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DEDICATION
This book would not have been written without all the support and love from my family; my husband Bill; my biggest fan, my mother Lori; Rhonda and my other writer buddies who helped me stay on track.
Thank you.
THE FOX
by
Arlene Radasky
Chapter 1
JAHNA
AD 82 November
I will die when I choose to die.
And as I die, my thoughts will be of Fox, the man who taught me to live, to talk to the gods, and to love. We failed to change the future, and now I beg the goddess Morrigna to allow my daughter a safe journey. I have only time for one more passage dream to tell our story.
Then, I shall die.
AD 72 October
"Jahna, you will marry Harailt."
We stood in front of our clan Chieftain's table, like thieves, as he ate goat cheese and bread, crumbs falling into his beard. My hands were sweating. I held them behind me. I did not want to show that I was nervous.
I did not want to be in his lodge that afternoon. Uncle Beathan's dogs chewed on old pork bones under his table, and the smell made my stomach churn. He had summoned my mother and Harailt, as well as me. Harailt's father, Cerdic was there, too. No good ever came from being summoned. Beathan would usually send his slave to ask us to join him for family discussions. When our Chieftain sent his warrior Braden, we knew he wanted to discuss official clan matters.
Beathan swirled his dirk in our direction, looking at his food. "Harailt. Your father is prosperous, and you are the only son. Ach, Cerdic. It is too bad your wife birthed so many girl babies," he said shaking his head. Cerdic's eyes lowered, as if in shame.
Peat smoke darkened the room and firelight struggled to glint off the weapons behind my uncle. I kept my eyes on them so I did not have to look at him. A bronze shield, two spears and two swords, one short, and a long one were balanced against the wall. The sword hilts were filled with our smith's interpretations of animals, trees and the spirals of life. If I squinted just right, I could see the bear, Uncle Beathan's name sign, shrug its shoulders. The animal seemed alive. I loved to look at them and touch them when Beathan allowed, when he was in a better mood than today. I traced the designs and imagined what pictures I would have put on the hilts if I had worked with my cousin to fashion them.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Beathan slice another large piece of cheese and stuff it into his mouth. My stomach groaned, as chewing, he continued, "However, Cerdic. You do have a rich farm. You will be able to provide your son with sheep and pigs to start his own family. And-he will inherit your land one day, goddess willing." He drank long from his cup of mead.
Blankets and pieces of clothing were strewn over the floor. Bridles and parts of his chariot lay on the table, in the midst of repair. His hunting dogs were asleep on his bed, or at his feet, gnawing on the remnants of last night's dinner. In the gloom of the room, we had to be careful not to trip over whatever was on the floor. My aunt used to straighten after him, but she died two planting seasons ago.
"And Jahna."
I took my eyes off the bronze and looked straight at him. Shards of light reflected in his sky blue eyes. I shivered.
"You have seen six--teen harvests," he said.
I knew I was past the age of marrying. Most girls younger than me were married and had several children hanging onto their skirts. I did not know why I was not married, but I foolishly thought uncle and mother were going to let me chose my mate.
"It is time for you to start having babies of your own. You will marry. I will hand-fast you both at Samhainn, to be blessed by the gods. Now go! I am still hungry. Girl! Mead!" he belched. His slave dashed in, balancing an overflowing mug and more cheese.
Stunned, I hung on to my mother's arm as we left his lodge. Uncle Beathan's words rang in my ears.
"But Mother," I said. "I have watched Braden for a long time. It was him I hoped to marry. I was waiting for him to ask Uncle for our hand-fasting. Now, I have to marry that--that-- farmer." I did not care if Harailt heard me. I had known him all my life, we played as children, but I had never thought of marrying him.
"Shush, girl," my mother said.
I did not know if the tears in my eyes were sun caused or disappointment.
As Harailt and his father Cerdic walked away, I overheard Cerdic, "It is too bad you could not have married Sileas. Her hands are callused from hard work. Her father taught her well. Jahna does not know how to work the land. She has lived with her mother, weaving, and her hands are soft. She will not like to work outside, in the fields."
Yes, I thought, I weaved cloth. My hands did not have the grime of the fields on them but they were still strong hands. Would Harailt only want to marry someone with dirty hands?
"We must do what Beathan decrees. He is the ceann-cinnidh," said my mother.
I lifted my eyes just in time to see Harailt's shoulders slump. He must have been as unhappy as I.
The moon had gone from full to a sliver since I had been ordered to marry. I was angry and sullen most days. I spilled water and half swept the floor. My mother finally lost her patience with me. She grasped me by my shoulders and turned me to face her.
"You will be married to Harailt. And you will be happy. Beathan has said you will marry so you--will--marry. Stop behaving as if you were a lost puppy." She never let me forget my place. My dream of Braden faded and I accepted my fate.
I supposed I liked Harailt. His ear-length, rust colored hair, swept back with lime-wash, was becoming. His face was not as handsome as the warrior's face I had admired for so long, but it was not ugly. His red beard was trimmed, and his hands were large enough to catch a baby lamb being born. He was a good farmer. He smelled of harvest corn. I shrugged. I could be marrying worse.
The day before Samhainn, the day our hand-fasting would be officially announced, I was working with mother. She had asked me to go to the drying rack in our yard, and bring in the last of our blue yarn. I stood in the sun, thinking of the upcoming ceremony. I wondered if Harailt would kiss me after the announcement. Only my uncle and cousins had ever kissed me, and then only on my cheek. I touched my lips and wondered if I would know what to do. Then, I heard mother call me.
"Jahna!"
I sighed. I did not want to go back to the loom. It was midday; the sun was high and a few woolly clouds floated in the bright sky. I had been cold in these days of rain, and the golden warmth was a gift from the goddess. I hoped for the same weather tomorrow. It would be nice to be warm and dry on the day of my hand-fasting. I did not want to get my dress muddy in front of Harailt.
I turned and looked at her, waving my hand to show I had heard her. Mother stood tall in the doorframe, even from a distance.
I wondered how we could be mother and daughter. Other mothers and daughters looked alike. As a small girl, I held up our polished bronze and compared our faces. She told me I was vain. I told her she was beautiful. I felt like a young goat next to her. Mother's hair was long and straight, the colors of autumn, amber laced with gold and red. Her brother, Beathan's hair was similar. Hers smelled of herbs when she washed it. She wore it down. Mine was black as a raven's-wing and never where I wanted it. I wore mine tied back. Her eyes were blue as clear snow water and mine the color of mistletoe leaves with oak splinters. She reached Beathan's chin, and my head came to his lower chest. Smiles were rare on her solemn face, and I seemed not to know how to be serious. She blended into our family, the village, the clan. I was like none of them. She told me I was like my father, a trader from the south. I wished I had known my father.
"One moment, Mother." I had seen Harailt come from our smithy. He walked toward our house from Finlay's work-hut, carrying a repaired plow on one shoulder.
"Harailt is coming. I wish to speak to him about the giving fires."
He passed me. He did not stop, though I thought I had seen him look my way. I decided he had not seen me.
"Harailt," I called.
He stopped walking but did not look at me. I reasoned he was shy.
"Come with us to the ceremony. Come early so we may talk. I would like to arrive at the fires with you."
A few more heartbeats passed. I began to wonder if he was even going to the ceremony. Finally, he sighed, lifted his eyes, and looked at me as if he were speaking to his little sister.
"I will ask my father. He may need help with our animals. Maybe my sisters will be enough help for him. If he says I may come, I will be here in time to walk with you and your mother." He turned and started down the hill.
"May the gods protect you from evil tonight," I called.
He answered, "And you," but did not look back.
I hoped he would come tomorrow to take me to the festival. He had been busy with the harvest, and I, making cloth for winter cloaks, so our visits with each other were few and hurried. We did not know each other very well. I hoped to ease his mind. We must learn to live together, quickly, and I was ready to try. We would not have the usual full season to live together before marriage. My uncle was shortening our hand-fasting time. It would only last a few weeks. Maybe he was worried one of us would protest the marriage.
I wrenched the bitter smelling blue wool off the rack and ran to my mother, my hair flying free from its tie again.
"Jahna, do not run," she scolded. "You are not a child. You are old enough to be respectable. We still have good sunlight so we can weave more before we go to Beathan's."
I added the wool to the overflowing baskets, next to our loom. Before I sat next to mother, I looked around our home. Our loom stood on the other side of the room. A window cut into the stone and mud wall, just above the loom, let in the afternoon light. Soon, I would come through our door as a visiting, married woman. It would be hard to leave Mother and this home I have known all my life.
Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the scent of the wool and dyes we used, a mixture of herbs and trees, bitter and sweet. A smell I grew up with. I learned to weave and spin as I learned to walk. My fingers were soft from the wool grease and stained from the dye. We were finished dyeing until next spring and my hands would be losing their blue tint in a few days. I did not mind. I loved the color and patterns we designed with the dyed yarn. I had created the design of the clan plaid we wove by using woad blue to represent our sky, and red, from the alder tree, to portray the blood of our clan. Uncle Beathan had declared it the colors of his warriors.
There were other pictures in my head filled with color. I wished I could bring them to life. However, mother did not approve of spending my sunlight hours doing anything other than weaving, after the shearing of the sheep. We traded cloth for food, and pictures had never fed anyone in her family. So I wove, both cloth and dreams.
"Mother. Will you miss me when I am married?"
"That is a silly question. You have lived here longer than I had hoped. Beathan was good to me and let you stay longer than I expected. Now, it is your turn to be an adult in our clan. I am proud that you are going. You will give up your childish ways and act as a young woman. It is time. Now, hand me that yarn and ask no more questions."
The shuttle flew in my mother's fingers without error. Entranced as I watched, my life memories played through my mind. Especially my travels into other bodies, my passage dreams. I had visited two other people in my mind. I prayed to the goddesses daily to allow me to continue to have them after my marriage. I hoped they were not one of the childish things my mother told me I would have to give up.
I was much younger, about ten harvests, when I had my first passage dream. It was dusk and peat smoke lay harsh in our lodge. I longed for fresh air. I sat on a stool, watched my spindle and whorl twist my wool, and grew sleepy.
In no more than a blink, a small dizzy spell, I was somewhere else. My heart told me that I looked out of another person's eyes, but my mind said it was impossible.
Afraid and breathless, I glanced around. I noticed I was in a small enclosure with strange things around me. There was something that looked like our polished bronze, but much more reflective. It was then I found I was looking through someone else's eyes. I did not understand what was happening, but I heard the goddess whisper in my ear, not to be afraid. I decided to treat it like a dream. Maybe I was asleep.
I grew curious about the bronze-like thing. A hand that belonged to the body, lifted it, and her face appeared before me. A girl, my age, was in front of me. No, not in front of me, but reflected back to me--us. Her eyes were large, and frightened. Her hair and eyes were colored close to mine, but her face was not exactly mine. Morrigna whispered into her ear, too, that all was well. Her shoulders lost their tension. Now questioning brows raised over our eyes.
I heard wind blowing. We turned to a hole in a wall and watched trees bend and sway. I noticed another strange thing. A skin did not cover the opening, yet the cold wind did not blow in.
The goddess Morrigna said, "Be aware of each other. You are together, yet separate. You are connected through the wisps of time. This is a gift of life. Accept and learn."
I whispered my name, she hers, and in blink, the picture was gone. I shook my head. I was still balanced on the stool, watching the spindle, and surprised I was not on the floor asleep. The goddess whispered her name in my ear again. Aine.
I asked a few people if they had passage dreams.
"No," said Uncle Beathan. "But if I could travel unseen, I would spy on other clans to make sure they had peaceful thoughts about us. Imagine, being able to listen to war plans, unknown to others." He laughed and said, "Let me know if you hear about horses faster than ours. We need to look for new stock, and I want to know where it is best to go." He pushed me out of his way and continued on to his lodge, where his men were waiting.
Mother did not laugh and looked at me with suspicion.
After this, I kept my dreams secret from everyone except our Druid priest, Ogilhinn. Just before he died, he had assured me my dreams were god given.
The noise of mother's shuttle brought me out of my reverie. "Girl, the work will not get done on its own. There is much wool to spin and you stand, with your mouth open, like a chick waiting to be fed." I jumped. Mother was not one to let time lie idle.
"It is time to go to Beathan's," she said. "Get our cloaks. I will take my light one. You should take your hooded one. You may need to go outside and bring in firewood." She stood, and stretched her hands. "I wish Beathan would marry again," she said as her fingers popped. "He has mourned enough since Gavina died. I hope he finds a woman that pleases him soon. I tire of serving his evening meals."
Our empty yard was quiet, and the sky clear, as mother and I stepped outside. The moon was just beginning to show its full body over the mountains.
"We will hear many stories about the spirits of last year," said Mother. "This evening meal is always one filled with tales. Remember, it is as I have told you before, many of the stories are not real. Men try to impress each other with stories bigger than the man's sitting next to him.
Beathan had not yet returned from his excursion around our lands. His yard noisily filled with the warriors and others who followed him like puppies. My mother and I worked our way through them and went inside.
His slave had started the evening meal. The spitted hog dripped fat that popped in the fire. Root vegetables and onions boiled in the pot and heat filled the room like a blanket. We set out the mead buckets and mugs. Mother and I ate as we worked. Sweat trickled down my back as I lifted a mug to my mouth.
A loud commotion outside told us Beathan had arrived. We placed the pork in front of his trencher. He was the honored man tonight, and all nights in his lodge. He would carve the joint.
'Let me through! I smell meat, and my hunger is enough to eat a full stag!" Laughing like a wild boar's roar, Beathan pushed his way into the room. The noise grew, and I knew without looking, hungry men followed, all expecting to sing and eat with the chieftain. He clumsily dropped something from his shoulders to the floor. I assumed it was a kill that he would want us to prepare for tomorrow.
Startled, my eyes traced the shape of a man. Was this a captured prisoner? Was he alive? One of Beathan's pony-like, black hunting dogs lay down next to the stranger's body and licked his face. The man flinched. Ah, no. He was not dead.
The fire burned high, and with torches, there was enough light to study him.
"I warn all of you," said my uncle. "Do not step on that man. Let him sleep. He will be busy tomorrow. If he wakes, we will feed him."
The man laid still, even though the noise was growing behind us. The tables filled with men. Mother and the slave passed overflowing buckets for them to dip their mugs into. They could do without me for a few more minutes.
I crept closer and crouched next to his chest. His odor slipped through the other men's smells and fire smoke. He was not unwashed yet had spent many nights outdoors. His red hair was not lime-washed, and splashed loose over the brushed dirt floor. His shoes were worn and stuffed with straw. He wore a sorrel brown weave I had seen on traders from the south, shirt with long pants, wrapped in a short cloak, of the same color, and tied with a thin cord. There was an empty dirk sheath tied to his belt. He looked thin, hungry thin, but his shoulders were strong. A leather pouch lay on the floor near his feet. A design I had never seen before decorated it. I picked it up, stared at it in wonder for a moment, and dropped it when the stranger groaned.
Beathan laughed, stood, and walked over to the stranger. He took the man by the arms and easily lifted him onto a stool next to him. "Come, priest. Come up to my table and have some meat and bread. Drink my mead. We have much to discuss about the giving fires tomorrow."
I picked up a tray of bread and stood next to Beathan to study the man's face as it became visible through the smoke-filled room. He was about twenty seasons. He had an intelligent, broad forehead. His gently sloped nose was not large. A beard, the color of an iron pot left outdoors, covered his cheeks and chin. His sharp eyes were a curious blue, not of the daytime sky and not of flowers but midnight blue. He seemed tired, yet wary.
The stranger, still unsteady, stole a look around the lodge, then reached down and picked up his pouch. The crowd was instantly quiet. No one knew what he carried in that bag. It seemed too small to harbor a weapon, but we were cautious.
Beathan reached behind him and clapped him on his back, almost pushing him off the stool.
"I have his dirk," said my uncle. "He is no threat to any."
The talking and shouting started to grow again. The man laid his arms and head on the table and did not move, except to breathe.
"Women," Beathan said loudly. "Do not stand there as if you have seen a god! Bring us more to drink and eat! This day has been difficult and long. I have a story to tell. Where are my sons?"
Beathan's sons, Finlay, our smith, and Kenric, came into the lodge together, sat by the fire, and ate with the men as we listened to his story.
"Yesterday, I spoke with Cerdic. He told me of raiders by the river. He had watched them for two days. When I came across them by our river, I decided there was not time to go for my warriors so I charged into the group and fought like a demon." At this, the stranger lifted his head, looked at Beathan, and smiled. I lost my breath. He was more handsome than the warrior Braden.
"They ran as fast as they could. Except this one, he did not run. I asked why, and he said the gods and goddesses were protecting him. A Druid! Only a Druid would stand like that in a battle with me. I had found a priest on Samhainn eve! It is a sign that we will be blessed for the giving fires on the morrow. More mead!" he said as he pounded on the table.
Beathan's sons and other warriors gathered around Beathan, slapped him on the back, and poured out praises. I knew he would not go into battle alone when so many warriors were at his call. I glanced at my mother who was shaking her head but wore a smile. We knew his tale was bigger than the truth, but we enjoyed listening. His stories were often more exciting than the storyteller's.
The Druid reached out with quick hands and began stuffing bread into his mouth. He reached to his belt for his dirk but his hand touched the empty sheath and he looked at Beathan.
"Here is your dirk, priest" said Beathan, and stabbed it into the table in front of the Druid. The Druid pulled it out of the table and cut himself some meat from the joint. He ate as if it had been a long time since his last meal.
The meal was ebbing. Kenric brought out his alder whistle and played notes that trilled like birds in the trees at dusk and the rapids of the river. I loved his fast music. He often played it to please his father, our Chieftain. Fingers and hands began to drum the tables in time with the tune. I started to hum.
The Druid untied the strings of his pouch, took out a longer whistle, and began to play in harmony. His playing brought in the sounds of the ponies and the wind in the trees. It was many moons since we heard such music. I began to sway, spin and fling my hair. My eyes were open but not seeing the smoke filled room. I was in the forest, riding the ponies. Then the music stopped.
"Druid," Kenric asked. "Why did you stop playing?"
Breathless, I ceased dancing and looked at him. He stared at me. I dropped to my knees, my legs unable to hold me. What did he see? He tore his wise, night blue eyes from mine, and turned to Finlay.
"It is late and I must prepare for the early ceremony. Has the sacred wood been laid for the fires?"
I was stone. I could not move. I knew his voice.
"Yes, in two stacks beneath the hill"
The Druid nodded in approval.
I began to breathe again, and watched him. Suddenly, his eyes caught mine and he tipped his head to me, as if in recognition, but his face was unreadable.
Beathan called over the noise, "The stables are secure and you are welcome to sleep there if you do not wish to stay and drink more. Although, if the spirits come to visit, you may come back. We will be singing and drinking through the night. On the morrow, my sons and I will escort you to the fires."
"Jahna and I will bring water early," my mother offered, "to ready yourself for the ceremony."
"Yes, the stable will be good," said the Druid. "I will sleep well there. The animals will keep me safe and warm. I am ready, if you will show me the way."
The men's songs, praises, smells of mead and meat slipped into the night as we stepped through the door. There were few others outside. All were wary of Samhainn's eve. Mother stayed back to give one more order to the slave so the Druid and I were alone.
I pointed in the direction of the stable door, and walked behind him. I was filled with questions. Where was he from? Why did he stop playing and look at me so? As we arrived at the door, he stopped and shivered.
"Take my cloak. It is hooded," I offered, slipping the heavy plaid off my shoulders. I held it out for him. "Here, it is lined with soft wool and will be warm for the night." When he reached for it, our fingers touched. My body felt as if it were pierced by many sharp knives. My heart raced like a herd of running deer in my chest. We both pulled back, my cloak in his hands, his eyes surprised.
He said nothing, but looked at me as if he could see through to my soul.
I had to learn who he was. "What is your name? Where are you from? Why did you stop here?"
"Ummm. Too many questions for a late night. I will answer one. I am known as Fox, Lovern. I wear the fur of the red fox on my arm." His shirt covered his arms, and I could not see the band of fox fur but my heart, again was stampeding.
"Now, what is your name?"
"I am Jahna," I struggled, my voice almost gone. My body was weak. In a passage dream, I had visited a boy who hunted a fox. This voice was the same.
"Jahna?" he whispered. Moonlight reflected off of the confusion surrounding his piercing eyes. "Jahna?" He stumbled as mother took my arm.
"Sleep well Druid," she said as she rushed me home. I stole a look over my shoulder and saw he watched us. My mind roiled with thoughts. Was he the boy I had met in a dream?
My second passage dream was the first time I had visited the boy. I was eleven seasons old. Again, I was sleepy in a room filled with peat smoke when a small dizziness crept over me. I blinked and saw through his eyes. His mind told me he was alone and hunting. Sitting still, he hid himself from his prey in a small shelter. It was almost sunset, the clouds were turning hunter's pink and he knew his prey would show soon. Startled by my coming into his mind, he lost sight of the path he had been watching for hours. I felt his confusion and knew this hunt was important. It was the hunt that determined his adult name. The goddess touched his mind and his fear was gone. He concentrated again.
His body tensed as a shadow crossed the path. A stunning red fox stepped out of the brush with a rabbit squirming in its mouth. The fox stood, watchful, for two breaths, and then carried the rabbit into its burrow. The young man cursed. He wanted to capture the fox before it escaped underground. He crossed the path with a small knife in his hand, reached into the hole and grasped the snarling, biting fox. He pulled it from its burrow, and sliced its neck. Holding the body above his head, warm blood ran down his arm. I could not tell whose blood it was, his or the fox's. I knew his wounds would leave scars but the feeling of triumph in the boy's heart overshadowed the pain. I recognized that he was sixteen seasons old. I whispered my name and awoke. I tasted blood that morning.
I was thirteen, and he eighteen, the second time I had visited. He sat on a rough log. A smell of sweet smoke and blood wafted around me, and I began to feel ill. An older man knelt beside a fire. He added leaves and small plants to its flames. A small goat, just sacrificed, lay on a rock. The young man's hand held his small bronze blade, this time covered with goat's blood. His mind told me he sacrificed the goat to ward off a threat to those he loved. I sent him calming thoughts of safety. The goddess told me to whisper my name again.
Then, I was home, listening to rain and the god's wrath, thunder, outside. Unease had filled my heart for the rest of that day. I had feared for the young man.
I did not sleep that night, the night before my hand-fasting. I thought of the Druid in the stable, the boy in my passage dreams. I tried to determine why the gods had given me my dreams and why they brought the boy, now a man, here.
I arose before sunrise. Wrapped in a blanket, I ran to our fire and blew on its coals. It came to life to spread light and warmth throughout our home.
"Thank you Mother Goddess Morrigna, for protecting our fire and home," I said, uttering our daily prayer. I dressed quickly and on tiptoes, to get as far from the cold floor as possible, I dipped a jar deep into our water urn. I shivered as I poured icy water into our boiling pot and fed a small block of peat to the glowing embers.
"Do not waste the fuel. We must quench the fire soon to relight it from the giving fire," mother protested.
"Yes, Mother. I wished to start the grain cooking, before I carried wash water to the Druid."
"Oh, yes. The Druid. He is strange. There was a feeling in my bones last night that he might harbor trouble. I do not know whether we should ask him to stay in our village. I must discuss this with Beathan."
Mother's feelings were often right and even Beathan listened and took counsel from her. "Do not be long with him. I will need you to carry the offering to the goddess today. And are you not meeting Harailt to walk to the ceremony?"
Oh, Harailt! Beathan would announce our hand-fasting today. How could I have forgotten? I poured warm water into a jug to take to the priest and measured barley and mother's favorite herbs into the now boiling pot.
"Ummm. That smells good. Thank you for starting it." I heard her groan as she got out of bed and started dressing. "Today you will be looked upon by the whole clan when hand-fasted to Harailt. You should wear your yellow dress."
"Yes Mother." I smiled. She still thought of me as a child at times. I would be married next week. I wondered if she would then think of me as a woman.
My light cloak belted, and shoe laces loose in my hurry, I pulled open our door to leave. Not quite dawn, fog tried to hide the sun as it started its long climb from behind our mountain. An iron gray sky harbored small touches of moss flower pink reflected in the haze. The animals were still snug in stables or homes, protected from wolves, and the cooking fires were small. Chill bumps on my arms from the coolness of the air made me glad I carried the jug of warm water.
At the first rays of light, birds started their possessive chirps. Listening hard, I heard no owls; they must be in from their hunts. Mother said a day started with an owl song was a favorable day. I prayed the gods looked in on me today even though no owls sang.
I hesitated at the stable door, unable to go in. What should I say? Should I just ask--'Priest, have you ever had anyone visit you in your mind?'He will think me a fool.
I jumped when he cleared his throat. He stood in the darker shadows of the already dark stable. My eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and I saw his hands rested on the pony that carried him to our hill. Its ears were forward as if listening. Lovern straightened to his full height, almost touching the roof of the structure and slowly nodded to me.
"Come in." He hesitated and then said my name as if forgotten and then remembered. "Jahna."
His straw filled tousled hair looked as if he had wrestled a demon all night. My cloak lay in a crumpled ball on the stacked hay in the corner. Caution edged his familiar voice. "I am thanking this animal for bringing me here and protecting me last night. I have come a long way. I feel I may have found the end of my journey. I trust the gods to tell me today."
"I have warmed water for your washing. Are you finished with my cloak or will you use it today?" I asked.
"I did not use it last night and will not need it today. You may take it." He nodded to it, his hands still on the pony.
"If you would like some milk to break your fast, I can milk a goat. Beathan would not mind."
"No, I will not break my fast until after the ceremony."
I hesitated, not ready to leave. I needed to know more about this man. What journey? What will the gods tell him today? "Umm, you can use my light cape today if you wish. I can give it to you now. If you wear it, the members of our clan will recognize you as a friend and welcome you more easily. You should wear our colors--if you think you will stay in our village for a time."
"I will not need your cape today," he said gruffly.
Was the fog affecting his voice or was he uncomfortable with me here, alone?
He stepped closer, his face a mystery, his sinewy, muscled arms bare. It was then his scars, and armband became visible. I had been in his mind when he received the wounds that caused his scars! He was from my passage dream! I could not move or breathe. He reached down, picked up my heavy cloak, and moved next to me. Currents of energy ran through my body. I watched him intently, thinking myself ready to run if I needed, but deep in my mind knowing, I could not. He leaned in and the heat of his body and mine combined.
"We will have a journey together. Dagda and Morrigna will protect me," he whispered into my ear. Opening my cloak he laid it across my shoulders, his hand rested on me for an instant. I trembled, and felt his breath on my face. His eyes never left mine. Was this a frith, a sign from the goddess? What kind of journey was he speaking of? Questions overcame my thoughts, but I could not form them into words.
I remembered the women teasing unmarried girls around the well, laughing, "The first male you meet on Samhainn, is the man you will marry." He was the first male I had seen on this sacred day!
"No. No! I will marry Harailt. I am promised. Our hand-fasting will be announced at the ceremony, today. You and I cannot make a journey," I stammered, and twisted out of his reach. My legs finally worked and ran me back to the safety of the known, the safety of my home.
He was there. Dependable Harailt. Waiting at my door, ready to go, and dressed for a ceremony in a new tunic. His hair was brushed back from his face with limewater, dirk sheathed and tied at his waist. I ran up to him, breathless, trying not to look as flustered and confused as I felt.
"I've just come from the Druid and I have to get water from the well. Please go help Mother, inside." I took the wooden bucket to the well, filled it, and was tripping back when Harailt came out of the house with mother.
"We will start gathering the goats," mother said. "Get dressed. Bring the blanket and the oak log for the fire."
I went in, emptied the bucket into the water jar and found my leather bag with our gift to the goddess, the blanket we wove, folded inside. The oak brand that would bring the giving fire home lay next to the pit. Mother had smothered the fire with earth, and emptied it of its ashes. Laid with small kindling, it stood ready for the new fire. I found my yellow dress lying on our bed and pulled it over my head. I combed my hair, hoping to gain some control over it and wore it unfettered. I retied my shoes, pinned my cloak and stepped outside.
The noise and smells of the day were rising to a level only seen on days of ceremony or raids. The people of the farms and homes around us were awake and gathering for the event. The ceremony started at midday, but we hurried to get our animals to the ceremonial grounds. They were to be blessed and purified. It was not an easy task to get all our people and the selected animals to the fires.
I heard a loud rumble of sound behind us as I followed Harailt and mother. A war chariot passed, pulled by two ponies, driven by Beathan. Riding on either side, each on his own pony, were Finlay and Kenric. Kenric carried an oak log filled with the embers of fire that would light the giving fire. The Druid, Lovern, stood next to Beathan in the chariot. I gasped. How handsome he was, red hair flying free. He was almost as tall as Beathan, with Beathan's plaid cape pinned around his shoulders and his pouch flying behind him. My thoughts and feelings were confused. Would he look at me? Did I want him to?
Lovern's eyes did not stray as the chariot rushed by.
I stepped between Harailt and mother and we began the walk to the ceremony.
Looking back at my life, I understand I was unborn until the night Beathan carried Lovern, the Fox, into his lodge. I started living when he played the music of the wind and I danced.
Chapter 2
AINE
April, 2005
"Little Mouse, Are you ready to be a life partner with this man?"
"Yes, Uncle."
I knew I was to be with this man for the rest of time. Happiness filled me as a red thread tied our clasped hands together. My heart sang.
I woke up humming the melody of the music that floated in my ears, men's voices singing, and a pipe. "Wow, that was vivid," I told the dust bunnies under my bed as I reached for my slippers. I never did like to clean house. I looked at my wrist to see if the red thread was still there. No. Just my watch telling me it was time to get up. A dream. I remembered similar dreams, and the peacefulness they brought me. I wished I could feel like this all day. "I wonder if the dream had anything to do with Jahna? If only--" My phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Aine. This is Kelly. Are you at work?"
Kelly supervised one of my crews during the week. She and I were friends and often met for lunch or went out on Saturday nights if I wasn't working. I hadn't spent much time with her lately as I'd worked almost every weekend for the last five weeks.
"Hi Kelly. No, I took this weekend off. I just woke up. What are you doing up so early?"
"There is a blasted work gang right outside my window. They started their jackhammer at seven this morning! Can you believe it? I was calling you to find out who these jokers are and put in a complaint."
"Ummm. You know, Kelly, we don't handle every job that goes on in London. How do you know they aren't digging for a new sewer line?"
"Oh, Aine. I knew you'd find out and get a call in. I just wanted one more hour's sleep. Oh well, since we're both up do you want to meet for lunch?"
"No, I've some things I need to get done today. Thanks. Say, are you going out tonight?"
"Is it Saturday? Darned right! It's been too many Saturday nights without you. I thought you'd a new bloke and were afraid to introduce him to me, afraid I'd steal his heart with my new short skirt!"
"Oh, now I've got to come to see how short this one is. I'll join you tonight. Cheers."
I sighed as I pushed end.
A new boyfriend. That would be nice. I've dated several times since my divorce, but I didn't have a steady. I couldn't connect or feel comfortable with anyone. I might have been scared because of my experience with my ex, Brad, but I hoped not. Late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I rationalized that I was waiting for the perfect man, a life partner. I thought I had him once, but blew it. Then we met again last summer. I didn't know if I would ever get another chance at fulfillment, but if I were, this was it. However, I had some work to do if I was to have any chance at all.
I crossed the room to wash my face. I loved my flat, small, efficient, and most important, within walking distance to my office on Upper Brook St. It was located over a bookstore, and if I took a deep breath I smelled the dust, glue, ink, and paper from the new and well read used books from downstairs rise between the cracks of the centuries old floorboards.
I was happy. At least I kept telling myself I was.I toasted a bagel and ruminated about my job. After lots of soul searching, I'd taken a job with Michael Goldsmith Corporation, MGC, as a field archaeology supervisor. It was hard to admit I was working for a big company.
While in college, obtaining my degree in archaeology, we debated about the big corporations that were going to take over our work someday. I promised myself that I'd never work for one. I guess some promises couldn't be kept. Something had to pay for food and rent.
I worked hard to gain the position I had with MGC, and headed the Cultural Resource Management division for London. This archaeological field was new and I was inventing a lot of it as I went along. MGC was a consulting company that worked with construction companies and conducted pre-construction discovery research for all local permits.
If an ancient site was found ancient during construction, our job was to survey and research the site before the continuing construction or rebuilding. We made sure history was preserved in a timely manner so the construction companies involved didn't go bankrupt.
I used the newest toys, the Geographical Information System, and ground penetrating radar. I cataloged finds, marked them for preservation, dug them up and sent them off to a museum. I wrote the reports. It paid my bills and I was working as an archaeologist. What more could I want?
Well, a productive dig on my Scottish Highland hill would be perfect and I'd been planning this adventure for several months.
A cup of tea, a bagel slathered in butter and marmalade, and day planner in hand, I slumped into my oversized chair, and stared at the poster I'd taped over my desk, an enlarged picture of the hill I wanted to work on. Family photos were boxed up to free a wall for this picture. Its presence kept me focused on my future goal and filled my little home with hope.
I opened my planner to my to-do list. The GIS didn't have the hill listed as a pre-known site. I received the farm owner's permission to conduct research on the hill and applied for the necessary permits. I even had a small amount of money, just enough to start. I'd begged a loan from my Aunt. She always believed in me, even when I made senseless decisions-like marrying Brad.
Now, after months of preparing, I was ready to get a team together; a cheap team, preferably a free team. I planned to call Marc Hunt, a Professor of Archaeology specializing in Pre and First Century Celts at the University of Birmingham. His grad students needed fieldwork. I prayed he would say yes. This could be my second chance.
We had a history. In college, we'd fallen in love with the Celts and each other. The way we planned it, archaeology would never be the same after we graduated. We were going earn our doctorates, and astonish everyone with our research. I thought I would be working next to him for the rest of my life.
It ended when Brad Teller stepped into my life.
Marc and I'd been dating for several years. One summer, the university offered him a chance to work a site in Cambodia. I was a year behind him and was scheduled to take classes that summer. I couldn't believe he said yes. I was hurt he wouldn't stay with me, and find a job here in London. After a fight the night he left, I avoided his calls the rest of that week. I was thickheaded and I paid for it.
Brad showed up at a party one night. He was attractive and I decided Marc wasn't going to have all the fun. Who knows what he was doing in Cambodia? Brad and I danced one dance and then he never let me out of his sight. I thought he was romantic. It was what I thought I wanted from Marc. Looking back, I couldn't understand how I let myself be fooled by him. It was as if the dark Welshman cast a spell on me. I didn't feel towards him the way I felt towards Marc. I loved Marc. I never loved Brad.
Six weeks later, we were married in a civil ceremony. I never called or spoke with Marc again while Brad and I were married. I gave him no explanation. I didn't have one for myself. We left England and worked all over the world never thinking about coming back to Great Britain. It seemed that Brad was running from something. His lovemaking was clumsy and unfulfilling and he started abusing me soon after our honeymoon.
My friends sent me dunning letters, telling me not to stay with Brad. My best friend Susie wrote long missives begging me to come home. She told me how hurt Marc was and that if I came soon he and I might be able to repair our relationship. Thinking about going home made my heart ache, but for some God forsaken reason, I was trapped. Trapped as if I were Brad's slave.
I stopped answering Susie. Her letters stopped coming, and I was glad. They made me think about my life. I didn't want to think about it then.
I did menial work for Brad, transcribed notes, and ran errands. Every time I tried to make a suggestion toward his research or create a place for myself, he told me I was stupid and told me to stop interrupting his work process. I cried myself to sleep night after night. At the end, when he touched me my skin crawled. I couldn't stand the way he smelled.
Brad tore my self-confidence to pieces. I believed I would never be able to work on my own.
We were in Africa when a letter came from George Wyemouth, my mentor. He wrote that his wife had died. Shocked, I realized I would never get to see Sophie again. His beautiful Sophie, the love of his life. To her chagrin, he often told the story of stealing her from another man's arms. He had to assuage her family with proof of his love for her before they could marry in peace. He often said he would have fought a bear for her if necessary.
Now, George needed me. His letter was disjointed and difficult to read. Here was a man whose socks were folded in order of their color in his drawer, and he couldn't write a simple letter. I had no choice - my heart pulled me to go to him.
When Brad found out, we argued for hours. Our shouting match emptied out into the hall of the apartment building. When the neighbors'doors started to open and people stared, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back inside. I resisted and he hit me. His closed fist crashed against my chest and his open palm connected with my cheek. Up until then, for a long, awful fifteen years, he verbally abused me, but this was the first time I was afraid for my life. I left the apartment and stayed in a hotel. The bruise on my face wasn't bad, I could cover it with makeup, but the bruise over my heart grew and was painful for days.
One thought fastened itself into my brain. I'd paid my penance. I didn't need to stay with him anymore. I wouldn't have a physical rescuer, but George's letter opened my soul, and the light poured back in. I phoned home, my aunt wired money for a plane ticket and I left Africa. I left Brad.
I came back to London, filed for a divorce, and helped George through his grief. We walked, talked, and mended our hearts together. In my heart, I felt certain that I repaid George, my mentor, my adopted uncle, a long owed debt.
I went to a party at a friend's home. The hostess invited a hypno-therapist, Rhonnie Craig. Her explanation of the process was fascinating and I couldn't resist so I made an appointment to see her.
"We'll work together on this," Rhonnie said. "I'm going to take you to a place and find the power inside yourself that'll allow you to have good relationships. You may have a history with strong men in this or past lives, but we don't have to travel through each one to help you now. I want to draw on the good relationships you have with men in this life, your father, brother and any others you may have or have had, to make you aware of your strengths."
We drew on my family and the love I had for Marc. I cried and then remembered what had attracted me to Marc so long ago. I learned I could love again. I would love someone who would love me and let me be me, not hold me down.
After my sessions with Rhonnie, I felt like I had been freed. She helped me vanquish my guilt over my decision of marrying and then leaving Brad. The sessions gave me a new perspective on my life. I could see a productive future of my own now. Rhonnie became a very good friend.
When I went to work for MGC, Marc and I would run into each other at conferences. We said hello, but nothing more. Every time I saw him, my heart fluttered but I told myself it was because I was jealous of his position-Ph.D., teaching and doing research, nothing personal.
Last summer I decided to try some fieldwork again. Marc just happened to have a project that I was interested in. The University of Birmingham funded Marc and through a friend, I heard he was working a bronze-age tomb near Fort William. I had time accrued so I took three weeks. I must've had a brain freeze when I made the decision to just show up one day.
There I was, perched in front of him, his team working up the hill. His deep blue eyes filled with questions as he contemplated me. Concentration lines further furrowed his brow. His lips, framed by his full, burnt umber beard, formed a tight line. His hand ran through his collar length rust hair, pulling it back. I was shocked when I saw gray at his temples. In my mind, he was timeless. We weren't supposed to age. But, here was proof of the flight of our lives.
"Aine MacRae. What are you doing here?"
"I heard you were working here and had a few days off. I would love to work. A volunteer job, anything, just so I can get my hands back into the Celt world I love. I see Romans all day long in London and need a change."
He became even more wary. "I don't know, Aine." His mouth screwed up, and his jaws clenched. He hesitated and said, "I could use another pair of hands, but I don't want trouble. Where's Brad?"
I shrugged. "I haven't spoken with him for years. We didn't separate on the best of terms, as I'm sure you heard. I'd love to help here for a couple of days. I'll do anything you need, even go for tea."
"Well, I guess we could use some help categorizing and labeling. At least you're familiar with the era."
"Great! Exactly what I wanted, a working vacation."
It was strange standing there in front of Marc. I couldn't describe the feelings that were racing through me. I had a hard time catching my breath. Marc had gone on without me. He'd received his PhD., taught, and done research. He'd also married Darlene. A tall blonde American biologist who said she loved him for his Scottish accent. I remember my stomach lurched, filled with finality, when I heard about his marriage. I silently wished him luck. I was miserable.
They both taught at the University of Birmingham until she died, three years ago. You would think, with all the money spent on research that there would be a cure for breast cancer by now. Damn. Maybe that was where I should be spending my time, with the living, the people who need help now, not in the dirt with long dead people. But there I was.
I looked up at the entrance to the tomb dug into the side of the hill. Behind us stood a tent that covered the workstations where we sifted, sorted, and cataloged the cave contents. I loved being here at this time of year; the blue harebells bloomed among the sparkling granite boulders. There was a path worn in the grass from the tent to the slippery, shale trail leading up to the tomb's entrance.
"May I go in and look?"
"Ya, come on. It's one of the best-preserved tombs in this area. I think it'll date to about the beginning of the first century from the looks of some of the artifacts. We've found several burial offerings. Wait 'til you see--an artisan made the bronze swords. It's the swords, and the shield that makes me think it's Chieftain's tomb. Most of the burials in this area were cremations. It's a real find to get a full skeleton."
We slid and slipped up to the entrance. Marc leaned in and asked everyone to take a tea break. Two young men and a young woman crawled out in single file and stood up.
"Thanks, Dr. Hunt. Gosh, it's cold in there. I need to get my sweater," said the young woman.
Marc introduced me to his students Tim, Matt, and Lauri.
"This is such an exciting project," Lauri said.
She was so young! "So you like to be stuck back in an unstable cave? Well, I can say that if you can work there, you can work anywhere. You'll do well in this business," I told this, smiling, brown-eyed wrinkle free, straight toothed, and innocent face.
She donned a huge smile and bounced into the tent after her friends.
"God, Marc. She--they're just kids," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, the older we get the younger they are," he replied. He turned to me after following them into the tent with his eyes, shook his head and said, "All so idealistic. They have a few more years with me and then off to find jobs on their own. Good luck to them."
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