Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been gone. However, by the foul smell of the hide, she judged at least half a day. And, as if by knowing, the Old Woman appeared from behind the veil of the waterfall. The woman stepped up to her carefully as if she were a wild creature and held up a burning oil lamp to Talah’s face, scrutinizing her features.

  Talah’s face was streaked with cow blood and sweat, smearing the blue paint indistinguishable. Her pupils constricting from the dark to the flame’s light, she squinted and tried turning from the Old Woman’s forceful grasp only to be jerked back toward the flame. Finally, the Old Woman seemed satisfied and withdrew. Twisting back around she made a noise and motioned for Talah to follow her out of the cave and leave the hide behind. Darkness had fallen. The trek back down the slope and through the meadow was laborious but the Old Woman knew it as well as one would in the dark, stopping only now and again to make certain Talah had kept up with her nimble steps.

  Once back inside the home, the sage sprinkled sacred water on Talah from a small pewter vile she had hung around her aged neck as she chanted invocations. The herb ties made earlier she now rubbed over Talah’s torso and arms, massaging and calling her spirit to come back fully. Talah, in the meantime, stared blankly into the hearth fires, reflecting on her journey. She knew now what it felt to be the element of fire, to be embers, ignited by flames of torrid passion, all fiery lusts of nature’s breath and passions. The purest feeling of being alive was only a vague reflection of that which had existed since before creation of the earth. This, she understood now.

  As the evening waned on, she had jumped into the clear and cold stream waters under a waning crescent moon to wash off. Later, she sat down at the table with stew, black bread, and rowan bloom tea without either of them speaking a word. Finally, as Talah scraped the wooden bowl for the last of her second helping, the Old Woman sat down across the table from her and poured herself and Talah another cup of tea from a clay flagon. Feeling the Old Woman’s gaze upon her, Talah laid the spoon down and cleaned a tooth with her tongue.

  Talah grinned at the woman’s questioning brow. She drank the last of her cup and returned the stare.

  The Old Woman pulled her shoulders back and regarded Talah with a grave tone of voice. “How long do you think you were in that cave?”

  Talah tipped the flagon of lightly tinted brew and shrugged a shoulder. “The moon was nearly a third when I started.”

  The old sage laid both elbows on the table and leaned close to her. “It took three days to bring you back, Ban Talah!” she uttered severely. “Three days!”

  “Three?”

  “How hard was it to catch your breath after you pulled yourself out of it?”

  Talah shook her head. “Surely, you speak of the water. I took less time through the water than the entire journey.”

  “Little time, much time. It doesn’t matter. Remember, there is no time in the Otherworld. This is what the Cardinal was counting on.” Talah threw the Old Woman a quizzical glare at the mention of trickery. “No doubt he knew you would find her. He must have known about you somehow,” she hissed. “You were expected.”

  Talah stared at the wood grains on the table with a scornful eye. “Such agony I witnessed from the Lady of the Land.”

  “Have you never seen this man?”

  Talah sat back and pondered the vision she kept keenly in her mind for months now; always being haunted by those eyes that taunted her. “No,” she murmured. “Just his eyes.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he knows you well, which is precisely why we haven’t much time.”

  The Old Woman rose up and removed a stone from the hearth wall. She straightened her slouched spine and reached into the hole to pull out a roll of dried hide. After sliding the stone back in place she unrolled the scroll on the table and passed a hand over its supple skin. She placed a lit candle on either end to hold it down and to better see the map which was scribed in ink. Or was it blood? Talah couldn’t tell.

  “I made this map for you forty-seven years ago,” the woman said, proudly.

  “I wasn’t even born yet,” Talah contested.

  The Old Woman grimaced. “Is this not a prophecy?”

  “But I thought you were forbidden to speak of it.”

  “I felt no harm at writing it down. Besides, you have had your vision already. Known to the Ancients, it is still unknown to me. What is shown to me, I may show to you.” The woman squinted and felt around the scroll for a familiar notation. “I wasn’t going to wait till I was an old woman to try and recall such things,” she added, pointing a finger to her skull.

  Talah grinned at the idea.

  “Now, listen to me.” She picked up Talah’s finger and placed it on a spot of land at the northwest corner of Wales. “This is where your concern should be.”

  “Snowdonia?”

  “There you will find a waterfall such as mine and a cave. Bigger, it is much bigger. And ancient. The cave itself is a cauldron. The waters that flow between the worlds are contained within this cauldron. It is by the breath of the Otherworldly guardians that the water is heated.”

  “Guardians.”

  “These guardians,” the sage explained, “are the Ancestors of the earth. Go to them in the high places of Snowdonia at Diana Affaraan. It is the Fortress of the High Powers.”

  Talah reflected on the words that once again echoed from her vision. “The Lady of the Land mentioned the Ancestors.”

  “It is there you shall find the Crane Bag.”

  Talah leaned back in astonishment at the mention of such a mythical piece.

  “Oh,” the Old Woman drew out a long breath. She nodded in amusement. “So, you thought it a fable, did you?”

  “Grandfather told me stories, but—”

  “All true,” the woman interrupted joyously. She stood and reached atop the mantle for a small wooden box and carried it to the table. She continued talking while pulling out a pipe made of elk bone and stuffed the bowl with an herbal blend of dried, crushed tobacco. “The Crane Bag, which was said to once have been in the hands of Myrddin, himself, is a treasure of unspeakable power with many virtues.”

  “Made from the skin of a sacred crane that was once the most beautiful woman in Hibernia,” Talah added, recalling the story. “She too was placed under a spell from a cruel and jealous being.”

  “Manannan, God of the Sea and of the Otherworld, who was her beloved made the bag of her crane skin when she died and gifted it to the Land of the Women.” The woman exhaled a smoky breath and continued. “This Bag and its treasures are the only defense you’ll have against this Cardinal and his vile wickedness.”

  Talah pulled her shoulders back and snarled in her cup. “He will bleed like any other mortal.”

  The wise old sage grabbed hold of Talah’s forearm and sternly replied, “Know his ways, Ban Talah. Remember that his soul lives in an unfathomable dark abyss. It is the most human attributes we are most deceived and enticed by, not our lack of spirituality. It is by our choices where spirituality is lost. Truly a soul to be pitied. If your heart is full of hatred and zealous retribution then you have no power to heal others. Your prayers become a mockery. Only you can decide if you wish to be consumed by darkness or embraced by light. Only you.”

  Talah stared into the woman’s yellowing amber eyes and read her wisdoms, wincing at the recall of being pulled into such an abyss.

  “It is late,” the Old Woman said after an interval. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow you leave.”

  Chapter Five

  BAN TALAH JOURNEYED to a port on the west coast tip of England. It was midday. She smiled at the warm sun and removed her dampened, heavy cloak, draping it over Lugh’s neck. Evidence was everywhere of the destructive poisoned touch of the Cardinal’s dark magic, yet ever so strongly sprung the earth’s natural determination of creative will. Such was a power not to be excused. Fruit trees and hill flowers landscaped the road in colored blooms, despite their being ice encased.


  Talah hoped this town would provide for her the needed resources to allow her swift journey on her quest for the Crane Bag and its treasures. Her days spent with the Old Woman had left her with a sense of renewal and a higher awareness of her geasa, her duty.

  Talah had given herself to serious reflection these past days with Lugh as they traveled through the whole of England together. Here and there she would run into other Celtic-Christians fallen ill, useless in their gifts, or hopeless because of this enchantment. It seemed the Cardinal’s attempt to rid the king’s entire kingdom of its strength was a duty he had bound himself to in a vengeance by a means unfamiliar to Talah.

  She rode past a couple of bystanding guards chit-chatting about something or the other. It was obvious this town was not on any particular alert, and this eased her mind knowing she wasn’t going to have to conduct her business in secret.

  Talah only hoped all the years under the tutelage of so many sages and divine guidance would prepare her for the battle soon to be waged against the madman who hid under the cloth. If she could only see his face...

  A high-pitched whistle brought her back to her senses. Her comrades, Moya and Brodie, were waving and smiling from the pier near a merchant’s table of fresh fish catches. Talah smiled at their eager approach and dismounted.

  “Brighid bless us, you’ve come!” Brodie shouted with obvious excitement.

  “God, I thought you would never get here,” added Moya. She grabbed Talah and embraced her.

  “Ow!” Talah jerked back in pain. She rubbed her chest and eyed the jumble of decoration Moya had strung around her neck. “What is that elaborate thing you wear?”

  “Oh,” Moya replied sheepishly. “It’s a cockle shell breastplate. What do you think? It’s the newest idea next to mail.”

  Talah faked interest to keep the woman amused and started to pull Lugh along as she strode away.

  “If nothing else, it’ll keep the men from crawling on you, aye?” chuckled Brodie. Moya’s reaction was a swift swat against his chest.

  “Speaking of such men,” Talah interjected, “where is our beloved Mac?”

  Talah was referring to Fergus MacConnell. A stout and burly, red-whiskered Scot who’d traveled in the band since her father led it thirty years before. Mac had an insatiable appetite for war and was not in the least shy about showing his full, deep possession of principles and courage. The respect he held for Talah was no less than the respect he held for her father. He was unreserved in his affection toward her as an older brother would be, thus making it his sworn duty to serve Talah ‘till his death.

  Moya grimaced. “Now, you know if he’s not on the battlefield or in a woman’s bed he’s got to be only one other place.”

  Brodie looked down his nose to Talah and threw a thumb to the tavern behind them. “Pub.”

  The tavern was small yet packed with fishermen and locals alike. Talah and her companions worked their way around the ceaseless chatter and hollering to stand before Mac. He was busily eating his plate of steamed mussels and lobster when he cocked an eye in Talah’s direction.

  “You know a man can die of hunger waiting on you, lass.” The comment was muffled between chews, as meat and shell flaking littered his scraggly red whiskers.

  Talah could only laugh. “Aye, I see how you’ve suffered so.”

  Mac chortled boisterously. Standing, he tossed a giant claw on the plate so he could better wrap his messy paws around Talah. With a crushing bear hug and powerful slap on the back, Talah thought her eyes would surely pop out. Mac held her at arm’s length and grinned wide. “By Danu, it’s good to see you, Talah. Just let me finish my plate then I’ll be ready for battle.”

  “Uh, Mac...” Talah said reproachfully. “I know this was to be your expectation, but...there is no battle.”

  “No battle?”

  “No battle?” Brodie exclaimed.

  Mac pulled himself to stand before her and glared as a bear before the strike. He cocked his head slightly and a smile curled around his lips and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Ah-h,” he said finally, shaking a finger at her. “You play with me.”

  Talah sighed with regret. “We’ll only loiter here a bit. Have faith. There are more noble deeds than what blade and axe can mar a legacy into.”

  Moya grabbed hold of Talah’s arm. “You said it was urgent— impending.”

  Talah sat down at the bench. “More impending than the next breath. The breath of the land, itself.”

  Talah proceeded to explain the details of her visions as the others joined her at the table. While Moya and Brodie were highly attentive, Mac, being a warrior and knowing only war, kept to his supper and refills of brew, unknowledgeable and disinterested in such talk as the mystical Otherworld. He finished his meal and reclined before a pile of empty shells before wiping his mouth on a sleeve to reply.

  “And just how do you propose we get to this place in just two days, Talah? It’ll take us that long just to travel through southern Wales,” he stormed. “Why, with the Marcher lords in high pursuit, stopping us at every turn because Ban Talah must honor them with her presence at their tables. Bah! Much cock and bull pomp, it is.”

  “Keep raging like that, old man, and you’ll be out of breath before we even see a battle,” Brodie kidded him.

  “I can still tan your hide!” growled Mac, with Brodie’s shirt in his fist.

  Moya, too, was concerned. “If we are to sail, we might make it. But who would we charter with?”

  “I’m not about to trust any French.” Mac ranted. “And I trust the Normans even less. Seems they’ve all got our blessed nations here wrapped around their little fingers. Can’t move an inch without discovering another law.”

  “Mac’s right, Talah,” Brodie proposed nervously. “We don’t know who to trust and who not to. Might be safer to trek to Snowdonia on foot.”

  Talah shook her head. “No time.” She dropped a bag of coins in front of Moya. “I’ll leave it up to the three of you to find us a ship.”

  Moya gasped at the amount of gold coins she possessed. “Do you realize how much we have?”

  Brodie slid a curious hand over to the bag before Moya slapped him away.

  “The greediest heart will sail the fastest,” Talah replied.

  Moya stood, tying the bag onto her belt. “And what are you to do in the meantime?”

  Talah had caught sight of what she thought was a familiar figure near the door. Squinting, she gazed upon the shapely form with long, wavy chestnut hair. She knew someone, a long time ago, with such hair. An entrancing memory. If only she would turn around.

  After a moment, the chestnut haired figure slipped through the door and turned down the street. Talah brushed by the men and touched Moya’s arm.

  “I’ll catch up,” Talah murmured.

  Talah followed the woman through the wharf street bustle of ox carts and merchants, buyers and shipyard loadings. Occasionally the woman would stop before a cart of wheat flour or a table of dresses and linens. And each time Talah would slide through the crowd for a closer look at hair that glistened in the afternoon sun like the wing of a meadowlark. The cranberry gown she wore was that of a noblewoman. Ornate with ivory stitching and lace that caressed her waist and breasts, the dress hung seductively off her shoulders and showed a soft cleavage. A chill breeze shivered her skin before being covered by a woolen cloak.

  The woman pulled an emerald fabric from a table and stood before a full-length mirror, unfolding it to lie upon her torso and down her leg. She paid little attention to the passers-by in the mirror until Talah’s reflection came into full view. The woman halted with fright, and gasped. As Talah walked near, the woman clutched her shaking hand to her mouth. Talah sauntered up behind her and gently readjusted the woolen cloak over the woman’s shoulders.

  “You’ll catch a frightful chill in weather such as this, my Lady,” Talah whispered to her in French. She glanced at the emerald eyes staring back at her in the mirror.

  Inhaling d
eeply, Talah’s old flame Juetta twisted around to look upon her. Talah perused the soft face she had so long ago touched. Daringly, she wiped tears that fell from her delicate eyes. Juetta closed her eyes and turned away.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  The clothier frowned, shouting, “Well what’s the matter with her?”

  Talah glanced over to the man whose middle-aged brew belly stuck out more than his scowling bottom lip. “She’s so distraught over the expense of your beautiful fabric.”

  “A lady, such as ’erself, can’t afford a measly—”

  “Nobles must pinch pences too, you know,” Talah interrupted.

  To that, Juetta choked a laugh.

  “Any more of a pinch, an’ it’ll hurt!” the man snapped in reply.

  “Nonsense. What did you charge that woman that just bought one of like kind?” asked Talah.

  The man stuttered. “’E-ere now, what business is it of yours?”

  “I believe she paid you two shillings.” Talah leaned a hip against the table and spoke slowly, fingering the weaving. “Clearly, the woman whose hand tasked over this was not too insistent on finding the finer twigs before weaving them into its threads.”

  The man glared at Talah’s smirk and threw his weight on the table. “Listen. That silk is from Italy,” he growled. “It ain’t cheap, and I refuse to sell cheap.”

  Talah looked to Juetta from the corner of her eye then confidently faced the man and answered, “Give it to her for two shillings or I’ll report that you stole it from a Byzantine merchant and failed to pay customs duty.” Talah grabbed hold of the man’s hand and eyed a Byzantine cross signet ring. “After, of course, you murdered him.”

  Color faded from the man’s face. Wrenching his hand from her he turned away, and mumbled, “Take it. Two shillings, then. Take it.”

  Talah motioned to Juetta to open her coin pouch. Finding it stuffed with crowns, Talah raised an eyebrow to Juetta’s slight shrug. Pulling a coin from the pouch she handed it to the man coolly.

  “Have you change?”