Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (15 page)

As the wild sounds echoed, the child looked at the sky and shivered. Then a light flashed above in the darkening clouds and sped toward her; she saw it coming. It passed through her body, seeped into her bones, touched her mind, and, in an instant, became part of her, as close as her heartbeat. A spirit had settled into her body! Frightened, she drew her cloak tight. Many spirits filled this world of potent gods and goddesses; was it good or evil? She reached for safety and clutched the hand of the woman standing by her side—she would tell her when they were alone. The woman drew her close.

Two men stood silently before the sacred hut, the small child and woman close behind. Long cloaks of heavy wool clasped tight with bronze fibulas swept the ground, shielding them from a freezing rain. They were brothers—twins—yet opposites in all ways. One dark, the other fair; one Druid and the other a king. Each a ruler in his own domain, yet powerless here.

The thatched hut, with its cone-shaped roof, stood in a small clearing, midway up the hill the Durotriges called
Bas
– death. Decaying leaves lay deep over the earth, covered by patches of snow and thin ice that crunched underfoot. Crisp paw marks of a fox marked a circle through the snow around the hut to the back, where Broicsech, the soothsayer woman, lived in a rough lean-to of branches and skin. Diviner of messages in the body, she lived close to death, unafraid.

A white moon painted on the heavy hide covering the hut’s entrance, gleamed luminous in the winter light. Potent symbol of death, the unknown, and rebirth, it marked this place of no return. Here the dying breathed their last, before their souls were released and traveled to the land beyond death: The Otherworld, where each rested until born again.

There were no reprieves here.

The light slowly faded. Gray, leaden clouds hung close to the frozen earth. Thin needles of ice formed in the cold rain and stung their faces.

The Druid shivered, wrapping his cloak tighter. Sleet caught and spangled his dark hair like briefly glimpsed stars. Deep distress furrowed his face as he turned to his brother.

“You will proceed with this? Heed me, Caradoc. Everything has been done, and we discovered nothing. The slave who served Lady Moigh revealed no name, even at the end. I summoned Broicsech who searched the entrails of a young sheep for a sign. Nothing. Prayers were said, but no answer was revealed. The gods are silent.”

“Then this is the only way,” Caradoc said. “The gods speak through the child. Come, brother. We will find the truth.”

He pushed aside the hide covering, and they entered. It was dark inside. Smoke filled the air with the scent of pungent healing herbs: rosemary and yarrow, black willow and garlic.

A woman lay on a pallet close to the fire—a futile effort to keep her alive. Her attendant moved silently about, tucking the woman’s blanket tighter, wiping her face, placing another linen-wrapped hot stone near her feet. Eyes shut; Broicsech squatted against the back wall, ready for the inevitable end and another death, her bark-brown tunic invisible against the wattled and mud-daub wall. The hiss of sleet pattered on the oiled hide door and above on the thatched roof. Water bubbled and steamed in a cauldron over the fire. Every now and then, the wind blew a flurry of ice down a smoke hole, popping and sizzling into the fire.

Caradoc, King of all the Durotriges, looked down at the dying woman. He was powerless here. His eyes filled with tears he struggled to conceal, for no amount of warmth would cause her life to blaze forth again. She was Lady Moigh, his foster mother, as dear, or dearer to him than his own birth mother. And someone had poisoned her.

Gods! You must help me!
The angry plea, bitter and cold in its fury, surged through his mind. His broad hands curled into tight fists.

Sometimes he felt stronger in belief than his brother Cathbad, who was Druid. In his heart, Caradoc knew that was not true; he just demanded more of the gods, as a mighty chief, a king will. And not by choice was Cathbad a Druid, Caradoc reminded himself, but only by the fact that he was not born first. Caradoc knew the gods decided that right. He was meant to be king and Cathbad, the wise man—his guide and protector. But now Cathbad protected the child.

Caradoc looked down at the solemn face of his young daughter, white-faced, eyes wide, her mouth pursed shut. Sabrann, daughter of Sirona, whom he had loved as no other, had died giving birth to this child he needed, but didn’t want. He
needed
Sirona. Sabrann pulled her hair over her face, hiding. He brushed it aside with a rough hand.

He nodded his head in the direction of the covered figure. A pile of furs almost hid Moigh; only her broad face was visible. A faint sheen of sweat glistened all over her face. Her eyes rolled back and turned up toward the smoke hole at the center of the roof, as though willing an escape to the Otherworld, an end to the pain. He bent close to her.

“Tell me, my mother, who did this to you? I will not rest until I find this person,”

Her eyelids fluttered. One finger lifted, then fell. She was too weak to speak. Caradoc turned back to Sabrann.

She was just five. Cathbad said she saw into people’s lives if she touched them and could see things concealed from the rest of the world. She was a seer and her life was shadowed by a prophecy. Caradoc hated the prophecy; it reminded him of the night Sirona died. His brother stood next to the girl, an unreadable expression on his Druid face.

“Brother, don’t do this.” Cathbad muted his voice low, so only the king could hear. “She is too young. Do not force her; she will run away. After the last time, she hid for over five days.”

“I don’t want to harm her,” Caradoc said, giving an arrogant shake of his head. “But I must learn the truth. And you say she will know.” The Druid turned away from him, with an angry swirl of his cloak.

Lady Moigh’s attendant placed more wood on the fire, and the hearth stones glowed red with heat. The hut grew unbearably warm. Sweat rolling down her wrinkled face, Broicsech stood and then left the hut. Caradoc shrugged off his heavy woolen cloak and looked down again at Sabrann. He nodded toward the dying woman. The tell-tale blue lines of poison showed all around Moigh’s lips.

The child was crying, but she must do as he said. He would have the truth.

“Touch her. Place your hand on her forehead. Now!”

Sabrann closed her eyes, praying in a child’s way to the gods.
Come and save me!

She felt Maigrid standing silent behind her. Maigrid leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Sabrann heard the words, but could not understand what they meant—her mind was numb with dread.

She looked at her father, so remote and tall above her.

“I don’t want to,” she cried.

His icy blue eyes narrowed. “You must.” He placed a hand on her thin shoulder and turned her toward Lady Moigh.

Sabrann shuddered at his command. She wanted him to care for her. She would do anything for him.

Shaking, she reached out her young hand and lightly touched the old woman’s forehead. It burned with fever, and she started to pull back her hand.

“Leave it there,” her father said.

It did not happen every time. She hoped this would be one of those times. Yet, even now, she could feel it beginning, in the back of her head, and a cold fear formed in her stomach.

Her vision blurred. It was like dreaming, only Sabrann knew she was awake. Her heart pounded in her ears with a loud, thrumming beat. She twisted, turning away her head from Lady Moigh, but there was no escape.

From somewhere deep in the depths of her mind, she saw a wave forming, a greenish wave frothing with white foam that curled and rose up and started moving toward her. Even from far away, she knew it would soon wash over her. The wave grew full of images, swirls of colors, names, and a life. The life of this woman, Moigh, lay curled inside the wave with all the good, all the evil, everything that had ever happened to her. And in the wave, Sabrann saw Lady Moigh’s death and who caused it.

Her fingers lay on the hot forehead, like dry kindling ready to burst into flame. She could not move away. The very core of her being struggled wildly, fighting the inevitable. It was coming and could not be stopped.

The wave roared as it broke over her, and all that was in the wave consumed her, breaking through the barriers that protected and contained Sabrann’s life. The thoughts and life and dreams of the woman whose forehead she touched, now lived in her. Sabrann was almost gone—soon she would no longer exist!

“Stop! No!” she screamed. “I am Sabrann! I am Sabrann!

The Druid yanked her hand from Lady Moigh’s forehead. Sobbing, Sabrann fell to her knees and collapsed in a huddle at her father’s feet.

Maigrid knelt and cradled Sabrann in her arms, humming softly—soothing, wordless and ancient, women’s sounds. The fire crackled, slowly burning down. Caradoc and the Druid stood silent, watching her. Waiting.

Slowly, Sabrann felt her own life coming back. As her vision cleared, her heart stopped pounding so hard. Lady Moigh’s life gradually washed away, like the tide retreating from a sandy shore, leaving behind Sabrann’s own young life.

Then she was herself again and no one else.

“Ahhh” She gave a small cry and laid her head down on her arm, eyes open and clear. Her father knelt and leaned over her. He placed his big hand under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“You must tell me, Sabrann. What did you see? Who did this to my mother?”

She breathed a name.

He stood with a snort of disgust.

Her father and Cathbad both stared at her. Then the Druid gently touched her head. But he was not her father.

“Yes,” Caradoc said to his brother. “That makes sense. He has wanted to harm me and mine for a long time. But how to pursue this? He sneaks his evil in where few will see it. His heart denies the gods, no matter what he says. You must help me, brother.”

Sabrann lay curved like a baby in the womb, listening, forgotten. She hated what had just happened. Some small part of her had died and was lost. Like working a flint arrow, it was chipped from her soul, a thin flake of stone, barely noticeable. Someday too much would be chipped off, and she might not come back.

Maigrid called it the gift of sight, inherited from her mother. It was no gift Sabrann wanted. She did all she could to avoid touching people. Only then was she safe.

When next Cathbad looked down, Sabrann was not there. Only Maigrid stood, wise and still. “She needs to be away. I will not let harm come to her.”

“She is too young,” said the Druid. “I will teach her how to keep herself safe when she does this again. And it will be easier as she grows older.”

A sound, like a rattle of dried barley seeds, came from the dying woman. Her breath came in harsh, irregular gasps. Cathbad turned and stretched his arms over Moigh and began chanting, a long continuous sound, where the words vibrated deep in his throat, one after the other. A farewell chant.

Maigrid watched him for a moment, then left and stood outside the hut. The sleet had stopped and the last light of day fell purple on the hoar frost.

Ice, cold, and death, she thought bitterly. It seemed they were forever linked. It had been cold, too, when Sirona died. Maigrid’s throat tightened at the memory. Sirona had died too quickly to be brought here. Her soul’s journey to the Otherworld started in a king’s hall amidst a river of blood.

No Druid cast spells for Sirona. Just Maigrid, her maid and wise woman, and a kinswoman helped in that most difficult birth. Women all; no men would come near that room.

The sounds of Samhain were everywhere that night — raucous calls of abandonment, pipes and drums that never stopped and the last cries of surprise as sacrificial knives slashed down. The air was thin and porous, wavering between life and death. Long-dead spirits roamed the hall, their ancient bronze swords and spears clattering, and voices speaking of long-ago lives, as they crossed into the world of the living. They stood murmuring in forgotten Celtic tongues, watching from the dark corners of Sirona’s room, while she labored and slowly bled to death.