The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn)

by Llywelyn, Morgan

  The old master smith died and Goibban, his chief apprentice, took over his lodge and forge in the days of Toutorix, the Invincible Boar. There was always plenty of work to be done but it did not exhaust his vast reservoirs of energy. He fell into the habit of making little toys in the evenings, models of weapons and household goods for the children to play with, and soon he had a crowd of youngsters around the forge whenever he worked. He would glance up occasionally and reward them with a fond, if distracted, smile.

  Then Toutorix had taken a load of iron ore in return for a few casks of salt, and Goibban had found a challenge worthy of his ability. He lost interest in copper and bronze. He wanted only to pit himself against the most unyielding opponent he had ever found, the star metal. Something in the integrity of the material appealed to something deep inside himself. Properly handled and correctly judged as to its temperature and tensile strength, iron could be made obedient. But the slightest mistake could turn it brittle and useless. It became a competition between the man and the iron, and it was the competition Goibban loved. For years now, he had thought of little else.

  When Toutorix called on him for an inventory of work in progress, Goibban announced with pride, “We have enough extra tools to offer some more in trade this season.”

  “Beyond our own needs?”

  “Yes, and we still have raw ore from that lot you got from Mobiorix last sunseason. Fine quality, that. I’m putting together a few items I think the Etruscans and Illyrians might find especially desirable: tweezers, shears, household knives, even a couple of iron plowshares I’ve made according to my own design.”

  “Last season the Hellene traders asked if we had any iron weapons,” Toutorix remarked, avoiding an outright inquiry.

  Goibban stroked his mustache. “We have scythes and chisels, and I’ve been experimenting with some files for sharpening and a kind of toothed knife for cutting wood.”

  Toutorix gazed around the forge, considering. Once he had enjoyed the intricacies of arranging trade based on the bounty of the Salt Mountain, and his dealings with such distant tribes as the Boii, the Belgae, and the Treveri had earned him fame among all the people. This in turn had drawn new traders from the east and the south, the music-obsessed Thracians and the dainty Etruscans with their language like birds twittering. Wagonloads of luxury goods had given the Kelti a taste for gold ornaments and red wine, expensive merchandise they would soon be importing from as far away as the land of the Hellenes.

  But that was long ago, when Toutorix was rightly called the Invincible Boar. His strength was fading now, though he admitted it to no one. There were times when his mind seemed to have lost its agility and he found himself fumbling through a negotiation, unable to get the best of an opponent. He now preferred to barter with old acquaintances still respectful of his reputation.

  Like the Hellenes who wanted iron weapons.

  “How is your supply of daggers?” he asked Goibban.

  “Enough to last for a generation.”

  “And swords like the one you made for me, with the metal folded back upon itself and layered in the blade? Thin as it is, it is the strongest I’ve ever used, and it keeps its edge. Have you made more of those?”

  A light came into Goibban’s face as when a mother is asked about her favorite son. “There has never been anything to equal that one, except those I’ve made since. With one slash they can bite through a bronze shield.”

  “The Hellenes would pay dearly for them, then,” Toutorix said. “The warriors of Sparta are reported to be invading Messenia; they will have use for good weapons.”

  Goibban scowled. “Would you sell iron blades to those not of the people? I don’t think that’s so wise …”

  Toutorix threw back his head and looked down his nose at the smith. “You have been overpraised, Goibban; it has given you the idea that you are a thinker. I am the thinker. I am the warrior, and I am the best judge of such matters, until the tribe elects someone to replace me because I am no longer competent. When that day comes my replacement will be a warrior’s son, not a craftsman. Remember that.”

  The two men eyed each other. The lord of the tribe was old, and felt every night of his life in his bones. Goibban was bigger, and younger, with no sag to his skin. His eyes were a hot blue, like the flame of his forge.

  Discretion had begun to replace reckless courage on Toutorix’s list of survival skills; he throttled his temper and added, in a more placating voice, “Just prepare some weapons for me to show, in case there is a market for them. You will be amply rewarded, and you can trust me to see they are not put into the hands of potential enemies.

  “Besides, the Hellenes already have some iron weapons, you know; the material is not unheard of among them.”

  Goibban snorted. “They have brittle metal, an inferior product they get from the Assyrians or some such people. It is nothing compared to ours; they do not have the secret.”

  “We will keep the secret and the best weapons for ourselves, always,” Toutorix assured him. “Am I not the lord of the tribe?”

  Meanwhile, Epona was practicing the new arts of womanhood, finding her place in the interlocked pattern of life. There were moments when she felt the pride of her sex and race flooding through her and she walked with new dignity, but then a change of mood would overtake her as patches of brilliant sunlight and purple shadow followed each other across the face of the mountains, and she thought herself nothing more than a child, pretending.

  She listened hungrily for the voice of the spirit within, and was relieved each time it spoke to her, not with words but with an intuition in the blood, commands direct to the muscle and bone. She heard without ears the voice older than time.

  Go this way, not that way. Bow down before this stone. Do not eat that. Turn your bowl over and smooth its base with your hand to honor the craftsman who made it; his spirit watches and will be pleased.

  I guide, the spirit within told her. You listen and follow. I tell you how to live thislife.

  It was well past midday, and her share of the work was done. She spent the morning helping Brydda wash wool for dyeing, feeling the strain in her back and shoulders, though she did not complain. A woman of the people should not complain of physical discomfort; it was a point of honor. Men might make a big show of small injuries on the sports field or in the mines, but women bore pain in silence. That was their strength.

  Now, with the afternoon before her to spend as she chose, she decided to go to the livestock pens. She never tired of being with the animals; she always felt most comfortable when in their company. Their natures, unlike those of humankind, were constant and comprehensible. She even enjoyed the smell of the pens, the combined odor of fodder and churned earth mixed with dung.

  Grazing animals were herded long distances to steep upland meadows, but some animals were always in the pens, for convenience or special care. There were usually working oxen and the stocky draft ponies purchased from the Cimmerians to pull carts, which were also modeled on the Cimmerian design. Light passenger carts, elaborately carved, more suitable for display than for hard usage. The oxen pulled the big wagons filled with salt.

  In one corner was the pair of little horses that had grown old pulling the chief’s cart on ceremonial occasions. They stood together companionably, head to tail, dozing as the sun crept westward to warm their aging bones. They were good friends of Epona’s. The young woman climbed up on the fence and hooked her elbows across the top so she could enjoy a leisurely chat with them. At her call, her favorite, the bay with the crooked blaze across its face, lifted its head and came toward her. It was a shaggy, broad-shouldered animal, with big-boned legs but a meager rump. What beauty it possessed glowed in its brown eyes.

  “Sunshine on your head,” Epona offered fondly. The bay met her eyes and their two spirits greeted one another. The pony lifted its face to hers and exhaled a warm, grassy breath. She blew her own gently back into its nostrils. Understanding flowed between herself and the animal. They wer
e intensely aware of each other, their communication unhampered by the awkward construction of human words. They belonged to dissimilar races but shared the common experiences of life and death, and each enriched the other by existing.

  The bay pony stood quietly, absorbing the tension from the girl and giving back a sense of tranquillity. Smell the air. Feel the sun. Be, just be, it seemed to tell her.

  She let her eyes smile at the little horse, for it would not perceive bared teeth as a friendly gesture. “Yes,” she agreed, acknowledging its wisdom. “You are right. I have nothing to worry about. Goibban will …” her voice trailed away, not finishing the thought, but there was no need to finish it. Not with the horse; the horse understood.

  Epona dangled one hand over the fence and twisted her fingers in the pony’s shaggy mane. The two stood for a time in peace and understanding, sharing existence.

  Gradually Epona became aware of something through her sense of touch; an awareness as strong as the voice of the spirit within. She closed her eyes, concentrating. Her inner self merged with that of the horse and she realized that the bay was old, and tired. Flies were annoying his soft underbelly and he lacked the energy to dislodge them. Dry skin itched around his withers and along his level spine, and the flesh sagged from the bone, seeking reunion with the earth mother. The cartpony was a weary creature who had endured too many harsh winters and would not last through another. He and his companion had finished their lives.

  “I’ll speak to the druii about releasing your spirits soon,” she promised them. “You won’t have to be old much longer. At Samhain, the start of the new year, when the great bonfire is built, we will let you go. Before the worst of the winter. Just enjoy this one more sunseason first.”

  “You can talk with the animals, Epona?” said a voice just behind her, startling her. She slid down from the fence and turned to face Kernunnos. The priest was standing very close, his pointed canine teeth showing through his thin lips. His voice was sibilant, the whisper of snakes’ bellies over stone.

  She tried to edge away without being rude, but her back was against the fence and he moved with her, like a shadow.

  “I like animals,” she said as politely as possible, giving him nothing. His proximity repelled her.

  “Do you like men, too?” Kernunnos asked. His voice contained the insinuation that something so natural was somehow twisted and ugly, with hidden meanings. She had the distinct impression that to answer him truthfully would give him a sort of power over her.

  “I like animals,” she said firmly, tossing her head to show him her spirit was hers alone.

  The priest’s mouth gaped open, showing a red and pointed tongue. “Hai! Have you ever seen … through the eyes of an animal? Can you do that?” He grabbed her wrist, clutching it tightly, his hot eyes attempting to bore into her secret self. “Tell me, girl: Have you ever had dreams in which spirits came to you and offered you gifts? Do you see things others cannot?”

  She tugged but he would not let go. He rocked back and forth on his heels without loosening his grip, humming to himself. His slitted eyes closed, then flared open. “I feel it in you!” he cried. “There is a strength … you are the first woman of the Kelti in my lifetime to have such a gift …” His face closed and became cunning, greedy. “I could speak to Toutorix and offer to instruct you myself; it would be an honor. There are things I could teach you that you cannot imagine, Epona. You are sensitive to the world beyond the eyes and ears; I could show you so much, girl. So much.” His voice was not overtly threatening, it had become more dangerous than that. It was seductive, soft as smoke, filled with promises of things unseen. Things she did not want to see.

  She raised her wrist with an abrupt gesture and twisted it out of his grasp. “I don’t want you to teach me anything,” she told him, rubbing her arm where his nails had bitten into the soft flesh.

  “I could make something very special of you,” he insisted, moving toward her again. “I have always suspected it …”

  “My life is my own, no part of it is yours, shapechanger,” she told him emphatically, fighting back an emotion very like fear.

  Kernunnos smiled with his mouth but his eyes were flat and cold. “You are mistaken. Whatever gifts you have been given belong to the tribe. If you refuse to share them you will suffer. Look!” He stretched one long arm in the direction of the trading road. “Men are coming even now, but not merchants. These are men of the people from a tribe on a muddy river, and they are bringing gifts for the parents of marriageable girls. You will find one of these men very desirable, Epona. But if you go with him you will live a hard life and have a painful transition, dying with blood in your mouth beside a muddy river. Yet you will not be able to resist going. It is your punishment for refusing me, and you will suffer. You will suffer!”

  His voice was the singsong of druii prophecy. It turned Epona’s bones cold. Spinning away from the priest, she hurried toward the chief’s lodge and the protection of four strong walls. Kernunnos’ voice followed her. “One or the other, Epona! He who comes will take you, or I will! You cannot escape.”

  “I can,” she whispered under her breath, running.

  She had no doubt that the men he had foreseen were coming, but she did not intend to be available when they arrived. As the oldest daughter in the chief’s lodge she should be on hand to offer food and wine to travelers, but if she left the village before they arrived there was a chance she could change the pattern; it need not happen as Kernunnos had prophesied.

  The lodge was temporarily empty except for Brydda’s baby slumbering in its fur-lined bedbox. Okelos had returned early from the Salt Mountain, as he so often did, and he and Brydda had gone someplace together. Rigantona, angered at being left alone to mind the baby, had gone after them, but she would not leave the hearth untended for long.

  The warm clothes Okelos wore in the mine lay carelessly tossed on his bedshelf, his leather knapsack of pine twigs beside them. Without stopping to think, Epona pulled her brother’s tunic over her head, though it was much too large for her, and belted it as tightly as she could. She snatched up the mittens and knapsack and eased out the door. The rest of the miners were just reaching the village, and there were shouts of welcome, suddenly interrupted by the strong clear voice of Vallanos the sentry, announcing that someone was coming along the trade road. At such a time, no one noticed Epona as she slipped from her family’s lodge.

  The trail to the Salt Mountain was steep and unfamiliar, for children were forbidden to use it. Epona felt certain no one would seek her there. She could take care of herself easily, she thought, sheltering in the mine and feeding herself from berries and the small animals she knew how to snare, until the visitors had arranged marriages with other women and gone on their way.

  She would have an adventure, such as boys had on the first hunt of their manhood.

  Above the village stretched the narrow valley for which the tribe was named, the valley of the Kelti, sloping steeply upward toward the high peaks. Here Poel came at each change of the moon to recite the occurrences of the community to the spirits of the ancestors, and to take back any messages they might send to that part of the tribe currently in the world of the living.

  Beyond lay the entrance to the Salt Mountain. It appeared innocuous enough for a gateway to unlimited wealth, just a gaping hole braced with timbers and leading down into darkness. The core of rock salt stretched for an unknown distance beneath the valley; no man had explored its farthest reaches.

  Epona hesitated. The blue of the sky had melted into the lake, and a bank of soft clouds, indistinguishable from mist, was moving up the valley toward her, swallowing the light. Mountain rain could be sudden and hard.

  Better get inside; the clouds were sweeping closer and Epona could smell the rain now. From the leather knapsack she took pine twigs to make a torch and a pair of firestones given to Okelos by Tena. She struck the stones together, calling on the fire spirit but nothing happened.

  A gust of co
ld wind hit her. It would be much more comfortable inside the mountain, in the tunnel that now seemed inviting compared to the approaching storm. She struggled with the firestones and at last ignited a spark and lit her torch. Holding it aloft, feeling confident once more, she went down into the Salt Mountain.

  No, it is not safe, the spirit within warned, but she chose not to listen.

  At first there was nothing but a dark tunnel burrowing into the earth, its walls hacked out with bronze axes and shored up with timbers. There was no sign of the salt, though the air had a salty tang, a dry, nose-tickling feel to it. The tunnel narrowed as it dropped, and where the slant became steeper sections of tree trunks had been jammed horizontally into the earth to provide crude steps. Soon it was impossible to see back to the tunnel mouth. The darkness closed around Epona, and her torchlight seemed feeble by contrast.

  Go back, urged the spirit within.

  No! she told it. I am not afraid. I am safe here, my lord Toutorix is chief of the Salt Mountain, and I can go where I please.

  Besides, I’m here now. I want to see the salt.

  A blast of cold air whistled down the tunnel, making her shiver.

  After an interminable time, her torchlight caused something to sparkle ahead of her and her heartbeat quickened. The tunnel branched into galleries and there was the salt. All-around her, above, beside, beneath, was a world of crystalline beauty. It crunched under her feet. The torchlight reflected as from walls of ice, but when she pulled off her mitten and ran her hand over the surface it was not cold, just rough and grainy. She licked her fingers, tasting the salt.

  She had entered a magic world, and she wandered through it with delight, her worries temporarily forgotten as she went down one tunnel after another, lured on by new beauties of light and color as the torch illumined the changing surfaces of the rock salt.