The Fox (39 page)

The king raised his hand and the noise stopped again, this time by a king’s order.

“You have done well, Druid,” he said. “You and your companions are welcome at my tables for the meal.”

Behind us, men talked again. We bowed, turned, and walked to a table close to the door. The king’s men sat near him, the honored at his table. We sat where we could escape the long night’s festivities, as we planned to start back home at sunrise.

The room continued to fill with people. “Look,” said Rosston in a voice that spoke with inexperience. “That man – wearing a gold torque! The king wears only bronze, but his is gold!” We watched as a tall man, braided red hair hung over a red cape that matched the king’s, walked to him and nodded his head. When he turned, we saw a similar pin of mistletoe closing his cape over his left shoulder.

“He owns many fields and sheep,” said Uilleam. “That is Malcom. He has men who come to trade with my village. He is the brother of the king and carries the purse of the army.”

“It seems,” Nathraichean said, his hands strangely still, “he spends the purse of the king on himself as well.”

“Be careful, Wolf,” warned Rhona. “There are many who listen for words such as yours just for the pleasure of reporting them to the king and watching the beheading and mounting of the severed heads on the fence. We want to take all of you home on the morrow, not just your body, your head left to decorate the gate of this fine fort.”

“The king would not kill a druid, would he?” Both Moroug and Coira asked the question in unison. I wondered if they often spoke as twins and finished each other’s sentences.

“The king will do what is necessary to keep his warriors and people happy. If a druid must die, then a druid will die,” said Rhona. A chill crept into my heart with those words.

They carried the roasted boar to the king’s table where, with his sword, he separated the beast with one stroke, to the cheers of those around him. He took up a short blade to cut the smaller pieces, and filled plates with the meat as he carved. Also, wooden bowls of vegetables and mugs of mead were passed around. Mugs of mead were refilled from buckets carried around the room. As the overfilled platters of food passed, we stabbed our portions and piled them on the table in front of us. Everyone seemed to enjoy the food. The mood was light even though the news we carried here could bring death to many warriors in this room tonight.

Music started at the back of the lodge and two men sidestepped those carrying food and mead to stand in the space directly in front of the king’s table. One blew into a pipe, creating a tune, and the other beat a drum while singing. I recognized a song about a battle long ago with a giant monster of the land that Bel and Morrigna fought with. The monster fled into a lake and it is still told that she raised her head and became visible at times. Many have sworn to seeing her.

We sang the same song at home, we ate the same food, wore the same clothing. Now we feared the same enemy. I prayed our people would be victorious in battle. If we followed this king and the gods heard our prayers, we would be victorious. I believed it to be so.

The smoke in the room grew thick. Men added peat to keep the fires burning through the night’s festivities. I was tired from the long journey, the ride, this day’s events, and wanted to find a quiet place where I could tell Lovern about the animals I saw earlier. Foxes and ravens gathered in and around an oak was a powerful sign for us. I wanted to discuss it with him until we understood it.

I looked to the door, readying myself to leave to find clean air, when the figure appeared. I started, unsure of what it was, my eyes unclear from the smoke. Rhona was next to see it. Nathraichean stood when Rhona touched his shoulder and directed his gaze to the apparition. “Who are you?” he asked in a voice that drew the others eyes to him and then to the white hooded, caped man in the doorway.

“Firtha requires your attendance,” the figure said.

“Whose attendance?” asked Uilleam.

“All who rode in with the Fox today.”

We followed him outside. The night air was crisp and cool after the room filled with smoke and the body odors of men who worked hard. I took a deep breath. The newly green leaves and turned fields left an odor of spring. It was not yet Beltane; however, the signs were there, even this far north.

The figure led us to the back wall where a small opening let pedestrians through. I was a bit dizzy from the mead and lack of sleep so I hung onto Lovern’s arm.

“Where are we going?” asked Lovern.

The cloaked man stopped and turned. “We are going to the sacred stones. Firtha has had a vision and she must share it with you. The way will be dark and rocky. I will carry a torch, so stay close.” He picked up a torch from the guard on duty at the opening of the fence and we were outside the fort walking into the trees.

“This is the path of the ancients,” he said. “The path we walk on and the standing stones were both placed by the gods. We hold our most sacred ceremonies there.”

“I seem to remember a storyteller’s song about standing stones in this area,” said Coira.

“It is said the gods built them for man to use as a sacrificial altar for our ceremonies,” said Moroug.

“Ouch, wait. I have tripped,” said Rhona. “Nathraichean, please give me your arm to steady myself on these stones. I do not want to fall into the water.”

We had come to a stream. The robed druid seemed to float across while we stumbled and bruised our feet as we clumsily walked from stone to stone to cross the shallow but cold and fast water.

The forest opened up to a small meadow and in the middle was a small circle of man-height stones. There was a large fire in the center, and I heard a multi-voiced hum coming from the stones. They seemed to move, waver in the firelight. We walked closer, and I saw eight swaying figures in white robes, just like the one leading us. The people in the robes held hands and made the shadows that seemed to give the stones movement. The robed figures sang the song I had heard.

Our guide stopped just outside the ring of stones and whispered into the ear of one druid. The circle broke, and he walked into the ring. He motioned us to follow. I got to the ring and again, just before I stepped in, I looked around the circle of trees behind us. I knew he watched. The fox I saw earlier was there and watched us.

Firtha stood in her white robe on the other side of the ring. The fire between us bathed her in an orange light. Shadows danced on her body, created by the moving flames. I had not seen her at the evening meal, and I wondered what would keep her away from her king, especially, when Lovern’s news proved her right about the Romans. Now I knew. She had been here preparing this ring. Waiting for us to come.

She watched us come into the circle and bade us to sit on the ground around the fire. As we sat, her eyes took us in. Her loose hair, red in the firelight, hung below her waist; her hood hung down the back of her robe. The fire did not give enough light at that distance to see the color of her eyes. I remembered they were the blue color of water melted from ice. A band of beads circled her forehead and tied at the back of her head; her sea eagle feather was attached so it hung behind. She still wore the necklace of boars’ teeth. I wondered if she were able to add to it from the boar that had become our evening meal.

An alder staff was in her hand, one long enough to touch the ground at her bare feet and rise above her head more than two hands high. Lessons from Lovern about this tree flashed through my mind. He made his music pipe from it. It gave different dyes for our cloth. Some druids used it to help call in spring.
Maybe that is why she holds it tonight. It is almost spring, almost Beltane.

Unbidden, the memory came that it also called the soul of the sacrificed human to come back to aid the living. A
volunteer
sacrificed human. The little I ate at dinner laid unsettled in my stomach.

Small stones scattered on the ground dug into me. Uncomfortable, I shifted, hoping not to put a hole in my green dress. The hot fire burned my face, while my backside was cold. I shivered and Lovern put his arm around me. I was able to settle down, and when I looked around the small, seated circle of fellow travelers, I saw they all had their eyes on Firtha. Rhona lowered her eyes until she looked straight into mine. I saw a great strength there. I was glad she was my friend.

“Now you are here,” Firtha said as she came closer to us. The humming stopped as soon as she started talking. Robed druids came closer to hear her words. “Tell me what you found, Lovern.”

“As I told the king, the Romans ready themselves to take our lands. To make slaves of us or kill us. That is what they have done on the lands they occupy now. It is what they want for us. I stood in a camp of Roman warriors and have seen they have weapons and train to kill us.”

She nodded. “It is what I have told the king for many moons. I have seen it many times in my dreams. It is because we are weak. Do any of you know why we are weak?”

Firtha slowly looked into the eyes of all present. No one responded.

“We are weak because the gods ask us to give ourselves to them. We have stopped obeying that command. Yes, we learn what we can about nature and healing and other magic, but we have not given back all we should, in payment, for many years. My teacher was ancient when he taught me the arts. He told me we should never change them, but we have.” She paused. “We have become soft and because of that we could lose all we have. Our lands and our families. We need to catch the ears of the gods again.”

Her staff pounded the ground in her agitation as she paced, walking around us quickly. We had to turn our heads to follow her footsteps. “We must get back to the ways of the God and Goddess. They gave me a vision. A vision of victory. I was told that if we come back to them fully, we could have what we want. We can have peace.”

She stopped pacing and as the alder staff hit the ground in time with her every word, I trembled.

I heard words tumble from her mouth but could not understand them. Voices from all those in cloaks around us uttered short, quiet sighs of agreement.

She raised her staff to the sky. “Gods and goddesses, listen to me. We will have a human sacrifice!”

A fearful rushing sound of unstoppable water and wind filled my ears. I closed my eyes and began to pray. My heart heavy with dread, I began to shiver. The snake awoke and raised its head in my belly again. Memories of my feelings, those that had told me of my shortened life, flooded my head.

I was afraid, so very afraid.

C
HAPTER
22

AINE

M
AY
, 2005

Noisy London. I’d almost forgotten. Fort William’s traffic was nothing like what flew by my little apartment above the bookstore. Arriving back late on Friday night, I fell into bed and slept until the din woke me at half past eight.

I tried to phone George’s home, but got no answer. His office didn’t answer either. I had called him a dinosaur because he wouldn’t carry a mobile.

“Too damned intrusive,” he’d said.

There was no answer all day Saturday so I finally decided he must be out of town.

Saturday wasn’t a total loss; I did get to visit with some friends from MGC and decided I’d made the right decision by going to Scotland to chase my dream. Talking to them brought back all my old dreary, depressing thoughts about jobs in my past. Writing up reports and statistics didn’t fill my life with any light. I ordered after-dinner drinks for my friends and I and silently toasted myself and my choice of a new life.

Sunday morning. The bookstore, closed and quiet, allowed me to laze around until ten in the morning, rereading my notes on Marc’s earlier site. The chieftain’s tomb where I’d found the first bowl, the first one Jahna led me to. It was in the University of Birmingham’s Museum of Ancients along with the other tools Marc found in the tomb. I leafed through the pictures I’d taken of the bowl found under the stone where it had lain so many years. Jimmy’s words ran through my mind.
The same artist probably had worked on the bowl that contained the ashes I’d found in the cave.
Jahna. I was certain it was her. I’d never be able to prove it to the world, but I didn’t need to. I was proving it to myself and remaking myself in the process. If Jahna wanted to help me along, who was I to dissuade her?

I called George’s home again. Three rings—why hadn’t I called before I left Fort William? I was about to hang up when she answered.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Hello. I hope I have the right number, is George home?”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“My name is Aine. Aine MacRae.”

“Oh my, Aine. This is Meg.” She sounded a bit dazed, not at all like her normal formal self. Meg Smyth was George’s secretary while he worked at the university. Also Sophie’s friend, she helped when she could while Sophie was ill. She’d retired at the same time as George, and now made sure George had food in the house and didn’t get buried under an avalanche of his books and paper work. George paid her to stop by once or twice a week. She came more often as a friend. Her husband died many years ago, and there were no children. I often wondered if they were going to get married or stay in this strict relationship, stepping around their need for each other’s comfort for the rest of their lives. “Aine, George is not here right now. He is… Well, could you come by?”