Priestess of the Fire Temple (14 page)

“I can tell that you are Druid-trained by the timbre of your voice,” I whispered.

He dropped his goose leg in shock. Only another Drui could have made such a statement. To find one in such a rustic setting, and a female to boot, was almost past believing.

“Whatever are you doing abroad on a night like this?” he wheezed, steadying his plate and spoon and working hard not to drop anything else.

“We are on the king's business,” I said. I could hardly reveal that I myself had no idea where we were headed. “I need to know if anyone has put a plate of food out for the Daoine Sidhe,” I continued in an urgent whisper. “I have seen the consequences when humans are no longer generous to the fairies. I have laid a geis on myself never to neglect hospitality to the spirits, especially on a night like this one.”

“To my knowledge, no one has performed the office. It is no night to be outside when the black púca is galloping about and the dead are looking to revisit their homes.”

“Yes, that may be true, but I need to show generosity to the spirits. It is my duty to the land and to the people.”

The poor man sighed. He had counted on a warm, well-fed evening by the fire, not a dangerous expedition in the company of a strangely determined, if somewhat self-destructive, female Drui.

“All right, then; no one here will dare to go with you, but I myself will guide you to the nearest fairy fort. Will that suffice?”

I nodded my assent.

The warm cider and uisge beatha were having their effect. The singing was growing louder, and the celebrants were using plates and spoons to beat rhythms in accompaniment. A hilarious game of apple bobbing was taking place in one corner of the house, and bets were being laid. Alvinn, who had been skulking darkly in a corner, suddenly came to life when the betting started and had already tossed one of his bronze battle rings into the betting pool. A man in a huge straw mask was weaving drunkenly through the crowd, and everyone was trying to guess his identity. Added to this were the squalls of unhappy infants, ear-splitting yowls that were quickly stopped by their mother stuffing a breast into a hungry mouth.

We took advantage of the general chaos to edge our way out into the dark, cramming bread, meat, sausages, and apples into our clothing any way we could as we sidled towards the door. The moment we poked our heads outside, we were assaulted by a gust of wind.

“It's coming from the northwest,” I declared after wetting my finger with saliva to test the wind's direction. “That means death, slaughter, and the fall of blossoms in the coming year!”

“What can we possibly do about it?” the shanachie asked, despairing.

“We can be as generous as we are able and hope that others all over Ériu are doing the same.”

I knew that Dálach-gaes and Niamh and Druid everywhere would be testing the winds on this holy night and doing whatever they could to keep the forces in balance.

The moon was nearly full and the track through the fields and forest seemed almost as bright as day, so we had no trouble reaching an ancient ring fort that was covered over with vines. A large hawthorn tree grew at a crazy angle from one side of its wall; for generations it had stood uncut because no one would be so foolish as to harm a fairy tree.

I looked up at the branches, thinking I spied a shred of wind-blown cloth suspended in midair. Suddenly the cloth grew wings and then silently flapped away.

“An owl!” the shanachie yelped in a tone of real panic. “The dead are nearby; I can feel them!”

I instinctively drew an Ogum of protection in the air, choosing the Rowan symbol to make a protective shield. Then I sang a loud invocation:

Strength of sea, surround us

Hardness of rock, be ours

Power of lightning

Brightness of fire

Stability of earth

Be with us now!

I commanded these things while turning my body in a circle with my arm and index finger outstretched to inscribe a ring of protection. Startled by the noise, a family of rooks high above us in a tree took off as one into the night.

“Let's leave our offerings and go!” the shanachie cried. By now the man was terrified.

We laid our food under the fairy tree and murmured thanks to the spirits of that place, who were the guardians of the surrounding landscape. Then we walked briskly back to the farmstead, pausing only once when I stumbled over a root.

When we got to the door of the roundhouse, I wet my finger once more and held it above my head for a moment.

“Ah, good, a southwest wind. Its color is green, and it brings healing. It is the wind of the mothers,” I declared with satisfaction, knowing I had done what I could to serve the people. Dálach-gaes and Niamh would be proud.

When we were safely back inside, the báirín breac was already being torn apart and distributed, one portion for each person in the gathering. Hidden within the large loaf were tokens: a small coin that meant prosperity in the coming year, a thimble for a spinster, a piece of wood for useful work, a golden ring for the one who would be next to marry.

I accepted my piece and held it in my hand, looking anxiously about to see if anyone had noticed our absence. No one had. I bit into the moist, sweet morsel. My tooth struck something very hard. Unbelieving, I reached into my mouth to fish out the object. It was the golden ring.

“That's…just…not possible,” I said weakly, choking in disbelief.

“Never you mind, sweetie. It will all work out for the best. These predictions are never wrong. You'll see!” the grandmother stationed by the fire exclaimed with certainty and nearly toothless glee, waving her long wooden spoon at me as if it were a magical wand.

She and the other women obviously felt this was a sign of the best possible good fortune. I felt only numb horror.

Coreven came over to buck me up, seeing that my face had gone ashen.

“It's not that bad, is it?” he smiled, giving me a wink and a pat on the shoulder. As I sank to the floor to huddle miserably inside my cape, Coreven passed me another cup of hot cider. I absentmindedly slid the little ring onto a finger, trying to ignore what it presaged.

One by one, the children fell asleep until they were piled like puppies in softly snoring bundles covered by woolen blankets. The shanachie resumed his position by the fire and told another tale that lasted until sunrise. At last the adults of the community felt it was safe to venture back to their own homes.

“Don't forget to kill a cock and sprinkle its blood on your roof trees and doorposts!” the shanachie wearily called out to the departing revelers.

The headman and his family, the shanachie, and I and my warriors arranged ourselves around the fire and slept. I used my bundles of clothing and valuables as pillows and did not wake again until the late afternoon.

As we mounted to depart, I gifted the headman and the storyteller with one sét each. “Use them to help your people,” I said as they turned the coins over and over in disbelief. The headman even bit his to see if it was real. I doubt that he had ever held such a coin in his hand before.

“See? That is what happens when you remember to thank the fairies properly,” I told the shanachie with a grin.

We kicked our mounts and took off down the road once more, leaving the two men staring.

[contents]

20

A
lvinn and Coreven were delighted to have their horses and weapons back as we resumed our journey. Lasar seemed to have calmed down a bit; one night in a snug barn with other horses, and apples and carrots aplenty, had reassured him that not all the world was a fearful place. Caur was his usually stoic self, while Bláth minced about and even kicked up her heels. She had been admired, curried, and combed to perfection by the stable boys and seemed to know that she looked gorgeous.

That night, after a simple supper of sausages, apples, and oat bread, we bedded down around the fire. Almost as soon as I lay down in my blankets, I dreamed.

In my dream there was a large white bird. The bird was singing insistently, using her sweet voice to lead me ever onwards, through a thick grove of rowan trees to a little house in the wilderness. I peered inside the yellow light of the open door and saw a woman giving birth. I entered the house and found a silver basin filled with water, sitting on an oaken table. I scooped some water into my hand and placed three drops upon the child's brow to welcome it to the earth realm. Then I sang to the mother, which caused her milk to gush forth.

The bird lured me outside again with her singing, and this time she told me to go to a particular place.

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“Don't ask any questions; just go,” she answered.

In the distance I could see a village or settlement of some kind, with smoke rising from every roof tree. There were flocks of sheep and enclosures for chickens and ducks fanning out from the settlement like the petals of a flower. I seemed to be seeing everything from the air.

I landed lightly on the ground, and the white bird told me to take up a holly stick and dig into the earth at a particular spot.

“If you dig here in this field, you will find holy water,” she sang. And then she disappeared.

I awoke with a start, clear headed, remembering the dreams I used to have of the terrible black raven—when I would feel blood coursing down my face from the force of her talons.

That black spirit bird had pulled me forcibly away from Irardacht, a move that I had desperately needed to make. This dream was very different, yet I understood that the white bird was leading me somewhere new, just as the black crow once had. The image of the woman giving birth stayed with me.
Perhaps it means a rebirth for me?
I thought to myself.

“Thank you,” I whispered out loud to whatever spirit was guiding me.

On the afternoon of the third day, we arrived at a crossroads marked by an ancient standing stone that was covered over with moss and delicate yellow and white lichens. The stone was so old that it listed slightly to one side. There was a faint triple spiral etched onto one face; someone generations before must have carved the design to communicate some deep purpose.

“The sign of the three worlds,” Alvinn said to Coreven with a knowing look.

“This is where we leave you,” said Alvinn, pulling up Caur's bit sharply, causing him to come to an immediate halt. Lasar was not in the mood for stopping at that moment, and Coreven was forced to walk him in tight circles before he finally stood still. Bláth came to a full stop without incident and stood calmly, waiting for further instructions.

“Aren't you coming with me?” I asked, bewildered.

“No, we don't even know where you are headed. Our instructions are to bring you to this place and then set you onto the western path. You are to continue your journey alone,” Coreven said, a little sadly. It was not in his nature to leave a young woman alone and unprotected on a strange road.

“We will stay here for a day and a night to make sure no one suspicious follows you,” said Alvinn. He was already rising in the saddle and scouting for danger, also slightly affronted to be leaving a woman alone on the highway.

“If that is what my father told you, then I must obey.”

I reached into my cloak and pulled out the leather bag of séts and gave three to each of them.

“Take these for your return journey, to buy food and drink and anything else you might want.”

I knew that it was a huge sum and far too generous, but I was grateful for their protection and companionship.

All three of us felt a little sad as we said our goodbyes beside the ancient stone, which I noted with interest was listing towards the west, the exact direction I was taking. I hoped it was a good omen.

Bláth picked her way gingerly between the piles of fallen leaves and branches that lay on the road. It was apparent that it was a path rarely traveled and that no one had yet found the time to clean up after the brisk autumn winds. The road grew gradually darker and narrower, with ever-thicker hedges of hawthorn and blackberry closing in on both sides. I was just starting to feel trapped by the oppressive vegetation when yet another large standing stone appeared. This one was also listing slightly and bore the same triple spiral design; it tilted towards a tiny mud path between an even thicker tunnel of thorn bushes.

By now my legs, léine, and tunic were becoming scratched and snagged on the surrounding hedges, so I dismounted and led Bláth down the muddy path by the reins for a while. By turning my body sideways, I was mostly able to avoid being caught by thorns. Then the vegetation abruptly ended and a wide expanse of grassy hillside opened up before me, dotted here and there with black, brown, and white sheep and the occasional white goat.

There were people digging in the ground for roots of some kind. They stood up at my approach and
hallooed
a welcome.

“Have you come to join us?” someone asked.

“I don't know. What is this place?” I inquired.

“Tempul Dair,” someone said. “Though these days some have taken to calling it Cell Daro, the Church of the Oak.”

“Do you see that large oak tree over there?” A man gestured towards an imposing tree that looked to be a thousand sun cycles or more in age.

I studied the tree. It seemed to me that it must have been the bíle of some ancient tribe, still being honored as a protector of the landscape.

“That oak is so sacred that no one is allowed to wear a weapon or place a weapon anywhere near it. Are you carrying any?” a woman asked, peering intently as if daring me to lie.

I thought for a moment, wondering if I should disarm myself so quickly just to please a group of complete strangers. But I could tell that they were holy people by their clothing and trusting manner. They each wore a simple yet well-constructed tunic of brown, black, or white, evidently woven from the wool of the sheep in the meadow, with a simple rope for a belt. The men's hair was cut in the old Druid tonsure, from ear to ear across the brow, and they were all wearing the same triple spiral symbol, a triskell of bronze or silver that hung from a leather thong around each of their necks.

I suddenly realized that despite the grime of the road I must look like a princess to their eyes, with my amber beads, sky-blue tunic, colorful plaid trousers, pea-green cape, and snowy white mount.

Throwing caution aside, I forfeited my only weapons to them: the small dirk that I always kept hidden in my boot and my walking staff. A man took the dirk and dropped it into a leather purse hanging from his belt.

“I swear to you that when you leave us, you will have it back,” he said. His expression was so open and guileless that I could not help believing him.

“The staff you can keep,” he added.

I slid off of Bláth and reached for her halter. As usual, my knees buckled slightly when I touched the ground, and I took a moment to shake the stiffness from my legs.
What have I gotten into now?
I thought as I was pushed by the throng towards the main house.

“We are taking you to meet the Bríg Brigu,” said the woman who had asked for my weapons.

“Who is the Bríg Brigu? Is that her title?” I asked.

“She is the chief of hospitality for our community. She is the living representative of the goddess Brighid and the one who leads us. She is a Drui of the highest rank, and we call her by no other name.

“Here we serve travelers, the sick, laborers and nobles alike, and everyone is treated the same. Some come for food and drink, some just for companionship, and some come to the Fire Temple to have their deepest questions answered.”

Now my curiosity was thoroughly piqued. Surely this was the place that Father Justan and my father had intended that I must go. They must have thought I would receive some kind of training here. Even Dálach-gaes and Niamh seemed to approve of the plan.

As I surveyed the roundhouses, fowl enclosures, gardens, and outbuildings, it became apparent to me that this was the village I had seen in my dream from the air. I knew that the spirits were guiding me, and I was grateful but still cautious. Who was this Bríg Brigu, and what would she think of me? Could I really have a place here? It was all so mysterious.

We walked towards a large roundhouse that sat on a low hill at the epicenter of the community. The house on the hill was whitewashed, and I could just make out large sepia-colored triskells, painted at intervals along the white walls. With its yellow roof of fresh golden thatching, the building glowed in the sunlight.

At the base of the hill was a dark slit, an opening into the earth.

“What is in there?” I asked the woman at my side, who seemed to have taken me under her charge. Her long flaxen hair was starting to turn grey, and her blue eyes radiated a calm assurance. Her white tunic was mud-stained to the knees, and she carried a large round willow basket filled with freshly unearthed carrots and other roots.

“We call that the Womb of the Goddess. There is a sacred spring under the hill, and what you are seeing is the entrance to its waters. We only ever use that water for healing and for rituals. Actually, since tonight is the full moon, you will be able to take part in one of our rites this evening. We have five of these sacred wells in different locations; they form our neimheadh.”

Now I was really interested. “Your what? Where I come from, we have something called a nemed. It's a ritual enclosure.”

“We have something similar, only it's much larger. Ours is a landscape temple that covers the whole of this tuath. We have a secret track that is only known to those who live here and to those who come to visit us on holy days. We call it our hidden sanctuary because our ways are invisible to those who don't know us. We have a ritual calendar that is acted out in the landscape, season by season, every sun cycle. I hope that you will walk this land and learn its secrets; we need the patronage of the powerful families to keep our ways alive.

“To unknowing eyes, there is nothing here but a collection of fields and sheep pastures around this hill, but scattered around the tuath there is one well that we circumambulate at Imbolc, another that we circle at Beltaine, another at Lugnasad, and another at Samhain. We know that the spirits move from well to well and that they stay underground at each location until the appropriate time of year, on the exact day when the rising sun enters the well and strikes the waters. We wait for that day, and that's when we come to sing to the spirits, drink the waters, and make our offerings.

“The Womb of the Goddess is the central well, and it is always most active at the full moon.”

“Why is that one well different from the others?” I asked.

“Do you see that hollowed-out stone in front of the mouth of the well?”

I did see it. It appeared to be an ancient rock with a wide and smooth depression on the top.

“That stone receives water from the sky, and we also pour in waters from the Womb of the Goddess. The water absorbs the light of the sun by day and reflects the light of the full moon every moontide. That is when it becomes fully energized.”

“Ah, I see. That stone is an intermediary between the waters from the underworld and the waters from the upper world, between the realms of earth and sky. In that basin of stone, the three worlds are present.”

“Even so,” she replied, looking me up and down with renewed interest. Apparently she approved of my observation.

At the base of the hill to either side of the Womb of the Goddess there were herb and vegetable gardens, and at the base of each garden were strange structures—rows of hollow trees that stood like so many wooden flutes stuck into the ground.

“Those are our hives. Honey and beeswax candles are an important part of our work here. We use honey for healing wounds to the body and also wounds of the spirit. The bees have a special relationship with the sun, which makes them sacred to us. If you walk the land around this tuath, you will find many bee trees.”

As we climbed a spiral path up the central hill I became aware of a low, round enclosure of yew hedge that reminded me with a pang of Dálach-gaes and Niamh's nemed. As we spiraled around it I noticed that it had an opening on just one side. Passing the opening I caught a glimpse of a large, round fire. It was a Fire Altar in the ancient style! I was very excited to see that; I had never witnessed a perpetual fire before, though I knew that there was one in each of the provinces, safely hidden away from the prying eyes of the Cristaidi and other nonbelievers.

“What direction does the hedge open to?” I inquired.

“Every Fire Altar of this kind is oriented to sunrise on the day of its founding. Our holy wells are chosen the same way—one faces the rising sun of Imbolc, another faces the rising sun at Beltaine, and so on. The house above them all, at the top of this hill, is our Fire Temple, and that is where the Bríg Brigu lives. Its door also faces the rising sun on the day of its founding. That day was Imbolc, the day sacred to the fire goddess Brighid, our patroness.”

“So you are sun worshippers?” I asked, remembering all my fervent prayers to Áine Clí sung atop the lonely walls of Irardacht;
mother of the stars, eye of the gods, queen of the heavens, sister of the moon…
Apparently my prayers had been answered in a way that I could never have expected.