Predestined

by R. Garland Gray

  Her single braid fell down one shoulder. Her hands remained locked in front of her, playing with the folds of her green cloak.

  Rose stepped from the circular house and took a moment to compose herself.

  “Is Cerrig all right?” Bryna asked.

  “That man is amazingly stubborn.” The simpler adjusted one of her brooches and then waved her hands, setting her gray streaked braids flying. “As are most men.”

  A tiny smile curved Bryna’s lips. She had learned early on that the lead simpler of Tynan’s tribe was a woman of high emotion.

  “Bryna.” The simpler put a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. “He doona want you to look in the dirt anymore.”

  “He?”

  The simpler’s lips curved in a perceptive smile.

  “Ah,” Bryna nodded. “Lord Tynan.” She had also learned that the Tuatha de Danann called Tynan “lord.” Who else could the all-powerful “he” be?

  She dinna want to look at the dirt any more than the “he” wanted her to. Moreover, if the “he” commanded her to look his tribesmen in the eye, well then, that was exactly what she would do.

  Bryna nodded. “All right, Rose. No more looking at the ground.”

  “Good. He will be pleased.”

  “Do any others need tending?” She reached for Rose’s medicinal basket at her feet and lifted it in her arms.

  “There are always others who need tending. We are a people of excellence in crafts and challenge, and therefore injury.”

  Bryna rested the weight of the basket on her hip. It felt heavy like Derina’s baskets often were. She missed her teacher.

  “Methinks we will visit Oth next.” The simpler strode away, heading toward a brown circular house nestled underneath a canopy of small trees. Her black cloak billowed behind her.

  “Oth,” Bryna echoed, and followed. From then on, she struggled to meet everyone’s gaze whether narrowed in wariness or openly friendly.

  She met Oth, the golden bard with the most amazing grin she had ever seen and whose swollen left eye needed tending. Bryna suggested that he duck the next time, to which he heartedly agreed.

  Next, she met Rhiannia whose wary eyes spoke openly of her distrust, so Bryna decided to wait outside the hut for Rose.

  In the afternoon, young Fionn ate too many nuts and complained of stomach pain. No wonder, Bryna thought, and so the day went.

  When they finished tending the needs of the tribe for that day, Bryna returned to her hut. Night had come upon them on soft feet and the buttery moon rose in the darkening sky of twilight.

  Having completed her bath, Bryna now stood at the roundhouse’s entrance clad only in one of Rose’s white shifts and her own warm green cloak. This night the ancient oak trees were wrapped in cool mists and magic.

  She wondered about Tynan, feeling slightly abandoned by him. She wondered if he thought of her since bringing her here and then leaving.

  Her gaze swept the shadows of the land. Etched in shades, the woodlands were primal and separate from the natural world.

  Footfalls came from her right.

  “Good eve, Rose,” she greeted the simpler

  “Good eve. Did you like the goat’s milk?”

  The simpler had left a bowl of goat’s milk and drisheen, black pudding made from the blood of sheep, and a loaf of bread on the trestle table inside.

  “I am not hungry, Rose. Mayhap later.”

  “He will not be pleased.”

  Bryna nodded. “Lord Tynan,” she murmured.

  “Comfortable here?” The simpler indicated the roundhouse behind them.

  “Aye, ‘tis a fine home. Much bigger than my tiny room in the fortress.”

  “Aye, ‘tis a fine home. ‘Tis our chieftain’s home.”

  Bryna’s black brows drew together in a frown.

  “His home,” she echoed and looked over her shoulder. The dark brown roundhouse was nestled against two large limestone boulders in the center of a sprawling cluster of circular houses. Moonlight bathed everything in a golden glow.

  “Rose, I canna stay here,” she voiced her thoughts aloud.

  “Shush. ‘Tis an honor he gives you, Bryna. No other woman has shared his home. He would not allow you to stay anywhere else.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “Why does he do this?”

  “Look to your heart.”

  Long ago she had learned her place within this world, and that had little to do with heart’s desire. “My heart is silent, Rose.”

  “Silent?”

  Bryna looked away. As an abandoned child, left to die on the shores of a sacred loch, she had been raised by an old druidess with ancient dreams. Outcast and scorned, her fate had been to serve the needs of a Roman Centurion, not follow her heart. So, she had never listened to her own desires, but chose instead to survive.

  “Rose, I am not special in any way, not like the Dark Chieftain with magic coursing in his blood. The honor-mark is a mistake. I am not this goddess to meet his prophecy.”

  “It is not his prophecy, but belonging to all of us as the rolling hills, as the glittering lochs, as the blue skies belong to all of us.”

  Bryna shook her head, looking out upon the many small fires where family groups gathered. Laughter filled the night air. Tynan’s tribesmen wore cloaks with long raveled edges that danced in the air. Gold and silver brooches, neck rings, and arm rings reflected the firelight.

  “Do you see and feel things differently?”

  “Differently than what, Rose?” What felt normal and right to her seemed not to others. When people learned of her abilities, they both feared and cursed her. She did not want that to happen here, not with these people who treated her gently and with respect.

  The simpler grew silent.

  “I am not special, Rose,” Bryna murmured into the long quiet.

  “Our chieftain disagrees, Bryna. He petitions the elders for a handfasting.”

  “Handfasting?” Bryna looked at the simpler. “Aye, that is our trial-marriage. ‘Tis not a true marriage unless he begets an heir off you.”

  “I know of handfasting. It is a test to see if the man and woman get along with each other. They are bound together in a temporary agreement that expires after a year and a day.”

  The simpler adjusted her cloak. “It can be made permanent after a time if our faery brethren approve of the match.”

  “I canna marry him, Rose.”

  “Did he ask you to handfast?”

  Bryna shook her head vehemently, sending damp curls flying, and for the first time saw the simpler blush and look away.

  “Then, I’ve spoken out of turn and will probably suffer for it.” She laughed softly with amusement. “ ‘Tis not the first time.”

  “Rose, I canna do this.” Bryna felt a kind of panic setting in.

  The simpler touched her arm with reassurance. “Let the fates decide, Bryna. All will be as it should be.”

  Bryna did not think so. “Will you ask if there is another place I may stay?”

  “I will ask.”

  But her tone inferred there would be none. “My thanks.” Bryna held her cloak closed. A sudden chill had come to the air and seeped into her flesh.

  “Doona worry about the handfasting. Both of you must agree before it comes to pass.” The simpler squeezed her wrist before letting go. “I bid you good eve. Sleep well, Bryna.”

  “Good eve, Rose.”

  Bryna turned back into Tynan’s home. He wanted to handfast with her, a short-term marriage, a vow not meant to last. He would lie with her at night; share his body and his seed. But what then, when his true goddess presented herself? What then would become of her?

  Bryna’s hands pressed to her heated face. Why did she watch for his return? Why did she listen for the sound of his voice?

  This growing infatuation must end.

  She was not his territorial goddess.

  How could she be?

  Bryna skimmed the interior. In the back, a thick palle
t of straw, heavy blankets and furs made a comfortable bed on the floor.

  Tynan’s home.

  Tynan’s bed.

  She had always wished for a home.

  She had always wished for a bed of her own. It would not be here.

  Sunday morning, Bryna awoke to a heavy chill in the air. She sat up slowly, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The nightmare still lingered in her mind.

  “Golden one,” she spoke to the empty air, “you exchange the glade for imprisoned fire and night.” Her dreams of the golden territorial goddess were of darkness and confinement now. It worried her, these visitations in the unconscious realm. “Tynan petitions tribe elders for a handfasting with me. Do you know of this?” she asked the goddess of her dreams.

  No answer.

  Bryna opened her eyes.

  “Why do you not answer me?” she asked in agonized whispers. “Why do you visit only in my dreams?” Her hands fisted in her lap. “Why do you not speak to me? I doona know what you want.”

  Silence and the sound of her own breathing were the only answers she would have this morning.

  Bryna sighed deeply. “So be it.”

  She thought about last eve. Rose’s assurances about handfasting had rung with some truth. She must agree to be handfasted to Tynan before the trial-marriage ceremony could take place. She just would not agree.

  Noises outside spoke of people being out of bed. Bryna rose. A drawing in her womb slowed her movements, a signaling of her approaching moon time.

  “Not now.” She must remember to speak to Rose about the herbs for her woman’s courses. The woman herbs often eased the discomfort and pain during her moon time. Bryna donned the familiar green gown and laced up the snug bodice over her sensitive breasts. She wore no jewelry, unlike the rest of Tynan’s tribe. They had gifted her with bracelets and finger rings as payment for tending their ailments.

  She thought to refuse the jewelry, but decided against it. She did not want to insult anyone and the pieces could be bartered for food and clothing, if need be. She slid her feet into the brown slippers that Rose had given her.

  Deciding to leave her hair unbound, Bryna reached for the floor-length green cloak. She swung it about her shoulders and fastened it with the brooch under her chin.

  “Today is the first Sunday of the new month, Nollaig, December,” Bryna said aloud. “I shall feel good about myself and pay tribute to the holy well in the nematon with the rest of the tribe.” The nematon was a place of divine and earthly union, as anyone knew, Rose had explained. Here, it was located in the circular clearing in the woodlands. The sacred water in the well would link the tribe to the faery world.

  “Bryna?” Rose called from outside. “Are you ready? The time grows late.”

  “Aye, Rose. I am ready” Bryna hurried out of the roundhouse, holding her skirts high. The outside air felt crisp this new morning and smelled sweet. The simpler wore a black cloak about her shoulders and four gold brooches. Her gray-streaked, black hair fell unbound too, with gold beads woven amongst braids that fell behind her ears.

  “No adornment?”

  Bryna looked down her plain clothes. “Nay, I doona feel right to wear anything.”

  The simpler clearly disagreed and gestured forward impatiently. “We must hurry. I have risen later than usual because of my husband’s frolicking. They will not start the celebration without me.”

  Bryna wondered who was Rose’s husband. She had not met the man in all the time that she had spent with the simpler.

  They walked to the meadow where the tribe’s noble horses grazed in groups of twos and threes. The beauty of the animals took all other thoughts away. A most odd thing; she paused to look at them. The horses all wore silver ribbons braided in their flowing manes.

  “Rose, why are the horses wearing ribbons?”

  “Last night the piskies braided ribbons in their manes.”

  “Why would they do that?” Holding her skirts, she hurried after the simpler.

  “Why do piskies do anything? Mischievous sprites, they are. They celebrate too, a new goddess among them, I suppose. Better they braid horses manes with silver ribbons than some other mischief. Hurry, Bryna. I am late for the celebration. No doubt the elders shall scowl at me.”

  “You may blame me,” Bryna offered, “if you like.”

  “ ‘Tis my husband’s fault, not yours.”

  Green and gold ferns grew along the worn path to the small clearing. Shafts of yellow sunlight filtered through the canopy of ancient trees. A fine morning, Bryna thought, and prepared to enjoy the new day.

  “The faeries are kind enough to share their woodlands with us,” the simpler said, slightly out of breath. “We must show our thanks.”

  Bryna intended to do so. Over these past days, she had begun to believe in the fey, a sprinkling of awareness and possibility and perhaps just a little bit of hope. She followed the simpler to a clearing where women and men knelt in small groups. In the center of the clearing, a square stone well rose before a thicket of silver thorns from a hilly backdrop of granite boulders. Four stone columns grew out of the well at each end, rising high, shaped tips blunted and pointing to the sky.

  “Why do brown vines and white roses twist around the base of the well?” Bryna asked, following Rose around a group of kneeling people.

  “The needles of the vines protect the well. The tiny roses give sweet fragrance and beauty. Beauty must be in all things faery, and this is a special place of elemental forces and magic.”

  The simpler gestured to a space free of the green and lavender ferns. “Sit here. The ferns part for us.”

  Bryna knelt beside Rose and tucked her cloak about her. She placed her palms upon the black dirt of the land and felt a pulsing of warmth and magic.

  The simpler gave her a knowing smile. “No matter the weather beyond the woodlands, warmth always seeps from the soil here, a fey gift from our brethren.”

  Bryna sat back. In front of the well, five maidens gathered, not much younger than her. They wore white robes and neck rings of gold and holly. Gold beads laced into their long, wavy hair. Cheeks flushed a rosy hue and eyes sparkled in excitement.

  Seeing the simpler kneel, the maidens had spread out in a single row in front of the stone well, preparing for the communal celebration.

  They faced west.

  Rose nodded to them.

  Their voices rose in song, filling the clearing.

  WE GATHER IN PERFECT TRUST.

  WE GATHER IN PERFECT LOYALTY.

  WE ASK THEE TO BLESS OUR OFFERING.

  BLESSED BE,

  BY THE ANCIENT,

  BY THE MYSTICAL,

  BY THE ELEMENT OF WATER . . .

  The melody handed down by the faeries of the well, inspired courage and loyalty in all living things.

  Bryna had never heard voices so beautiful. So immersed in the moment and song, she did not see Eamon make his way toward her.

  “Do you pay tribute to the spirits of the well?” Eamon asked, kneeling beside her.

  Bryna pushed burnished gold curls from her cheek and glanced over her shoulder at Eamon. “They sing beautifully,” she answered, wary of his intention.

  He leaned closer, smelling of mead and something far more threatening. Hot breath puffed against her cheek.

  “Our chieftain’s scent is not on you.” He spoke for her ears only.

  Bryna pulled back. “Why do you sit so close to me?”

  “Lord Tynan will not claim you, my golden beauty.”

  “It matters not,” she said low, knowing her own words for a lie. For it had begun to matter to her; it had begun to matter greatly.

  He raised a dubious brow. A large hand slid over both of hers in her lap and squeezed.

  Bryna looked down at his hand and felt only revulsion.

  “I am not bound by a faery geas, Bryna. The faeries are wrong in their choice of chieftain. I would have been the better leader. With you by my side, I can sway them.”

 
; Bryna didn’t know what to say. Something in her face must have encouraged him. He moved closer, his eyes bright and intense.

  “Believe me, I will be gentle with you.”

  . . . be gentle with you. Sweetness spilled from his lips, from his lies, and into the air. She shook her head and pulled her hands out from under his. There was evil in his words, deceit and falsehoods that turned her stomach. In this moment, she stared into his face and thought herself better off dead than in his bed.

  “Eamon,” Tynan snarled in warning from behind her. She would recognize that voice anywhere. Bryna twisted around and caught her breath at the sight of him.

  The maidens’ high song stuttered to a stop. “Touch her again and I will kill you.” His threat rang out in the clearing.

  The Dark Chieftain stood poised in the morning shadows of the massive trees. Above their heads, thousands of white doves had taken flight in the treetops, wings flapping in soundless fright. He reminded her of a faery king returning from Tir Na n’Óg, the land of youth. Surrounded by morning mist, the air glimmered softly, welcoming him back to the world of mortals.

  Beside her, she sensed Eamon stiffening in rage, but all her senses focused forward where Tynan stepped out of the shadows into the shafts of sunlight. His brown boots made no sound. His right hand rested easily upon a large silver dagger sheathed at his waist. Tiny lavender jewels, encrusted in the sheath, winked with faery eyes.

  Raven black hair glistened with dampness. A gold torc rested at the base of his neck. He wore a sleeveless green tunic that laced down the front, and gold arm bands wrapped powerful upper arms. Snug green breeches rode low on his lean hips.

  Bryna started to rise but the simpler’s hand stayed her.

  “Doona interfere, Bryna.”

  “Remember what I said, Bryna.” Eamon slowly rose and moved away from her, his hands spread wide at his hips in a non-threatening gesture.

  “My apologizes, sire.” Eamon bowed slightly at the waist. “I come only to give tribute to the well.”

  “Pay your tribute then on the other side of the clearing,” Tynan said in a voice of great displeasure.

  “He dinna challenge, Lordling,” the simpler spoke up.