Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  He shook his head, regaining his authoritative stance, and she softened her tone.

  “I was under the impression the magister understood the necessity for my role within the community, even if he doesn’t approve of it.”

  “Well, yes. As a matter of fact, he does. However, it is essential you conform to the laws governing the impropriety of treating a member of the opposite sex with no chaperone.”

  She injected a portion of ice into her tone. “I think the presence of my daughter fulfils that requirement. Although what you must think of me to even imagine such a thing …” She broke off, dropping her gaze so he would not detect the cheeky humour which overtook her thoughts at the memory of Jarl’s kiss.

  This finally pierced his pomposity, and he reached toward her, trying to justify his words. “I meant no insult. But you know how people like to gossip, and I could not bear the thought of your good name being dragged through the mud.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Exactly who was besmirching my name? I cannot think of any villager who might have cause to question my integrity. Every household has benefited from my services in one way or another.”

  He could not meet her gaze, feigning an interest in the ornate table which served as his desk. But he could not suppress the question which disturbed him. Despite his pretend attention to the parchment’s contents, she was fully aware of the intensity of his scrutiny. “Who was the man you were treating yesterday?”

  Now we come to the meat of it. Senna adopted a matching insouciance. “It was my husband’s cousin. He was taken poorly after the Yule feast.”

  His snort combined derision and disgust. “No doubt the man over-indulged with too much ale and liquor.”

  “On the contrary, I believe he was given something which proved toxic to him, and he collapsed.”

  “You are not suggesting something I served, are you?”

  Senna struggled against eyes which wanted to narrow at the admission of guilt. “Why would you imagine it had anything to do with you?”

  His attempts to cover his reaction were laudable. “No reason. Merely that I shared some of my finest plum brandy with the villagers, and I hoped it was not this which caused your cousin’s plight.”

  “My husband’s cousin.” Even as she corrected him, she wondered at the wisdom of her words.

  Domenyk’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Might I know the name of this esteemed relative? I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting the fellow.”

  She infused her gaze with innocence. “Oh, but you have. His name is Jarl, and he recovered enough, thanks to my ministrations, to attend the Mummering last night, as you saw.”

  Rage pervaded every inch of Domenyk’s body with the clear intent to maim and destroy the source of his anger.

  Startled by the intensity of his fury, she nonetheless held her ground and arched a cool eyebrow. “Oh, dear. It appears you have ingested something which has not agreed with you. Might I recommend a soothing camomile infusion?”

  Closing his eyes, he drew in a calming breath, and composed himself. This time, self-control won out, but the steel underlying his tone, chilled to the bone. “Yet again, Senna, you come intolerably close to overstepping the mark. Might I remind you, I am not a person you would seek as an enemy.”

  As his eyes fixed on her mouth, she perceived it had been his intention to steal a kiss. Her sparring, however, seemed to have robbed the impulse of its passion.

  “I suggest you evaluate your relationship with this man, and determine its worth. I promise, a union between the two of you will be beset with many difficulties.” He opened his mouth to explain further, then, after a pause, dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  She needed no further prompting, flying from his presence with devil’s wings speeding her feet. Fury plagued her thoughts. How dare he threaten her?

  “He dares because no one in the village would oppose him.” Lyran’s warning gave her pause. He spoke a wise truth; it would serve no purpose to antagonise the man. Now, where had she heard that before?

  Cora appeared in her doorway as Senna passed, and proclaimed in a loud voice that she needed a jar of salve. She accompanied Senna home and, once inside, quizzed her about Domenyk’s motives for the meeting.

  Ensuring the door was firmly closed, Senna described the scene, noticing the growing concern on her friend’s face. “Why do you ask?”

  Cora glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “I saw the way he looked. I have a bad feeling about this. Please take care not to tease the man; he looks as though he would take to rage easily.”

  Senna nodded, wondering whether to admit her suspicion about the kiss. Deciding against it, she accepted Cora’s offer of help, and they spent a pleasant afternoon preparing their contribution to the Wheel of the Year feast amidst joy and laughter.

  Wrapping up warmly against the early eve’s chill, they carried three baskets of food to the village hall, with Alfun gallantly taking the heaviest one. They accompanied the rest of the villagers to the start of the Stone Avenue, where the eight youths chosen to lead the dance stood in their finery.

  10 – Day 3: The Ceremony of Light

  The procession between the two rows of stones marking the sacred avenue was headed by the Archdruid and his good lady. The huge antler headdress made him visible even to those at the back of the crowd, as did the tall staff his lady wife carried, resplendent with ribbons in the colours of the season.

  They were followed by the wheel dancers, with a horde of the other children flanking them as they carried candles which barely glowed against the remaining daylight.

  Next came a collection of priests wearing smaller headdresses, and priestesses with ribbon-adorned staffs. Only then did the council follow, the sour looks on Domenyk and Ranly’s faces reflecting their dissatisfaction with being so far down in the procession.

  All the villagers carried lanterns and the mood was joyous as they joined in the celebration songs sung by the priests. Many of the youths replaced the well-known words with inventions of their own, some of which were impudent, but all of them humorous.

  Senna loved any opportunity to connect with the magical henge. Feeling the energising vibrations of the Michael line, her memory insisted on reminding her of the way Lyran used to take her hands, and twirl her in circles. She pictured them winding around the line, as he put it, “binding each other to their love and the season.”

  Cora’s sympathetic gaze suggested she felt it, too.

  An image of Jarl entered Senna’s head, no doubt from their connection to the ley lines three eves earlier. Realising she’d not seen him all day, she scanned the crowd, searching for him. His height meant he would be easily spotted, but she could not discern anyone who looked like him. It was of no matter, he could be anywhere.

  A tiny voice inside her head ventured to suggest it was most unlike him. Last year, he’d admitted his favourite Yule activity was the Wheel Dance. Checking again, she nearly bumped into the person in front of her, who’d stopped because the whole procession had halted.

  The Archdruid moved toward the priest’s seat in the massive portal stone. As he meditated, the Druidess and her priestesses danced around the two portal stones in an elegant figure eight. Meanwhile, the antler-clad priests encircled from the opposite direction, weaving in between the women in a demonstration of skill and precision.

  As she watched, Senna felt the sensation of someone staring at her, and casually moved her head as though watching the path of the Druidess. Her instincts were good: As her gaze swept the group of councillors, it snagged on Domenyk, staring directly at her.

  Forcing her head muscles against their natural compulsion to stop and acknowledge him, she continued the sweep of her head until the Druidess disappeared behind the back of the portal stone.

  In the instant her gaze passed over his face, she registered the element of pure malice. He seemed to know exactly who she searched for. But that was just wild imagination. He was doubtless merely bored wit
h the proceedings.

  As the setting sun’s rays tinged the clouds with pink, the dance ended. The procession continued, following the path of the Michael line to the centre of the henge. Senna remembered her experience from when she was a youth, dancing one of the seasons. How the Archdruid had muttered incantations as he led the crowd on a spiral path round the outside of the centre stones.

  Now, as then, it resulted in the villagers forming a circle around the inner stones. As the holy man and his entourage took their positions, the villagers circled sunwise three times before halting.

  He led a brief thanksgiving prayer before the dancing began. And what a dance. The youngsters seemed much more daring and adventurous than ever they’d been when Senna took part all those years ago. She watched in awe as the young men, and even some of the girls, performed complex, acrobatic spins and leaps.

  First came the snows of Imbolc, portrayed by a lad dressed in white, cleverly fringed with dried willow branches which wafted their fabulous scent as he spun around. It gave the impression of the gorgeous tree dancing in the February breeze, which heralded the return of the spring sun.

  Representing Ostara, Lyrelie’s friend, Willow, embodied the youth of the new-borns, and the excitement of the egg hunt. As she wove between the inner stones, young children dressed as lambs and calves leapt out to surprise her. She chased them until each one surrendered an egg for her basket, and several proud mothers in the audience snuffled into their kerchiefs as the little ones bowed at the end.

  The Beltane maypole provided spectacular opportunities for the athletic Tol to display his tumbling talents for the benefit of Willow, ending with the pair of them leaping over the bonfire.

  When it came to Litha, Senna watched with pride as her daughter brought a fiery passion to her interpretation of the midsummer sun. Her heart was in her mouth as Lyrelie leapt over the bonfire, her gown barely skimming the flames.

  For Lughnasadh, first of the harvest festivals, the lad’s ingenious costume was made from woven straw, so he looked like an enormous corn dolly. Senna barely recognised one of Lyrelie’s closest friends, Cal, as he danced an intricate sequence with a couple of scythes, miming the grain harvest. She could not help but sympathise with those mothers who pulled their little ones away from his blades. His movements owed a lot to the daring sword dance they would watch in the eleventh night.

  The girl representing Herfest could not incorporate such outlandish moves into her dance at the start, as her movements were restricted by the costume in the shape of a golden cornucopia horn. But after distributing apples and nuts to the people standing at the front of the circle, she ripped off the horn and cartwheeled around the entire circumference of the space, without a pause. As she reached the end, accompanied by loud cheers, Senna worried that the poor girl would be dizzy. But her solution was to spin and spiral in and out of the inner stones until she had regained some equilibrium.

  A frightening figure in a dark cloak topped by a pumpkin head terrified the children as he capered around, portraying the dark spirits of Samhain. Somehow, despite his wild cavorting, he managed to keep a light glowing from the mouth and eyes carved into the pumpkin fixed to his head.

  Lyrelie’s best friend, Freya, was understandably cast as the sun goddess for Yule, her costume a clever combination showing half a year of light, and half a year of darkness. It was done so that, as she turned, the audience would be faced with one or the other.

  Just when they thought the dance had completed, another dark figure, this time with a wolf’s head, gave an ear-splitting howl as he chased her around the circle and engulfed her in the darkness so she could no longer be seen. After the initial screams from startled children had died down, this finale attracted the biggest cheer of all.

  The crowd dispersed, chattering and exclaiming at the courage and skills of the youngsters as they headed toward the village hall to share in the hot spiced wine, mincen parcels, and roasted chestnuts.

  Senna searched for her daughter in the throng, wanting to congratulate her, but she saw her in a clinch with Cal, the young man who’d danced with scythes. She chose discretion, leaving them to get on with their celebration, almost stumbling over Freya and Verat, who were similarly occupied.

  Hastening to catch up with Alfun and Cora, she was intercepted by Domenyk, who seemed in a particularly good mood. “Your daughter does you credit; her performance stood out for its truth and simplicity. She did not try to put on a spectacle larger than the part she played.”

  His comment was aimed at the youths who had given exceptional performances, entertaining the crowds with their daring exhibitions.

  She could imagine no reason why he might take against such behaviour, so she chose to ignore the intentional slight. “I cannot remember enjoying the Wheel Dance so much for a long time. Maybe even ever.”

  His hooded gaze swept over her and she sensed a strange meaning behind it, however, he maintained his very correct and unbending attitude toward propriety. “Such a comment is to be expected from such a proud parent.” He sipped from his goblet, crinkling his nose as though tasting something particularly obnoxious. “But I think a number of the youths could learn from Lyrelie, when it comes to modesty and circumspection.”

  She was saved the need to reply as one of the other magisters tapped him on the shoulder, and she took the opportunity to slide away and partake of the refreshments. Yet again, she scanned the crowd, ostensibly searching for her friends, while in reality searching for the one friend whose absence was now unsettling her.

  A band reprised the traditional song, and the crowd parted to give space for dancing. The youngsters repeated their performance, toning it down because of the small space inside. It was every bit as impressive, and people clapped just as enthusiastically.

  The surprise ending was somewhat spoilt, as everyone was expecting it. However, the tricky Verat still had a prank to play. He’d managed to conceal himself among a group of onlookers, wearing a pale woollen cloak over his outfit, so no one spotted him.

  When the howl came, they looked among themselves, wondering where it had come from, but he’d arranged for a couple of the other lads to pick up the howl, so the villagers were surrounded by blood-curdling sounds without being able to pinpoint from which direction.

  As their attention was distracted, he slipped out from under the cloak and appeared behind Freya, who shrieked and ran, with him chasing her. Yet again, he had provided a thrilling performance.

  Even as she clapped along enthusiastically, Senna spotted the darkest of looks directed at Verat by more than one of the councillors. She failed to comprehend their objection, but felt the undercurrent of disapproval so strongly she decided to mention it to her daughter, so she could warn the lad.

  The rest of the youngsters wasted no time in filling up the dance space with their own versions of wheel dancing. The energy they released quickly warmed up the great hall such that she felt the need for some fresh air. The three-quarters-full moon beamed her approval, lighting the way as Senna walked to a small copse. She shrugged off her cloak and hung it on the branch of a nearby yew tree as she plucked at her bodice to let in some cool air.

  “Feeling the heat?” Domenyk’s sardonic question startled her; the sound of his approach had been obscured by the music from the hall.

  Her heart beat faster, but she strove to appear unconcerned by the dangerous air he emanated. “A little. Is there something I can do for you, Magister?” She forced a raft of impersonal officiousness into her use of his formal name, hoping to remind him of his station, and the responsibilities that went with it.

  Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect as he came far closer to her than respectability demanded or allowed. “You seem to be doing a very good job of avoiding me in the past few days.”

  The strong smell of liquor on his breath indicated his willingness to overlook propriety. She took a step back, only to be halted by the grasping needles of the yew tree. Her voice wavered annoyingly as
she glanced around, weighing up the best options for escape. “It is the busiest season for women, we have much to arrange and prepare for the Yuletide festivities.”

  His stance seemed to demand further explanation, but she remained silent. The cloak brushed past her arm, and she reached up to release it.

  He stopped her hand before she could throw it over her shoulders, saying gallantly, “Allow me.”

  This was a bad mistake. It gave him licence to get even closer and, as he tied the strings at her throat, she became aware of how easily he could tighten them enough to stop her breathing. She could not account for this macabre turn of thought; it was connected to the unnatural gleam in his eyes and the tongue which peeked out to moisten his lips as he stared down at her.

  “I would like to see you dance for me, as your daughter did.” His low tone grated, as he whispered the words into her hair.

  She stilled every muscle, especially those in her face, as she gave no reaction to his proximity, nor his words. Even as her inner voice screamed that Lyrelie had been dancing for everyone, he continued.

  “Yes, I think that would give me great pleasure. I think that you would give me great pleasure.”

  As he reached toward her head, she steeled herself not to flinch. He threaded his fingers through her hair, letting them slide through the silky strands. “And I know I could give you even greater pleasure.”

  His chuckle pierced her armour and she shuddered. This seemed to be the reaction he required, as he let out a dastardly laugh.

  “Finally, she breaks.” He bent to her ear, his whisper dripping with menace. “Where is your fearless warden when you need him?”

  This seemed to be all the fun he wanted from her that night, as he turned and stalked off, victory vibrating in every swaggering step.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a deep, calming breath, hugging her cloak around her body against the sudden chill which rippled her skin with goosebumps. She no longer wanted to stay at the party, but owed it to her friends not to leave without a word of explanation.