by Dawn Madigan
“I don’t remember,” Dara admitted, embarrassed. “I was four years old. Last thing I recall is Mom holding the edge of the cabbage leaf, about to lift it from the plate.”
“Oh Dara, you are so bad.” Aislinn yelled with frustration, then settled back again, laughing. “You know, I remember that kitchen, too.”
Too late it occurred to Dara that Aislinn’s family had moved into her parents’ house shortly after they had left.
“Oh Aislinn, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” Aislinn vigorously shook her head. “I loved your story. Thank you for giving me a good memory of that place, Dara.”
As the sun began to slant in the sky, Teague made his way into the garden shed’s cool shadow. Dara turned away from Aislinn, casting a questioning look at the intruder.
“Nice outfit,” she remarked, scanning his short green robe.
“’Tis time to crown our May Queen,” Teague smiled, then bowed lightly. “Would you join us, Highness?”
“Oh, Goddess, I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Dara mumbled, going pale. In high school she had never been Head Cheerleader, Homecoming Queen, not to mention Prom Queen. Baton twirling had been out of the question. She’d gladly settled for a swim team championship.
“You’ll do just fine,” Teague grinned and snatched her hand. He hauled her out of the shed, squirming and protesting desperately. Aislinn, blushing with excitement, gathered her dress and dashed out after them into the open meadow.
The colorful throng of Kanjali folk split and parted before the three of them, the crowd humming with wired anticipation. An improvised dais had been erected further back into the meadow, far enough to allow the crowd to move comfortably around it. Words and bits of sentences passed the huddled trio as it made its way through the general buzz.
“May Bride…”
“The Queen of May…”
“Bringer of Samon…”
“There’s already a crown on her…”
“Can picture her sky-clad…”
On that last remark she’d picked up speed, her face flaming brighter than her wreath of roses. She laced her fingers tighter within Teague’s, and he returned a comforting squeeze. Before she knew it, they were standing before the dais, and Rowan was turning to meet them. Seeing him, Dara’s already fluttering pulse skipped a beat or two. He looked like an ancient king, the setting sun crowning him with copper flames, his green attire complementing the stormy sea-green of his eyes.
“All yours, she is.” Teague tugged on Dara’s hand ‘til it rested within Rowan’s sure grip.
Rowan leaned down briefly. “Beautiful,” he whispered in Dara’s ear, just before turning and leaping onto the platform. He crouched low, leaning over the platform’s edge, Dara’s hand still clasped in his. She gasped sharply as Teague seized her waist and easily swung her onto the stage and into Rowan’s arms.
“Your May Queen and her King,” Teague hollered, his cupped hands making an improvised megaphone against his mouth. Brighid suddenly tore away from the horde, joining his side with a laugh.
The crowd broke into wild cheering, discordant hand clapping and piercing whistles. There were a few shouts, too.
“Kiss her!”
“Show us a good one…”
“Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.”
The crowd gradually fell into accord and became a single chorus, the same word shouted in unison from hundreds of mouths.
Dara pressed tighter against Rowan, her body throbbing with the crowd’s pulsating command. “They’re not going to just shut up and leave, are they?” she joked over the mayhem.
Rowan shook his head, then bent to his May Queen’s mouth and gave the masses exactly what they wanted. Shocked, Dara moaned into his kiss, the crowd’s roar fizzing through her blood like a stimulating drug. Her mouth started to work against Rowan’s. She climbed her fingers to his nape, entwining them in his hair and pulling him down against her. He instantly responded, deepening his kiss, his hands roving over her back. Dara made a sound low in her throat. The earth was swaying beneath her, and she was falling…
She opened her eyes to find Rowan cradling her face in his hands. Her fingers were still firmly laced against the back of his neck. He spoke her name and she nodded slowly, as if awakened from a spell.
Then they were both snatched off their makeshift stage and hurried away on anonymous shoulders. The parade washed like a flood through tents and randomly parked vehicles—pickups and caravans, road-dusty cars, slim motorcycles and a skeletal horde of bicycles.
The May Queen and her King were loaded upon the back of Teague’s faithful Bronco, and slowly the procession set off in a tumult of engine roars, loud honks and earsplitting human applause.
Rowan steadied Dara against him, laughing.
“Next stop, the Hill of Tara,” he said.
She didn’t answer, suddenly filled with a vague foreboding.
The long train of vehicles plowed through acres of green farmland, leisurely advancing along narrow country roads. The sun, on its way down, was occasionally winking at the travelers from behind dense roadside foliage. Laughter and loud singing echoed across the fields. The long, north-to-south ridge of the Hill of Tara was low enough for Dara to have missed if Rowan hadn’t pointed it out to her. Finally, the royal couple slumped down against the Bronco’s trunk floor.
“We’re about to skirt the Hill’s south side,” Rowan told Dara.
She smiled vaguely at him, her mind adrift.
After a short while Teague pulled off and hopped out of the car, and Brighid leaped down from the passenger’s side. The never-ending motorcade rumbled to a full stop behind them, sparking another flare-up of cheering, wailing and wild honking. The cars were abandoned along the road, blocking lavish miles of it, as their occupants flowed unhurriedly up a gently sloping pasture.
No one dared undermine Dara and Rowan’s honorary position at the head of the lively parade. The colorful ensemble flowed and gathered behind the two like a human river. As the keyed-up crowd marched on, voices and laughter slowly died down. Tall grass whispered around them, swayed by a passing breeze. Dara briefly shut her eyes, sensing sluggish magic settling over her skin like fine dust. Then Rowan gently tugged her hand and they halted.
“All old Irish roads lead to Tara,” Rowan said softly, squeezing her hand in his. “Look, sweetheart. What do you think of Tara in broad daylight?”
The Hill of Tara stretched boundless before them, and the crowd finally scattered, spreading through the wide-open, grassy plain. Dara watched them, inhaling a deep, excited breath. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Rowan hugged her to him, leading her to a secluded spot. He guided her west ‘til the Hill started to slope down.
“Look, Dara.”
Rowan gently rotated her in his arms towards the vast panorama. He was speaking softly against her, hugging her from behind. She turned to feast her eyes on the view.
“Oh, Rowan,” she gasped, her hands tightening over his.
Just beyond her feet the Hill’s west slope dropped steeply. Behind it, the whole world opened before her with sharp clarity, a vast tapestry of variegated greens. The land’s farthest rim was already shadowed. The sun’s red sphere now hung low above the horizon.
“’Tis getting dark,” Rowan whispered. “On a good day, you can see as many as thirteen counties, just looking down from Tara. There, to the north—that white mass—that’s Newgrange.”
Dara’s gaze traced Newgrange’s white quartz front, bright against the looming dusk. She squeezed her arms over Rowan’s.
“So, Highness, how do you like the view so far?” Rowan inquired, a smile in his voice.
“I feel like I can see half my ‘kingdom’ just standing here,” Dara replied, her dark eyes glittering with mirth. Then a sudden fear chilled her. Something utterly hateful and dark was still lurking within all this beauty.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Hill of Tara
April 3
0, Sundown
The Beltaine fire was about to be kindled.
Dara could feel the crowd’s tension surging about them.
The majority of the crowd huddled within the confines of the Royal Enclosure, a vast earthwork encircling the hill’s crown, and the others spilled about the rest of Tara.
The enclosure held two linked ring forts. Dara and Rowan had been positioned within the eastern of the two. From its center jutted Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, making a phallic silhouette against the flaming sunset.
“I thought Lia Fáil was much larger,” Dara shyly admitted. She glanced nervously north, towards the shallow Mound of Hostages, where the Speakers had the Gathering, touching the enclosure’s inner rim.
“The Stone only seems short because ‘tis half-buried in the ground.” Rowan gently squeezed Dara’s hand, raising it to his lips. “Truly, Lia Fáil is a dozen feet tall.”
Dara nodded, her hand climbing to the small leather pouch slung about her neck.
Brighid’s raven charm.
A faint chill coursed through her as she thought of the thick chunk of silver dangling so close to her heart. It would give her more Power to stay human, Brighid had told her. She glanced at the dark mass of eager shifters, acutely relieved that Aislinn wasn’t standing among them. Rowan had ordered his sister to keep to the estate. Knowing she would be the only Mortal amidst a crowd of Kanjali shifters, he refused to take her with them on this unsure night.
The red orb of the sun was now kissing the western horizon. There was a sudden stirring within the crowd, and a collective gasp breathed in unison from hundreds of mouths. Thick rows parted to make a clear path for a slim figure at the assembly’s edge.
“Niamh!” Dara whispered.
“Aye, the Bantiarna has a liking for a bit of drama,” Rowan chuckled.
The leader of the Speakers circle cut through the crowd with sure strides.
“Where are the rest of the Speakers?” Dara demanded quietly of Rowan, watching Niamh’s advance. As she neared, the elongated wooden staff in her hand became visible.
“The circle’s leader is the only one to show his face,” Rowan replied. “Her face, for that matter. The other Speakers are scattered within the crowd, their true identities hidden.”
Meanwhile, Niamh moved between the two joined ring forts and made a smooth climb up the barrow, facing the assembly beside Dara and Rowan. She was carrying her wooden staff in both her hands, as if presenting it for viewing. Dara noted with surprise that the staff’s end had been sharpened to a finely honed point.
Niamh then began a slow, measured walk, making a full circle around Rowan, Dara and Lia Fáil. Her gaze flowed calmly over the crowd that pressed against the ring fort’s edge. As she finally halted, all random chatter subsided.
“The Bearers of the Nine Woods shall now climb.” She spoke into the silence, making no attempt to raise her voice.
The nine woods…
Dara recalled Rowan saying that nine sacred woods were needed to kindle the Beltaine fire. From all around them the nine Bearers made their way to the barrow’s top. Each was a sturdy man, leather-girded and clad with a short green robe. Upon their right shoulders they carried a bundle of rough logs. Teague was in the lead, flashing Dara a soft grin. She recognized Killian among them as well, and he gave her a knowing wink as she caught his gaze. The Bearers huddled together, then crouched, each laying his treasured load at his feet.
In the west only half of the sun’s red orb was now visible above the skyline, and the sky around it had erupted in seething hues.
Niamh nodded in approval. She stepped closer to Lia Fáil at the barrow’s rough center, and touched her sharpened staff to the grassy soil.
“She’s preparing the Sacred Grid for the kindling of the tein-eigin,” Rowan whispered to Dara. “Tein-eigin means need-fire, or forced-fire.”
Niamh had begun to work her way carefully around the grass, her white robes flapping about her in the twilight breeze. She cut a large, square grid in the yielding soil, her movements practiced and confident. When the last line had been cut, the sun had already slipped below the skyline. A pale, perfectly round moon skirted the eastern horizon, and the striped sky behind it moved from pale blue to deep indigo.
“The sun has set,” Niamh spoke over the reverent silence. “Bearers, cut out the turf!”
Eight of the nine men drew pointed sticks from their belts, short versions of Niamh’s sharpened staff. They approached the Grid, their dark shapes moving across the sky’s shifting blue radiance. Teague, with oak at his feet, hadn’t moved with the rest. Each of the others took his place within one of the Grid’s squares, leaving vacant only the ninth, central one. The Bearers dug out the turf, each skillfully tending to his own grassy domain. Within a surprisingly short time they had all stood up, their work done.
“Return to your woods,” Niamh softly commanded them. “Bearer of the Oak, step forth into the ninth square.”
Teague picked up the oak branches and moved forward. He carried them over to the square in the Grid’s hub—the only one still covered with turf. Kneeling in the grass, he fitted one of the oak rods, fashioned like a spindle, into a socket carved beforehand in an oak plank. He then started to rotate the spindle against the plank, muscles swelling in his powerful arms.
Niamh, meanwhile, untangled a small bag of leather from within her robes.
Suddenly, the violent friction of wood against wood sparked, and the crowd made an audible gasp. Niamh stepped over to Teague and peppered the fire with her bag’s contents. The unsure spark brightened and swelled, blazing into a steady flame. Quickly, Niamh and Teague leaped away from the spreading flames, and Teague fed his remaining log to the fire.
Rowan and Dara pulled back from the heat, the Destiny Stone’s chill presence breathing closer against their backs.
“What did she sprinkle over the fire?” Dara murmured.
“’Tis crushed agaric, a kind of mushroom that grows on old birch trees,” Roan whispered back. “Easily combusts.”
As if on a cue, the other eight Bearers stacked their logs upon their shoulders and advanced to the blazing fire. Each fed his three logs to the flames in turn, and the fire hissed and crackled like a living thing. The crowd, which had kept silent through most of the kindling ritual, roared for each man, waving and shouting the Bearer’s name. When the nine men had finally scrambled back down the barrow, the Hill of Tara shook with the loud ovations.
At last, Niamh raised her staff high into the air. Ruddy patches of light shifted on her body as she moved, curbing the ecstatic Kanjali folk back into silence.
“Almost four thousand years ago, on Beltaine eve, the Tuatha dé Danann invaded Erin, landing first in Connacht.”
She spoke into the dawning quiet, disturbed only by the fire’s soft hiss and snap. Slowly she moved, gazing upon the illuminated, raised faces.
“Beltaine falls halfway between the first day of Spring, when day and night are equal in length, and Midsummer, when the day is the longest of the year, and night is the shortest. Beltaine takes us from Dark to Light.”
Dara absently tightened her grip on Rowan’s hand. He glanced down at her and smiled at her rapt expression, watching flames and shadows play over her face.
“Beltaine has also a second name,” Niamh went on. “’Tis also called Cestsamhain, ‘Opposite Samhain’. And, truly, Beltaine falls exactly opposite to Samhain on the Wheel of the Year. The two split the year in half. Dark and Light. Death and Life. Winter, Garn—and Summer, Samon.”
Dara felt that Niamh had named the seasons both in Gaelic and in English mainly for her sake. An excited hum rose from the watching crowd, broken off by Niamh’s raised hand.
“And because both Samhain and Beltaine are intermediaries, they are both times of no-time, and the Veil between the worlds grows thinnest. At these special times, passage is easy between the Upper Earth and the Otherworld. At these times, we should take extra care guarding the Gateways.”
&nb
sp; The crowd hummed its agreement.
“Tonight we celebrate Light, Summer and Life,” Niamh went on. “We celebrate the union between the Great Mother-Goddess and the God, He Who Guards the Sacred Oak. Tonight we also bless the joining of Rowan, the son of Breandan, and Dara, the daughter of Cuinn.”
The dusky air thundered with cheers. Dara’s heart pounded, and her stomach clenched. Rowan squeezed her hand and leaned over to her ear, whispering something that made her cheeks flare hotter than the flames’ heat. Niamh half-turned to them and smiled, allowing this round of applause to last longer. Finally she turned back to the roaring Kanjali folk, and shouts dwindled and abated beneath her gaze.
“For the first in many years, this night of Beltaine is also blessed by a full moon,” she said, swinging her arm to the east sky. “The Speakers and I will walk among you and do our best to aid your own control of the transformation. The weaker among you, and those traveling with young ones, are requested to leave now, while there’s time enough. I will not tolerate bloodshed among my own kinfolk. I assure you, the punishment will be grave for those left alive.”
There was movement within the mass of shifters, and an escalating muddle of whispers. Niamh watched the crowd closely, missing nothing. Her gaze alone made some flinch and withdraw of their own free will. A few others gathered up a child, winding their way out of the knot of shifters. Niamh gave them all time enough to make up their own minds, hoping each would come to the right decision.
At last, there was no more movement within the crowd.
“Now,” Niamh spoke again, “if this were an ordinary Beltaine eve—if we didn’t have a full moon—I would have asked Fiona to pass around her special Beltaine Cake. I personally witnessed her charring the bottom of one slice.”
Laughter broke from the listeners as Fiona raised high a dish burdened with a large round cake, scalloped around the edge and split in four. “I got more of these for you right here!” she bellowed, pointing at a plump, bumpy bag leaned against her legs. The crowd roared louder with laughter and screams.