Age of Druids: Druid's Brooch Series: #9

by Christy Nicholas

  The first rays of sun burst through the low layers of clouds on the horizon, bathing the sky in deep peach and violet. As the light chased twilight into the dark recesses of shadow, the power bathed her soul.

  She tipped her face back to relish in the light, closing her eyes. The bees buzzed around her and a sparrow alighted on her arm as the golden dawn broke across the hilltops.

  “You haven’t forgotten how.”

  With a knowing grin, she opened her eyes and turned to Adhna. “It’s not something the body forgets.”

  He sat behind her, wrapping his legs around her and hugging her back to his chest. She rocked back against him, secure in his embrace.

  “How did your meeting with your family go? I presume, since you stayed the night, that they accepted your return.”

  “For the most part. They have some doubts, but they’ll come around.”

  He squeezed her once. “Would you like me to stay?”

  “Not if you wish to return. I think I will be well enough for now. The youngest grandson, Fingin, seems to be a kind lad. I would like to get to know him better before I return to Faerie.”

  “Very well. I’ll support Cerul and Gabha in their co-Regency. I’ll return when I can.”

  Her back turned cold in the dawn chill when he left. Clíodhna hugged herself. She’d made the right decision, sending him away. Especially with Odhrán possibly in the village.

  The thought of Odhrán warmed her further, counteracting the morning chill. She rose, unwilling to remain here any longer. After having spent far too much time away from her family, she meant to get to know them now. She had work to do.

  Clíodhna wiped her hands off on her léine and ran down the hill, eager to see her family. She’d prepare a welcome breakfast for them and start the day right.

  If she’d expected her family to be sleeping when she returned, she was disappointed. In fact, they’d not woken, they’d left.

  After cursing at herself for missing them, she reasoned they must have gone into the village. Perhaps they were also followers of the Christ and would be at the monk’s morning service. Etromma and Donn had both evidently attached their lives to this new religion. She’d better be part of it as well, for appearances’ sake, if she wished them to accept her. Perhaps she would run into Odhrán.

  Clíodhna walked down the path toward the village. When she got to the abbey, she stared at the empty chapel building in confusion. Then she heard singing and remembered the monks had been building a new place for their services. While walking through the garden, full and lush with the summer’s growth, she found the grand new hall. The rounded arches soared high into the sky with worked stone.

  Many voices chanted in a measured rhythm, but she didn’t understand the words. They must sing in that Roman language. The doorway stood open and welcoming, but she paused. Her heart beat faster. What if Odhrán stood inside and didn’t want to see her? What if the Abbot banished her again? What if no one recognized her?

  She tamped down on her doubts, got control of her panicked breath, and strode forward with far more confidence than she possessed.

  Clíodhna had expected the interior to look dark and crowded, like the chapel. Instead, the tall open windows in the arches let in the morning light, illuminating the people standing below and making the dust motes glitter. The space filled with song, an almost physical force which embraced her as she entered. A few heads turned when she came in, but most concentrated on the music.

  Way up at the other end of the room, Abbot Pátraic stood next to a long table draped in white. The table held a golden cross and several other items, but she couldn’t make out the details from where she stood. She took her place in the back row, searching the faces for her family or anyone else she might recognize.

  The song ended and the deadening silence lengthened, becoming oppressive. The Abbot spoke into the emptiness, breaking the spell.

  He spoke in the other language, intoning his words with a practiced rhythm. Clíodhna glanced at more faces. None of the surrounding people looked familiar. How had she been gone so long? Twenty winters didn’t change people so much. She should be able to recognize the younger selves within their older bodies. Yet so many people had crowded within the walls, twice the population of the village twenty winters before.

  A flash of pale blonde hair streaked with white made her steady her gaze and, stripping away the winters in her imagination, she smiled. Ita! She must speak to her old friend when the service finished.

  Far on the other end of the room, Pátraic stepped back, and another monk came forward. He spoke his words, this time in their own language, and told a story about three strangers who had come to a village in search of help. No one would help them, each one turning the strangers away from their doors. Someone welcomed the strangers into their homes, offering to feed them and wash their feet.

  Once their hosts made the strangers comfortable, the visitors revealed themselves as angels, and commended their host for offering hospitality.

  When he finished his story, the monk clasped his hands together. “So always welcome strangers into your home, for you may welcome angels, unbeknownst to you.”

  Since this custom fit in with her own culture’s honor of welcoming guests, Clíodhna approved of both the story and its message. While caring for others in hopes of a potential reward didn’t have the same honor as caring for others because it was the right thing to do, some people required more incentive.

  Perhaps Clíodhna had come home at a propitious time, just after the church reminded the village to welcome strangers into their home. It seemed odd being a stranger in her own home. But this wasn’t her home, not any longer. Perhaps it would become so again, but not yet.

  When the service finished, she sought her own family first. She tried to glimpse Mugain’s red hair, but found Rumann’s scowling face. She made her way through the crowd to stand next to her son, who stared at someone else.

  A hand on her shoulder made her turn to see Odhrán’s ice-blue eyes staring at her with wide wonder. “Clíodhna? Can it be you? Merciful Mother!” He touched his forehead, chest, then each shoulder.

  She took in a shuddering breath and let it out again. He’d aged since she saw him last, even at the battle. His beard had fetching gray streaks at the edges of his mouth and his hair… his hair had disappeared. No curly fringe around the edges, but a flawless shiny dome from ear to ear. She smiled and dared to touch the smooth skin.

  He gave her a rueful grin, showing his dimple. “Yes, my hair. A vanity of my youth. I held on to my rapidly retreating locks for many seasons, only shaving the tonsure required of the church, but that time has passed. They call me Maol Odhrán now, after my bald head.” He rubbed the back of his skull.

  “Clíodhna? Clíodhna, is that you? How can it be?” She turned at Ita’s voice, wavering from either age or incredulity.

  Odhrán gripped her shoulder. “I must go. We shall chat again? Come visit me in the gardens.”

  With a hasty nod to the monk, she turned and clasped Ita into a hug. Her friend’s bones seemed thin and brittle. Clíodhna pulled back, studying the changes in her face. “Ah, how I’ve missed you, my friend.”

  Ita narrowed her eyes. “The real Clíodhna wouldn’t have said such a thing.”

  Chuckling, Clíodhna shrugged. “We all change a bit with the seasons, Ita. How is your family? How is Aileran? Have you been faring well? And has this village doubled in size or is there some festival I’m not aware of?”

  Ita glanced over her shoulder at the thinning crowd. A knot of people congregated around the Abbot, but most had disappeared to their own homes. “It’s difficult to adjust to so many people, that’s true enough. We’ve been getting more people as the abbey grew. Aileran… I need to tell you about Aileran. But not here.”

  Clíodhna’s stomach knotted as Ita spoke.

  “At first, craftsmen working on the buildings came, then tanners and weavers to provide them with clothing. Chandlers, coopers, all m
anner of tradesmen followed the work to this place. They brought their families and cleared some forest for their farms.”

  “They’ve cleared the forest?” Clíodhna glanced around as if she’d missed this huge change, but the woods nearby still stood, albeit somewhat changed with the seasons.

  “Not here, but on the other side of the village, along the river. Your side is still pristine, but they’ve cut down the trees on the other bank. The river water has been fouled now and then, too, with the waste from the tannery. They were kind enough to set up operations downstream, but it still stinks.”

  Clíodhna couldn’t stop grinning at her friend and her face ached. She pulled Ita away from the people still milling around the hall door. “Can we go somewhere and talk? I’ve been away so long. What’s been happening here? I’m staying with my son, Rumann, but—”

  “What? Rumann’s your son? I had no idea! Donn told Mugain and Rumann to move in there when he left. I think he still had guilt over breaking off their engagement. When did you have Rumann? You’d disappeared for winters already.”

  Confusion spinning in her mind, Clíodhna closed her eyes. “Please, let’s find someplace to sit. I’ll tell you all I can.”

  * * *

  Ita pressed her lips together. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t come back for a visit. The coast isn’t that far away. Twenty winters! Not even your children knew how to find you. I raised Aileran as best I… but…” Her words choked off with a sob.

  While clasping her hands tight, Clíodhna said, “I heard he died of a fever, but not until yesterday. What happened?”

  With a mighty sniff, Ita shut her eyes. “He had but seven winters. He’d just become a real help around the farm, and my daughter took him everywhere with her. One day, he didn’t feel good, and I put him into bed. His skin seemed cooler in the night but then, when I woke… he’d grown cold since I last checked him.”

  She glanced up, anger in her eyes. “That’s when I tried to find you. You said not to, but I had runners out searching for any word of you. I found nothing. Nothing! Not one scrap of information across the countryside. It’s as if you vanished in a puff of smoke.”

  Clíodhna ground her teeth together. She should have known Ita wouldn’t accept the story without digging in, but she had to plant the seeds. Ita had always been a bit of a gossip. The lie had only been a slight bend of the truth. She’d spent her time away from everyone she’d known in a distant place, only in Faerie and not the mortal realm on the ocean. Still, that small change meant she might answer questions, since she’d grown up in such a place.

  “I wanted solitude, after Oisinne… I couldn’t face people, not for a while. Then, once my mind had healed, I had gotten used to being alone. I didn’t want to be around others, especially those who had known my husband.”

  Ita shook her head. “Him. He would have been a handful, true enough. He never recovered.”

  Blinking, Clíodhna jumped to her feet. “Recovered? What do you mean recovered? He died! I saw lightning strike him, and his corpse burnt and smoking!”

  After letting out a snort. “That one. No, he didn’t die, Clíodhna. ‘Twould have been far kinder if he had. Instead, he lingered on in agony, being passed from one household to the other. No one had the room to care for him. His skin had been so scorched and his bones broken, he lived like an infant. A querulous, mad infant, capable of great violence. No one wanted to give him the chance to harm their own children. Etromma tried to keep him for a long time, but even she couldn’t stand it.”

  Clíodhna didn’t want to ask, but she must. “What happened to him then?”

  With a sidelong glare, Ita shrugged. “No one else would take him. Since we couldn’t find you on God’s green earth, he crawled around with a begging bowl. The monks took him in. They cared for him for a few moons before they sent him to another of their houses. One which specialized in healing, they said. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the poor creature since.”

  Poor creature. Her husband, burnt to a crisp by her own magic. She’d left him, believing him dead, but had instead abandoned him to the whims of fate. She’d expected incredible guilt at having left her children, but this fresh attack of guilt left her breathless.

  A chill swept over her and her skin pebbled. She rubbed at her arms to warm them, but it didn’t work. Oisinne lived somewhere, perhaps. A shell, a husk of his former self. His mind had already fled before he returned, but she’d destroyed his body. What had been left of the man she’d married so many seasons ago? Should she search for him?

  Ita broke into her guilty reverie. “Word came from the monks he died last winter. They’d had a bitter season, and his body didn’t have the defenses against the cold. ‘Tis a mercy, to be sure. Poor man.”

  The monks had taken him in, despite his ruined state. Perhaps the Christians had some good notions, despite their indoctrination and hate. Or perhaps not all of them harbored such intense hatred as Abbot Pátraic had exhibited.

  “Thank you, Ita. I am glad someone took care of him, and he didn’t die alone.”

  Ita related the news of others in town. Of the chandler’s grandson and the baker’s daughter, of the tanner’s wife and her affair with a monk. Clíodhna bit her lip at that, thinking of her night with Odhrán, but that news must have faded with time. Her mind drifted to Odhrán as Ita spoke, and she wondered when she should seek him in the gardens.

  Ita slapped her hands on her knees. “The horses won’t muck out their own stalls. I must get on home. My eldest does his best, but the house still needs a woman’s hand to run things. Will I see you in the morning, at the next service?”

  Clíodhna agreed with reluctance. She didn’t mind attending the service, but didn’t want to risk encountering Pátraic, not after their past confrontations. Still, if she appeared to be part of their religion, he might have little to complain about in her actions.

  She ambled back along the path, noting differences as she walked. The old oak which had stood at that bend must have been hit by lightning. Only a blackened stump jutting out of the ground remained. The pines along the left side had grown considerably taller and almost blocked out the midday sun. Had midday arrived already? Ita talked a lot. She’d forgotten that detail.

  A movement caught her attention and she turned to find what had moved. She’d expected a squirrel or groundhog, but what she found made her smile. A young sídhe peeked shyly from around her pine tree. She waved to Clíodhna and ducked back into hiding. With a grin, Clíodhna continued her walk with a lighter step. Despite the increased population of the village and the disturbing story of so much forest removed, some Fae still lived on the land. That heartened her purpose. She’d try to teach her grandchildren something of the Fae, so contact didn’t die out. She must counteract the misinformation of evil and demons spouted by the likes of Pátraic.

  In aid of this purpose, she pulled Fingin away from the roundhouse as soon as he finished his chores. She drew him down to the river, a place where he seemed at home and comfortable. No time like now to begin the young boy’s education. She would teach him to honor the Fae, to see them in their hiding places. Maybe she might even teach him to speak with them.

  He held her hand with tentative strength. He’d never be a powerful man, as his frame remained slight. She’d seen him flinching whenever Rumann yelled, and she suspected her son beat the boy. Where had he learned such violence? Certainly not from her. Had Rumann been bullied as a boy, without her to protect him? While he had the right to correct his own son, overusing such attentions could damage such a frail child. She’d try to counteract such cruelty with some kindness.

  “Now, young man, what can you tell me about the creatures who live in the water?”

  * * *

  Clíodhna fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, far more nervous than she ought to be. She sat on a bench in the garden, waiting for Odhrán to arrive. He said he’d be there at dusk, but she wasn’t certain how he figured dusk. When the sun descended past the hi
lls? When the sky had gone dark? Different people marked it in different ways.

  She’d been back in the mortal world for almost a full turn of the seasons before she might meet with Odhrán again. The church had sent him to another church location, some island off the west coast, the day after she returned from Faerie. He’d sent her a message of apology with another monk. Despite the kind message, she felt somehow cheated of a reunion with her ex-lover.

  In the meantime, her body seemed to be trying to catch up with the seasons she hadn’t lived. Her skin had grown thinner and she developed wrinkles where they hadn’t been. A streak of white formed in her black hair. Her bones complained at the chill when she rose in the pre-dawn darkness.

  At one point, Rumann’s anger and violence became so strong it gave Clíodhna nightmares of Oisinne’s cruelty. Had her time in Fae made her less able to endure the hardships of the mortal world? Regardless, she had to escape for the summer.

  She traveled back to the ocean, to the place she first returned after Faerie. Her crude shelter had fallen, as seaside homes didn’t last long. The storms battered them each winter until nothing but sticks remained.

  However, she’d built a new structure, just for the summer. Away from all people, alone except for the beasts of the land, air, sea, she relished her own company.

  Clíodhna swam in the ocean every day. The white streak grew wider as she played with the dolphins and dove into the waves, reliving her youth. It helped to rejuvenate her mind and her spirit, if not her body.

  She gathered a pod of about six dolphins who became her friends, bringing her seaweed and shellfish and taking her out into the water. She almost became a dolphin herself, she spent so much time in the salt sea. Perhaps she swam with the dolphin who gave her a ride before, but she had no way to tell for certain.