by J. M. Hofer
As planned, they reached the lake the next day. The distant Isle beckoned from behind the shifting mist, silhouetted against the pale setting sun.
Ula swam around the boat as Bran rowed toward it, sometimes emerging far off, then returning. She seemed excited to have deeper waters to explore.
It was not long before they were completely enveloped in mist, unable to see anything around them. Occasionally, Bran heard Ula splashing and laughing in the distance, but the sound never seemed to come from the same direction.
Within the mist, figures began to form, shifting and floating around the tiny boat, eerily hovering around Gwion, who sat completely still. Bran chose to look at the water instead. The figures put him ill at ease. He watched the wakes the oars made as he pushed the water away, but began seeing faces forming within the water.
“There are spirits about,” he said warily to Gwion.
“There are always spirits about. You can simply see them here.”
Suddenly, as if slipping into a dream, the bow slid upon the shore where so few men had set foot.
Bran felt more apprehensive than he had before entering the caves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Mist
“Someone’s coming,” Lucia said.
As if from very far away, she faintly heard her grandmother ask, “Can you see who it is?”
Lucia focused intently on the small figure in her vision. As she drew closer, she saw it was a small boat with two figures in it, but a thick mist swirled about them, obscuring their faces from her.
She noticed the mist was filled with spirits. There are so many of them! They clustered around the tiny boat as if they were feeding upon it, like ants swarming all over a piece of cake. Lucia recoiled. She could see them under the water as well, their hands and faces around the boat. Then, all the faces turned toward her, and, for the first time, Lucia knew she could be seen.
She panicked and lurched out of her trance. Her heart thumped in her ribcage and her throat was dry. She found herself back on the dirt floor of her small hut, peering into a dish of water. The sun had gone down and her limbs were stiff.
“Lucia?” A hand lightly touched her shoulder. “What did you see?”
She turned and looked into her grandmother’s face. “Spirits,” she answered, “swarming around a boat in the mist.”
Rowan saw her fear. “They cannot harm you.”
“That’s not the way it felt.”
“You will become better at traveling within the Shadowlands, and dealing with whatever or whomever you meet there, but you must practice. Every day. As the days pass, you will be able to stay longer, move more quickly, and remember more, after you return.”
“I will,” Lucia promised. She was shaken, yet still determined to become a Shadowmistress.
“What can you remember about the figures in the boat?”
“I think it might have been Gwion and Bran…I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them.”
***
Lucia’s vision of Gwion and Bran had come to her a week ago, yet they had not arrived. She had spent time with the scrying dish every day since, but the vision had not come to her again.
“What am I doing wrong?” she asked Aveta in exasperation.
“Your fear may be keeping you from seeing.”
“That could be true.” She had been fearful about looking into the water since her last vision, and had shared this with Aveta. “But I’ve often been fearful of my visions—they’ve come to me regardless.”
Aveta nodded, and looked up at the roof. “I suppose the difference could be that you’re the one seeking the vision—rather than the vision seeking you. A part of you is coming to the altar, asking to be shown, yet another is fearful, and does not want to see. You must deal with your fear if you want clarity.”
“But how can I stop it?”
“Start by asking yourself what you’re afraid of. Go deep—right into the heart of it.”
Lucia closed her eyes. Why am I afraid of them? She put herself back in the vision, remembering the faces of the spirits. “I fear that I will be overtaken, somehow…helpless in a realm where I have no physical body to fight with.”
“Anything else?”
She kept her eyes closed, exploring every tiny wave of emotion she was feeling. “I have seen spirits before. Many times, in fact. I often see them when I’m not in trance or asleep, but never have I felt as I did this time.”
Lucia opened her eyes to see Aveta had put a bannock and some warm milk in front of her. “These spirits seemed especially tormented, Aveta—intent on doing harm. I felt as if they were trying to turn the boat over.”
“You need to eat,” Aveta glanced down at the food. “Go on.”
Lucia sipped her milk. Aveta had put some honey in it. Delicious.
Aveta patted her hand. “Many things live within the waters of the lake—both of this world and the Otherworld. Cerridwen insisted the father of her children was a spirit of the lake.”
Spirits can father children? Lucia’s fear returned. “That isn’t possible, is it?”
Aveta shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows.
“That isn’t possible, is it?” Lucia asked again.
“It’s been known to happen among us. We Sisters have no cause to lie to one another. There is no shame or pride among us about who fathers our children. In fact, it serves us ill when this happens and we bear sons, for we have no father to send them to when they come of age—that’s what happened with Cerridwen and Morvran. Creirwy, of course, could stay upon the Isle and be trained, but Morvran had to be sent away when he came of age. I suppose that’s why she coddled him so much—trying to make up for this unfairness somehow. It was an unfairness that went beyond that of their sex. Though they were twins, they were complete opposites—Creirwy so beautiful and fair, full of the Great Mother’s blessings—and poor Morvran, dark and deformed, destined to be sent from here into a world that would surely revile him.”
But how is it possible? Lucia shook her head. “I still don’t understand how a spirit can father children. I’ve never understood it. The Christians believe in such things as well—that the father of their Lord was not a man, but the spirit of God who came to a virgin and put a child in her womb.”
“Yes, I’ve heard this. I can only tell you what Cerridwen told us—then you must make up your own mind about whether or not you believe it.”
“Go on,” Lucia urged.
Aveta took some hot milk for herself and put another log on the fire. “Cerridwen said a giant appeared to her while she was walking alone along the shore one night. He said to her, ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—I will not rest until you’re mine.’ My sister was flattered, as young women easily are, and overwhelmed with curiosity. She challenged him to return night after night for a moon to prove his love, and then took him as her lover. Our mother found out, of course, and that was that.”
“And?” Lucia asked. “That’s it?”
“As far as I know. The twins were born the following June. This proves they were not Beltane babes, for they were conceived in September.”
Hearing this story did nothing to assuage Lucia’s fear, even though she did not really believe it. “So who was he? How did he get here?”
“My sister never told us, so perhaps she didn’t know. After the twins were born, she said their father’s name was Tegid Voel. My mother thinks it was a god or spirit that appeared to her. Many spirits envy the world of men, and have been known to take human lovers.”
Spirits taking human lovers. Lucia shuddered. “If spirits can make love to mortals, and get them with child, can they not also curse them?”
“Yes, of course.” Aveta narrowed her eyes. “This is why you must always ask for protection. You must put yourself in the hands of the Guardians before venturing into the Otherworld, in the name of the Great Mother. She protects her daughters, so that we may go forth fearlessly into the mist and do her work.”
Rowan entered, interrupting their conversation. “A boat has landed upon the shore.” She glanced at Lucia and gave a nod.
“It’s them.” Lucia jumped to her feet.
She felt a spell of dizziness, no doubt from sitting so long in the same position on the floor, but steadied herself and followed Rowan and Aveta outside.
Cold air hit her skin through the holes in her shawl, snaking up under her dress as they rushed toward the lake shore. Each day, winter squeezed them more firmly in its grasp. It would continue to take them deeper into the darkness for the next few moons.
A thick mist was rolling in, as it sometimes did, mingling with the smoke from the village fires that rose up through the center of their huts.
The upper limbs of the giant oak disappeared and reappeared as they passed underneath it. “The mist is strangely thick,” Lucia remarked. “I don’t think it’s ever been this thick in the time I’ve been here.”
“It happens sometimes. It can mean many things. Some good, some…challenging,” her grandmother replied.
“How so?”
“When the mist is thick, it means the Great Mother is protecting us from something. Her protection is good, of course, but the fact that there is something we need protecting from, well…You can look at it however you like.”
“I see,” Lucia commented. My fears aren’t for nothing, apparently.
“There are indeed many spirits about. Something has them restless,” Rowan added.
Lucia pulled her shawl tighter around her and stayed right on Aveta’s heels.
They picked their way through the trees and down the narrow path that led to the small shore where, somehow, anyone who ever made it to the Isle seemed to appear. Yet one more mystery she did not understand.
Aveta stopped in her tracks. “Gwion! Is that you?”
Lucia heard footsteps approaching and branches crackling underfoot from the opposite direction.
“It is,” Gwion’s voice answered some feet away.
“Oh, thank the gods!”
Soon Lucia saw Gwion’s face over Aveta’s shoulder as the two embraced.
Gwion grinned. “Lucia!”
“Gwion!” Lucia waited for her chance to hug and kiss him as well.
“And you are Lord Bran,” Lucia heard her grandmother say some feet ahead of them.
“Yes, I am. It is an honor, Priestess Rowan.”
Lucia’s heart leapt at the sound of his voice. I was right! He’s alive!
“Come. We have much to talk about.”
Lucia had no choice but to turn around and lead the way back through the mist the way they had come. The path was too narrow for anyone else to take the lead. When it opened up a bit, Gwion came and walked alongside her. He reached for her hand.
At first, she thought he took it as a child would take a parent’s hand, but then realized he meant to lead her. “Allow me, cousin. I know the way,” he whispered.
The first hints of manhood were starting to show on his face. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers back.
Bran’s behind me, somewhere back there. She felt as if she were in a dream. She feared she might wake up from it at any moment to find Bran snatched from her again. “You found him, Gwion. Just as you said you would.”
“Yes. It took some time, but I did.”
“I’m so glad.”
“So am I.”
The path led out of the trees and Rowan passed them, taking the lead. “We will meet in the old courtyard.”
Gwion let go of Lucia’s hand, as the mist had thinned out, and went to walk beside his grandmother.
Lucia felt a large hand upon her shoulder. Her stomach jumped.
“Lucia,” Bran whispered.
“Bran.” She smiled, looking up at him. Gods, I want to throw my arms around him. “I feared I’d never see you again.”
“Much has happened since we last parted.”
Lucia almost laughed. “Yes. More than in the entirety of my life before it.”
He nodded. “Sometimes the change we’ve longed for comes, and we find that we regret it.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. I regret nothing. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
He gazed at her. He has such blue eyes—like robin’s eggs. She noticed her hands were shaking. Embarrassed, she hid them.
“Can we talk when this is done?” he asked.
She felt dizzy from the blood rushing through her body. “As you wish.”
They walked together into the ruins of the old castle, following Rowan to the once majestic throne room. A fire burned in the giant hearth. A lattice of tree branches served as their castle roof, arching over their heads.
“Please, everyone, sit.” Rowan motioned toward the stone benches near the fire.
Gwion spoke first. “Grandmother, Lord Bran has a request of you that I believe will help us win this war.”
Everyone held their breath as Rowan stared at Bran.
“Lord Bran,” Rowan finally began, glancing at Gwion, “I’m sure you realize the rare privilege that my grandson has procured for you.”
“I do, Priestess,” Bran nodded, his eyes downcast in respect.
“No man but Lord Talhaiarn has been permitted on our shores since the last High Priest of the Crossroads before him.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“It is only because of my grandson’s gifts, and our desperate circumstances, that you have been allowed to come.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“What is your request?”
Lucia knew Bran had fought dozens of bloody battles and petitioned many a dangerous truce with clan and Saxon warlords alike, but had probably never had he felt the particular uneasiness which he surely felt now, addressing the High Priestess of the Isle. “My lady, as I was believed to be dead, my people have named Lord Aelhaearn their Chieftain. Therefore, I am journeying to my village to present him with Drynwyn, as by rights, it now belongs to him.” Bran paused a moment and took a deep breath. “I now find myself a warrior without a sword, or a charge.”
Lucia wondered how much it bothered him. Surely quite a bit.
“It seems to me there are a great many things worth fighting for right now, Lord Bran,” Rowan quipped.
“Indeed.” Bran agreed with a nod. “This brings me to my request. Gwion has told me he believes the legendary blade of Caledgwyn rests within the Sacred Pools here on the Isle. I’ve come to ask if you to allow me to submit myself to the Great Mother and attempt to retrieve it. With it, I would return as many stolen souls to Arawn as I could. Should I succeed in resurrecting the sword, I pledge to prove myself worthy of it by protecting your holy Sisterhood against any who would seek to attack or defile it.”
Rowan chuckled. “We have no need of a mortal protector, Lord Bran. The Great Mother protects us.”
They all sat in silence until Gwion spoke up. “Grandmother, she does indeed, but have you not noticed how many dark spirits now inhabit the waters about the island? How thick the mist has become? The threat from Cerridwen grows ever stronger. You know nothing can keep her from returning. This is her home. She is a sworn priestess of the Great Mother. She cannot be denied. The Sisterhood is in danger. I believe you will need a Champion if Cerridwen brings her warriors with her. Let Bran submit himself to the Great Mother. If she does not approve, she will drown him.”
Lucia gasped, but said nothing. She looked at Aveta who nodded a “yes” to her silent question.
Rowan suddenly looked very tired. “I had hoped it would not come to this. The idea of war coming to our shores again sickens me. Still, I don’t believe we need a protector.”
“There’s more, Grandmother,” Gwion persisted. “Tell her, Lord Bran.”
Rowan turned toward Bran and raised her eyebrows. “Tell me what?”
“I know where the Cauldron is. I have seen it.”
The Cauldron!
“Great Mother!” Rowan sighed and looked at the sky, her hands clasped against her chest
. “We are saved! Where does it lie?”
“Deep within a cave of crystal, far in the North…I found my freedom through a narrow crevice in the ceiling of that cavern.”
“It must be rescued and brought back here, at any cost—do you believe you can find this place again?”
Lucia had never seen Rowan show so much emotion.
“Yes,” Bran assured her. “There’s also a druid by the name of Islwyn who lives not far from where it is. I’m sure we can count on his help, but the price for my service is opportunity—the opportunity to seek Caledgwyn.”
Bold—bolder than I would ever dare to be.
Rowan looked at Bran as if he were a child. “How foolish do you think I am? What if you should perish? How would we find the Cauldron then?”
“I shall not perish, my lady,” Bran said with complete conviction in his voice.
“Your over-confidence may very likely be the death of you.”
Bran said nothing. They all sat in awkward silence until Rowan said, “Lord Bran, if you will give me your solemn vow that you will do everything in your power to find and return the Cauldron to us, I shall grant you the opportunity you have requested.”
“I will. You have my word.”
“Very well, then. You have my blessing.”
“Thank you, Lady Rowan.” Bran bowed his head in respect.
“You must sleep here, however,” she quickly added. “There should be more than enough wood to burn through the night, and I will send food, drink and blankets.”
“I’ll see to it,” Lucia offered.
Just then, someone emerged from the darkness. Bran bolted upright, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Gwion laughed. “My lord! You forget where you are! At ease! It’s but your old friend, come to visit!”
The sound of hooves on flagstone greeted their ears. Gethen emerged like a dark apparition from the thick mist, walking into the throne room as if he were Arthfael himself.
Bran let out a cry of joy. He rushed over and threw his arms around the beast’s neck. “Oh, gods, I’ve missed you, my friend!” He stroked him, and Gethen nuzzled Bran’s face and chest in return.