by Jules Watson
The centurions had done a good job: the Caledonii cur was weighed down with so many spoils of war that he could hardly walk. A garish, checked tunic was topped by a cloak with an ornate fringe that dragged on the ground, taken from the Votadini king, Agricola vaguely remembered. This was pinned with a cartload of brooches, and his arms, tied before him, were encased by rings and gold torcs to the shoulder, the better to keep his neck bare. His hair had been limed into those barbaric peaks, the savage tattoos drawn over in ink.
As the captive stumbled through their midst, prodded along by two soldiers with javelins, the murmuring of the other men grew louder, until it became a chant that was taken up by the steady beat of swords on shields, accompanied by the harsh blast of trumpets.
‘Galli! Galli!’
Agricola’s smile broadened. Yes, to the legion, this man was not only Alba, but all the barbarian peoples that dared to stand against Rome, with their pride and arrogance, greed and folly. And he sensed that his men’s frustration and enmity, which had, as yet, found little outlet, was being released now.
So the Caledonii traitor had been useful for something, at the last.
Agricola glanced at Samana, seated under her parasol to the side of the field. She feigned boredom, but he saw the glint of her black eyes, fixed on the swordsman waiting before the block.
Now the captive fell on his knees before the executioner, the gold and bronze on him flashing in the sun, and the men’s chanting grew louder, as the trumpets were joined in their cacophony by the horns, curving through the clear air.
Agricola raised his hand, and watched the sword rise. The headsman eyed his commander sidelong, arms poised. Agricola drew the moment out, waiting until the chanting grew into one great shout, the beating of swords like peals of thunder, the horns like the shrieks of beasts.
Yes, this man is Alba. And like him, it too will fall.
He brought his hand down, and the sword descended with it.
Rhiann stood at the lodge door and gazed at the rising moon. Faintly, sounds carried on the still evening: girlish giggles, the clatter of pans from the kitchen sheds, the faint vibration of the Sisters chanting.
How many times had she stood here on an evening such as this, filled with excitement for the coming rites?
Then, such festivals meant something different. She had stifled her own giggles, as the novices wove flowers into each other’s braids, while a priestess lectured them sternly on the proper decorum. Then would come the solemn beat of the drums, and her heart stirring at the sight of her Sisters snaking to the Stones in long lines, blue-hooded, their feet in perfect time.
She remembered feeling so close to the Goddess that she could surely reach out a hand, up to the heavens, and touch Her face. When divine words of love seemed to be part of the night air, breathed by the wind. Above all, she remembered being part of something greater than herself.
And here she stood tonight, and she had never felt so alone.
Everything in her cried to run away, far away, so that she would never have to see that look of repudiation on Eremon’s face, or feel the disappointment of those she loved, when they saw her fail.
‘Dearest.’ Fola’s voice startled her. ‘It is time for the saor.’
Her friend stood behind her, an earthen cup in her hands, and by her side were the four maidens who had attended Rhiann all afternoon, dressed in white, may blossom pale in their hair.
All that time, Rhiann kept her thoughts desperately guarded, as they bathed her and rubbed her with sweet oils. She was silent as they sang, painting her palms and feet with woad, her nails with berry juice, combing her hair with silver. Nor did she join their chants to the Goddess, the pleas to bless Her Maiden, as they pulled the robe of soft, bleached linen over her shoulders and bound it with a girdle of sea-grass.
Perhaps they just thought her silence a sign of nerves, but now Fola squeezed her hand. ‘Trust,’ she said, smiling. ‘Trust Nerida, and Setana. Trust the Mother.’
Rhiann looked deep into Fola’s dark eyes, and saw a gleam of pity there. Perhaps Fola did know, after all. Beltaine was a time of life, when the earth was growing ready to fruit and flower, to give of its power, so that the creatures of Thisworld could live.
So why, then, did Rhiann feel as if she walked the death path this night?
Before her, Nerida stepped, so graceful and upright, even in age, a flowering branch of hawthorn held before her. A garland of honeysuckle crowned Rhiann’s head, and as the sun-warmth was released from its blooms, the perfume became heady, dizzying her as it merged with the saor.
To each side, and ranged behind, came her Sisters. Now, Rhiann could clearly see the ties of light that bound them, just as she did last Beltaine, at Dunadd. But did the golden light touch her, weave itself around her? She could not tell. She did not think so. She stumbled, her feet tangling with fear and the herbs, and arms reached out to steady her, with no break in the singing. She glanced to one side, and saw Fola’s eyes within her blue hood.
As the host wound up the path, the singing grew and swelled, as the Sisters sang of the Goddess as Maiden, young and fresh and fruitful. Rhiann was not a maiden. But Nerida had picked her … there was something they wanted from her, something they believed could call the Source into full being tonight. But what? She felt so dry, so withered with loss. What was left in her to bloom?
It was then that she saw the Stones rearing black against a bonfire, the dark figures leaping before it, and her composure deserted her in one great flood that loosened her knees to water.
For all the dancers at the fire were men, tall against the flames, broad-chested, their hair flowing down over their shoulders. The women of the broch and the chief’s wives, in contrast, had formed a ring of linked hands around the stone circle. The men wielded the fire of life; the women guarded the gateway.
But which man would it be? Who was the Chosen One?
As Nerida came closer to the bonfire she stopped, and as one, the great flowing river of priestesses halted too, the singing dying away. Nerida stepped forward, the blossoming thorn held high. ‘The Goddess-daughters are here, with our gift: a Maiden to birth Her light for the land. Who is worthy of this gift?’
At her words, a druid in a white robe emerged from the crowd of men. He held a torch, and its sparks streamed away to the stars. ‘The God-sons are here, with a consort for the Maiden: a Stag to call forth Her light for the land. We name him worthy of this gift.’
Nerida turned and held out a hand to Rhiann, and Rhiann took it. Courage, child, the old priestess said in her mind. We love you. And so does She.
As Nerida led her up the avenue of stones to the inner circle, Rhiann was floating so far from her body that she hardly noticed another Sister fall into step with them: Setana. All the people had now fallen silent, and there was only the crackling and spitting of the great fire, and their soft footsteps on the turf. The eyes of the circle of women flashed in the firelight … but beyond them the Stones themselves seemed to sway before Rhiann’s shifting gaze, as if they had once been truly supplicants, bending and twirling in an endless dance … and then she saw other figures between them, where no human walked.
Flashes of light, like darting swallows made of fire … gliding wraiths with wings of smoke … gnarled faces that seemed to rise from the glittering surface of the Stones, singing of times long past, when the people knew only deer and fish and rock and wood, when the Old Woman in the Earth ruled them all, and no man was struck down by sword or spear …
All these things Rhiann sensed with the saor, until the count of the years became dizzying, and she must wrench herself away to be here, in her time, stepping at last into the sacred space at the heart of the Stones.
And as she did, the throbbing of the Source hit her like a wave; a deep booming, a thrumming of power. Like the breathy hum of a bone pipe, it was, yet the vibration was coming not from one small hole, but from the very ether around her. And she walked through it as if it were honey, thick and yiel
ding, flowing into the space behind each step.
The vortex of power swirled around the centre of the circle, where the greatest stone stood, alone, rearing high above her head. Here, Nerida and Setana drew Rhiann’s robe from her shoulders, and on a cloak of soft skins, in the shadow of the great stone, they laid her down.
Then, their hands on her heart and belly, they began to sing, and their voices flowed at the same pitch of the throbbing, so that Rhiann felt the two women become joined with the swirling, the humming. And channelled by their hands, the Source entered her.
The rush flooded through her body as the spring tide floods the sands. She was swelling, floating, sinking into the earth as she rose towards the heavens.
There was a drumbeat from far off, a shout from male throats: ‘He is come! He is come!’
She sensed Nerida and Setana rise to their feet. The night was cool, but her naked skin now glowed with heat where their hands had been. They had called, and the vessel had filled. It was then that they left her.
And there was time for one last caress from her heart. Eremon. Forgive me.
Blinded by the firelight, peering through the smoke, Eremon could not see where Rhiann was. All the blue-hooded priestesses looked the same, and walked the same. From the other side of the fire, he glimpsed a blur of a woman in white, being led away, but he did not know, or care, who she was.
Rhiann! his heart cried out to her. Where was she?
He knew how important this ceremony was. He understood that all of them must play their parts, that the Otherworld must be held in balance, so that life in Thisworld did not descend into chaos.
But despite the power that was already surging through them all, a power that could be wielded to keep them safe … he just wanted Rhiann. He wanted to take her in his arms, and leave this place, and be alone, somewhere warm and safe, somewhere that he could tell her all that lay in his heart, whether she would hear it or not. Somewhere that all could be made right between them.
Here he stood, and the fates of thousands of people, of this land Alba, of his own land, Erin, swirled in the charged air, their futures in the balance. But through the mind-haze, the effects of the drink the men had shared, all he could think about was her, and his heart clenched that they should be so parted.
Her eyes … her hair … her lips.
Tiny things, focused things, far from the wider world of war, of conquest.
Her breath … her scent … her smile.
He knew what the Beltaine rites meant. He knew that the forces would be let loose tonight, and in the frenzy, many a man and woman would be drawn to lay together. The thought made him sick. Would some coarse northerner take her here, on the earth? Would he see her from afar, joined with another? Could he reach her before that happened? No! The pain of it lanced him.
And then the first drumbeat struck.
Another rang out, and another, and the primal chord reached through his scattered thoughts, and plucked a string deep in his loins that he did not even know he possessed. A string that vibrated with the air, with the power of old urges, deep desires that were not spoken. Nectan told him the drink would call it: a summons that could not be denied.
‘He is come! He is come!’ he heard the men around him cry, full-throated.
And Eremon stepped forward, slowly, and with the movement, the antlers bound to his head swung from side to side.
Chapter 77
When Rhiann sensed the male steps breach the circle, she closed her eyes tightly. If she did not look, then it would not matter who the man was. She could leave her body, lose herself in the stars, and not even know it was happening.
But all of a sudden, the women burst into song. The voices rang out from all around her, as the drumming from the male fire increased in tempo. The song was not the sweet, soaring melody of the priestesses giving homage to the Goddess.
This was a song from the Old Ones, the Old Time, when, so it was said, people ran in the forest with the fleet deer, living by hunting alone. Then, the deer must be called by the Mother of the Tribe, to sacrifice themselves so that people may live. And the Stag must be called, to take the Mother, to make her fruitful.
The chanting was a summons, low and sibilant, throbbing in time with the primitive, galloping drum. It panted, rising and falling in the rhythm of a heartbeat, in the surging of birth, in the thrusting of desire. Adrift with the saor, Rhiann’s body could not help but respond, for the music reached down into the forgotten part of her that still, somewhere, ran in the forest.
The footsteps grew closer now, softer, padding. A fringe of deerskin brushed her fingers, and she smelled the earthiness of the hide cloak as the man leaned closer, and sensed the heat of naked skin close to her own.
The leap of faith.
Setana told me to jump.
To surrender the vessel to Her, with all my heart.
I will do it.
I can do it.
Surrender! Let go, Rhiann …
But she could not. For suddenly, the beat within was drenched in a flood of cold terror. It froze her, pinning her down, and she knew that she would fail again, the fire within no more than ashes …
She heard the rustle of the cloak, discarded by her side, and then – oh, Goddess! – the warmth of a man’s naked body covered her own, smooth and hard, the shoulder muscles slipping under her fingers. He was gentle … somehow unwilling, in the way he touched her thighs, and pressed them apart. His head was turned away into her shoulder, for she felt his hair brush her skin.
But unwilling or no, his heart thudded against her in time with the drumming, his breath quickening, and she knew that the power of the God-Stag had taken him, was driving him to the surrender she should be reaching herself.
Should, but could not.
At the moment she felt his hardness at the gateway to her body, seeking, pushing, her panicked soul scrabbled as far away as possible, taking refuge in her head, just as she had on the day of the raid. And that was when three years of bitter desolation rose to claim her, and she could not stop the sob from escaping her lips.
‘Lady?’
The voice was low, breathy. Her eyes flew open against her will. Above her, she saw the sweep of antlers against the stone. And below them … green eyes, blinking in the firelight, as if they had been closed.
As the shock of it crashed down upon her, she saw the same shock mirrored in his face.
Eremon.
Eremon was the Stag.
It was then, as their eyes met, that something leaped between them, bearing all the fear and pain away to a dark, forgotten place.
Without thinking, without fearing, Rhiann drew him down, hungering for those lips more than she had ever hungered for anything in her life. Every smile that had touched them, every gentle word of love, of friendship, of honour, of laughter … she tasted them all. It was beyond the sweetness of honey. And as their lips met, his body slipped inside her own, the gate opening for him as easily as a sigh.
Dizzy with the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste of him, the saor running in her veins, Rhiann sensed their bodies moving together in the beat that came from without them, around them, within them. It was everywhere, that song, and in the joy, at last, came the surrender.
Rhiann felt the energy fill her, the glow rising, expanding, swelling.
It was the Presence. The Goddess had come.
In the spaces between the stars, Rhiann and Eremon floated, their souls drifting close, watching the bodies in the circle below. To Rhiann’s spirit-eye, the bodies seemed made of stars themselves, and within lay the divine energy of God and Goddess, as vast as the whole sky.
Then Rhiann looked at Eremon, and his soul appeared as a flame, ever burning but not consuming, and though he bore no man’s face, she knew it was him. She would know the flame anywhere: she had always known it.
At that moment, her dream flared into life around them, a living image made of fire and stars.
She saw the valley, and the thronged soul
s of all the people. She saw herself with the cauldron, the glow of power from within now laid bare, so bright she could not look at it even with her spirit-eye. She heard the Eagles cry, and saw the man defy them, the Sword of Truth held on high.
Turn to me, she cried, as she always did. I need you!
And at long last, heeding her call, the call of lifetimes, the man turned, and his face was Eremon’s, looking back at them from the vision. Now the dream-Rhiann held out the cauldron, and poured the grace of the Mother over him, and he shook his head and laughed as if it were a shower of water.
With that, they were both back in their bodies on the ground, the crescendo building; nearly at its height. Though they had reclaimed their forms of flesh and blood, Rhiann and Eremon knew only that their twin flames were burning and surging, and around them was the glimmer of the greater forms still gracing their bodies. They strained to join, deeper, faster, hungry for life.
And it happened: the flames fused and flared into one wave of perfect, white light, and in the midst of the flare, Rhiann felt Eremon’s joy cascading over her. ‘You!’ she cried. ‘It is you!’
Then the wave broke, and they were both borne up, as it fountained from the earth under their bodies, a twisting spire of light, the pure Source, arcing from the centre of the circle to the heavens, showering the people with life.
And shouts were wrung from Rhiann and Eremon as they had never shouted in life – purely, and with open heart.
As they lay, hearts thundering, the awareness of deerskin and damp grass and singing only gradually returned.
But all they felt were the stars, still close around them like a cloak, and they knew it was well done.
Chapter 78
An age later, Eremon and Rhiann came to themselves, still pressed together. Trembling, Rhiann opened her eyes, seeing the white cloud of stars strewn across the dark sky above Eremon’s shoulder; feeling his heart pounding against her, his breath rasping in her ear.