Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (16 page)

Only the gods knew the agony in that room—certainly not the men. They knew nothing of birthing and the battle each woman went to, unarmed.

Maigrid shivered, but not from the cold. That memory felt like ice shards in her heart.

And there are things that even Cathbad can never know. They will not be easy to keep hidden from a Druid’s gaze,
she thought and not for the first time.

She had made a sacred oath to Sirona. She had promised.

It was almost dark. The muted light turned ice-coated grasses and trees into dull silver. A child’s small footprints marked a path that disappeared among the trees.

Maigrid drew her cloak tight and started walking. Her body tingled with unseen spirits. Danger was all around; she felt it in the icy air.

The child must be protected. To be a seer would draw people who sought her gifts for their own needs. Already, she was used and harmed, but not loved.

Child of Samhain. Born of the time in-between; weighted with a Druid’s prophecy. Such a heavy burden to be placed on her at birth.

And the promise she made was equally as fateful. Sirona’s long-dead voice whispered again in the blue, frosted air, reminding Maigrid.

Never let them know.

CHAPTER 9

Snow fell in soft drifts, covering the hut, muffling all sound like a wooly shroud. Sitting cross-legged, like the God Cernunnos, the Druid kept his cold vigil through the night, chanting the stories of Moigh and her clan before sending her on the final journey.

Deep in his trance, he felt the messenger of the gods come searching, seeking the dead one. Only then, he stood and pushed aside the ice-crusted leather curtain. Her soul flew free into the icy air, leaving behind the shell of her body.

And where is Sabrann? He anguished, feeling the heavy burden of guilt. For he had allowed this to happen. But never again, he vowed.

He looked across the hut at his brother, rigid with grief, mourning his foster mother, and wondered, would he mourn the child as much?

At first light of dawn, they carried Moigh’s body through the snow, to the high platform atop
Mas
, where her earthly flesh would be picked clean from her bones. Vultures screeched above, keeping close watch, waiting for them to leave. Hungry mountain cats prowled through the brush.

But Sabrann—where did she hide? Who would protect her from those same beasts eating their fill of the dead? Maigrid had gone, following her trail. Maigrid, weaver of warm cloth, who kept the threads of her life and those entrusted to her straight and steady, like the wool on her spindle whorl. She had her own wise woman skills, her own secret ways. He trusted Maigrid above all women.

The Druid stumbled back to the hut on frozen feet. He would rest here, for he had no fear of this place of death. With heavy heart he built up the fire and then lay down by the warm stones.
Sabrann could not die!

He could think of nothing else. Exhausted, he soon fell asleep and fell into a dream, where he saw Sabrann’s birth night again, as if with the eyes of a god. The great raven came and whispered in his ear, and Cathbad lived that night, again. For it all began then, or so he thought.

“Death’s bright sword was in the air,” the raven began.

It hovered over the high hill called
À
rd Saoghal and found its prey. A dying Druid lay next to a burned-out fire where a few coals dusted with ash, glowed dull red. The raven perched on a branch in a nearby tree, watching.

The Druid’s flesh hung loose on a skeletal frame, his body shrunken and small. A barley cake and skin of water lay untouched at his side, food poor shepherds had brought to their wise man. He spoke with the gods for them, shielding the people from their divine wrath, for gods were ever fickle and unpredictable.

It would not be long now. His body already grew cold.

Suddenly, a warm wind blew in from the south. Flowing low, up and over the ridgeway, it caressed the heather and grasses and the autumn air smelled summer sweet.

The fire sprang to life, kindled by an unseen hand. The dying man started as the soft air touched his face. Reaching deep within, warmth crept through the old rags that were his clothes.

The warm air swelled his skin, lined and weathered like an old turtle, making it full and firm once more. It reached deep into the Druid’s ancient bones with their thin marrow, and filled his arms and legs with fresh blood.

All the time, slowly growing louder, a voice hummed and whispered above his head.

That voice! He hadn’t heard it for so long. His heart fluttered with joy. The fire roared and leaped high. A story unfolded in the yellow and red flames, a wonderful prophecy! When it ended, a blaze of sparks shot high into the ebony dome of the star-filled sky, reaching toward a silvery full moon.

“The signs are clear,” the voice said. “Speak once more, for I have given you the words.

“Tell them! Go!” The commands rumbled like thunder in the Druid’s ears and heart. Strong now, he stood and ran, following the shepherd’s trail under sacred oak trees, stumbling over wild thyme and juniper brush, weaving through dense stands of trees. On and on he ran, the black raven flying low beside him, always seeking the path leading up the great hill.

Mai Dun was close now. He could hear it, smell it! Bone flutes trilled wild music that pierced the cold night air, and the steady thud of great skin drums, like giant hearts beating, brought frenzied life to the crowds of people, leaping and dancing around huge bonfires. Swirling to the beat, their bodies were painted with divine symbols—the sun, the moon at full, a wheel—all the circles that ruled life.

Their shadows, monstrous and tall, undulated on the ground.

Some wore masks, giving anonymous freedom, on a night already without boundaries. Masks of feathers and dried clay, with bird faces and pointed beaks; masks with holes cut for eyes in bands of skin, with a small cloven foot or tail still attached; and some held before their faces, the dripping head, just sacrificed, of goat or pig or virile boar, and went searching for partners to freely rut with on this wild licentious night. Away from the light, couples lay barely concealed under scant cover, in sexual abandonment.

The rich scent of roasting pig filled the air. Smoke from a hundred fires lay heavy and still in the air. The stench of urine and animal dung mingled with the smell of barley cakes and beer. And over all, the potent smell of blood, sharp and metallic, as it spilled from the ritual sacrifices and fell on stone altars.

The tribe’s elders, covered in magic signs of chalk paint that coiled in swirls and jagged lines of red ochre, charcoal, and blue woad, snaked through the crowd in a slow, ceremonial line, warding away evil spirits, welcoming the good.

It was Samhain, the great celebration marking the turning of the year. Tonight was the last night of the old year. At midnight all the fires would be put out and then relit—the New Year born in that instant of new light. Each fire’s keeper stood ready to extinguish the flames at a sign from Caradoc and his holy man, the Druid.

Only at Samhain did the doorway between the Otherworld and this life dissolve for one brief moment in time—a night and the next day—when the living and the dead could meet each other. The gods watched closely as ancient spirits, both good and evil, and long-dead ancestors walked among the living.

The old Druid plunged without fear into the crowd, the raven flying before him, and raised his hand high in the sign of pronouncement. “Hear me, hear me now,” he cried. “Tonight! It starts tonight!”

Those nearest him felt the hot breath of the gods as his aura touched them and, slowly, a hushed quiet began rippling through the raucous crowd. The crowds parted as he pushed his way through and lurched forward, to stand in front of the king.

The wild, ecstatic dancing stopped. Drums stilled. The last, few sounds floated through the thick, smoky air—the bleat of a sacrificial goat, the far-off cry of a baby. The crowd moved closer, straining to hear the old Druid.

“The sign. I have seen it!” he cried. “The story must be told. Hear the prophecy! Hear the gods!”

Like a thin sapling in the wind, the Druid’s body began to sway and his old, quavering voice raised high:

“One who rules is born this eve.

Spiral on the head for all to see! All will know in the end.

Who has the mark has the sight; a ruler found; a warrior born!

The great spiral turns ever round, it’s turning path a trail of souls

Each life to the other bound.”

He held up his hand. There, on his palm, was a spiral, freshly burned and bleeding.

“It is the sign of truth come from the gods.”

“They said tell you!” He pointed toward the king, who stood speechless, not understanding the prophecy.

“I will mark you with the truth,” he said, and staggered toward the king, his blooded hand outstretched.

Then, a long, garbled sound came from the old Druid’s throat and a gasping cry, as he dropped to the ground—a knife buried to the hilt in his back.

All eyes moved to the man who stood above the body, radiating malice. It was his knife that felled the old seer.

He was Ramach, a dark and feared Druid, who came from the west with the long-dead, first queen of the king’s father, and stayed to serve Derbhorgill, that dead queen’s daughter. Ramach, with a bloodlust for death and human sacrifice, who hungered for his lost power.

The crowd gasped and backed away from the body, fearful and awed by the old Druid’s prophecy; for this night, the King’s wife labored hard in a long childbirth. A child would be born this night and few wanted a child born on Samhain, when dangerous old spirits roamed among the living. Some put such babes up on the high moors to be taken away by spirits or wolves.

“He was going to harm you, my King,” Ramach said, pulling free his knife.

Cathbad moved from the king’s side. His face turned ashen, his eyes darkened. He knelt and gently turned the body, looking long into the ancient scarred eyes. He shuddered, and shook his head.

“No, he was not.” His voice rose to a shout. “He could not. He was blind.” He stood and faced Ramach, his face flushed with anger.

“He was nothing to save,” Ramach said, eyes ablaze with righteous fire. “A dying husk of a man with a false prophecy, who meant the king harm.”

“He was druid and seer to my father’s father!” cried Cathbad, his eyes blazing in return. “He was my father’s teacher. He could kill with a word, or stop a war with a mist from the gods!” His anger shot like a fiery arrow through the air to Ramach. The air shimmered red all around them, hot with Cathbad’s fury.

Then came a whirring sound in the smoky air above their heads, and a high squawking call. Curving overhead in an ever-shortening circle was the great, darksome raven, its wings spread wide as a man’s arms. All stood, faces upturned, frozen in fear at the sight of the gods’ servant. For the raven served no mortal man.

Still bold from the killing. Ramach turned toward the sound, His eyes gleamed, great white orbs showing all around black pupils that glistened on the surface like a piece of jet, with unknown depths of evil beneath.

The raven, courier of the gods and guardian of the dead druid, fixed its gaze on Ramach. In a movement so fast, all swore afterward they never saw it move, the raven swept down. Its great, onyx wings wrapped around Ramach’s head. The raven’s razor-sharp beak struck and plucked Ramach’s right eye from his face, leaving a vacant, bloody hole. He fell to the ground, writhing and screaming in pain. As the raven flew away, the brutally excised eye dropped nearby, abandoned in the grit and ashes of Samhain’s feast.

Its loud, cawing voice called until it was far off and could be heard no more ...

“Gods! Gods! Heed the gods!”

Cathbad stood long over the slain body of the blind seer, and a cold dread filled his heart, for he knew words held great power, and prophecies, most of all.

Who would this prophecy touch? What acts would it compel?

Cathbad awakened with a start. He trembled as he remembered those words vibrating in the air, like strings plucked on a giant harp. Only a god knew how long that power would last.

Then icy cold air blew across his face as Maigrid lifted the moon-faced, leather barrier and entered the hut. Over her shoulder lay the child, limp and unmoving, her skin colorless as a river pearl.

“She ran back to Mai Dun and hid in the sheep-pen, among the sheep, where she felt safe.” Maigrid knelt and placed Sabrann next to him. He feared to touch her.