Oracle Dreams Trilogy

by Teri Barnett

  Pagan soul.

  Tainted.

  With a shiver, she closed the creaking door behind her.

  Chapter 3

  The iron chapel bells clanged loudly, proclaiming time for Matins. Maere pushed herself up and out of the bed. Her bare feet landed on the cold stone floor without a sound. Yawning, she stretched and rubbed her eyes. It seemed as if she’d only just fallen back to sleep after that terrible dream. She shivered, feeling the eyes still upon her.

  “Oh, Mama, I wish you were here,” Maere whispered as she sat back down on the cot. She hugged her arms around her waist, tears filling her eyes. Sweet Mary, but it’d been such a long time since she’d even thought of her mother. Too long, she realized. She searched her memory for anything she could hold onto—eyes that smiled, the curve of a cheekbone. Did her mother smell of the cooking fire or of sage and lavender and heather? Did she look like her, with dark copper hair and freckles across her nose?

  Try as she might, she couldn’t recall much except the remnants of a warm smile and comforting hug. Maere rubbed her eyes again. Why did those cursed Vikings come to their land, wreaking death and destruction? And why did it have to be her family who was struck so brutally, leaving her orphaned and alone?

  If only she could remember, perhaps she could begin to understand what happened that night when her mother and father were murdered. But even now, with nearly ten years passed, she only knew of their fate at the hands of the Northmen because Abbess Magrethe had told her it was so. She sighed and hung her head. Her mind was hazy to what life was like before coming to St. Columba’s. Abbess said it was because of the shock of witnessing such an evil act. Maere had prayed many a night, until she was hoarse, asking the Virgin for intercession. She so wanted the memories to return. Still, her pleas went unanswered.

  Maere thought she recalled an uncle, but wasn’t sure it was a true remembering, or rather the result of abbess mentioning him from time to time over the years. Magrethe said Eugis was a kind man who had taken her in when Mama and Papa were killed. As he was unmarried, he had thought it best Maere receive her education at the convent. He’d promised to return for her when she turned eighteen and take her to an arranged marriage.

  In her heart of hearts, Maere secretly hoped in the span of the years she’d been here he’d forgotten about her and would let her be. Then she’d be free to take her vows and join the sisters as one of them. They were all dear to her and, in truth, the only family she’d ever known. She sighed again. Or, at the very least, the only one she could remember.

  “Blessed Madonna,” she prayed as she stood and pulled on the rough tan habit of the novitiate, “Please guide me that I may know what to do.” With a long, tired breath, she fastened her black mantle over her shoulders with a simple silver clasp. Then she braided her long hair into a single plait.

  A sharp rap sounded at the door and sent her thoughts scattering. “Maere? You’ll be late!”

  “Yes, sister. I’m almost ready,” she called back. She arranged a short veil on her head. As she readied to leave the room, Maere paused at the door, the conversation with Magrethe the night before on her mind. Could it be what the older woman said was true? Could it be she’d actually invited the Devil himself into her dreams? That he was inducing her with thoughts of the flesh? If it were the Devil’s work, then surely there would be some sign. A flash of red eyes flickered in her mind’s eye, a startling reminder of her dreams. Fear overtook her.

  I’m so tired of being afraid all the time.

  Everything made Maere skittish—dark corners, a loud pop and crackle of a log in a hearth fire, even a bird taking flight from a tree branch made her knees wobble.

  The Devil be damned, I must get over my fears or I will never live a peaceful life.

  Her hand on the door, she realized there were other young women at St. Columba’s who were plagued so with thoughts of men and the flesh. For their penance, the priest had stripped them to the waist and beaten those ideas out of them with a leather whip. She shuddered as she imagined herself bared for the world to see, the sting of leather tearing into her soft flesh. She instinctively crossed her arms over her full breasts, held almost flat by the binding cloth the sisters insisted all the women wear.

  Why in heaven’s name did the abbess have to suggest such a notion?

  No! I refuse to tell the priest.

  Courage! I must not allow everything little thing to strike fear in me.

  She slipped on her suede sandals as the bell rang again and rushed out of the room.

  After Matins, Lauds, and Prime, the sisters gathered in the dining room at eight for a silent breakfast of hot cider and thick crusty bread. They sat elbow-to-elbow on hard benches at a table long enough to seat all twenty of them, ten on either side. The only sounds in the white-plastered room were wooden sticks beating against the clay cups as the sisters stirred their drinks. The thick sweet liquid stuck to the sides of the vessels, and chunks of apple had to be scooped out with bits of bread. It was good and filling, exactly what was needed for a cool day.

  The sunlight broke through the window and across the table. Maere turned her head, squinting horribly, as the rays hit her directly in the eyes.

  Two of the novitiates seated across from Maere giggled. “What are those terrible faces you’re making?” Seelie, one of the girls, whispered.

  Maere glanced up at her friend, then pulled her veil down to shade her face. “It’s the sun. You know it hurts my eyes.”

  “I know you like to complain!” Seelie said, louder than she intended.

  “That’s not true,” Maere said, even louder.

  “Seelie. Maere,” Abbess Magrethe called out their names. They stood up from their seats.

  “You both know better than to speak during the morning meal. You are supposed to be reflecting on the scriptures you heard earlier today.” Magrethe stared at her charges. “For your punishment, the two of you will clear the table and wash the dishes by yourselves.” She looked around the room. “Any of you who were assigned to this duty can help in the yard. We’ll be clearing a new garden plot near the well.” With that, the abbess stood, dusted the crumbs from her apron, then turned and left the room.

  As soon as everyone finished eating, they filed out of the dining area, one by one, and headed through the heavy timber doorway which led outside. There, they would see to their separate duties of planting the garden, feeding the livestock, or boiling the laundry over a large open fire. Maere hated that job the most. There was something about the size of the flames and incredible heat that stirred an uneasy emotion within her. Whenever it came her turn to wash clothes, she begged and pleaded to be given other duties. After a while, the sister in charge of scheduling the weekly duties must have grown weary of Maere’s pleading because she began to assign her other tasks.

  Maere scooped up a willow basket half-full of bread and cradled it in her arms. “Why do you mock people all the time?” she grumbled to her friend. “It’s not Christian, you know.”

  Seelie laughed. “I’m sorry, my friend.” She affectionately squeezed Maere’s arm. “Forgive me?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to, since you asked.” She quirked her lips and headed for the kitchen, calling behind her, “Of course, if you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t’ve had to now, would I?” Maere dropped the basket on the well-worn wooden counter then paused for a moment. Her smile faded as she looked out the small window over the soapstone sink. Beyond the outer walls was a thick stand of trees. She felt the eyes again, watching, boring into her. She made a quick sign of the cross over the center of her chest.

  “Maere, I was speaking to you.”

  Startled, Maere spun around and almost dropped the heavy clay cup she had absently picked up. She clutched it tight to her chest, then set it down on the counter. “I’m sorry, Seelie. What was it you were saying?”

  “I asked if you’ve seen the new
monk who came to visit the convent yesterday.” Seelie held her arms out to her sides and twirled around. Her long blonde hair, unbound, fanned out around her from beneath her small veil. “He’s so young and handsome,” she sighed.

  “Of course, I haven’t noticed him. I have more important things to do with my time.” Maere rolled her eyes and placed the cups into the round washtub. She dragged an iron bucket of water over to the hearth and hoisted it onto the hook to boil. She wiped her brow then returned to the dining room for more dishes. Seelie was always on the prowl for handsome young men. Of course, she never admitted it to her confessor, so she’d yet to be beaten as penance for it. “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask? Is there something wrong with you, girl? Have you no eyes in that head of yours?” Seelie followed Maere back into the kitchen with several trenchers in her hands. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never noticed a man or thought what it might be like to be with one?” She set the plates down and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t lie to me now, Maere cu Llwyr. I’ve known you for too long.”

  Maere’s back stiffened. She fumbled and dropped one of the cups on the floor. With a loud clatter, it broke into a several large pieces. Her friend crouched down and picked up the shards. She put them in the refuse barrel and turned back to Maere. “I’d say that answers my question,” she said, dusting her hands on her apron.

  “You have to swear not to tell,” Maere cried. “Promise me!” she all but shrieked. Seelie might be a friend but even she didn’t know the details of her dreams. If anyone other than Abbess Magrethe even remotely suspected she kept seeing a man in her sleep, why, who knew what might happen to her?

  “Is there something wrong in there?” one of the sisters called through the kitchen window as she walked past. “Did I hear something break?”

  “Everything is fine, Sister Emmanuel. Nothing to worry about,” Seelie answered. She looked at Maere and smiled. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, sister. If you pretend that I’m in your cell tonight, praying, I won’t tell any of them your secret thoughts.”

  “You want me to lie?” Maere asked, incredulous. She had given to telling tall tales as a child. The abbess told her once she talked on and on about big cows who watched her wherever she went. About the fays and other little people she’d seen dancing in the forest and about a young boy who was her best friend. But, thanks to the good sister’s help, she’d long since outgrown that childish obsession of spilling forth whatever fanciful thought flew into her head.

  Seelie shrugged. “Either that, or I’ll have to have a talk with Father Ambrose when he comes to visit. I’m certain he’d be most interested in hearing about this affliction of yours.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled tightly. “Now, are we in agreement?”

  Maere wanted to shake the evil out of the girl. How could she call herself a friend and then threaten to betray her in the next breath? It was difficult enough for her to control the temper she felt brewing a good deal of the time as it was. It rested just below the surface of her skin and threatened to bubble up when she least expected it.

  Abbess always told her to avert her bad thoughts to the Virgin Mary and ask her for forgiveness. But Maere knew the other sisters whispered her temperament came from being tainted as a child, raised wild by the Keltoi. But it was better to hold her tongue than have to face the priest and his whip. She sighed. “Agreed.”

  Seelie’s face lit up and she clapped her hands together. “I knew I could count on you!” She turned to leave. Maere touched her arm and she turned back. “Yes?”

  “There’s one thing you must tell me before I’ll lie for you, Seelie. Where exactly will you be during the time we are supposed to be practicing our prayers?” Why’d she even bother to ask? She knew the answer before the girl spoke.

  “I’ll be with the young monk.” Seelie leaned forward and giggled. She whispered into Maere’s ear, “We’ve made arrangements to meet in the old hermit’s cave near the outer wall. And when I return, I promise I’ll tell you every last detail.”

  Chapter 4

  Dylan cast a final glance to the sky as Morrigu’s raven form disappeared from sight. With a sigh, he pushed open the door to the cottage. The rising orange-red sun glowed in the morning haze, warming his back as he stood in the portal.

  Kate glanced up from where she sat at an old worn table in the center of the plain room, squinted against the filtered sunlight, then returned to her work. The clatter of the wood mortar against the clay bowl as she ground plants and roots grated against the stillness of the morning, and Dylan’s nerves.

  He walked in, ducking his head to avoid the dried herbs hanging from every rafter, nook, and cranny. As he pulled out the chair opposite the old woman, the pungent odor of garlic and rosemary filled his senses. So many days and nights he’d spent in this very seat, since that first night when she’d found him running from his would-be captors. The rhythm of Kate’s work, combined with the warmth of the room, took him back to that time. Back to the night he lost all that was dear to him, everything and everyone he loved…

  Just a boy of twelve, he stood between the dying flames of the many Beltane fires, clutching Maere’s white mantle to his breast. It was all he had left of her; all he’d managed to grab when Eugis rode off. Dylan tried to pull Maere off the horse, but it was too big and too fast for him.

  How did this come to pass?

  Why did they murder his father and Maere’s parents?

  Maere!

  His newly betrothed had been stolen from him, dragged off screaming into that Beltane night.

  The people of his village, chased away by Eugis’ men, had fled. Dylan became sick and disoriented, vomiting over and over onto the hard ground until there was nothing left in him but the bitter taste of bile. He’d watched, in dazed silence, as the fluids his body had given up flowed into the hot coals of the sacrificial fires, simmering and then evaporating in the heat.

  Eugis’s men returned then and spied him where he lay. “There he is! Grab ‘im!”

  Dylan’s escape was blocked by the Beltane fires to his left or right. He scrambled to his feet, kicking up dirt behind him, and bolted for the forest. He ran fast and hard as the attackers followed. The low underbrush and sharp brambles tugged at his stocking covered legs. The plants tore the fine woolen fabric of his ceremonial robe into shreds, and his skin along with it.

  He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. Sweet Danu. They were so close he could see the horse’s nostrils flaring, the steam rising in the pale moonlight their heaving flanks.

  “Don’t let the bugger get away! We’ll have the gods to pay if we don’t kill ‘im dead.”

  Kill me?! Why?!

  A steel band of fear tightened around his chest. Frantic, his eyes darted from side to side, looking for some refuge from his pursuers. He splashed through a shallow stream, sending water flying high, soaking the edge of his garment. His breath came in short, ragged gulps. His lungs were near-to-bursting as the horses and their riders gained on him.

  He glanced behind him again. One of the men was leaning forward, his arm stretched out, dirty fingers flexed, just inches from Dylan’s face. Another minute, and they’d have him.

  In that instant, Dylan saw a dark opening in the brush. Could he make it? The man’s hand caught his shoulder and the boy stumbled. In a last burst of speed, Dylan’s long legs pushed him forward into the unknown…

  He’d tumbled straight into Hekate Athelred’s keeping. And it was here he’d stayed. It took many months, but he’d healed from the physical shock of the murders of his loved ones, of Maere’s kidnapping, of his own near brush with death. Thanks to Kate’s curatives and wisdom.

  Then Kate began to teach him about magic. And he’d listened and learned while she explained to him the various levels of power, their rewards, and their dangers. She always insisted on telling him the bad along with the good. What was burned most clear
ly into his memory, though, was when she woke him from a nightmare the night after his escape and rocked him back and forth as he poured out his grief. Once he had calmed down, she held his face in her hands, and gently wiped his tear-streaked face. The wisdom in her eyes wrapped itself around him like a healing balm. “The magic is strong in you, Dylan mac Connell,” Kate whispered. “It sings in your blood. In your soul. It fills you with strength. Remember this always: True magic comes from within. If you possess it with honor, no one can take it away from you, no matter how hard they may try.”

  Dylan blinked back the moisture forming in his eyes and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table. He would miss this place terribly. He looked around the room, impressing every detail on his mind. The small window beside the kitchen cupboard outlined with the flowering vines he himself had painted for his mentor. She had been more than that. Kate had been his mother, too. His gaze landed on her. Finished with the herbs, she now sat on the rocking chair next to the stone hearth. She was adding the final scrap of cloth to the patchwork quilt she’d been working on for the past fortnight. He cleared his throat. “It’s time I left.”

  “I know,” she said without looking up.

  It wasn’t like her to be taciturn. He’d decided long ago that there must be something inside of him that attracted boisterous instructors. First there had been Maere’s father, Manfred cu Llwyr, with his booming voice and jovial nature, Kate with her raspy laugh when he’d mastered some new element of magic or her quick shriek and a swat to the ear when he didn’t. He smiled slightly when, in his mind’s eye, he saw her that first day shaking a finger in his face, telling him to be quiet so she could talk.