Pagan Fire (23 page)

“Your traditions are very quiet and well mannered,” he continued. “Do not look so surprised. I would not be a good warrior if I didn’t know my enemy.” He turned toward his father’s body. “When a Norseman sends you to the Great Hall of Valhalla, you know it. My father’s spirit will receive a hearty send-off befitting his station.”

Maere opened her mouth to speak, but her attention was drawn by a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, who was being escorted into the center of the group. She was made to stand near the body. The villagers stepped back, forming a circle around her and the men who served as her escorts. Four of them positioned themselves around her, each with his back square a cardinal direction. Then they bent down, two taking an arm, two taking a leg, lifting the young girl until she was suspended flat on her back in mid-air.

“What are they doing to her?” Maere asked.

Jorvik waved his hand to silence her. She turned to the old woman she thought of as Gray Braid. “What’s going on?”

Gray Braid, her eyes never leaving the girl, replied, “She is being prepared to join her master.”

Join her master? What did that mean? But it wasn’t long before the meaning became clear, as another man approached the girl, dagger raised.

“You cannot do this,” Maere said. She grabbed Jorvik’s arm. “Make them stop. It’s not right.”

Jorvik shook her off. The man with the dagger looked at Jorvik questioningly. He nodded his approval and the other continued.

Speaking words Maere could barely hear, let alone understand, he approached and circled the men, stopping in front of each of them to mutter an incantation. When he finally stopped before the girl, she was smiling. Smiling, of all things! Maere couldn’t believe it. This child was actually welcoming her death!

The dagger was raised and, in one swift motion, the girl’s throat was slit ear to ear. Her eyes widened and her mouth worked as if to form words. Blood spurted and gurgled from the wound, soaking the ground. Something tugged at Maere’s memory. Blood. Spilling. Covering the ground. She swayed and Jorvik caught her.

He whispered to her, “She felt no pain and went willingly to help my father in the next world.” He held Maere’s arms, helping her stay upright. She watched, transfixed, as the thick red liquid seeped into the dirt. “It was a great honor for her to die so.”

Maere shook her head to clear it. What was the girl’s blood trying to tell her? What should she know? Before the thoughts and feelings could form into recognizable words, her attention was drawn to Otto’s body. The girl, now dead, was placed perpendicular to the old man, at the foot of the stone bier. The men who had held her were busy stacking branches and logs all around and over the pedestal, careful not to cover the faces of the dead. The circle of people moved closer and closer until they stood in a triple ring, the nearest of them about nine feet from the bier.

A battle cry – deep enough and frightening enough to make a faint-hearted man fall over and die – sounded from behind Maere. She clapped her hands over her ears and turned around. From her spot at the outer edge of the third circle, she watched Jorvik dip an arrow, its pointed end wrapped with a rag, into one of the many fires around them. With another scream, he launched the projectile. It landed squarely on top of the bier, and was followed by another and another. Other Norsemen joined him, lighting the early morning sky with flaming arrows. Soon, the wood caught fire and began to blaze.

Maere froze. She stared into the fire, watching as the flames grew higher and higher.
I should run. Fire isn’t safe. It has never been safe.

And why is that?

I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

You have to know. Look at it. Look into it. You have to understand. Why is it not safe?

Maere did as her mind bid. She stared hard, fighting against her instincts to turn away. Then the funeral scene faded away and she saw another time, another fire. A frightened little girl. A desperate boy. Uncle Eugis. Her mother and father. Dylan’s father.

Dear Blessed Mary! Her mother and father! And Fox! Throats slashed. Blood everywhere. Soaking the ground. Filling the ceremonial bowls. Covering Eugis’s hands.

Eugis’s hands.

Eugis. Father’s brother. Her uncle. Beltane fires everywhere.

Bodies committed to the flames in sacrifice. Ma and Da. Dylan’s Da.

Maere shuddered, her legs weak, her entire being wracked with grief held so long within. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Looking up at the sky through her tears, she saw it all so clearly now. Vikings did not murder her family. Eugis did. Dylan mac Connall had spoken the truth.

And where was Dylan this night? Where was her friend, her betrothed? Was he safe?

She glanced at Jorvik. He stood near her, staring into the fire, his eyes brimming with tears. A hot flush surged through her. The old fears slipped away and she was filled with a new purpose. She might have lost her parents to the flames, but she would not let this man lose his.

Moving with intent and strength of purpose, her power rising within, she easily pushed her way through the outermost ring, past the middle ring, stopping only at the last ring of warrior-men. Murmurs rose amongst the Vikings and joined the roar of the fire.

The warriors held her at bay, refusing to let her pass. “Tell them to move, Jorvik,” she called out above the growing din. “I do not wish to harm them.”

“Do not let her pass,” Jorvik shouted to the men. And then to her he said, “It is not fitting for you, a woman and an outsider, to step inside their circle.”

Enough of this.
In the thinking of the phrase, the heat coursed through her once again. With a touch, the men found themselves separated.

Stealthily, Maere approached the fire, as one would approach an enemy. In truth, it was an enemy. An old one who had never let her rest, one that taunted her to remember when she could not.

But she remembered now.

Without a second thought, Maere strode into the inferno now raging over and around Otto’s body. A woman screamed, others shouted. Maere heard their muffled cries through the dense call of the flames, but it didn’t matter to her. She felt no pain, no heat, as the brilliant white light of her gift filled her, swirled around her, and kept her safe.

Maere shoved aside the wood and took Otto by the hand. With her free hand, she touched the cheek of the girl who had sacrificed herself to her master. The fire grew brighter and stronger and blocked Maere’s form from the Vikings.

“What was she thinking?” Grimnir rushed to Jorvik’s side. “She didn’t even cry out when she entered the fire.”

The words stuck in Jorvik’s throat. He could only shake his head.

A flash of green light – the color of life itself – shot up from the bier and lit the sky. The flames parted beneath the eerie glow and out walked the girl, then Otto, then Maere. The entire gathering of Vikings went quiet, the circle parting without a sound, allowing the three to pass. Were these spirits?

A woman’s shout broke the silence. The young girl smiled and ran to her mother’s open arms. “Mama!” she cried.

Jorvik fell to his knees in front of the old man. “Father? Can it really be you?”

Otto smiled and touched his son’s head. “It is I, son. I tell you truly. I was in the Great Hall one minute, with Anna serving me wine, then here the next.” He nodded at Maere and his eyes shone with gratitude. “This Light Elf brought me back to you.” He stretched his arms out at his sides and addressed his people. “Back to all of you!”

And with his announcement, for the first time since he’d walked out of the flames, the villagers dared to approach him. Reaching out, they touched his clothing, his beard, his face. Others watched Maere in wonder. A Light Elf in their very midst! Such a blessing from the gods was always hoped for, but never expected.

A man handed Otto a skin of wine. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A cheer went up as the crowd surrounded him and led him to a smaller fire where they could all sit and hear the tale of his great adventure through the gates of death and back.

Jorvik looked at Maere, amazement clear on his face. Her clothing was intact, her skin as fair as a flower. Not even her hair was singed. There was no sign whatsoever of what she had been through. “What manner of woman are you?”

Maere stood before him. “A woman who values her freedom above all else.” She gathered her loose hair and knotted it at the nape of her neck. “One who now knows her truth.”

“Not Sister Maere?”

“I’m no longer ignorant of my path in this life.” Maere smiled and gently shook her head. “I will take my leave now.”

Jorvik took her small hands into his much larger ones. “Blessings on you, woman.” He glanced at his father, where he sat in the midst of the crowd. “For what you have brought back to me, I will prepare a beautiful mare and supplies for you that you might ride free from here.”

“You would help me, then?”

“Eugis be damned, I will.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Make haste!” Eugis ordered, as his men put out the cooking fire and loaded the horses with their packs and bedrolls. He stepped to the edge of the clearing where they had spent the night. They’d broken camp two days earlier based on the information gotten from the girl, Seelie, and had retraced their steps in search of Maere, in search of the power she would give him. Or he would take. Either way, he’d not wait any longer. She was his destiny, of this he was certain. And once it was fulfilled, Morrigu would not laugh at him again. He’d be master to her mistress.

Eugis raised his face slightly, as if sniffing the air.
Ah, Maere’s near enough now.
Tonight, he would dream of her. And on the morrow she’d be his.

* * * *

“This is how you would rescue me, Dylan mac Connall?”

Sleeping under the bough of a great pine, Dylan stirred slightly. Maere spotted an owl feather nearby. Stifling a giggle, she picked it up and tickled the end of his nose.

He swatted at the feather. Maere tickled him again. He sneezed and bolted upright, his black hair hanging in disarray over his gaunt face. The fierceness of his expression made Maere drop the feather. Suddenly unsure of herself, she rocked back on her heels and waited for him to speak.

Dylan stared hard at her. “Your trick won’t work, Morrigu.”

“Morrigu?”
Was he still asleep, speaking his dreams aloud?

“Do not play with me, goddess. I know your schemes and I tell you this one won’t work,” he insisted. “I am filled to the top of my head with your deceptions. You play us as if we were poppets.” Dylan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed his hair away from his face.

Maere sat down near him on the ground. “You think I’m Morrigu?” Had the man gone daft in her absence?

Dylan didn’t reply. He continued to watch her every movement with great skepticism. Unnerving, it was.

“I tell you true, Dylan mac Connall, I am not your goddess.” She crossed her arms. “Check inside yourself. You’ll know it’s me.”

He searched her face with those piercing black eyes of his, recognition slowly coming over him. He reached out and lightly touched her cheek in wonder. “‘Tis you, isn’t it, girl?”

She bristled. “I said so, didn’t I?

“But how?” he asked.

“The Viking, Jorvik, was grateful to me for helping his father. He set me free. My first thought was to return home.” She glanced at him and smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “My second was to find you. As it turns out, I found you before finding my home.”

He raised an eyebrow, his own smile playing about his lips.

Curse him
. He’d been such a gangly, graceless boy. Why’d he have to grow into such a compelling man? One so easy on the eyes? Would he be as easy on her heart? If he were to know the full truth, finding him had been her only thought, not that she’d ever admit as much.

“I would have you know I am no longer the ignorant girl you discovered at Saint Columba’s.”

“What do you mean?” His expression hardened. “Did the Viking harm you?”

“Is there something wrong with you that I must repeat everything I’m saying this morn? I said I’m no longer ignorant. I didn’t say I was no longer innocent.” She raised her eyes to his and her irritation melted away, the energy between them flowing like a tangible thing.

Dylan slowly nodded his head. “You remember.”

Maere nodded. Then she searched the blood red sky of morning, the sun still low on the horizon, touched and protected for the moment by the earth. “Yes, I remember.” Once again, she saw in her mind the torturous murder of their kin, and herself as a young girl, being torn from everything and everyone she’d ever known and ever loved. She met his eyes. “I know now you spoke the truth to me.” A tear ran down her cheek. With a gentle touch, Dylan swept it away.

“I myself have cried countless nights,” he admitted. “For my father. For Manfred and Rhea.” He sighed. “For you.”

“For me?” His words stirred something deep inside.

“For what was to be between us.” He closed his eyes. “Tell me, Maere. Can it ever be?” He opened them again, and waited for her reply.

Maere studied the man sitting cross-legged opposite her. Was there any of the young boy she had known left there? Perhaps in the wildness of his hair or his barely- contained energy. But his eyes were different, so different. These were eyes which had seen the dark side of things, eyes that seemed a thousand years old. “In you, I see the boy that once was.” She touched his hand where it rested on his knee. “But what of the man he has become? Him, I don’t know. Just as you can’t possibly know the woman I’ve grown into. How can we honor vows spoken when we were children when we have no ken of each other?”

Dylan picked up a dried, bare tree branch. With a deft hand, he traced a line along it. Pine needles sprang forth where there had been none a moment before. He waved his fingers over a pile of dried pine needles and they began to smoke, then flames appeared. The small fire danced and cast long shadows on the craggy trunk of the tree. He studied the branch and its new leaves. “This is your Christian resurrection story, isn’t it? The dead coming back to life? It is the same with you, I imagine. The recovery of your memory is a resurrection of sorts. You are no longer Maere the young girl full of mischief, always ordering me about—”