Priestess of the Fire Temple (11 page)

14

T
he chill winds of late summer were pushing hard across the land when Íobar's warriors finally appeared.

“At last!” cried one of the fighters who had been sitting next to me sulkily making butter since morning.

The burly men with their once-shaved scalps now bristled with scraggly beards and stubbles of hair on their heads. Their filthy leather breeks and shirts were torn, almost hanging off their bodies, while livid blue tattoos, battle rings, and bronze armbands still decorated their faces, fingers, and arms. They kicked aside the hated churns and ran to alert the others, quickly gathering up the fighting staves they had secreted away under bushes and stones.

My only thought was for Artrach, out there alone in the hills somewhere, tending the cows. I had to find him before he was taken hostage or hurt or lost to me forever. I ran in the direction of the scattered herds. My worn summer tunic caught on the blackberries and was torn anew, my shins were scratched and bleeding, but I hardly noticed.

Now warriors were closing in from every direction. Some were Íobar's men and others were Roin's. The battle cries of “Abu! Abu!” and the clash of sticks and blades sounded all around me.

“Artrach!” I cried loudly, scanning the hills for any sign of his beloved red head.

No response.

I stumbled on, tripping over rocks in my haste and biting the dirt more than once when my balance failed. Higher and higher I climbed, scrambling to get a better perspective on the struggle below.

Finally I saw him. He was in the distance, fighting off one of Roin's warriors with a thick staff. I dared not distract him with my voice; all I could do now was watch and wait. The two men seemed evenly matched, and neither of them was making much progress.

Suddenly something dark whizzed past the corner of my field of vision and I heard a sickening sound; a spear had been flung out of nowhere. It struck Artrach in the back, full force. The moment it hit, I heard the life breath go out of him.

I will never forget the unspeakable pain of that moment; as if the same spear had gored a hole in my own heart. My breath actually stopped, and I could no longer inhale for the searing pain in my chest.

Roin's man looked down, kicked Artrach's body a few times with his foot to see if he was still alive, and then turned back to join the larger skirmish. Ravens were already gathering, circling above and anticipating their feast.

My every instinct was to run to him, to pull out that terrible spear and to salve his wounds, but there were men fighting all around me.

I could not allow myself, a king's daughter, to be captured, for once they knew who I was, I could be carried away by any of the men to yet another kingdom and a high ransom would be demanded. That would destroy my father's kingdom. Or Íobar's.

Artrach was dead. The ravens were speaking clearly. I had to flee.

My heart was broken past all believing.
Why? Why did the gods always take from me anyone that I loved? Why was I never allowed true peace in this life? Why were the gods so very cruel?

I ran and ran until my lungs were bursting with fire, and then I ran some more. Yellow bile spilled from my mouth and yet I did not stop. My eyes blurred with tears of anguish, grief, and exhaustion.

I fell and picked myself up again and again and thought that if I just kept running, maybe I could outrun my anguish—maybe it would numb the pain of my wrecked spirit and heart.

That night I made no fire; I had no appetite for food, and I no longer cared about warmth or light. Instead I gathered up handfuls of leaves and grasses and made myself a cold, dry nest in a hollow under the roots of an old oak tree. I appealed to its spirit: “Oak, be like a stout door for me against the darkness.”

I wrote the oak Ogam in the air with my shaking finger and then surrendered to the numbing oblivion of sleep, trusting the spirit of the oak to hold me in its strong circle of light.

That night I had a dream, or maybe it was a vision. It was one of those dreams that are brighter and clearer than waking and that stay with you a long time.

A woman, an old grey-haired ban-Drui, appeared to me. She was dressed in flowing blue robes that rippled around her feet like the waves of the sea, and a massive golden torque glistened at her neck. When she spoke, her words fell upon me like a balm.

“Water is always water, if it stays still or becomes waves. You must find your true self—your still, inner nature. You must rediscover who you really are—your eternal being.”

“Who are you?” I asked the apparition from within my dreaming.

“They called me Ethne, Rígain, and ard-ban-Drui. These are my lands, and I have been watching you.”

And then she disappeared, but her voice still echoed in my head as I awoke with a start, striving to remember the words.

Her name was familiar to me from poems and songs. She was the old queen of In Medon, returned from the Otherworld to give me guidance. I felt humbled and awed.

In the morning I noted the direction of the sunrise and calculated the way back to In Medon. It seemed my only course. If I took the road towards Irardacht, I would surely be discovered. And besides, who would want me now? I was a disgraced and wayward wife. All the soldiers had seen me with Artrach. Artrach! The thought of him brought thick tears anew. I poured out my grief in torrents of rain from my eyes that dripped onto the moss beneath the ancient tree that had sheltered me through the night.

“
Aoibhgreíne, mo muirne
.”

“What! Who's there?” I spun around frantically to see who had called to me. But there was no one. Only Dálach-gaes and his family knew me by that name, my pet name. Artrach knew it too, because I had told him all the details of my childhood. But who was calling me that now?

I strained to hear more, but there was only the stillness of the rising sun and the crisp wind through fallen leaves. I knew I was completely and utterly alone.

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15

I
crawled up to the little wall surrounding Father Justan's hut on my hands and knees with my head down, staying low so as not to be seen. It was the wall built by Father Justan's saintly predecessor, Father Per. As a child I would run along the length of that wall, knowing that Father Justan was always there, waiting at the far end to catch me. Now that seemed like another lifetime, a dim memory of joy.

I could hear voices from within the hut, and I did not wish to be discovered by anyone other than the priest, so I sent up a silent prayer to the spirit of Father Per that I remain hidden until it was safe to appear.

After weeks alone in the wilderness, I must have looked like a madwoman or else a forest spirit that had taken on a flesh body. I certainly couldn't walk into the dun of my father like that, nor could I cross the grassy sward to the nemed of Dálach-gaes and Niamh. I felt like some wild animal in hiding, trying not to be eaten alive.

Father Justan was conversing with two monks, the sort who would arrive from time to time to pester him and make sure he was still following the catechism of the Romani church.

“I have learned that by living in this simple way I can be alone with my thoughts. Only then can I keep careful watch over them and train my mind to holy purpose,” Father Justan was saying. “In meditation each day I notice that my thoughts will rise and fall. One moment they follow their own course, and then they decline. I ask God to clear my wandering thoughts, to bring them to silence, and then point me to a new, more virtuous path. This is my main work these days.”

“No, no
no
!” One of the monks responded heatedly, pounding on a little wooden writing table for emphasis. “If you clear your mind in that very moment, you open yourself to demons!”

“Not so, my dear brother,” Justan responded patiently, as if addressing a frightened child. “I find that by slowing down my body and then my mind, I become acutely aware of my thoughts and then of the luminous space between my thoughts. If any demon is going to attack me, it will be
through
my thoughts, not through the luminous space
between
my thoughts! Each time I reach that inner silence, I feel that I am at one with God, and that he can turn me to thoughts and actions that are truly worthy. If everyone turned their thoughts to the silence and then to God, wouldn't this world be a better, more loving place?”

The discussion went on like that into the gloaming. I was becoming desperate for food and drink. I had lived on hazelnuts, cresses, and stream water for days on end, and I longed for a bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed. Finally, I reluctantly took my leave, crawling back into the surrounding woodland to make yet another cocoon of dry leaves and pine branches. At least I would be tolerably dry through the night.

The next morning I crept back to the wall and listened as Father Justan served parting bowls of hot oatmeal to the brothers while offering his final observations on the nature of prayer.

“For me, prayer consists of listening to the silence of the world. In that silence I experience unity with all creation and I am one with the sacred mystery. In meditation my heart watches and listens and eventually my mind drifts away.”

“You should be asking for forgiveness of your sins,” said one of the monks with evident disapproval, “and urging others to do the same!”

“My prayer does not generally consist of asking for things, although I might sometimes pray for wisdom, protection, and the healing of others. For me, prayer is about paying attention to God's sacred creation and then giving praise for all that he has wrought.”

It seemed the argument had come to an impasse, because after that there was only the soft scraping of horn spoons against wooden bowls as the Cristaidi finished their breakfast.

At last the two monks departed and I dared to pop my head over the little stone wall. When Father Justan saw me, his usually kindly face contorted in fear.

“It's me, Aislinn!” I said hastily as I rose to standing.

“Can it really be?” Father Justan was doubtful, as though I must be some kind of vision. He reached out gingerly to touch my arm, to see if it was actual flesh and bone.

“See this? Don't you recognize it?” I pulled out the little wooden cross that he had given me when I first left In Medon. I was still wearing it under my torn and stained shift. “It really is me, Father Justan. I have been traveling alone in the wilderness for days, and I am famished. Do you have any oatmeal left?”

The request for oatmeal was so simple and sensible that he at last accepted that I really was Aislinn, mysteriously returned from the northern kingdom.

He sat me down before the fire and insisted on covering me with blankets. I had been shivering for so long that I no longer noticed. Then he watched me drink several cups of hot elderberry tea with eyes wide and full of concern. As he prepared a bowl of hot oatmeal with butter and honey, I ventured to comment.

“I heard your discussion with those monks. I was hiding behind Father Per's wall so they wouldn't see me. I hope you aren't upset by my eavesdropping.”

“Oh no, my child, you did exactly the right thing. If you had revealed yourself looking like this, they would have thought you a demon and demanded that you be stoned to death on the spot! They see demons everywhere. I am glad you waited until they were gone.”

“I heard what you were saying about the silence of the world, about the silence between words and thoughts. That is very like what the Druid teach. We Druid say that there is a spark of divinity within every bit of creation. We know that there is a light within every stone and within every leaf, flower, drop of water, and crystal of ice. We find that we can best become one with the Divine when we go deeply into that inner silence.

“We cultivate our senses and refine them through meditation and spiritual exercise, until we can see with our inner eyes, hear with our inner ears, and completely lose the boundary between self and other. Only then are we sent out to serve the tribes.”

“Aislinn, you amaze me. Any other woman would be crying for a bath and clean clothes, yet here you are philosophizing before you have even combed your hair or had a proper rest.”

“I guess I have ignored my body for so long that I no longer notice its wants.”

I smiled as he laid out a warm pile of blankets for me to sleep on.
Priestess
. I knew that was my true nature. Anyway, there was nothing else left for me in this world—nothing else that mattered.

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16

W
hat are we going to do with you?” Father Justan asked, shaking his head.

I had just returned from scrubbing myself down in a stream with clean sand and then lavender-scented siabainn. It took a long time to scrub the dirt from between my toes and from my legs and hands. Father Justan had given me one of his woolen robes to wear, which I had belted with a soft rope. I was so thin from my wanderings that the rope went twice around my waist and yet there were still two long ends left hanging, almost touching the ground. My large feet slid easily into an old pair of his sandals. I had ruined my boots completely with running and with mud.

“If I ever return to Irardacht, I will be returning to a barren and loveless marriage. Deaglán never liked me, from the moment we were joined. By now his concubine has given him a child, and he has no real use for me anymore. And as you know, the peace that my marriage was supposed to ensure has been broken.

“If I present myself to my parents, they will tell me that I have to be married again and they will find me yet another husband. I just can't do that any more. I am finished with men. I will never join another man in matrimony, nor will I ever love another.”

“But child, if all you have known of men is one very unhappy marriage, then you haven't yet known the joys of married life.”

“Father, I have known all the joys I care to know. When I was captured I met a beautiful soul, one dearer to me than any other. We swore to be united before the gods one day, and then he was taken from me.”

I couldn't stop the tears that welled up in my eyes. The memory of Artrach was a fresh wound, one from which I knew I would never wholly recover.

“Child, who is this man, and why was he taken from you?” Father Justan asked softly.

“He was snatched away from me by the gods. He was killed by a spear through the back, and that's why I came here. You're the only person I can think of who won't make demands. You're the only one who will simply listen.

“I am done, finished with life. I have nowhere to go. I refuse to reenter my father's dun; I want nothing more to do with life at court. I just want to disappear into the forest and live like you do, on stream water, hazelnuts, and blackberries.” Tears began to course down my face.

“Child, you know not what you are saying. I am a hermit, but I am brought many gifts from the people of this tuath. I could not survive without their help. They make sure I have firewood and warm blankets and honey and wheaten flour and oats. They bring me chickens and even piglets when they can. They make shoes for me. That soft robe you are wearing was a gift that was laid on my doorstep not one moon past.

“In return, the people expect me to bless their children, anoint their marriages, and listen to their troubles. I also say Mass in your father's chapel, in case you have forgotten. There is much more to this life than simply sitting before a stone hut watching the dragonflies dance.”

“I am so sorry, Father. I didn't mean to disrespect all that you do. But my heart is broken. When I found Artrach, I was like a moth that had first seen a light—a light that attracted with unbelievable power but never burned. It brought me only love and happiness. Now I live in darkness once again. I need to go somewhere, someplace, to try and forget all that I have lost.”

“Be very careful, my child, that you don't make an idol of your lost love, whoever he might have been. There is grave danger in that. The wheel of life is ever turning, and none of us can know what God has in store. There may be a very good reason that you and your man had to be parted. At times like these, you must rely on faith to see you through.”

We sat in silence for a while, just watching the flames of the hearth fire. I listened to the voices in the embers, hoping for guidance, for some kind of sign.

Father Justan stood up. “I need to go somewhere, and I don't want you to follow. Please just stay here and rest. I will be back in a few days.”

He took a cloak from a peg beside the door and a walking stick.

“The house is yours, and all within it,” he said, and then he ducked out of the door.

As I stood to watch him leave, a small flock of finches settled into the tree beside the hut, showing not the slightest fear, as if I weren't even there. I began to think that I was no longer quite human. Maybe I had already become a spirit, or maybe I was now a dweller between the worlds. I certainly did not belong anywhere that I could see.

Though I was still tired, I determined to keep myself busy and spent the rest of the day sweeping the hut, gathering sticks of firewood, and refilling Father Justan's clay water canisters. Then I set out to search for edible and medicinal plants.

I found a patch of wild thyme not far from the hut and collected a basketful; the brew was very useful for winter coughs. Then I collected a sheaf of long grasses and bound it with ivy, slung it over my shoulder, and carried it back to the house, where I spent the evening plaiting ropes, thinking that Father Justan would find them useful.

After a dinner of thyme tea with honey and a bowl of hot oatmeal, I smoored the fire, then fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning I slept long past sunrise; exhaustion and a pile of warm blankets had conspired to give me my first sound sleep in many weeks. When I woke it was late morning, and I was still alone. I split open a fresh wheel of cheese and cut a loaf of wheaten bread that had been left at Father Justan's door, and then I set out again to forage for mushrooms, berries, and medicinal herbs.

For a while that was how I spent my days, and the little hut was soon festooned with wreaths of fragrant herbs and strings of medicinal roots, mushrooms, and leaves left hanging to dry from the rafters. I collected a basketful of rosehips and another of rowan berries. A sack full of hazelnuts and a basketful of acorns added to the bounty. Father Justan would be well supplied.

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