Avelynn

by Marissa Campbell

  “What brings m’lady out in this terrible storm?” she asked as she stoked the fire hotter. A long rectangle, their cottage was a meager one. The shallow central hearth dug into the dirt floor divided the byre from the living space, a wattle fence the only thing standing between us and the cow, the pig, a few chickens, and our two horses. On this side of the fence there was a raised platform built into one of the longer walls closest to the hearth. It held a thin straw mattress and a few linens folded neatly on top. The only other furniture in the room was a table and the two stools we sat upon. Our hostess stood and smiled as we ate her humble offering gratefully.

  “Have you any word of Muirgen, the healer?” I said.

  “The witch?”

  I nodded.

  “Last I saw her she was headin’ into town for some big trial.”

  “Has your husband had word of anyone coming to visit her lately?” Bertram said.

  “Not that I know.” She called across the fence, “Wolfstan, you know somethin’ about the witch these last few days?”

  He came to the fence, a sallow stick of a man, and brushed his hands against his worn trousers. A cloud of dust mixed with the heavy smoke in the air. The couple burned peat, which was wonderfully warm, but terribly smoky. Their cottage had a miasma of gray so thick that if you stood up, your eyes watered and your chest tightened.

  “No one’s come by here savin’ yourself, m’lady.” He inclined his head slightly.

  I frowned. Did Demas catch her on the road? Did she even make it home? Was she left at the edge of the road, her frail body a feast for wolves? I pressed my thumb and forefinger above my closed eyelids. I didn’t want to think about it.

  The next morning, Wolfstan accompanied us to Muirgen’s cottage. Her home was surrounded by dense woodland, and since I was not sure who or what might greet us when we arrived, I welcomed the extra company.

  The storm had stopped overnight, and weak sunlight struggled to break through the thinning clouds. The world was blanketed in white. A hand’s depth of snow had fallen since the previous morning, and trees and bushes hung heavy with their accumulated burdens.

  As we neared the cottage, the acrid stench of burnt and wet timber began to grow stronger. I spurred Marma forward. An image flashed into my mind. Thickly corded rope looped around the central beam in the roof, the ends binding Muirgen’s wrists, her arms stretched above her, her head bent. Blood dripped from her mouth. She had been tortured.

  I shook my head, determined to clear the image that blazed in front of my closed eyes. I prayed to the Goddess that she hadn’t suffered long.

  At the footpath leading to Muirgen’s cottage, we tethered the horses and walked the remaining way, our footprints marring the virgin white landscape. Streaks of pale sunlight filtered through the skeletal branches of the large oak tree, illuminating the disembodied bones that shivered with the weight of newly fallen snow. In the middle of the boughs, hanging from a noose tied around her neck, swayed Muirgen, her naked body defiled and ravaged by carrion. She was frozen and stiff; her blue-gray skin, ripped and torn in places, hung loosely in thin shreds. Both her feet had been chewed off. I didn’t know what I had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  “Blessed Goddess,” Bertram whispered beside me.

  Wolfstan crossed himself. “Mistress, I think it best if I wait by the horses.”

  “Of course.” I watched him retreat, practically tripping over his feet in his haste.

  Behind Muirgen, the scene was just as bleak. The cottage itself was burned to the ground, a blackened scab in the middle of the pristine forest. Her book—the rituals, the incantations—all lost. Oh, Muirgen, I’m so sorry.

  I surveyed the wreckage. The fire hadn’t been hot enough to melt the cauldron, which still hung suspended over what was once the hearth. I riffled through the soot and ash, looking for anything I could use for her burial. I found an iron mortar unscathed and tucked it into my satchel. Everything else was destroyed.

  “There is little we can do here.” Bertram placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “We have to bury her. We can’t leave her.…” My throat tightened.

  “Then we must gather supplies.” He shrugged deeper into his cloak. I looked into his face. Muirgen and Bertram had known each other in another life—in a time before England. They had conceived a child together, but I knew nothing about their relationship. Did he care for her?

  He sighed. “Her death is a great loss.”

  “Were you close?”

  “I respected her as a healer, as a priestess, and as a woman. Your mother had a trace of Muirgen’s spirit, but you possess the full measure of her strength, her tenacity, and her power. You are very much alike. Goddess keep her.”

  I looked back at her body. It was impossible to imagine this decayed vessel as the woman I had come to know. Anger swelled within me. I felt helpless. I wanted Demas to pay for what he had done, but, again, I was left without any proof. I had her scalp, but no one had seen Demas give it to me. I could insist he felt threatened because of her testimony against him at the trial, but the charges had been thrown out—there was no reason for him to hurt her, except to hurt me.

  Jostled by a frigid northern gust, Muirgen’s body swung slightly. Something flashed as it caught the sunlight. I moved closer, peering upward. The sun glinted off a brooch that had been stabbed into her shoulder. The silver was intricately forged in the shape of a stag. A sharp breath ripped through me. The Frenchman.

  A vision blazed. A young man, his throat slit. A man standing behind, his knife slick with blood. Demas prostrate beside the dead body. I shook my head. “No.”

  Bertram moved to my side. “What is it?”

  “I saw him.” My breath was shallow and rapid, my chest heaving as my hands shook. “The man in the forest with Demas. He’s dead. Osric killed him.” There had been love in Demas’s eyes, and pain, tremendous pain, as he lay at his lover’s side. I looked at Muirgen. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and my gut wrenched as I thought of the way Demas had tortured her. “My actions have killed them both.”

  “You could not have known it would come to this.”

  “But I should have. I should have looked beyond my own selfish ends. I should have contemplated the consequences.”

  “When a rock is thrown into a lake, the ripples cast a wide net, each wave affecting new and smaller ripples until even the memory of the rock disappears. The events leading to this moment were set in motion long before you made the decision to stand before the Witan. Demas knew his actions were wrong in the eyes of the Church. That is why he hid in the forest. He made a choice and in doing so accepted the risks. The weight of those consequences lay squarely on his shoulders. Muirgen knew what would happen when she stood for you at the Witan, yet she insisted on going.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me? I would have stopped her. I would have found another way.”

  He shook his head. “Even when you can see what lies ahead, there is often little that can be done to change it, and perhaps we are not meant to.”

  “Is everything fated, then? Is choice only an illusion?” Demas’s words to the same came poignantly to mind. I refused to believe it.

  Bertram shrugged. “I am an old man. I have pondered these questions for a lifetime. Would Muirgen have averted her fate by staying at the Christmas feast and returning to Wedmore with you? Or would she still have met her death? What I can tell you is that she chose to ride home alone, knowing she would be overtaken.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Perhaps there was a higher purpose to her sacrifice.”

  I waited.

  “The vision you just received was powerful, the images clear, were they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There will be great trials ahead. You have both foreseen that. I suspect Muirgen has passed her strength on to you so that you might be ready.”

  “But I’m not ready. There was still so much for her to teach me.” I sank against
the oak. “I’ve lost everything.”

  “No. Not everything. You have her book. It has been tucked safely away with your divining bones.”

  I gaped at him. All that time. They both knew she was going to die and still they remained silent. I glanced at Muirgen’s lifeless body. I could have averted this. If they’d just told me, if I’d known the consequences, I could have found another way. Instead, together, they cast their rocks at fate, setting the future.

  “You chose this path, Avelynn, despite my warnings and encouragement to the contrary. You are high priestess now. The desires of one must never outweigh the needs of many. The ripples have already been set in motion. Ready or not, there is no turning back.”

  * * *

  Guilt and uncertainty plagued me as the three of us headed back to Congresbury, but no matter my internal struggle, I needed to lay Muirgen to rest, and for that I needed supplies to tend her body. In addition to Wolfstan’s home, there were several other cottages scattered along a worn dirt path, and I paid handsomely for a small wooden cup, a linen winding sheet, two shovels, and a pickaxe.

  By the time Bertram and I had returned to Muirgen’s cottage, it was almost noon. The forest blocked the worst of the wind, but when it gusted, it cut through me, leaving a persistent shiver in its wake.

  We lit a fire on the cold hearth. When the water in the cauldron had heated sufficiently that my hands would not freeze to work with it, we cut down her body and laid her on the ground. I washed her frail, brittle skin, drifting to thoughts of my mother. I hadn’t washed or prepared her body. She had been laid out in her finest gown. A rich gold-and-amber brooch fastened a fur cloak, and her fingers were heavy with gold rings. Long dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders. My newborn brother, swaddled in furs, lay gently on her stomach. At the time, I had no idea how much her death would affect my life, how large a hole would be left. No one could replace my mother—that cavern would never be filled—but somehow Muirgen had softened the jagged edges, and now she was lost to me too.

  When her body was ready, I reached into the pouch Demas had thrown at me and removed her scalp. Before we left Wedmore, I had washed the blood from her hair and brushed the strands until they shone. I set it back onto its rightful place.

  With her body as whole as I could make it, we wrapped her in the winding sheet.

  I handed Bertram a shovel, and we started digging beneath the large oak tree, choosing a spot far enough from the trunk to avoid the thick, fibrous roots. Protected by several inches of leaf mold, the ground was hard but not impossible. It was nonetheless backbreaking work. After several hours of hacking in the dirt with the pickaxe, we managed to dig a respectable grave—deep enough to dissuade any hungry wolves from disturbing it.

  Oak was a magical tree, its properties revered and respected by my grandmother’s people. I couldn’t take her home to Ireland, but I could at least give her a proper burial here beneath her tree.

  We placed her into the ground, feet facing west, and I tucked several amulets of amber around her body to ward off any evil spirits that might take advantage of a newly departed soul. We filled the grave back in, mounding the earth above it.

  The wind had picked up, the gusts furious and unrelenting. Blowing snow from the trees and ground whipped my face and hands, leaving them chapped and frozen. At Wedmore, I had asked Bertram to perform the burial ritual. I had never done one, nor had I ever seen one performed. I had only a cursory understanding, a lesson in theory. But since I was ordained, he insisted it was now my duty. He would merely accompany me, and offered to bring his drum.

  My chest was still tight with reservations as I looked at the freshly mounded earth. I didn’t want to let Muirgen down.

  “You are ready,” Bertram said, his hand on my shoulder offering comfort.

  I nodded, unable to find words.

  Bertram found a sheltered spot in front of some low-growing hazel and began to beat his drum. I took a deep breath, centering myself.

  “Aine, Goddess of the North, of the deep snows and the long nights of the northern lands, Goddess of Winter, wisdom, magic, and medicine, I ask you to bless this rite.” From my satchel, I removed a bundle of feathers tied with a strip of leather, an offering representing air, and set them onto the ground, placing Alrik’s knife on top so the offering wouldn’t fly off in the bitter wind. I moved to the next aspect of the circle.

  “Macha, Goddess of the East, of the rising dawn, the fire of the sun, Goddess of Spring, desire, love, and passion, I ask you to bless this rite.” I lit a small fire of kindling, waiting until the smoke began to rise before adding a few small twigs.

  “Danu, Goddess of the South, the Earth Mother, the keeper of virtue, the judge of vice, Goddess of summer fields in bloom, the harvest of plenty, I ask you to bless this rite.” I placed the small iron mortar at the southernmost aspect of the circle and filled it with a handful of herbs, representing earth.

  “Badb, Goddess of the West, guide to the dead, champion of the newly born, Goddess of Autumn, courage, and strength, I ask you to bless this rite.” I placed the wooden cup on the ground and filled it with water from my leather flask.

  I couldn’t form a funeral procession. There would be no drinking, feasting, or wailing lament over her body, but there would be a blood sacrifice. I had bought one of Wolfstan’s chickens. It was pecking and clucking nervously beside me inside a wooden crate.

  I reached inside and pulled the chicken, squawking, from within. I grabbed its legs with one hand, with the other I pushed down on its neck, and in one swift motion, I pulled hard, twisting upward until I heard the snap. Its wings flapped wildly, though it was dead instantly. When the death throes subsided, I grabbed Alrik’s knife and slit its throat, letting the blood soak into the mounded grave.

  “Blessed be the sacred blood, the channel of spirit. As this precious river ebbs from life, so it ferries the promise of life in the hereafter. Spirits of the Otherworld, accept this offering and grant protection to this soul as she walks the plane between life and death.” I placed the carcass at Muirgen’s feet to the west, an offering for Badb.

  The wind swirled around my legs. The snow, drifting lazily into piles, was caught in the movement and began to circle in a funnel upward. The drum’s mournful pulse grew quicker, louder.

  “Goddess, blessed on your golden throne, all powerful in your caer in the sky, mother of all, giver of life, bringer of death, destroyer, welcome your daughter Muirgen. Deliver her safely to the underworld.”

  The wind ripped through the clearing, and any hair exposed and unbound whipped my face, the icy ends like razors on my chapped cheeks. The boughs on the trees leaned heavily in the gusts, the snow billowing off the branches as it caught in the wind’s embrace, pelting me as if formed of sand. I shielded my eyes with one arm and staggered backward in the strength of the gale pressing against me. Fear leapt to the surface. What was happening? I could no longer see the cauldron that stood only a few feet away. The wind, gusting and blowing, drowned out any sound of Bertram’s drums, and I fell to my knees. “Goddess, I beseech you. Muirgen is come home. Welcome her, your noble priestess and valiant keeper of our faith, welcome her at your table. Ease your grief, hold your anger, I beg of you.”

  The winds stopped. The snow settled and fell.

  Bertram appeared at my side. “Muirgen taught you well.”

  I stood on trembling legs. “What in the Goddess’s name just happened, Bertram? That is twice I have witnessed such an event.” My hands shook as I glanced around me. Not a breath of breeze stirred.

  “It was merely a blustery wind, from the icy mountains far in the northlands beyond the seas.”

  “But to have stopped so suddenly?” I had never seen anything like it. “Surely the Goddess caused this.”

  His voice was stern. “In my long life, I have seen many things, Avelynn, but to think a Goddess or a god causes events to happen, whether for good or ill, is foolish and ignorant. You would be no better than the Christian pries
ts and their damnable rhetoric to believe so. Instead put your faith in what you can see, hear, taste, smell, and touch. That is real. There is little that cannot be explained.”

  I would have pressed him further, for I was certain more was at work here than could be so easily explained away, but the wind picked up again, tossing the snow about in circles, sending it chasing its tail, the gusts catching me off balance, forcing me backward. While it would have been nice to know the Goddess was here for Muirgen, to mourn for her, to grieve for her, I conceded that perhaps I had looked for something that wasn’t there.

  There was nothing left to do here, and against the lashing winds, we gathered our supplies and mounted the horses. I turned Marma to leave but the frozen, desolate landscape held my gaze.

  Beyond the gray smudge of Muirgen’s cottage lay a garden hidden beneath the snow. I sighed, remembering the months I had spent weeding beside her while she taught me about the plants she grew. I tried my best to remember all their medicinal and magical properties and the phases of the moon in which to plant and pick them, but knew I had only a fraction of her vast knowledge.

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Life rarely is,” was Bertram’s sage answer.

  Nudging Marma over to the sentinel oak, I pulled down one of the small, bleached bones that danced amongst its branches, and rubbed the smooth surface between thumb and finger. I tucked it into my satchel and laid my palm against the deeply grooved bark, bowing my head. Good-bye, Muirgen.

  We headed back to Congresbury; the bones raised a chorus of lament over her grave as they tinkled softly against one another in the wind.

  * * *

  Dawn broke crisp and clear. We thanked our hosts for their kind hospitality, leaving them with several coins for their trouble, and raced back to Wedmore. When I arrived at the manor, I invited several ladies from the village to join me in my father’s hall. While awaiting word of the war, it was easier to pass the anxious hours in company than be left to my own thoughts, alone in my cottage. Most brought some project to work on: basket making, embroidery, or single-needle knitting.