by Sarah Rayne
In company of one whom you think not to trust.
For the Druids are out and they’re looking for souls,
They’ll cut out your heart and they’ll roast it.
O never go walking on the Plain after dark
On Beltane when the Fires are a-burning;
For the Druids will find you and bind you up tight”
And feed you to the Wicker Man to keep the Fire
burning.”
But I went walking! cried Flynn, in silent anguish. I went walking on Beltane, and now the Druids have bound me! God help me, they will feed me into the Wicker Man and I shall burn alive.
He was hoisted shoulder high by four of the Druids and carried quite gently to where the Wicker Man waited.
*
It was dark inside the Wicker Man and very cramped. Flynn could smell the frightened animals above and below him. He thought that they knew what was going to happen; they sensed it, poor creatures.
He was about halfway up the framework, in its ribcage. “In its heart,” said the Druids, nodding with satisfaction. He was at least twenty feet from the ground, and it was a dizzying, disembodied feeling; Flynn had the impression that his compartment was suspended in mid-air.
The wicker cage was tightly shut. “And there is a minor spell,” said the Druid who had talked to Flynn. “You will not be able to escape.”
Even so, Flynn had torn his hands to ribbons and broken his nails trying to get out.
And then, far below him, the Druids formed into single file, and took up small burning torches, so that Flynn could see them quite clearly. There was a sudden jolt as the ropes of the cart that held the Wicker Man were pulled tight, and then, without warning, the Druids’ procession began, the Wicker Man lurching across the dark countryside on the little wheeled cart, the torches casting huge fantastic shadows on the quiet hillside. The outline of the Wicker Giant stretched out ahead of the procession, and ahead of them, Flynn could see Tara’s Hill with the Palace procession moving at the same speed. They were converging on the Plain. The dark bulk of the Beltane Fire was clearly visible, and Flynn clutched helplessly at the wicker framework that imprisoned him. He stared at the unlit Beltane Fire. I helped to build that. I carried woodbine, sweet scented and warm, and rich red rowan and agaric. I built up my own funeral pyre. He closed his eyes against the sickening lurching of the Wicker Man, and tried to will himself back through the Time Curtain, back to the safe rather dull world of Tugaim and the comfortable familiar farmhouse.
But I cannot leave without Joanna! he thought, and then remembered that he would soon be beyond helping Joanna anyway. He thought he was certainly going to die, and he thought as well that he would have given anything in the world — his five senses, anything — for a last sight of her. If he could be sure that she was safe somewhere … if he could be sure that she had not been killed in some grisly pagan sacrifice as he was shortly going to be killed … He could not be sure. He could indeed believe with ease that Joanna was already dead, that she had been a helpless victim of Druids, of half-humans or wild forest creatures. Then I might as well die also, thought Flynn.
The Druids had begun a strange monotonous chant, neither quite singing nor quite chanting, and from the Plain came an answering chant. From the depths of his despair, Flynn heard it, and in hearing, felt something lift within him. He was transfixed by the dreadful inevitability of his death, but a part of him was beginning to be mesmerised by the chant now. He remembered Amairgen’s words about despair: accidie he had called it, and how it had once been known as the ultimate sin; the total and complete abandonment of all hope. At least, thought Flynn, I am not counted dead until I am in the heart of the flames, and managed to repress a sick shudder. A tiny green shoot of hope sprang up. Was it at all possible that he could escape? Even now, even so close to the Plain that he could make out the moving figures below him. Was there some hope of escape there? Would Sean or Conaire or Mab help him? He thought they would not; he thought they were probably accustomed to the idea of human sacrifice, and he thought that salvation, if salvation existed, would not come from the Plain … It would come from Flynn himself.
The strange, strong chant was reaching corners of his mind he had not known existed; it was casting light on the shadowed areas of his soul. He listened and opened his mind to it, and thought it sounded like a form of question and answer. Interrogation and response. From the depths of his memory — his or someone else’s — he sought and found the word catechism. This was some kind of catechism. If he could understand the language they were using, he would understand what was going on. In his by-now wildly abnormal state, it began to seem to Flynn that if he could decipher this ancient, strangely pure speech, he would also decipher the shackles of the spell that sealed him within the wicker cage. He closed his eyes and his hands curled about the wooden bars, and he listened with every fibre of his body, with every nerve-ending raw as the Druids’ procession approached the Plain of the Fál.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If it had not been for Portan, Amairgen would not have survived. It was nothing to do with despair or pain, although he had travelled both these emotions since the sidh cast him out.
It was simply a matter of practicality. He could not have found his way through the forest. Although one day very soon, I might, he thought. For the moment, however, even with his hearing becoming more finely tuned with every hour, even with the Samhailt flooding his body in great rainbow waves, he could not have kept to the woodland paths. He certainly could not have found food or water.
But Portan was untiring and sure-footed and watchful. She held his arm and guided him; she kept to the path, even when it was overgrown and very nearly impossible to find, and she talked as they went along, telling him about the wildlife and the forest greenery, trying to make him see it with her, certainly helping him to hear it.
“So beautiful, Amairgen. I had never thought to see such things. The sunlight pouring in from overhead, making patterns on the forest floor. Great clumps of wild flowers. And the greens. So many different shades of green.”
Amairgen said softly, “Forty shades of green. A very old song, Portan. How lovely to know it did not lie.”
“Many more than forty,” said Portan.
They stopped from time to time. “For,” said Portan, “we shall do no good to anyone if we reach Tara exhausted and fainting from hunger.” At midday, with the sun high above the trees, dappling the leaves, and the wild dog rose scenting the entire forest, they found a small clear stream.
“Water, Amairgen. That is very good. And I think there are fish of some kind. Yes, several of them. If I am very nimble …”
She was very nimble indeed, and within ten minutes four smallish but plump fish lay on a large dry dockleaf.
“And I believe we can make a fire,” said Portan. “For Flynn left some tinders in his cloak — yes, here! Do I just move the tinder across the dull strip, Amairgen?”
“You do, my dear.” Amairgen knew another wave of gratitude. He thought: she is endeavouring to make me feel necessary, she is seeking my help. But he thought that perhaps Portan did need his help, perhaps she had truly never used a tinder box before, and he was glad to be able to explain. Portan listened carefully, and presently managed to get a small fire burning, a cautious arrangement of twigs and leaves. The fish grilled gently at the ends of pointed sticks.
“And they smell good, don’t they, Amairgen? They are rather small, but they are quite plump. I do not know what you would call them.”
“Trout?” said Amairgen, and at once Portan was overwhelmed with the memories of a life that had existed before the Gealtacht. Long drowsy afternoons, herself as a small child, safe and protected. Father returning from a fishing trip, smiling and triumphant. The unmistakable scent of freshly caught trout being toasted before the fire. Mother had always plucked fresh parsley and chopped it, and Portan had been allowed to help. It was like looking back through a long dark tunnel and remembering that once, at
the very beginning, there had been sunlight.
When Amairgen said in a practical tone, “Portan, if we had any parsley we would have a feast indeed,” Portan jumped, because quite suddenly he was there with her, he was in the memory with her, and the sunlight, after all, was still here.
The parsley was there, growing quite near, in thick feathery clumps. Portan gathered it and cut it into tiny sprigs with Amairgen’s knife, and touched Amairgen’s hand and said, “A feast indeed,” and thought that it was surely strange to feel so very happy in such a very unhappy situation, but felt happy all the same. And: I am bringing him back, she thought. He is returning to the real world. She leaned back and watched Amairgen, and ate the fish, and felt delight stir within her. Yes, I shall bring him back.
But there was still the agony of not knowing about Flynn, and when Portan said, “Amairgen, what of Flynn?” unease stirred the quiet content of the forest.
Amairgen leaned back against the bole of a tree, and thought: she is one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. I must let her know she can still depend on me, he thought; we must rescue Flynn, and Portan cannot do it alone. She must know that I can still guide her. For the first time for several hours, he felt his mind focus on something other than his own loss. When he said, “I left Flynn inside the Bright Palace,” it was the voice of the Amairgen who had brought them through the Time Curtain, and Portan heard it and rejoiced.
“I feel that he is in danger,’ said Amairgen, and Portan said slowly, “Yes,” for she, also, felt that Flynn was in some way threatened.
“You do not possess the Samhailt, my dear,” said Amairgen’s voice, suddenly, “but I think you possess something very like it.”
“He is in danger,” said Portan in a low voice. “Amairgen, is he still inside the Bright Palace?”
“I don’t know. But that is where we must start.” And then — “Can you lead the way?”
“Of course.”
And Tara, the Shining Citadel, with its own iridescence, was easy enough to see even by night when it was safe to travel. Portan thought it was a beacon, a lodestar, drawing all who saw it into its glowing depths. Perhaps one day I shall be able to see it properly, she thought. But she only said, “It is getting dark now. Almost twilight. I think we shall not be seen by anyone.”
The trees had thinned out now, and they were looking across the plain. Amairgen had known for some time that the Purple Hour had fallen, he could smell it and he could feel the velvet chill of the night air. He could taste the new scents of the night forest waking all about them.
And colours are something to drink, and light is something that soaks through your skin, and sounds and feelings can be scooped up and allowed to run through your hands like thin sand …
At his side, Portan gasped, and her hand came out to his, and Amairgen said at once, “What is it? What has happened?’’ And waited and felt puzzlement and unease from her.
“I am not sure.” Tara was a blaze of colour. Beautiful. “I have never seen anything so truly lovely, ever, Amairgen. And then —” Portan hesitated, and then went on. “It is beginning to dim. Little by little, the light draining from it. As if a great hand came out from the sky and doused it. As if something quenched its light.”
At her side, Amairgen said softly, “Light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure.”
“What is that?”
“I am not sure. Something once written or forgotten or dreamed.”
“By someone dead?”
“Or someone not yet born. It does not matter.” But with the vagrant memory, had come another: I feel and seek the light I cannot see. Anguish threatened to overwhelm him again, but Amairgen put it from him angrily, because there was no time now to think of what had happened. Flynn was somewhere inside the darkening Tara, and Flynn was threatened, and they must somehow save him.
At length, Portan said softly, “It is entirely in darkness now. I can barely see Tara, only I know it is there.”
And I shall never see it again, but I also know it is there, thought Amairgen. And then another memory stirred, and he said, “Of course. It is Beltane. Portan, they have put out the lights for Beltane. They are lighting the Sacred Fire, and every light in Ireland must be doused, so that the Sacred Fire of the Druids is the only one to burn.”
“Oh I did not know about that.” Portan stayed where she was, watching the dark countryside.
Presently she said, “I can see a row of lights. On the — I think you would say the western side of the Palace. To the left. Bobbing pinpoints of light. A procession of some kind would it be?”
“The Beltane revelries,” said Amairgen softly. “So the Fires did, after all, burn at Tara. Do you know, that is something that scholars down the ages have argued over? How extraordinary. Can you see anything that looks like a bonfire, my dear?”
Portan’s heart sang within her at the “my dear,” but she only said, “There is something. It is difficult to make out, but I think it is a fire. Not yet lit. And there are two separate processions now, both making their way towards the fire. They have torches — yes, I can see the figures now in the firelight. There are a great many people, Amairgen.”
“Converging on the Plain of the Fál,” said Amairgen in a whisper. “Remarkable.” And then, tilting his head, “Portan, listen. Do you hear?”
“Something. But so faintly. I am sorry,” said Portan, apologetically. “What is it?”
“The Sacred Chant of the Druids,” said Amairgen. “It must be. The Lost Tongue of the Cruithin. Question and answer. Interrogation and response.
“‘We have the Wicker Man.’
“‘Do you have the Human?’
“‘We have the Human.’
“‘Is he ready for the Sacred Fire?’
“‘He is ready.’”
In the silence that followed, Portan grasped Amairgen’s hand. Both knew in that moment that it was Flynn who was the human sacrifice. It was Flynn who was going to be offered up on the Beltane Fire.
*
Question and answer. Demand and acquiescence. Flynn began to hear the pattern of the Druids’ Chant, he began to feel the unfamiliar cadences soak in through his skin and he began to see a shape, a form, a logic.
And I have heard this one before …
There was no time to give any attention to the brief tug of memory; nevertheless, Flynn was strongly aware of it and it heartened him. Finn of the Fiana, if ever you existed, and if ever I existed in you, then help me now.
There was no response, but in the dark places of Flynn’s mind something stirred, and for the briefest of instants there was a tumble of images; a bright hillside with a clear blue sky and a young dark-haired man seated astride a great black stallion, leading a battle charge … the scent and the heat of half a dozen victories … crusades to the wild and desolate northern islands in a great carved ship with a wolf’s head at the prow and the water beneath like glass … riding through the trees with the evening sun dappling the forest floor … And then the last, the most vivid image of all: a gathering like this one, the Plain of the Fál, with the Court and the Druids and the shape of the Wicker Man rearing against the night sky, packed tight with mewling victims …
Mental strength swept through Flynn and with it a huge unstoppable confidence. I know the Ancient Druidic Chant. I have heard it before and I have played a part in the ceremony. Once I could understand it, and now I shall understand it again.
He bent his mind to a concentration so absolute, that everything else was blotted out, so that he no longer saw the measured procession far below him, or the bobbing lights, or the threatening phallic shape of the unlit fire. He no longer felt the jolting of the journey as the Wicker Man was towed across the last stretch of terrain. He was Finn of the Fiana once more, and he was invoking all of the race memories and all of the knowledge of that warrior.
The chant was becoming a tangible thing to Flynn now; through his half-closed eyes he could see it forming on the night air; a th
in glittering silver cord, reaching out from the Druids to the High King’s party and back again, not quite real, but not quite a vision. He thought: I have it. I have the Chant. All I must do is take hold of it with my mind. I must wrap my mind about that silver cord.
A silver cord. A silver chain that binds … a girdle to encircle the earth … I will put a girdle about the world … shackles of darkness and death …
Flynn shook his head impatiently. The images were wrong, they were too new, too closely aligned to a transient world. The Chant was older by far, it belonged to the far past, when men had talked with gods, and when gods had walked the earth. If he was to wrap his mind about it and hold it and fathom it, he must go farther back, farther back to the dawn of the world, when the land was dew-spattered and wreathed in mist, and then back even farther, into the great darkness that had existed before the dawn …
I am Dagda, the god of fire and life and I am a jealous god …
Flynn’s eyes flew open and knowledge and understanding flooded him in brilliant painful waves.
I brought you out of the darkness of ignorance and out of the time of famine …
Great lights were exploding in Flynn’s brain, and silently he formed the words that came next.
You shall have no other gods but me. I shall send my curses and vengeance upon the seed of those that do not serve me.
And then a pause, a break in the harshness.
But I shall give my bounty to those that love me, and to those that render me sacrifice.
Excitement was beating against Flynn’s consciousness. Nearly there, I am nearly there. The silver cord thickened and took on substance.
Great and powerful Dagda, father god of all the gods, look on these your servants. Grant to them your bounty that they may live in plenty and in fruitfulness. Show unto them your mercy that they may be free from all want.
And again the change of pace, the feeling of indrawn breath, of strengths being mustered. And hard on the heels of that, the command, ringing out across the Plain.