by Sarah Rayne
Fall down and worship your god!
Again the silence, again the thrumming of the cord. Sweat was dripping into Flynn’s eyes; he must keep hold of this tenuous thing, he must understand not just the commands but their responses.
Again it came. Fall down and worship your god!
Nothing. A silence. Flynn was beyond movement, beyond thought now. The moment lengthened. He thought in terror: I am losing it.
A third time came the command. FALL DOWN AND WORSHIP YOUR GOD!
And at last, blessedly, from the Plain, the response.
We worship our god. Flynn thought: of course, the magical three. Of course the question must be put three times. How could I have forgotten.
The dialogue came swiftly now, tumbling out, but Flynn had reached down into race memory, until he was Finn of the Fiana again, participating in the Druids’ ceremonies. He whispered the responses with the High King and the Court now.
Let us render up the Sacrifice
And let it be done as it was at the beginning of Time.
Dagda, look mercifully upon thy servants.
That render to thee homage.
Send to us the fruits of the earth.
And for ever make us free of want.
Dagda hear our prayer.
And let our offering rise up to thee.
As they ascended the hillside, Flynn’s thoughts were racing ahead. There would be a moment in the ceremony — he knew it quite surely now — when the Druids would be asked:
Do you have the Sacrifice? And the Druids must make the prescribed answer: We have the Sacrifice.
Understanding opened up. Flynn knew with an absolute and unshakeable certainty that the question and that answer was the heart and the core and the pivot of the Beltane Ceremony. Once the Druids had admitted to having ready the sacrifice — no matter whether it was human or animal or both — then the enchantment would leap forward and the Sacred Flame would kindle and Flynn would be lost.
Do you have the Sacrifice?
If a denial was given, the spells would splinter and Flynn would be safe.
*
Portan moved stealthily up the hillside, hidden from the circle of people, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
Amairgen had taken her face between his hands before she left him in the cover of the trees; he had said, “Portan, you must send me your thoughts. All the time. You must not for an instant lose me.”
Portan said, “But I do not possess —”
“It does not matter. I have it in sufficient strength for us both now. Listen. Close your eyes and listen.” And he had stood very still, a faraway look on his face, and Portan had obediently closed her eyes; after a moment she had felt his thoughts flowing effortlessly into her mind. Clear, undiluted. Encouragement. Love. And strength. You can do it, my dear. And then: I cannot go with you for I should hinder you, but you can rescue Flynn.
“I will be with you all of the way,” said Amairgen, and then hesitated. “My dear, if there was any other way —”
But there was no other way, and Amairgen cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
The kiss helped, but what helped more was the measure of Amairgen’s confidence. He trusts me to rescue Flynn, thought Portan, her heart beating fast. We both know there is nothing else to be done, but still he trusts me. Can I do it? Oh, but I must. Amairgen, are you there? She waited and at once came the response. I am with you, my dear.
Even so, it was the most difficult thing she had ever done to go up the dark hillside, keeping low and close to the ground to where the Court stood assembled, a waiting circle about the unlit fire, single flaring torches giving life, unnatural and weird, to the shadowy figures.
Portan paused once and looked at them, seeing as Flynn and Amairgen had both seen, the faint but unmistakable signs of the Bloodline. Not quite animal, but not entirely human. I suppose I should find them frightening, thought Portan, but I do not … I feel a kinship with them.
That is why you do not find them frightening, Portan.
Of course. I never thought of that. Portan glanced across to the people of the Court again.
The Druids were coming over the brow of the hill now, their hooded figures outlined against the sky, and with them came the immense figure of the Wicker Giant. Portan’s heart almost misgave her; she crouched in the bracken looking up at the figure, and saw in the flickering twilight the scurrying frightened animals behind the cages. Flynn was somewhere there.
The Druids had come to a stop now; they stood motionless, their heads bowed, facing the Court across the fire. The priests and the supplicants.
Oh yes, came Amairgen’s thoughts. Oh yes, that is how all ceremonies were carried out. One to command and one to obey.
In another minute, Portan would have to move from the friendly darkness and skirt the edges of the circle of light. She would have to swarm up the outside of the Wicker Man and find Flynn and let him out.
But not yet, my dear. Wait until the fire is lit.
I think that will be too late.
Then wait until the Chant begins again.
Amairgen I cannot do it —
You must!
She must do it, of course she must. She gulped and took a few breaths of air.
Two of the Druids had stepped forward now, they were making ready to fire the bonfire in four separate places. Orange and red flames leapt into the air, and a movement went through the watchers. Portan moved, a silent shadow, darting round to where the Druids stood, and waited in the deep shadow cast by the Wicker Man’s legs. In another minute they would begin the Chant again — Amairgen had said so — and the sounds would muffle any sounds she might make.
There was a moment of the deepest silence and then the Chief Druid stepped forward and held out both his hands, palms upwards.
“Dagda hear our pleas,
“And let our sacrifice rise unto thee.”
In Portan’s mind exploded a single command: Now! and she reached up to grasp the lower rungs that formed the Wicker Man’s legs, pulling herself upwards, thinking she must not look down, trying to concentrate on sending out her thoughts to Amairgen.
I am climbing, Amairgen … I am swarming up the outside of the frame and it is a strange and sinister experience … but I am going up and up, one hand over the next, and I am reaching the knees …
The knees were jointed, incredibly lifelike, and Portan repressed a shudder, because it was very easy indeed to think that the knees would suddenly shiver with life, that the legs would lift and stride forward. She thought: I am climbing the body of a giant, and if he looks down on me from his great height with his carved wooden implacable face, he will brush me off as if I was a fly.
An effigy, Portan. A man of wood and straw. No more.
Below her, the Court and the Druids were taking their places as if for the climax of the ceremonies; there was a tremendous sense of excitement rising up from the Plain, an immense feeling of anticipation. Something is going to happen, thought Portan, grimly clinging on, hauling herself up farther; something is going to happen. Oh please let me reach Flynn before they begin their ceremonies again.
Every muscle was protesting now; even so, thought Portan, determined not to give in, even so, I am better equipped for this than an ordinary person. The extra arms which were not quite arms, but not quite legs, helped her to pull herself upwards; the jointed half-hands half-feet enabled her to cling to the wicker bars. I am aching all over and the pain is becoming intolerable, but there is not so very much farther to go.
She caught a thought from Amairgen — Can you see Flynn? and she paused, her eyes searching the interior of the giant, trying not to wince from the sight of the caged creatures.
Not yet. There are all kinds of birds and animals, but I cannot see Flynn. And yet I know he is here. The Samhailt was flooding her mind now, and she through Amairgen’s perception could feel Flynn’s closeness as strongly as she had ever felt anything in her life. Flynn was here, he was
imprisoned inside this great and terrible effigy and Portan would soon reach him. The knowledge lent her fresh strength, and she went up and up, hand over hand, finding footholds in the hinged doors, clinging to the rough wickerwork, barely feeling and certainly not caring about the myriad of splinters that were penetrating her hands and arms and feet, ignoring the rough dry wood that was scraping her body in a dozen different places.
Go on my dear, go on Portan.
She was beginning to feel dizzy with being so high up, and she knew she must not look down, not for an instant. But with that thought: I must not look down — came the overwhelming urge to do so. The world swung and far below she glimpsed the fire and she saw that the congregation had formed a circle about the fire, and that two of the Druids had stepped forward and were holding aloft two flaming torches. At any moment they would begin the terrible culmination of the ceremony … A low murmur was stirring the watchers and Portan gulped and shivered and pressed her face into the sharp rough wood, sick and dizzy. Night wind cooled the sweat on her face and on her limbs, and she felt the intense excitement of the congregation as if it was a tangible thing.
But I am surely not far from Flynn now. Amairgen, I am surely nearly there.
He will be in the heart. Go for the heart.
Portan was about a third of the way up; she thought she was just clear of the thighs and just over the jutting hip bone. It was fairly important to keep on this side, to keep in the deep shadow away from the firelight, but she thought she would probably not really be seen from the ground. Inside the giant, the captured animals were a seething mass of frightened life; the Wicker Man’s entire frame was moving and pulsating, and Portan thought they would not be able to tell that she was outside of the giant instead of inside it.
As she inched her way under the ribcage and on up to the heart cavity, all noise from the Plain ceased quite suddenly, and Portan froze.
The Druids circled the fire and the flames seemed to respond, flaring into the dark night sky, orange and red and yellow. The scent of smoke filled Portan’s nostrils. On the ground, the Druids moved towards the Wicker Man, and Portan grasped the jutting ribcage and began to haul, hand over hand, the last few feet towards the heart.
And then the Druids began to chant again.
*
It was what Flynn, motionless inside the heart, had been waiting for. The renewal of the Chant. The final imperious question.
Do you have the Sacrifice?
It rang out clearly and terribly across the Plain, and a tidal wave of emotion washed over the congregation. Wait, thought Flynn, wait for the second and then the third. Remember the mystical three, remember that they will send out the question three times.
The second cry rang out, and the crowd surged closer to the fire. Do you have the Sacrifice? Flynn tensed, waiting, feeling his muscles cramp and leap. He must answer the third demand, he must break the enchantment before the crowd gave the answer, his timing of the ancient reply must be absolute …
The third time the question rang out. Do you have the Sacrifice?
There was another of those moments of such utter and profound silence that Flynn thought the world had stopped.
And then — “No!’’ cried Flynn in the secret Lost Language that once he had known as well as he knew his name. “No! We have not your Sacrifice!”
The compartment fell open of its own accord, and Flynn saw Portan clinging to the wicker frame immediately below, her eyes huge and smudged with fear and exhaustion.
They half fell, half climbed down the Wicker Man, sliding and tumbling and skidding, their hands scorched and raw, their minds racing with the need to escape quickly, quickly.
Both of them were strongly aware of Amairgen urging them on; hurry, oh hurry, you are in such danger, you are surrounded by such anger, the Druids are furious with you and they will be merciless … They will fling you wholesale into the heart of the fire if they catch you …
Flynn and Portan knew it, for both could feel the immense dull red waves of fury from the Druids and the thin waves of puzzlement from the people of the Court. Even so, in the midst of the shouts and upheaval, delight burst in Flynn to hear Amairgen again and to know him somehow safe.
This is no time for sentiment, Flynn. Reserve your energies for escape.
Flynn thought that if he could spare the time for amusement, he would be very amused indeed, for the thought was so characteristic of Amairgen.
They had reached the ground now, and Flynn drew Portan into the lee of the giant’s feet. The congregation was in tumult; the Druids were searching the undergrowth, swishing angrily at the grass and the low bushes with lighted torches, here and there setting up small fires that burned up into the dry night with a sharp acrid tang. Flynn thought that the Court was bewildered rather than anything else; they had been engrossed in the ceremony and in the ancient ritual of question and answer, and they had thought, if they thought about it at all, that the sacrifices were only those of animals. Unpleasant but bearable. Despite his panic and the urgency to get himself and Portan away, Flynn felt a rush of gratitude. He had thought some of the Court his friends; he had certainly thought them kindly disposed towards him, and he was glad to see that most of them had not been aware of the fact that the Wicker Man had held a human sacrifice. He caught sight of Mab standing a little apart, and for a moment something deep within him stirred, so that he wanted to go to her and take her hand and say: come with us. Come into the forest and the darkness away from these strange half-human people who think little of live sacrifice and who deal in death and treachery. And then he remembered that Mab herself was not entirely human — Lionblood! said his mind warningly — and the moment passed, and he took Portan’s hand and smiled down at her encouragingly and saw with anguish how white and frightened she was, and how her hands were streaked with blood and how the skin was torn and blistered.
Portan looked back and an infinitely sweet smile spread over her face. “Flynn,” she said. “Oh Flynn.”
Flynn grinned and tightened his hold. “Now,” he said. “Are you ready to run? Then to the forest, my dear!”
*
Safely in the depths of the forest, sufficiently far from the enraged Druids to begin to feel out of their reach, and concealed by the closely growing trees, Flynn looked at his two companions. His composure broke at last. Tears poured down his face as he embraced Amairgen and for a moment he was unable to speak.
Amairgen, very much moved, but as always more in control than the volatile Flynn, said, “You thought never to see me again, Flynn. I am quite aware of your thoughts. I do beg you to be less emotional.” But he smiled as he said this, and his hands held Flynn’s tightly.
Flynn said in a whisper, “What did they do to you?”
“It is a good tale,” said Amairgen levelly. “And one day I will tell you the whole. But not now.” He laid his hand on Flynn’s shoulder, and Flynn, only partly understanding, clasped the hand. One day Amairgen would tell of what happened in the dim Caves of the sidh, but it would not be until the memory had dimmed, and it would certainly not be until he had accepted his sightlessness a little more fully.
Flynn bent to where Portan sat curled up, watching them both, her eye shining with happiness.
“Oh my dear,” he said gently, and with such love that Portan thought her heart would surely burst with sheer joy. She had saved Flynn, just as she had saved Amairgen, and surely, surely, there could be no greater happiness than this. If she could just keep this moment as it was now; if she could cup it in her hands and keep it forever, so that one day, in some future that might not hold Flynn or Amairgen, she could unfold the memory and re-live it and think: oh yes, that was the day I knew pure happiness.
Flynn took her hands and kissed them. “Poor grazed hands,” he said. “All for my sake. Portan, I do not deserve what you did, but I shall never forget it.”
Portan said, rather unsteadily, “I have only repaid what you and Amairgen did for me when you rescued me from the G
ealtacht. I am glad to do it, Flynn.” And thought that after all the danger and the anguish had been almost worthwhile. For they are both here safe, they are both with me, and we shall go on together now, and find Flynn’s Joanna. And although once there would have been a tiny secret pain at the knowledge of Flynn’s devotion to Joanna, Portan could accept this now.
Because there is Amairgen? said a tiny part of her mind. Because Amairgen needs you and called you “my dear” and kissed you before you went out on to the Plain? Well, perhaps. Perhaps it is that he needs me, and perhaps it is a little more than that. She smiled, and thought how truly wonderful it was to be able to do so again, and curled back into her position against the tree, and listened to their plans.
Flynn was saying, “Truly, Amairgen, I do not believe that Joanna was ever inside Tara. Certainly she was never anywhere near to the Druids’ settlement, for they would have —” He stopped.
Amairgen said gently, “They would have saved her for the sacrifice tonight, as well as you. Yes, of course they would, Flynn.”
“Therefore,” said Flynn, “it is possible that she is safe somewhere.” And looked at them both, so that in the dim light Portan saw the pleading in his eyes, and searched for the words to reassure him.
“It is possible,” she said at length, “that she has fallen in with some — some quite ordinary people, and is being looked after.”
“That is true,” said Amairgen, listening. “For there are surely many perfectly ordinary people here. Cruithin and others.”
“Yes.” Flynn found this was easily believable; he thought that Portan and Amairgen were both sensible, logical people, and their reasoning was probably sound. He rather hoped that he was not believing them only because he wanted to believe it, and put this thought from him. Of course Joanna was safe somewhere. Of course they were going to find her. Anything else was intolerable. And although he knew they were all tired and battered, he was aching to be on the move again, and his mind was racing on ahead, planning where their search should be next, watching the sky for signs of dawn, and knowing that there were hours yet before the first streaks of light would appear.