Once Every Never

by Lesley Livingston

  “I know why you’re doing this,” Al said pointedly. “You think you’re responsible.” She had an uncanny way of reading Clare’s thoughts sometimes.

  “Pff.” Clare avoided Al’s gaze. “You know perfectly well that ‘responsible’ is not a term frequently used to describe me.”

  “I think what Allie means,” Milo said, leaning back on the edge of the table and staring intently at Clare, “is that you think you were somehow responsible for that girl getting captured by a Roman soldier. But the last time you went back, the brooch she was wearing hadn’t even been finished. Your trips don’t necessarily follow a linear timeline. And I think you think that if you keep going back then maybe you’ll somehow find a way to get to that girl before the soldier does. You think you can help her. Don’t you?”

  Clare’s eyes dropped to the brooch on the table.

  “I do not,” she said.

  “You do too,” Al said quietly. “It’s a noble sentiment.”

  Clare rolled her eyes. This was getting to be a bit much.

  “It is. It might also be a dangerous one.” Al shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

  “Al … I know you’ve done more research.” Clare picked up the empty sock and plucked idly at the pompom. “What happened to Comorra? What does that Tacitus guy say?”

  “He doesn’t.” Al shook her head. “And most other historical accounts are generally either inconclusive or contradictory.”

  “But?”

  “But, from everything I’ve read so far … I’m thinking it probably wasn’t good.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Clare threw the sock on the table and gazed down at the elegant, intricate shape of the raven brooch—its wings, its jewelled eye. “Llassar—the blacksmith guy—said that this was powerful magic. Protective magic. I helped him make the thing. And if I can use it to help that girl, I think I kinda have to, y’know? At least I have to try.”

  “I guess I can’t argue with that,” Milo said quietly. “We should let her try, Allie. We don’t have any right to stop her.”

  Al turned a suddenly fierce glare on her cousin. “Tell me that again if she doesn’t come back.”

  Clare reached out her hand toward the brooch. Al went stiff with tension beside her and Milo leaned forward, watching intently. Clare’s fingertips brushed the cold, smooth surface of the brooch. Her blood fired icy-hot in her veins … and the world winked out.

  8

  It had never actually occurred to Clare what it would have meant to live in a world that existed before the invention of the light bulb. It meant DARK. And SCARY. And it suddenly made sense why those horrid old fairy tales meant to scare the crap out of young girls and keep them from wandering away from home almost always took place in the depths of overgrown, lightless forests. As Comorra’s world coalesced around her once again Clare took a look around, waiting for her eyes to adjust from Sunny London Afternoon to Murky Ancient Forest at Midnight (likely infested with virgin-devouring ogres—or, at the very least, a lascivious troll or two).

  Clare thought she could hear the sounds of howling in the far distance, only it didn’t sound like any wolves she’d ever heard on nature shows. She shivered, wondering what on earth could make such an eerie noise.

  She took a step forward, out from behind a tree. She had re-materialized at the edge of a clearing in the woods, a meadow ringed with soaring oaks, with the sky overhead an endless black and spattered with stars. A crescent moon cleared the tree tops, and by its pale wash of light Clare saw that a ring of immense stones stood in the middle of the clearing, a manand-a-half high each. Between the stones bladed pikes had been stuck in the earth, stabbing up at the darkened sky and draped with colourful banners bearing the stylized images of animals, stretched and knotted, fantastical and intricately beautiful.

  In the centre of the ring stood a lone, rough-hewn stone larger than the rest, about ten feet high and five wide. Kneeling in front of it was a cloaked and cowled figure. As if sensing Clare’s sudden intrusion, the figure stood and spun toward her, pushing back the deep hood to reveal her bright, strawberry-blond hair and pretty face.

  “Comorra!” Clare gasped.

  The girl’s bright blue eyes went wide and she stumbled backward until she stood with her back against the stone. Her gaze took in Clare’s appearance—from the strappy, metallic-hued sandals she’d worn that day to the sparkly, beaded-butterfly details of the adorable, time-travel-impractical sundress she’d plucked out of her closet. It was a little early in the season for something so summery, but it was a cute outfit and Clare had been secretly pleased to see Milo’s eyes light up when he’d first seen her in his office.

  Of course, to someone from first-century Britain, it probably didn’t read the same way. It probably made her look like …

  “Tylwyth teg,” Comorra whispered.

  Yeah. A faerie. Or something like that, anyway.

  Clare auto-translated the words as the other girl said them, just as she had before, somehow understanding that the translation wasn’t exactly … exact. But it was close enough.

  “Disgleirwen,” Comorra murmured, dropping her head in a respectful bow. “I did not imagine I would be so honoured as to have one of the Good People here this night … Have you come to grace this ritual with your goodwill?”

  “Shining One.” That’s kind of nice, Clare thought.

  “Uh … yes.” Clare went with the suggestion. Cautiously. “Yes, I have …”

  Comorra cocked her head. “Your words … they sound so strange. And yet I understand them.” Her eyes widened as if she’d just realized that she’d spoken out loud. “I mean no of-fence, Shining One!”

  “Oh, seriously, none taken!” Clare assured her.

  “I have never seen one of your kind before. I wasn’t sure if the stories Connal told me were true.”

  What about on the riverbank? Clare thought to herself. You saw me then.

  But after a moment it occurred to Clare that that “then” might not have happened yet. As Milo said, she wasn’t necessarily travelling through time in a linear fashion, and so this might be one of those “before” trips. Just like her visit to the blacksmith’s hut when he’d been making the brooch—a brooch Comorra hadn’t even owned yet, which had later ended up in Clare’s pocket, and which Clare had then used to take her to the moment of its making … Ouch, she thought. The whole thing was giving her a headache. It was like one of those word problems in math class crossed with that broken telephone game. If a brooch travelling through time leaves the first century at point A and a girl travelling through time leaves the twenty-first century at point B, then how many purple monkey dishwashers does it take to get to Carnegie Hall …?

  “Shining One?”

  Comorra’s voice broke in on Clare’s knotted thoughts. The Iceni princess did look a tiny bit younger than the first time Clare had seen her. Maybe only a year or so—her face just a touch rounder, hair a little shorter …

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Clare realized suddenly that she was frowning at the girl. She wiped the scowl from her face and smiled. “Call me Clare, okay?”

  Comorra’s eyes went even wider. She looked as though she was trying to figure out how to respond correctly to such an invitation from a … well, from an Otherworldly being. Somehow, maybe just from the way she’d said it, Clare recognized the significance of the “tylwyth teg” to someone like Comorra.

  Comorra looked as though she desperately wanted to continue the conversation, but the distant sounds of howling—which Clare now recognized as coming from human throats and celebratory rather than meant to strike terror—were not so distant anymore. It sounded like the biggest, wildest party ever—and it seemed to be heading their way.

  I have to get out of here, she thought.

  Except she didn’t know how.

  Right. Damn …

  Clare knew that if this trip followed the same parameters as the last ones, Comorra would be the only one who’d be
able to see her, probably because they’d come into physical contact. Still … she was a little worried by the young Druid, Connal, who’d been able to sense her presence in the blacksmith’s hut. Maybe he just had exceptional hearing. Heard her breathing. Or her heartbeat. Something …

  The sound of the approaching revellers was now shaking the leaves on the trees, and Clare could see the orange glow of torches reflecting off the forest canopy.

  “Thank you for the gift of your presence at my sword ceremony, Clare,” Comorra said.

  “Oh, uh …” Clare struggled for something appropriately mystical and significant-sounding for a … a sword ceremony. She remembered Llassar and Connal saying something about how Comorra had been chosen by Andrasta. The Raven Goddess … goddesses and faeries hung out together in Celtic cosmology, right? She hoped so …

  “The Raven sends her best,” Clare said. That ought to work. Comorra’s eyes sparkled fiercely and Clare suspected that it had, in fact, been exactly the right thing to say.

  “But I’d really love it if we could keep my presence here our little secret. My … magic keeps me hidden from all but those to whom I choose to appear. And, tonight, that’s just you.” Clare glanced over her shoulder as the first of many cloaked figures appeared at the edge of the clearing, dark shapes picked out in shadow and flame. “Okay?” She put a finger to her lips.

  Comorra mirrored the gesture with a conspiratorial smile. Then she twitched the hood of her cloak up and spun back around to resume her kneeling pose in front of the standing stone.

  Clare ducked behind the stone, trying to melt into the shadows and slow her breathing. A dozen men and women carrying flaring torches stalked out from beneath the oaks and took up stations at points all around the standing stones. Some beat out complicated rhythms on drums played one-handed with short, flared sticks, and some sang. A handful of young children followed in their wake and began to dance in time to the drumming, weaving an intricate circle around the middle stone—and coming perilously close to where Clare stood frozen, scarcely daring to breathe. But none of them seemed to notice her there. It seemed that Comorra really was the only one who could see her. Still, she tried to make herself as small and flat as she could.

  People continued to file out from under the trees, some pounding sword hilts on shields and stomping their feet in counterpoint to the drumming, and soon the whole clearing shook with the vibrations. The crowd was a visual riot of braided and styled hair, garishly patterned, finely woven cloaks, and the clash and jingle of beautifully crafted gold and silver jewellery. Clare couldn’t decide whether the combined effect of so much extravagant finery on display was barbaric or exuberantly rich and sophisticated. One thing was certain: the artistry involved in all the weaving and dying and smith-craft on display went far beyond anything she’d expected a bunch of hut-dwelling tribal yahoos to have mastered. Her ideas, if she’d had any to begin with, of what life must have been like in the ancient world were being radically rewritten. The people crowding all around her were … impressive. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  As the great clamour rose to a tremendous crescendo Clare felt battered by waves of sound and had to cover her ears with her hands. But just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore a sudden, shocking silence descended on the grove. Clare took a chance and peeked around to see what had caused it. And into that stillness walked—well … talk about impressive.

  The sea of revellers parted and into the centre of the stone circle walked Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. The queen shimmered with gold and amethyst. Deep red garnets hung from her ears and flashed on her fingers and a delicate, braided silver torc encircled her neck. The sword strapped to her waist was, in contrast, plain and workmanlike—battered, well-used, and freshly sharpened.

  At her side strode a tall man who was obviously a king. His long, dark blond hair was held back by a circlet of red gold and he wore a flowing robe girdled with a heavy belt made of linked copper lozenges that held an ornate ceremonial sword to his hip. His chin and cheeks were clean-shaven, but the braided ends of his flowing moustache reached almost down to the line of his strong jaw. His profile, lit by torch flame and silhouetted against the dark of the forest, was regal—handsome and striking—and around his neck he wore a thick golden torc.

  The Snettisham Torc.

  Boudicca turned to address the gathered throng in a clear, ringing voice that carried up and into the waiting shadows of the night. “Tonight, the rising moon of Beltane Eve marks the start of my daughter’s sixteenth year. Tonight, she sheds the skin of childhood to become a woman. Tonight she becomes a warrior!”

  Comorra stood and threw back the cowl of her cloak, turning to face her tribe with a look of fierce pride on her pretty face.

  From the opposite side of the clearing Princess Tasca came forward, smiling broadly at her younger sibling. Clare felt her heart clench at seeing Comorra’s sister alive. The older girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with excitement. Clare had a hard time reconciling that with the image of her lying crumpled and lifeless on the floor of Connal’s chariot. She too wore a blade hanging from her belt—smaller and more slender than her mother’s, made to fit a more delicate hand and a wrist not yet corded with years of strength and use. She carried something wrapped in snow-white doeskin, which she presented to the queen. As Boudicca threw back the leather wrap Clare stepped out from her hiding place and, unnoticed by the crowd, craned her neck to see what it had concealed.

  It was another sword. Polished to a gleam and almost pretty, it looked as though the hilt was made of bronze, with a leaf-shaped, dark-grey iron blade. Alongside it lay a tooled leather sheath that hung from a jewelled leather belt.

  “Comorra.” The queen buckled the sword belt around the girl’s waist and then took the blade from its bed of white leather. “I give you your sword.”

  Simple as that.

  Comorra’s slim fingers reached out—hesitating a moment—and then grasped the sword by the hilt. Its blade was short, no longer than some of the daggers worn by the men, and yet Comorra handled it with grace and assurance. The blade sang as it whipped through the air. Then, with a flourish that was only a little showy, Comorra spun the blade in her palm and slid it home in the scabbard at her side as if it had always belonged to her. Her mother smiled and Princess Tasca beamed with pride at her sister.

  Then Comorra’s father stepped forward.

  Clare watched Boudicca’s expression alter in the nearness of her husband’s presence. Suddenly she was no longer just handsome … she was lovely. Soft and glowing as a girl in the throes of a first love. The look was fleeting, but it made a powerful impression on Clare.

  The king began to speak. “In the world I would make for you, my daughter, you would need never unsheath the blade your mother gives you.” He turned and gestured. With a start Clare saw the young Druid, Connal, step forward. In his hands he held a little carved wooden box. The king reached up to unfasten the plain, utilitarian pin that held Comorra’s cloak closed at her shoulder and replace it with the ornament from the box—the very same brooch that had sent Clare spiralling through time to this world.

  “I fear this is not such a world,” the king continued. “But I am comforted. The Raven Goddess watches over you, Comorra.”

  Comorra’s glance flicked over to where Clare stood watching. Clare put a finger to her lips again, terrified that the princess might call her out, but Comorra simply nodded, smiling ever so slightly, and turned her eyes back to her father.

  “May she keep you ever safe.”

  Clare grinned as Comorra exclaimed with wonder at the intricately wrought ornament. The Iceni evidently revered beautiful things, and of course the brooch was exquisite. Catching the light from the ring of torches, the garnet sparkled dramatically in its setting. At the front of the crowd, near the royal family, Clare saw Llassar grow tall with pride. She herself felt a certain giddy thrill to see the princess so pleased.

  But then a shiver ran down h
er spine. She turned to see Connal staring at her—or rather, at the space she invisibly occupied—a faint frown on his brow. Clare found that she was holding her breath as his piercing gaze swept back and forth through the space where she stood.

  But then Comorra smiled at him and his expression cleared. He gazed at her with obvious and abundant affection, and Comorra returned his look with one of her own that was halfway between bashful and smouldering.

  Whoa, Clare thought. She’s seriously crushing on him …

  Clare could hardly blame her. Connal was, to put it mildly, rock-star gorgeous. The young Druid’s chestnut-brown hair was shot through with deep red highlights that gleamed in the torch fire. And like many of the other men, he wore almost as much ornamentation as the women. Gold glinted at his earlobe and a silver torc shone at his throat. A long grey cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a finely woven tunic fitted smoothly over the contours of his muscled chest, and buckskin trousers were laced tight around his calves above his bare feet.

  Connal moved with an animal’s sliding grace as he stepped toward the princess. “I speak for the Druiddyn to convey their blessings upon you, Comorra, and my own. Your father speaks truth when he says Andrasta holds you in her hands.” He touched the jewelled brooch on her shoulder, and Clare could have sworn she saw Comorra shiver with delight. “You are beloved of the Raven. Your mother has called upon the goddess to protect you and she has answered. That is all the protection you should ever need.”

  “It should be indeed, Connal.” Comorra grinned and then glanced at her mother. “But as my mother would no doubt agree, I will keep my sword close, just in case!”

  They all laughed at that, with Boudicca’s harsh mirth ringing out above the other voices like the cry of a carrion crow. Then everyone who had swords drew them from their scabbards and thrust them into the night sky, as if they would tear it open to bring daylight pouring forth.