by J. M. Hofer
“That would be most welcome.” The blood was beginning to return to Bran’s limbs, and with it, the pain in his shoulder.
“Bran,” Gwion said, “there’s more to tell, and I fear you’ll not welcome hearing it. You told me Lucia was among your people when you left, but she has since returned to the Isle—and in distress.”
“What?” Bran remembered Aelhaearn’s disdain for her. “Did Aelhaearn send her back?”
Gwion shook his head. “No, her husband came for her.”
Her husband? Bran’s stomach sank. “I thought he was dead?”
“Seems not. He went looking for her. She left with him, but he beat her, so she fled for the Isle.”
“Roman bastard!” A hot anger burned in Bran’s breast. He spat into the fire.
“Truthfully, it surprised me to hear this. Camulos was always kind to all of us, especially Lucia. We suspect something happened to him.”
Bran could care less how Camulos used to be. And the Romans call us heathens!
“Before she made it to the lake she was attacked by a wolf running with the cauldron-born. Luckily, she was riding Gethen. Your sister gave him to her. Lucia was the only person he would let ride him after you left. Surely, if she’d been upon the back of a lesser horse, she would have perished. The beast wounded both of them very badly, but they’re recovering.”
Another wolf? Bran’s mind raced. How many could there be? Or was the beast I killed one and the same? “And now?” Bran felt anxious. “How do they fare?”
“They were both healing well when I left. They’ll be fine.”
Bran sighed. “I want them both in my company as soon as possible.”
“You will, soon.” Gwion hesitated.
“What?” Bran prompted. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Gwion nodded. “Your clan believed you died in the caves. They’ve named Lord Aelhaearn Chieftain, now.”
A feeling of betrayal swept through Bran. I knew it. He had thought on it much while trapped in the caves. Seren’s forsaken me.
“It’s been two moons, my lord,” Gwion added softly. “They lost hope you’d return.”
Islwyn came over, sat next to Bran, and washed his shoulder. “Lord Bran, in dark times, a clan needs a leader more than ever. Your sister merely did her duty. Surely, a man like you can understand this. From what news young Gwion brings, he’s led your clan well. I’d counsel you to rid your mind of thoughts of betrayal, for they will poison it. Instead, be thankful your people have managed to keep the enemy at bay.” Islwyn looked him in the eye. “You’re lucky to have escaped the Otherworld. Think on that instead.”
“Do you mean the caves?”
“Well, yes—but they were more than caves, I’m sure you’ve realized that by now. How else can you explain how you’ve come to be so far north?” Islwyn shook his head. “No, my friend. You were caught in one of the realms of the Otherworld. You should count yourself blessed to have made it out again.”
He’s right. There’s no other explanation. “Escaped, yes—but its damn demons are ever near, like a terrible dream I can’t wake up from.”
“This dream will end, as all dreams do.” Islwyn ladled out the steaming herbs from the cauldron back into the wooden bowl. “And there’s no need to fear them here—the dark ones will not cross running water.”
“Yes.” Bran had noticed this in the caves. They never went near the water.
“That’s why I moved my home here.” Islwyn packed the hot moist herbs into Bran’s shoulder and bound it tightly.
“My thanks,” Bran said. The pain began to dull almost instantly.
Islwyn nodded. “Are you aware that we sit upon a small island within the river?”
“No.”
“Over the past few moons, I’ve managed to build myself this small home. Here, I live in peace without worry of attack.”
“You have no king or clan to serve?” Bran asked.
Islwyn let out a raspy laugh. “No, no, no…I chose long ago to live alone. I have always preferred the company of trees and animals to the company of people. I hope you take no offense to that. I am fond of occasional visitors, though, like your friend.” He glanced at Ula and smiled.
“Yes.” Bran looked over and saw she was sleeping soundly. “She’s a mystery to me. Tell me what you know of her people.”
“That’s not for me to reveal.” Islwyn clucked his tongue. “If she desires to, she’ll find a way to tell you where she comes from.”
Bran did not press him. In a way, he enjoyed not knowing anything about her.
“She’s a treasure,” Islwyn added, gazing at her, “and one not to take near any danger, my friend. You should leave her here. I’ll see to it she gets back to where she belongs.”
“She can do as she wishes,” Bran answered, growing suspicious again. “I’m not her master.”
Islwyn’s face changed into one that instantly demanded respect. “Lord Bran, I know what evil you journey toward—if you care for her, then convince her to stay here with me. I’ll make sure she gets home.”
This time, Bran did not dismiss Islwyn’s words. He did not want anything to happen to Ula.
“Lord Bran, what will you do about Lord Aelhaearn?” Gwion asked, changing the conversation.
Bran let out a long sigh of defeat. I could go back and challenge him, and likely win, but what good would that do?
Dyrnwyn had been his salvation and only companion in the darkness of the caves. He dreaded the idea of giving it up, yet he knew the sword did not belong to him. It belonged to his people, to be wielded by their chieftain—the one they called Pennaeth. Aelhaearn now wore that mantle, and from the sound of it, had proven himself worthy. He knew that, divided, the clan would be weak. I can suffer no blood to be spilled in my name. This is my fate.
“What’s done is done,” he finally responded. “I’ll return home and give Aelhaearn my blessing, and return Dyrnwyn to my sister. She can present it to him and perform the rites. Now, I need some sleep. We leave at first light.”
“Yes. Let’s get some rest,” Islwyn stood up and went to lie down upon his small bed.
Bran lay back wearily upon the dirt floor, balling up the wool blanket and putting it beneath his head. Ula slept soundly near him. He did not like the thought of leaving her behind, but he knew his desires were selfish. She’ll be safe here. The old man spoke the truth—by his side was perhaps the most dangerous place in the world for her to be.
As he lay there, watching the fire slowly die, he found his heart surprisingly content in spite of all the disturbing news he had received. My sister still lives. Lucia still lives. The enemy has not defeated us.
His thoughts faded away and he slept well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Legend of Arthfael
Bran woke and saw that Gwion was not inside the hut. Islwyn was heating water over the fire, and Ula was sleeping soundly.
“I am preparing a fresh poultice for your wound,” Islwyn whispered upon seeing he was awake.
“Ah, thank you.” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Already his shoulder felt much better. “I’d have the recipe for that poultice. I frequently find myself with such ailments.”
“I can imagine.” Islwyn raised his eyebrows and nodded. “The young one knows how it’s made. I’ve given him the herbs to prepare it for you. Change it at dusk and dawn until it has healed fully.” He motioned toward Ula. “It would be best if you left without a word.”
I can’t leave her without saying goodbye. “I’m sorry, but I must bid her farewell,” he said after a moment. “She wouldn’t understand.”
Islwyn sighed as he ladled the herbs out of the cauldron with a shell into his wooden bowl. “Do as you wish, but she won’t want to stay behind.”
Bran collected his belongings, and then knelt down by Ula’s side and gently woke her. She turned and looked up at him. Seeing him dressed and ready to go, she sat up with a start.
“No, Ula. Stay here with Islwyn.
You can’t come with us. It’s too dangerous.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Please, stay.”
She must have understood what he said, because she latched onto him and would not let go. Islwyn looked over at him with raised eyebrows, shaking his head.
Just then Gwion returned. “I’ll speak to her.” He sat down across from Ula and held her hands. They looked into each other’s eyes, and spoke in a tongue Bran did not understand. He could tell by her manner that it was not going well, though.
Gwion turned to Bran. “She says she was told to stay with you, and she won’t leave you until she’s told to do otherwise.”
“By whom?” Bran asked, bewildered. “And how is it you understand her?”
“I understand a great many strange things, my lord.” Gwion said without pride, simply as a statement of fact. “I think you should allow her to come. We’ll be traveling down the river, and she’s quite at home in the water.”
“Down the river, eh?”
“Yes. I’ve arranged for a boat that will carry the three of us most comfortably. We’ll be safe from the cauldron-born, and travel much faster than we would on foot.”
“Well-done.” Bran smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “She’s welcome to do as she wishes, then.”
Gwion relayed this to Ula, and her eyes lit up.
Islwyn shook his head, begrudgingly accepting the group’s decision.
Bran turned to him. “Your kindness won’t be forgotten, Islwyn. You have a home in the South should you ever wish it.”
Islwyn smiled. “I’m honored, Lord Bran, but I’m quite happy here.” Ula came over to say goodbye, and he embraced her with tears in his wrinkled eyes. “Be good, dear girl. Be careful.”
Though he had said he was happy, Bran wondered how much of Islwyn’s desire to have Ula stay was borne of his own loneliness.
“May the Great Mother protect you all,” Islwyn bid in farewell, waving from the door of his hut.
“And you, Lord Islwyn,” Bran turned back, waving. “Remember, you are welcome among my clan—ask for the Firefolk.”
***
“Where is this boat you found?” Bran asked Gwion.
“Just a few miles downriver. Follow me.” Gwion took the lead and charged ahead, with no doubt about the direction they were headed. Bran smiled at the boy’s confidence, watching him bounce down the trail in front of him.
“Gwion?”
“Yes?”
“How did you know where I was? Or even that I still lived?”
Gwion glanced back at him. “I knew you were alive. I could feel it. The animals speak to me as well—to know them is to have a thousand eyes and ears. Lucia knew you were alive as well. She feels such things, like I do.”
Lucia. Bran felt a surge of happiness at the mention of her name. “I count myself fortunate, then.”
“You are. The Great Mother favors you.”
I wonder why. Bran had never thought of himself as a particularly pious man. He did not pray, except when he was in distress or feeling particularly grateful, nor did he observe the rituals with the fervor that many did.
“There’s something you should know before you return home.” Gwion slowed to walk beside him. “Lucia told me many of your men gave their lives searching for you. Though they now address Aelhaearn as Pennaeth, your people love you dearly. They’ll rejoice at your return.”
“I hope so. I’m eager to be home and among them again.”
Bran thought of Gareth’s body, still down there in that dark place. He felt overcome with regret that he had not been able to bring his cousin’s body back into the sunlight. Such a fate could easily have been my own.
The birds began to chatter incessantly as the sun emerged over the horizon, illuminating the sky in soft pink. Ula moved up alongside Gwion and took his hand, happy and carefree, none of the fear of yesterday in her manner at all.
Bran felt as if he were traveling with two children. They were innocent and unarmed, yet ironically, perhaps the most well-equipped to evade the darkness that hunted in the night.
“Gwion, I must reclaim Gethen from the Isle. Could this be arranged?”
Gwion nodded. “I have a plan, but I can’t speak for the Priestess Rowan.” After a moment he asked, “Are you familiar with the legend of Arthfael and Caledgwyn?”
“Yes, of course.” Bran had often heard the ballad sung. Arthfael was the only king ever to have ruled the Isle. “He’s the reason no boy-child is allowed to stay upon the Isle.”
“Yes, but there’s much more to the story than that. As the son of a Sister, I have heard it nigh a hundred times. I’ll tell it now, if you wish. I think you’d find it interesting.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” Bran smiled with encouragement. “A long story is a good way to pass the time.”
“Very well.”
The three companions walked together along the river, while Gwion told the tale of Arthfael.
“Once, long ago, there was a time when men lived alongside the Sisters of the Isle. It began with Priestess Arwyth, who gave birth to a son, whom she loved so much that she refused to send him from the Isle to his father. She believed that if the Sisters were careful to raise their sons with respect toward the Great Mother and shown nothing of war or hatred, they would not grow into the blood-thirsty, destructive men of the world outside.”
Bran shook his head at her naivety. Men will always long for battle.
“Her desire to raise her son on the Isle caused a rift within the Sisterhood. Some of the Sisters agreed with Arwyth—especially those who had young sons of their own—but others insisted they should not question the Old Ways. In the end, somehow, Arwyth managed to get all the Sisters to agree to allow the sons to stay and be raised by their mothers.”
I’d have become an orphan—like that poor bastard, Morvran—no father to be sent to.
“The first sons raised on the Isle grew up to serve the Great Mother well. They were strong, yet compassionate and respectful. They served as noble ambassadors for their mothers and sisters, carrying messages to the other clans, and bringing back important news and goods that were needed. When they grew to be men and began taking lovers and becoming fathers, however, things began to shift. Their children grew up very differently, being raised by both mothers and fathers, and many new longings competed with the Great Mother within their hearts.
“When Priestess Arwyth died, her only daughter, Gwyndolyn, became her successor as High Priestess. Like her mother, she also questioned some of the Old Ways. Unlike any High Priestess of the Isle who had come before her, she chose to take a protector. Gwyndolyn and her protector ruled the Isle together, as was the custom of the other clans, sharing equally in the decision-making, and though life was not as simple or quiet as it had been the generation before, it was still fairly peaceful.”
“Priestess Gwyndolyn bore no daughters—only sons. Her eldest, Arthfael, was born with all the virility and ambition of the men of the outside world. He was said to be the most handsome man ever born to a mortal woman. He was restless and charming, and traveled off the Isle frequently. He felt the Isle should have a chieftain, like the clans to the North, East and South. One by one, through his stories of adventure and valor from the lands beyond, he converted many to his way of thinking.”
Ula laughed from somewhere ahead of them. Moments later, she appeared with a butterfly perched on her finger. She presented it to Gwion, who smiled and let it settle on his head. It looked like a poppy in a field of golden wheat.
Gwion resumed the tale. “Without a daughter of her own to apprentice in the role as High Priestess, Gwyndolyn chose her sister’s eldest daughter, Addfwyn, to teach and mentor. Unfortunately, Gwyndolyn died very young of a fever brought onto the Isle by the men. Addfwyn came to her position far too soon. In her, Arthfael saw his opportunity. He easily seduced and charmed the young priestess, and Addfwyn fell deeply in love with him. It was not long before she named him her protector.”
And this is where t
hings go wrong. Bran remembered how his mother’s face always grew more serious at this point in the tale.
“Slowly, Arthfael and his brothers brought the ways of the outside to the Isle. He brought timber and limestone from across the lake to build a Great Hall like those he had seen in the lands beyond. It had a tall tower, so he could look out over the lake in all directions, and a courtyard around the Mother Oak for Addfwyn and her sister priestesses. In the Great Hall, banquets were held on ritual days, and the new sons and daughters of the Isle ate, drank, sang and fell in love like those of the other clans. Arthfael and Addfwyn were content. However, the cost of this new life was that many of the daughters who came of age under their rule chose to dedicate themselves to being mothers and wives, rather than to the rigorous study and prayer involved in becoming initiated priestesses of the Great Mother.”
“That was inevitable,” Bran interjected.
“Yes, but there were women who still chose to follow in the footsteps of their grandmothers. Lucia and I are descended from one of them.”
The butterfly flew off Gwion’s head, fluttered in front of them for a moment, and then bobbled off into the trees.
“Go on,” Bran encouraged. “I forget what happens next.”
“The Sisters separated themselves from the distractions of the court, living in simple huts near the Sacred Pools. There, they immersed themselves in the Old Ways. They were highly respected and consulted on holy days to give blessings and lead rituals, to heal and cure the sick or wounded, and to deliver babies. Soon, it seemed an insult for Addfwyn to carry the title of High Priestess. There were so many Sisters who were more knowledgeable and trained in the Old Ways of the Great Mother than she was. She knew this. So, she graciously stepped down, and bid the Sisters of the order choose a new High Priestess.”
“Ah, yes—Seren!” Bran suddenly remembered. How could I forget my sister’s namesake! He winced with embarrassment.
“Yes. Lady Seren. She was the eldest and most learned of them. From that day forward, the people of the Isle addressed Addfwyn as their queen, not High Priestess.”