by A. L. Duncan
A cloaked figure appeared over her and if she hadn’t been so weak she might have jumped. Yet, when the voice spoke she relaxed as if her spirit rested in the embrace of a heavenly apparition. An aged hand reached out and lifted her head. The familiar features of the Old Woman looked upon her sternly from under the hooded cloak. Aged eyes drew Talah to her hypnotically as the hood was pulled off. She pulled out a small flask attached to a rope around her neck and bit off the cork.
“Take this liquid,” the Old Woman instructed quietly. “You will sleep soon.”
Talah trusted the soft voice and swallowed the thick bitterness. The aftertaste, however, was as sweet as clover blossoms.
“Remember your visions, Ban Talah,” the Old Woman said, pulling herself upright. Dragging the hood back over her head to shadow her face, she spoke again as her figure dissolved into nothingness. “Remember your element.”
FOR THE LAST time, Talah was forced to kneel before the bishops. The tribunal had come to an end and she, the accused, was to be given her sentence. The Bishop of Lincoln stood on the platform before her with a parchment and read aloud in an imperious tongue. To Talah, everything was becoming a blur and sounds faded as voices from echoes past.
“Let it be known this day, the accused, named Ban Talah, is thus found guilty of all offences set forth herein. By decree of all judges we sentence you, Ban Talah, to be burned at the stake.” Rolling the paper, he eyed the languid figure slumped before him. “Does the accused have a last word?”
Groggy, Talah lifted her head and leered at every bishop staring down upon her. “Every tongue that spoke this sentence this day shall in turn die a cruel death. I pray your souls are in order.”
Her even tone shook all the bishops to gasp and shudder as if a curse had been put upon them. They all rose to their feet, the entire chamber uproarious in rages, incensed by the warrior’s words.
The Bishop of Lincoln flung his arm to the guards and cried out bitterly. “Take this woman to the flames! And may God Almighty have mercy on her soul!”
A riotous crowd presided in the square. The many who wailed for the release of Ban Talah made departure from the church to the square difficult. Soldiers in full battle armor had to hold back the surging tide of onlookers enough for Talah to be escorted to the pile of rushes some fifty feet away. It was a short distance, yet one marked with great tumult. Stones were cast at her from many who despised her, others attempted to reach out through the fencing of guards and lances to weep for and touch the warrior who was giving her life in the struggle to keep her people and their traditions in the church. It was indeed a gauntlet of paradox, these last moments. Nearer to the executioner, the crowd pressed attempting to keep Talah from the stake as long as possible. Yet, the pack of guards pulled her on, her chains and manacles their leashes.
She stumbled and tried to catch a glimpse of the faces staring at her from under cowls. Her vision blurred, she could not see if it was the mournful faces of her companions. Perhaps they were there for her, and were waiting for Sidric and his Welsh soldiers to come and fight for her release. She had a sneaking suspicion Sidric was not coming.
Talah was thrown against the pile of wood and forced to climb, the executioner pulling her up the rest of the way like a cowling dog. With her back thrown against the stake a guard pressed himself against her and lifted her from her feet while the executioner lifted the manacle, hanging her to a cross-post. The bishops had marched up a platform some yards away, led by the Bishop of Lincoln. He halted them all at the sight of the accused being lifted to hang upon a cross. Talah met his scowl only briefly.
“What is this abomination?” he stormed. “Who ordered this?”
“This is blasphemy!” cried out another bishop.
The Bishop of Lincoln shouted again. “Get her down from that crucifix! Who ordered this?”
A soldier from below the platform shouted over his shoulder. “A direct order from the Cardinal.”
Talah heard the bishops fume among themselves and voices in the crowd deliver laments and bitter exclamations. The guard released Talah to brutally hang from her wrists, her body weighing heavily against the bloody wounds that were already painfully raw. Blood had wept and dried on the face that winced from splintered scratches. A Pict war paint of Norman Conquest was cruelly smeared down her cheek in her own blood from the executioner before he descended the wood to grab hold of a torch. Turning toward the platform, he held the torch above his head for approval from the Inquisitor General.
The Bishop of Lincoln paused only enough to dully deliver the final word with a wave of his hand. “Get it over with.”
The crowd grew violent at the lighting of the rushes. Talah’s breath grew shallower and the crowd’s roar duller. The Old Woman’s voice, however, remained clear and precise in her mind.
“Remember your visions,” she had said. “Remember your element.”
“Element,” Talah muttered. She heard flames crackle beneath her feet and the smoke entwined like snakes past her nostrils. Talah twitched a brow in recognition. “Fire.”
Flashbacks of visions flowed as Tlachtga’s voice echoed through her mind. She saw the inner fabric of earth torn upon itself in creative ritual, the volcanic bursting of rock and torrid storm of inner chasms. She recalled being embodied in its substance and density and the solace felt by the thermal ecstasy, finally being consumed by its incandescent inferno. The voice of Tlachtga spoke to her.
“No spear shall rive thee, no sea shall drown thee, and no fire shall consume thee...”
KING HENRY SAT upon his horse and stared at the pile of ashes. Only the chains that held his champion remained upon the cross. The insurgent throng had all but left. “I cannot bear it,” he cried sorely. “Their cries were like rats tearing at my insides. My God, you are a vicious creature to allow this. Damn your bishops! Damn them all to Hell! May their rotted flesh be delivered into Satan’s talons!”
A baron sat on his horse not far from his king and watched as Henry drew in a breath. Pain stiffened Henry’s face as the last of the fire consumed itself and the cross. The baron then saw Henry close his eyes. Perhaps, he was in prayer, he thought. Or attempting to hear the great warrior’s voice waft in the crosswinds. Henry then turned his horse about and drifted away in silence as the crossbeam fell, disheveled upon the settling charred sticks and glowing embers and ash. The baron drew a sword and gestured to his guards to depart. “You heard the king,” he said. “Find those bishops.”
Late in the day, word had traveled through the kingdom the fate of the bishops. The Bishop of Hastings had been attacked with a blade to the skull as he stood near a stall awaiting his carriage driver. The Bishops of Exeter, Winchester, and Salisbury were taken on the stairs of the crypt at Canterbury Cathedral, in the east entrance and through the curtained choir of the church by drawn daggers and swords. The Bishop of Colchester fought bravely before a thick arm twisted his neck to break, near the altar, and the Bishop of Gloucester suffered a blade tossed into his back while escaping down the long nave. This one the king’s baron witnessed casually from atop the stairs.
His lean figure slouched against the archiepiscopal throne in wait for the Bishop of Lincoln to acknowledge him. The bishop had been preparing a mass for the other bishops and clergy who had remained in Canterbury after the trial and had marshaled through the process, despite shaking limbs. When the last of the fallen bodies echoed through the silence, a slouch overtook his posture. The bishop released a breath as he slowly turned around with noble composure. Meeting the baron’s eyes, sword drenched with scarlet gore, the bishop raised a chin and scowled.
“How dare you bring bloodshed into God’s temple.”
“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the Baron replied. “But, I do believe it was you who first shed blood here, with Bah Talah’s sentencing.”
The bishop’s eye twitched. “She was a barbarian and a heretic of the Church.” As the baron ascended the shallow steps the bishop backpedaled until he bumped into
the table. Feverishly, his hand grappled for the goblet on the table behind him. His eyes darted to the goblet as it fell to his feet. “Allow me first a brief confession?” the bishop pleaded, trembling a hand before his aggressor.
The baron halted and after a pause, softened his glare and lowered his sword. “As you wish.”
The bishop stepped before him and knelt, touching the baron’s sleeve. “Please, my son. Kneel with me.”
Using his sword as a crutch, the baron knelt with him and lowered his head. The bishop raised an eye.
“Forgive me, my Jesus,” he began. “For I have sinned.”
The bishop lifted a hidden dagger and drove it into the Baron’s heart. The Baron clutched onto the Bishop’s robes until the bishop pushed him gently aside.
“I’m sorry, my son,” murmured the bishop.
The baron raised his head in time to spy an arrow seared through the quiet to drive itself into his chest. The thump of sound confirmed it hit its mark. The baron wearily lifted his eyes from the dead bishop to the figure before him. Ban Talah’s companion, Danann, stood by the throne with crossbow dropped to her side. A job well done, he recalled with his last breath.
Part Two
Resurrections & Life for a Life
Chapter Nine
A FLOCK OF blackbirds flew scattered overhead and cawed their grieving to the sky’s silent keep. The late afternoon sun appeared vaguely in view as a pale, white ball through the thick gray cover of clouds, their gloom a dim presence of recall upon the day’s event. Danann crept up to the site, hesitant and heavy hearted. Cheeks were moist from tears, and fair skin reddened from sorrow. Smoke from the fire had all but whispered out, silencing her friend’s voice forever. She staggered a step and turned to leave, eyeing the pile of charred timbers as they settled. Blackened, were they, as burnt effigies.
“A morbid honor to its fallen.” King Henry’s voice muttered from behind her.
So caught up in her despair, the king’s presence made little difference. She turned to him. His eyes too were stark with mourning as he sat still upon his pale horse. Danann bowed to him and stepped aside, allowing him full view. Leary of his presence, she spied a couple of sentries far to the distance keeping watch and quickly began planning an escape route. Staring at the dark ashes the king pondered out loud.
“You are one of her warriors, no doubt.”
“Aye, Sire,” Danann replied.
“It brings me no honor but the twisted grip of remorse to have seen her fortunes end here today. Perhaps by some curious intent I’ve returned, that by some small morsel, a shadow of hope, they’ve not taken Ban Talah from me entirely.” Henry drew breath. “Such miserable fate to be regretted by all. In ambiguity, a fate that befell her judges, the bishops, to which end I feel was much deserved. A boundary, I presume, I may have crossed at the expense of my kingdom and its alliances with the Church, all in my pathetic attempt for Talah’s forgiveness.” He snorted. “I’ve done worse.” To his sentries, the king motioned his leave with an order. “Do not take these ashes to the river. I would wish them to be placed by the orchard upon the hill, where I first saw her so many years ago.” The last, Henry smiled weakly. “Near the pear trees.”
Danann watched as the sentries nodded to the king’s departure then made their way across the square. They stopped and grinned to one another. Apparent was the silent, mutual agreement that such an establishment as the Sows Wing pub would hold an immediate interest greater than any lingering affection their king may have rendered upon their souls to be nourished by. The ashes of Ban Talah would wait for their cup of brew. Danann walked on, intent on leaving Canterbury, never to look back. The still air relayed a haunting to her spirit, a dull, painful lingering she could not describe, a loneliness never before encountered. Each step she took was harder and harder to take. Finally, Danann leaned a heavy hand upon the side of a building and collapsed against it with deep affliction. She knew she must leave, but she could not. It was as if every fiber of her being pulled her to stay. For what? What was left? What now could she do for the woman who gave her such inspiration, such friendship and love?
What seemed like sparkles drifting down from the sky about her, Danann was pulled from her despair to witness snowflakes falling all about her, shining in their delicate grace reflecting the sun from parted clouds. How beautiful, this moment, she thought. Perhaps, Talah did not want her to feel sorrow, but joy. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks.
It was then a breeze collected and swirled a pocket of snowflakes to flow behind her. Such a strange appearance drew her curiosity to turn and follow them. Rounding the corner of the building, Danann halted at the sight of an old woman near the remains of Ban Talah’s execution. The woman lifted an eye to Danann from under her hood as the snowflakes danced around her aged ankles, settling on the ashes.
The elder made her way carefully to the pile of timber and ash. From her sleeve, a beautifully wrinkled hand reached out with a small clay pot and sprinkled its contents over the ashes. Kneeling down, a cloth was unfolded and the ashes, which now sparkled oddly, were scooped up and placed carefully in the cloth. Folding the edges of the tartan piece the figure was stopped suddenly by the tip of a sword at its back.
Danann stood behind the frail form, glaring in her temptation to run the old woman through. “Better have a grand excuse to disturb the ashes of Ban Talah,” she spat.
The figure pivoted about with the face of the Old Woman of Aos Dana looking up at her sternly. “If you want to see Ban Talah alive, you had better come with me.”
DANANN HAD GATHERED together Moya, Brodie, and Mac. All that night and through the days that followed they trekked with the Old Woman west as she rode upon Lugh, which, in itself, was a mystery. It was said that Lugh allowed no one but his master to ride him. But ride him she did to Avebury, then south through the Valley Vale of Pewsey.
It was a barren landscape of sweeping plains and lonely clusters of trees, where the bitter wintry spell nipped upon their noses, and mounds of snow would arise like drifts to shiver the blood at the thought of lurking ancestors. Once ascending upon a great hill, Danann pulled back on the reins and halted her horse, staring wondrously at the gaunt ruin toward which the Old Woman rode on to.
Stonehenge.
These sovereign pillars of stone were the breath of legends that had been called, by Merlin, virtuous. It was true, not even a Celt was to know fully how or why this sacred stand of stone was to be used except for Druidic ceremony. But then, there would always be a thing upon the earth none save a few were to ever really have knowledge of its sacred origin and use. Such knowledge was simply viewed as an enigma. It was to this precise purpose the Old Woman of Aos Dana herself remained a mystery.
Everyone that had ridden up beside the monstrous formation felt the sensation of eerie wonderment. A peculiar whisper was thought to be heard as the gusts settled to near silence. Yet there was no wind at all felt once inside the circle, and this made Brodie shiver all the more.
“Is it just me,” he quivered, “or does this not feel natural?”
Danann couldn’t help but notice a pile of rushes and timbers near its center. Walking up to it slowly, her heart grew dark, a morbid reflection she hadn’t wished to recall.
The Old Woman came up behind her. “Don’t make more of it than it is, lass,” she comforted her quietly. “It is only a campfire. That’s all it is. You are cold, aren’t you?” Her only reply was a slight glance her way. “Then you had better start it.”
Moya approached alongside Danann. “How in Dana did she carry all this wood?”
The Old Woman barked a laugh, pulling a bag from Lugh’s saddle. “You don’t believe I’ve been sitting idle all this time, like yourselves, do you? I have had much to accomplish, much to prepare.”
Danann spun around with an angered brow. “You knew this was going to happen?”
The Old Woman stopped and smiled at her. “You doubt that I would?”
Danann settled to a glower. Thi
s elder was wise in the profound ways of the Otherworld, she was not going to dispute that. “Then, why did you not stop it from happening?”
The Old Woman perused Danann’s hardened features with benevolent eyes. “Having the power to see the future does not entitle one the power to change it.”
“You could have done something!” Danann hollered after her leave.
Such a heart-rending plea twisted the crooked body only slightly. “There are laws in the universe even the gods must obey. It will be dark soon,” the Old Woman added. “You’d best tend to that fire.” The Old Woman drew an eye to the others. “Bring me all possessions that are Ban Talah’s.”
“Who is that woman?” Brodie whispered to Danann.
“Ban Talah must have known her certainly, else she would not know of Ban Talah.”
Mac eyed the Old Woman and crossed his arms as she stepped by. “Never seen the likes of her. But, in a certain light she reminds me of my mother.”
The Old Woman stopped to scrutinize the staunch warrior and made a half-witted snort before carrying on her way.
“Aye,” Brodie said in earnest. “I see what you mean.”
The night indeed came quickly. The fire was grand and kept them all as warm as a summer’s heat. Mac had provided provisions, everyone eating rabbit and quail and contently watching the Old Woman walk about the same southwesterly stone, all the while chanting in her Gaelic tongue rubbing oils, herbs, and soil over the inner face.
Later, she had the four companions stand before her. She touched their foreheads with oil that smelled like cloves and sat them facing the fire. Moya, she sat in the south, Mac in the east, Brodie in the north, and Danann in the west. From over the north pillar a white raven appeared and swooped onto the Old Woman’s left forearm.
“I wondered what took you,” the Woman bantered. “No followers?” The white feathers ruffled in reply. “Good. Quickly, now. We haven’t much time.”
