White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “Now we turn to the north, where the element of Earth resides, deeply grounded in strength, comfort, and support. May North and Earth bless Boyden and Scota throughout their lives.”

  “And in the Center and all around us, above and below, resides the Spirit who brings blessings of love, magic, friendship, and community. May the Spirit of all things divine join us and bless Boyden and Scota on this sacred day.”

  Scota faced Boyden, slipping her hands in his.

  “Do any here seek to challenge this joining?” Derina asked, looking around and wrinkling her empty eye sockets. Several maidens giggled, but Scota tensed, straining in wait for a faery king’s strong objection.

  “Relax, Scota.” Boyden’s thumb glided over her flesh.

  The druidess turned back to them. “Then, ‘tis time to begin the joining. Twilight returns once more to us.”

  Scota glanced up at the tinting of a purpling sky, wondering how the ancient woman recognized the between-time.

  “Do not ponder it, Scota. She is fey born.”

  “Quiet, Boyden,” Derina snapped. “I am ready to begin.”

  He nodded to her, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Boyden, do you come here of your own free will?” the druidess asked with the authority of the highly respected.

  “I do.”

  “Scota, do you come here of your own free will?”

  “I do,” she replied softly.

  “State your vows.”

  Boyden squeezed her hands. “Repeat these vows after me, Scota.”

  She nodded.

  “We commit ourselves to be with each other in joy and in adversity.”

  Scota echoed the words.

  “In wholeness and brokenness.”

  “In wholeness and brokenness,” she repeated, her stomach cramping slightly as if the babe or babes in her womb were kicking out with joy.

  “In peace and turmoil.”

  “In peace and turmoil,” she repeated, a sense of permanence washing over her.

  “Living together faithfully all our days,” Boyden said firmly.

  “May the gods and goddesses give us the strength to keep these vows. So be it.”

  She repeated the final phrase just as resolutely.

  Derina placed a red cord over and around their right hands, binding them together.

  “Red symbolizes life and a handfasting commitment for one year and a day.” She began to knot the cord more tightly. “This blessing be not of a trial-marriage, but one of permanence and forevermore. Boyden has claimed the seed rooting in the bride’s womb and in doing so, claims her, as well.”

  Offering up a simple blessing, the druidess bowed over the red cord. Returning to the altar, she picked up the jeweled dagger and handed it to Boyden.

  “Do we cut the cord, Boyden?” Scota asked.

  “Nay.” He held the small dagger in his right hand. “Help me.”

  She lifted her bound wrist with his and watched as he cut a lock of her hair and placed it in the silver box Derina held open.

  “Do the same to my hair, Scota, and doona cut too much.” He held the hilt out to her, a teasing glint in his eye.

  Scota reached for the ceremonial dagger. Seizing a tawny wave between two fingers, she sliced it free and held it up so he could see how much she took.

  He grinned, and she placed the sun-kissed silk in the silver box over her own nightshade offering.

  Derina closed the silver box and returned it to the altar. “For the future of the winds,” she murmured. “Be understanding and be patient with each other,” Derina said, backing away. “Be free in the giving of affection and warmth. Have no fear and let not the ways of the unenlightened give you unease, for the gods and goddesses be with you always in blessing.” She stepped out of the circle.

  Boyden picked up the silver box with his left hand.

  “Do we bury it?” she inquired, looking at the trowel.

  “Aye, in a moment. Open the lid with your left hand.”

  She opened it.

  “Now we must hold our bound hands over the opening.”

  They did.

  The air glittered above their wrists in a feeling of icy warmth. The red cord disappeared before their eyes and settled in the box, the knots intact.

  Scota blinked.

  “Close the lid, Scota.”

  The lid slipped shut from her fingers in silence.

  “We bury the silver box in the center of the circle to safeguard our future. Place your right hand over mine.” He picked up the trowel.

  Scota placed her hand over his and leaned forward with him as he dug the hole in a patch of dirt framed by tiny white flowers.

  Kneeling together, they lowered the silver box in the hole and covered it beneath a black mound of grassy dirt.

  From outside the circle, Derina called out, “The circle be open and unbroken. May the peace of the Old Ones go in our hearts. Boyden and Scota be handfasted.”

  Somewhere close, a bell rang three times, a twinkling of sound in the air.

  “We are one.”

  “Yes,” Scota agreed, at least for this day.

  “Come, Scota.” He guided her out and around the circle before introducing her to his tribe and receiving a hug from Nora.

  The celebration lasted into a night crowded with stars and a waning moon. Torches were lit, and a great feast offered. Children fell asleep in their mothers’ arms. Boyden sat next to her on a grouping of white sheepskins. Platters of freshwater eel and fish were brought to them, and she valiantly sampled each, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose.

  “You doona like eel, Scota?”

  “I am not used to it.”

  He motioned to another girl. She brought over a platter of pink salmon, which had been cooked over flames and drizzled with honey.

  “Try this.” He took a small portion and placed it on her clay plate. She sampled it. In her mind she knew it tasted well enough, but her stomach decided, at this most inopportune time, not to accept any food without giving her much grievance.

  “You are not eating, Scota?”

  Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap. “It is only the merriment of the day.”

  He nodded, though she thought him not fully convinced in her answer.

  Next came an offering of tripe, sheep’s stomach cooked for several hours in goat’s milk and herbs. She did not think her queasy stomach could tolerate this dish, either, and held up her hand to stop him.

  “Boyden, no more.”

  He waved the girl carrying the tripe platter away. “You have no appetite this eve?”

  “My appetite left me at the sight of the tripe.” She smiled weakly. She had eaten enough food over these last few days to last her a lifetime.

  “Wait here.” He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the crowd of revelers. A few moments later he returned, carrying a large silver goblet.

  “Boyden, I do not want any mead.”

  “ ‘Tis not mead. I went to Derina and she gave me goat’s milk laced with honey. She said it will calm your stomach.” He offered it to her. “Try it.”

  Taking the goblet, she brought it to her lips and sipped. Soon, her queasy stomach rolled into quiet.

  “Better?” He gave her a crooked grin.

  She nodded. “Yes, my thanks.”

  “Doona suffer in silence around me. I promise, I am here for you, Scota.”

  She was not used to someone caring for her needs without being ordered to, as a slave was. Boyden stayed by her side because he wished it, but a powerful fey king could change all that.

  He gave her a level look as if reading her thoughts. “The king willna separate us.”

  “He can spell cast you to forget me.”

  “I willna allow it, Scota.” He captured her hand and kissed her fingers. “Finish your sweet milk. I wish to show you something.”

  Raising the goblet to her lips, Scota drank what remained and set the goblet aside.

  “Done, my
warrior?”

  She nodded.

  He climbed to his feet. Grasping both her hands, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “Come.”

  CHAPTER 23

  AFTER A BLESSING FROM NORA and Cavan’s family, Boyden guided his bride through the darkness of the trees. They walked around a thorn bush and paused on the slope of a rolling pasture lit with white flowers and the moon’s embrace.

  “What is this place, Boyden?”

  “A place of new beginnings. Like you, a select few of my tribe doona like the below. They have decided to build their homes near the streams of Tara. I thought we would, too. Amergin did not attack this place, and so it remains belonging to us.”

  “The moon’s light sheds her brightness, yet her light appears different here, more white than amber. It is as if I can see in the dark.” She stepped away from him.

  “This land is of Tara, Scota. It is enchanted, and those of the fey may always see in it.”

  “I am not enchanted.”

  “No matter how much I dislike it, the Gaoth Shee chose to link with you, and that makes you enchanted. You also happen to carry a wind babe …” he paused and grinned, “or babes in your womb. Methinks you are more enchanted than me, my warrior.”

  She turned away, but not before he saw the saddened look on her face.

  “You doona like the land, Scota?”

  She shook her head. “The land is beautiful, Boyden,” she agreed quietly. “I am honored to be here.”

  “What is it, then?” he asked, not understanding her sadness. He thought this place perfect for them. He could see a round cottage rising under the gentle shade of an oak or yew with a green meadow out back for their horses and goats. He could envision children running and playing among the wildflowers, the wind tangling their curls.

  “Boyden, how can you plan for a future when the High King of the Faeries refuses to accept me?”

  “He will accept you,” he replied steadfastly. Any other future was absurd to him. He was willing to fight the king to keep her in his life, and would hold nothing back.

  “Scota, look at me.”

  “Have you felt the wind?” she interrupted, lifting her face to the starlit night sky. There was an undertone of longing in her voice.

  “Aye, she remains near me always, whether I will it or not.” There was just enough glow to see the smooth paleness of his bride’s cheek.

  “I feel her presence, but she keeps her distance from me.”

  In the crimson veils of her nearly translucent gown, she looked like a faery queen standing in sunset hues. “Do you miss her touch?” he asked, his voice joining the silence of the night.

  “I do not know.” She looked at him from over her shoulder. “When she joined with me, colors looked brighter, sounds were more melodic, the fragrance of the land drifted in the air so I knew each scent from blade of grass to the tallest tree. Your touch …” she paused, her features softening in remembrance, “… your touch sent shivers to the innermost core of me, heightening all my senses, heightening everything. I must confess to missing that part. Do you not?”

  “I know not of what you speak,” he replied dryly. “Never have I joined with her.”

  “Never?”

  He could hear the astonishment in her voice and scowled. “She willna approach you again, Scota, unless I wish it. The Elemental understands my will now.”

  “Do you wish it, Boyden?”

  His hands tightened by his sides and he looked away.

  Scota studied him, feeling uneasy yet determined to find out the whole truth of the long-ago times. She had changed much since coming to this land of enchantment and mystery. She was no longer naïve in believing only one side of a tale. “Why do you deny your heritage?”

  “By the winds,” he muttered under his breath. “My heritage is one of death. How can you ask this of me?”

  “Your heritage is older than the faeries, belonging to the before-time. With an ancestry to the ancient guardians and the blood threads from a Servant King of the wind, you are very special.”

  He did not reply.

  “Was the Servant King just, Boyden?”

  He looked at her, not appreciative. “What do you mean?”

  “I ask a simple question. Was this king a just and fair king?” She met his gaze intently, dark to dark in the magical glimmer of land and night. “Did he kill and maim for his own pleasure and wealth? Did he rule in tyranny?”

  “He was a just ruler of his realm.”

  She looked at him sideways. “How can you be so sure, Boyden?”

  “I feel it within me.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “If this Wind King was a just ruler of his realm, then why do you deny his heritage?”

  “I doona deny him.”

  “By denying her, you deny him.”

  Scota saw how her words hit their target.

  “This her whom you speak of, is a magical, self-indulgent creature whose wish for freedom killed a fair king.”

  “Maybe he did not understand her needs,” she suggested calmly in the face of his anger. “Perhaps you will be more perceptive.” She smiled and added, “You are with me.”

  He gazed at her silently.

  “You must try, Boyden.” The moment of tact and delicacy evaporated, and she spoke her thoughts directly. “You are the only one who can. The Gaoth Shee linked with me to get closer to you.” She needed to reach him. “You said her wish for freedom killed the king.”

  “Aye, the king’s brother acted upon her wish, and with his lover, they killed the king.”

  “Are you sure that is what truly happened?” she asked.

  His lips tightened. “I have the blood memories of the Wind King, Scota. Do you question my memories?”

  She answered slowly. “No, Boyden.” She knew it would not be easy.

  “What then?” he demanded, low and hostile.

  “I question your interpretation of the events.” She held up her hand to stay his retort. “Your linking with the Wind King gives you only his view. When the lethal wind linked with me, Boyden, she left behind impressions, faded images of the past, a residual wave of longings.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Scota?”

  “I do not sense evil in her or a lust for power or wealth. She simply exists. All I sense is a terrible loneliness. She is alone, Boyden, experiencing a loneliness you and I can never hope to comprehend, and if we ever did, I suspect it would drive us to madness.”

  “You speak of her with feelings in your heart,” he uttered in low defiance.

  “Boyden, no creature should be alone.”

  He frowned.

  “Have you remembered the blood vow of the Servant King?” she asked, trying a different approach.

  “I have not thought much upon it.” He rubbed his ear.

  “Why do you not ask her?”

  “Ask her?” he echoed in surprise. “Summon her?” He let out an explosive snort. “Do you know of whom you speak, Scota? She is death.”

  “Is she, Boyden? Is she really?”

  He stared at her, obviously incensed by her words, but that did not stop her.

  “She killed only at the bidding of another, the bidding of the Wind Servant King. You have been so busy rejecting her and your heritage, perhaps the answers you seek lay with embracing her. Summon her, Boyden.”

  “I willna risk it.” He gave an angry snarl and turned away.

  Scota stood still, trying to understand his vehemence. His rigid figure appeared in the darkest of silhouettes against the field of white and yellow flowers. Why would he not try? She studied him and came to a slow understanding. “The wind will not harm me, Boyden.”

  “Can you promise me this, Scota?” He glanced at her.

  “Search inside yourself, Boyden. She will not harm anyone or anything you hold dear.”

  “Why now?” he asked with a hollow and weary voice, the telling of his battle with the High King o
f the Faeries finally showing. “Why do you speak of this to me now?”

  She stared past him to the field of soft glowing. “I am a princess, Boyden. Among my people, strength means peace. You go to face the High King of the Faeries from a weaker position because of our handfasting. If you meet him instead from a position of strength, with the wind beside you, will he not turn a more understanding ear to your words?”

  He faced her. “Do you ask me to threaten the High King of the Faeries?” he asked angrily.

  “Boyden, I do not ask you to threaten your king.” She moistened her lips. “You do not have to say a word. The High King, sensing your renewed allegiance to the wind, will take control of his temper and prejudice, and I hope, judge me fairly. That is all I ask.”

  Hands on his hips, he tilted his face to the sky and exhaled loudly. Shaking his head, he snorted, then chuckled. “It would not surprise me if you could talk a king into giving up his throne.”

  “At the moment, I am trying to talk a stubborn and brooding king into claiming his heritage.” She picked up a small rock and threw it aside.

  He sighed and looked at her, a smile faint on his lips. “I willna kill the innocent for the sake of us, Scota.”

  “I would not ask you to. I ask only for fair judgment.”

  He nodded. “So be it. Stand away from me.”

  Boyden thought it would be the hardest thing he ever did, this summoning of an olden death goddess.

  It was not.

  It was infinitely and horribly easy.

  Closing his eyes, he extended his arms from his sides, palms upturned.

  He willed the ancient wind near. “Come to me,” he murmured.

  All those life-long days of denial, when at least he knew what and who he was, withered away in a strange wave of welcomed relief.

  He could not see her, but felt the cold pitch and breath of the air pick up.

  Blades of grass rustled.

  Flower stalks and petals trembled.

  Tree branches swayed their leaves, murmuring of an ancient’s presence.

  “I BE HERE.”