Fianna lifted the goblet to her lips, sipping slowly. A priestess of Affalon knew about healing draughts, and the way to drink herbal water. Yet it was a discipline she barely managed to accomplish. Her throat was raw and dry, her thirst anxious and desperate. Moments passed as she slowly returned to the world about her. Cethin sat quietly by her side on the edge of the cot. From outside the sound of goats broke the silence, and Fianna smiled. At least that part she had not imagined. Finally she turned to the young man whose arm still held her steady, and looked into his face. It was the color of olives, his eyes and curly hair a deep brown. The thin white line of a battle scar cut across his right cheek from just below his temple nearly to his chin. His nose was a bit askew. Not enough to be ugly, but endearing, perhaps in the eyes of a mother. Fianna had cared for many young boys on Ynys y Niwl. She knew a broken nose when she saw one. Again she smiled.
“It has been a long time since I have been held by a young man such as yourself,” she said. Her quiet laugh troubled the wound in her side, and she winced with the pain. But the joke lightened her spirit, and she continued it. “Don’t get any ideas, though,” she smiled. “I am a helpless woman, and,” with a wink, “old enough to be your mother!”
Embarrassed, Cethin dropped his arm and moved quickly from the edge of the cot to a low stool beside it. “Do not fear, Lady,” he said, though he noticed a strange beauty that lay underneath the years, and the dirt and the pain. “It is only your wound I am interested in.”
She touched his arm. “Oh, I know, Healer. Only it is also a long time since I have smiled.”
Abruptly a shadow came to her eyes. She looked around the single room, where shelves filled with jars of many sizes and shapes lined the walls. There were several other cots, apparently for more patients, that lay empty. She thought the sob in her heart might be loud enough for the herbalist to hear.
“I knew you could not be Caldreg,” she said. “I saw him go down. And Morfran as well, I fear.” There was a deep silence for the space of many breaths. “But Cariadh. Where is she? And Elen? Are they in another roundhouse?” In her eyes Cethin could see she already knew the answer. He began to speak, but it was important to Fianna that she say it herself, not hear it from a stranger. “Dead, then,” she whispered. “All of them dead.”
“I am afraid so, Lady,” he said, and they were silent.
“Can I see them?”
“Lady, you have been in a delirium for nearly three days. When you are able to walk, I will take you to their burial place.”
“So be it,” she said, with a deep sigh. I must seek Sianed, she thought, and already her mind began to reach out toward the mists in the south. I must bring her comfort. “Her mother will be distraught,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Is there someone to whom you wish to send a messenger?” Cethin asked.
“No. Thank you for the kindness, but it will not be necessary.” When you leave, I will find her soon enough.
Cethin rose quietly and busied himself with preparations among the shelves of herbs, to give Fianna time alone with her grief. Easing herself back down on her cot, she gazed at the roof of the roundhouse, letting her eyes lose focus in the hypnosis of radial beams, thatch weave, and white wood-smoke that swirled below the roof, sifted into the straw, and disappeared. We are all of us like the smoke of a hearth-fire, she mused. Disappearing into the underside of a roof, and emerging above into the high crystal air.
Cethin took down a clay jar from a shelf on the wall, and shook a bit of dried leaves into a cup. Lifting a small kettle from its hook above the fire, he poured simmering water over the leaves, and a pungent, insistent odor filled the roundhouse.
“Valerian,” Fianna sniffed. “I am not yet ready to go back to sleep, Healer.”
Cethin came back to her cot and held out the cup. “It will help you relax,” he said, “I have to change the dressing. I see you, also, have some knowledge of herbs.”
Fianna took the cup and sipped reluctantly. “I was once a teacher for the children of our community. Part of my task was to teach them herb lore.” She thought back to a summer morning, many years before, when she and her young charges were picking sunwort on the slopes of Wirrheal on Ynys y Niwl. They had laughed with Vivian, who was Lady then, and the strange tinner from stranger lands, named Eosaidh. It brought a smile to her heart, though a tear formed in her eye. She fell silent, and slowly drank the calming tea.
Cethin sat on the stool beside the cot and watched the movement of memories across her face. At last he said, “It is a strange community in which all the children learn herb lore. Do you have a name, Lady?”
She stared into the cup. As if reading an answer in the dark leaves she breathed, “Fianna. Fianna, I am called, of Affalon.”
For a moment the goats in the yard made the only sound. The wonder in Cethin’s eyes changed to respect, and then to honour. “You are a priestess, then,” he said, “A priestess of the mysteries.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I had almost forgotten.”
He pulled the rough blanket up, covering her hips, and then reached for the softer woolen shift in which the young women had clothed her when she was brought in. “Mother,” he said, “with your permission?”
She accepted the honour without thinking. So often had she been like a mother to the children of Affalon. For so long she had been like a foster mother to Cariadh on Mona. And to Elen, who had left this life before discovering her own motherhood.
“Only be gentle, Healer,” she said as he pulled away the shift. And she drew inside herself, letting the valerian do its work to ward against the pain.
Cethin slowly pulled the shift up past the edge of the blanket until the bandage was fully exposed, dark red with dried blood, and still damp with a mild tincture of rosemary and sun’s-bride, to help ward off putrefaction. He poured more of the tincture from a small jar onto the cloth, to moisten it further and soften any scabbing before pulling back the dressing to remove it. As the dressing came away Fianna stirred and moaned quietly, but she seemed to be moving even more deeply into a trance. It was a deeper swoon than the valerian would have produced, Cethin knew. She must have been using her magic. The wound looked good. The Roman’s thrust was skillful and clean, but Fianna’s heavy woolen cloak had turned it from its mark. It had gone completely through the flesh of her left side. He turned her gently so he could see both wounds at once, and this time there was no sign that she was awake. Both wounds were open. He could not risk closing up something so deep, for fear of festering. But the cuts were clean, and the sun’s-bride had kept down the swelling. Deep within the wound he had used a hot iron to cauterize the larger blood vessels. Only where absolutely necessary, for fear that too much seared flesh would do more harm than good.
He used an infusion of sunwort and soldier’s woundwort to clean deep inside, then sprinkled a small amount of garlic powder over the exposed area as a strong aid against festering. Finally, a paste of honey spread around the opening of the wounds, and a fresh dressing treated with the rosemary and sun’s-bride tincture, and bound loosely around her waist. The wounds would heal from the inside out, slowly. It would leave dramatic scarring that would remind her of the ordeal for the rest of her life. But it couldn’t be helped, and indeed she would heal. Cethin smiled. Battlefield medicine was seldom successful. He was glad his skill was helping this priestess of Affalon, but how much was due to his skill or her magic he could not know. Gently he turned her over on her back, pulled the shift down over the new bandage, and the woolen blanket up to her neck. At a cauldron set beside the fire he washed his hands in warm water, and stepped outside into the cold morning air. Silently, in her heart, Fianna was singing the songs of Affalon . . .
~
In a small hut far to the south, on Ynys y Cysgodion in the dark, hidden waters of the Affalon marshes, Sianed stirred. For fifteen years, ever since the leaving of Vivian, she had been Lady of Affalon. For fifteen years she had held the community of priestesses together,
hidden in the strange mists that surrounded them, though they were also closely surrounded by the Romans, and abandoned by the druids. Shortly after Vivian and Eosaidh of Cornualle had disappeared forever into the marsh, Caldreg had taken the remaining druids and left for Ynys Mon in the north, the Mother Isle. He had said it was to find a better way to fight the Romans. Vivian had bitterly accused him of simply seeking his own safety. After all these years, Sianed had no idea which one of them had spoken truth. And now it hardly mattered. Sianed’s daughter, Cariadh, was a blood heir to the role of Lady. Sianed had reluctantly sent her with Caldreg, and the priestess Fianna, to share in the safety the druids had sought. Shortly after, Elen had been born, also heir to the obligation of Lady of Affalon. But it had been futile. Nearly a fortnight ago Sianed had seen her vision of blood and turmoil, horror and death. First on the shore of Mona, then in the forest of the Silures. It was there, she knew, her daughter and grand daughter had died, ending her line. But she had not seen Fianna, nor could she see her yet.
Now a song of Affalon was singing in her mind, and the voice was Fianna’s.
Fianna? Oh, Fianna, is it you? Sianed’s thoughts reached northward, seeking the source of the song. She felt the mind of the younger priestess, and then the pain of the wounds, and then the gentle, healing touch of the herbalist.
Yes, Lady. Yes, I live, though for a time I feared I would not. Is it well with you?
The dark shadow returned to Sianed’s heart, and tears formed in her eyes. No child, she answered. I have seen the death on the Mother Isle, and the death in the forest, and I know that Cariadh and Elen are gone from us. I thank my Lady that you are saved.
Tears choked Fianna’s heart. Sianed, I am so sorry. I thought I had managed to keep them safe when Caldreg got us off the island. We were so close to the shelter of Llan y gelli . . . her thoughts fell silent, but Sianed could see her remembering it all again.
You did well, Daughter, came the calming voice, as did Caldreg. You both did all that could be expected. But there is no safe place in the world from these Romans except here in our mists. Fianna, I want you to return to Affalon.
Lady? Fianna asked, searching for Sianed’s meaning, for her feeling. She had not thought to be welcome again in the ancient marshes, after her failure to protect the Lady’s daughter and heir.
I feel the weariness of age, Sianed continued. Already I have stayed too long, and have no idea how many cycles are left to me. Morfrenna is still by my side, but I need you here, Fianna, with me, now that Cariadh will not return.
I am not well, my Lady, Fianna replied. I cannot return for some time. Vaguely she felt Cethin’s touch through her trance, saw in her mind the deep, open wound that had only just begun to heal.
Rest, Fianna. Rest and heal. And then come to me . . . And Sianed was gone into the darkness. Rest and heal. It was all she could do.
Chapter Three Memories
The days that followed were quiet at Llan y gelli, for immediately after the massacre of the druids on Ynys Mon, Seutonius Paulinus had begun moving his forces to the east to deal with the uprising of the Iceni under Queen Boudicca. The few Roman units that remained had been withdrawn across the mouth of the Hafren for the winter, out of the Silure lands altogether. That was the last gift of Caldreg to the tribes, for Paulinus wished to lose no more soldiers to a troublesome people. And so began a respite of nearly twenty years, during which time the Silures would live in the illusion of peace and the fear of war. Then, too, winter began to settle into the valleys and bogs. The hill fort drew warriors and cattle into itself. The dark time of the year had arrived. quiet, dark days, Fianna began to heal.
One morning, when a cold frost still roundhouse eaves, Cethin had just added wood to the fire and passed a goblet of warm tea to his patient. He sat in silence, watching her slowly drink. Though he could reach out and touch her on the cot, her eyes were in some distant place. There was no sound except for the soft crackle of the flames, and the slow wakening of the animals in the yards. She was his patient in name, for he was the village herbalist. Yet her healing progressed at a rate far beyond his skill and he knew this priestess from the old mists had more than a hand in her own recovery.
~
Priestess, how are you healing? The words of Sianed, Lady of Affalon came to Fianna’s mind from the far isle of Cysgodion.
This wound of the flesh does well, My Lady. Young Cethin is an attentive healer, and the power sent by the
And in those
clung to the
priestesses on Ynys y Niwl is strong. In another two cycles, when the ice melts and before the honeysuckle awakens, I may be able to travel.
Sianed’s thoughts were gentle in Fianna’s mind. “Do not rush, Priestess. You are needed here, but you are needed here fully healed. And then, even more gently, But what of the wounds of the spirit, Fianna?
For long moments Fianna could not answer. From his seat against the wall Cethin could see a shadow fall across her face, a shadow he had seen upon her often since the day of terror. He knew she was seeing again the Roman swords, the death in the forest.
He leaned back against one of the hides covering the roundhouse walls and closed his own eyes. He had come to know something of healing herbs in the ten years since his father had died, enough for Cadael, the Silure Chief, to appoint him healer for the settlement. But real healing came rarely, especially when the wound was as wide and deep as Fianna’s. As the fire’s heat began to warm the room, Cethin drifted into that mysterious place between waking and sleeping. He saw the horror of another Roman ambush and his fingers went to the long white scar across his cheek. That had been nearly ten years ago, and his own wound had healed poorly, and slow.
It was late in the cycle of Vespasian’s occupation of the west country that Cethin had arrived in Llan y gelli. Corio, the Dubh-bunadh Chief, had swiftly capitulated, hoping for Roman preferment and perhaps a stake in the lead mines. Cethin and his father had followed the hero Caradoc across the Hafren to the Silure lands, unwilling to surrender to Rome. Only just coming into his manhood, Cethin looked forward to the time when he would stand against Vespasian’s soldiers, and help to free the tribes. That time came eight years later when, as a young man of twenty summers, he joined his father on one of Caradoc’s raids. Instead of a Roman patrol they encountered the army of Publius Ostorius Scapula crossing into Silure territory to punish the tribe for harboring this Caradoc of the Trinovantes. The battle was fierce and bloody. Cethin remembered how his father had kept him close, how they had fought back to back as the Romans closed in and swept by them in pursuit of the fleeing Caradoc. Only in the sudden quiet had he realized his father was no longer at his shoulder, and that there was blood all over his tunic. His own blood. His hand went slowly to the side of his face. It was wet with the flow, and numb. His finger tips felt the open wound, went through the opening, and touched broken teeth. The forest wheeled around him in a great arc; he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
When at last Cethin had awoken the sun was low in the trees. There was a fierce pain in his jaw, but though his cheek was still wet the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. In the deep silence that follows battle he heard only the wind in the trees and the twitter of birds looking for an evening meal. The world, continuing to turn, had like the Romans moved on. A groaning by his side drew him out of his reverie, making the pain in his jaw worse. Struggling to remain conscious he turned slowly to his left and saw his father down, his tunic, also, soaked with blood and torn in a great diagonal slash from his left breast to his right hip. At first Cethin thought the buzzing in his ears was part of his dizziness, and he almost fainted again. But then in horror he saw the flies, everywhere, swarming around his father’s torn body, crawling into the gaping wound. Ignoring the pain, Cethin took off his own tunic and swung it in anger to chase the flies, then laid it gently across his father’s body. But he saw the broken ribs and the deep belly wound, and knew he did not have the skill to keep his father in this world.
~
Cethin opened his eyes and looked at Fianna, who was still in some other place, her eyes seeing what his could not. Cethin’s eyes were a deep dark brown, set in the rich olive skin of the Dubh-bunadh, framed by dark locks of long, curly hair. He would have been strikingly handsome. But though the name “Cethin” meant one who is dark, it also meant “ugly,” and this is why he had been so named: for the ugly scar that would always remind him of his father’s death, and of his vow to become a healer. His real name was all but forgotten, lost along with the loss of his Dubh-bunadh heritage. His eyes closed once again.
“Where are you, Healer? Do you also have the Sight?” Fianna’s words brought him back to awareness. She was sitting up on the cot, finishing her tea, smiling at him. “Perhaps there is more to this young herbwise than I thought,” she said.
“No, Lady,’ he answered, “I have no gift. I was only,” he paused a moment, “remembering.”
“Remembering is a form of seeing,” Fianna said. “And you have more gifts than you know, Healer.” She touched her side, covered with a dressing of sunwort and chamomile. “It is more than the magic of Affalon that heals this wound, you know.”
Cethin stretched and stood. He looked down on her as she sat on the cot, but was aware that in some way she was larger than he. He was the herbwise, the healer, but she seemed to be healing, itself. “Then perhaps we are a matched pair, Lady,” he grinned.
Tales of Avalon Page 2