She pats my back. “Take her to Iona.”
As I begin to rush off to fetch the witch, the old woman takes my arm and gestures for me to carry the girl there myself. All a panic, because I have enough medical knowledge to know the danger here but not enough for a remedy, I thrust my arms under her and lift. She is solid, no small weight, but the urgency makes me move fast along to the gate, where one of the other children lets me through. I move heavily through the trees to the hut where Iona lives.
I’m surprised when Marcus opens the door to my call. It is smoky and dim inside, but I can make out Iona by the far wall and allow myself a fleeting moment of jealousy. But I lose it fast enough and set Illa on the floor by the fire.
I lift her tunic to expose the gash. “Iona, you have to help her.”
Iona gives the wound a passing glance. She comes over and blows into it, chanting her prayers. She has not been here long enough to have collected Sula’s array of jars, but on pieces of leather by the wall there are small piles of what look like pressed flowers, roots of various sizes, and finely chopped bark. She reaches for a flattened piece of yarrow and crumples it into a hollowed-out stone, which serves as mortar to the pestle she grinds into the hollow, adding what look like dried hops. She pours water from a stone jar into a cup and sets the whole concoction by the fire to warm, then goes about making a poultice.
She reaches for a root, which she grinds in the mortar until there is a small amount of juice to pour into her palm. To make the paste, she spits as Sula did and mixes with her forefinger until she has something she can spread across the swollen cut. I lift Illa’s hand and put my lips to the dirty skin. I wasn’t there to save the first Ellie, but I promise myself I will keep this child from harm.
Illa’s forehead still radiates heat, and I think the infection must be bad to have caused this level of fever. Before long, the cup of flowers and bark begins to simmer and I draw it against Illa’s lips. Though she pulls back against the acrid taste, I bring her lips again to the cup. I am the mother here.
She lies down and curls up, so that I can have no thought of moving her again. But neither am I going to leave her. I did that once before.
Iona goes out with Marcus, and they stay away much too long, because I am in a panic alone with the sick girl. My thoughts wander back to the ceremony last night, but I can’t think of that now. The book of childhood ailments on my shelf at home in Glasgow tells me that the infection can get into the bone or turn to gangrene and then to septicemia. Iona comes back in with a ring of some kind of woven plant, chanting while she sets it all about Illa. But my confidence in Iona is not such at this moment that I can believe in garlands of herbs or mere words.
I turn to Marcus. “Ride out and fetch Fergus!”
Marcus looks nonplussed. Only now do I remember Fergus’s words for me to stay strong, almost as though he knew something was going to demand it. Marcus stays put, so I sit by the wall and close my eyes. Illa sleeps, but I don’t. I just sit with my eyes open, listening to Iona’s murmurings, hanging somewhere people go in the middle of endurance, a floating island of semi-detachment.
In fact, I float all the way out of the eighth century back to my pillowcase and the photographs of my children on my bedside table. The window is dark, hit intermittently by the splash of a large raindrop. I close my eyes and try to push myself back. This is the second daughter I wasn’t there for. Perhaps now there will be no time to get back and find out if she survives?
23
Fergus loved the woman, though she sometimes seemed weak as though she had an illness. It nagged at him that she had stood back from the circle last night at the solstice ceremony, ill at ease with his role as the horned god. She should have been proud, but perhaps she did not understand that he was not himself in the ritual, and the hands of the women on him were only the hands of Cailleach the goddess? Surely every people had such ceremonies at the midpoint of winter.
When he was getting ready to leave that morning, he was pleased to see her, but he did not want to touch her in case she should hold him back. He had to get to Dunadd. Even before the messenger came, his mother had been in his thoughts. But now that he knew she was trapped in the fort, he knew he had no choice but to return.
He had consulted Iona, who was too young to be relied upon entirely, but she had cast her stones and they had seemed to say he should go. He had asked that in his absence she take Ma-khee into the woods to teach her of the plants that grew there. If Fergus’s people from Erin were no longer going to rule, then they were going to have to learn these ways.
Still, he longed for her, as he moved about the crannog in the early morning, folding dirks into a cloth wrap and glancing at her as she slept. He didn’t know what he was going to find at Dunadd, but in case of trouble, a man had no better friend than his dirk.
He didn’t like to leave Ma-khee, so he turned his horse away quickly and followed after Talorcan through the trees until the smell of the cooked pig and the smoke of the fire was lost to the air. It was good to put it behind him; there was work to be done.
Talorcan rode up behind him and slapped his back. “The woman Ma-khee has you slumped over like an old man. I saw she was not pleased by your dance last night.”
Fergus’s smile escaped him when he thought of how she had shaken his hand from her arm.
“When it is time for the spring festival,” Talorcan said, “how will she feel then?”
Fergus knew Talorcan was right. During winter, Cailleach took on the aspect of the crone, and so the stag god could only pretend copulation with her. But at Beltane, when Cailleach appeared in all her youth, there would not just be prayers of thanks, but ritual copulation with the druidess. That was why Iona had to be kept away from men from day to day; she was being saved for the Beltane ceremony. The success of the summer cull and harvest would depend upon it. Being her father, Talorcan would not be able to play the role of the stag god, and so it would probably fall on Fergus to do the rites. Murdoch always played the stag at Dunadd, and for this Fergus was glad, for though he loved Sula, she was not young and pleasing in that way. Still, it was the way of things, nothing to hide from. The druidess would lie back in her ivy and her mistletoe, and the people would chant as they circled the goddess and the stag god celebrating new life to come.
Wives accepted this, but Fergus could tell Ma-khee would not. For at least this reason, it would be better for them to be gone from Loch Glashan before Beltane.
“Why does this woman disturb you?” Talorcan asked. “And why is she not bursting out at the front already?”
Fergus wondered the same thing. He had asked Iona to give her herbs for childbearing. But like any man, he could only wait for the goddess to smile on him. Even during last night’s celebration, as he watched Ma-khee across the fire from him, he wanted to take her out under the stars, even when it was time for Iona to come in wearing the druid’s weed and speak to the queen of fire.
On a night such as the Day of the Dead, such a prayer would be dangerous, but the dead were in their winter sleep now; even his wife Saraid no longer slipped into his thoughts. When he wanted a woman these days his thoughts turned to Ma-khee.
“If they cut me down at Dunadd,” Fergus said to Talorcan, “you must take care of Ma-khee.”
Talorcan nodded.
“They will not cut you down,” Fergus said, “because you share the same blood. But they will not spare me.”
Talorcan laughed uneasily. “Nor me, brother, for joining with you.”
“But is it not your right to be king of Picts, because your mother was of the royal line?”
“There are others who would claim that right, others who have not played traitor.”
Fergus sighed. “Then I should not have brought you. I should have chosen another man.”
“You could have chosen Marcus, the Roman.” Talorcan began to laugh.
Fergus couldn’t help but smile, too. “When a man’s clachan are cut from him, the fire runs out through
the hole.”
“Yes, he is best left among the bards and musicians. But there are others. Gavin the Hairy.”
Fergus shook his head. “Much hair, little brain. A soldier would do better with a bear than a man with no cunning.”
Already, one day after the shortest day, the light would stretch further, though not by much. Fergus’s plan was to hobble the horses, then steal into the village quietly and hide until dark if things seemed hostile. But on this slow walk through the oak forest, there was only his time with Talorcan, the trees and the sun reaching playful hands onto their shoulders.
“I will not return to Glashan with you,” Talorcan said, almost in a whisper, as they drew close to Dunadd.
Fergus pulled his horse to a stop and turned to see what he could read in his brother-in-law’s eyes.
Talorcan looked away. “Iona told me. She saw only one horse and rider coming back along this trail.”
Fergus counted Talorcan a friend and brother; he could not bear to lose him. “Perhaps it will be you, not me, on that horse.”
Talorcan shook his head. “I am going to stay.”
Fergus kicked his horse forward. He didn’t know how to take what Talorcan had said. Was it merely a way of changing allegiance?
“But what about Radha?” Fergus called back.
“It will be best for Radha to stay with her parents. Iona will need her. She will be safe once you have taken your daughter and left Glashan.”
“Taken my daughter and my woman,” said Fergus.
Talorcan shook his head. “You have seen the way she is. You will put yourselves in danger with her along.”
Fergus knew what Talorcan said was true, but if he made it back to Glashan, he would not leave again without Ma-khee. They would have to stay there until she had gained some strength, learned their ways better. But he kept quiet. He felt suspicious now, as though Talorcan might be up to something.
They came out of the forest just north of Dunadd at the first group of standing stones in the Valley of Stones. This far, no lookout would see them, and here they tied the horses and left them to graze. The hazel groves that edged the forest provided good cover as they weaved along with the fort in sight, such a pleasing vista for Fergus, and for a moment he had to stop to rid himself of the longing for the days when his father was alive.
Talorcan placed his hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “Do you see anything?”
Fergus shook his head. “Only ghosts.”
Talorcan overtook him. “Let the dead sleep. Today we have work to do in the land of the living.”
They moved along the route Fergus had followed after his last journey, when he had returned on the Day of the Dead. Soon they came to the place where his horse had bolted. The village was well in sight now, and nothing looked different: still the children running, still the bleating of goats and the smoke trailing up from the thatched roofs. The fort itself looked the same, from here just a run of tall stone walls on the hillside.
Fergus kept his voice quiet. “Do you think it will be safe to slip into your house?”
Talorcan shook his head. “The women who bore my children will almost certainly have gone to live there.”
“But you can trust them.”
“I can’t be sure. Some of these women have husbands now.” Talorcan started moving. “Come.”
When Fergus hesitated, Talorcan reached for his sleeve and tugged. “We’ll go to one of the elderly. Alban, the man who taught me archery.”
Fergus followed. Talorcan’s father, and Saraid’s, too, had died young, and other men had had to step in to do the work of a father. Fergus’s own father had shown him how to shoot an arrow straight to its target, and for that he was grateful. But Talorcan could hit a target blindfold. His teacher, Alban, had been a good one.
The hut was small and closer to the tilling field than Talorcan’s own house. They kept low, hoping no one would see, but there was no escaping the children who ran up to them. Many of them knew Talorcan; a few, Fergus knew by the look, recognized him as father. But they did not follow into the hut of Alban, and Fergus soon saw why. The old man sat by himself in the dark, and his eyes, when a cast of light from the door lit him, were opaque and dead. He sat in easy reach of his fire, a bundle of sticks close to his right hand.
Alban recognized Talorcan by the hand; it alarmed Fergus that the old man knew to turn his voice to a whisper.
The old man spoke in Pictish. “Who’s that with you?”
Talorcan let the old man’s hand drop back into his lap. “Fergus, son of Brighde.”
“You should take him away from here,” the old man said. “His brother’s army has been smashed at Brechin.”
Fergus stepped forward and asked his question in Pictish. “Is Murdoch alive or dead?”
The old man shook his head. “I have heard no reports, only that there were many dead. The rest fled.”
It was the worst news Fergus could have hoped for. He quieted himself with the thought that Murdoch might have escaped, that even this King Oengus would be loath to put another king to death. Almost in concert with these thoughts, the ground rumbled beneath them, sending the old man’s blind eyes searching. Talorcan covered the distance between himself and Alban and grabbed his teacher’s hand.
Fergus glanced at Talorcan after the short quake had passed. “What is it?”
“It has happened before,” said Alban, “in the time of my grandfather. It is a warning from Cailleach of changes to come.”
Fergus made towards the door. “I must go to my mother.”
The old man let go of Talorcan’s hand and stretched his arm out to stop Fergus. “After the news came about your brother and his army, the druids of your people escaped with your mother and the Great Stone towards the eastern sea, bound for Scone. Your people no longer rule Dunadd. A council of Picts of the Clan of the Boar now sits in the fort until King Oengus reaches us from the north.”
“Where is Sula?” Fergus asked. His heart had stepped up and was banging in his chest. He knew very little of Scone, except as a druid center and place of learning. He knew Glashan would not be safe for long, and it occurred to him now that this was going to be the way for him, his woman, and daughter to follow.
“Sula is where she belongs, with the Picts. Most of your people fled, but those who remain are held across the river by the base of the fort. They are fenced in and guarded. You will join them if you do not leave.”
Fergus sat cross-legged on the floor and prodded the fire. He could not flee and leave his people captive here at Dunadd to await the arrival of the brutal King Oengus. He knew without any doubt that he was going to have to free them. But even if he did, how was he going to lead a march back to Glashan? Most at the loch were Pictish and might not accept the dark-haired ones from Dunadd, even for a short time until they moved on to Scone.
Fergus caught Talorcan’s eye and gestured him to the door where they could speak in private.
“Did Iona say only one horse would return to Glashan, but with many behind it on foot?”
Talorcan smiled. “I forgot to mention that.”
Fergus sighed and tried a smile for all the impossibility of what lay ahead. If he could kill the guards during the night, he might be able to lead his people out of sight under the cliffs of Dunadd, and then circle around the back. But the tide wouldn’t retreat until morning, and by then it might be too late.
Talorcan took Fergus’s arm. “I cannot go with you through this.”
Fergus sighed. Everything was getting harder. Even his brother Talorcan was deserting him.
“Perhaps I should have brought Hairy Gavin, after all,” said Fergus. Talorcan did not smile. “How long a march is it to Scone?”
Talorcan shrugged. “A week or more. But there are many crannogs along the chain of lochs that take you there. Some of the lochs were settled in years gone by by your own people. You will have shelter and food. It is a good plan for you to move to Scone. I have heard the soil is rich there.”
Fergus tried to gauge the time of day by the amount of light that sneaked in through the walls of the old man’s house. Talorcan lit a torch and hung it from the wall. He glanced at Fergus, who was saying nothing, just fingering the hilt of his dirk and wishing there were another way.
As soon as there was enough dark for cover, Fergus left the old man’s house and went to find Sula. Her house was a new one, close to the river, the heather thatch still green in places. He stole in without announcing himself and found the old woman asleep on a mat of woven reeds by a small fire. As he crouched over her, she seemed to him much frailer and older than he remembered.
She stirred and sat up, keeping herself well wrapped in her blanket, for it was damp by the river. “Fergus, I saw you would return.”
She got up and reached for a jar, from which she took a piece of bark to chew. Fergus could tell from her small movements that her bones ached. The chew would be of willow to ease the pain.
He crouched beside her to keep the talking low. “I need to know. Is Murdoch alive?”
She patted the back of his hand, as she had done when he was a child. “He lives.”
Fergus let out such a sigh, he had to catch himself from falling back. “Will you cast your stones and see what is to become of us?”
She blew into the fire and set dry sticks on the flame. She called to the queen of fire to help her see through the veil, while she walked around the flames three times. It was a well-worn ritual for Fergus. He handed her his dirk to mark her lines in the dirt, and when she reached inside her wrap for the stones, he sat on the ground, the better to see how they might fall. One straight line and three crossing it; the stones fell over the lines like a flock of flying geese.
She looked at him. “You must move fast,” she said. “You must go forward with your plan.”
Fergus sheathed his dirk down into the warmth under his arm. “Did my mother come to you before she left?”
Sula nodded. “She came and the stones said the same as these. She left with my brother druids. She will be safe.”
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