Priestess of the Fire Temple (5 page)

Still I was not pregnant. I knew this was probably because I had not yet begun my courses of the moon. Or maybe it was simply because the gods had other plans.

In the way of couples, our sad relationship gradually drifted into a routine. By day Deaglán would practice his swordplay and flirt with any available widow or wench; at night he would part my legs and strive to plant his seed. We expected and even derived some vague comfort from the familiar warmth of each other's bodies in the cold dark until we were gradually resigned to our fate; there could be no escape from our pledge of troth, so why fight it?

As a princess, I was expected to keep up appearances; the days when I could wear my hair loose and go wandering in the forest were far behind me. But inwardly I had not changed; I still hungered for the Druid teachings that I had received so generously in the school of Dálach-gaes and Niamh.

Yet I was not a full Drui, nor was I officially an initiate. The Druid of Íobar's court simply ignored me, thinking I was but another young, uninteresting, and unlettered member of the flaith.

The Cristaidi had even less use for me. As a woman, I was banned from their church unless it was time for Mass. When we went inside the dark chapel, only the king sat; the rest of us were expected to stand and keep our heads down, and we women had to have our heads covered.

No matter who was in the congregation, Father Cearbhall would most often focus his sermons on the subject of women. He would remind us of how Pagani women were forced to fight in battles and insisted that it was our duty to urge all women to abandon Pagani warrior ways. It was not that he was against wars; rather, he was against women taking any part in them. Perhaps he didn't know that women warriors were as fierce and took as much pride in their work as male warriors did.

His view on marriage was that it was just a necessity, an inferior form of evil. He said that “sex dulls the senses and repels the Holy Spirit” and “lust is caused by women who go about with their hair loose; if a woman is not veiled, she will cause lust even in the angels.”

He would remind us of the angels of the holy scriptures, who mated with the daughters of men and thus brought the calamity of the flood upon all creation. He said those angels brought weapons and war to humanity and debauched women with perfume, jewels, makeup, and fine cloth, and that they introduced evils into the world such as idolatry, astrology, and other occult arts. He said that all the daughters of Eve should wear plain garb and always keep our heads covered as a mark of our shame because we had fallen so low.

But he never asked the men to give up their concubines.

It was strange to emerge from that dark chapel into the sunlight wearing my red kid gloves and shoes. I could feel Father Cearbhall's eyes on me, his disapproval of my red hair and my fox-fur cape. It seemed that the only message he brought was shame—so different from Father Justan's message of love for all creation.

And then a very strange thing began to happen: I began to grow. As I had just turned fifteen summers, it was perhaps natural in my family. I hardly noticed it myself until one day I happened to be standing next to Deaglán as we waited to enter the mead hall and he was staring at me, eye to eye.

“Don't ever wear shoes with heels again. I forbid it. You are becoming large, a giantess. In those boots you look like a Fomorian she-devil.”

I believe he said those things because his own mother had been dark-haired and tiny, and so he favored women who were raven-haired and small of stature. But what could I have possibly done about it? I began to bow my head and hunch my shoulders when I was near him.

“You are like a cuckoo in a wren's nest,” Breachnat said, shaking her head.

The native people of Irardacht were mostly small and dark, and it was very obvious that I was a stranger in that kingdom.

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4

I
t was once again the time of high summer, yet the spring rains had never ceased. I knew that the climate in the north of Ériu was usually dreary, but this was something different. Nearly every day brought a storm with lightning and hail, and the skies were dark grey six days out of seven.

When I went out on walks I was always accompanied by a mog, because I was not allowed to go anywhere alone. I noticed deep pools of water collecting in the ruts of the fields of cabbages and carrots—water that could easily lead to rot.

Earlier that spring the blossoms had been knocked off of the apple and plum trees by wild wind storms. Worse yet were the grain fields; the stalks of oats and barley were laid flat by the constant wind and hail. There would be a terrible harvest that year. As a king's daughter, I was used to thinking about the people. How would they survive? What would they eat? I could see sickness and starvation looming.

I accosted Breachnat one morning as she was supervising the mogae who were replacing the damp floor rushes in the mead hall. Her dark curls were modestly stuffed into a linen kerchief, and her blue léine and tunic were topped with a stained grey apron that reached to her ankles.

“What is the king saying about this weather? I was taught by the Druid that the king and the land are one. What has he done to bring this about? What will he do to try and reverse it?” I asked in my usually brusque and straightforward manner.

I could see that Breachnat was shocked by my tone. Niamh and Róisín had warned me to be careful about keeping my mouth and my inner thoughts in check, but I just couldn't seem to do it.

“You are implying that the king is at fault for the terrible weather?” Breachnat asked, striving to keep her voice even.

“Well, the Druid of In Medon say that the state of the crops and the land are a direct result of the actions of the king. If the land is suffering, then the king has to do something differently!

“The
Audacht Morainn
states that it is through the justice of the ruler that there is abundance of every high, tall corn. It is through the justice of the ruler that abundances of great tree-fruit of the wood are tasted, fair children are well begotten, milk-yields of great cattle are maintained, abundance of fish swim in the streams, plagues and lightning are kept from the people…”
1

I ticked off on my fingers the benefits of just and competent rulership as they had been enumerated in the ancient king-making rite. It all seemed so logical and obvious to my mind. The king's justice had been faulty, and now the land and the people were suffering.

Breachnat's eyes grew wider with each word. “Hush now, child, you are not to speak of things that do not concern you—that are beyond your understanding. Your only job is to bear an heir for the prince; there is nothing more that is expected of you. But if you like, you can watch me as I supervise the mogae. It may fall to you to change the rushes yourself one day,” she said, as if it were a lofty privilege anyone would be proud to aspire to.

I swallowed my concerns for the weather and the crops and stayed by Breachnat the rest of the afternoon, taking careful note of how she ordered the mogae in their jobs and learning where the best rushes were to be found for cutting, and where and how to hang them to be dried. I, who knew Latin and Greek and the Ogum letters, tried to see this as yet another kind of school, a further mystery to be penetrated: the mystery of housekeeping.

Always a diligent student, for the next few weeks I set myself the task of learning the secrets of the kitchens and the storerooms. I studied all their locations and the contents of their chests, urns, and barrels. Druid-trained, I was able to memorize everything quickly, down to the smallest detail.

“Would you like me to write out a list of the produce and spices you will need for the next market day? It will make it so much easier for you to remember what needs to be bartered for or purchased,” I innocently asked the chief cooks, a plump couple from Letha who had been imported to provide exotic dishes for the king's table. I had forgotten how rare it was to have learned the arts of reading and writing.

The cooks froze for a moment, gaping in their stained aprons, their hands completely hidden in the midst of two enormous piles of wet dough, staring at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads. No one had ever suggested writing down a list of such things before. As far as they knew, writing was a sacred and arcane art known only to Druid and Cristaidi clergy. Seeing their expressions, I was ashamed; I had not meant to make them feel ignorant.

Breachnat's form suddenly filled the doorway as she beckoned me to come back outside. She had been watching my movements all morning from a distance.

“The kitchen is no place for you to be holding conversations; your only role with these people is to order a meal or plan a feast. What do you think you are doing? It is far beneath your station to be spending so much time consorting with servants. Why don't we go to the grianan, and I will teach you how to work the loom.”

Yet again I was left feeling useless, out of place, a failure.

One day I screwed up my courage, put on my plainest gown and cloak so as not to be noticed, and went to visit the Druid. I hoped that I might find some solace or conversation with them, if only they would get to know me.

By keeping my head down and my hair well covered, I was able to escape the fort, and for the first time in many moons I was outside the gate, alone. Blessed freedom! I raised my head to the sky and took in deep breaths of wild air.

As I climbed the heather-crowned hill I exulted in the soft, springy feel of the plant life beneath my feet. Above me sea gulls glinted white against the sky. Then I noticed moving forms. In the distance was a group of male Druid crouching around a small Fire Altar. The fire seemed tiny—pitiful even. I approached them slowly; dressed as I was in a cloak of muted browns, I blended into the hillside, and they did not even see me coming.

“There are many ways of killing a pig,” I could hear one of them say. He was the tallest, a thin man with long auburn hair and crinkled blue eyes. It was obvious that the Druid were not eating well; the man's white wool robe was patched, and he had only a plaited rope for a belt. His waist was wasplike.

“I say we approach the king directly,” said another Drui, a shorter man with long grey hair and brown eyes, dressed in a faded, patched blue cloak and tunic. “Surely he must appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

“If we do that, we will just be attacked. Don't forget that in the new version of the laws, we have been debased to mere magicians,” said the third Drui, who was dressed in a simple brown wool léine and tunic. “And they hate magicians; they say magic goes against their sacred book, the Bible.”

The man speaking was blond and grey eyed and, like the other two, his head was shaved in the familiar Druid tonsure: across the forehead, signifying a radiant brow filled with wisdom.

“I think we have to be more subtle, perhaps by bargaining with one of the petty kingdoms. You know that the ard-ri favors the Cristaidi. He would never allow us to do it properly—” the man in brown stopped in mid-sentence. He had finally noticed me from the corner of his eye.

Suddenly there was a flurry of hand motions and sign signals. Furious, silent speech and gestures flew from one Drui to the next. It was palm Ogum! I recognized it immediately. Palm and shin and nose Ogum were the familiar sign language of the Druid that I had learned at Dálach-gae and Niamh's knees as a baby. By the age of four I was proficient in all forms of Ogum. I could draw the letters, recite the tree alphabet, and form the letters with my fingers against my nose, shin, or hand.

I could see that they thought their speech was private. They assumed I was just an ignorant onlooker, a servant out collecting wild herbs or on some other errand.

“Keep silent. We are being watched by that girl,” said one with his fingers.

“Let's continue our discussion,” signaled another impatiently.

I bent down and innocently plucked a few stalks of heather, as if I were gathering them for a medicinal brew.

“This is a task that requires a large white bull. If we dedicate the eyes to the sun, the blood to the rivers, the breath to the winds, and the flesh and bones to the earth, it should strengthen the land to withstand the storms,” signaled the Drui in the blue robes. “And afterwards everyone can eat. That will be a great comfort to those who are hungry.”

“I'd say it requires two bulls,” signaled the Drui in brown. He wore a serious expression and seemed to be speaking from experience.

“Yes, but how do we do it? We haven't access to anything as valuable as white bulls for a sacrifice,” the blue-robed Drui signaled back with an unhappy face.

“We need to find a friend inside the king's dun,” said the fingers of the man with auburn hair, “because if we don't do this, the people will surely starve.”

“Agreed,” gestured the man in blue. Then they went silent for a while, collecting their thoughts.

I understood everything they were saying; it was obvious that they were seeking to change the weather, to find a way to perform a sacrifice so that the people would be able to eat. It was supremely logical and exactly the right thing to do. Finally I had encountered people in the kingdom who made sense—whose minds I could understand!

I raised my head and walked towards the men with complete confidence, something I had not felt since I left my father's dun in In Medon. Without giving it another thought, I began to sign to the men in palm Ogum, using my fingers against the fleshy side of my hand to quickly spell out the words.

“I understand what you are trying to do! I fully agree and approve. Something has to be done to turn the weather or the kingdom will fall. It will be a disaster!”

My fingers flew. I waited expectantly for their response. But only shock registered on their faces, and they looked as if they wanted to run away.

“Please don't be afraid of me!” I gestured. “I am the daughter-in-law of the ard-ri. I can help you!”

“Who are you?” cried the man with auburn hair out loud. “How is it possible you can understand us? Only a trained Drui could possibly know the secret language of the poets!”

“Not hard to answer,” I responded, using the formulaic response familiar to every Druid school. “I was a student of the filid Dálach-gaes and Niamh in my father's court. I would have happily remained there studying the Druid mysteries, but my father thought it best that I marry the prince of Irardacht to keep the peace between the kingdoms. Our union was designed to stop the cattle raids and the bloodshed on the borders.”

I felt sure that they would accept me as a friend, as an equal, now that they knew my true identity.

“No, it's just not possible,” said the man in brown. “You must be a fairy or a spirit. No daughter of a king would ever be shown the Druidic mysteries, especially not in these times!”

“In any case, we cannot speak with you if you are a member of the royal dun, as you claim,” said the Drui in blue. “It's too dangerous for us.”

Then, to my shock and horror, the three men wheeled away from me, flocking down the hillside as if chased by a phantom.

I fell to my knees and began to cry. I had understood exactly what they were trying to do. Why couldn't they accept me? All I wanted to do was to help them, and now I was completely lost. There was no place in the three worlds left for me; I was nothing under land, sea, or sky. I was insignificant, loved by no one. I was nobody. My mind was desperate for something valuable to do, someone to serve, someone to love. But who? And how?

Above me was the dark sky, lowering and threatening; at my feet was the soggy land, as barren and fruitless as my own body. There was no comfort, beauty, or joy anywhere to be found. I had lost everything.

I flung myself onto the heather and wailed my misery to the Mother Goddess in the earth, giving vent at last to the torrent of tears that I had held back for so long, moaning and crying until I could weep no more, pounding the moist sod of the mother with my fists in a helpless rage. When I reached the end of my weeping, my spirit was left as flat and as grey as the vast, empty sky that pressed upon my shoulders.

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