by Jules Watson
Rhiann stifled a moan and pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes, trying to contain the panic. She had to find the healer in her, the control. She was dimly aware of Caitlin’s soft steps as she came to stand behind Conaire, and Finan and Aedan arriving, gathering by Colum’s side. After a few gasping breaths, Rhiann managed to look down at Eremon again, touching his forehead. It was taut and dry with heat.
‘How long since the blow?’
‘Four days,’ Conaire whispered. ‘The wound bled a lot, but at first he talked to us and it didn’t seem so bad.’ His mouth twisted, and he dropped his head as Caitlin silently stroked his hair.
Colum cleared his throat. ‘But the bleeding continued, no matter how much we staunched it, and then he got the fever, and slipped away. He hasn’t woken since the night before last.’
Rhiann peered more closely at the wound itself now. She couldn’t see beneath the dirt-encrusted bandages, but when she touched her hand lightly to the area it was hot, and her nose caught a tell-tale whiff of sick sweetness.
‘It’s turning bad,’ she heard herself say, and now it was Conaire who muffled a sob. Slowly, Rhiann got to her feet, blessed numbness flooding her as her mind reasserted itself. ‘I need to get him to a bed. Take him to my house.’
CHAPTER 55
The days that followed held no natural rhythm for Rhiann, no sunlight or darkness. The only changes were the peaks and troughs of Eremon’s fever, the periods of chills and shaking, despite the warmth of his skin, followed by the restless tossing off of sheets as he burned.
The fever was agonizing, but Rhiann applied herself to the wound first, laying water-lily leaves over it to draw out infection, and bathing it with yarrow brews and tonics of daisy. Linnet, who came as soon as Caitlin sent for her, moved with Rhiann through her trance, binding on the ivy and groundsel poultices with gentle fingers, and dribbling potions into Eremon’s mouth when Rhiann could be persuaded to rest.
The others hovered close by: Eithne preparing fever brews of golden rod and sorrel; Caitlin mashing and straining meat into nourishing broths. Conaire, who had no practical role, merely sat staring at Eremon as if will alone would bring him back. It was left to Fola to hold the sacred space, chanting the prayers and offering milk and mead to the figure of Sirona, the healer goddess.
To Rhiann, however, her loved ones were merely wraiths. She barely noticed their hands as they passed things to her, or their voices, faintly penetrating her haze. She saw only the minute changes in Eremon’s face – its colour, heat and dampness – and his wound – how crusted with pus, how taut the skin around the ragged rent, whether the dreadful red lines of poison were spreading up towards his heart.
In the awful blank spaces between poultices and potions, Rhiann sponged Eremon endlessly with cool river water and wrapped his burning body in sheets soaked in the Add. Then, her fingers would linger on each white scar that graced his muscles, and she would tell herself that he had survived this wound there, this cut there, and still lived, that he could do it again. Even though she knew he had never received a wound like this one.
After three nights of his delirium, Linnet was the only one to voice the thoughts Rhiann had been avoiding. ‘I have never seen anyone endure such a fever for so long,’ her aunt murmured. ‘The prince truly fights like the warrior he is.’
Rhiann stared down at Eremon then, smoothing one gaunt cheekbone with her finger. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But …’ She swallowed her words, for they were too painful to say aloud.
But it must break soon or he will die.
One day later, as despair pressed ever more heavily, Rhiann’s prayers were heard.
She had just collapsed into an exhausted sleep when Caitlin roused her from the bed. ‘Come,’ Caitlin breathed in her ear, her fingers tight on Rhiann’s shoulder. ‘The fever has broken.’
Rhiann rushed to his bed in her shift, her hair tumbling about her face. There Linnet greeted her with a tired smile, a cool cloth in her hand. Eremon was lying quietly for the first time in days, and the sheets underneath him were soaked with sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead in dark tendrils.
‘Praise be to the Goddess,’ Fola whispered from the end of the bed, yet Rhiann could do no more than sink to her knees and hold his hand, her burning eyes pressed into the damp bedclothes.
By the end of that day the drawing poultices did their work, and the wound burst with a foul trickle of pus and clear liquid that stank, making those in the room not used to such things gag. Yet Rhiann and Linnet’s eyes met, for they knew what it meant, and Rhiann would have gladly endured the smell every day for the rest of her life if he would only live.
Now they could clean the wound properly, and pack it with honey, and as Eremon’s temperature continued to fall, Rhiann’s preparations changed from fever brews to potions for strengthening the blood and heart and wasted muscles. She forced herself to spend even more time by his bed, even though she frequently fell asleep over his arm or hand, and woke stiff across her back. For soon, surely, he would wake.
Yet two more days slid by, and it became clear that something was not right.
The wound, though drained, remained an angry red, and the sides would not close no matter how tightly bound. And though Eremon’s sweating abated, he still did not return to a normal temperature, and his skin remained too warm to the touch. Rhiann watched hungrily for a flickering eyelash, a jerk of his arm, any tiny movement of Eremon’s blistered lips. But they never came.
He no longer tossed and turned and murmured – he no longer moved at all. He lay as still as a man on his funeral pyre, and only his rapid, shallow breaths showed her that he still lived.
When Eremon’s condition had remained unchanged for another two days, the watchers around her, by necessity, began to resume normal lives. Clothing must be made, and food stored, for the warm season had now faded, and brown leaves shivered on the trees. As Rhiann sat motionless by Eremon’s bed, Fola and Eithne and Caitlin willingly took over her harvest duties: Fola blessed the grain pits and cattle slaughter; Caitlin supervised the salting and brining; and Eithne replenished their stores of herbs, berries and hazelnuts.
As for Conaire, Caitlin grew so alarmed at his unabating despair that she finally took drastic measures. One day she deposited Gabran in his lap without a word and disappeared, forcing Conaire to remove himself to the King’s Hall with his son in order to leave Rhiann in peace. There, as Caitlin had reasoned, the other men sought to keep his mind busy.
So the house fell into silence and stillness, broken only by Linnet’s soft steps and gentle voice. And that was when Rhiann’s torture truly began. For there was nothing physical to be done, and she could no longer take refuge in her healer mind, in duty.
This day she sat as usual on the stool drawn up to the bed, Eremon’s right hand clasped in both of her own, her forehead resting on the cradle they made. His sword was laid across his feet, as if somehow it might draw his warrior’s strength back to him.
Rhiann heard the clink of the chain as Linnet lowered the cauldron closer to the fire, yet suddenly an abrupt silence fell and Linnet was standing behind Rhiann. ‘It has been more than a week, cariad. You cannot go on like this, you will sicken yourself.’
For a moment, Rhiann did not answer, her eyes closed. ‘Aunt,’ she then whispered. ‘Tell me the lore about such people, who sleep and do not wake.’
‘Do not do this, daughter.’
‘Tell me!’
At Linnet’s silence, Rhiann raised her face. Her eyes fixed on Eremon’s gaunt cheeks, the faint fluttering of his chest. ‘When all has been done for the patient,’ she recited, ‘and the patient has not succumbed to the wound or illness, yet will not rise to wakefulness, it is because the soul has become lost in its wanderings, far from the body.’ She gripped Eremon’s hand tighter. ‘And why do souls not return, aunt?’
‘Rhiann,’ Linnet sat down on the bed beside Eremon’s feet, her face stricken, ‘I beg you—’
Yet Rhiann only pr
essed her forehead into Eremon’s fingers, until his nails stung her skin.
‘The soul,’ she whispered, ‘will be drawn back to a healing body only if it is anchored by something: love, or desire for life, or belonging, or deeds undone, or words unsaid. So you see, it is my fault indeed that his soul can’t find its way back – he doesn’t have a reason to return. He doesn’t believe I love him, and how could he? I tried to come back to tell him, but I was too late.’
Linnet leaned over to grip Rhiann’s knee. ‘Daughter, he knows you love him.’
Rhiann flinched from the touch. ‘No,’ she choked. ‘I should have given myself to him with all my heart when I had the chance, and given him a child. And I should never have let him ride away so hurt.’
From within the circle of Linnet’s arms she stared with dry eyes at nothing, for the regret burned too fiercely for tears.
With dismay, Linnet saw the way Rhiann slid into an ever-deepening desolation, a faltering of her will that was more disturbing than any weeping. Alarmed, she called in Caitlin, who managed to persuade Rhiann to take some broth by the hearth one dim afternoon, when the winds shrieked over the thatch outside, and bucked the door-hide on its thongs. After she watched Rhiann eat a few bites, Caitlin rested a sleepy Gabran in her sister’s lap and curled up on the bench next to her.
For a long time Rhiann watched Gabran in a dazed, exhausted silence: the glow of the flames on his pearlescent skin; his sweet, round mouth; and chubby fingers plucking at the ends of her braids. And when she glanced up, it was to see Caitlin staring at her with thinly veiled eagerness. Rhiann smiled bleakly, just to soften the fear in her sister’s eyes. ‘A child is indeed a great tonic.’
‘And I have you to thank for him, sister.’ Caitlin regarded her son sombrely. ‘Without you, he would have died in my womb. Remember how you made me fight, how you gave me the strength to go on? When all was lost, when all was hopeless, you brought me home.’ She grasped for Rhiann’s hand. ‘I know you can do the same for Eremon, Rhiann. Your love for me saved me, and it will save him. You’ll see.’
She said this with such simple confidence that tears flooded Rhiann’s eyes, and she dropped her head until her lips were resting in Gabran’s soft hair. ‘I never gave him a child,’ she whispered, staring at the fire. ‘He went to war thinking I did not love him, and he may die thinking that.’
‘No, Rhiann!’ Caitlin’s hand tightened. ‘He knew, more than any man could. Did you not walk up to the gates of a Roman fort in a blizzard, alone, for him? Did you not throw yourself before a knife once, to save him? Did you not call the stags for him? And travel the length and breadth of Alba, to gain him allies? He knows, Rhiann. He knows.’
Rhiann blinked, and the tears slid down her cheeks. Gabran gazed at her, then reached out a finger to touch one.
‘Rhiann,’ Caitlin whispered, ‘you give us all the greatest of love, in the things that you do. Do not speak of yourself this way – I won’t have it!’ She raised her chin, her lip trembling. ‘You put yourself in danger for us, and have done so many times. When we were trapped here by Urben, and thought Gabran might die, it was you who saved him! You found a way, because you always do …’
Gabran sensed his mother’s distress and began to wail, holding out his arms.
Yet as Rhiann watched Caitlin soothe her son, she found herself not only moved by these words, but caught in the net they cast. Instantly stilled, she stared at the back of Gabran’s head. Nerida had told her to judge herself by what she did, not by what she thought. What she did …
Suddenly, Rhiann’s pulse was racing, her palms clammy. She was afraid, but Caitlin was right. She had always been able to put aside her fears if someone she loved was in danger.
When Linnet returned, Rhiann was alone by the fire. She’d stirred herself to brew a blackberry tea, which she could see pleased her aunt, and when she asked if she might spend this night alone with Eremon, Linnet surprisingly agreed.
‘Only if,’ she added, one finger raised, ‘you allow me to feed him at dawn. I don’t want you up all night again.’
When Linnet had gathered up her few possessions to take to the King’s Hall, Rhiann stopped her at the door. ‘I hope you know I love you. You made me who I am, and for that I will always be grateful.’
Linnet’s eyes shone with tears, and she nodded, and tenderly touched Rhiann’s cheek before leaving.
For a drawn-out time Rhiann sat by Eremon’s bed, the rush lamp set close on a stool. Outside, she was aware of the moon slowly rising, for she caught a glimpse of its light creeping beneath the door-hide. ‘I am afraid,’ she confessed to Eremon at last. ‘But Caitlin is right. Have I done so much for others, only to quail at doing so for you? You are worth that to me, and more, so I must find the courage.’ She kissed his hand. ‘You once called me courageous, but I don’t feel it now. I need to find that spark. Help me to find it.’
There was no answer, of course, only the slight wheeze of Eremon’s breathing. From outside came the rattle of the night wind on a metal plough, and the answering bark of a dog.
‘If I come to you,’ Rhiann whispered, ‘will you see me? Is it truly that you are lost – or do you wish to leave?’ She rested her forehead on his hand. The longer she delayed, the greater the risk that Linnet would return and stop her from carrying out her plan.
So at last she straightened, and wiped the nervous sweat from her face. Eremon’s soul wandered, yet was still attached to its body by a thread, because he breathed. So, quite simply, she would have to retrieve him. There was no other choice.
With those words repeating firmly in her mind, she lit another lamp and took it to her workbench. There, she stretched up to the top shelf that curved around the wall, rifling among the pottery jars and rolled packets of bark and oiled linen, until between the last two jars her fingers found the round, nubbled packet tied with three knots in a line.
After resting a pan of water in the coals to boil, she unwrapped the bark on her workbench, curl by curl, until the mound of black, pod-shaped spores was laid bare. They looked so harmless, yet not only would this powder release her spirit from her body, it was a poison that could cause an agonizing death. She had used it twice in her life now, more than most druids ever did. Would she be permitted a third time?
Her blood thumping in her throat, Rhiann stared at the spores. If she used too little, perhaps she would not travel far enough, and Linnet would find her retching uncontrollably on the floor. Too much, and she might travel too far, and never come back. She and Eremon would both die.
In the end Rhiann closed her eyes and prayed to the Goddess as she pinched off a tiny piece into her pestle. She ground it into a fine powder, all the while intoning the ritual words to prepare her soul, trying not to think of Linnet and Caitlin, Fola and Eithne. They had their lives, and they would have to live them. But Eremon had entered Rhiann’s deepest and most secret heart, a place where no one else had ventured.
Taking a deep breath, Rhiann washed her face and hands and combed out her hair, then lined the goddess figurines up along the hearth-stone.
Once when she did this before, she had fancied she saw disapproval in Ceridwen’s stone face. Now all the goddesses struck her as impassive, and she had the strong sense that it was up to her to change this fate.
The last time Rhiann used the spores was in desperation and urgency, and she had not prepared herself properly. This time, she knew she could put no foot wrong. Before swallowing the brew she sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing in the priestess way down to her feet and out of her crown, striving to still her trembling and focus on the glow of her heart.
Only when she could sense the cord of silver light running the length of her body did she take the liquid. Then she lay on the bed next to Eremon, taking him in her arms. She had imbibed such a large dose that she did not have to wait long for it to sweep her away.
First her awareness contracted from the edges of her body, growing smaller as the dark walls around her loomed larger,
swaying and moving like reeds in the wind. Gradually, her toes and fingers went numb, and there was a terrible burning on her tongue – the mark of the spores. As her tiny spirit began to rush down the glittering, swirling tunnel of light, she pictured the cord as her will, knowing that her conscious strength was the only thing that would guide her back.
Struggling to hold her sense of self, she fixed an image of Eremon in her mind, the way his true smile spread over his face. And suddenly the tunnel opened out into a night of flaming stars, and Rhiann’s spirit flew free and became one of them, spiralling through the sparkling dust of ages, forgetting at once who she was …
When was the time, and where the place?
After an age of spinning and soaring, free in the ecstasy of the void, Rhiann’s soul was called by something behind the wild, sweet music of the Otherworld voices. It plucked at her, and when she ignored it, captured by the song of a passing swirl of colour and light, it began to tug at her more insistently.
And Rhiann remembered, fleetingly. There was a silver cord, and she must breathe into it. For that moment out of time, the impulse was compelling, and the shimmering voices around her faded. She saw the cord behind her, and breathed, recognizing herself. Its light grew stronger, pulsing with power and, amid the gas and glittering dust around her, something grew solid.
It was ground, and still, thick air above, soft with a diffuse light that came from everywhere at once and nowhere at all. She remembered only to breathe; that she had a will to breathe. And so the call drew her on to the end of a path, beyond the clamouring voices, which sought to pull her back.
Suddenly, she was at a waveless shore, and there she took flight once more, not into the void but out over an endless, dark sea.
For a flame was trapped at the heart of the sea, and to that flame she was drawn. It was a soul-flame twin to her own, yet unlike her steady light, it dipped, like a guttering candle in a storm. When she came to it, she knew that she must envelop the flickering flame with her own light, so it would not sink beneath the dark water.
