by Hall, Ian
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012. Ian Hall. Hallanish Publishing, thru Smashwords Inc.
This edition © 2014
ISBN; 9781310112942
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Caledonii; Birth of a Celtic Nation
5. A Druid’s Work
By Ian Hall
Chapter 17… Winter AD 80... Neal’s Capital; Ayra
Chapter 18… 81 AD… The Pause Before the…
Chapter 19… Spring 81 AD… The Roman Way
Chapter 20... 82 AD... Guerillas of the North
Neal’s Capital; Ayra
Early Winter AD 80
Winnie finished her story with her usual surprise ending and watched as the children jumped with shock at the heavily accented finale. The flickering of the fire inside the hut lit their faces and exaggerated their facial expressions. Frightening young children with stories of kelpies and goblins was one of the things she loved most about being a storyteller. Winnie would admit it was a little perverse, but the raw energy that flowed from the children at the story’s climax felt wonderful.
If she concentrated on her ‘old magic’, she could almost see the colors which emanated from the children’s bodies. To counteract this little flaw in her character she always ensured that every story she told had a hidden deeper meaning to it. Most of these would be picked out of the story and understood by the adult audience, but the children sometimes had to be told the moral of the story at the end. Sometimes she included a warning within the tale, sometimes just a repetition of the moral at the end of the story seemed sufficient.
“Right!” A gruff voice called from the dark doorway as the children settled for another tale. “It is time for bed!”
The Novanti children cried their usual dismays, but dutifully got to their feet and filed out. Each child thanked her for her stories as they passed, some even bowing to her; a Storyteller ranked high in the clan system, and Winnie was the best.
“Thank you from the village too, Storyteller.” the man bowed slightly.
“Thank you for giving me food an’ lodgings.” she replied.
The clansman shuffled his feet nervously. “I have a request from the chief.”
“Yes?” Winnie tried to hold down the excitement she felt within.
“Chief Neall would like to hear a tale or two before he sleeps.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Perhaps this is why I have felt drawn to the Novanti.
At the dark of the last moon, she had detected a definite need to visit the clan in the far west. Used to such unusual forces, she had simply followed the instruction, certain that reason would present itself eventually.
The clansman motioned to Winnie that she should follow him, and he walked out into the grey-dark. Winnie shivered and drew her cloak about her as she shuffled briskly, following the silent clansman to Neall’s broch. A light dusting of powdery snow had fallen, whisked by the wind into nooks and crannies as she walked. When he reached the doorway of the chief’s broch, he held aside the thick animal hide curtain, and entered the small hallway. Dark openings on either side led to the internal spiral staircases which led through the walls. The clansman began to hold the inner curtain open too, and motioned that she should enter quickly.
“Close the infernal curtain you idiot!” came the muffled cry from within the dimly-lit room beyond, and Winnie quickly ducked through. She felt the outer curtain dropped behind her and the inner one opened fully. As she entered the broch’s ground floor room, she heard the clansman’s footfalls outside as he ran away to the comfort of his own hut.
“Oh it’s the Storyteller!” Neall’s voice boomed from the far side of the room. Although he smiled, the chief’s voice held neither warmth nor welcome. “You took your time.”
Winnie’s eyes quickly became accustomed to the braziers light inside and walked into the room proper. “The children were especially intent tonight, Chief Neall.”
She found the lower floor room of the broch sparsely decorated; no embroidered hangings, no colorful clan emblems, not even furs. The bare stone walls were a cold austere environment to live in, and when she compared this room with the other clan chiefs’ dwellings, Neall’s looked sorely wanting.
Chief Neall sat bent over a small fire, his brother Wesson by his side. Both watched Winnie as she made her way confidently forward. Her back against the stone wall, Neall’s wife sewed industriously, apparently oblivious to her entrance; her eyes did not stray from her work. Winnie had spent two nights in the village of Ayra, and although she had been introduced to Neall on arrival, she knew his wife and brother by sight only.
“Come in, and sit at the fire!” Neall said loudly.
Winnie moved over to the fire and sat cross-legged on the floor, opposite Neall. She raised her hands to the embers, warming her chilled fingers, watching the chief.
“Rayna!” Neall shouted, turning to his wife. “Pour some ale for the Storyteller. She’s going to send us a’ to sleep tonight wi’ bad dreams!” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and slapped Rayna’s behind as she passed him. “Look at her! She’s beautiful!” Neall wiped his wet mouth with his sleeve and returned his gaze to Winnie. “We’re just hand-fasted this year! She’s got less than a year to prove her worth to me, or I’ll try another.”
Winnie knew that ‘her worth’ would be proven by getting pregnant; the only reason for her hand-fasting marriage to the boorish chief. It was common knowledge even outside the clan that chief Neall had been as yet unlucky in begetting an heir. The two pregnancies from past wives had been marred with miscarriage, although if you listened to the talk within the clan, you would hear that the women had carefully found pleasure elsewhere, and the babies had not been his at all. His last three hand-fasting marriages had all ended barren, and Neall had long lost patience. Such a situation bred gossip like wildfire, and every version of the chief’s inability to father an heir undermined Neall’s authority. Winnie could see the pain behind his eyes, and wondered to what extent it drove his obvious anger.
The sullen look on the retreating Rayna’s face told Winnie that perhaps the elevated position of chief’s wife was not worth the hardship she bore whilst there. Winnie averted her gaze from the young woman and turned to Neall. The fact that neither Rayna nor Wesson had spoken since she had entered had not escaped her.
“What would the chief like to hear?” Winnie expecting some old favorite to be asked for, or perhaps some tale once heard in childhood.
“Oh you decide Storyteller.” Neall took a large swig of ale from his dirty tankard. He left the wet ale glistening in his beard and moustache. “You would best know what’s in fashion these days.”
Winnie smiled and slowly began to tell the story of “The Kelpie”, an old story told to her when she was very young. She was given a cup of warm ale, which she sipped as she spoke. Every sip was taken at a period of suspense in the story, every inflection of
her voice part of the story’s magic.
Winnie told the tale of a young man who wished to cross a wide river and had been persuaded by a kelpie; a river demon, to let it carry him across. The kelpie turned on the man halfway, and killed him out of sheer wickedness. The story was short and to the point, intended to relax the chief. The important story would be the second one; a new story she had prepared earlier in the year for such an occasion.
She watched the reactions of the chief and his brother to the moral and ending of the first story and observed the interplay between the room’s occupants. She cleared her throat gently, not waiting for Neall’s permission to start a new tale. Her impropriety was not noticed by the ale-sipping chief.
“The next tale is of a family of seven brothers.” Winnie watched as her description of the brothers and their predicament was registered by the chief. “One day they were out hunting in lands very close to their own village. They hunted together for strength, in case they came across a wild boar or a pack of wolves. They hunted together, but one brother was always a little apart from the others; he counted himself better than them, although he always kept his thoughts very much to himself.”
Wesson gave her a questioning glance, then glanced at his brother. Seeing no response from Neall, he turned to continue listening to the story.
“The brothers were surprised by a band of marauding sailors; men from the far west, across the great ocean. At first the brothers fought, but when they realized that the numbers against them were too great, they decided to flee. Even the brother who though himself better agreed, and they turned and ran for the river which bordered the village. After crossing the river, they would be safe.”
Winnie sipped her warm ale, watching her audience. She noted with satisfaction that Rayna had stopped her sewing and although her eyes were downcast, she listened to the tale.
“The river was wide and very deep and there were two crossings. Both ways had seven large step-stones, with long gaps between them; a huge leap was required from the villagers to cross, but the brothers knew the stones well and were sure that they could manage the leaps.”
“The brother who thought himself better than the others remained silent whilst he ran. The six brothers shouted to each other that they would be too tired to jump the gaps to the stones; they would surely fall in the deep river and be carried away to their deaths.”
Winnie took another sip of her ale and watched Neall, but his only reaction was to down the remains of his tankard, wiping his beard with his already sodden sleeve. He did not, however, ask for his cup to be refilled; even Neall would not interrupt the Storyteller.
“The eldest brother shouted encouragement to the others, saying that he would jump each stone individually and catch the others as they jumped towards him. As they ran they all agreed on the plan; all except the brother who thought of himself as better than the others. He decided that if he was going to have to wait on each brother crossing, he would be surely captured by the mad seamen who chased them.”
“As the brothers arrived at the first crossing, and the eldest brother steadied himself for the jump, the errant brother ran past them and made for the second river crossing, a short distance downstream. His brothers shouted at him to rejoin them, but the brother stayed silent; his mind made up. As the brothers crossed safely from one stone to the other, the eldest brother stayed behind on the first stone pleading with the errant brother to rejoin them.”
“The brother who thought of himself as better than the others smiled to himself at the cleverness of his plan and steadied himself for his leap. As he took a few steps back to make his run, the eldest brother continued on his way over the river, jumping confidently from one stone to the other, rejoining his brothers on the other bank.”
“The last remaining brother began his run for his first leap, the marauding seamen close on his heels. He leapt into the air and his foot landed well on the first stone, then he slipped on some wet green slime. He slipped. And with no one waiting on the stone to catch him, he fell into the water.”
Winnie took another sip of her dwindling ale, wincing against the sediment in her mouth.
“As he fell he held out his hand as if he was expecting his oldest brother to be there catching him. But then he realized that he had taken a different route, and full of dismay, fell deep into the river.” Winnie’s speech became imperceptibly slower, as she emphasized the ending. “Falling into the river did not kill him, but his clothes and weapons slowed him down, and he could not reach the other side quick enough. Arrows from the band of sailors began to strike the water near him, until with a skillful shot, one hit him in the head.”
“Slowly he slid under the water and was never seen again.”
“The brothers watched as their brother’s body slipped under the water and swore to avenge him, but the sailors retreated before they could rally the village.”
Winnie resisted the temptation to drink more, the first taste of sediment had been bitter enough. She sat back on her heels, her story completed.
“Is that it?” Neall slurred his words badly. “Finished?” He got to his feet as if he were going to say more to Winnie, but curtesy persevered and he simply stumbled past her out of the room.
A silence fell upon the room as Winnie listened to Neall walking up the stone staircase to the bedroom above.
“Thank you Storyteller.” Wesson looked at the curtain in the doorway. “I think my brother has had entirely too much to drink.”
“Aye, maybe,” Winnie winced in pain as she rose, sitting so long had caused her legs to become numb. Wesson helped her with a steady hand. “Age doesn’t come on its own.” She said.
Wesson smiled in sympathy.
“Thank you, storyteller,” Rayna’s face had brightened with a smile now that Neall had gone
“I can escort you to your hut.” Wesson said. “The night’ll be darker now.”
“And cold,” Rayna had certainly come to life on her husband’s departure.
“Thank you Wesson, I’ll take your offer. Sometimes an old woman needs the support of a good-looking young man.”
“Sometimes a young woman needs it too!” Rayna’s face turned deepest red at her unplanned outburst.
Winnie left the broch with more on her mind than when she had entered. “You had better be very careful, Wesson, son of Magnus.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replied, but he never met her eye.
Winnie settled in her bracken bed that night, her thoughts lost in one question.
Why am I here?
It had been her one and only occupying thought for three days.
For days before that, all she could think of was reaching Ayra. So, trusting her intuition, she had ridden across the whole of the lowlands. Past thousands of Roman troops, who paid her scant attention regardless of her obvious predetermination.
And that bothers me more.
There was a reason to be here, but despite her musings, she could not divine its source.
She soon fell asleep.
~ ~ ~
There was a large brown bear, standing in the wide stream; its dark brindle coat shone in the sun. It tried to catch a great salmon in the river. With all its attention focused on the salmon, it did not see another bear approaching; a huge white bear, the likes Winnie had never seen before.
The white bear left the cover of the woods, and walked into the stream.
The brown bear still did not see him, he splashed the water after the salmon.
The white bear came close, then flashed his claws at the bears shoulder, tearing through fur and sinew. The brown bear roared in pain, seeing the white bear for the first time.
They both stood on their hind legs and roared at each other.
The bears immediately came to blows, flailing at each other with extended claws, but they were both strong, neither getting an early advantage.
Suddenly a blue bird flew out of the sun. It darted straight at the brown be
ar, and flew round his head, distracting him. The brown bear tried to swat the bird as he fought the white bear, but the bird was too quick for him.
As the blue bird distracted his opponent, he white bear took his chance. With an almighty swipe, it slashed the first bear across the eyes, blinding him.
With a wail, the brown bear fell into the stream, and was washed away.
~ ~ ~
Pell sat in his small hut. A central fire warmed the whole room, the smoke leaving by a single hole in the low roof. The surprise visit of the storyteller had caused him to question her motives, but as usual in the evening he had more on his mind. Soon the thoughts of bringing Neall to his knees occupied his thoughts completely. His plan was in its final stages, and he thought of little else.
Two older dhruids entered and fell to their knees. Both kept their eyes firmly downwards into the fire.
“The storyteller has concluded her tales.” One said.
“Neall has retired to his bedroom.” The other added.
Pell dismissed them with a motion of his hand, then threw fragments of different herbs on the fire. They crackled for an instant, then were gone.
Neall will triumph. Neall will triumph. Neall will triumph. Neall will triumph.
Pell’s lips moved, but no sound could be heard. He closed his eyes in concentration.
~ ~ ~
Uwan silently walked through the village. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, a determined look in his eyes under his hooded cloak. He watched for activity, but the night had grown colder, and a harsh wind beat in from the sea to the west. His eyes took in every detail. His bare feet felt the way to the dhruid’s hut; as if a purple carpet led the way.
The litany he mouthed kept the whole village in stasis. Uwan was quite certain that only three people in the village were awake; everyone except Pell, Neall and Rayna slept.
There is a bonding between Neall and Pell.
