The Fox

by Arlene Radasky

  His breath made me nauseous and I started trembling. I thought I was over him but he could still make my vision start to go white.

  Marc walked up, pried Brad’s fingers off my arm and slipped between us, acting as a shield.

  “You two are sleeping together, aren’t you! I knew you would start rutting again. Had to go for old fruit though, huh, Marc? Wouldn’t any of the young things you work with do you?”

  Marc’s shoulders braced at those comments. “No. We aren’t sleeping together. But if we were, it wouldn’t be any of your business. Leave! Now! I don’t want you here on my site.”

  Brad’s eyes lost focus just as they did the night he hit me. He lunged, trying to get around Marc to me, and Marc decked him with a single punch. It didn’t take much; Brad, 5’6” and overweight, didn’t match up to Marc’s 5’10” and lean strength.

  Brad’s nose looked broken. “I’m not done with you, Aine,” he said through his blood-filled hand as he left. “Or you, Marc. You think you’re so high and mighty.”

  I stepped in front of Marc so he couldn’t see Brad walking away. It was all I could do at the time. “Marc. I am so sorry. I didn’t think he would find me. Are you OK?”

  “Yeah,” he said and rubbed his knuckles.

  “Do you want me to go back to London?”

  Marc grabbed my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t ever let him treat you like that again. You’re better than that. Don’t let him chase you away from anywhere or stop your dreams again. Walk your own path!” He stomped to the tent. Tim, Matt, and Lauri looked on with open mouths.

  Marc seemed to be very careful never to let us be alone together again, and I hoped I had not irreversibly damaged a future friendship. I tiptoed around him, trying not to get into his way.

  I think I redeemed myself at the end of the project, though, when I found a bronze bowl that’d been overlooked by everyone else. It was under a rock, outside the tomb, and I knew exactly where to go to find it. No one ever asked me how I knew it was there, which was a good thing. They never would’ve believed me. How could I tell them that I’d dreamt about it, that Jahna showed me where it was?

  We all celebrated on our last night together. Marc shook my hand and thanked me for coming. I left, feeling as if I were leaving something important behind but I didn’t know what.

  When his report on the tomb came out, he listed me as an associate.

  Last October, my mood echoed the gray rain-filled skies of London. Trapped indoors more than I liked by reports and other paperwork, the walls of my cubicle seemed too close in on my desk. Trying to keep work permits updated and the actual work flowing was almost impossible. Working conditions in some of the locations was unsafe, so several sites close to being ready for construction to start or continue were delayed. I was getting daily calls from the construction bosses, and was ready to do a rain dance in reverse—anything to stop this horrid weather. It was on a lunch hour when, daydreaming about the work being done in other sites, I started browsing the local archaeological web sites. One from the Isle of Lewis jumped out at me.

  Brad Teller, known for his overseas work, was working on the site alone when he allegedly raped a local woman and was killed by her irate husband.

  It was dated three weeks after he accosted me and left Marc’s site last summer. As I read the article, I became nauseous. I’d lived with that man for fifteen years. How could I’ve been so stupid? I didn’t mourn him; I mourned the lost years I had spent with him and the loss of my personal goals. For several weeks after I read the article, I dreamed about walking the Highlands. Snippets of a hill overlooked by a mountain and three smaller hills floated in my mind when I woke up after these dreams. After all the construction had finally started, I decided to take a few days off and hike. I needed the time outdoors.

  I trod along the rocky paths of the Scottish Highland and camped in the rain, heading somewhere, but nowhere in particular. Then, rounding a small rolling hill, I saw it. The clouds lay heavy just above its summit but one ray of sunlight was peeking through, creating a halo effect. I knew, I just knew I was supposed to be there. The feeling of recognition, similar to the one I had on Marc’s site, was strong.

  I got to its summit and the ever-present rain stopped for just a few moments. I criss-crossed the even ground and saw the hill-fort in my mind’s eye. It was in a perfect position. Visibility was good in three directions. The oak trees in the distance were far enough away to allow a warning if anyone tried to come up to the fort. The meandering stream that ran through the oak grove proved water was available. The strong, squat mountain behind was close enough to provide a protective wall for the back of the fortress. The meadows were clear, and there were the farmer’s long-haired cattle foraging in a bog-like depression. I turned around several times to take in the whole view. Something was missing. Several things seemed out of place. Suddenly a flock of sheep pictured itself in my mind.

  “There should be sheep on this land,” I said to myself. “They should be right over there.” But they weren’t there. I was confused. The sheep should have been there. But why would I wonder where the sheep were? I’d never been here before. I didn’t even know if the farmer who owned this land had sheep. Well, most farmers raised sheep in this part of Scotland. I made a mental note to ask him when I came back. I knew at that moment I would.

  As I wandered over the grounds, I stopped on a slight depression that would’ve been close to the fort’s walls. I stopped to eat my lunch there. As I sat, a warm, hand-like weight rested welcomingly on my shoulder.

  I planned my return while I worked the rest of the winter in London.

  I longed to work on that hill, the hill in my picture. I’d completed all the necessary steps. I’d found money, just enough to support a few others and myself for about two weeks. With a few people and rudimentary equipment, we could begin a dig. After we found what I knew was there, money and other resources would come pouring in.

  Now I just had to convince Marc to come with me. I needed his team. My instincts told me he was the one to call. I said a small prayer to the gods and asked for his understanding.

  Oh gosh, why was this so hard? After hesitating and stalling until the morning was almost gone, I dialed.

  “Hello, Marc? This is Aine. I’ve a proposition for your students and a favor to ask of you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  LOVERN

  72 AD November

  The fascinating young woman, Jahna, who danced in front of me last night, left me reeling in confusion. It was my first night in the company of men in the many nights of my journey, and I was exhausted. While I lay on the floor, she came close enough to allow me to smell lavender from her hair.

  They sang to praise the stories of their ceann-cinnidh. I played to entice a glance from her. Beathan expected me to stay for the Samhainn ceremony. Now I had to stay not only for the ceremony, but to find out why the gods led me here. For I am Druid. The gods and goddesses talk to me.

  They spoke to me last night.

  After my meal of bread and mead, I required quiet hours to purify myself, to allow my songs to rise to the gods. The young dancer guided me to the stable. I asked and when she told me her name, my legs weakened. I shuddered. My thoughts had been invaded by her twice before. In the dreams, she looked through my eyes. She was there at the hunt for my namesake, the fox. And again after the sacred sacrifice to stop the Roman invaders. Could I be in danger here with her? Her name, Jahna, haunted me for years.

  I undertook this journey to survive. The gods guided my steps. It was a search for her.

  I circled the goats and ponies, secure in the warmth of their bodies. I had walked for many nights wary of the unknown; tonight was not an exception. I wished to speak with my teacher Conyn, but could not. He had been captured by the Romans, was now a slave. I mourned my loss of contact with him.

  Jahna left me her cloak. I wrapped myself in it to know her. Her scent – lavender, some herbs for cooking and some unknown
to me – lay heavy on the wool. I reached into my bag and took my stones into my hand. Three times, I traced the path of the labyrinth. My mind calmed, ready to hear the gods. I covered my face with her cloak and opened my mind to those who wished to speak.

  The goats bleated. The ponies neighed, and one came close enough to warm my neck with his breath.

  The gods and goddess came, surrounded in light. I spoke to them. “You have guided my hands to be able to heal. You have calmed my spirit when I have been in question about the needs of others. I have a need. Why was I led here?”

  I interpreted the music of their answers in my vision.

  Lugh spoke first. “Lovern,” he whispered, “you are tired. Your mind is heavy with indecision. Here you may sleep and renew your body for the morrow. Then you must decide whether to go or stay in this village. Your journey may be complete if you chose to stay. But understand, danger is never out of sight. There is death hanging over these people.”

  Arwan, the god of my underworld, the one I called on every Samhainn, spoke next, in a coarse, deep voice. “Your journey may end here. Or it may continue if you choose to go. If you go, you will meet and learn from many more people, but your heart will remain unfulfilled. If you stay, you will learn why your paths crossed here. It is for you to choose.”

  Then three voices, woven into one, Queen Morrigna, sternly said, “Hear me, mortal. Fear me if you stray. You are commanded to teach the one who carries the blood of her people. You are commanded to guide the one who will soften the paths of the dying. You will mark the day of her marriage. It will not be to the chosen one. She holds the dreams of your future in her hands. It is to Jahna I commit you. Jahna is your burden. You may choose to leave and wander alone for eternity. You may choose to stay and learn to love and cry. It is your choice.”

  I listened. The gods gave me directions. I gave my life to the gods. I am Druid.

  The night was long. My blood boiled. The gods had spoken, and the task of finding Jahna’s connection to the gods had fallen on me, if I stayed. I knew not whether the dangers that Lugh described were caused by her or directed to her. I must act carefully until I made my decision. My body overheated. I threw her cloak off and removed my shirt.

  As night ended, I stood by the pony that carried me yesterday. Then she came. Jahna. She brought warm, cleansing water and we talked. To start our journey, I told her the gods have crossed our paths, one over the other. I watched as she ran away. I wondered what was in her heart, why she ran. But I did not have time to wonder long.

  Beathan lunged noisily into the stable, his hair brushed back, his chest bare. His plaid cape was fastened around his shoulders and hung over his yellow braecci, covering tree-trunk like legs. His boots were long and laced with a length of red hide. He hawked and spit at his rooster. It ran as if familiar with this morning routine.

  “Did you pass the night well, druid?” Beathan growled. An extra plaid cloak hung off the crook of his elbow.

  “Blessings this morning to you. May the goddess ride on your shoulders today,” I said.

  “She can ride if she can hold on. I expect a fine ceremony and a full harvest for the next year. Ask her for a gentle ending to this gods-forsaken dark season. The storms have been hard this year.”

  “I will ask. I cannot promise.”

  “Ach. You priests never promise anything. I have found the gods listen to those who please them the most. I pray you please them.”

  He turned away from me, laid the cloak on a rail, and threw a handful of grain to his goats. They stumbled over themselves trying to get to it. He laughed. “Hand-fasts will be announced today after you speak. The couples will marry soon. A good way to start a new season of growth. The young woman who danced in my home last night, Jahna, is one of them.”

  He turned to his ponies and gathered the harness for the chariot into his massive arms. The rattle of the metal buckles blended with the morning call of the roosters and prattle of waking people outside the stable.

  “Plentiful harvests and ample butchering is what I ask. We must give a bull to Arwan and Morrigna today,” he said as he lifted the harness over the pony’s withers.

  “Is Jahna going to be hand-fasted to one you choose?”

  “Yes. She is my kin, I chose a good match for her. I did well.”

  Even though he did not face me, I imagined his smile. He was proud to be the chieftain and make these decisions. He had chosen for her. This was what the goddess meant. She was not to marry the chosen one. Now I must convince this mountain of a man that the marriage was not to happen.

  “Ceann-cinnidh, Beathan,” I said. “I beg you to listen well. The goddess spoke with me about Jahna last night.”

  Beathan stopped buckling the harness, stood to his full height and turned to me, questions in his hooded eyes as he measured me from head to toe.

  I stood tall, still covered by his shadow. “The Goddess Morrigna ordered Jahna not to be betrothed today.” I stepped in front of the pony so Beathan could not leave the dark stable until he absorbed the goddess’ words. I was ready to fight for the goddess’ demand. “I do not know what goddess Morrigna’s plan is for Jahna’s future, but I know I must be involved,” I said.

  His body tensed. A low growl came from his throat. “What do you mean, you must be involved? You have just arrived. What do you know of Jahna?”

  “Jahna is the reason I am here. My journey was a long one. Many dangers were involved. I left to avoid death but arrived here by the calling of the gods. Last night they told me that Jahna is the reason I am here. I do not know more than that.”

  The grey, early morning light hid his eyes. I could not assure him with mine that I spoke the truth.

  I silently prayed. Morrigna, whisper in his ear. Tell him I speak with your words.

  I said, “The goddess led me here but I do not know what she plans. I must study Jahna, know her, and then the goddess will guide me.”

  Beathan did not move, even his breathing seemed to stop. I strained not to speak until he answered. His jaw clenched, and his eyes closed. Then his eyes opened slowly and trapped mine.

  “Sometimes, this goddess asks the impossible,” he said. “Why you? Why not one of my warriors?”

  “That is the answer I will give you after I have spent time with Jahna. She is the one who holds the truths to these questions. She is the one the goddess will speak through. I must learn if she has the clan’s good will at heart.”

  “The clan’s good will? The clan’s good will? What do you know of my clan’s good will? We have fought hard to have a little bit of peace. Jahna was born of my sister and during her lifetime no ill has come to the clan. Why would this change?”

  “Good Chieftain, I do not say there is harm coming to the clan. I only know I must find out why I am here. The gods have given me a choice and I choose to stay.”

  After a long moment of silence, Beathan’s face hardened into an iron mask. “I will do as the gods ask. You are a priest. You must speak the truth on Samhainn. But know this, druid. She is of my family and if you harm her without talking to me first, I will have your head on my wall.” The pony’s ears stood up as it felt Beathan’s hands stiffen on its back. “She is your millstone while you are here.”

  “I will not harm her without your permission. Betroth the man Jahna was to marry to another woman. Jahna will not marry him,” I said.

  “Harailt,” Beathan said as if just remembering the name. “Hmm. He did want to marry the farm girl, Sileas. I will announce it today.”

  He pointed his large hand at me and said, “I warn you. Do not anger me. You do not scare me, Priest. I will hunt you like a dog if I decide to kill you.”

  “I do only what the goddess wishes me to,” I said, bowing my head. I must find out why the girl Jahna invaded my mind. Now, I had Beathan’s permission to talk to her, to question her, to know her.

  “We will ready my chariot. You ride with me. My sons will come on their ponies. Wear this.” He threw the plaid to me a
s he led the pony outside. “We will go soon.”

  I swung the cloak over my shoulders and fastened it with the acorn-topped pin attached to it. I slung my bag over my neck and, when Beathan called, climbed into the chariot, his sons on either side.

  We passed Jahna, her mother and a young man I guessed to be Harailt. I did not look at Jahna. To be prepared for the ceremony, my mind must be free from outside thoughts. I was to perform the sacrifice of the Samhainn giving fire. My mind was clear; I meditated on my songs. I did not think of Jahna again until later.

  At the ceremony field, there were two stacks of oak logs far enough apart to allow the passage of people and animals. The clan gathered and talked among themselves excitedly. Most were wearing the plaid Jahna had woven. It was the first time I had seen a clan dressed in the same colors. I felt the strength of the bond it created as I looked over the clan. Beathan was right to ask all to wear it as a sign of brotherhood and fealty. I walked to the sacred circle drawn around the piles of wood and waited. The crowd began to call for the ceremony to begin. The men led the bull to me.

  “Here is the earthen vessel to be used in the ceremony,” said Finlay, handing me the small pottery cup that would hold the blood of the sacrifice.

  I crossed to the bellowing sacrificial bull. Two grown men hung onto ropes fastened to its neck, its front legs hobbled. Frightened eyes rolled and froth flung from its mouth as it tried to escape. I laid my hands on its forehead and looked deep into its eyes. It calmed as I spoke.

  “I call the god Arwan and the goddess Morrigna to attend our ceremony and ask the blessings of both to fall on the clan, the harvests and the animals. I thank you, sacred bull, for giving your life today. You will call the gods to us and have them hear our prayers.”

  I raised my dirk to the sky and plunged it into the bull’s neck. Its blood spurted into the cup I held against its straining neck. He flew into a rage and blood sprayed, covering my arms. Two more men leaped forward to further restrain the enraged bull.