At the high point of the ritual Rigantona came pacing slowly through the massed crowd, the staff of authority in her hand. She gave it to Poel, who in turn offered it to Taranis.
Tall, heavily bearded, with a neck like a bull’s and a voice like thunder, Taranis cried out three times to the assembled tribe, “I challenge any man who is stronger to take this from me!” At his first call Okelos made a slight movement as if he would step forward and everyone turned to look at him, but then he subsided, face red with angry fire.
When no one answered the challenge, Poel pressed the staff into the hands of Taranis. The drui then turned to face the Kelti, his arms flung wide. “All that lives, dies and lives again! So the old lord of the tribe goes on to new life. Now is come the season of Taranis the Thunderer, and all our loyalty belongs to him. As long as he leads us we shall share in his strength and his prosperity, for he is ours, and that which is his is ours. Sing with me the song of the people. Sing of all that is good and harmonious and life sustaining.”
They sang, full throated and joyous. They belonged to the new chieftain and he to them, joined together in the splendid totality of the Kelti, each person an integral part of the whole. Part of something magnificent.
The traders waiting encamped beyond the palisade could hear the tremendous roar of unrestrained joy that rolled through the Blue Mountains.
At sundown, Epona stood in the doorway of her mother’s lodge, anxiously awaiting the appearance of the moon. It came as a silver crescent above the peaks, a thumbnail slice of white in a lavender sky. There was time, then; many nights to go before she was expected in the magic house. She would speak to Goibban immediately.
But in the morning her courage failed her, and she put it off until the next day, and then the next. The right words were somehow never on her tongue; the spirit within did not offer them. But there was time, the moon was not yet full.
The traders came and Taranis sat in the trading circle with them, listening to their offers and examining their goods with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. He drove hard bargains, and his deep voice and unfamiliarity seemed to intimidate some of the merchants. Men began to say, around their lodgefires, “Taranis is going to make a fine chief. Hai, let’s drink another cup of wine to the Thunderer.”
The druii began seeking Epona out to have little conversations, each in turn, except for Kernunnos, who waited.
Nematona came into the lodge where she was working on the embroidered skirt of a gown. Daughter of the Trees sat beside her and pointed one long, tapering finger at the design Epona was struggling to master. The younger woman was gnawing on her lips and occasionally pushing damp hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist; embroidery was not one of her talents. “Be careful how you place each thread, Epona,” the gutuiter instructed. “It must conform to the pattern. Pattern is the structure that underlies all life, you know. The priesthood is not just a tribe within a tribe, assembled so that some might live off the efforts of others in return for offering sacrifices and dealing with spirits. No. The druii are those who are aware of and understand the pattern composed of all living things, beings which must act in harmony with one another in order to survive. The pattern is older than the people, and knowledge of it has been handed down through more generations than there are threads on the loom. The pattern is the magic of the stones—alas, we have forgotten most of that now!—and the song of the trees. All things must conform to the pattern or be broken.”
Conform to the pattern or be broken.
Epona thought of Kernunnos, waiting with his slitted yellow eyes in the magic house. She thought of living with scented smoke and chanting, going each night into otherworlds where mist swirled and things were not what they seemed.
Then she thought of the Blue Mountains and the sweet fresh open air, and the pattern of light and dark across the slopes she had loved all of thislife. She thought of Goibban, and the laughter of his children, clustered around her knees.
Uiska intercepted her while she was carrying water to refill the hydria in the family’s lodge. “Are you looking forward to the day you join us, Epona?”
Epona gave her a truthful answer. “I hope that day never comes.”
Uiska’s face wore the ghost of a smile. “All days come. And pass. Never fear one, because it is already part of the past and behind you.”
Epona set down her heavy leather bucket. “What does that mean?”
“Only that the past and future are one, and both exist now, thisday, as real and solid as the links of an iron chain. The present is the link that holds them all together.
“When you are initiated into the priesthood you will learn to move along that chain at will, because you will be fully aware of the solidity of the other links.”
“How can that be?” Unwillingly, Epona was intrigued.
Uiska instructed, “Stand still, Epona. Close your eyes. Feel. Reach out with your mind. Open the pores of your skin. Can you feel the village around you, and the mountains beyond the village? Feel those mountains. Feel their weight and substance. You can do it if you concentrate. Ah, yes, I see it in your face, just a little. Hai!
“If you are able to do that much, you can learn to feel the past and the future in much the same way, because they are as real as those mountains. As you could walk from this village up those slopes, so you can walk from thisday into lastday. It is no harder than visiting otherworlds.”
“Then why do you not do it more often? I’ve hardly ever heard of such a thing,” Epona said.
“It is frustrating,” Uiska told her, “to visit the past, for we can go as spectators only; we cannot change it. We move through it as ghosts; we see but do not touch.”
“And the future? What about the future? That is what I would like to change.”
The pale smile on Uiska’s face melted like snow. “The future can only be changed in the present, Epona. And it is even less wise to walk in that direction. It takes much courage to look into the future, and some of the things to be seen there would scorch your eyes. Better not to know, believe me. Learning to resist that temptation is part of the discipline of the druii. To know the future is to try to change it in the present, and that throws everything out of harmony.”
“I do not understand.”
The smile returned as Uiska told her, “That is the beginning of wisdom: to admit that you do not understand. You will. You will learn and grow, for that is the purpose of all living.”
She drifted away, insubstantial as fog, leaving Epona tantalized. So much to learn, so many questions she could ask … but that would mean making a commitment to Kernunnos and the magic house, and she would not.
Would not, would not, would not!
Shortly after sunrise the next day, Vallanos the sentry blew a long blast on his ram’s horn and then ran down into the village, breathless with excitement.
“Strangers are coming,” he announced as the people of the Kelti crowded around him. “They are not like anything I have seen before.”
Taranis ran his fingers through the mingled bronze and copper hairs of his beard. “What’s so different about them? Are they warriors of some sort?”
“That’s the trouble, I don’t know what they are.” Poor Vallanos was obviously distressed. “They are not men like us at all. I only caught a glimpse of them from a distance and then I came straight here to tell you, so you can prepare for their arrival. If there is any way to prepare for such things, I mean.”
“What are they?” many voices demanded to know.
“They do not appear to be human. From what I could see they are half man and half horse; men’s bodies growing from horses’ backs. They are the monsters the Hellenes call kentaurs !”
Chapter 9
Shoving and elbowing each other, the men and women of the Kelti ran toward the palisade and the road beyond. The fleet-footed young, Epona and Mahka among them, were among the first to arrive at the trail’s edge, where they halted in astonishment.
Four creatu
res were coming up the road: sinewy, longlegged beasts with very low withers and finely shaped hindquarters, nothing like the blocky little ponies used for draft animals or the asses and onagers the traders sometimes brought. Their stride was different, too. Instead of a choppy, short gait, suitable for pulling weight, they moved with long and fluid strides that gave an impression of effortlessness, like red deer trotting. “How beautiful,” Epona murmured to herself.
Then she looked at the human figures rising from their backs.
The creatures approaching were not kentaurs at all; they were horses straddled by separate human beings, with separate legs and feet, who nevertheless moved with their mounts as one.
“Imagine sitting on top a horse and floating along like that,” Mahka commented. “How much better that must be than jolting around in a cart!”
As the horses drew nearer, it was easier to make out the details of their riders, towering above the earthbound Kelti. The horsemen were heavily bearded, with deep-set eyes and unkempt long hair beneath snug peaked helmets made of felt. They wore felt tunics, loose across the chest but narrow in the sleeves, and below that a peculiar form of split skirt that wrapped around each leg individually and was then gathered into soft leather boots.
How sensible for a man who straddles a horse, the Kelti commented to one another admiringly.
The clothing of the strangers was dyed in intense shades of blue and red and yellow, faded and worn but still gaudy. The apparent leader of the band wore a short cape of an unfamiliar spotted fur, and all of them sported massive gold necklets half-hidden by their tangled beards. The horses’ bridles gleamed with intricately worked ornaments of silver and bronze.
The men of the Kelti began pointing out to one another the weapons the horsemen carried. Each rider had an unusual case strapped to his hip on the cup hand side, obviously designed to hold both a curved bow and a supply of arrows with deadly three-edged heads. A leather sheath tied to the knife hand thigh contained a bronze-hilted shortsword, and a lethal assortment of knives was thrust through the belt. In addition, three of the four had large packs tied on behind them that could surely contain other weapons.
The fourth, the leader, rode a prancing gray horse with a bristling upright mane that swayed in rhythm to its gait. As they neared the staring crowd, this man kicked his mount and galloped forward boldly, one hand hovering above his sword hilt.
“Demand travelers’ rights!” he cried. He spoke their language with a guttural accent, difficult to understand, but his words followed the traditional formula for requesting hospitality that no member of the people could refuse. Old Dunatis responded with “Come and be fed!” and the four horsemen rode down on the village of the Kelti like thunder from the mountains.
Vallanos was sent at the run to summon the miners home. This was obviously not a familiar trading delegation; Taranis wanted all the able-bodied men of warrior status in the village, just in case.
Meanwhile, the villagers crowded around the horsemen, who remained seated on their animals. A few hands reached out hesitantly to pat a steaming haunch or examine a bobbed tail. The spectators, eyeing the bows in their cases, quickly decided among themselves that these horse riders had cut off their horses’ tails and manes to avoid interference with their shooting. They must be very serious archers, very fine hunters.
Or warriors.
“Who is chief here?” the man on the gray wanted to know. His eyes swept over the crowd but he looked directly at no one.
Such dark, dark eyes, Epona thought. He has the face of a hawk that cannot be tamed.
Taranis stepped forward. “I am lord of this tribe.” He carried his unsheathed sword in his hand.
The horsemen did not seem to feel threatened. “Good. We come to talk trade.”
Nothing about the four horsemen resembled the stream of merchantmen familiar in the Blue Mountains. “You want salt?” Taranis inquired, not bothering to conceal his surprise.
With an easy gesture the horseman swung one leg across his mount’s neck and slid to the ground. His eyes glanced at the sword the chief held. Within his heavy brown beard a line of white teeth flashed.
Strong teeth, without gaps, something said at the back of Epona’s mind.
“Not salt,” the stranger told Taranis. “You have iron, is it so? You have special good smith? People talk, east, of your smith, your iron. We want swords, we give gold. Is it so?”
There was an exchange of meaningful looks among the elders. At the edge of the crowd the soot-smeared face of Goibban himself appeared, marking this occasion as one momentous enough to draw even the smith from his work.
The stranger was standing directly in front of Taranis now holding out his knife hand to show that it was empty of weapons. After a moment’s hesitation, Taranis sheathed his own sword. The horseman gave a slight nod of his head, as if prepared to bow in greeting, but when Taranis did not respond in kind he quickly abandoned the gesture.
“This is Kazhak, son of Kolaxais, Prince of Horses,” he announced in a strong voice. Taranis responded with his own name, and the two men handclasped their weaponless knife hands.
Epona was standing close enough to them to be aware of a strong male odor emanating from Kazhak’s body. It was not acrid and musky like the shapechanger’s; merely the powerful smell of sweat and horses. But in the mountains where water was plentiful the Kelti had become addicted to frequent bathing; they had come to find the smell of unwashed flesh offensive, and routinely greeted all guests with bathing water. Yet Kazhak’s odor did not seem unpleasant to Epona. It was more that of a horse than a human.
Kazhak was surveying the crowd with a haughty stare, as if he still towered above them on his horse. The men of the Kelti were generally much taller than he, but he looked at them as though from a vast distance, with eyes used to seeing across endless expanses.
Now that names had been exchanged, it was proper for Taranis to ask the stranger his tribe. The horseman’s answer stunned the listeners into momentary silence.
“Kazhak is Scyth,” the newcomer announced with ringing pride.
A Scythian! The wild nomads of the distant steppes, the fearsome warriors who had rolled, windblown, across so many lands to the east, driving out the legitimate landholders with a callous disregard for the traditions of generations of settlements and cultivation. The Scythians had even dispossessed the Cimmerians, doughty warriors themselves, forcing them from their homelands and scattering them through the mountains and river valleys formerly occupied only by various tribes of the people.
Even in the heart of the Blue Mountains the reputation of the Scythians was known, and men talked around their lodgefires of the marauders from the Black Sea region, the savages who had introduced a new style of warfare to Galicia and Thrace and even Anatolia. The Scythians were reputed to be sometime allies to the Assyrians, having taught them their skills with horse and bow, and occasionally sending detachments of mercenaries to the Assyrian armies. These nomads had come galloping from the birthplace of the sun to terrorize much of the known world with random violence.
Now a Scythian was standing calmly beside his horse in an alpine village, requesting iron.
The Kelti gaped at him in astonishment.
Epona was one of the first to recover. She had grown up in the lodge of the chief; she knew how to behave toward strangers, no matter how odd they might seem. Besides, she just had to get a closer look at that gray horse. It appeared to be a stallion; the other three were gelded, like oxen. She edged past Taranis and put her hand on the gray’s neck, feeling the silky texture of the hair. How different it was from the coarse hides of the ponies!
The saddle, also, was worthy of investigation. It consisted of two small pillows she would later learn were stuffed with deer hair and then sewn together, to cushion the rider’s thighs. In addition there was a saddlecloth, a woolen girth, and a leather strap passing under the horse’s tail and helping to hold the saddle in place. The entire rig was decorated with cutouts of color
ed felt depicting wild animals fighting, the details highlighted in colored thread and pieces of precious metals. From the saddle itself hung leather pendants similarly decorated and edged by bands of fur, and woolen tassels swung against the stallion’s flanks.
Nothing like it had ever been seen in the Blue Mountains.
Epona stroked the stallion’s neck again, and as she did so, Kazhak turned around and looked at her. His brown eyes unwittingly met and locked with hers, then he scowled and turned away.
Those are not the eyes of a savage, she thought.
Becoming aware of Epona’s convenient presence, Taranis said, “Epona, perhaps you would show these strangers to the guest house? You and your men are welcome to the best we have to offer, Scythian, poor though that may be, as long as you care to stay in peace and trade with us. This woman will see that you have everything you need to make you comfortable while we prepare a feast in your honor. Then we will talk trade.”
Taranis was relieved that Epona was available for this traditional duty of a chief’s daughter. Mahka would have probably refused outright, embarrassing him in front of the Scythians, as she had already refused to be instructed in the other traditional duties of her new station. Fortunately, Epona seemed happy to oblige.
While she took the strangers to the lodge set aside for guests, Taranis wanted to meet with the tribal council and discuss this new development. The way he handled these Scythians would be the first major test of his new chiefdom, and he intended to make no mistakes.
Kazhak had been listening to his words intently, his curving dark brows drawn together as he strove to follow the language of the Kelti, his eyes watching the chief’s lips. When Taranis abruptly concluded the conversation by bringing forward the yellow-haired woman Kazhak was startled, but he did not allow himself to show it. Then the woman spoke to him—spoke to him! What sort of people were these Kelti, who let their women come in contact with strangers and actually say words to them?
She indicated that he was to follow her. He glanced around but saw no overt menace, aside from the rows of staring and fascinated Kelti. Many of them carried weapons—even the women, as he now noticed—but they had made no effort to use them for intimidation. He signaled to his men to dismount and follow him. No one must question the courage of the Scyth.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 13