Waves in the Wind (19 page)

“If you say it is true, then I am sure of it.” Excitement radiated from his face. “Just think of it, a visit to the Underworld. It is the stuff of an epic poem, a hero’s tale begging to be shared.”

“You make too much of it.” I snorted. “A hero’s tale indeed.”

“Quiet. It is you who makes too little of it. There are old stories, ancient tales of men encountering such things. Yet, yours is a new one, a miracle within our time.”

Shaking his head he began pacing again, and I waited for him to speak. Finally he stopped before me. “Words cannot express my feelings at this moment. Yet, make no mistake; they shall come, yes, they shall come in the form of a song. By that song I promise you, your name will live forever.”

* * *

The cleaning of the spring entailed stepping among the stones and pulling up weeds by their roots. Muttering prayers as I worked alone around the pool, tossing the weeds into a wicker basket, the morning sun beat down on my uncovered head.

With the thought of a handful of water in mind I knelt upon a stone at the water’s edge and leaned forward. My reflected image peered back up at me, bringing a wry smile to my face. Red braids fell below both ears, the remainder of my hair pulled straight back to form the thick plaited strand falling down my back. A close-cropped beard framed my tanned, angular face.

A wind gust stirred the air as I leaned further forward, stretching outward to capture a handful of water. Ripples formed upon the surface of the pool and I paused, hand suspended. A moment later the waters stilled and I found myself staring into a pair of piercing gray eyes. That the head and shoulders image within the spring was that of a Lord of the Sidhe I had no doubt. The hood of his scarlet robe shaded much of his bearded face.

Transfixed, I remained frozen, hovering above the pool’s edge like a stone statue. Most certainly he was a god, but which one? Lugh? The Dagda? Mac Lir? There was no way of knowing. I remained silent, humbled, fearing to ask.

The god began to speak, his voice like rumbling thunder,

Within the copse atop the rise,

A stag proud with antlers wide,

About him, does, fawns his like,

His sovereignty unquestioned there.

Hunters keen with spear points bright,

Surmount the hill, creep through the trees,

The herd serene, unknowing, graze,

Unaware as peril nears.

From within the wood a spear is thrown,

Behind it fly half a dozen more,

The herd entrapped, senseless fall,

Their king struck, dead eyes glaze.

Sweat beaded my face as his eyes lingered on mine. I blessed my years of Druid’s training that allowed me to hear and remember his every word. He continued,

War horns blare as banners wave,

Hunters of men, swords aflame,

Warriors all, tranquil prey in flight,

The peaceful ones fall and burn.

Hunters of game, hunters of men,

Feed their bellies or stock their folds,

Wise men beware the open hand,

For peace is a fool’s delusion.

Overhead, leaves rustled while a light breeze brushed my cheek. Stirred by the wind, again the waters rippled and the image vanished as quickly as it came. The handful of water forgotten, I rocked back on my haunches, the words of a god echoing in my mind.

I was awestruck, but then could any man not be astonished and honored by confronting a god? The experience held me spellbound, my mind on fire, remembering his face, his every word and nuance. My stomach knotted as the import of his words took hold.

Rising to my feet I began pacing. My thoughts darkened as his warning grew clear.
Beware the open hand,
he said, and
peace is a fool’s delusion.
Sickness filled my belly as I wondered if I was acting the deluded fool to trust the bishop’s truce.

Again I knelt beside the pool, this time filling both cupped hands, splashing the cool water on my face, trying to bring clarity to my judgment. I pieced together key phrases hidden within the message and gasped as the god’s warning became apparent;
Hunters of men, swords aflame, The peaceful ones fall and burn, Their king struck, dead eyes glaze.
We were going to be attacked. Domnhall, King of Rath Raithleann, and his people thinking now to live in peace were going to be attacked.

I raced up the path toward the village, torn between speaking with my father and going directly to the King. The message came as a matter of gods and men so I chose to first seek my father’s counsel. He would not be home at this hour so I hurried directly to the longhouse. The sentry outside the door told me my father had stopped by earlier but was already gone. I knew where next to look for him.

Footsteps and stirring within the widow Riona’s dwelling responded to my urgent rapping. My father opened the door, stepped outside to stand beside me and nodded with questioning eyes.

“As you requested,” I began, “I visited the Grove to begin preparations for the midsummer ceremony. While there a vision appeared within the pool, speaking a warning.” I went on to describe the vision, recite the message and tell him my interpretation of it.

His head shook, his face grave. “By your description the vision in the pool was none other than the great Lugh himself. It had to be, as it matches descriptions passed down from the Ancient Ones. Ossian, sometimes you…” He paused, his head again shaking. “You have a special relationship with the gods.” Hands sliding inside the sleeves of his robe, arms crossing over his chest, he added, “However, I heard no words within the message that spoke to an imminent attack.”

“Father, you must listen—”

“Ossian, I heard you. Lugh’s message was for your ears, that you not be overly trusting of the Christians. That was all he was saying to you.” Head lifting, he paused and gazed into the cloudless sky. “I confess, however, that a voice whispered a word of warning in my ear during my morning prayers.”

My sense of urgency heightened. “What voice? You heard it today?”

“No. It was more than a week past. Indeed it was on the same morning your message from the bishop arrived. The voice was feminine, one I did not recognize.”

Relief flooded through me knowing my father already took steps to avert danger. “How has the King responded? What protective measures is he taking?”

“I said nothing to the King. That day it seemed your truce was more imperative.” He swayed and shrugged. “Since then many important matters take my time and I have been busy you see…” His voice trailed away.

His behavior was baffling. Was it not a Druid’s foremost duty to protect his King? “Then you understand we must report to the King, that he might raise the guard.”

A growing premonition of danger weighed upon me as he merely responded, “Of course.” His eyes moved to the widow’s door. “Perhaps later. Yes, tonight during dinner we will speak of this.”

“No, father, not tonight.” I hesitated, fists clenched at my sides, amazed by his indifference. “We must speak of it now. The King must be warned right away. Scouting parties must be dispatched, sentinels posted—”

“Not now, Ossian,” he insisted, “we must discuss this at length. This moment I am…” Again his anxious eyes moved to the door. “Tonight will be soon enough. Afterwards I will decide if the King should become aware of it.”

“Father, if you are busy, I will go now and speak with the King.”

I turned to go and he grabbed my arm. “No. We mustn’t alarm King Domnhall and the villagers needlessly.” He placed his hand upon my shoulder and gave me a comforting smile. “Remember the bishop’s message. He promised peace, did he not?”

Was it me or himself that he reassured? “Aye, he did that, though Lugh’s warnings now speak otherwise.”

His tone was gentle. “I ask you again. Did Lugh warn of a Christian attack?”

“No, but little it matters who might bring it.”

“Who?” A small smile touched his lips. “What nearby tribe must we fear? We have no enemies now that we have a truce with the Christians. We must think this thing through, you and I, eh? Tonight. I promise we will decide a proper course tonight.”

Foreboding filled me as he turned his back, re-entered the cottage and firmly closed the door behind him. It was the thought of disobeying his orders and hurrying off to warn the King that turned me toward the village longhouse. Yet, my footsteps faltered, for the ropes that tie a son to his father’s will are strong.

I stood there, gripped by uncertainty, absently rubbing the serpent ring, a prized possession that never left my hand. Disrespecting one’s father was a shameful thing yet I remained torn between my duty to him and my King. Spinning slowly about, I reflected upon the widow’s cottage. My father was almost certainly right; we should discuss it. Spreading an alarm without cause would be a foolish act.

With my mind still busy with indecision I turned away, my steps leading toward my father’s home. As I walked, a shadow crossed the ground before me and I glanced up. High aloft, a solitary crow rode the wind, circling the village.

* * *

Wood chips flew as the axe head bit deep in time with the rolling of my shoulders. Little time I owned to spend to my own ends. The fields given me by the king produced overgrown brush. Following my conversation with my father, I chose to spend the afternoon hacking away my frustration along with the brambles and small trees. By the following summer my fields must be ready for cultivation.

The rhythmic pounding of the axe against a tree almost drowned out the distant cries.

“Corcu!”

“Run!”

“Attack! Attack!”

“Horsemen!”

“To arms! Raid!”

The sun’s glare fell upon my face as I straightened up, stretching my work-stiffened back. Sweat soaked the ragged kirtle I wore to the field. Squinting, hand shading my eyes, in the distance swirling banners erupted from the forest’s edge amid onrushing horsemen and chariots followed by swarming warriors afoot. A huge warrior led the way; two horses pulling his racing chariot while below his gleaming bronze skullcap long red hair flowed freely. Within the charging horde I counted one…two…three crucifixes held high.

My white-knuckled hands gripped the axe as fear, desperation and the awareness of my earlier failure to raise an alarm crowded my mind. I remained transfixed for only a moment more, cursing my stupidity for trusting the promises of the Christian bastards.

I turned to flee as sounds I knew well, war horns and drums, clamored within the onrushing enemy. Even as I ran I realized it was too late. Horsemen would overtake me long before I reached the village.

Behind me screams and shouts grew louder. Glancing over my shoulder, farmers working farther afield fell beneath the swords of galloping horsemen. Mounted warriors gained on me and I recognized the colors and banners of the Corcu Duibne tribe who dwelt far to the west alongside the sea.

Two warriors reined toward me and there was no hope for it. I turned to face them, filled with bitterness, resigned to defeat. Axe head held at the ready at shoulder height, I waited.

The horsemen rode in tandem, the one on my right wielding a sword, the man on the left a war club. Onward they came, armor gleaming, eyes fixed upon me, bared teeth flashing within heavy beards. The warrior on the right canted over, arm cocked, holding his sword low as if to use it as a scythe to cut me down. It was he I chose as the target for my axe.

They came upon me in a rush of pounding hooves and I whispered a final prayer that my soul might be welcomed at Tír na nÓg. My axe swept down to counter the swinging sword—

* * *

The aroma of soil and grass first touched my rousing consciousness. Awareness took a tentative hold on my mind though I knew not where I was or why I was there. My eyes flicked open. Moon glow lit the field. I lay face down, lacking the strength or desire to rise.

Pain streaked through my skull like a lightning bolt and I stirred only enough to roll onto my side and violently retch, stomach cramping, I retched again. My senses whirled and I struggled to maintain my grasp on reality or such little reality I could muster.

My hand reached to my throbbing head and came away covered with sticky, sweet-smelling blood. The thought came that I lay dying but I was completely indifferent to it. A black cloud developed in the back of my mind and rapidly swept forward to re-envelop my senses.

* * *

“Ossian.”

The word came clearly though at first it held no meaning for me.

“Ossian,” the soft, coaxing, feminine voice continued. “Rise up, Ossian.”

A groan escaped my lips, faint awareness returned and I wished the voice away.

“You are gravely injured, Ossian, but can stand if you will.”

Again a groan and once more my eyes opened to confusion and darkness.

“You must stand. Do it now.”

It was a kind voice, a caring voice, a voice begging compliance. “Yes. Of course.” Was it my response I heard? I wasn’t sure but placed my palms against the ground, flexed my legs and pushed myself upward until I rested upon hands and knees. Lights flashed before my eyes and I barely stifled a shriek as insufferable pain streaked throughout my skull.

“You are doing well, Ossian,” the voice encouraged. “Now, rise. Stand to your feet.”

My senses swirled ’round and ’round. Remaining suspended on hands and knees, again I retched.

“Overcome the weakness. You must battle against it. Stand. Stand.”

Once more I pushed upwards, fighting my own frailty until I stood upright. Flashing lights and whirling senses returned and I staggered backwards, falling where I lay gasping.

“Again,” the soft voice pleaded. “You must try again.”

The source of the voice meant nothing. Be she goddess, fairy or mortal I thought only to reward her encouragement. Great weariness weighed me down but I renewed my fight against it, finally rising to my feet. Again my head ached and swam. Once more I staggered about though this time managed to remain upright.

“Now, you see? You did it, Ossian. You did it.”

“So it seems, yes.” My hand went to my pounding skull.

“You cannot remain here. You must go, go now.”