As her friends gaped with admiration, Skaaha let her father put the shining gift into her hand. It was perfect, as if the real orb, in miniature, had been plucked from the sky and placed in her keeping.
‘It's beautiful,’ she said, looking up at him, her eyes also shining in the lamplight.
He pulled her to him in a hug. ‘And only a little less beautiful than my daughter,’ he said. She walked with him to the door. As she pulled the string to raise the screen, she glanced at him again, still worried.
‘Will Hanick be all right?’ she whispered.
Her father leaned down to her. ‘Hanick will be over that moon’ – he tapped the brooch in her open hand – ‘and will still be dreaming of this Imbolc when he's old and grey.’ He left then. Skaaha let the curtain fall. Back in the cavern, her two friends sat shaking on the bed. Freya's hand was clamped over her mouth. Kaitlyn hugged herself, face contorted as if in pain.
‘What's wrong?’ Skaaha asked.
‘You,’ Kaitlyn shrieked. ‘Oh, it's bursting!’ she mimicked. ‘Haven't you been to High Sun?’
‘Yes.’ Skaaha frowned. All she could recollect was Kerrigen's excarnation, the gnawing pain of grief, birds fluttering, and her dismay at Mara's accession.
‘Without seeing the sun-dance?’ Freya squealed, hugging her belly.
Skaaha shook her head, mystified. The girls on the bed could hold their laughter in no longer. Yelping and squeaking, they rolled about, thumping their heels. A shudder ran through Skaaha's abdomen. She doubled over, chuckling and snorting. The three of them made so much noise they still didn't hear the man who, this time, walked away down the slope, hurrying to share the story with Erith. Safe beyond the constraint of parental duty, he, too, broke out in hoots of laughter.
Snow fell like drifting feathers. Among the crowding ewes penned against Lethra's roundhouse the first lamb was born – a good omen for Imbolc. The shepherd pushed other pregnant beasts away so none adopted the newborn, depriving its recovering mother. Left alone, they stole lambs to ease milk-swollen teats and then rejected their own or abandoned fostered ones when theirs arrived, leaving them orphaned, forgotten by that time by birth mothers.
In the cavern, Skaaha huddled naked beside the hearth.
‘Will you hurry up?’ she complained. ‘I'm freezing.’
‘It's ready now.’ Kaitlyn stirred a pot of oily cream. ‘You'll have to stand.’
Gritting her teeth, Skaaha stretched upright.
‘Turn round a bit,’ Freya insisted, ready with a second pot. ‘Then I can do your front while Kaitlyn does your back.’
‘It better work,’ Skaaha threatened, doing as she was told. Kaitlyn rubbed the concoction into her shoulders. It smelt spicy, rich.
‘Course it'll work,’ Kaitlyn said. ‘Nechta's an expert.’
The druid's cream was to keep the cold out. Already Skaaha could feel it working, the skin on her back tingling, and on her throat where Freya smoothed it, rubbing it well in as she worked across breastbone and chest.
‘Ow!’ Skaaha yelped. ‘What did you do?’
‘Sorry,’ Freya said. ‘It's your breasts. They're starting to come.’
Skaaha glanced down. It was true. Small bumps had formed behind her nipples. That explained the recent tenderness, an ache she'd blamed on the rough bed in the cave. She pushed her chest out. Freya laughed.
‘You've nothing to stick out yet,’ she said. ‘Put your arms up.’
‘Have I got hair too?’ Skaaha asked hopefully, peering into her bald armpit.
‘Yes, on your brooch,’ Kaitlyn teased. ‘The hare of the moon.’
‘A little bit,’ Freya confirmed, working down over her friend's belly. ‘Keep still!’ she chided, as Skaaha tried to look down to see for herself. “You can look when we're finished.’
‘My legs are still cold.’
‘We'll get them now,’ Kaitlyn said, slapping Skaaha's feet apart. ‘Step.’
When they'd finished, they dressed her. Bride's colour was white. A fine, wool undershift went on first. White leggings were wrapped round her calves up to her knees and held in place with criss-crossed ties. The dress was warm, woven wool.
‘We'll do the cloak once we're done,’ Kaitlyn said, as Freya stripped off, ready for the warming cream to be applied. They worked quickly, first one, then the other, then dressed themselves hurriedly in the handmaiden's traditional blue.
‘You look beautiful,’ Skaaha said, when they'd finished. ‘Both of you.’
‘You should see yourself,’ Freya said.
Skaaha felt beautiful. The girls had braided her long black hair first, weaving the braids around her head. It made her feel tall, grown-up almost. They shared a horn of nippy brew sent by Lethra to complement Nechta's cream in helping keep them warm. Then Kaitlyn went off to check outside and came hurrying back.
‘Boots on,’ she said. ‘The moon's well up.’ Timing was everything. Bride must visit every home before the village woke. Quickly, they pulled on sheepskin boots and donned cloaks. Kaitlyn fastened Skaaha's with the silver brooch.
‘Now, remember, nobody must see you, or us,’ she warned, pulling the hood of the white cloak carefully over her friend's hair.
‘I'll be invisible,’ Skaaha grinned as it flopped over her eyes. ‘If I fall in a drift you'll never find me.’
‘Don't yell if you do,’ Kaitlyn warned. ‘We need to be quiet, or somebody might wake and come out to look.’
‘Thum came out last Imbolc,’ Freya said, handing out small baskets which they each looped over an arm, ‘to pee. We had to hide behind the smelter till he went back in. He took ages!’
‘Wish he was here,’ Skaaha said, touching the brooch. ‘No, not now,’ she corrected, as her friends gasped at the bad luck which would follow if he were, ‘in the morning. So he could see how well Ard used the silver.’
‘You can show him some day,’ Kaitlyn said. ‘Time to go.’
Bride's fire, lit with flame brought from the forge, burned on the playing field, in case the goddess and her maidens got cold or needed light. The light wasn't necessary. More snow cloud blossomed on the horizon, but the sky above was clear and bright, the land a luminous white, the night eerily still. Although she'd sometimes peered through the screen to watch the Kylerheans go about each day's work, after seven days' of incarceration in the confined cavern the sudden enormity of landscape, sky and sea stunned Skaaha.
She stood for several moments, assaulted by the smells of earth, air and water, awe-struck. It felt as if the top of her head was sliced off, as if moon and stars shone into her skull. Once she had her bearings, they set out, treading carefully through the drifts, stifling giggles. Outside the three roundhouse doors lay offerings of food and drink. On the doors, ribbons of cloth torn from old clothes were tacked. Each carried a wish for someone sleeping inside. Collecting these into their baskets, the girls hurried to the riverbank.
Kaitlyn led Skaaha to the easiest spot to dip the ribbons. For speed, the baskets were lowered into the chill water so it seeped in through the wickerwork, the rims kept above the surface so no piece of cloth could escape and float away.
‘Why do they have to be wet?’ Skaaha asked. ‘Our fingers will freeze.’
‘Because water's magic,’ Freya whispered back, reciting, ‘Rag of hope, freeze and thaw, blow in the wind, dry in the sun, fall from the tree when the wish is done.’
‘Because we can tie them tighter wet,’ Kaitlyn countered. The tree of hope hung over the pool. ‘Just watch you don't end up in the river,’ she hissed again, as they wrung out the wet rags before tying them to its snow-covered branches.
Skaaha recognized some, guessing their wishes as she worked: Erith's, Ard's, Gern's, Lethra's, Hanick's, Kenna's, Calum's.
‘Oh, help,’ Freya squeaked. ‘We forgot the priests!’
‘They won't have wishes,’ Skaaha said, fingers already growing numb.
‘You bet they do,’ Kaitlyn corrected.
Freya scampered off to fetch
and dip the strips of cloth from the druid huts. When the baskets were empty and the tree fully beribboned, the girls warmed their frozen hands at the low bonfire. Kaitlyn gave each a dollop of Nechta's cream to rub into their tingling fingers. Standing by the flames, exposed in the open centre of the village, their nervousness grew into fits of giggles.
Skaaha nudged Kaitlyn. ‘Maybe you're Ruan's wish,’ she chuckled.
‘I'm off him now,’ Kaitlyn said. ‘There's someone I like better.’
‘I still want Hanick.’ Sniggering, Freya touched chilled fingers against Skaaha's cheek. ‘Imagine these hands on him.’
‘It'd freeze and fall off.’ Kaitlyn mimed the drop. ‘Clunk! Imagine you – “Oooh, help, it's broken. Anybody got needle and thread?” ’
‘Stop it!’ Skaaha stifled a snort. ‘Somebody'll wake.’
Kaitlyn shushed them both. ‘Let's get the food and go.’ She put the pot of cream back in her basket. ‘Drink the drinks, leave the dishes.’
Hurrying now, they took the druid offerings first, then scattered, one to each roundhouse. Fresh flakes of snow began to fall as Skaaha reached the larder-keeper's door. Quickly, she drank the mouthful of mead then crouched to replace the empty cup. As she reached to lift the cloth-wrapped food from its dish, the door swung inwards a crack and stopped. She looked up. Young Calum, eyes full of sleep, stood looking at her. The child blinked, beginning to realize he looked into the face of Bride framed by her white hood. His mouth fell open. Skaaha put a finger to her lips.
‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘Blessings on your house.’ Scooping up the food parcel, she scurried off, leaving the little boy standing in the doorway, mouth still open. All the way back to the cavern, with her handmaids following, she expected to hear him call out, to shout he'd seen Bride, but no sound came. Safely inside, they collapsed round the hearth, laughing out loud at the adventure of it all.
The sound of voices reached them just before dawn. Children called. ‘The food's gone. Look, she drank the ale!’ and ‘She's been, look! My wish is on the tree!’ Quickly the girls straightened dresses, wiped each other's faces, patted hair back into place. Pipes began to play, chasing the hag of winter. Kaitlyn snatched up the rag torch that Skaaha would light from Bride's fire just as Lethra, dressed again in Carlin blacks and carrying her broom, hurried into the cave.
‘You better all be ready,’ the chief snapped. They were. She gazed at Skaaha, her old eyes watering from the cold air outside. After a long moment, she nodded. ‘I expect you'll do.’ She held out a bunch of mistletoe, gleaming white berries nestling in its waxy green leaves. ‘From the druids.’
‘Blessings on you, Lethra.’ Skaaha took the sacred plant. At the entrance, the crone fixed a wreath of mistletoe around the girl's braided hair. Carefully, she pulled the white hood over it, and down over Skaaha's eyes to veil them from the sun.
‘Keep it there till you're indoors,’ Lethra advised, ‘or you'll go blind.’ Her gnarled hands gripped the cord to lift the screen. She would wait inside, stuffing her hag's robes with the straw mattress for ritual burning when Bride called her down. Winter was done. The young, weak sun had no warmth in it, but heat rose from underground. Green shoots pushed through the snow, the ewes gave milk.
From outside, the music changed to Bride's song, clear and pure in the frosty air. The screen rose. The first rays of morning sun rising over Alba shone directly into the cave. A great cheer went up from villagers crowding the playing field below.
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’
Children shrieked. ‘It's Bride! It's Bride!’
Stepping out into the blinding light of dawn, in the glare of snow, whiteness rushed into Skaaha's brain, blotting out thought, memory and sight, as if she were absorbed by brightness. She gasped, stopped – she, and all existence, wiped out, cleansed into pure light. Realization flooded her. This was birth, and rebirth. The gift of fire brought the extinction of dark. It took some time, blinking, staring down at her feet from below the hood, before she could raise her head.
Wanting to see, she pushed the hood back, blinking until she could squint through the rush of light. Frosted and sparkling, a world of white homes, trees and hills spread out before her in the morning sun, backed by shimmering water. Beside the river, the wishing tree's neatly dusted naked branches hung festooned with brightly coloured ribbons of hope.
Familiar faces looked up at her, cheering. Ard and Erith hugged each other, glowing with pride. Kenna, the furnace-keeper, swung little Calum on to her shoulders so he could see better. Parents with babies born since last Imbolc waited, eager for name-blessing. Children gaped in awe, other girls, who might soon menstruate, with envy. Hanick, Gern and the rest of the men yelled themselves hoarse.
Even the three druids beamed as they played. Ruan raised a hand in salute. A shiver ran up her spine. Danger walks beside him. But that was madness, Jiya's voice. Inside dark homes, cold hearths waited with fresh kindling. She would take the gift of fire to each house in turn. With her maidens following, she began to walk down the snowy hillside.
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ The people cheered. ‘Bride, Bride, Bride!’
Skaaha strode towards them unafraid, no longer the grieving, resentful child, not the odd, unwelcome stranger. For the first time, she understood druid celebrations. Change and renewal were blessings, ordinary but miraculous. She left childhood behind in the cavern, childhood and the past. This was where she belonged. These people had become her people. She hung their wishes on the tree. Their hopes were hers. It was Imbolc, the first day of spring, and she, the bringer of life, she was Bride.
Leap of Faith
14
Skaaha stood in Nechta's lodge. Several suns had passed since her time as Bride. Proving the crone's intuition correct, she'd bled at every moon since. Slim as a whip, her muscles lithe and supple, she was almost a woman now, shapely, with good bones, and strong, with the strength of willow. In her hands, she held a parting gift, a fat, curved blade set in an ornate stubby handle – ideal for chopping herbs.
Nechta was leaving. As the eldest priest, her herbal knowledge now imparted to Ruan, she'd be replaced, with a new post assigned her at the sanctuary of Tokavaig.
‘It will be strong,’ Skaaha said, handing her the gift. ‘I made it from the iron of a fallen star.’ The blade, finely sharpened, gleamed. Three bronze hares chased each other round a mushroom handle.
Nechta cupped it in her palm. ‘A perfect fit,’ she purred, ‘and fine, very fine.’ She examined the workmanship. ‘You have Ard's gift with metalwork, right enough.’
‘My father is a great smith, who gifts me with teaching,’ Skaaha boasted.
‘Good pupils make good teachers.’ Nechta bustled around, finding a place among her packs to safely tuck the chopper. Gusting wind rattled the door. ‘Ruan says you stretch even him.’
Skaaha flushed, searching for politeness that escaped her brain like disturbed mice running from the grain store. Ruan had discussed her? The druid's hut seemed smaller, fragile against the wild wind outside, the spicy scent richer than ever.
Nechta watched her, head cocked. ‘Will you come of age at Beltane?’
Skaaha's discomfort deepened. ‘I don't know.’ She looked into the older woman's enquiring eyes, genuinely puzzled. ‘How will I tell?’
‘If you have to ask, you're not ready,’ the priest chuckled. ‘The body knows its needs. Let nothing else persuade you, least of all some lovesick fool.’ She changed her mind about the chopper, retrieving it and rummaging for space in her other packs. ‘Run along then, Ruan's waiting. I'll be here till after breakfast, if there's anything else you want to know.’
Skaaha left, questions whirling, unformed. Outside, the wind caught her hair and clothes. Ruan was indeed waiting, leaning on his staff, though she'd heard nothing to indicate his presence. Without speaking, they crossed the river by the stepping stones, skirted the mound of the ancestors, walking round the coast to the beach with the morning sun behind them. The only sound was their clothes flappi
ng, the howl in the heavens and the crash of waves.
Beltane, the festival of mating, celebrated fertility. Marriages were made, or unmade. First-time couples handfasted till next Beltane. Of the four druid feasts, it was liveliest, the time when Bride became Danu, spring turned into summer, and girls embraced maturity. Skaaha had never envied the participants, nor wished to be one. Though atmosphere and music were powerful, the dance compelling, copulation looked and sounded painful. Kaitlyn shrugged it off, unimpressed, but had since chosen two husbands. Freya, who became wordless in praise of its pleasures, carried Hanick's child. What Beltane gifted in the coming-of-age obviously bore repeating.
‘Do you mean to work or watch?’ Ruan asked. He was already stripped, robes weighed down with a rock, re-tying the knotted cord round his waist.
Realizing she was staring at him, Skaaha stood to haul her dress off, but as the druid looped the sling around the pouch of shot and tied it round his thigh, her gaze kept straying back again. Like iron from the sky, he, too, was strong, his hands lean, fingers nimble. The smooth line of his thigh muscle made her breath catch.
‘Ready?’ He straightened up, fair strands of hair flapping in his face.
She nodded, befuddled as if ale addled her wits, and began to warm up, shaking tension out of her limbs, running on the spot, stretching, her skin pummelled by wind. From long practice, they moved into the routines in unison, matching their movements through the warrior steps then tumbling and leaping across the sand as if twinned in dance. As they began the more difficult aerials, a thought rose in her head. Ruan must have lovers. Who, she didn't know. Caught off guard, she landed badly. He hurried over, but she was on her feet before he offered a hand. Small hairs glistened on his forearm, trapping sunlight. She felt feverish.
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