Priestess of the Fire Temple (16 page)

“It was because of her memory that he made sure you had a Druid education, even as he was trying hard to placate the Cristaidi with their growing power.

“Ana died on the road trying to get back here. She had been sent away with no retinue and no attendants because Tuilelaith regarded her as a mere mog who deserved no such consideration. Your stepmother told your father that everything was taken care of, and since he was very anxious to please her, he did not question her further. His family had convinced him of the need to cement strong ties to Letha for the trade it would bring; I don't think he had any real idea of royal ways in Letha, nor how far their behavior has been conditioned by exposure to Roma and its corrupt rulers. The Romani value power over honor and justice; he just didn't know that at the time.

“I thank the gods daily that the Romani have never invaded our shores. If he had known what danger Ana was in, he would surely have sent her here with an army to watch over her, but he left all of the details of her journey to Tuilelaith. It was a gesture of trust at the start of their marriage.”

“But why didn't anyone tell me this before?”

“Because your father wanted you raised as a full princess, with all the advantages and dignities of your station, and because by law you were entitled to the same privileges as any child of his body. He treated you like a royal daughter, and everyone else followed his example.”

I knew that the Bríg Brigu spoke the truth; I could feel it in my bones. My limbs quivered as my body sank back into the pillows. I could hardly focus my eyes any longer, much less even keep the lids open.

The Bríg Brigu peered down at me.

“Fetch her some food and a warm bath. Then she can sleep for a while until the moon rises.”

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PART FOUR

Tending the Flame

22

A
fter a hot bath and some lamb stew, I was escorted to a small but comfortably appointed recess of the main house that featured a fragrant, heather-stuffed mattress on a wooden platform, squeezed in between two carved oaken partitions. I slid into the linen sheets and woolen blankets in a stupor and fell gratefully into a chasm of dreamless sleep.

Upon waking, I noticed that my shock and fear had subsided a bit. Now I was consumed by curiosity as to where I had found myself. I examined my surroundings and found that my boots had been brushed clean of mud and left on the hard clay floor just outside of my small chamber. My staff was leaning against the wall by the door, and my other belongings had been neatly stacked on top of a carved wooden chest against the screen wall. My green cloak had been brushed clean and left hanging on a peg. There was barely enough room for the solitary beeswax candle in a silver dish and the basin of scented water on the small table at the foot of the bed.

I wondered how Bláth was getting along, but knowing her easy ways and beautiful white coat and tail, I felt sure that someone was already doting on her.

The floor of my little sleeping space was thickly covered with colorful rugs spread on top of clean rushes. I tiptoed a short distance across it, peered out of my enclosure, and found that the light of the full moon illuminated the house through the still-open doors. The glow of the hearth fire and candles also permeated the space, reflecting off of the silver, bronze, and gold of the walls. There was no need to light a candle.

I rummaged through my folded belongings and pulled the green tunic over my head. The blue one had disappeared, presumably taken away to be washed. I laid the rest of my clothes into the carved wooden chest, pulled on my boots, fastened my green cloak, and, not wanting to stand out too much, decided against wearing any jewelry or other outward marks of distinction. Father Justan's little cross and Artrach's triskell still hung safely hidden against my heart.

Emerging from my cubicle, I could hear a noise in the distance that resembled an approaching swarm of gigantic bees. I walked to the entrance and looked outside the oaken doors. In the bright moonlight I could see a long line of figures bearing lit torches. They were marching towards the Fire Temple, surging across the fields, singing.

As they came closer to the Womb of the Goddess, the line began to curl in a sunwise spiral around the hill, and I walked down the dirt path to join them, taking care not to stumble on the nearly invisible trail that was still unfamiliar to my feet.

Now I was able to make out the words; the crowd was singing a song to the moon:

Hail to thee

Full moon this night

The glorious lamp

Of every creature

We lift up our eyes

And sing your praise!

As I took my place in the midst of the throng, I added my own voice to the chorus.

We wound our way around the hill three times and then formed a silent circle three persons deep around the well before the Womb of the Goddess. One by one, the sick and lame were carried or helped towards the well where a Drui and a ban-Drui were doling out water using long-handled silver spoons.

The sick and wounded placed their offerings on the lip of the well—a small coin, a wheel of cheese, a loaf of bread—took a sip, and, while anointing their head, heart, belly, hands, and feet with the moon-blessed waters, murmured a prayer to Brighid:

O Brighid, goddess of healing

Guardian of the flocks and of the people

Watch over me!

Off to one side, there was a man seated on a three-legged stool plucking a harp and singing the “All-Heal,” a song about this special night. I listened carefully. The song related that anyone who was not fully healed nine days after this rite would hear the “Ceol Side,” the song of Áine, who sings to comfort the dying, and the harp of her red-haired brother, Fer Fí, the Spirit of the Yew, on their way to the Blessed Isles.

I shivered involuntarily, remembering the grievously wounded warriors of my father's tuath who were sometimes given a draft of yew to hasten an end to their pain and to speed their passage to the Blessed Isles. At times these things were a necessary mercy.

The Bríg Brigu stood to one side, silently watching, lending the blessing of her presence.

I was trembling inwardly. Should I step forward and make my own petition for healing? There were still grief and shock hidden deep inside me; I knew that I needed help. But I had nothing to offer in exchange, no gift to leave at the well for the spirits of the waters.

The Bríg Brigu must have read my thoughts because she stepped towards me at that moment and gently urged me forward, towards the healing well.

Before I could think, a silver spoon was thrust into my mouth and I was drinking in the moon-soaked liquid. As I swallowed, I could feel silver moonlight coating my heart like a healing balm. Then I reached for the waters of the well to anoint myself, and suddenly there were hands everywhere—Drui and ban-Drui alike were dipping their hands into the water and then placing them on my body: over my heart, on my head, and along my limbs. As they did this, they sang to me softly until I was wrapped in a cocoon of healing sounds and caresses.

Then the tears came, thick and warm and melting the frozen places in my heart, and still the Druid stayed with me, holding and healing until my sobbing stopped. The dark places within me were now filled with a glowing white light as from an inward, radiant sun that was shining brighter moment by moment. The Bríg Brigu looked on, approving. After a while the Druid retreated, and I stepped back into the crowd.

When all the sick and injured had received the waters, the
people
gradually dispersed. Far from being a solemn occasion, the air was filled with soft laughter and animated conversation as everyone stooped to pick a blade of grass or a green herb from the meadow surrounding the well.

“Why do you do that?” I asked an elderly gentleman who was pushing a fresh sprig into his cap.

“Don't you know? It is said that on this one night, all the green things around the well have magical healing properties. We always gather a leaf for luck after the ceremony.”

I knelt down and plucked a leaf of my own. “Help me,” I murmured to it as I held it next to my heart.

I found Nessa standing near the well, collecting the spoons and other offerings in a large willow basket to carry them back up to the temple. She had fresh sprigs of greenery behind her ears.

“Look up there,” she said, pointing.

I followed her gaze to the top of the hill, where the white-washed stones of the Fire Temple gleamed in the moonlight. The structure glowed like a beacon of hope against a black and silver stream of stars.

“We do our private Druid ceremonies on the sixth day of the moon, of course,” she said as I stood there open mouthed. “For us, the new moon is the silver salmon leaping up from the Otherworld below to the sky realm. We also call her the Ox Horn and the Lamp of Grace. The moment we see the new moon, we pray to her to protect the cattle.”

“In my tradition, we call the new moon Áine of the Light, and we also call on her to bless the cattle if they are ill or suffering from scabs or sores,” I answered in a tone of professional interest, priestess to priestess.

It felt good to be conversing with another ban-Drui, one who had undergone the same tests and initiations and learned the arts of healing, poetry, and wisdom that all the Druid held in common. We understood each other's thoughts with little need for explanation, and I began to feel that maybe, just maybe, I could make a life for myself in this holy place.

A warm breeze pricked my skin, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose in response. I could feel an unseen presence around me, and as I had heard so often recently, my name was whispered again by someone or something into my ear.
Aoibhgreíne
, it sighed.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, turning towards Nessa.

“No. I didn't hear anything,” she said, stuffing the last bread loaf into her basket.

The next morning the Bríg Brigu appeared at the foot of my bed with two extra-large willow baskets on her arm. This time she was dressed in a simple brown wool tunic, and her hair was pulled back into one thick braid that wound around her head like a crown. There was fresh greenery from the last night's ritual woven into her braid, and she still had on her golden torque. However plainly she was dressed, there could be no mistaking her rank.

“The winter chill is coming fast, and we have to gather the roots we will need for medicine this winter before the frosts set in,” she said in a tone of simple command.

“You should make a habit of wearing your torque,” she added. “You were born into this life with a certain station. The gods had a reason for that, and it is not up to you to disregard it.”

Then she slipped back out to see to breakfast. All of the available Druid had assembled at the temple for the yearly fall foraging expedition, and they would be sent out with warm and full bellies, as the laws of hospitality demanded.

Somewhat chastened, I pulled my torque from my pack, dressed, and joined the Bríg Brigu and the others at the hearth fire. They were already eating oatmeal porridge or sorting through tools and baskets, preparing for the day's labor.

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23

I
have high hopes for you, you know,” I said to the neophyte priestess who had just arrived with a bundle of sweet-smelling, freshly laundered sheets. An aroma of lavender suddenly permeated the room; the linens must have been rinsed with lavender water.

“Perhaps if you hear my life's story, you too will be inspired to become a leader in our community. Gone are the times when the Druid were a respected voice in the kingdom. These days our truths are passed down mostly in stories.

“Shall I tell you what the old Bríg Brigu thought about these matters?”

“Oh, yes, please do. But first let me change your bed.”

The girl seemed genuinely interested, and when she was finished tucking in the fresh sheets, I spun out my tale…

On the morning appointed for the harvesting of medicinal roots, the Bríg Brigu gazed across the flames, addressing her attendants. “She has the same eyes and hair as her mother,” she mused, absentmindedly stirring her bowl of porridge to mix in the knob of butter that had been spooned on top, “and the same inquisitive intelligence. It amazes me that Barra Mac Mel could have let the mother or the child go so easily.”

Then she turned her attention towards me.

“Girl, it is obvious to me that you have suffered. Yet your suffering is carefully hidden behind a mask of courage. You are all legs and elbows—a gangly, thin creature with skin so tightly wrapped around your bones that you emanate nothing but spirit.

“Did the gods bring you to me as the next Bríg Brigu?” she wondered out loud.

I later learned that the problem of a successor weighed on her mind and that the words of her teacher came to her more and more often, growing more insistent with every moontide:
You only need to train one.

“Aislinn, you come with me today,” she finally said. “The others can pair up to dig the healing roots. They know what to get and where the plants grow most abundantly because they have done this every year for most of their lives.”

The day was crisp but still warm in the sunshine, with only a faint hint of winter in the shadows—a good day for the foraging and the drying of roots. The Bríg Brigu left the washing up to the others and motioned me outside, pointing to an outlying round stone structure slightly below the main house on the hill.

“You will find the tools we need in that small roundhouse over there. Fetch two spades and bring them here to me.”

I followed her orders without qualm, despite the noble gold around my neck. Druid-trained, I was not afraid of manual work like some of the princesses who had visited my father's dun. I had been taught the dignity of a job well done and did not think it a loss of face.

Carrying our spades and baskets, we followed the path to the bottom of the hill, veering towards the line of woodland at the far edge of the great meadow where the sheep, goats, and cows grazed. A troop of boys equipped with willow rods was keeping the animals from straying into the forest.

Along the way we passed roundhouses and three-sided animal barns. A clutch of old women dressed in black sat on stools at the center of a circle of houses, around a large fire. An enormous cauldron hung over the flames; it was the duty of these women to see to the feeding of the entire community, a choice job because their knees would enjoy the warmth of the fire all year. Boys came and went, carrying bundles of wood and peat for the flames.

Heaped beside the elderly women was a small mountain of peelings and discarded leaves from the vegetables and herbs they were adding to the mutton stew they were tending. A small white goat was wagging her tail with pleasure as she rummaged through the fragrant leavings.

Young girls with earnest expressions sat on old plaid blankets near the fire, grinding fresh wheat meal in their querns for the day's bannocks. The crones and the girls immediately stood up at the sight of the Bríg Brigu and bowed their heads in respect as she passed. A small red-headed boy dropped the load of peat he was carrying, so startled was he to see us.

“No need to rise,” the Bríg Brigu remarked with a polite smile. “Please go back to your cooking.”

My stomach rumbled in response to the scents wafting from the cauldron as we passed it by, despite my recent breakfast.

At the far end of the village was a straw-filled barn in a muddy fenced enclosure, filled with squealing piglets who were tussling over a large, battered-looking pan of oatmeal and milk. A dozen children and almost as many dogs sat guarding the side of the enclosure facing the forest, to ward away wolves both of the four-footed and human varieties.

The Bríg Brigu turned to me. “We get a donation of a full sack of grain and a calf, lamb, piglet, or kid from every chieftain in this tuath once in every year. They give us those in exchange for our moon rites and well blessings and for the healing work we do. But we have never before been gifted with a horse, and a beautiful white one at that.”

The Bríg Brigu paused expectantly. I hadn't exactly said that I was donating the horse, but the Bríg Brigu saw that it would be very useful to have one. If they had a horse, the travel time to the outlying homesteads would be cut in half—a boon in the event of medical emergencies.

I thought it over carefully. It was a serious decision, because donating Bláth would be a final declaration that I was there to stay. I had a very independent spirit. Was I really ready to make their small community my home?

A few heartbeats later, I spoke. “Yes, you may have Bláth, on one condition: that she is happy and well cared for while she is here.”

The Bríg Brigu smiled. “That is a wily answer. By including a condition I believe you are still leaving open the possibility of moving on. Well, if that was how it is, I will just have to use every charm at my disposal to bring you into the fold. Independence in a priestess is a trait that I admire, because any potential spiritual leader has to have a mind of her own and be able to think for herself. But she also has to show reverence and respect for herself, her community, and for the gods. That's a rare combination of traits, hard to find in one individual.”

We reached the edge of the meadow just before the tree line.

“Most of the roots we use seem to grow at the very edge of the forest, between the sun and the shade,” the Bríg Brigu observed. “Others grow in the bog by the pond on the other side of the hill.”

The first plants we found were wild comfrey; the mashed roots and leaves would be spread on fractured and broken bones and applied as poultices to burns and wounds. Soon I was on my knees, digging eagerly into the loamy earth as the Bríg Brigu looked on with approval. It felt good to be working with the plants and the soil again. It also felt good to know that if my tunic and face became dirty, I would not be made to feel shame. I was in my element.

Next we located a patch of cowslip, whose roots were to be used to make an expectorant brew for coughs and congestion. I dug up some tough old dandelion roots hidden in the grass—used in liver and stomach tonics—and roots of docken, which would be simmered in apple vinegar to make a wash for skin eruptions and added to healing ointments made with butter and beeswax.

The Bríg Brigu took a small offering of cheese and bread from her basket, leaving it for the spirits of the place in compensation for their labor in providing the plant medicines for the tuath.

Then we took a narrow dirt path into the forest to look for ferns. The roots of male ferns were useful for deworming and as a bath for sore feet and varicose veins, while the roots of royal fern would be chopped, simmered, mashed, and applied to sore knees, bruises, and fractures, and added to butter ointments. We dug together in the loamy forest floor, and again the Bríg Brigu left cheese and bread for the spirits of the forest in thanks for their gifts.

Emerging from the woods, we stopped to harvest a patch of primrose—the root tea was brewed for headaches—and a stand of silverweed, whose roots would be eaten roasted or raw. We also found a swath of violets, whose roots were used for cough, insomnia, and nervous conditions, and a prickly stand of thistle, the roots of which made a brew for chest complaints.

More offerings were left for the land spirits, as well as prayers and well wishes for all the forces and beings that had helped the plants to grow.

I memorized the location and uses of all the herbs as the Bríg Brigu shared her knowledge. Druid-trained, I understood that such teaching would be given only once. As a ban-Druid, it was expected that my memory would be faultless.

By now our hands, feet, and tunics were caked with dirt.

“We can go down to the bog and wash our hands and faces,” the Bríg Brigu declared, watching as I attempted to clean the mud from my fingernails using a dried stalk of ragweed.

We retraced our footsteps across the meadow and crossed to the opposite side of the hill, where springy mats of purple heather gave way to raised clumps of mosses and rivulets of clear water. Climbing up a steep embankment and then down again into a cauldron of rock, mosses, and boggy soil, we finally reached a little pond peacefully mirroring the sky. On its surface sunlight burnished the wavelets, giving an impression of liquid silver.

I delighted in a vast stand of yellow flag along the shore.

“We use those where I come from for coughs and sore throats, and we simmer the roots to poultice bruises,” I said.

“Yes, we use the roots the same way. Let's wash up and then gather some.”

The Bríg Brigu took a small knife from a bag that was hanging from her belt and handed it to me to make the cutting easier. I was startled to see that it was my own knife—the small dirk that had been taken from me on the day of my arrival.

“You may have it back,” the Bríg Brigu said, smiling. “You have earned our trust.”

I was moved. It was as if I had passed an initiation of sorts.

At that moment a flock of wild swans descended, dotting the surface of the water like fallen flowers.

“Oh, what beauty!” I exclaimed.

“A very good day-sign for us,” the Bríg Brigu said. “White swans are messengers from the Otherworld in the sun. They are telling us that the sun has blessed us with her healing powers—a great omen on the day that we gather our medicines.”

“You speak often of the sun and her cycles and healing powers,” I observed. “Is this the Druid magic that your community uses? In the nemed where I was trained, we most often gave offerings to sacred fire and sacred water as our way of reaching the gods and shaping the world. We learned that if we gave those things with focused intent and emotion, our wishes were very often granted, especially if we also appealed to our own ancestors.”

“Yes, we do focus on the light of the sun, and we observe her cycles in our neimheadh, our processional routes and well blessings at the various stations of our landscape temple. But we don't do this to ask for things or to bend fate. When we worship the sun and sacred fire, we do it to honor the light of nature, the light within the sky and the land. We humans are within that light and we are its children, every one of us encompassed within the bright beams of the goddess.

“Some dare to say that they control this light and fire. What folly.” The Bríg Brigu snorted softly for emphasis.

The swans floating serenely on the surface of the waters reminded me of something.

“I know a story about swans.”

“This would be a very auspicious time to tell it,” said the Bríg Brigu.

We sat down on the green grass that sloped to the shoreline, gratefully dropping the weight of the heavy baskets and enjoying the splendor of the birds. I began the tale.

“Long, long ago, after the hero Cú Chulainn had taken the heads of the sons of Nechtan Scéne, he was making his way back to Emain Macha with the three heads hanging from his chariot when he and his charioteer spied a herd of wild deer and immediately gave them chase. But their horses' legs became mired in a bog, and Cú Chulainn had no choice but to run after the wild deer on foot. He caught two of them and harnessed them to the chariot pole with the two horses, to help pull the horses out of the bog.

“They escaped the bog, and as the deer and horses pulled the chariot towards Emain Macha, Cú Chulainn saw a flock of wild swans in the air. He brought down eight of the swans with his slingshot, taking care not to kill the birds, and attached them to the chariot. Then he brought down another sixteen swans and also attached them to his chariot.

“The horses and the deer did not pull very well together and became unruly, so Cú Chulainn enchanted them by giving them such a look of magic that the deer and horses were in awe of him and did his bidding. And that was how he arrived at Emain Macha, with the wild deer and the horses pulling his chariot and the swans flying above him.”
5

The Bríg Brigu was silent for a while.

“That is a powerful tale. It describes the way that the Shining Ones, the great gods and goddesses, pull the chariot of the sun across the sky. It also speaks of the three worlds. In this tale the deer represent the wild forces of fire within the land, while the horses represent the solar forces upon the land. The swans are the solar creatures of the sky.

“The fact that you have told me this story is significant. As you know, there is an ancient feast of the sun called Meán Geimhridh. It was once a High Holy Day of the people who lived on this land long before the Druid came to these shores. I have been wondering whether to take you with me to one of the hidden rituals, ones that we only rarely take part in. I believe that through you, the swans are trying to tell me something.”

“I would very much like to learn all your rites, if you will allow it,” I said. I was always eager for learning.

“I am very pleased by your eagerness to study our ways. It seems that in you I may have found my next high priestess, one of noble birth, with powerful family connections and Druid-trained.”