Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  He’d awoken shortly after dawn, slumped in a ditch by the side of the road. Recognising he was not far from Senna’s house, he wondered if he’d tried to walk to her house for some tonic, and collapsed before he got there. Despite being barrelled up in thick winter clothes, his teeth were chattering with cold, and it was this which gave him the drive to complete the journey.

  But now all he could feel was the intense heat draining the life force from his body. Heat such as he’d never experienced before, not even during the hottest of summers. Not even when he’d jumped the bonfire at Samhain, and landed too close to the flames because one of his friends had pushed a girl into his path.

  No, this heat ravaged his very flesh, as though to consume it.

  He tried to break free of the clothes which roasted him in his skin, but the thick garments stuck to his body as though bound with heavy chains.

  When he could bear it no longer, a hand pierced through the flames, bringing relief as it bathed away the searing sweat, cooling his sweltering skin. The chains binding him dropped, and gentle hands helped remove the smouldering remnants of what used to be his clothes. He moaned in relief as the blessed air swept over his limbs, taking with it the fire demon which had held him captive.

  The pressure, which had threatened to burst his head like a smashed pumpkin, finally released. His mind focused on something other than the excruciating pain afflicting his body. His skull expanded, and along with it his brain, until his head became enormous and weightless. His entire body floated behind as though tossed along a riverbed like a defenceless, wind-strewn leaf.

  Angry voices – correction – one angry voice, seeped through to the spot where his soul lay, bruised and battered from the tribulation.

  6 – Day 2: Unwelcome Visitor

  Senna prayed the loud hammering at the door would be nothing more sinister than a birthing mother needing assistance. She didn’t need a gift of sight to know it was trouble calling. Closing her eyes, she summoned every calming energy she knew to come to her aid.

  “Should I answer that, Mama?”

  “Please.” She’d trained her daughter well, and had every confidence the girl would present a guileless attitude to whoever was at the door.

  “Grandy. How wonderful to see you. Are you well? Are you having a wonderful Yuletide? We missed you at the solstice feast.” Lyrelie kept up a litany of affectionate prattle as she took her grandfather’s travelling cloak, hung it on the peg, and gave him an enthusiastic hug.

  As Senna emerged from the healing area where Jarl lay, hidden by a screen, she could not help but appreciate the absurdity. The tension in her father-by-marriage’s body signalled his absolute discomfort.

  Normally, he abhorred any kind of physical contact – so much so, she wondered how Lyran had ever been conceived. His poor mother had died in her thirties; Senna conjectured it was of a broken heart because the man she loved could not find it within him to show any affection.

  “Greetings of the season to you all.” His gruff voice choked on the words as he searched the room as though looking for something. Or someone.

  “Magister Ranly. How good of you to find time among your many activities to visit us. We are deeply honoured.” She held out her hand, and he raised it to his face in a parody of the formal greeting. His lips did not touch her flesh, for which she was grateful.

  “Senna.” A brief headshake acknowledged her standing as his daughter-by-marriage, and then his duty was done. “I hear there was some excitement here, this morn.”

  “Excitement?” She glanced at her daughter, who shrugged, her face a perfect puzzle of perplexity.

  “I cannot think what you mean.” Senna gestured at the dresser. “But where are my manners? May I offer you an infusion and a mincen parcel? They are your son’s recipe, the best in the village.” She knew this description would anger the man, and maintained a neutral face.

  His instinct to refuse any kind hospitality seemed to be at odds with his desire to remain and investigate what he obviously deemed an indiscretion.

  She knew exactly what he was up to, knowing the way his mind worked: He wanted nothing more than to discover a scandal. But she was cannier than he gave her credit for, remaining resolute.

  As she stoked the fire and lowered the pot to boil the water, he asked again what had occurred that morn.

  “Nothing but a poor unfortunate who seems to be overcome by the effects of too much rich food and drink last night. I’ve given him a calming elixir so he might be cured by the healing power of sleep.”

  His agitated gaze stilled, regarding her open expression with an unkindness not too far removed from antipathy. “Might I ask the name of this reprobate?”

  “Why, it is your son’s best friend, Jarl. I’m sure Lyran would be pleased I could help. He is, after all, one of the family.” She knew full well the man would not be pleased by the reminder of the marriage ties between them: Ranly’s wife was the sister of Jarl’s mother. “Do you wish to speak to your nephew? I could wake him …”

  “No. That will not be necessary. In fact, you are right. I have important council business to attend to. With regret, dear lady.” He bobbed a bow, inclined his head toward his granddaughter, and retrieved his cloak, twirling it around his shoulders as he exited.

  Lyrelie’s face suggested she was about to make an indiscreet comment, and Senna shot her a warning glance; she could quite imagine the man pausing outside to listen. A groan from the corner drew her attention back to her patient. With a glance at the door, she refilled the bowl with fresh water and hurried to attend to him.

  Jarl tried to speak, but his cracked voice, and parched lips indicated dehydration. Moistening his lips with a dampened cloth, she asked her daughter to fetch a beaker of water.

  She carefully tilted his head so he could sip some water. It seemed to accomplish the purpose, as he regained his voice.

  “Was that Ranly?” The stark tone and lack of title, be it magister or uncle, hinted at his attitude toward the man.

  Unwilling to reveal her dislike, she kept her tone neutral. “Yes. Would you speak with him? I’m sure Lyrelie could run after him …”

  His expression left her in no doubt as to his opinion of that idea. “What happened to me? How did I get here? I feel like …”

  He paused, his glance straying to where Lyrelie stood, watching avidly; he was obviously about to say something colourful.

  Senna appreciated his discretion. She did not deem it necessary to describe how she’d invoked the power of the ley line running under the house to render his body weightless while they moved him to the healing cot. “I have no idea what happened, or how you got here. I did not see you at the end of the feasting, and walked home with Alfun, Cora, and the youngsters.”

  Jarl glanced up sharply, as though hearing the tone of disappointment she’d struggled to keep out of her voice. “Not with Domenyk? I know he wanted to see you home.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to explain how she’d slipped away while he was dancing with Bernadine, the wife of one of the council members. How she’d been concerned when she could not find Jarl, and how nobody seem to know where he was. And she especially did not want to explain how she’d felt at hearing the suggestion he’d slunk off with the beautiful Eanje. For several moons, the girl had been his housekeeper. Although it was none of her business, Senna, along with the rest of the village, couldn’t help but speculate about their relationship.

  “No. Not with Domenyk.” Her stern expression softened as he winced. “Lie back. You need to rest. That fever is your body’s way of expelling all the toxins you consumed last night. Were you sick?”

  “Several times. You think it was something I ate?”

  “More likely to be something you drank. You did seem a little too fond of that liquor.”

  “Don’t remind me.” His gaze turned inward as though recalling some aspect of the previous night. “I think maybe Domenyk tasked his servants with getting me drunk. I believe there was
some herb or spice in the sweetmeats they fed me.

  Senna examined her memory. “I don’t remember any sweetmeats.”

  He glanced at Lyrelie, who shook her head. Reluctance stiffened his face as he finally did as Senna had asked, and lay back on the cot.

  Senna snapped into action, checking his skin temperature in several places, relieved to find it heading back to normality. She administered one of her sleep cakes, along with a brew of the same sedative herbs, steeped in a strong camomile and lavender infusion.

  As his breathing became shallower, Senna pulled the screen to block out the weak December sun, and give him some privacy.

  While a second pot of water boiled for their breakfast, her daughter took a trug in search of eggs and a pail for some fresh, warm milk from their pretty little cow, Bluebell.

  Senna tried to put Alfun’s disturbing rumours out of her mind as she planned her activities for the next few days. Every one saw Yule as a time to rest and recharge their bodies after the intense demands of the harvest season. She’d managed to stock her winter larder reasonably well despite several crops failing. Along with Cora and some of the other women, she had delved deeper into the woods, where they discovered an abundance of nutritious fungi and a store of berries which they carefully harvested and dried in the kilns to preserve their flavour and nutrients over the winter moons.

  She still had several preparations for the winter: Herbs needed harvesting and processing, vegetables needed pickling, and various yuletide tasks, but she could start tomorrow. After breaking their fast with golden-yolked eggs and herb-filled bread, they started on the most pressing duty.

  Lyrelie had been chosen to portray the season of Litha in the Wheel Dance on the fourth day, and she worried over every last detail as only an adolescent girl could.

  “Mama. Is this costume too tight? The way it clings to every fold in my body is too revealing.”

  “You have no need for concern about the way you look. By the time we have added the scarves to represent the rays of the sun, your form will be covered quite modestly.”

  Her daughter’s scowl suggested disbelief, but she swiftly switched to another worry. “Do you not think the bodice neck too high? I do not want to feel suffocated during the dance.”

  Senna knew she was referring back to wearing the gown at midsummer, when she had become overcome by the heat, and nearly fainted. But back then, it had been many, many degrees warmer.

  “You will be fine, my love. This gown was created to wear in winter, your auntie wore it when she represented Litha in the Wheel Dance, many years ago. I’m glad we kept the sleeves, you will definitely need them.”

  “Won’t they restrict my arms when I hold them over my head?”

  Senna’s head shook; her tone approached exasperation. “I promise, all will be well. Now, is there anything else you don’t like about it?”

  “If only it didn’t have to be yellow. Yellow is the worst colour to wear, it makes my skin look …” A glance at her mother’s face curtailed the gripe as they shared the memory of Lyran’s words.

  “Daughter mine. Do not vex your mother; she does not deserve it.”

  Lyran’s energy bound them with a common purpose as they completed the outfit with a flower headdress and cape which represented a wildflower-strewn meadow at the height of summer.

  Senna stood back to admire their handiwork as her daughter twirled and danced around the room, delighting in the shapes the fabric made as it swirled around her.

  Lyrelie clapped her hands. “You are so clever, Mama. I shall be the Queen of the Wheel.”

  “Queen of the Wheel? Is this something new? I believe you’ve made this up; there is no such thing.”

  “Why shouldn’t there be? We have the Queen of May at Beltane.”

  Before Senna could reply, another loud knock sounded at the door. Thinking this must be one of her expectant mothers, she picked up her birthing bag, already prepared, and answered the door. The sight meeting her eyes was one which would pierce the heart of any person with a dread.

  7 – Day 2: Hoodening

  Emitting an unnatural howl, the terrifying creature bent forward, its jaws snapping as though to chop off her head.

  Lyrelie’s scream turned into a squeal of delight as she recognised the young man just behind the gruesome creature. “Verat! What are you doing here scaring us half to death?”

  The youth adopted a stern air. “I have never heard of Verat. I am the Waggoner.” He cracked a whip, and she flinched back.

  Senna had seen enough to have absolute faith that the vicious tip of the whip would never come close to her daughter.

  Behind the grotesque hooded effigy known as the hooden horse, a tiny man dressed as a jockey, endeavoured to mount the creature.

  After the third failed attempt, an ear-splitting screech worthy of a fishwife heralded a tall figure in a blue-and-white smock, wielding a broom. She chased Lyrelie around the room, cackling. “Mollie sweeps, Mollie brushes, run away to spare your blushes.” The outrageous caricature of a woman, who was really a man, aimed the broom at Senna’s feet, trying to make her over-balance.

  Behind this motley crew were a couple of musicians on gittern and flute. They played a well-known ditty, and everyone joined in on the chorus. At the end, the man carrying the wooden horse’s head revealed himself, clasping hands with the other actors to lead them in a bow. The troupe launched into a medley of Yuletide songs which had both women singing along and clapping in delight. At the end, the leader invited them to come along to the show a little later, promising they would not be disappointed.

  Tossing a few coins into their basket, Senna declared this crew were the best she’d ever seen.

  Clapping her hands, Lyrelie laughed. “What fun. I cannot wait until nightfall. I never knew Verat was such a wonderful actor. I’m really looking forward to the play.”

  “I am, too. But for now you must get out of your finery, we have work to do.”

  “Mama. How awful.” Lyrelie’s expression went way beyond concern; she was distraught. “They saw me in my costume. Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck?”

  “You know my answer to that.”

  Lyrelie pouted, parodying her mother’s voice. “I make my own luck. But Eanje says …”

  Senna’s tone was sharper than she intended at the mention of that particular young lady. Pushing away unworthy thoughts, she assumed a stern air. “You would believe her advice over your own mother’s?”

  Mortification showed clearly on Lyrelie’s face. “No, Mama. Never. It’s simply …”

  “I should think so, too.” Senna allowed her face to relax as her daughter looked close to tears. “I was merely funning with you, my dear. Don’t take on so.”

  Lyrelie flew into her arms, hugging and tutting. Not for the first time, Senna thought how fragile her daughter’s emotions had become. More so than other girls of her age. It had to be the result of her father’s death. With a final squeeze, Lyrelie danced across the room, heading for the stairs.

  Senna shook her head, resolving to be a little kinder in her teasing. A chuckle from the healing corner suggested Jarl had overheard the exchange. She drew back the screen. “Oh, dear. Deepest apologies for waking you. I had quite forgotten you were there.”

  The humour lighting his eyes extinguished. “I’d hoped not to be so forgettable. Apparently I have work to do in endearing myself to you.”

  “I can assure you; forgettable is the last thing you are.” Senna stopped abruptly as she realised how forward that sounded, but she could not unsay the words, so she continued as though she hadn’t given anything away. “Let me check your temperature. It would not do for you to catch a chill, lying in the cold, dark corner.”

  Lying back, he opened his arms wide, welcoming her with a grin which showed how much he enjoyed her ministrations.

  Something subtle had changed between them and, this time, she struggled to maintain a circumspect healer-patient distance as she examined him. Aware of the i
ntensity of his gaze, she fought back the blood rising to colour her cheeks as she placed her hands on his bare flesh. Unfortunately, this heightened awareness of him as an incredibly powerful, virile specimen of manhood interfered with her ability to function professionally. She could no more determine the temperature of his skin, than fly to the top of the tallest tree.

  He seemed acutely aware of her discomfort. “Is everything all right?” The skin crinkled around eyes which twinkled with mirth. “Will I live?” Jarl was making full use of this entertainment.

  Instead of allowing herself to become mortified in humiliation, she reminded herself that laughter and good humour had very powerful healing properties. She lowered her gaze and coloured her voice with melodrama. “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, Jarl. It seems you have mere hours – no, make that, minutes – to live.”

  His muttered, “Well, in that case,” should have given an intimation of his intention. Before she could register, he trapped her in his arms, pulled her onto the cot, and ensnared her mouth with his.

  Afterward, she berated herself that his actions were nothing but a response to her tease. But, in the instant of it happening, her reactions were governed by shock and surprise. Her body became rigid, and her senses ceased to function properly as he beguiled her into sharing his pleasure. The sublime thrill returned her senses with a flourish as they joyfully urged her to respond and prolong this enchanting experience.

  A cacophony of voices in her head alerted her to the immediate danger of Lyrelie’s return, the possibility of someone spotting them through the window and, most importantly, the betrayal of Lyran’s memory. The last one returned her common sense, and she resisted physically, pulling away.

  She imagined the conversation going on in his mind as he dithered between showing respect by letting go, and deepening the kiss to demonstrate how right they were for each other. His honourable side won out, and he let go an instant before she pushed against him to free herself.