Authors: N. M. Browne
The sound of running water draws me. It is a kind of music in all the quietness. I’m thirsty but I don’t drink. I have shown myself to be witless all too often recently but I’m not that much of a fool.
All the trees here are oaks and when I look around me I find that my escort of grey creatures has disappeared. I see the reason at once. Among the trees are seven carved statues, faceless and eyeless – the guardians of this place. At the feet of the nearest carved god I can see the yellowing bone of a human skull stripped bare of flesh, nestling there along with a crown of mistletoe. This is a sacred grove used by the druids. I feel the hairs on my arm stand on end as if I am watched. The statues do not move, but I can feel the life in them. It is a silent pulse, a motionless breath, a vibration in the air: an immanence. It is hard to say what is that intangible difference between the faces of the living and the dead, but everyone knows it when they see it. I see it now. These statues live and the beings within them are ancient and demanding. I am in the presence of a great and terrible power. The statues want something from me and I don’t know what. Their nature demands sacrifice – why else would they be present at this place of sacrifice? They wait. The air is heavy with an awful expectation. It is hard even to breathe here. It is as if a physical weight presses against my chest, suffocating me. I can’t speak. I’m no druid; I know no charms to beguile these waiting ones, no clever words or incantations. I have few choices. It is the decision of a moment. I draw my sword and kneel at the foot of the largest statue. The green moss that grows there is soft under my knees, like a cushion made to bear the precious flesh of offerings. I don’t hesitate. To hesitate would be to falter and to falter would be to fail. I raise my sword and slice across my palm with its razor edge. It is a clean cut, a thin skein of scarlet yarn, a minute crack in the fabric of myself. The pain is sharp. The blood wells dark against my white hand. I lie down at the foot of the tree so that the blood drips into the greedy ground and wait.
I wait for some sign that this might be enough, that they don’t want all that I am. I don’t listen with my ears but with that other inner part, the part that sees visions and knows what ought to be unknowable. I strain, focused on what I cannot hear and what, even with Ger’s gift, I will never see. I wait. What more do they want of me?
I don’t know how long I lie there, prostrate on the ground, along with the skeletal remains of other, earlier sacrifices. It happens as slowly as my blood drips, develops like a distant song that grows ever clearer and louder and more joyous. I barely noticed it building, but now it has come I am overwhelmed by an unexpected feeling of wellbeing, an inner warmth surging through me. It is enough. I have done enough. They are satisfied. I cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of my tunic, bind up my hand and heave myself back to standing. There is barely time for any feelings of relief for I am left with the most terrible thirst and an uncontrollable urge to drink from the clear water that flows through the sacred grove.
I stagger towards the bank on legs that seem more unwilling than ever to do my bidding. I try to kneel again by the gushing, crystal water and, like an idiot, lose my footing. I grope for the bank for something to grab hold of but it is as if the river itself pulls me in and I am dragged to the deepest water, spluttering and fighting for breath. Invisible hands, strong as ten men, take me and draw me down into the dark underworld of the river. I am submerged, held fast like a fish in a net, floundering and gasping. The water is beyond cold. It fills me up. It is in my mouth, my ears, up my nose, everywhere. It numbs every part of me and I think my brain might freeze. Is this the sacrifice they want – my death by drowning? It doesn’t seem so. That same unseen hand grips and propels me upwards, forces me out into the air like a babe from its mother’s womb, and like a babe I emerge learning to breathe again, coughing and crying, reborn. The goddess of this water does not want me dead. Is it her hand which steers me on to the gentlest slopes of the bank some distance downstream? I don’t know.
I make a graceless landing, but I manage to haul myself on to dry land without too much trouble. I am so cold my teeth chatter. I strip off my clothes including the mail shirt which should have drowned me had I not been in the river’s care. I disrobe slowly; my hands are too cold to do otherwise and it is as if I am peeling off the skin of an onion, layer by layer, until all that is left is me, Trista. My skin feels as raw as if I have been pared down right to my core. I am gasping for breath and laughing hysterically. I am no longer trembling: my limbs are lean but strong again. I hold out my arm and it is steady as stone. My bruises have disappeared, my sliced palm is healed, my slave mark is gone. I am clean and cold, whole and free.
I can’t quite believe it. I lay my clothes on the bank to dry, wring out my hair and dance around for a while in joy and celebration and more practically to get my blood flowing so I don’t die of the cold. It is as if I have never been a slave. I am the woman I was before I was enslaved: strong and fit. When I am dry, I drop my mail shirt, Lucius’ helmet and the Chief’s sword into the fast-flowing current in gratitude. It is a suitable offering – more or less everything that I have. All I keep are those things that have been given to me. It is not seemly to give away gifts so I keep my clothes, my spear, my wolf ring, the druid’s gift and the message for Caratacus. I have been washed clean by a sacred river and all I have to give should be given. In any case those things that are tainted with blood and acquired through other people’s sacrifice properly belong to the gods; they do not belong to me. I say a brief prayer that is more or less incoherent, and watch my stolen tools of war sink into the sacred water. I am Trista, a warrior seeress, and I pay my debts.
Chapter Twenty-five
As soon as the clothes are dry I start walking again – this time without need of my spear.
The druids’ walk follows the path of this most holy of rivers for a time. I have to resist the urge to run along it. No one knows what a gift fitness is until they no longer have it. The Wild Weird join me in greater numbers as I leave the sacred grove behind me.
I feel as safe now as if I were playing in the coppiced woods of my childhood home. The gods of this place have blessed me; what do I have to fear? Even the Weird are subject to their command. The night is crisp and the sky so bright with unfamiliar stars, I wonder if I’m even in the same world I left only hours ago. I’m not hungry, though it is a long time since I ate the fireside meal with Ger and his horde. I’m not thirsty and I don’t feel tired. Indeed I follow the shining road all through the night.
I’ve got used to the presence of the Weird, and am learning to ignore them as much as possible. They are not all small and though some resemble animals, most are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They ignore me. Snake creatures slither over my feet, coil around my legs, flying things barely miss my head with their leathery wings, and some of the walking beings are so close I would feel their breath on my skin if they breathed. I walk for a while with two many-limbed creatures by my side. They are locked in an embrace that at times seems to include me and though I cannot feel their skin against mine, their closeness is still disturbing. I am used to living with visions of the dying. I can deal with this. I am unprepared for what happens next. One of these creatures pauses in the act of caressing its fellow to loosen, then remove my arm ring. It happens too swiftly, too unexpectedly, for me to prevent it. I don’t see what happens next because suddenly the night is dark, cloudy and wet. I am shivering. The Wild Weird are gone and my feet are ankle-deep in cold mud. Worse, not five paces away two wolves turn at the sound of my horrified gasp.
I reach for my sword, but of course it’s not there. Rain soaks through the wool of my tunic. I have no mail either to protect my heart. The nearest wolf moves towards me. My only remaining weapon is my gift of fire. I have to try to kindle my inner flame, without myself breathing fire. I don’t want to endure the pain of that again. There are a couple of fallen branches nearby, rotten, wet and too big for me to lift. I find my inner heat and will the mound of wood into flame. The wolves are becoming bolder, moving together as if preparing to attack. The pile of wood resolutely refuses to ignite. There is movement behind me and a third wolf appears. If I can’t light the wood, I will be at the mercy of this wild pack. I am breathing in a frightened panicky way and I know I need to be calm to find the fire in me. I need to be composed to fan the ember of my will and control the power so that it doesn’t come pouring out of my mouth. My heart is hammering and all I can think about is being torn apart. They will be on me in a moment.
Something growls. I try not to listen. I don’t want to see what is coming for me. I close my eyes and steady myself. Finally the wet wood catches and blazes, spitting and crackling as only wet wood can. I feed it my strength and it burns higher than a man, though the rain is coming down hard now and would have extinguished a lesser fire.
The wolves are backing away. I sprint to the shelter of the billowing flames and then I see him: the huge grey wolf, Morcant.
He snarls and his mouth is a cavern, the sound is a roar. There is no doubt that he is the strongest wolf there has ever been: the other wolves run. He is bigger even than the last time I saw him – twice the size of my potential attackers and his shadow self, my Morcant, is so clear, so real I think I might touch him. He is awake and watching me. I can’t believe he is here. Did the Wild Weird expel me from the druids’ walk on purpose?
The shadow man opens his arms as if to embrace me. I want to run to him, to tell him about my restoration, the return of my strength, everything that has happened. I dart forward. I am almost close enough to touch him. It would be a comfort just to stroke his wolf’s pelt, to be certain that he is real and not some phantom. And then I see her, the she-wolf standing guard over her mate. She waits a pace or two behind him. She bares her teeth and a low growl, harsh and menacing, issues from her throat. I don’t need any special insight to know what that means. This is real. I hesitate mid-stride, held captive by my uncertainty, frozen. I don’t know if Morcant the wolf will protect me. His yellow wolf’s eyes meet mine. Is there regret in them? The man raises a ghostly hand as if to touch me and then lets it fall. He bows his head as if in defeat. Why does he not become a man? Why doesn’t he come back to me? I take a step back. The man raises his head and smiles, a smile that would break any heart let alone one as brittle as mine. I think I may have lost him.
My fire still blazes. I move to stand in the intense heat of its flames. I am certain the blaze will keep the she-wolf away. She places herself next to the wolf and nuzzles against him. Her message is clear and Morcant does nothing to discourage her. I hope that he might give me some sign that I am as welcome by his side as she is: he does not.
Instead he stares at me steadily with unblinking yellow eyes. They do not lack intelligence, only warmth. This wolf has made his choice.
There is nothing to say. I am not diminished. I am Trista still. I can light fires and prophesy and fight as well as any man. If I must manage without Morcant, I can and will. I find myself twisting the wolf ring. In my imagination Gwyn is laughing. He would be amused to find me bested by a she-wolf.
The rain is soaking through my clothes and I start to shiver, the ordinary kind of shivering that afflicts everyone. My face is wet with the relentless rain and not with the tears that I will not let myself shed. What if the fireside tales are true and a week spent in the summer country could be a year or more in ours? How long has Morcant been the wolf?
Chapter Twenty-six
The grey people have done their work after all. I give them thanks for they at least can hear me. She left no sound, no scent to follow, nothing. It was as if she’d been swallowed up by the earth. I’d never have found her without them.
She is surrounded by a gathering of the strange creatures; more join her every moment. The wolf in me is disturbed, they smell so wrong: I am enchanted. I never knew such shadow things existed until I became a shadow myself.
The perfume of the penumbral kingdom clings to Trista honey-sweet and lemon-sharp in this country without lemons. It almost masks the musk and spiciness that is her own unique scent. She looks different too, straighter and less scrawny, no longer weary but strong and lithe. Her hair is longer and curls around her face, bright as the flames she conjures, and I long for fingers to tuck it out of her way.
I want to run to her, but I can’t. I am as bound by duty as a wolf as I was as a legionary. My she-wolf needs me and she has no one but me. She is an outcast thanks to me and likely to remain so. She bears the taint of my unnatural scent wherever she goes. She carries our pups. What kind of creature, man or beast, abandons a female in such condition? I watch Trista go, wishing I could explain. The wolf can only twitch his ears and drop his tail and that she cannot understand.
Why doesn’t her presence make me change? Finding her again should transform me as it has before yet my paws remain inflexible, clawed, fur-covered, not hands. My mouth is still an animal’s maw, good for biting and tearing and shredding, useless for talking. Useless for kissing. Oh, Trista! I was so busy cursing my condition I forgot to be grateful for ever being a man at all. May the gods of this place forgive me if I offended them.
I follow her, keeping a safe distance between us. The camped men have dogs and I have no desire to kill them if they are set on me. She’s lost her armour and her weapons and I don’t like to see her enter the place of many men without either. There is danger there. There is blood in the air and the promise of more.