Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

Within minutes of relaxing into her nest, she fell into a deep sleep. Her mind replayed the morn’s scenes, checking for any small detail she might have missed. This was something she had done regularly when she was learning her craft, but had not needed to for some time, as her gift allowed her to process small details subconsciously.

  This time, however, the focus was not on her, and Lyran showed up, highlighting every time her daughter had used her own initiative rather than distracting her mother. At the end, he turned to her, and his embrace felt every bit as real as it had done in real life. “She is her mother’s daughter. And yes, her father’s, too. Although I believe she will outstrip both of us in a very short time.”

  She awoke to a room lit only by the embers of the fire, with no idea of how long she’d been asleep. The darkness outside meant nothing, sunset occurred around four hours after the sun hit its zenith at this time of year. It could be any time from four in the afternoon, through to eight o’clock the next morn. Her instincts, however, suggested she’d been dozing for less than an hour.

  Normally, the darkness held no mystery for her; fear of the unknown did not exist in her mind. She felt sure that, if spirits existed, they would be benign. And if not, she had sufficient protection against malevolent demons.

  As for the more corporeal mischief makers, she again believed she had nothing to fear. No one from the village would ever attack her, and her house was sufficiently close that her neighbours would spot any interloper attempting to invade her property. Under normal circumstances, she would feel safe and secure.

  Today, however, her repeatedly disturbed dreams had left her with a sense of foreboding, one with which she was becoming familiar. Unease made her check every window was tightly shut, and she closed the hangings. Picking up the poker, she went upstairs and checked both bedchambers, then flung open the front door to make sure no one lurked outside.

  For some reason, Lyran seemed to have deserted her, but she did not let that upset her as she settled back into her nest. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the dream which had sparked the distress.

  The dream was waiting for her, but it did not pick up where it left off, returning instead to the start, where she watched Lareeta’s mother attempting to defend her daughter against her husband’s vitriolic tirade. As before, it moved on, or rather back, to a time when the man making the accusations was being subjected to the same treatment by his own father.

  Even more than when she’d listened to him describing the incidents in the stable, Senna became deeply affected by what she witnessed. The still-conscious part of her brain, noted that every dream contained a message, but she failed to understand exactly what this was showing her. Before she could regain full consciousness, the next dream began.

  Yet again, it was vague and shadowy, and for some reason, she got the impression it took place far away. Then she saw a landscape she recognised, one from her childhood, when her parents took her to the northern borders, visiting relatives there.

  The sound of a battle attracted her attention, and she turned to see fighting close by. One of the men looked familiar: It was Dennon. A sense of déjà vu overcame her, and she searched the faces of the men nearby, looking for Jarl. At this point, another dream-memory took over: the Topsy-Turvy Ball when he’d apparently attacked her.

  “Apparently?” A male voice in her head, which did not belong to Lyran, taunted her. “No apparently about it. He attacked you.”

  Her eyes sprang open, and her true inner voice battled with the naysayer, slugging it out like a couple of prizefighters. She examined the evidence, trying to remember the sequence of events leading up to the attack.

  Searching for pointers, she tried to remember the relative height of the masked man as they were dancing. When she danced with Jarl, her head only came up to his shoulder, where she laid her cheek. But Domenyk was an inch or two shorter.

  For an instant she wondered if there were any other men in the village who might have been involved, but she dismissed the notion. Apart from the baker, who was almost the same height as her, and the smith, who was considerably wider, all the other men were accounted for.

  There was a good reason for this. Traditionally, the Topsy-Turvy Ball was the one time most women wanted to hang on to their men. Something about the fact the men were in disguise unsettled them.

  Her musings were interrupted by the whirlwind of energy which was her daughter, gusting into the room with a flurry of damp, December air. “Oh, Mama. How remiss of me. I forgot to leave a candle lit for you when you awoke.

  “’Tis of no matter. I can see well enough in the dark. All the carrots I eat have seen to that.”

  Lyrelie danced around the room lighting candles and lanterns, all the while keeping up a steady stream of gossip about the Clove-gifting.

  Senna had rarely seen her daughter in such high spirits after such a function, but it didn’t take much effort to guess the reason for her daughter’s joyous demeanour.

  17 – Day 7: The Barding

  Bright sunshine on the seventh day filled Senna with a new purpose, and after satisfying herself everything was going well with her two charges, she checked her schedule. The next task was to prepare the herb and spice mix for the altar cakes used during the Spell-Casting on tenth night.

  Creating the batches of the recipe which would each make a dozen cakes, she wondered whether other women would stretch it to make thirteen because of the power of the number. As she sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon onto the eleventh bundle, a knock at her door brought Domenyk’s unwelcome energy into her house. She led him over to the settle, bidding him sit as she hung his cloak on the peg. The wooden seat was as far away from the kitchen table as she could manage in the single room, and she set a protective shield around the precious herbs.

  She recognised his nervous intent to beard her with some project which she would dislike. Normally, she would have offered him a brew, but that would have kept her near the bundles. Which in turn would keep him close while she made the infusion, and his restless pacing would have pierced her shield. So she grabbed a flagon of brandy-wine and two goblets, and set them down on the small table before taking her place on the settle.

  He poured himself a generous portion without waiting to be served, a symptom of his inner turmoil. “I don’t know what it’s come to, drinking liquor before sundown.”

  “The rules are relaxed at Yule. And anyway, I sensed you needed fortification for whatever question plays on your mind.”

  Putting his goblet on the table, he clasped her hands with an urgency. “You are very perceptive, Mistress Senna. You cannot fail to have noticed how dear you are to me. I have held back my desire to court you properly until your year of mourning is ended, but I believe there is not long now.”

  Freeing her hands, she muttered that it was another week as she availed herself of the wine’s fortification. Taking her time to sip, she regarded him over the goblet’s rim. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable: He appeared to be mentally cataloguing her appearance, as though assessing a piece of horse flesh.

  Finally, his patience ended, and he relieved her of the goblet, regaining his possession of her hands. “I will wait the week, but not a day longer. You know the rules, Senna. As soon as your mourning year is over, you must form an alliance with a protector, in order that your reputation remain untarnished. I would be that man.”

  She searched her mind for any kind of response, let alone a suitable one, but the power of speech deserted her as she merely gazed at him.

  Domenyk patted her hand. “I know, I know. This is an absolute honour for you, although I cannot believe someone as perceptive as you could be so surprised by my pledge.”

  His arrogance stole her response as she choked back the urge to disabuse him. But the man had sufficient standing in the village; he would not make a sensible enemy.

  He forged ahead with the secondary purpose for his visit. “I come bearing a request from the council. We would like you to present the prizes at the Ba
rding, tonight. Again, another honour, but your late husband’s father suggested it, and the other council members agreed.”

  His manner and turn of phrase evidenced his resistance to the idea, and she bowed her head to hide her reaction as she sought the expected response. “I would be greatly honoured. Thank you.”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll see you at three, when the contest begins.”

  He swallowed the last of his wine, and his searching gaze suggested he wanted some kind of physical act to seal the deal. She picked up her goblet to dissuade any notion of a kiss on her cheek.

  With a frown, he jumped to his feet and strode across the room, swirling his cloak around him with a flourish as he exited like the man of substance he believed himself to be.

  She hurried over to the table, attempting to push all of his self-important energy out of the door after him, before it could pollute her bundles. Thankfully, her protection still held, but she smudged the room with sage and rosemary before lowering the shield.

  The next stage of the consecration involved lighting the necessary candles and incense and preparing her mind to commune with spirit. Standing with her bare feet planted firmly on the floor, she invoked the power of the four elements, spirit, and all the deities. Speaking the blessing words with careful intent, she charged each mixture with a vitality to ensure every ingredient would supply its optimum efficacy, then secured the bundle with protective twine.

  Her final task was to lay each of the packages carefully on her altar board, surrounded by crystals and other powerful tokens which would continue to charge their herbs ready for the baking.

  As she replaced the jars on the shelf, she noticed the stocks getting dangerously low for certain items. Normally, she would have made provision in her busy schedule to forage in the woods, but with the two birthings and all they entailed, she had not managed to find the time. But she could not spare a moment to worry about it right now; having a morsel to eat and getting ready were the order of the day.

  Entering the great hall alone felt a little unnerving, but Lyrelie had spent the morn coaching her friends who were to be performing in the junior Barding. Cora and Alfun had taken the pony and trap over to his mother’s village, to bring her back. It was a long journey, but she normally stayed with them for a few days afterward. This was her favourite Yule event, particularly with Freya competing this year.

  Senna waved to them in their front-row seats, but before she could greet them, Domenyk grasped her arm, his manner even more aggressive than normal. “Senna, thank goodness you are here. One of the judges has been taken ill, so we would appreciate if you could extend your role to help with the judging.”

  Her instinct was complete shock; the panel was always exclusively male. But this would be her opportunity to bring a feminine point of view, so she nodded her acceptance.

  “Good. It’s nothing more than a formality. You will, of course, be expected to follow my lead and vote as I do.”

  Her inner voice begged to differ, but she wisely kept her council and, with an apologetic shrug at her friends, followed him to the judges’ table, where he introduced her to the rest of the panel.

  She nodded at Lyran’s father, who did not look happy about this turn of events, and shook hands with the other two councillors. One of them was a virtual stranger, but the other she knew well, mainly due to his large family; all five children brought into the world by herself or her husband.

  “Councillor Osman, a pleasure. How are your delightful family?”

  “All well, thank you. I take it Lyrelie is not competing in the junior event.”

  Senna’s face wrinkled in remorse. “I’m afraid she has my singing voice, and she’s more likely to write a healing recipe than a tale.”

  “Her mother’s daughter, then?”

  “And her father’s. Although he could, at least, hold a tune.”

  Aware of the disapproval emanating from both men to her right, she curtailed the conversation.

  Domenyk stood, calling everyone to attention by ringing the village crier’s bell, which sounded loud in her ear. After welcoming them all and explaining the rules, he directed everyone’s attention to the dais, where last year’s Wordy King bowed deeply.

  As was the custom, the man told the tale of his year as the Village Bard. But unlike previous bards, who played to their strengths by either singing, reciting poetry or enacting a tale, he used a combination of all three. Senna was so engaged by his entertaining skills, she almost missed the part where he paid tribute to the folks who had passed over in the year. It was only when Domenyk covered her hand with his, and she heard a choked snarl from Ranly, that she realised the man the Bard described was her husband.

  Dipping her head to avoid meeting any of the dozens of pairs of eyes staring at her, she nonetheless felt the outpouring of love for her husband from the audience, which washed over her like a warm hug. An instant later, she felt his heat as he enfolded her from behind, nuzzling into her hair. The sensation was so real, she even smelt the unique blend of lemon balm and spices from his favourite soap.

  Domenyk’s question and, more annoyingly, his proximity as he leaned close, intruded on her private grief. “Are you all right?”

  She could not tolerate his insensitivity, or the sheer stupidity in asking such a thing.

  Then he redeemed himself. “Of course you are not all right, how thoughtless of me. I meant, would you like to take a moment to compose yourself?”

  Unable to speak, she merely shook her head and gestured to let the matter drop.

  The Bard had obviously witnessed her discomfort, and hurried over the next part of his tale. Opening her eyes, she sent him a poignant smile, and a burst of reassuring energy.

  He finished his performance with an elaborate bow, and the audience showed their appreciation by clapping, stamping and a host of approving shouts.

  Domenyk seemed keen to move the proceedings on, and gestured for the man to introduce the first junior hoping for a place in the court of the new Wordy King.

  Senna’s appreciation of the first two performances was hampered by the strong sensations evoked by Lyran’s memory and his very real presence.

  But when a haunting, melodic rendition of a popular folk tune caught her attention, she cleared her clouded vision to see Cora’s daughter, Freya, captivating every member of the crowd with her matchless performance.

  Aware of Domenyk’s scrutiny of her, she made a note of the girl’s song and a couple of words to sum up her experience. From then on, she paid closer attention as each talented youngster entertained and delighted with their humour, wit or artistry.

  Two of the boys gave good performances of a song and poem, but Verat positively stole the show with his witty rendition of a traditional Yule carol, following each beautifully sung verse with a reflection of how the story could have had a very different meaning.

  When all seven had performed, the judges huddled together while the current Bard gave a final performance of the song which helped him win last year.

  There was nothing much for the panel to do as Domenyk decreed all of the contenders worthy of a place of honour at the Wordy King’s table during the feast.

  He asked each judge to name the boy and girl who had provided the most entertainment. Four of the five votes went to Freya and three of the judges named Verat, the youth she was walking out with.

  Senna joined the youngsters on the dais, and shook the hand of each one as she placed the ivy circlet on the head. She then announced that Verat and Freya’s performances deserved special merit, naming them as Wordy Prince and Princess. They accepted the applause with delighted bows.

  During the interval, she congratulated all seven youngsters equally as they rushed to celebrate with their families. It would not do to show anything which could be construed as favouritism. She would have plenty of time to celebrate properly with her friends in private at a later date.

  For the main challenge, each judge had to pick their top three acts s
o Domenyk tasked them with giving a score out of five for skill, and another for entertainment, making a total out of ten for each performer. The final scores were not totalled until all eleven had completed, so the marks were not biased toward later contenders.

  Senna focused on every minute of each performance, only making her notes at the end during the applause, and the brief introduction given by the Bard to each contestant. She wanted to be scrupulously fair, because it was not just a place at the table riding on this.

  Anyone winning the coveted name of Village Bard – the title Wordy King only tended to be used during the Barding itself – was guaranteed to have a lucrative reign. They would be invited to all the prestigious functions throughout the year, and at the end of every quarter, gave a summary performance. Most people were happy to leave a small donation, be it food, ale, or even coin.

  The opening act made a credible attempt at the same Yule carol Verat had parodied, but his strait-laced approach fell flat after the boy’s witty rendition. The audience clapped politely, and Senna decided to include a note of audience reaction, marking this with two out of five.

  Next up was Taron, and she scanned the hall to find Lareeta sitting on the end of a row, the babe snuggled into a shawl. Her position was chosen for a quick getaway should the babe decide to wake up and start crying.

  He obviously did not take the challenge seriously; his was a purely comedic retelling of the tale told by the mummers, but with everything reversed like on Topsy-Turvy Day. He donned a shawl and a high voice to become a woman for part of it and his antics received a much warmer applause than the first contender, so she marked it with a three.

  Next came one of only three women brave enough to take the challenge. Senna knew there were many more talented women in the village, but most of them had given up bothering to compete because a woman had never made it into the top three, let alone win.

  She’d chosen a popular Beltane song and, with two decades under her belt, she had much more experience than Freya. Her singing was much closer to that of a very young girl: sweet, but without the emotional connection. Senna marked the audience rating as three.