The Fox

by Arlene Radasky

  The fire burned high, and with the torches there was enough light to study him.

  “I warn all of you,” said my uncle. “Let him sleep. He will be busy tomorrow. If he wakes, we will feed him.”

  The man laid still, even though the noise grew behind us. The tables filled with men. Mother and Drista passed overflowing buckets for them to dip their mugs into.

  I crept closer and crouched next to his chest. His odor slipped through the smell of the other men and the fire smoke. He was not unwashed, but had spent many nights outdoors. His red hair splashed loose over the brushed dirt floor. His worn shoes were stuffed with straw. He wore a sorrel brown weave I had seen on traders from the south: a shirt with long pants, his body wrapped in a short cloak of the same color and tied with a thin cord. An empty dirk sheath was tied to his belt. He looked thin, hungry thin, but had strong shoulders. A leather pouch lay on the floor near his feet, painted with a design I had never seen before. I picked it up, stared at it for a moment, and dropped it when the stranger groaned.

  Beathan laughed, walked over to the stranger, and took the man by the arms, easily lifting him onto a stool next to him. “Come, priest. Come up to my table and have some meat and bread. Drink my mead. We have much to discuss about the giving fires tomorrow.”

  I picked up a tray of bread and stood next to Beathan, studying the man’s face as it became visible through the smoke-filled room. I guessed him to be about twenty seasons. He had an intelligent, broad forehead. His gently sloped nose was not large. A beard, the color of an iron pot left outdoors, covered his cheeks and chin. His sharp eyes were a curious blue, not of the daytime sky, nor of flowers, but midnight blue. He seemed tired, yet wary.

  The stranger stole a look around the lodge, then reached down and picked up his pouch. The crowd fell instantly quiet.

  Beathan reached behind him and clapped him on his back, almost pushing the stranger off the stool.

  “I have his dirk,” my uncle said. “He is no threat.”

  The talking and shouting began again. The man laid his arms and head on the table and did not move except to breathe.

  “Women!” Beathan said. “Bring us more to drink and eat! This day has been difficult and long. I have a story to tell. Where are my sons?”

  Finlay, tall like his father, with arms and shoulders strong from working as our smith, and the oldest, Kenric, a hand shorter but also well muscled, came into the lodge together, sat by the fire, and ate with the men as we listened to their father’s story.

  “Yesterday, Cerdic told me of raiders by the river. He had watched them for two days. I decided there was not time to go for my warriors when I came across them by our river, so I charged into the group and fought like a demon.”

  The stranger lifted his head, looked at Beathan, and smiled. I lost my breath. He was more handsome than the warrior Braden.

  “They ran as fast as they could. All except this one. He did not run. I asked why, and he said the gods and goddesses were protecting him. Only a druid would stand like that in a battle with me. I found a priest on Samhainn eve! It is a sign that we will be blessed for the giving fires on the morrow. More mead!” He pounded on the table.

  Beathan’s sons and other warriors gathered around Beathan, slapped him on the back, and poured out praises. I knew he would not go into battle alone when so many warriors were at his call. I glanced at my mother who shook her head but wore a smile. We knew his tale was bigger than the truth, but we enjoyed listening. My uncle’s stories were often more exciting than the storyteller’s.

  The druid’s quick hands began stuffing bread into his mouth. He reached for his dirk but when his hand touched the empty sheath, he looked at Beathan.

  “Here is your dirk, priest.” Beathan stabbed it into the table in front of the druid. The druid pulled the short weapon out of the table and sliced some meat from the joint, eating as if it had been a long time since his last food.

  As the meal ebbed, Kenric brought out his alder whistle and played notes that trilled like birds in the trees at dusk and the rapids of the river. I loved his fast music. He often played it to please his father. Fingers and hands began to drum the tables in time with the tune. I started to hum.

  The druid untied the strings of his pouch and took out a longer whistle. His playing brought in the sounds of the ponies and the wind in the trees. I began to sway, spin and fling my hair. My eyes were open but not seeing the smoke-filled room. I was in the forest, riding the ponies. Then I noticed the music had stopped.

  “Druid,” Kenric asked. “Why did you stop playing?”

  Breathless, I ceased dancing and looked to see him staring at me. I dropped to my knees, my legs unable to hold me. What did he see? He tore his wise, night blue eyes from mine, and turned to Finlay.

  “It is late and I must prepare for the early ceremony. Has the sacred wood been laid for the fires?”

  I could not move. My body seemed to made of stone. I knew his voice.

  “Yes, in two stacks beneath the hill,” said Finlay.

  The druid nodded.

  I began to breathe again, and watched him. Suddenly, his eyes caught mine and he tipped his head to me as if in recognition, but his face was unreadable.

  “The stables are secure and you are welcome to sleep there if you do not wish to stay and drink more,” Beathan called over the noise. “Although, if the spirits come to visit, you may come back. We will be singing and drinking through the night. On the morrow, my sons and I will escort you to the fires.”

  “My daughter and I will bring water early,” my mother offered, “so you may ready yourself for the ceremony.”

  “The stable will be good,” said the druid. “I will sleep well there. The animals will keep me safe and warm.”

  My mother said, “We are going home. My daughter and I will take you.”

  He turned to my mother and me. “I am ready, if you will show me the way.”

  The men’s songs and the smells of mead and meat slipped into the night as we stepped through the door. There were few others outside. All were wary of Samhainn’s eve.

  “I forgot, I must talk to Drista about tomorrow’s meal. She must start some dishes before she leaves for the fires,” said Mother. “You take the druid to the stable and wait for me.”

  The druid and I were alone.

  I pointed to the stable door, and walked behind him. Filled with questions, I asked, “Where are you from? Why did you stop playing and look at me so?” He stopped and shivered as we arrived at the stable door.

  “Take my cloak. It is hooded,” I offered, slipping the heavy plaid off my shoulders. I held it out for him. “Here, it is lined with soft wool and will be warm for the night.” When he reached for it, our fingers touched. My body felt as if it were pierced by sharp knives. My heart raced like a herd of running deer in my chest. We both pulled back, my cloak in his hands, his eyes surprised.

  He said nothing, but looked at me as if he could see my soul.

  I had to learn who he was. “What is your name? Where are you from? Why did you stop here?”

  “Too many questions for a late night. Call me Lovern. My clan name is Fox. I wear the fur of the red fox on my arm.” His shirt covered his arms and I could not see the band of fox fur, but my heart again stampeded.

  “What is your name?”

  “I—I am Jahna,” I struggled, my voice almost gone, my body weak. In a passage dream, I had visited a boy who hunted a fox. This voice was the same.

  “Jahna?” he whispered. Moonlight reflected off his piercing eyes, revealing confusion. “Jahna?” He stumbled as mother took my arm.

  “Sleep well, druid,” she said as she rushed me home. I stole a look over my shoulder to see him watching us. My mind roiled with thoughts. Was he the boy I had met in a dream?

  My second passage dream was the first time I had visited the boy. I was eleven seasons old. Like the time before, I was sleepy in a room filled with peat smoke when dizziness crept over me. I blinked a
nd saw through his eyes. His mind told me he was alone and hunting, hiding himself from his prey in a small shelter. Close to sunset, the clouds were turning hunter’s pink, and he knew his prey would show soon. Startled by my coming into his mind, he lost sight of the path he had been watching. I felt his impatience. This hunt determined his adult name. The goddess touched his mind and his fear was gone.

  His body tensed as a shadow crossed the path. A stunning red fox stepped out of the brush with a rabbit squirming in its mouth. The fox stood, watchful, for two breaths, and carried the rabbit into its burrow. The young man cursed. He wanted to capture the fox before it escaped underground. He crossed the path holding a small knife, reached into the hole, and grasped the snarling, biting fox. He pulled it from its burrow, sliced its neck and held its body above his head, warm blood running down his arm. I could not tell whose blood it was, his or the fox’s. The bite wounds would leave scars but the feeling of triumph in the boy’s heart overshadowed the pain. He was sixteen seasons old. I whispered my name and awoke. I tasted blood that morning.

  I was thirteen, and he eighteen, the second time I visited. He sat on a rough log. The smell of sweet smoke and blood wafted around me, and I began to feel ill. An older man knelt beside a fire. He added leaves and small plants to its flames. A small goat, just sacrificed, lay on a rock. The young man’s hand held his small bronze blade, covered with goat’s blood. His mind told me he sacrificed the goat to ward off a threat to those he loved. I sent him calming thoughts of safety. I whispered my name as the goddess bade me and left.

  Home, I listened to rain and the god’s wrath, thunder, outside. Unease filled my heart for the rest of that day. I feared for the young man in my dream.

  After leaving the stable with Mother, I did not sleep, thinking of the druid in the stable, the boy he had been in my passage dreams. I tried to determine why the gods had given me my dreams and why they brought the boy, now a man, here.

  I arose before sunrise. Wrapped in a blanket, I ran to our fire and blew on its coals. It came to life and spread light and warmth throughout our home.

  “Thank you, Goddess Morrigna, for protecting our fire and home,” I said, uttering our daily prayer. I dressed quickly. On tiptoes, to get as far from the cold floor as possible, I dipped a jar deep into our water urn. I shivered as I poured icy water into our boiling pot and fed a small block of peat to the glowing embers.

  “Do not waste the fuel,” mother protested. “We must quench the fire soon to relight it from the giving fire.”

  “Yes, Mother. I wished to start the grain cooking before I carried wash water to the druid.”

  “Oh, yes. The druid. There was a feeling in my bones last night that he might harbor trouble. I do not know whether we should ask him to stay in our village. I must discuss this with Beathan.”

  Mother’s feelings were often right and even Beathan listened and took counsel from her. “Do not be long with him. I will need you to carry the offering to the goddess today. Are you not meeting Harailt to walk to the ceremony?”

  Oh, Harailt! Beathan would announce our hand-fasting today. How could I have forgotten? I poured warm water into a jug to take to the priest and measured barley and Mother’s favorite herbs into the now boiling pot.

  “That smells good. Thank you for starting it.” I heard her groan as she got out of bed and started dressing. “Today you will be looked upon by the whole clan when hand-fasted to Harailt. You should wear your yellow dress.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I smiled. She still thought of me as a child at times. I would be married next week! I wondered if she would then think of me as a woman.

  My light cloak belted, shoe laces loose in my hurry, I pulled open our door to leave. Not quite dawn, fog hid sun as it started its long climb from behind our mountain. An iron gray sky harbored small touches of moss-flower pink reflected in the haze. The animals were still snug in stables or homes, protected from wolves, and the cooking fires were small. Bumps on my arms from the coolness of the air made me glad I carried the jug of warm water.

  At the first rays of light, birds started their possessive chirps. Listening carefully, I heard no owls; they must be in from their hunts. Mother said a day started with an owl song was a favorable day. I prayed the gods looked in on me today even though no owls sang.

  I hesitated at the stable door, unable to go in. What should I say? Would I ask, Priest, have you ever had anyone visit you in your mind? He would think me a fool.

  I jumped when he cleared his throat. He stood in the darker shadows of the already dark stable. My eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and his hands rested on the pony. Its ears reached forward as if listening. Lovern straightened to his full height, almost touching the roof of the structure, and slowly nodded to me.

  “Come in.” He hesitated, then said my name as if forgotten then remembered. “Jahna.”

  His straw-filled, tousled hair looked as if he had wrestled a demon all night. My cloak lay in a crumpled ball on the stacked hay in the corner. Caution edged his familiar voice. “I am thanking this animal for bringing me here and protecting me last night. I have come a long way. I feel I may have found the end of my journey. I trust the gods to tell me today.”

  “I have warmed water for your washing. Are you finished with my cloak or will you use it today?” I asked.

  “I did not use it last night and will not need it today. You may take it.” He nodded to it, his hands still on the pony.

  “If you would like some milk to break your fast, I can milk a goat. Beathan would not mind.”

  “No, I will not break my fast until after the ceremony.”

  I hesitated, not ready to leave. I needed to know more about this man. What journey? What will the gods tell him today? “You may use my light cape today if you wish. I can give it to you now. If you wear it, the members of our clan will recognize you as a friend and welcome you more easily. You should wear our colors – if you think you will stay in our village for a time.”

  “I will not need your cape today,” he said gruffly.

  Was the fog affecting his voice or was he uncomfortable with me here, alone?

  He stepped closer, his face a mystery, his sinewy, muscled arms bare. It was then his scars and armband became visible. I had been in his mind when he received the wounds that caused his scars! He was from my passage dream! I could not move or breathe. He reached down, picked up my heavy cloak, and stepped next to me. Currents of energy ran through my body. I watched him intently, thinking myself ready to run if I needed, but deep in my mind knowing I could not. He leaned in, and the heat of his body and mine combined.

  “We will have a journey together. The Gods Dagda and Morrigna protect me,” he whispered into my ear. Opening my cloak, he laid it across my shoulders. His hand rested on me for an instant. I trembled, and felt his breath on my face. His eyes never left mine. Was this a frith, a sign from the goddess? What kind of journey was he speaking of? Questions overcame my thoughts, but I could not form them into words.

  I remembered the women teasing unmarried girls around the well, laughing, “The first male you meet on Samhainn is the man you will marry.” He was the first male I had seen on this sacred day!

  “No. No! I will marry Harailt,” I said. “I am promised. Our hand-fasting will be announced at the ceremony today. You and I cannot make a journey.” I twisted out of his reach. My legs finally worked and ran me back to the safety of the known, the safety of my home.

  He was there. Dependable Harailt. Waiting at my door, ready to go, dressed for a ceremony in a new tunic, and hair brushed back from his face with limewater. His dirk sheathed and tied at his waist. I ran up to him, breathless, trying not to look as flustered and confused as I felt.

  “I’ve just come from the druid and I have to get water from the well. Please go help Mother.” I took the wooden bucket to the well, filled it, and was tripping back when Harailt came out of the house with Mother.

  “We will start gathering the goats,” Moth
er said. “Get dressed. Bring the blanket and the oak log for the fire.”

  I went in, emptied the bucket into the water jar and found my leather bag with our gift to the goddess, the blanket we wove, folded inside. The oak brand that would bring the giving fire home lay next to the pit. Mother had smothered the fire with earth and emptied it of its ashes. Laid with small kindling, it stood ready for the new fire. I found my yellow dress lying on our bed and pulled it over my head. I combed my hair, hoping to gain some control, and wore it unfettered. I retied my shoes, pinned my cloak and stepped outside.

  The noise and smells of the day rose to a level seen only on days of ceremonies. The people of the farms and homes around us were gathering for the event.

  I heard a loud rumble of sound behind us as I followed Harailt and Mother. A war chariot passed, pulled by two ponies, driven by Beathan. Riding on either side, each on his own pony, were Finlay and Kenric. Kenric carried an oak log filled with the embers of fire that would light the giving fire. The druid, Lovern, stood next to Beathan in the chariot. I gasped. How handsome he was, red hair flying free. He was almost as tall as Beathan and had Beathan’s plaid cape pinned around him and his own pouch hanging over his shoulder. My thoughts and feelings were confused. Would he look at me? Did I want him to?

  Lovern’s eyes did not stray as the chariot rushed by.

  I stepped between Harailt and my mother and we began the walk to the ceremony.

  Looking back at my life, I understand I was unborn until the night Beathan carried Lovern, the Fox, into his lodge. I started living when he played the music of the wind and I danced.

  CHAPTER 2

  AINE

  APRIL, 2005

  “Little Mouse, are you ready to be a life partner with this man?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  I knew I was to be with this man for the rest of time. Happiness filled me as a red thread tied our clasped hands together. My heart sang.

  I woke up humming the melody of the music that floated in my ears, the sound of men’s voices singing, and the music of a pipe. “Wow, that was vivid,” I told the dust bunnies under my bed as I reached for my slippers. I never did like to clean house. I looked at my wrist to see if the red thread was still there. No. Just my watch telling me it was time to get up. A dream. I remembered similar dreams, and the peacefulness they brought me. I wished I could feel like this all day. “I wonder if the dream had anything to do with Jahna? If only-” My phone rang.