by J. M. Hofer
Knowing he would have to tell Einon about what had happened to Gareth flooded him dread. May the Guardians keep you well, cousin. It breaks my heart that I could not get you out of that horrible place. He looked up at the sky, hoping Gareth could hear his prayer.
He turned back to look at his new companion. She was wearing her seal skin barely slung about her, one breast and most of her skin exposed, but she seemed completely comfortable. He had a strong resistance to the cold, but hers obviously far surpassed his. “I shall have to come up with a name for you if we are to travel together,” he said. “I’m BRAN,” he added loudly.
She wrinkled her brow and cocked her head.
He smiled at his ridiculousness. The girl wasn’t deaf. “Bran,” he repeated more softly. He looked her in the eyes and placed his palm on his chest. “Bran.” He then pointed to her with an expectant look.
She simply patted her own chest.
He nodded, acknowledging the failure of his attempts at communication. I’ll just give her a name. As they rode he ran through some names in his head, and finally settled on Ula. It was simple, pretty, and easy to say. If he remembered correctly, it was a name the people across the western sea gave their daughters which meant, “gem of the sea.” It was perfect.
He stopped his horse and she stopped beside him. Again, he put his hand on his chest. “Bran.” Then he pointed to her. “Ula.” He repeated this a few more times.
Finally, she brought her own hand to her chest, barked, “Ula!” and then pointed to him and said, “Bran!”
He was beyond pleased with himself and laughed for joy. “Yes! That’s it. I’m Bran, you’re Ula!”
They would not be singing verses of mead hall songs around the fire anytime soon, but at least it was something.
They rode for the rest of the day, Bran picking up the pace, and Ula staying close behind him. Riding bareback was certainly not the most comfortable way to ride, but she seemed to be a natural at it. In fact, from the way she rode, he doubted she had ever been in a saddle. He watched her throughout the day. Escaped slave, perhaps? Fisherman’s daughter? She looked unlike any of the clans he knew well.
When evening approached, he resolved to talk to her more so that she could learn some of his words. “Ula, we must look for a place to sleep.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side against his hands. “Sleep,” he said again.
She looked at him and smiled as if she understood, but then galloped off toward a tree line perhaps a mile or so away. His horse followed her with no signal from him. Once within the cover of the trees, she led him along a brook. “Sleep,” she said, pointing upstream.
Bran shrugged. Why not? She seemed to know the area.
The last of the day’s sunlight was coming down through the trees, and once twilight fell, it became much colder. Bran glanced nervously up at the sky, which was already turning from pink to orange. Soon the sun would set, and the cauldron-born would come out to hunt.
The stream became wider and stronger as they moved closer to its source, until the sound of the water became quite strong.
Triumphant, Ula glanced back at him, pointing into a clearing. “Sleep.”
There was still enough light for Bran to see she had led them to a large waterfall. It flowed into a small pool, somewhat iced over, that then became the stream they had been following.
Ula had clearly been here before. She jumped off her horse, ran to the water and dove in.
Is she mad? Bran jumped off his horse and ran to the pool’s edge, waiting for her to emerge. “What are you doing? It’s nearly nightfall!”
She did not emerge.
“Ula!” he yelled. Still, she did not come up. “Ula!” he yelled again, more urgently. Oh, gods—she’s drowning! He pulled off his boots and sword and was just about to dive in, when she emerged. She was smiling from ear to ear, with four fish in her hands.
“Bran!” She came out of the water, smacked the fish’s heads on the flat rocks at the side of the pool and held them out with a proud grin.
Shocked, he took them from her, nodding with approval. Four fish in less than two minutes, with her bare hands? How did she do that? “Thank you,” he said, bewildered. He tried to give her his fur cape, both to warm her and so that he could keep his eyes off her naked body, but she refused it.
She motioned for him to follow her, and walked up to the waterfall that fed the pool. She beckoned to him, and then disappeared behind it.
Bran found her standing in a large grotto behind the waterfall. Gods. Another cave. He had sworn to never go anywhere near a cave again for as long as he lived, but he had to admit it was the perfect hiding spot. There was enough room for both of them and the horses as well. Best of all, there were no tunnels leading in or out of it. If the cauldron-born came roaming this far, they would be completely hidden behind the wall of water, which would likely keep the enemy from catching their scent.
He put his hands on his hips and nodded, smiling at her. “Good, Ula! Very good!”
“Good!” She put her hands on her hips as well.
“Now, let’s get a fire started.” He set out to collect wood, and she followed him. She enjoyed helping him, and smiled the entire time. She was quite pleased with herself. He was too. Bringing her along had been a good decision. He could not find much dry wood lying about, so he cut a few dead limbs off nearby trees and chopped them into smaller pieces. When the work was done, he brought in some dry river rock from outside to make a circle for the fire and lit the kindling.
Ula watched the flames in complete amazement. She reached out to touch them, but Bran caught her hand and stopped her. How can she not know fire burns? Perhaps she isn’t well in the head. It would explain how childlike she was and why she could not speak, but she seemed entirely too clever for that to be the case.
“No, Ula. The fire will burn you.” He did not know if she understood him, but in any case, she did not try to touch the flames again.
“Wait here.” He held out his hands to indicate she should stay where she was. He went out to check and see if the fire or smoke were visible from the outside, and to his relief, they were not.
When he came back, he found her sitting naked upon her sealskin, eating her fish. He became aroused. Gratefully, she was face-deep in a raw fish, guts and all, which did wonders to temper his desire.
Upon seeing him, she jumped up and grabbed the two fish she had caught for him. She found the whittled stick he had made, stabbed the fish through with it, and handed it to him. She obviously remembered he preferred his fish cooked.
He smiled at her strangeness. “Thank you, Ula.” He took the fish over to the edge of the waterfall, cleaned and gutted them, and then brought them back on the end of his spear.
He sat down across from her and roasted them, watching her devour her meal. She finished her dinner, laid her head down on her sealskin and looked up at him. “Sleep.”
“Yes. Sleep.” Bran nodded with a kind smile. “Good night, Ula.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Islwyn
The night passed without incident. At sunrise the next day, Bran and his mysterious companion set out again. It amazed him how she simply followed him without question or apparent concern for where they were going, but so be it—she obviously trusted him, and perhaps did not have a people of her own anymore. He resolved to find her a husband in his clan if she wished it. She would have to get used to wearing a bit more clothing and learn their language, but that would not be hard for a woman as clever as she was.
The landscape rolled out before them as they traveled, growing wider and less rocky. As they made their way across the moorlands, another mountain range came into view. Sadly, Bran did not recognize it, either. Why does nothing look familiar? Where are we?
They rode hard for the rest of the day, and reached the foothills of the mountains by late afternoon. Still, he did not recognize the terrain.
Ula began to assert herself again, taking the lead. Again, it appeared s
he knew this land. At her insistence to travel in certain directions, they came upon a river.
He smiled. A river would eventually lead to a town or village, and some answers. “Good job, Ula!”
“Sleep,” she said proudly. She now equated water with a safe place to sleep, apparently.
As usual, she was quick to get in the water and soon had dinner sorted out. Bran knew he was outranked in that respect, so he focused his efforts on making camp instead. She soon tossed an impressive catch at his feet. She smiled widely, her dark hair wet and glossy down her back, and her skin shiny from the water.
Then, the smile dropped from her face. She sniffed the air, and terror leapt into her eyes.
“What is it?” Bran was smart enough to know by now that she could smell and hear things he could not.
She did not reply, instead bolting into action. She untied the horses and slapped them on the rump, speaking to them in a strange language Bran did not understand. She motioned toward the fire, her hands frantic. As soon as he put it out, she grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the river.
He looked around, surveying everything with a concentrated eye. Then, barely visible in the pale moonlight, he saw what it was that had stricken his companion with such fear—far off in the distance, the movement of tiny pale figures rolled like an eerie mist across the moor toward the river—cauldron-born.
She yanked at his arm with a crazed look in her eyes as she stepped into the river. He followed her in, because her plan of taking to the water was a good one. They might end up closer to a village, and the water would also hide their scent, hopefully throwing the cauldron-born off their trail.
He braced himself for the shock of the water. Soon, they were being carried away in the current. Fortunately, the river was not very swift, yet deep enough that finding injury upon the rocks was unlikely.
Ula swam with incredible fluidity under the surface, nearly never coming up for air. He tried to keep up the best he could. He raised his head out of the water to breathe, but she yanked it back down again. Soon he felt his lungs would burst. He slowly let his breath out and yanked his arm free to rise to the surface, but Ula stopped him and put her mouth over his instead, blowing air into his lungs and pulling him along as she swam. His clothes, sword, rope—everything on his body and in his pack slowed them down, but he dared not leave anything behind.
After some time, taking breaths very sparingly, Bran knew he had to get out of the water. The cold was too much, and he felt his body beginning to shut down. He brought his eyes out of the water, scanning the banks for any sign of the cauldron-born as they drifted. Ula came up too, her black hair making her nearly invisible in the water. She smelled the air again, barely moving as they floated along quietly with the current.
Bran took her face in his hands and turned it toward him. “I must get out,” he whispered, pointing to the riverbank and swimming toward it. She looked at him in panic, but would not be left behind. She followed him, moving without a sound, constantly smelling the wind.
He wanted to leave the riverbank, but she pulled at his arm again. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Come.” She ran silently along the bank. He followed closely, thanking the Great Mother that Ula knew the land, and that heat was slowly returning to his body.
She ran a long time before she stopped and pointed downriver.
Bran noticed the moon was now high overhead.
“Come.” Ula slipped back into the water, as silent as an otter.
Bran followed her back into the icy river. She allowed him to come up regularly for air. Apparently, they had managed to leave behind their pursuers. The next time he came up, he caught a whiff of wood smoke. A village! His heart leapt.
Ula smelled it as well. She started swimming across the river toward the opposite bank, where they crawled out of the water.
Bran struggled for breath and his muscles were cramped, but she was not even out of breath. What is she?
Ula took his hand and pulled him toward the trees. There was no trail, but the night was clear and well lit by the full moon. He walked alongside her, hacking away the brush to clear a path for them.
It was not long before they saw firelight in the distance. Ula smiled and walked faster, yanking on his hand. The brush thinned out, allowing them to pick out a pathway, and soon they were close. Ula ran toward the firelight and Bran hurried after her, just in case danger might be waiting.
They came upon a simple round hut, smoke rising up through the hole in its roof into the night sky. Fishing nets hung from the limbs of the trees that surrounded it, and wood was stacked high beneath its thatched roof. Bran eyed the symbols carved around the door frame. Druid.
Ula ducked and entered. Seconds later, Bran heard an elderly man’s voice call out, “My child! My child, you’ve returned!”
Moments later, Ula came back out, smiling, with the owner of the hut—an old man, a bit frail-looking, with a full grey beard.
“Greetings. I’m Bran. Seems you know my companion. Can you understand her? Do you know what clan she’s from? She doesn’t speak the common tongue.”
“Oh, she speaks,” the druid chuckled. “You just don’t understand the language of the selkie.”
“Selkie?” Bran searched his memory, but found only faint ideas. “From what land do they hail?”
“Not from any land.” The druid smiled. “You’ve never heard of them?”
“No,” Bran felt a bit irritated by the elder’s smugness.
“Just as well. I can see you’ve been for a swim. I imagine you’d like to come in and sit by the fire? Please!” he urged, motioning for them to enter. “If you can fit through the doorway, that is.” He winked. “I’ll be back presently, I have something to do.”
Bran had to stoop down and nearly crawl in. Once inside, however, the roof rose to a height that he could sit under comfortably.
The heat surrounding them was like a mother’s womb. He gladly shed his wet clothes and got as near to the fire as he could stand, almost as naked as Ula, who, as usual, sat down happily on her sealskin across from him.
She pulled her fingers through her hair and stared at his body shamelessly, her eyes wide and round, as if it were the first time she had ever seen a man. Again, he fought against his instincts, avoiding her gaze and looking into the flames instead.
Suddenly the skins covering the door of the small hut were thrown back.
“Bran!” he heard a boy’s voice cry.
Bran turned around, shocked to hear the sound of his name after so many days and nights alone. “Gwion?” he exclaimed, his eyes widening in recognition. “Gods, boy!”
The druid came in after him. “He’s been here a few days searching for you. I told him he had best stay here through the nights while the dark ones are roaming, and search for you by day.”
Bran could not believe what he was hearing. A twelve-year old boy out here, alone? “Gwion, how is it that we’re meeting here? How far are we from your home?”
“The Great Mother’s handiwork, to be sure,” the druid interrupted before Gwion could answer. “She protects those who trust her and weaves them together.”
Gwion and the druid joined Bran and Ula near the fire.
“Unfortunately, we’re nowhere near my home or your village,” Gwion told Bran. “We’re far in the North, many days travel by foot.”
“Tell me first, is your mother well?”
“Yes,” Gwion said, smiling at the mention of her. “She’s safe. We fled to the Isle before the villa was attacked.”
“Good.” Bran sighed with relief. “Lucia came to my village with the Sisters some weeks back. When I left, she was delirious with fever. I hope she’s recovered by now.”
“Did you know Lucia and I are cousins?”
“What?” Bran raised his brows. “I thought you and your mother were her servants!”
“Priestess Rowan is our grandmother. Lucia didn’t know who we were until recently. Her mother never spoke of her past, nor of us. Sist
ers who leave the Isle are sworn to secrecy about it.”
“How did she find out, then?”
“My mother told her when the three of us left the villa.” Gwion sighed. “Everything’s changed, now.”
“It has,” Bran agreed, thinking of his own people. “The Sisterhood is good at keeping secrets, that’s certain. I know nothing of them except the few things my mother told me. She visited Priestess Rowan on occasion over the years.”
“A wondrous woman,” the druid interjected. “A true handmaiden to the Great Mother.”
Bran turned to the old man, slightly irritated. “Might I ask your name, Druid?”
“I’ve been called by many. Druid is one of the more respectful ones,” he said with a smile, “but you may call me Islwyn.”
“Islwyn, do you know of Lord Talhaiarn? He is druid counsel to my clan.”
“Yes, of course,” Islwyn nodded. “Guardian of the Sacred Grove. No easy task in times like these.”
Islwyn got up gingerly and walked to a small bed near the back of the hut. He brought back wool blankets, covered Ula tenderly with one of them and gave Bran the other. Bran wrapped it around his shoulders, regretting his initial impatience with his host.
“He could use your help, I’d imagine,” Bran suggested.
“One doesn’t need to be near another in body to help.” Islwyn was taking various herbs from different clay pots and putting them into a wooden bowl. “Prayers and blessings know no boundaries, and those are what I contribute to the fight. I’m no warrior, my friend. I’m an old man, surprised each time I see the sun peek over the horizon and find all my teeth still lodged in my jaw. There is much I’m doing right here, and I’ll continue to do it as long as I draw breath.”
He poured the contents of the wooden bowl into a cauldron of boiling water hanging over the fire. “Now, I am going to make you something to poultice that wound.”