by A. L. Duncan
The raven spread its wings to lift itself from her arm. Human legs landed upon the ground as it shape shifted into its human form. From brown boots and leggings to the caramel woolen tunic and tartan cloak, Bran was now quite recognizable as the monk and druid everyone there knew him as.
“Impeccable timing, Bran,” Moya said.
His fair, doe eyes acknowledged her with slight regard.
The Old Woman had Bran pass out a drop of liquid on each person’s tongue from a small vile. Some frowned at the bitter taste, except Brodie who shivered. Each was then handed a possession of Talah’s. Moya, the Crane Bag; Mac, the small pouch, which he dangled from thumb and finger as if it were the tail of a mouse; to Brodie, the Old Woman’s dagger Talah had kept in her belt. With both palms held outstretched he whimpered and squirmed, as it was laid upon his skin, frightful of its power. Squinting, he flinched and panted as a woman in labor, then swooned as if holding a newborn.
“Easy...easy, there,” he whispered to it.
Bran pressed a soft hand on his shoulder in reassurance and smiled at Brodie’s worried frown.
To Danann, Talah’s most valued possession, the sword Lisula. As the sword was placed in her hands she couldn’t help but recall the moment Talah had given it to her. From the burning embers and licking flames Talah’s voice and vision haunted her, recalling her last wishes.
“No matter what, you must go through with this. Promise me, Danann...”
As Talah’s figure faded, Danann stared at the fire with fresh resolve.
The night passed for what seemed only a few hours. Soon it was dawn. The sun had not yet peaked from its shrouded horizon and the Old Woman gratefully breathed in the sky’s majesty with her head thrown back and arms outstretched. Eyeing the climbing orange ball’s appearance, she stood still as a statue with drawn breath, as if calculating the right moment.
The fire was smaller now, burnt to all but its innermost timbers. From its center she pulled out the piece of covered pottery that contained Talah’s ashes. To the southwesterly stone face she rubbed the ashes as if painting her portrait to its full length. The Old Woman then gestured to Moya. “Bring yourself and the Crane Bag.” Moya approached cautiously. The Old Woman proceeded to open the bag as Moya held onto it and eyed its contents.
The old sage gingerly reached into the bag and pulled out the iridescent spider web. She then turned and stretched the web out over the ashes as Bran took Moya by the arm and escorted her back to her position. What happened next could only be accounted as a marvel to Danann.
“All time comes,” the Old Woman expressed mystically, “when what is hidden shall be revealed.”
She slowly stepped back as if to allow the sun’s light to flood the inner circle of Stonehenge. A shaft of dawn broke through between the two most northeasterly pillars and seared its light onto the prepared face of the stone, the web sparkling a rainbow of opalescent enchantment. Danann stood in awe as the web took form, the fantastic colors in movement almost like the lights in the night sky she and Talah used to sit under as children. Soon a figure appeared and grew like a form from behind a veil. The spear of light from the rising sun intensified as it arose fully, smoking the web almost to flame, causing the figure to squirm beneath its hold.
The Old Woman quickly motioned for Danann to draw near. “You must release her,” she ordered.
Danann was almost sick with conflicting feelings. The sight of Talah’s form in its embryo-like state was almost too much to handle. Again, the Old Woman motioned to her. Finally, Danann held her breath with refreshed resolution. She gripped hold of Lisula and struck full the web, lacerating its hold as Ban Talah fell from its core and into Danann’s embrace.
Mac hollered, “Great Mary and Brigid!”
Moya tearfully laughed. Brodie simply fainted.
Talah pulled herself at arm’s length to meet Danann’s misty-eyed astonishment. Smiling with refreshed breath, Danann touched her beloved friend’s face. Danann could only choke a laugh and pull her into another tearful embrace.
MIDDAY, TALAH AND Danann put out the fire and shoveled the dirt and ashes with their boots as the others made ready the horses.
Danann eyed her companion.
Talah caught a glimpse and smiled. “What are you thinking?”
Danann shook her head. “I can’t believe all this was an illusion.”
Talah walked solemnly over to her friend. “Not all of it was an illusion.” She lifted her wrists to show the painful scars still apparent from the manacles. Mysteriously, they seemed to be healing before their eyes. “It will take another day or so before they’re healed completely,” she reassured Danann.
Danann swallowed hard. “And your back?”
Talah turned around and combed the long black hair over her shoulder as Danann lifted the leather vest, wincing at Talah’s horribly scarred back. “Probably two days for the back.”
Danann didn’t take the notion as nonchalantly as Talah. Eyes closed, embittered at the remembrance, she said, “Again, I thought I lost you. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. How many more times must I watch you die? Don’t you understand what that does to someone, what that does to me?”
Sympathetic eyes met Danann’s before she walked away. Bran distracted Talah from following. Danann busied herself with packing the horse. Detaching herself from the world was the only way she knew how to bear it. Nothing felt as awkward as this very moment with Talah, however, and residing near such aloofness cast only deep shadows upon their alliance. Now, fully dressed in Sidric’s mustard tunic and her own leather patched trousers, Talah approached Danann. Danann, feeling quite dispirited, ignored Talah’s presence. Talah adjusted her sword belt uneasily and fumbled with her tartan.
Danann halted before her and assisted Talah with her brooch. “You have the pin on backwards, ye sheephead,” she gruffed.
The two smiled at one another.
With a sigh Talah replied, “Danann I—”
“Haven’t you ever just wanted to stop all this fighting, Talah?”
“Of course I have. I want nothing less than peace bestowed to this land. But, as long as ignorance and superstition carry the laws, as long as insolence crowns the ambitious, violent powers, I must fight against it. It is my geasa. I was born with this duty, to protect the lands and their kings.”
“I don’t give a damn about one nation’s politics over another. I am an ordinary citizen, Talah. A woman, a warrior, a commoner. A commoner, Talah. Do you understand what that means? A common mortal. An everyday human being wanting to find that one moment of happiness, away from all of this. Haven’t you ever wanted to lie in the lap of a beauty for a while?”
Talah diverted her eyes painfully. “Such was taken from me, her tongue cut out and body mutilated, the wind her only dirge. So many have suffered under this oppressive wickedness, I shall not rest until the sorceress is hung on her own sinews and dried!”
“But, do you truly know it’ll happen? Have you seen this?”
Talah let the question weigh between them. Danann knew Talah could not honestly answer the question in the affirmative.
“We all have rolls to play, Danann,” said Talah finally. “Mortals and all, we all have a purpose. We are all meant to do something extraordinary in our lives, not just be born and die without so much as a passing thought to the universe. I have seen the Great Book of the Ancient Ones, remember?”
“I thought you said the pages were blank.”
“That is because we get to write them ourselves.”
Danann snuffed at the idea as Talah headed toward Lugh. The black war horse whinnied at Talah’s approach. She smiled and wrapped an arm around his neck, stroking his face and jaw with the other hand. Talah took the reins from Mac as he smiled and reached out to tie the small pouch to her belt that he had carried since the ceremony.
“I believe you’ll be needing this,” he said.
Talah touched his sleeve. “Thank you, Mac.”
He hesita
ted only a moment. “Glad to have you back,” he said, drawing a grin from under the thick beard. Like a little boy who was afraid to hug a stranger, Mac paused and then embraced Talah lovingly. From his sigh, Danann could read the man’s silent language. She couldn’t see his face yet sensed for the first time this mighty Scot felt an emotion he had never before allowed anyone to witness. She believed she witnessed in him a sob. Drawing back he cleared his throat, and again the stern face returned.
“So, lass,” he barked anew. “Where’s the next battle?”
Talah patted his arm and mounted Lugh. She then turned to Danann and smiled. “Bran tells me the king is going to have a festival in London in two days.”
Brodie’s ears perked up at the mention of food and fun. “What kind of festival?”
“A Celtic festival, I hear told,” Moya answered.
Mac growled. “What is he trying to prove?”
Talah reached down and grabbed a thick cloak the Old Woman held up to her. “Don’t concern yourself, Mac. It was my idea.”
“Your idea?”
“With Ban Talah out of the way, naturally the next target will be the king and his sons.”
Moya climbed into her saddle. “The king’s public appearance might be a temptation she wouldn’t dare refuse.”
Talah nodded.
Danann mounted her steed and shrank in her saddle as a dark thought of Juetta burdened her. “By what form will she appear now?”
Brodie shook his head. “I still don’t see how she passed as a Cardinal.”
“Illusion is a wonderful thing,” Talah said, smiling to the Old Woman. “One doesn’t need to know all the aspects in order to confound the eye and ear. What she does, I assure you, comes to her quite naturally. It is quite easy to mask that which one believes has no image to begin with.”
“And the only way for an illusion to succeed is to make the eye believe,” the Old Woman added.
Danann looked kindly at the sage and watched as she pulled the tartan cowl over her head. “Are you going to be all right?”
The Old Woman smiled at her. “The time will come when you’ll know better than to ask such a question. My duty here is finished. Bran will escort me home.”
Danann pondered the elder and her magic. “You prefer the silence and riddle like an ancient rune, Old Woman. I wish to thank you, but I don’t even know your name.”
Talah laughed. “She has no name, as far as I’ve come to know.”
A sparkle surged in the woman’s aged eyes as a slow grin played around her lips. “Soon, Ban Talah, there will be a time you will know everything.”
The companions watched as woman and raven disappeared in the drifting rises of snow.
“She’s an old spirit, eh?” Danann asked.
“I wonder how old she really is?” mused Moya.
Talah shook her head. “She could be sixty or three-hundred and sixty.”
“I was once told a story of a woman like her that was really an Ancestor,” Moya said.
Talah ran a hand over the thick leather belt, which hung across her chest. Turning Lugh toward an easterly direction she gripped the reins tightly.
“We have a long trip ahead of us,” Talah said, focusing on the horizon. “I’d like to hear that story, Moya.”
“I can tell the story!” Brodie piped up excitedly.
“No, I’ll tell the story, bard,” Moya argued.
“Oh, for Christ sake,” Danann barked. “We have a long ride ahead of us. We will all tell a story.”
With horses spurred lightly, Ban Talah once again led her companions onward, toward the undulated worlds open to the vastness of blue sky and peppered clouds that hid the morning sun. The enchanted chill of the air and white-dusted valleys only an incentive, a reminder all their duties still lay ahead.
THE CONVIVIAL ATMOSPHERE had already begun when Talah and her troop arrived in London. Horse and donkey traffic made the narrow streets all the more congested, as Talah walked Lugh to the rear of her companions, not wishing any eye to befall upon her familiar features in the shadow of her hood. Many nobles and lords escorted their ladies through a sea of woolens and tartans that flowed from the frigid air. It was as Talah had hoped. The spirits of all persons, Celt and Saxon alike, burnt a fire more passionate than any bitter cold enchantment could dash.
Silversmiths, jewelry makers, textile sellers and blacksmiths all clamored to sell their wares. Certainly, it was a pride that echoed through the streets. From around small campfires that scattered throughout the streets, bards chanted tales and epics of legends past to kindly and eager ears of those that wished to warm them. Brodie, a bard of like heart, couldn’t help but pause at the romance of chivalry. He caught up to the group as they were halted before a larger crowd intently listening to a fellow bard’s tale of the trial of Ban Talah:
“See, ye the Goddess of thunder-bolt-spear
Oh, mother Tlachtga does she wail!
For the powers of lofty mists has her daughter
Ban Talah her soul unfair!
See, ye blossoms of evil exist
To torch her with gleaming fire
From souls themselves unfit! And dash upon her ashen sword
‘Till to Heaven the soul sleeps sound
Cry now, thy blessed being
With grief on high winds abound!
Thy daughter, Ban Talah a warrior kin
See, ye the dust of the earth
And cry of the seas misty dins
For one day Ban Talah shall
With light step shine as gold!
See, ye again upon mighty mountains
Ban Talah forever shall abide in shroud and
Unearthly bonds bold!”
Talah listened as the bard continued until she could hear no more of it, turning Lugh down the street in her troubled silence. Danann and Moya caught up to her and eyed the scowl upon her face.
“Why don’t you lift their hearts and tell the people you’re alive?” asked Moya.
“Sounds as though her legend is just as powerful as the woman alive,” Danann mused.
“He paints you quite well, I think, as a hero,” Moya said.
“I’m nothing of the sort,” Talah growled.
Moya snorted. “Of course you are. Why, you are the one shining knight for all Celts to—”
“No I am not!” Talah twisted around. “I am a warrior! A woman who believes in something great enough to fight for it, with a power that is not wholly mine. I’ve been entrusted by the king to bring God’s honor back to my people. And with his auspices I shall do just that. Even if I have to fight all of Rome and the world to do it.”
Danann and Moya let Talah stew in her own thoughts. They had known her well enough to allow her determination to have its own clear path. It was this very spirit that had kept many a sovereign his distance and caused many more an enemy their deaths.
Brodie halted behind Talah, whispering loud enough for her to overhear. “She’s a might bit tense, aye?”
“Nothing a good brew wouldn’t fix,” Mac murmured into a mug.
Talah twisted about on Lugh to spy the two smiles. She couldn’t stay angry with her men staring at her with such foolishness. Talah released her attitude and returned the smile.
Brodie and Mac raised their mugs in toast to their companion. “Your health!”
The festival trickled not far from the steps of the cathedral. It was there Mac had witnessed a great crowd gathering and gestured for Talah to come nearer. An abbot was standing around a surge of townspeople, some incensed about the presence of the Celts and their wares. His words were riotous, urging fists to swing about in the air.
“We should not allow these pagan acts and their kind before our faces, and the faces of our children,” cried the round abbot. “It is our right as a city of Normans to persuade the king our Christianity and give straight these Celts their penance or their leave!”
“Take their lives!” shouted one from the crowd.
As the voices of
ranting rang out in cheers, a hooded figure ascended the stairs, sweeping the abbot into the church harshly by the arm.
“May I speak with you, Abbot?” Talah hissed.
The abbot was pushed painfully against closed doors. His eyes bulged in fear as Talah removed her hood, her features petrifying his blood.
“You’re...dead,” he gasped.
Talah laid the cold, hard steel of her dagger against his chubby cheek. “A tongue such as yours will get you into more trouble than your beloved bishops have garnered. And I’m certain you wouldn’t wish a fate as cruel as theirs.” The abbot nervously shook his head. Talah read his eyes and saw only ignorant unreasonableness. This was not a man to be diabolical in his attempts, just another sheep in the flock of Christianity’s narrow-minded eye. She sighed and released him, sheathing the dagger back on her chest belt. “In your zealousness you are blind to the factions that bring a crowd such as this to draw bloodshed from those words of yours.”
The abbot dropped his frightened defenses, yet remained cautious in his gestures.
“Do you intend bloodshed?” she asked him gravely. “Is that the Christianity you pray to and rest your soul and conscience upon?”
“Certainly not.”
“Did Christ slight the poor, kick the bedraggled, or scorn those who believed in God in their own way, namely the others who wished his death?”
The abbot shook his head.
“Did Christ ever abandon anyone or cast out, execute, because their way of prayer was different than his? From India to the Himalayas to the steppes of the Ural Mountains and beyond we are to love our neighbors. This is not Paulianity, Peteranity or the like with their mortal imperfections. Christianity is to be higher than ourselves. Do you understand? To reach for that Christ within us—this is what you need to be offering the children of God.”
The abbot sighed reluctantly and turned to stand before the doors, the roar of the crowd in their exuberance and of great voice echoing through the weighty oak.
“If a man say, I love God and hateth his brother, he is a liar,” the abbot quoted the Holy Scriptures. “For he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?”
