"Naught can come of it save treachery," Heidhin snarled.
Seated beside him, Burhmund slowly shook his grizzled head. The fire threw a bloodshot shimmer over the milkiness of his blind eye. "I know not," he answered. "Yon Everard is an odd one. He may be able to bring something about."
"The best he, or anybody, could bear back to us is a refusal. Any offer would be meant for our ruin. You should never have let him go."
"How could I have stopped him? It was the lords of the tribes whom he spoke with, and they who sent him off. I told you how I did not hear till lately, when I was already on this quest."
Heidhin's lips writhed. "They dared!"
"They had the right." Burhmund's tone fell dull to the ground. "They do not forswear themselves merely by talk with the foe. I think, now, I would not have tried to forbid them, had I been on hand. They are sick of this war. Maybe Everard can find them a hope. I too am death-weary."
"I thought better of you," fleered Heidhin.
Burhmund showed no anger; but then, Wael-Edh's oath-brother stood well-nigh as high as he did. "Easy for you," said the Batavian patiently. "Your house has not been riven. My sister's son fell in battle against me. My wife and another sister lie hostage in Colonia; I know not whether they yet live. My homeland is laid waste." He stared down into his drinking horn. "Are the gods done with me?"
Heidhin sat spear-straight. "Only if you yield," he said. "I never will."
A knock sounded on the door. The man seated nearest took an ax and went to open it. Wind gusted in; the flames jumped and streamed sparks. Murk rimmed the shaped that trod through.
Heidhin leaped up. "Edh!" he cried, and started toward her.
"Lady," Burhmund whispered. A mumble went around the hall. Men got to their feet.
Unhooded, she moved a ways alongside the fire trench. They saw she was stiff and pale, and that her gaze went beyond them. "How, how came you here?" Heidhin stumbled. The sight of him, the relentless, thus shaken, daunted every heart. "Why?"
She halted. "I must speak with you alone," she said. Fate rang in her low voice. "Follow me. None else."
"But—you—what—"
"Follow me, Heidhin. Mighty tidings are come. You others, abide them." Wael-Edh turned and strode back out.
Like a sleepwalker, Heidhin went after her. At the entry, his hand of itself plucked a spear from the weapons left leaning against the wall. The two of them passed into the dark. Shuddering, a man crept to close the door.
"No, bar it not," Burhmund told him. "We will wait here as she bade till she returns or morning does."
The first stars winked faint overhead. Buildings crouched shapeless. Edh led the way from the yard to the open ground beyond. Sere grass and wind-ruffled puddles faded off into blindness. Near the edge of sight stood a great oak at which Heidhin offered to the Anses. From behind it spilled a steady white light. Heidhin jarred to a stop. He made a noise in his gullet.
"You must be brave tonight," Edh said. "Yonder is the goddess."
"Niaerdh . . . she . . . has come back?"
"Yes, to my tower, whence she fetched me hither. Come." Edh went steadily on. Her cloak flapped in the wind, which threw the loosened hair about the head she bore so high. Heidhin gripped his spearshaft hard and trailed her.
Gnarled boughs reached widely, half seen by the glow. The wind clicked their twigs together. Dead leaves squelched wet underfoot. The two came around the bole and saw her who stood next to a bull or a horse cast in steel.
"Goddess," Heidhin moaned. He dropped to a knee and bent his neck. But when he rose again, he held firm. If his spear shook, it was with the same wild gladness that burst from his lips. "Will you now lead us to the last fight?"
Floris's look searched over him. He stood lean and dark, somberly clad, face etched and locks streaked by the hunter years, the iron of his weapon asheen above them. Her lamp cast his shadow across Edh. "No," said Floris. "The time for war is past."
Breath rattled between his jaws. "The Romans are dead? You slew them all for us?"
Edh flinched.
"They live," Floris said, "as your folk shall live. Too many have died in every tribe, theirs also. They will make peace."
Heidhin's left hand joined his right, clutching the spearshaft. "I never will," he rasped. "The goddess heard my vow I made at the shore. When they go, I will dog their heels, I will harry them by day and raid them by night—Shall I give you my kills, Niaerdh?"
"The Romans are not going. They will remain. But they will restore to the folk their rights. Let that suffice."
Heidhin shook his head as if smitten. He gaped from woman to woman for a whole minute before he whispered, "Goddess, Edh, do you both betray them? I will not believe it."
He seemed unaware that Edh reached toward him. The wind ran between them. Her tone pleaded. "The Batavi and the rest, they are no tribe of ours. We have done enough for them."
"I tell you, the terms will be honorable," Floris said. "Your work is ended. You have won what will content Burhmund himself. But Veleda must make known that this is what the gods want and men should lay down their arms."
"I—you—We swore, Edh." Heidhin sounded puzzled. "Never would you make peace while the Romans held on and I lived. We swore to it. We mingled our blood in the earth."
"You will set her free of that vow," Floris commanded, "as I already have done."
"I cannot. I will not." Raw with pain, the words suddenly lashed at Edh. "Have you forgotten how they made you their slut? Do you no longer care for your honor?"
She fell to her knees. Her hands fended. Her mouth stretched wide. "No," she keened, "don't, no, no."
Floris moved toward the man. In the night above, Everard aimed a stun pistol. "Have done," she said. "Are you a wolf, to rip her whom you love?"
Heidhin flung an arm wide, baring his breast to her. "Love, hate—I am a man. I swore to the Anses."
"Do as you like," Floris said, "but spare my Edh. Remember you owe me your life."
Heidhin slumped. Leaning on his spear, Edh huddled at his feet, he shadowed her while the wind blew around them and the tree creaked like a gallows rope.
All at once he laughed, squared his shoulders, and looked straight into Floris' eyes. "You speak truth, goddess," he said. "Yes, I will let go."
He lowered the spear, gripped it with hands below the head, and stabbed the point into his throat. In a single swording motion he slashed the edge from side to side.
Edh's shriek overrode Floris's. Heidhin went down in a heap. Blood spouted, blackly aglisten. He kicked and clawed at the grass, blind reflex.
"Stop!" Everard rapped. "Don't try to save him. This damned warrior culture—it's his only way out."
Floris didn't trouble to subvocalize. A goddess might well use an unknown tongue to sing the soul on its way. "But the horror of it—"
"Yeah. Think, though, think about everybody who will not die, if we work this right."
"Can we, now? What will Burhmund think?"
"Let him wonder. Tell Edh not to answer any questions about it. An apparition of her, when she'd been miles away—the man who wanted no end to violence, dead by it—Veleda speaking for peace—The mystery will lend force, though I suppose people will draw the obvious conclusions, which'll be a big help."
Heidhin lay still. He looked shrunken. Blood pooled around him and soaked into the ground.
"It is Edh we must help first," Floris said.
She went to the other woman, who had risen and stood numbed. Blood had splashed onto Edh's cloak and gown. Heedless of it, Floris laid arms around her.
"You are free," Floris murmured. "He bought your freedom with his life. Cherish it."
"Yes," Edh said. She stared into the dark.
"Now you may cry peace over the land. You shall."
"Yes."
Floris warmed her for a while and a while.
"Tell me how," Edh said. "Tell me what to say. The world has gone empty."
"Oh, my child," Floris breathe
d into the graying tresses. "Be of good heart. I have promised you a new home, a new hope. Would you like to hear about it? It is an island, low and green, open to the sea."
Life stirred a little in the answer. "Thank you. You are kind. I will do my best . . . in your name."
"Now come," Floris said. "I will bear you back to your tower. Sleep. When you have slept your fill, send forth that you would fain speak to the kings and chiefs. When they are gathered before you, give them the word of peace."
19
New-fallen snow covered ash heaps that had been homesteads. Where junipers had caught some of it in their deep green, it lay like whiteness's self. Low to the south, the sun cast their shadows across it, blue as heaven. Thin ice on the river had thawed with morning but still crusted dried reeds along the banks, while bits of it drifted in midstream, slowly northward. A gloom on the eastern horizon marked the edge of wilderness.
Burhmund and his men rode west. Hoofs struck muffled on hard ground beneath, baring the ruts of a road. Breath steamed from nostrils and made rime in beards. Metal gleamed frosty. The riders spoke seldom. Shaggy in wadmal and fur, they rode from the forest to the river.
Ahead of them lifted the stump of a wooden bridge. Piers jutted naked out of the water beyond. On the opposite shore stood the other fragment. Workers who demolished the middle had rejoined the legionaries ranked on that side. They were few, like the Germans. Their armor gave back the light but kilts, cloaks, legwear, all cloth hung worn and dirty. The plumes of officers' helmets were faded.
Burhmund drew rein, got down, and stepped onto the bridge. His boots thudded hollow over the planks. He saw that Cerialis already stood in place. That was a friendly gesture, when it was Burhmund who requested a parley—though it did not mean much, because the understanding had been clear that they would hold one.
At the end of his section, Burhmund stopped. The two thick-set men regarded one another across a dozen feet of winter air. The river clucked below them on its way to the sea.
The Roman unfolded his arms and lifted his right hand. "Hail, Civilis," he greeted. Accustomed to addressing troops, he easily cast his voice the needful distance.
"Hail, Cerialis," Burhmund responded in like manner.
"You would discuss terms," said Cerialis. "That is difficult to do with a traitor."
His tone was matter-of-fact, his words an opening. Burhmund took it. "But I am no traitor," he replied gravely, in Latin. He pointed out that this was no legate of Vitellius with whom he met; Cerialis was Vespasian's. Burhmund the Batavian, Claudius Civilis, went on to number the services he had rendered over the years to Rome and its new emperor.
III
Gutherius was the name of a hunter who often went hunting in the wildwood, for he was poor and his acres meager. One blustery day in autumn he set forth, armed with bow and spear. He did not really expect to take any big game, which had grown scarce and wary. He would set snares for squirrel and hare, then leave them overnight while he pushed on in hopes of knocking down a capercaillie or the like. However, should he come on anything better, he would be ready.
His path took him around a bay. Surf dashed wildly over the reefs outside and whitecaps chopped on the half-sheltered water, although the tide was in ebb. An old woman walked the sand, stooped low, searching for whatever she might find, mussels laid bare or a fish dead but not too rotten. Toothless, fingers knotty and weak, she moved as if every step hurt. Her rags fluttered in the bitter wind.
"Good day, granny," said Gutherius. "How goes it?"
"Not at all," said the crone. "If nothing turns up for me to eat, I fear I cannot creep home."
"Well, now, that would be a pity," said Gutherius. From his pouch he took the bread and cheese he bore along. "I will give you half of this."
"You have a warm heart," she quavered.
"I remember my mother," he said, "and it honors Nehalennia."
"Could you spare me the whole of that?" she asked. "You are young and strong."
"No, I must keep that strength if I am to feed my wife and children," said Gutherius. "Take what I give and be grateful."
"I am that," said the old woman. "You shall have reward. But because you withheld some of it, first you shall have woe."
"Be still!" cried Gutherius. He hurried onward to get away from the ill-omened words.
Reaching the forest, he set off on trails he knew. Suddenly from the brush bounded a stag. It was a mighty beast, well-nigh big as an elk, and snowy white. Its antlers spread like an ancient oak. "Halloo!" shouted Gutherius. He flung his spear but missed. The stag did not leap in flight. It poised there ahead of him, a dimness against the shadows. He strung bow, nocked arrow, and shot. At the thrum of the string, the animal fled. Yet it went no faster than a man could run, and Gutherius did not see his arrow anywhere. He thought maybe it had struck and he could chase the wounded quarry down. Recovering his spear, he dashed in pursuit.
On and on that hunt went, ever deeper into the wilderness. Always the white stag glimmered just in sight. Somehow Gutherius never tired, the breath never failed him, he ran without cease. He was drunk with running, beyond himself, everything forgotten save the chase.
The sun sank. Twilight welled up. As light failed, the stag put on a burst of speed and vanished. Wind piped among the trees. Gutherius came to a halt, overwhelmed by weariness, hunger, and thirst. He saw that he was lost. "Did yon hag truly curse me?" he wondered. Fear blew through him, colder than the oncoming night. He rolled in the blanket he carried and lay wakeful the whole of the dark hours.
All the next day he blundered about, finding nothing he recognized. Indeed this was an eldritch part of the forest. No beast scuttered in its undergrowth, no bird called from its depths, there was only the wind soughing in the crowns and tearing dead leaves loose. No nuts or berries grew, nor even mushrooms, only moss on fallen logs and misshapen stones. Cloud veiled the sun, by which he might have taken bearings. Wildly he ranged.
Then at dusk he found a spring. He cast himself on his belly to quench his withering thirst. This gave him back his wits, and he looked around him. He had entered a glade, whence he got a sight of the sky, which was clearing. In violet-blue shone the evening star.
"Nehalennia," he prayed, "have mercy. To you I offer what I should have given freely." Thirsty as he was, he had been unable to chew his food. He scattered it under the trees for whatever creatures it might help. By the spring he lay down to sleep.
During the night a great storm roared up. Trees groaned and tossed. Branches torn loose hurtled on the wind. Rain flew like spears. Gutherius groped blind in search of shelter. He bumped into a trunk which he felt was hollow. There he huddled through the night.
Morning broke calm and sunny. Raindrops glittered many-hued on twigs and moss. Wings passed overhead. As Gutherius stretched his stiffened body, a dog stepped out of a brake and approached him. It was no mongrel but a tall gray hunting hound. Joy wakened in the man. "Whose are you?" he asked. "Lead me to your master."
The dog turned and trotted off. Gutherius followed. Presently they came on a game trail and took it. Yet he spied never a sign of humanity. The knowledge grew in him. "You are the hound of Nehalennia," he dared say. "She has bidden you lead me home, or at least to a berry bush or a hazel where I can still my hunger. I thank the goddess."
The dog answered naught, merely padded on. Nothing such as the man hoped for came in sight. Instead, after a while the woods opened. He heard the sea and smelled the salt wind off it. The dog sprang to one side and vanished among the shadows. Gutherius must needs trudge on ahead. Worn though he was, happiness burned in him, for he knew that if he followed the shoreline south, he would reach a fisher village where he had kinfolk.
At the strand he stopped, amazed. A ship lay in the shadows, driven aground by the storm, dismasted and unseaworthy though not wholly wrecked. The crew had survived. They sat about in despair, being foreigners who kenned nothing of this coast.
Gutherius went to them and discovered their
plight. By signs he told them he could be their guide. They fed him and left some men on guard while others took rations and accompanied him.
In this wise did Gutherius gain the reward he had been promised: for the ship bore a rich cargo and the procurator ruled that he who saved the crew was entitled to a fair share. Gutherius thought the old woman must have been Nehalennia herself.
Because she is goddess of ships and trade, he invested his gains in a vessel that plied the Britain run. Ever did she enjoy fair weather and a following wind, while the wares she bore commanded high prices. Gutherius became a wealthy man.
Mindful of thanks he owed, he raised an altar to Nehalennia, where after each voyage he made generous offering; and whenever he saw the evening star or the morning star shine forth, he bowed low, for they too are Nehalennia's.
Hers are the trees, the vine, and the fruits thereof. Hers are the sea and the ships that plow it. Hers are the well-being of mortals and peace among them.
20
"I just got your letter," Floris had said on the phone. "Oh, yes, Manse, do come as soon as you can." Everard hadn't wasted time aboard a jet. He stuck his passport in a pocket and hopped directly from the Patrol's New York office to the one in Amsterdam. There he drew some Dutch money and got a cab to her place.
When he entered the apartment and they embraced, her kiss was tender rather than passionate and soon ended. He was unsure whether that surprised him or not, disappointed or relieved. "Welcome, welcome," she breathed in his ear. "It has been too long." Yet the litheness pressed lightly against him and moved quickly back. His pulse began to slow.
"You're looking great as always," he said. True. A brief black gown hugged the tall figure and set off the amber braids. Her sole jewelry was a silver thunderbird pin above her left breast. In his honor?
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