Magdalen Rising (44 page)

“By the power of Badb, I invoke hail to hound him and hurl itself upon his head.”

“Ha! That's nothing. By the power of Nemain, I call upon the crows to pluck out his eyes and swallow them and excrete the remains upon his head.”

“You always bring shit into it.”

“And why not? Shit to the shits, I say.”

“It shows a want of imagination, that's all. Now listen. By the power of Macha, I call the great night mare to trample his tenderest parts. And may the Fomorians make his remains into haggis.”

“It's my turn again. Let's see. By the power of Badb, I call into his bed all biting bugs and slithering slugs. Wait. I'm not done yet. And let him be soaked in the sputum of toads.”

“And by Nemain's power, I call forth pulsing sores on his manly protrusion and bursting boils on his behind.”

“By Macha, boils are much more painful when they don't burst.”

“Let them not burst then. Now don't interrupt. It's still my turn.”

Curious, I followed the sound of their voices into a thicket. There, imprisoned in a wicker cage, I saw three women, their hair unkempt, their bodies naked except for a ragged plaid they shared between them. Most horrifying to me were the iron neck rings, each one linked to the others by a massive chain. They were doing their best to keep up their morale by calling on the Mórrígán to curse their enemy. I could not help but be touched.

“Daughters,” I hailed the women, all older than me—or they had been.

They started. The one on my left made the sign for warding off danger from the Otherworld.

The one on my right said, “It's just an old woman.”

“No,” said the one in the middle. “It's the Grey Hag herself. Are you come to prophesy over us? So, is it into the drink or sold for drink? No one tells us anything, and we don't know which is worse: to be sold as slaves? (For where there's life there's hope.) Or to be fed to the fishes.”

“You mean the Lady of the Lake,” said one of her companions. “Which end might be more fitting to our rank, though not necessarily more pleasant.”

I turned a prophetic eye on them—surely one of Dwynwyn's eyes had the Sight. I lost my focus on the future when I noticed the comet-streak of white in the black hair of the middle woman.

“I know you!” I burst out.

“Flattering, I'm sure, to be known by the Grey Hag. But do you know my fate?”

“Give me a minute.” An idea was beginning to form in my mind. “And meanwhile tell me how you come to be caged. I thought you were married to a Brigantian chieftain of some importance.”

“So I was. But we had our little disagreements. I'm from Hibernia, the Wicklow Hills. He thought he was marrying a goldmine, so he did. But more and more, the druids control the route. That suited my husband, but it didn't suit me. It's not that I'm greedy, but I like to call my own shots. He'd taken over my mines, and the druids had taken over the trade. So I formed an all female warrior band and started raiding. About a month ago, my husband ambushed us and took us captive. I'm ashamed that I haven't died of shame, but here I am. We are reduced to calling down curses on his head. But I don't think they're having much effect. Perhaps yours might?” she concluded hopefully.

“I've got a better idea,” I said. “How would you like to escape?”

Three pairs of eye widened, then narrowed in skepticism.

“Meaning no disrespect to yourself, Old Woman of Beara, but we're after needing Goibnu the Smith. Or had you not noticed the latest fashion in torques we're sporting?”

“Don't dismiss my powers out of hand,” I said severely. I felt my hands beginning to pulse and burn. “Before I free you, I must have your solemn oath that you will do something for me in return.”

A little while later I left them with their shackles melted in strategic places. According to their sworn promise to me, they would maintain the appearance of captivity until nightfall. At that time they would slip away and steal some horses. Or liberate them, as the Hibernian woman put it. Then they would wait, hidden in the thickets, till dawn. If I hadn't come by then, they were free to go.

I walked on up Bryn Du, strains of the women's voices following me a little way. They were composing hymns of praise to me and arguing about the rhyme scheme. It was obvious that none of them had had much formal poetic training, but their hearts were in the right place, which counts for a lot with us Mighty Ones. (I'm afraid being taken for a deity had gone to my head a bit.)

The wood thickened, though it was largely free of undergrowth, the trees being mostly copper beech. They were not in full leaf yet, but when they were, the hill would indeed look dark from a distance and be dark under the canopy of leaves. Although I had been climbing gradually for some time, I still hadn't seen any sign of a druid encampment. I was beginning to wonder if I was on the wrong track when I heard voices ahead, male voices. I darted as swiftly and silently as I could from tree to tree. When I caught the glint of a red beard, I hid behind a massive tree trunk and listened.

“I repeat,” said an all-too-familiar voice. “No one can see the ovate students now. They are in the strictest seclusion, preparing for the most solemn of rites. You will see him tomorrow night at Llyn Cerrig Bach.”

“Ah, but that's just it: will I? Let me be frank with you, Lovernios, most renowned of all druids in the Holy Isles. There are rumors abroad that the candidate for the quinquennial sacrifice has already been selected and that the rite is for form's sake only. Now I paid honest gold for my young friend's place in college, and I found eleven men to stand surety for him with me. You are answerable to us.”

“Let me assure you then that your charge is well, and your gold has not been wasted. He has proven himself an able student, and we have observed that he is wise beyond his years. As for the great sacrifice, only the gods know how the lots will fall out. If the lot falls to him, I say again, your gold has not been wasted.”

The merchant cleared his throat. “I would expect no less than justice and honor in all matters from the druids of Mona, whose fame spans the continents and the worlds. Still, as a much-traveled man, I feel bound to point out that many other peoples have abandoned this particular form of sacrifice—”

“And have fallen to Rome,” said Lovernios.

“Now don't misunderstand me. I am not saying anything in favor of Rome. And I am appalled by their suppression of druids in Gaul. But I still fail to see how such bloodshed can—”

“It is a mystery.” Lovernios cut him off. “It is not for you to understand. I am afraid I must order you to leave now.”

I peered around the tree as I heard the merchant's footsteps coming my way. I wanted to intercept him, but I heard no movement from Foxface. I supposed he was watching to make sure the merchant did not double back and try to sneak into camp. As the man passed my tree, he happened to glance my way. I put my fingers to my lips and motioned for him to keep walking. To my relief he did, or he might have revealed my presence to Foxface. A few moments later, I heard a rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs as Foxface moved off in the other direction. I hurried after the merchant.

“You,” I called softly when we were well out of Foxface's range of sight and sound. “You who seek Esus ab Joseph, turn and speak to me.”

He obeyed. Perhaps he, too, thought I was a supernatural being, though I'd sensed he was a bit of a skeptic.

“How do you know whom I seek?”

“The Grey Hag sees and knows all.”

I figured I'd try it on for size. It was a certainly a more impressive answer than “I was eavesdropping, stupid.” He eyed me critically. I glared back at him.

“Tell me then, you who know all, will the lot be rigged?”

“I tell nothing for nothing,” I said craftily. “You tell me: If you knew the lot was going to be rigged, would you help Esus ab Joseph?”

“Help him what?”

“Help him escape.”

“Escape the will of the gods?” He began to look nervous.

“We are supposing the lot to be rigged,” I reminded him.

“I can't go against the druids of Mona,” he sighed. “Bad for business. Damn shame if they do sacrifice him. There's something about that boy—”

“His blood will be on you if they do,” I hissed. “And upon your children.”

Now he looked upset. (I've noticed that skeptics are often more scared of curses than other people. They have no recourse.)

“But I don't have any children,” he remembered. “Can't. Had a fever when I was a young man. Fried my scrotum. The druids said there was nothing they could do to help me. That's why I took such an interest in the lad. Still, I don't see what I can do now—”

“I will tell you what to do.” I decided he wasn't trustworthy enough to involve directly. “On your way back to Rhosneigr, you will pass by three women in a wicker cage. Trust me: they are the Mórrígán in disguise. They hold the fate of Esus ab Joseph in their hands. Give them all the gold and jewels you have on your person. Tell them the Grey Hag bids them keep it safe until the hour of need. Then go your way and keep your mouth shut. Tight. Do all that I say and your hands will be clean of his blood. Fail, and not only will your seed be boiled but your appendage will shrivel and fall off. More, you will never again hear the sweet clink of one gold piece against another. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly.” He gulped. “I will do all you say. I swear it on the sacred ground of the Holy Isles and all their precious metals.”

I nodded, satisfied, and watched as he scurried away to do my bidding. I turned and walked on, jubilant, until I remembered that Esus's fate was not so easily secured. It was not in the hands of my trumped-up Mórrígán or in my hands—yet. My immediate challenge was to
slip past the watch into the druid camp. The weather was on my side. The Time of Brightness notwithstanding, clouds cloaked the sky. Fog rolled in from the sea and began to swirl among the trees. (Were the Cranes calling for this fog to shroud their mystery—or were they as inept at weather magic as I'd long suspected they were?) In either case, the change in weather suited my purposes at the moment. No one saw the Grey Hag gliding silently through the mist.

I soon found the camp, with its bright pavilions and cook fires, and observed it from the edge of the clearing. Only druids and ovate students appeared to be in residence. I spotted Esus moving about camp freely, not restrained or drugged or set apart in any way. As I watched for a chance to signal him, he and the other students began making trips, back and forth, carrying firewood and various supplies to some other place. I edged around the clearing and followed Esus on his next trip to a smaller clearing within a perfect ring of beech trees.

As soon as I saw the glade, I knew it was the site of the secret ceremony. A fire was already blazing, heating a flat cooking stone beside it. Ingredients for the cake had been ceremoniously laid out. I recognized what must be the last unground sheaf of barley from the harvest tied with red yarn. Near the grain was a golden vessel of some sort, a chalice or a basin; I wasn't sure which. There were also several lengths of iron chain I did not like the looks of at all. I decided to take up my post here, where the action would be. When the students went back to the camp, I climbed up into one of the trees. Grey mist, grey bark, grey hooded cloak. I was as good as invisible. I hoped Esus would come alone on his next trip, and I could call him over to my tree.

Someone did come alone, but it was not Esus. Robed in ceremonial white with his bird mask and headdress of feathers, Foxface entered the ring of trees. Then he crouched, took up the barley and began to grind it in the quern. Grinding was usually the job of a female servant, but there were no women on Bryn Du, not even a Crow.

Except for me.

I sat in my tree, hardly breathing. Dusk deepened. The fire blazed brighter. I watched the arrhythmic leaping of flame and listened to it crackle and hiss. I watched the rhythmic motion of the druid's arm, and I listened to the repetitive sound of grain being slowly, surely ground.

Grey Hag or not, I was an old woman who had walked a long way and missed a night's sleep. My eyes closed. The arms of the great mother tree held me secure.

W
HEN I WOKE, THEY were all there standing in concentric circles around the fire, the students forming the inner circle. It was an eerie sight: the young faces lit from beneath by firelight, the outer circle of white-robed druids like a ring around some secret sun, the immense darkness crouching over all, thick clouds hiding the bright eye of the almost full moon. I might almost have thought I was dreaming, but the pain in my every bone and muscle soon cleared my head. I scanned the students and found Esus standing opposite my tree. Like everyone else, he had his eyes fixed on the round, flat barley cake, now cooling on the stone. I was perched high enough so that I had a good view of it, too.

After what seemed like a long time—but may have been only moments—the archdruid stepped into the circle and stood over the cake, his hands held palms up to receive it. Lovernios and the grey-bearded druid, who had presided over admissions, knelt and carefully eased the cake from the stone, placing it in the archdruid's hands. When his two assistants were standing again, the archdruid held the cake aloft so that the round side faced out. Reflecting the firelight, the cake glowed, a honey moon. Except for a black mark that looked like a thumbprint.

I looked from the cake to Esus, who gazed at it with interest. I bet he was thinking of the unleavened bread his people had taken when they fled from Egypt. There had been a mark in the Passover story, too, a mark made on the houses of the Jews from the blood of an animal without blemish. That mark told the angel of death to spare the lives of the Jews. The sooty mark on the barley cake would mark the one to die. I wondered who had made it.

Now the archdruid began to parade slowly around the circle, holding the cake at chest-level. When he had completed the circumference, he held the cake over his head once more for a long, suspended moment. Then, without warning, he let out a loud cry, striking just the note that held triumph and agony in equal measure, and he broke the cake in two. Foxface and the grey druid each took a half and began to break off smaller pieces, which they placed in a wicker basket at their feet. When
they had finished that task, they set about blindfolding the students and the other druids. Would they blindfold themselves in the end?

They did not.

Still sighted, the two druids rejoined the archdruid in the center. Though no one but his two assistants (and me) could see the ritual gesture, the archdruid raised the basket and began to chant. Then circle by circle, so that the sound seemed to ripple, the others added their voices. It was a strange, wild chant. I kept straining to hear the words, but they were not in any language I knew, perhaps not in any human language at all. The deep, rhythmic rumble of male voices throbbed like the earth's heartbeat, pulsing through the roots of the tree that held me, rising and singing in the sap. Not all the sounds were low. There were harsh, high cries that made me think of predatory birds. There were the grunts and bellows of rutting boar and deer as well as long, piercing howls.

When the chant reached a certain pitch of intensity, the archdruid handed the basket to Greybeard, and he and Foxface began making the rounds. I looked as hard as I could with my one clear eye. One was all I needed to see that it was Lovernios who reached into the basket and placed the piece of cake in each man's hand.

The gods, my ass, part of me wanted to scream. Just who the fuck do you think you're fooling here! My limbs quivered with the urge to swing down out of my tree. But the rest of me was held in the grip of the rhythm. The scene rolled on inexorably.

At last the rounds were done. Foxface and Greybeard returned to the center with the empty basket. When the chant ceased, the silence was louder and more awful than any sound that went before.

“Raise up the broken body of the god,” the archdruid commanded.

A forest of hands rose into the firelight. I looked at only one hand: long, lean, and brown. His hand was darker than the other hands and more beautiful. What his hand held was darker still: the blackened piece of barley cake, the fingerprint of a filthy god.

Slowly my vision widened as I watched Foxface untie the blindfolds. Now the air was full of breaths being let out, hysterical laughter and sobbing. Only Esus remained still. Foxface removed his blindfold last of all. As Esus confronted the charred piece of barley cake, there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then he lifted his eyes. I knew he couldn't see me, yet for a moment he looked straight at me. My heart pounded louder than the chant; a cry rose in my throat. Before it could break free, he shifted his gaze. His eyes swept the circle, coming to
rest at last on Lovernios, whose face was bone-white and beaded with sweat.

No one spoke. Everyone, including the archdruid, seemed to be waiting for Esus to make a move. He was the chief celebrant now. He turned away from Lovernios and stepped into the center of the circle. He cupped the blackened cake in his hands, held it up and out. Though everyone watched him, it seemed a curiously private gesture. Then he uttered one word:

“Eat.”

He raised his hands to his mouth and ate his piece all at once. The vision of my clear eye was so acute, I could see little particles of charcoal in the spittle at the corner of his mouth.

When all the others had eaten, too, the archdruid picked up the golden vessel. Suddenly I recognized its shape and a flash of cold lightning struck my spine and raised every hair on my neck. A skull. A gold-plated skull. It had been filled with some dark brew. The archdruid handed it to Esus.

“Beloved of the
Combrogos.
Chosen of the god. My own dear son. Drink. Drink deep.”

Esus drained the skull with a slight, uncontrollable grimace and handed it back to the archdruid. Then everything happened very quickly. Lovernios and Greybeard came forward, took hold of Esus's wrists and chained them behind him. If I had been in my own shape, with my own impulses unbridled, I would have hurled myself into the scene and done my best to start a riot. But my disguise seemed to have come complete with a measure of wisdom, and I heeded an inner voice that cautioned: Wait.

“Why are you binding him!” Ciaran of the blue-black hair had the grace to protest. “He's not a criminal.”

“These chains are no shame to him,” the archdruid soothed. “No shame at all. They are merely part of the rite.”

Yeah, right, I thought.

Sensing the dismay of Esus's classmates, the archdruid swiftly pronounced a dismissal and the other druids herded them out of the grove before their shock could wear off any further. As it was, some of them wept and broke ranks to embrace Esus. But that was the extent of their rebellion, and I saw no potential for full-scale insurrection.

At last Esus was alone with the three (and me). I slipped out of my tree and followed as they led him deeper into the wood. The sky was
still overcast, but the wind had risen again, and I had no need to muffle my footsteps. As near as I could reckon, we were heading down hill towards the marshes, though off the beaten path. About halfway down, they stopped before an oak tree (what else?) that dwarfed all the trees around it. I was relieved to see that they merely bound him to the tree instead of hanging him from it—a traditional pose of the god Esus. Perhaps they were saving that for later. When they were satisfied that the chains would hold, the three walked back up the hill, passing within spitting range of me. (I restrained myself with difficulty.) I was a little surprised that no one had remained to stand guard, but then I supposed leaving the victim drugged, bound to a tree, and utterly abandoned was all in a night's rite. I watched till the three were out of sight, then I turned towards Esus.

I thought I heard him moaning, but it might have been the wind, shifting and tossing like someone too restless to sleep. I couldn't see his face clearly; everything looked soft-edged in the milky darkness under the moon-soaked clouds. Then the clouds overhead thinned. The moon caught in the branches of the oak tree, and I saw him plainly. Just him. Not the druid's mysterious, oracular stranger. Not even my lover, my twin, my other. Just a young man weeping, a young man, not quite full grown, who might die without ever seeing his own bit of earth again.

Without thinking what to do or say, I went to him, murmuring comfort in his mother tongue. “There now. It will be all right.” I lifted a corner of my cloak of invisibility and wiped his eyes and, yes, his nose, too.

“Anna?” he said.

Even with the thinned clouds and the brighter light, my face was hidden by the cloak. Also, the drink he'd swallowed was no doubt laced with mistletoe and other drugs. So it did not seem strange to him that an old Jewish woman he'd last seen at the Temple of Jerusalem should have found her way into a druid grove. No more surprising than that he should find himself there. I didn't see any point in setting him straight. It would only confuse him more. Besides, I was under a geis not to reveal myself as Maeve.

“Yes, dear,” I said.

As I spoke, I thought of Anna, the deft touch of her hands, the rambling, authoritative way she spoke. If he had not heeded her, we might never have found each other. Silently I thanked her and asked for her help.

“Anna,” he said again. I sensed he was struggling, trying to find a clear passage in his drug-clouded mind. “Anna, you sent me here to Anu's country. Are you Anu? When I said your name before the druids.... No, now I remember. I didn't say your name. Maeve did. Maeve.” My heart leaped to hear him speak my name as if it sweetened his tongue. “Do you know Maeve?”

“Maeve. Ah, yes. You mean the cheeky little redhead. Not so little anymore, I hear.”

“Little was never the right word for her,” he said severely. “She is almost as tall as I am, and she has a great heart. Her breasts are like two fawns feeding among the lilies. Their veins are like the rivers flowing from Eden.”

I would have liked him to go on in this vein, so to speak, but there was enough of the hag in me now to call my wants to heel. “You were going to tell me what she said,” I reminded him.

“What she said.” He strained to make the connection. “Oh, yes. She cried out: Anna sent him, and they all thought she meant Anu. Are you Anu?”

“Anna, Anu. Don't trouble yourself about it. Leave that to the Old Ones.”

“Not that I believe in Anu, if that's who you are,” he added, as politely as he could. “There is only one God.”

“Whatever,” I said. The night was not so young anymore. I was not going to be sidetracked by theology.

“But you did send me here, Anna the prophetess,” he persisted. “You said: Take ship with the
Keltoi.
Step outside your tribe. The world is a big place, Yeshua, and it's small, small as a mustard seed, small as a hazelnut.”

“Nice turn of phrase,” I murmured.

“Anna, I don't know why you sent me, but I'm afraid I've failed. Or else I'm very stupid. And I always thought I was so smart. Always at the top of the class, unless the rabbi threw me out. You know how it was.”

“You were a smart-ass kid, all right,” I said tenderly. “Always kicking up a fuss at the Temple.”

“Tell me, Anna. Please. Why am I here? What was I supposed to learn? What am I supposed to do? Maeve always says I came to the Holy Isles to find her. But I don't know. I can't believe it's that simple.”

Simple! He wanted more complications in our lives? The Maeve part of me was feeling huffy, but the hag had hold of my tongue.

“The young are always absolutely sure they know everything,” I heard myself say.

“Then you tell me, Anna, Anu. You are old and wise.”

“The old are wise, because they know they don't know,” I cautioned. But he wasn't listening.

“Is it for this? Is it to die here like this? A sacrifice like their god Esus? They call me Esus. Did you know that? Anna, Anu. Yeshua, Jesus, Esus. Does it make a difference?”

He laughed and his voice cracked. His throat sounded parched, no doubt the effect of the drugs. But in my mind I saw those cracked and bleeding lips again.

“They initiated me, you know. I was in the earth for three days like one dead. When I was inside, I saw my death, Anna, Anu. Is this it? Was I born only to die? Will my death save their college and their king, even if they don't change their ways? Can that possibly be why you sent me here? Or did I just fail? Maybe this death is a punishment. The Most High has abandoned me, because I have forsaken him. Here among the
Keltoi
I have kept the laws of Moses as best I could. I have eaten nothing unclean, but I have been with them where they worship in their groves and among the unhewn stones. And Maeve. I have loved Maeve. I love Maeve, a gentile I cannot hope to marry, who carries her own father's child. Eli, Eli—”

His voice broke and he sobbed.

I did not try to stop him. I did not know how to answer him. For once, I let myself not know. I let both of us be. In time he quieted. Clouds shrouded the moon once more. A drop or two of cold rain fell. I listened to the wind. I thought I could hear the sea in the distance. I breathed the scent of damp earth and leaves. I pictured rivers flowing over the earth and under it. I listened to my breath and felt it connecting me to Esus. I waited. Let it be as you will, I spoke silently, though I had no idea who or what I meant by
you.
Then my mouth opened, and the words came out:

“I sent you here, Yeshua ben Miriam. Now I have come to send you home.”

Without another word, I set about loosing his chains.

My fingers were in fine fettle, full of fire and not in the least arthritic. Sooner than I might have hoped, I had him free. I grabbed his hand and pulled him after me, moving quickly and with more sureness than I felt, so that neither of us would question my authority. Exhausted and still
drugged, he stumbled now and then, but movement and the scattered raindrops were waking him up.