Dreaming the Eagle

by Manda Scott

  The grandmother nodded, with the patience she granted importunate youth. She lifted her hand and gestured east to the sun. In the last moment of silence, softly, she said, “It is here.”

  The screaming was almost human, a long, piercing ululation that could have been a war cry from the throats of a hundred warriors. Breaca stared down the valley, out onto the path at the eastern edge, seeking its source. Only when the first bird stooped from the sky did she realize that she was not to witness a battle of equals; not man against man, warrior to warrior, a battle of heroes; but men—small men—against eagles, the greatest of birds.

  The numbers were not even. From the beginning, the sky was dark with the flooding barrage of wings. She saw the first of the warriors die in the hollow below her, his eyes pierced through to the brain, his head crushed in talons that could break the neck of a deer. His cries, choked on blood and pain, were the signal for the greater mass of the birds to strike. They did not stoop from a height, wings folded, as falcons do, but flew in at a shallower angle, powering on wings that spanned far more than the spear-lengths of the men who opposed them. They struck out in passing, raking eyes and arms and shoulders, and flew on, wheeling at the valley’s walls to come in again. They did not mark flesh on every pass, nor did they escape each time unscathed. The warriors fought in pairs and for every man wounded or killed, one was left to stab upwards with his stone spear. Birds fell, screaming harshly, to have their skulls beaten by the spear-hafts or their bodies impaled. Even so, they did not give their lives cheaply and more than one man was injured beyond hope of rescue by the strike of a dying eagle from the ground. The warriors fought bravely and with a sense of long practise. Each time one of their number died, his surviving partner sought out another, similarly bereft, to make a new pair. Still, the numbers dwindled and the spaces between them became larger. The eagles were uncountable and they knew no fear. It was never going to be an even battle.

  Breaca watched in horror. Had the grandmother not kept a hand clamped to her arm, she would have run down to help, whatever her orders. Instead, she put her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out, biting on her knuckle as, one by one, the men of the serpent-spear fell to the eagles. “The woad grease is not helping,” she said. “Why did they use it?”

  “Because it is what their fathers used and their fathers before that and still they have not learned to do otherwise.” The grandmother was scathing. It was not clear if the scorn was aimed at Breaca for her ignorance or at the warriors for their blind faith. “The woad is not useless. If you watch, the talons slide on skin where otherwise they might strike, and even those that strike leave wounds that would heal faster with less chance of infection were the men to live. But they will not live. It takes more than good camouflage and sliding skin to defeat the eagles. Watch the warriors. Learn from them. They work in pairs when they should work in larger groups; they use spears alone when swords would give them a wider strike and shields offer safety. They are learning, but not fast enough. These are the last. After them, there will be no more.”

  “What?” That caught Breaca’s full attention, as the rest had not. “How can they be the last? This is Eceni country. We are everywhere, like the stalks of corn in a field.”

  The grandmother smiled, thinly, like a snake. “Breaca, these are not Eceni. They are the ancestors, do you not see? The Eceni are tall and fair-headed and they use weapons of iron and bronze. These are small and dark and their weapons are stone. Their blood runs in your line, else you would not dream as you do, but there is not enough of it to bring them back. If they lose here now, there are none to follow them. And they are losing.”

  That was clear. And, although the grandmother’s hand had fallen from her arm, it was also clear that to run down now with only a spear would be suicide, and achieve nothing. Breaca said, “These are only the men. There must be women and children. If they live, then the people live with them.”

  “Perhaps, but the eagles will kill them. The women are already preparing to fight but they will not win. After them, the children will die.”

  “Then we should go to them, talk to them, help them to escape.”

  “Maybe.” The grandmother tipped her head sideways, considering. “It would be a good thing to save the children. They would carry the blood at least.”

  “That is not enough. There must be those old enough to carry their ways, their dreams and their tales. How else does a people know itself?”

  “How indeed?” The grandmother smiled happily, as if a point had been well made. She looked down into the valley. Three warriors were left, standing back to back in a triangle, their spears held aloft, facing the death that was coming. One of them was the fire-leader with the symbol of the hare on his forearms. He set up the war chant and the others followed. The first of the circling eagles tipped its wings and began the powered descent.

  “We should leave now,” said the grandmother. “It will not serve them to have another witness their deaths. The gods know this has happened. They will deal with it as they can.”

  “And the women and children? The bearers of dreams?”

  “Are beyond us. I am sorry. Truly. If it were possible, I would take you—”

  “Get down!”

  Breaca screamed it, throwing herself forward, thrusting the grandmother back. The eagle was above them, the great wings curving round, thrashing the air, as the talons swept forward to strike. In that moment, all Breaca could think of was the size of it; that the valley had distorted her sense of scale and she had not been prepared for the crushing, overwhelming immensity. There was no time to plan. The spear leaped like a live thing in her hand. It was piercing upwards as the first of the talons struck. She did not aim for the chest, as the warriors had done, but for the head, for the sun-gold eyes and the shrieking maw and the shining red road of its throat. The flint sang as it flew, mournfully, as the warriors had done. She saw the glance of the sun on the stone and the fountain of blood and smashed bone as it bit into living flesh. The climactic, bittersweet joy of the kill washed through her as it had never done before. The throb in her palm waxed and waned and was still.

  The eagle died at her feet. The weight of it dragged the spear down, smashing the haft against her arm. She was already on the ground, kneeling at the grandmother’s side. The old woman lay on the turf, her eyes wide and white. Dark blood flowed freely from a puncture wound on her shoulder. It pumped, faster and more brightly, from a gash on her neck.

  “Don’t move…don’t. I’ll bind it.” Breaca’s belt knife hung from its thong. She wrenched it loose and cut along the hem of her tunic, making a ribbon of wool. Fear made her careless and she cut the heel of her hand. The grandmother turned her head. Breaca put a hand to her forehead, holding her still, fighting for words and reason and a way, any way, to stop the bleeding. “Don’t. You mustn’t move. You’ll make it worse… hold still. Let me bind it. When it’s stopped, we can leave. I’ll carry you—”

  “Breaca.”

  It was the voice she knew, the one that brooked no argument. She let fall the strip of wool. “Yes?”

  “Give me the spear-haft. It is my staff. I would hold it.”

  She had not thought where it came from. The staff was to a dreamer what the blade was to a warrior. She wrenched it from the throat of the eagle, cutting the bindings of the stone free with a flick of her knife. The end was stained with blood and spattered with flesh and bone. She rubbed it clean on the grass.

  “Now help me to stand.”

  “No, you mustn’t, really, you mustn’t. We have to get you to Airmid. She’ll know what to do. Please let me bind it…” Breaca was weeping hot tears of panic. Her hands were shaking. She lifted the strip of tunic and pressed it tight to the wound. “Please, you can’t heal it alone. You must believe me.”

  The old woman was a pale grey, the colour of wet chalk. Her breathing came in short and ragged gasps. Every bit of her energy went into her voice and the effort of it was heartbreaking to watch. Strugg
ling to sit, she said, “I am not going to heal it alone. Nor is Airmid within reach. You must get me to the mound, the one we came through. In there I can dream.”

  “But dreaming won’t—”

  “Breaca…”

  “Yes, Grandmother. I’ll take you. It’s not far.”

  It was not far and they did not have to crawl through the gorse hedge. In the hollow, the last of the warriors died, their deaths solitary and private. The eagles were feeding or soaring in lazy circles. They showed no interest in the old woman and the girl making slow steps to safety. The elder grandmother walked as far as she could, bearing her weight on her staff. When she stumbled for the second time, she consented to be lifted and carried, as she said, like a wailing babe.

  “Into the mound. It is not far.” The grandmother’s voice was the rustling of mouse grass; a shape in the air with no heart behind it. “In the centre is the dreaming place…”

  “There was nowhere, Grandmother. It’s a tunnel. We walked through it. The walls were smooth. Please let me bind the wounds and carry you home. I can do it. You weigh nothing. I mean…”

  “You mean you are a strong young woman and you can run for half a morning carrying my weight for all you have neither eaten nor drunk for three days. I believe you. But I must dream. Here now…no, to the left, through the grasses. We need only go a little way in.”

  The mound sat, brooding. There was no stone at this entrance, only a rounded opening half hidden behind the spreading foliage of the mound. Breaca would have missed it had not the grandmother directed her to it. She ducked down and eased in sideways, protecting her charge from the dew-damp grass. Inside, it was darker than it had seemed in moonlight, or perhaps the contrast was greater under the sun. It smelled of earth and ancient dust. She felt the floor crumble under her feet. When she leaned on a wall to steady herself, it, too, fell to dust. She jerked upright. “Grandmother…?”

  “Trust me. We are nearly there. I will not lead you into danger.” She sounded faintly amused. “Last night, you were still in your dreaming. Today, you are a woman. It is time for you to see the world as it truly is. Go forward nine paces and stop Good. Now turn left, to the heart side. There should be a space.”

  She was right. There was a space where before, under the moon, there had been unbroken stone. Low down, cut into the earth of the wall was a chamber. If Breaca crouched, almost to sitting, she could ease inside it. The grandmother tapped her arm. “Thank you. Let me down now; this is far enough. I would lie on my left, with my head to the west… Have you my staff?”

  “Yes, it’s here. Grandmother, please, let me—”

  “No. Thank you. I have enjoyed your company, but we must part. I must stay here and you must return to Macha and Airmid and those waiting. It is well past dawn. If you don’t run now, they will set out with the hounds to find you.”

  “Then I’ll bring them here. Swear to me you will still be here.”

  “I will swear if you will swear not to turn back until you have seen Macha.”

  Breaca sat back on her heels. It was completely dark. She touched the old woman’s face. It was smooth now, the oak-bark skin bound tight to her skull. Breaca had seen enough of death to know when it was close. Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away with the back of her wrist. “I swear I will not return until I have seen Macha. Please live till I get back. Please? I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t lose me. I swear that, too.” Her smile was a bright thing in the black space around them. “You must remember to redraw the serpent-spear on your shield. If you forget, ask Bán how it was in his vision. Hang the shield where you can see it and remember what it tells you.”

  “To look to the past as well as the future?”

  “Yes. Both. The dreams of a people carry its heart. Without the dreams, you are nothing but the walking dead. But if you have only the dreams and no children to carry them, then you are nothing but dust. Remember that. Go now. It is time for me to dream and for you to run.”

  She sounded, at the last, composed and reasonable; the elder grandmother one most loved and most feared. Breaca eased back out of the chamber. Standing, she hit her head on the roof. It had not seemed so low when they walked through it before.

  “Grandmother…?”

  “Run. Go all the way through to the entrance stone. Don’t turn back. Be strong. I will not leave you.”

  She ran. The darkness closed in around her. The faint and laboured breathing passed to nothing before she reached the light.

  The sky changed as she ran. Bruised clouds rolled in from the east, full of rain. The sun leached out through the cracks between, making shadows where before there had been none. She crossed the river at the stepping stones and did not pause to give thanks to Nemain or the water or to the stones for keeping her dry. The path down the side of the trees was cluttered with knotted roots and rocks and pitfalls that she had not seen walking up. She ran over them, bounding, as a deer runs when hunted, and only remembered them later. The blood pulsed in her chest and her head and clouded her eyes until all she could see was the serpent-spear and the hare; the one undulating in the air before her, the other running along at her side. She ran half the morning, without stopping for water or to sense the way. It was a path she knew well by now and only at the very last did she remember that the eastern gate was closed to her and she must go in at the west, through the women’s gate that was only used in this and one other ceremony. She veered sharply upwards and ran along the sides of the paddocks. The grey filly saw her and came forward at a run, only to prop and wheel and snort and race away again as she passed.

  The gates were closed before her, but then it was always so for a girl-woman returning from her long-nights. One of the others waited inside, ready to put the traditional questions. They had told her many times that the returning woman was like a child newly born and that her first entry back into the world of her people must be handled with care, that the traditions must be followed else she would risk losing all she had found. She had believed them and had practised until she could speak the phrases in her sleep. But she was not sleeping now and she could not think of the words, could think of nothing but how to run and how to breathe and the need to fulfil her vow to find Macha before she could return to the grandmother. The gates were planed elm, carved with the symbols of Nemain. She fell against them, hammering with the heel of her hand. Wood built to withstand fire and the attack of massed spears rattled faintly at her touch.

  “Who comes from the realms of night?” It was a voice she knew, distantly, but could not give a name.

  “It’s Breaca. I must find Macha. Bring her, quickly—”

  The gate opened, suddenly, so that she fell inside. Airmid caught her before she hit the ground. “Breaca! What’s the matter?”

  She could barely breathe. Her lungs were on fire. Her spit tasted of blood. Speaking took more effort than she had ever imagined. She folded into the arms that held her. “The elder grandmother…You must come quickly. She’s bleeding. And Macha. I swore to find Macha—”

  “I am here.”

  Macha had never seemed so forbidding. She stood in the door to the women’s place, a tall shape framed against the fire beyond. Her eyes pierced, like an eagle’s. Her eyebrows arched. “To whom did you swear, and what did you promise?”

  “The grandmother…the elder grandmother. The eagle killed her…tried to. I can take you to her…”

  Macha stood back, sweeping the door-skin aside. “Breaca, come in. We must talk.”

  “But—”

  “Inside. Now. Quickly.” It was not a voice with which she could argue.

  She could walk, with help. They sat her by the fireside. Airmid held her from behind, her hands linked at her diaphragm, easing the pain of breathing, her legs stretching forward so Breaca was contained on all sides, like a child. Macha brought water and made her drink. Someone else brought malted barley, roasted and drizzled with honey; it was the greatest of all foods
and it tasted of sawdust and sand. She ate it because they would not leave her until she had done so. When she tried to speak, she was stopped and made to eat more. They would not listen until she had finished it. She thought she would die, or break apart with the pressure inside, until Macha said, “It is enough. Let her see now.” Then the women left to sit in their circle round the fire and Airmid helped her to stand and took her to the place at the back, furthest from the fire, where a curtain of black-tanned horse-hide kept a sleeping place apart. The women sat in silence. Macha and Airmid alone moved forward to the curtain.

  She was shaking now, all over; her hands and feet were quite numb. She spoke in a whisper, denying the truth before it was shown her. “It can’t be,” she said. “I saw her. I talked to her. She gave me her staff to make the spear…”

  “It was the third night of your dreaming. She had been waiting a long time for this.”

  Airmid was weeping, silently. Macha, it seemed, had been and would be again but needed, now, to be able to speak clearly. “In a moment you will tell us what she said to you and how you left her. But before that you must see her and know the truth.”

  They lifted the curtain aside. The elder grandmother lay on her left side, with her head to the west. Her hair was thin, almost gone, but her skin was tight and smooth as a young girl’s and the smile on her lips promised the advent of all things one least expected. She held her staff in both hands, as a warrior might hold a spear in the final moments of battle. Bending, Breaca touched the end of it and found it dry, with no debris of blood and shattered bone. It was her fault; she had not followed the ceremony for returning and all that had been predicted was happening. She was going mad and the only one who could help her lay beyond reach on the floor. Reason slipped away from her, flapping wildly, leaving her empty and sick and unable to think. When she spoke, her voice came from other parts of the room and bounced back at her. “I left her in the mound,” she said. “She promised she wouldn’t leave me, she promised—”