Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  “She chose to go this way,” he said simply.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It has already been written.”

  “Then rewrite it!”

  His features hardened.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “Save her. Save her as you saved me. In the name of Anu...save her as you saved me.”

  Bran raised his gaze to Erolf. Erolf changed not his intense stare but held it fixed. Finding mutual expectancy, Bran again looked upon Talah’s tormented features.

  “Do you know what you ask?” he questioned.

  Talah knew. She understood the wisdom of Anu’s cauldron, from which the thread of life sprang, but not without a price. The great mother ancestor of the Tuatha de Danann demanded the same balance that pervaded all aspects of life. Indeed, Talah was aware of the tremendous consequences of such a healing.

  “A life for a life,” he added.

  Talah turned a sober eye to Danann’s pale features that once sparkled with life, gleaming with immense joy at Talah’s awakening as she was freed from the spider’s web. It was time to return the gift. As air filled her lungs with a breath deep, she raised Danann into Bran’s arms.

  “All I ask is that you wait until I reach the Lake of the Cross, a chance to finish this one deed.”

  Bran knew Talah spoke of her duty, her geasa. He honored this with a nod. As she stood to leave he spoke again. “You should rest Lugh. You have ridden him hard. He won’t be much benefit to you in battle like that.”

  Talah knew Bran was right. It was nearly dusk. It would be better this way, she mused. “Aye. I’ll head out at dawn.”

  Bran acknowledged her with a nod before standing. He then turned around to ascend the shallow altar steps and gently laid Danann’s body upon the altar itself before drawing a white linen over her reverently.

  Brother Erolf tugged at Talah’s arm. “Would you care to join me for an evening sup?”

  The mere mention of food made Talah’s stomach take notice with a hunger pang. Such sorrow quickly drew away the thought, however. “I cannot. Thank you.”

  “A most modest meal I’m afraid, of cabbage soup and rye bread,” he continued as she escorted him out the chamber. “But it warms the heart...and feet.”

  Talah met his jolly, toothless grin half-heartedly before glancing over her shoulder in concern. Her only solace was watching Bran kneel in prayer. She knew now her only burden of expectation was through assured faith.

  “We will drink the port in your honor,” Old Erolf mentioned with adoring fervor. “This, incidentally, is the sacrament wine. But, I won’t tell if you don’t.” Had it not been for Talah having such a heavy heart, his laugh would have been most contagious.

  STEAM AROSE FROM a bowl of cabbage, stock and butter, and left her senses to sigh happily as it was placed before Talah by a monk whose large brow bone protruded over his deeply set eyes. Prayer was spoken in a mix of Latin and Gaelic. This, as well as sitting amidst the cloister of monks and nuns, brought back many fond memories at Newcastle Abbey for Talah. This solace, this structured discipline, was necessary in her healing, and fortified faith not only in herself physically, but in her remorseful and embattled consciousness as well. There was certainly more saintliness in the poor peasant than the priest. Cloisters such as this one were many, perhaps, for the very necessity of faith itself.

  Brother Erolf shook her gently, bringing her back to the present. “My dear Talah, are you all right?” he asked with worried brow.

  “Aye,” she replied with hand on his. “Soon enough, Brother. Soon enough.”

  He shoved a length of bread at her.

  She reached out and tore off a piece before passing the bread on to a nun sitting on the other side of her. Again, Talah sniffed at the simple broth and smiled, relishing the idea that she should, indeed, eat something. Anticipation eased her into a grateful sigh as she started to dip her bread. Before she could bring it to her mouth however, benches moved and bodies stood to the approach of the abbess. She made her way gracefully into the great hall to stand behind Talah with Brother Erolf, who was secretly hiding the bottle of wine in his sleeve.

  “Well, Bran told me to expect a guest,” the abbess said kindly. “But, I had no idea it would be Sister Isadora.”

  To which, Talah dropped her bread. Not since her last cloister here had she heard that name spoken. She stood and turned about to face the abbess. Her skin was fair and eyes a striking blue. Features showed an age perhaps fifteen years older than Talah. High cheekbones and a long, oval face echoed her Viking ancestry. Talah wondered if there was blonde hair under that habit.

  The abbess smiled broadly. “Welcome, sister.”

  One of the sister’s whispers arose above all the others. “She is a sister?”

  Talah glanced over her shoulder in response. “It’s a long story.” She twisted back around to face the abbess squarely. “Forgive me, Abbess, but...have we met?”

  The abbess grinned. “Practically. Abbess Marion and I exchanged correspondence for many years. And she spoke of you. Quite fondly, I should add.”

  Talah raised an eyebrow to the woman’s emphasis on the word fondly, and mused over what exactly Marion might have written about. “One could only imagine.”

  The abbess reached a hand out from under her robes in greeting. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Abbess Orla.”

  Talah was startled. She knew the name well. Orla was a powerful druid priestess born on the Isle of Skye and became one of the greatest warlords of her father’s day. Surely, this woman cannot be she?

  “Abbess?”

  The woman raised her head and met Talah’s puzzlement. “It would please me very much if you were to join me.”

  Talah hesitated, stuttered and twisted about regretfully eyeing the bowl of soup she’d be leaving. Alas, she found the table being cleared and her soup swiftly picked up and carted away, with Brother Erolf sneaking off with the wine bottle cradled in his sleeve.

  “Well, I...wasn’t very hungry anyway.”

  Talah followed the abbess to a modest room that was lightly furnished, with a large window facing the courtyard. Talah had been in this room often with Marion.

  “I’m certain you’ve been in this chamber a time or two, haven’t you?” asked Orla.

  As the scarlet drapery was drawn, the amber glow of tapered candles kindled a memory held deeply within Talah’s treasured intimacies.

  Marion’s long, cream blonde hair fell gently across her bare back, as her robes fell to the floor discarded. Talah’s heart ached at the vision, enraptured by such soft skin, the scent of sweet clover tantalizing her senses anew. Talah’s lips nibbled the tender lobe of her ear and kissed her neck. Marion’s head fell back against Talah’s shoulder in hesitant breath to Talah’s sizzling passion. Marion twisted about and drew Talah’s bare, muscular figure closer to her with kisses of insistent desire.

  Should chants echo the quivering streams and pull the prayers from a sparrow’s breast, Talah felt there would not have been a difference to the eyes of heaven that day than what love they made. There the rains murmured and winds sighed and seas flirted with the touch of an albatross wing. Fleshly desires moved together on sensuous tides and rising waves, softly, slowly before the thrust and burst of dawn. Talah could still feel the blush of afterglow and taste her downy lips, moist as summer dew.

  Marion’s soulful brown eyes burned in her consciousness before fading against the flickering, wafting candlelight. She sighed to the sweet vocals of a chant wafting down the long halls.

  “It was a while ago.”

  Talah’s eyes then drifted to a pewter tray on Orla’s desk. It held a quarter wheel of cheese and chunk of bread. Abbess Orla made her way around the room lighting sconces, and grinned at the sound of Talah’s grumbling stomach.

  “You certainly show marvelous control for someone who should be nearly famished.” Talah’s only reply was a look askance. “You’re welcome to indulge. A better replacement to the broth I so
rudely interrupted you from. Help yourself to the chalice, there’s wine in the flagon. It’s a better year than what Brother Erolf was running away with.”

  Talah chuckled under her breath and, giving into temptation, reached for a chunk of cheddar. Savoring the cheese, she poured herself a cup of the Burgundy. “I don’t believe that armoire was here when I last visited. It’s quite lovely. Is it yours?”

  Orla met Talah’s admiring eyes with a studious glint. “Aye, it is. Come. Why not take a closer look.”

  The black wood armoire was deeply carved with Celtic images that were impressive, framing the doors in their rings, loops and animal designs. Orla turned the red-tasseled key and swung open the doors. Talah found herself standing before what could only be described as legendary. Glimmering in its polished brilliance, the leather and black metal breast armor of Orla of the Golden Hair leaned on a shelf before her eyes, ornately decorated with Norse and Celtic figures. The feel of her tartan was of the finest, softest wool, and her sword exceptionally smooth as air in its glasslike appearance.

  “Hardened crystal with metal composites,” Orla mused. “Unbreakable. Forged by the smith Goibniu, himself.”

  “Then, my instincts were true. I would have thought you too...forgive me.”

  “Too young?” Orla grinned. “You, better than I, should know not to be led by appearances, Ban Talah. Fate has been kind,” she added demurely. Orla reached both hands to the sword and lifted it from its perched stand. “We are very much alike, you and I. And perhaps Archbishop Becket has seen this.”

  “Is that why you are here, because of Becket?”

  “I asked to come here,” confessed Orla, “to honor the work of a good friend. Marion brought respect to this far away abbey and secured a haven for Celtic-Christians like ourselves. Like yourself, I loved Marion very much.” She searched Talah’s astonished face before smiling thoughtfully and moving on. “It was long ago. Perhaps, someday I’ll tell you a story.”

  “Should you?” retorted Talah.

  “I daresay my stories are none as lovely as her heart for you,” Orla replied soberly.

  Talah blushed at Orla’s quick reply. The nonchalance of such sincerity was something read in those blue eyes that could do no less than take her breath away. Orla smiled at Talah’s obvious compassion that still lingered in her beautiful, dark eyes, eyes that sparkled softly in the candlelight and almost misted at the loving memory of Marion.

  “And I see why.”

  Talah swallowed feeling a dry throat and dropped eye contact.

  “Have I offended you?”

  Talah spoke softly. “No.”

  Orla changed the subject. “Please. Let’s sit down and have a bite to eat.”

  The ease and informality of Orla’s rapport settled the tension Talah had been feeling since the festival and Danann’s fatal wounding. Orla laid the blade across the desk and lifted the flagon of wine to each cup. A rich, dark liquid issued forth and Talah sat on the corner of the desk with quiet anticipation.

  “I hope I haven’t just ruined your appetite. The others tend to eat their cheese at noon feast. I prefer to save mine ‘till evening. Old habit, I suppose, when fighting in the battlefields tended to last most of the day and next. We were grateful to finally have the time to eat just one chunk of a thing and if luck would hold, a scrap of bread.”

  Talah swished the smooth wine in her cheeks and swallowed with a satisfied exhale. Smacking her lips she grinned and tore at a piece of bread, remembering such days in battle herself.

  After a quiet rap on the door, the thick iron hinges creaked when opened, and a meek voice issued across the room. “You requested a tray, Abbess?”

  Orla leaned back in her chair and rested her elbows upon the wooden arms, lightly fingering the cup before her lips. “Come in. You may sit it down before our guest.”

  Talah stopped in mid-chew as the large pewter tray was brought before her, full of roast mutton and apples. She drew a questioning eye to Orla’s grin.

  “Thank you, sister,” Orla nodded. “You may leave us.”

  The sister bowed a head respectfully to her superior then flashed a smile at Talah. “We are so pleased you’ve come. If there’s anything else you—”

  “Thank you, sister,” Orla interrupted.

  Again the sister bowed, nervously wringing her hands and grinning to the warrior before departing, the door behind her closing ever so quietly. The aroma was heavenly. The sweetened apples added just enough tartness to complement the lamb. She didn’t have to taste it. To imagine such succulence was more than she dared.

  “Well, go on,” Orla urged with a grin. She tossed a piece of cheese in her mouth. “Don’t be so shy. We have few guests just yet to spoil. A meal such as this is usually reserved for the ill and elderly. Of which, I’m certain you’re quite aware, being a part of a cloister yourself once.”

  A pang of regret issued from Talah’s being that Danann couldn’t have been blessed with such a meal before her death.

  “It is so much easier isn’t it, to ignore the physical body?” Orla said in observation of Talah’s painful hesitation. “Be it hunger, bruises, or a battered conscience?” The last, Orla received a glance of quiet respite. Orla eyed her with stern resolution. “You must strengthen yourself Talah, toward an enemy of equal strength.”

  Talah squinted at her insinuation. “Bran?”

  Orla nodded with a smile. “We spoke earlier. Even if he hadn’t disclosed to me certain information, your geasa is quite obvious. Not even I had ever been given the Crane Bag on a quest. And there have been many battles in my day I would have given my arm to possess such a gift of the gods.”

  Talah glanced to the bag around her shoulder and grinned. “I suppose it is a bit obvious.”

  Orla paced around her and ran a finger along her crystal sword, scrutinizing its strong lines. “What is obvious is the purpose you were chosen for such a quest and such a geasa as this.” She gripped the handle tightly in her fist and drew it upright, still pacing about. Talah nibbled on a piece of meat as she went on. “I talk with respect and apt envy that it is you and not I whom the Tuatha do trust with a warlord’s glory to fulfill such a duty.” She stood square to Talah and leaned slightly upon the pommel, sword tip resting atop the stone floor. “Forgive me, my tongue deceives my intentions. My heart is truly glad to have finally met you.”

  The two smiled. Talah looked into Orla’s beautiful deep eyes. Echoes of the sky they were and full of the mirth of the stars.

  “I’ll concede my wish was only to have met you earlier,” said Talah. “Then, perhaps together this quest would already have been conquered, and this meal shared with all our warriors as a great bounty.”

  Orla shook her head. “My purpose as a warrior has been outlived, I’m afraid. My geasa is to now teach and draw faith to the faithless. And remind those like yourself of their purpose.”

  Talah stiffened and poured herself another cup of wine. “I know my purpose.”

  A hand reached out and grasped Talah’s arm as she sat the flagon down. “And I know your pain.”

  Talah frowned and hesitated to answer. “Do you?”

  “As I had mentioned, you and I are very much alike. Like you, I was once willing to die for a beloved friend, trade soul for soul, my duty to her honor. A virtue of greatness that could only be repaid by what gods sustained it. A bond so enduring you’d climb into Hell and beyond to have them back. Aye, I have done this,” she added as Talah’s eyes struggled to behold her secret.

  “Yet, my affections could not carry me with speed of determination enough to prevent the inevitable.” Light flickered into her eyes as they stared distantly into that forsaken memory, anguish to reflect her heart. “The battle had swept her from me, her life expelled. My bond to her was thicker than my brother’s blood, and if I had not neglected my purpose she would not have died.

  “So many battles hence that awful day, so many tempests, so few brilliant hues I dare look upon over the waters. M
ost of us spend our lives either fighting demons or wrestling angels. My breath will no more cry out a battle charge. The passion that was my purpose is no more. There are things in the heavens greater than our most vivid imaginations and our fulfillment of things measured are simply a mystery. Fault does not rest in your action, my dear Talah.” Orla reassured her. “The wicked are their own current to ride the tide of time and action. What is past is past and must not spread upon our consciousness an illusion of plagues. This is how the wicked are victorious. They tempt our hearts a failure to see we are precious in the eyes of God. By such poor choice we allow them to become greater than our own power, and what is small is no more. By our own making the abyss becomes a living monster, and the Devil is mastered by our enemies by no effort of their own.”

  True, it was by coincidence the abyss had come to Talah’s ears again, for it was an image that had come to haunt her visions and dreams. Was it then an abyss created by Juetta’s sorcery, or by her own fears of her abilities? And what was it truly she feared?

  “Surely, as the sun has always risen in the east, it will set in the west,” Orla continued. “Blessings and burdens happen to us all. How we are enlightened to their wisdom is of our own pure choice.”

  “Yet, with all my visions I could not see the Cardinal was actually a woman closest to me as Danann, herself,” Talah spat. “And even now I cannot see where this sorceress lies in hiding.”

  “Vision cannot be pursued without purpose. Remember your vision, Talah. The soul-restoration you seek is not Danann’s, but that of the land itself and all that lives upon it. Do not limit your gift. This is your purpose.” Orla stared into Talah’s misted eyes with compassion. “Whatever you’ve heard of me, whatever your belief in me, I am not Ban Talah. Aye, we both have led great armies. However, you are so much more than I could ever be. You are the daughter of Tlachtga, whose mantle is nothing less than Brighid’s web of life.” She grasped gently Talah’s forearm and grazed a thumb upon the symbols branded into her flesh as vividly as a guiding star. “Did you not know you carry upon yourself the very caim of Brighid, herself? It is your immortal self which is the protection of all. Your power is that which makes all darkness tremble. And your faith in your mortal self can only make you a human invincible.” Finally, Orla drew near and held Talah’s face in her hands. “I do not know if you are earthly thunder or winds of Heaven. But I do know this: such is your inheritance. All on this earth have a burden, a cross to bear. Yours is to find its blessing to your human aspect and honor the Ancient One whose breath is your immortal soul.”