the Willow. He sat down within the comfort of her shelter, leaned against her trunk, and played her song upon his harp. He felt her leaning down to listen, wrapping her branches ever more protectively around him. He serenaded her through the night, relaxing into the rhythm of the new land he had come to, and slept well.
***
Pale sunlight danced on Taliesin’s eyelids as a cool breeze moved the Willow’s leaves to and fro, waking him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. A family of deer grazed a few feet away. He got up slowly, so as not to startle them, and followed them to see where they grazed. They knew he was there but did not seem to mind. They guided him to several good places to find edible flowers, bulbs and berries. By the end of the day, he had gathered enough food to sustain him awhile.
Over the next week, he built himself a small shelter and collected a large amount of firewood. Each night, he fell asleep feeling more at home but surprised he had not yet encountered anyone. Where am I? The land of the Franks? Armorica? Perhaps further south? Or am I far in the north, where the clans are scarce? No, the weather’s too mild. He explored the land extensively over the next few days, but did not discover any indications of a nearby village or town, any roads, or even any well-trodden paths. He did, however, realize he was on a large island. Then, some mornings later, he awoke to see a young woman standing over him.
Taliesin bolted upright. He blinked frantically, trying to adjust his eyes, until he was able to see his visitor clearly.
“You sing my song at night,” she said with a smile. “Who are you?”
She was perhaps a few years younger than he was, but her voice was that of a woman, rich and mature, with the resonance of a reed flute.
