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THE SEER AND THE SWORD, Victoria Hanley
LUCY THE GIANT, Sherri L. Smith
THE RAG AND BONE SHOP, Robert Cormier
WHEN ZACHARY BEAVER CAME TO TOWN, Kimberly Willis Holt
FREEDOM BEYOND THE SEA, Waldtraut Lewin
LORD OF THE DEEP, Graham Salisbury
LORD OF THE NUTCRACKER MEN, Iain Lawrence
THE GADGET, Paul Zindel
SHATTERED MIRROR, Amelia Atwater-Rhodes
SHADES OF SIMON GRAY, Joyce McDonald
For Irene
“ILENA? ARE YOU THERE?”
The low stool he made for me when I was a child is near his bedplace. I pull it closer and sit beside him.
“I’m here, Moren. What is it?”
“My dream. I saw the hag at streamside.”
I feel a chill despite the warm fall sunlight flooding through the open door. “No! Do not think of that. I’ve sent for Aten. She’ll bring stronger herbs.”
“It’s too late. The old woman washed my clothes in the stream. The water ran red with my blood.”
I try to sound confident. “Aten will help. Have a drink of water. Your lips are dry from fever.”
My father clutches at my hand with a fumbling motion that tears at my heart. When he is well, his wrists bulge with the muscles of a warrior. He trained me day after day, year after year, until I too could swing the sword with either hand for hours. “Stamina, lass, stamina!” he would say as we practiced. “The battle goes to those who hold out until their opponents falter.”
It is agony for me to watch him now that he is weak and helpless, dependent on me to hold the bowl of water, to wipe his face, and to bring the slop jar. I lift his shoulders so that he can sip, then lay him back gently and take his hand in mine.
“I saw her clearly,” he says.
Sudden tears blur my vision, and I swipe at them with my free hand. When a warrior dreams of the old woman at the stream, death is near.
Cryner lets out a warning bark from his sunny spot by the front door.
“Ilena?” It’s Aten’s voice from the path.
I put Moren’s hand down on the bedskins and hurry outside.
Aten is the village healer. She and her husband helped us when my parents rode their tired horses over the snow-laden pass into this valley fifteen years ago. I was only a few days old, wrapped tightly against my mother’s chest, weak with hunger because her milk wasn’t strong enough yet to sustain me. It was Aten who put me to breast at once and saved my life.
Her son, Jon, was two when we came. Her daughter, Fiona, was born a year after we arrived. They are my closest friends in the village, and I’m glad to see that Fiona is with her now.
Cryner greets them and thrusts his head against Fiona’s skirt until she stoops to scratch his long hound ears. She pushes him away when he tries to lick her face, and he goes back to resume his nap.
Aten carries her small iron pot filled with medicines. She takes out a handful of plants and three cloth bundles, then hands me the empty kettle. “Get water heating, Ilena. Half-full will do. I’ll put these inside where the wind won’t take them, and I’ll have a look at Moren.” She disappears into the house.
“Is it bad?” Fiona is already stirring the outside fire into a blaze.
“I fear so,” I answer. “He speaks of seeing the crone at the stream.”
She shakes her head. “Not a good sign, that.”
I dip water from the barrel by the door and hang the pot over the hottest part of the fire. “I’m glad you came,” I say. “I heard the boys return from gathering wood and hailed them. I hoped they would get the message to you quickly.”
“Aye. Nol’s son ran ahead of the others to tell us, and we left at once.”
Aten’s face is grim when she comes out of the house. She jostles the iron kettle as if to urge it to heat faster before she turns to me. “His lungs are badly congested. When did he get home?”
“Just before sunset yesterday,” I reply. “I heard him coming and ran out to meet him. He was slumped over his horse’s neck and could not raise himself enough to greet me. I caught him as he slid from the saddle, and I could feel the fever.
“I got him into his bedplace and prepared a strong tea of pennyroyal and thyme. It lowered the fever, but he would not eat. He slept fitfully through the night and seemed no better this morning.”
Aten jostles the pot again and watches steam begin to rise. She says, “I’ll mix something stronger. It may loosen his breathing.”
“The trip to the East again?” Fiona asks.
I nod. “It was difficult for him last year, and I begged him not to go this time. But he said that he was expected.”
“He has aged in the two years since Grenna died,” Aten says.
I look up to the hill above the house. I can see the cairn that we built on my mother’s grave. I wonder how long it will be before another is raised beside it to mark my father’s resting place. I blink back tears.
Aten puts her arms around me. “Do not weep, Ilena. We’ll work hard to help him.”
“Tell her about the dream,” Fiona says.
“The death dream of a warrior,” I say. “He saw the crone.”
“We’ll not give up yet.” Aten too looks toward my mother’s grave before she carries the hot water into the house.
They stay with me through the afternoon, but I shake my head when Fiona offers to spend the night. “Thank you, but I will be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Aten asks.
“You have your own chores. Come in the morning when you can,” I say, “and thank you.”
Fiona lingers at the door when Aten leaves. “I could keep you company.”
I walk out into the yard with her. “I know you plan to go to the singing,” I say.
On summer evenings the other young people meet in a grove of trees near the end of the valley. I can hear the pipes and sometimes the laughter from up here on the slope. When we were small, I often joined Jon and Fiona. We would lurk about with the other children, spying on courting couples and dancing in our own little circles.
As I grew older, Jon’s attentions toward me changed, and Moren found more and more reasons why I should stay at home in the evenings. When I became a woman, he forbade me to go to the singings at any time.
“Your destiny is not in this valley, lass,” he said when I complained, but he would not explain what he meant.
Fiona says, “Of course I was planning to go, but I will stay here if you need me.”
“I thank you for offering, but there is one who would miss you if you did not appear at the gathering.”
She smiles and her cheeks flush. “Yes, he would,” she says, “but we’ll have many years together.”
“Is it settled then?” I can’t imagine choosing someone to live with forever.
She nods. “My father has agreed. We’ll be married in the spring.” She hesitates, then says, “Are you sure you will not consider Jon? My brother is a fine man.”
“Yes, he is,” I say. “And he is my friend. But I am not ready for marriage.”
“But you are older than I.” She shakes her head.
I was trained to be a warrior, not a wife. While Fiona danced and sang at the evening gatherings, I played at sword fighting with Moren. While she learned to weave and spin, I rode out of the valley to hunt deer and wild boar. Grenna took care that I learned about the herbs for healing, which wild plants were edible and which poisonous, and how to keep the stew pot from burning our food, but I spent little time on household tasks.
Often, as I watched Fiona stroll along the stream, picking green shoots for dinner, or walk with friends into the woods to
gather nuts, I longed to lay down my heavy shield, put my sword away, and join her.
But Moren was always firm. “Our people are warriors, Ilena. Your responsibilities are far greater than those of your friends. You must be prepared.”
Cryner has come to the gate with us. He nuzzles Fiona until she scratches his ears again.
“I know I’m old enough to marry,” I say, “but there are places I want to see, things I must know before I settle down with a husband.”
She sighs and hugs me. “Goodbye then, and may your god be with you this night.”
I stand by the gate and watch while she catches up with her mother; then I turn back to the house.
The three of us made our own life here a little apart from the village, near the trail that leads over the mountain pass to the outside world. We were welcome at any fire in the settlement, but no one, least of all my parents, ever forgot that we came from someplace else and never truly belonged in the Vale of Enfert.
Of course we join our neighbors in observing the age-old customs that mark the changing seasons. At Beltaine we drive our cattle out between the rows of purifying fires into the fresh spring pastures, and we dance at Lughnasa during the celebrations in high summer when the sun gives light far into the night.
In late fall, Samhain marks the new year and the beginning of winter. Like everyone else we stay inside on Samhain Eve, when the spirits are said to leave their dwelling places in the wells, lakes, rivers, and hills to walk among the living. We make sure then to have mistletoe over the doors and windows to keep away evil.
And I have always stood in the sacred circle of women at Imbolc, the time of lambing near winter’s end, for the rituals that ensure the fertility of our animals and our own good health in childbirth.
But there is an important difference between us and our neighbors. They attend the ceremonies in the Sacred Oak Grove, and we do not. We respect the Druids for their great knowledge, and we depend on them to tell us many things, but we are Christians and so are forbidden to stay in the groves at night when the bonfires blaze and the sacrifices begin.
Inside the house Moren lies as he has all day with his shoulders and head propped on folded skins. I strain in the growing darkness to watch his chest move as he breathes.
The scent of the steam rising from Aten’s little iron pot, which hangs now over the inside fire, reminds me of Grenna’s last days. Aten came often then to brew the herbs and stroke her friend’s brow.
Others also offered help, a bit of meat from the hunt, some greens from the streamside, perhaps a fish. But through the long nights it was just the three of us, as it had been all my life. When Grenna’s death came, Moren and I prepared her for her last trip, and we walked together beside her body as our friends carried her up the hill.
It seems fitting that I be alone with my father now. I pray that Aten’s medicine will break the congestion in his chest. But if the dream foretells the truth and he is dying, I will be the one who sits beside him until the end. I swallow hard against the fear and push the future out of my mind.
Cryner is pressed against the bed with his long nose resting on the bedskins. He turns sad eyes to me and whines.
“Yes, boy. I know. He is ill.” I pat the old dog’s head and take my seat on the stool beside him.
A breeze carries the chill of coming winter through the partially open shutters. It stirs the bundles of herbs I’ve hung to dry from the roof poles, and the scents of thyme, peppermint, and borage mingle with the smell from Aten’s medicine. I build up the fire to keep the kettle simmering. Flames dance and cast light around the room.
Cryner gives a long dog sigh and moves to his bed in the corner.
Moren stirs. His hand moves about the side of the bed as if searching, and I reach out to hold it.
“I’m here, Moren. I’ll stay beside you through the night.”
As I speak, he turns his head toward me and opens his eyes. I don’t know if he can see me in the flickering light.
“I’ve waited too long.” His voice is slurred from Aten’s potion, but I can hear the words clearly enough. “I should have spoken.”
“It is all right,” I say. “It can wait until you’re well.”
“No.” He seems to become stronger. His eyes open wider, and for a moment I’m sure that he does see me. “It is time. You must go. Grenna wanted so much to return. …” His voice trails off.
“Where?” I ask. “Where must I go?”
“East. To Dun Alyn.” He draws a deep breath that rattles in his chest. He coughs then lies still, breathing heavily, for a time.
I wait, holding his hand.
When he opens his eyes again, he speaks in such a low voice that I have to move my ear close. “Go to Dun Alyn. Find Ryamen; she’s expecting the two of us before the snows come.”
He sighs and coughs but does not speak again. Soon he sleeps. I stay at his bedside throughout the night, getting up now and then to stir the fire and stretch my tired muscles.
Once I hear animals outside our wicker paddock fence. Wolves, perhaps, come down from the hills in search of chickens or lambs left unprotected. When one of them claws at the paddock gate, I move to the door, ready to take up spear and torch. The scratching stops, and I hear a quiet rustle as the pack continues down into the village.
When I cannot stay awake any longer, I rest my head on my arms and close my eyes. I listen to Moren’s ragged breathing for a few moments before I fall asleep.
Near dawn a rooster rouses me. As the crowing fades, there is a deep silence that frightens me. I strain to hear any sound; perhaps the congestion is gone and he is breathing so easily I can’t hear him. I wait, holding my breath, willing some small noise to come from the bedplace beside me. The quiet is broken only when another rooster in the village echoes the one that woke me.
At last a cold, dark knowledge forces itself into my mind. I raise my head and look at my father. The gray predawn light shows his eyes closed as if in sleep, his hands resting at his sides. His chest does not move.
I reach out to take his hand. The skin is cool; his fingers do not bend around mine. I pull the bedskins down and lay my head on his chest. As a child I loved to sit on his lap with my ear pressed against his tunic, listening to the strong, rhythmic beat of his heart. Now, though I press first one ear, then the other against his body, I can hear no sound.
“Moren!” The cry bursts from me, and Cryner whimpers in his sleep.
I sit clutching his stiffening hand and sobbing for a long time. At last I choke back the tears and speak the prayers that commend my father’s spirit to Our Lord. As dawn sends a ray of sunlight through the crack between the shutters, I remove the pile of skins behind his head and lay his body down flat on the bedplace. I place his hands together on his chest and go out to begin the morning chores.
When Aten and Fiona arrive soon after sunup, I am tending the outside fire. They know from my face, even before I speak, that Moren is dead. Fiona hurries back to the village with the news while Aten and I prepare his body for burial.
I arrange the chain with his enameled pendant around his neck and slide his gold armbands on for the last time. The talisman of goshawk feathers, worn always on his left arm, has loosened, and I fumble with knots and thongs until it is securely retied. Then we wrap him in his best cloak and fasten it with his silver brooch.
When the villagers arrive in the afternoon to carry him up the hill, I take his sword with me. When the grave is dug and his body lowered into it, I place the elegant blade on his chest so that the gold hilt makes a cross above his heart.
Since there are no other Christians in the Vale of Enfert, I alone say the prayers of our faith. When I finish, the rest chant burial runes of the old religion. The ancient words wish him a safe journey to the Sidth, final dwelling place of the dead.
When everyone else goes down the hill, I remain for a time, trying to make sense of my loss. As dusk settles over the mountains around the vale, I say a last prayer for my father a
nd return to the home that now is mine alone.
THE FUNERAL GATHERING LASTS INTO THE NIGHT. MOREN would be pleased with it. There is food enough; Jon and a friend came this morning to slaughter two of our pigs and set the roasting spit above the fire. Aten and other women of the village brought bread. The apples are ripe, and the beehives yielded a full bowl of honey. Our store of ale serves everyone several times over.
At a funeral there is always feasting and drinking to show that life goes on, and there is always the story to honor the one who has died. Our village storyteller is a woman a few years older than I; her mother and her grandfather were each village teller in their time.
When all have eaten and drunk their fill, it is time for the story. Most people settle around the fire on logs or flat rocks; a few spread skins on the ground.
The teller takes her place on a log seat where everyone can see her. She swallows a big draught of ale before she begins.
“They came at the end of the long winter.”
These have been the first words of our story for as long as I can remember.
She waits for quiet and continues. “Snow had set in hard before Samhain that year and continued long past the usual time of thaws. Near Beltaine it was, and there were still patches of snow around the mud and barnyard muck.
“I saw them first.” She stops for another swallow of ale and sets her bowl on the ground. “A lass I was then, out digging roots for the stew pot. The stream was running free. I was hearing the sound of it and dreaming of summer to come. Something, I still can’t remember what, made me look up to the head of the valley.
“There they were, two of them, riding tall horses and leading a pack pony. I couldn’t see the babe at first.” She smiles at me and reaches over to pat my shoulder.
She tells how the villagers, alerted, snatched spears and staves and hurried up the path to meet the newcomers. When the signs of peace were exchanged and weapons clattered to the ground, there was plenty of interest in the strangers.
“And the babe’s cry! She was near starved and so weak she could hardly wail.” The teller shakes her head at the memory.
The Legend of Lady Ilena Page 1