Druids of Avalon - Short Stories
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His back was on fire; his head felt nearly severed from his body. His limbs wouldn’t obey his commands.
He squinted at his surroundings the best he could. He wasn’t within sight of the quarry camp. That surprised him; normally flogged slaves were dumped in a shallow pit near the privies. Inexplicably, Owein was surrounded by greenery. A thrush sounded in the canopy high overhead. The scent of loam tickled his nostrils.
Had he crawled here? He must have, if the sting of his forearms and knees was any indication. The trickle of a mountain stream teased his ears. His throat burned with thirst, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the strength to drag himself to the water.
How long he lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, he didn’t know. When he next opened his eyes, he found a grizzled face peering down at him.
“By the gods’ mercy! He lives.”
The speaker was a Celt. Owein closed his eyes again. It hardly mattered.
A second voice sounded, grave. “Barely, Aiden. He is all but dead.”
“Nay,” the man named Aiden answered. “Eirwen will save him.”
The woman’s unbound hair fell in a golden stream to the small of her back. Her tunic, woven in a pattern that included every color of the rainbow, draped the inviting curve of her bottom. She stood with her back to Owein, in the center of a simple round hut that was much like the one he’d grown up in. He lay on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms and watched as she folded a length of cloth.
“Who are ye?” he said quietly.
The woman spun about. Her blue eyes were wide, her expression radiant. “Ye’ve awakened!”
“Aye. Who are ye?” He shifted, ignoring the stiffness of bandages and the agony the movement brought. His entire back felt like a single open sore.
She came to him, crouching beside the pallet. “My name is Eirwen. ’Tis good to see ye awake at last.”
“Ye’ve been tending me.” He could remember snatches of it now. “How did I get to this place? I dinna remember much after … ” He trailed off.
A flash of distress crossed her face. “My grandfather and uncle found ye some miles to the north.” She bit her lower lip. “Near the Roman quarry.”
Sudden nausea surged. He pushed himself up abruptly, willing it to pass. The sudden movement sent a sharp ripple of pain across his back. He gasped with the force of it.
Eirwen gave a small cry. “Nay! Ye mustn’t rise. Not yet.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Please.”
Owein pushed into a crouch, his back hunched against the pain. He felt like a trapped animal—fierce with panic. He refused to lie down, but his shaking legs didn’t feel equal to the task of standing. When he jerked his head up, the room wavered.
“Ye lost much blood,” Eirwen said, offering him a cup with quiet efficiency.
He took with an unsteady hand, grateful she didn’t move to help him. He managed to bring the cup to his lips and drink. The herbs were bitter, but comforting.
“I thank ye.” He paused, looking about. The room was steadier now. “Where is your grandfather now, lass?”
Eirwen took the empty mug. “Aiden is checking his traps,” she replied. “He’ll return soon.” She hesitated, then met his gaze squarely. “He says ye are Druid. A Wise One.”
Owein couldn’t hide his surprise. “How did he know?”
“Then it is true?”
“Aye,” he said after a small pause. “ ’Tis true.”
Eirwen gave a small smile. “Grandfather claims a small talent. He has no magic of his own, but he can sense it in others. He sees the Light about ye.”
Owein looked away. “His sight is false, then. Whatever Light I once knew is long gone.”
In the days that followed, Eirwen tended him with diligence and patience, meeting Owein’s black moods with unflagging good humor. His nightmares of Nia, at first so painful in his mind, slowly faded to a dull ache. Aiden, the grizzled old Celt who had found Owein half-dead, shared Eirwen’s dwelling. The man was a garrulous old soul. His insistence on addressing his guest as “Wise One” rather than by name grated on Owein’s nerves. He didn’t feel equal to such an honor and doubted that he ever would.
Eirwen’s kin lived in a pocket of mountain wilderness far from Roman settlements and mostly overlooked by the Roman army. The members of the clan numbered some twenty-five souls, varying in age from elder to babe. Many visited Owein daily, and it was clear Aiden had told them of their guest’s Druid status. They bought him gifts and sought advice Owein didn’t feel worthy to give.
He regained his strength slowly, first venturing from pallet to stool, then from the hut to the village common. It was there Aiden found him.
“The clan wishes ye to stay, Wise One. We want ye to be our priest and guardian.”
“I’m nay suited to such a task,” Owein said quietly. “Whatever Light I once had … I hardly feel it now. Only darkness.”
“Ah, Wise One, I know the past weighs heavily on ye, but I can tell ye, all sorrows fade with time. Ye are too young to be digging yourself a grave. My advice to ye is to take Eirwen to wife and make a new start, here, among people who have need of ye.”
Owein’s brows went up. “Eirwen?”
Aiden chuckled. “Come now, ye canna tell me that ye havna noticed my granddaughter’s interest.”
“I hadn’t,” Owein mumbled.
“She would make ye a fine wife.”
“I dinna think I would be a good husband.”
Aiden met Owein’s gaze, his eyes solemn. “I know ye can never forget what the Romans took from ye. But when ye’ve lived as many years as I have, ye learn to find happiness where ye may. We are sheltered in this bleak pocket of the hills. We keep to ourselves, pose no threat to the Legions, and so far the Romans have let us be. The clan welcome ye as its own. We invite ye to make a new beginning here.”
“A new beginning,” Owein echoed. He felt a hundred years old, far past the time for such a thing.
“Daylight never fails to break the night,” Aiden observed.
Owein swallowed. “I canna see the dawn.”
Aiden inclined his head. “Ye will, Wise One, ye will. I promise ye.”
Druids of Avalon: Short Stories
© Joy Nash
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