Priestess of the Fire Temple (18 page)

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PART FIVE

The Goddess's Fiery Eye

26

I
was just finishing a morning cup of tea with Nessa when I heard the scream of a horse. “My gods, it's Bláth!” I cried, and in an
instant
I was running down the muddy path, desperate with concern for my friend. I could hardly believe that these holy people who saw the sacred in all things would have hurt a horse. I was consumed by remorse, panic, and indignation. How could I have abandoned my poor Bláth? What was I thinking?

Careening around the side of the hill, I was met with a terrible sight: an overturned cart and flailing hooves that paddled in every direction, topped by a snorting, screaming, biting horse's head.

I ran as fast as I could and knelt down beside her, holding her bridle as firmly as I was able to avoid being bitten myself.

“Poor Bláth! What have they done to you? These horrible people!”

I looked up glaring, defying anyone to come close. A frightened- looking woman dared to address me.

“My lady, we did nothing. All we did was hitch the cart to her. She was fine at first, but as soon as she started walking, she went completely crazy!”

A small crowd had gathered to see what the commotion was about. I noticed that Siobhan and her grandmothers were among them and that each was carrying a large bundle.

“We didn't do anything to hurt your horse!” Crithid cried, appearing from somewhere behind the gawking onlookers. “She was fine with being hitched to the cart, but the moment she realized she had something behind her that she was pulling, she panicked, is all.”

“All!” I yelled.

Then I remembered my Druid composure, took a few deep breaths, and blew into Bláth's nose. She quieted somewhat once she realized who I was.

“Does anyone have any carrots?” I asked in a loud voice. In my panic, I was momentarily convinced that I was surrounded by dolts, barbarians, and horse abusers.

“Here, m-m-m'lady,” said a young man while gingerly proffering a bunch of carrots that he had most likely been taking to market.

I held the carrots in front of Bláth's nose. The effect was miraculous. Within moments she was showing interest only in the carrots and seemed to have forgotten completely the horror of that terrifying weight that she was dragging behind her.

I stood up and walked slowly backwards, away from her, still holding out the carrots, forcing her to right herself if she hoped to have at them. Meanwhile, Crithid supervised a small mob who worked to turn the cart upright even as Bláth rolled back on to her feet.

Soon Bláth was cheerfully pulling the cart as I continued to dangle the golden roots just inches from her nose. Not to prolong the agony, I slowly doled out the carrots, one at a time, as we made a slow circuit around the hill. By the time we came around to the same side again, she was used to the weight of the cart behind her, and I was exhausted.

“Get in!” the Bríg Brigu commanded, and I obediently climbed into the cart. Siobhan and the grandmothers followed. Crithid had to push Siobhan into the conveyance from behind as the rest of us yanked her up; her advanced state of pregnancy made it impossible for her to get in any other way.

Lastly the Bríg Brigu clambered in, and the gathered tribesfolk picked up the scattered pillows, boxes, bags, and baskets of provisions that had fallen out earlier that morning, piling them into the cart and onto our laps.

Crithid took the reins and led Bláth forward while Nessa walked beside the cart on the opposite side. Bláth knew that I still had carrots and quickly reverted to her usually polite manners, turning her head to eye me hopefully from time to time in hopes of a reward.

“Where are we going?” I asked when the Fire Temple on the hill was but a speck in the distance.

“We are going to celebrate the rites of Meán Geimhridh,” the Bríg Brigu answered, gazing forward with regal calm.

The weather was chilly but clear. Extra blankets, gloves, hats, and capes had been provided for everyone, because a journey in winter is always a hazardous undertaking. Crithid and Nessa were warmed by their walking, while the rest of us piled on every available item as we strove to stay comfortable.

We traveled all day, moving along streams to rivers and ponds so we would always have water. That night we found hospitality in a small cluster of farm buildings. The folk living there seemed honored by our presence; warm broth, cooked cabbage, and roasted fowls were quickly manifested for us, along with enormous round loaves of spelt bread, jugs of béoir, and golden wheels of cheese.

After supper the Bríg Brigu, Nessa, Crithid, and I were invited to sleep by the fire, while Siobhan and the grandmothers were given dry accommodations in the straw of the cow barn. Before I went to sleep I visited Siobhan and the others in the barn to make sure of their comfort. I found the building to be warm from the body heat of the animals. Bláth spent a cozy night next to the other stock, munching hay.

We continued our journey in the morning. Every day for three days and nights it was the same routine: march from dawn to dusk; find a settlement of generous folk to provide supper and a fire; sleep; and take off again in the morning after breakfast.

The Bríg Brigu pressed a clutch of beeswax candles into the hands of the chief of each farmstead as we departed, leaving immense good will in our wake. We found that our Druid robes and symbols always gave us safe passage; only once did Crithid have to raise his staff at a belligerent bunch of tribesmen who attempted to extract a toll from us as we crossed their territory. They retreated quickly when the Bríg Brigu rose in anger from the bed of the wagon and spread out the wings of her cape like an enormous bat, uttering a loud curse using her voice of authority.

“Hear my curse on you: get out of my sight before I turn you all into rats! And then you will die!” Bláth reared up in fear, adding to the drama of the moment.

I trembled myself to hear the deep-pitched rumble from the Bríg Brigu's belly that seemed to shake the very trees. I knew she couldn't really turn them into rats, but the sound of it was very effective.

On the afternoon of the third day, we approached a hill with a huge round building upon it. It looked like a much larger version of the Fire Temple, only instead of whitewashed stones it was faced with gleaming white quartz. Round black stones were set into the quartz in the same spiral patterns that were painted onto the Fire Temple, and the sun's rays shining on the quartz front of the building made it shimmer like sunlight on waves. I had never seen anything so beautiful.

Surrounding the building was a ring of monoliths, and before the door was an elaborately carved stone lying on its side. The recumbent stone's surface was etched in deep spirals and whorls that looked like ripples upon water.

“There is a river at the bottom of the hill,” explained Crithid as we clambered down from the wagon. “In ancient times, the tribes brought their dead here on barges to cremate them in the fire. Some still do, of course.”

“Fire and water coming together again to make magic,” I said out loud again to no one in particular.

I could see a knot of people standing around the entrance of the building; several of them were carrying funeral urns. There was a bonfire on the hill near the entrance and a small traveler's camp set up around the flames. Their tents and lean-tos were arranged in a rough circle; apparently we weren't the only ones who had journeyed far to be at that place for Meán Geimhridh.

Bundled and swaddled as the people were against the cold, I could still detect a few pregnant bellies hidden under thick capes that were flapping in the wind. It was strange to see so many gravid women clustered on a bleak hillside in winter.

“We must wait our turn,” said the Bríg Brigu.

The grandmothers had been growing steadily more impatient as we neared the site; now they seemed excited, even agitated.

“Why are they so anxious?” I asked Nessa.

“They are hoping that everything will work out.”

She said this as if it were adequate explanation. I held my tongue.

After we set up our camp, we shared what food we had with the other travelers, and they passed around leather bags filled with sweet béoir and fion. We squirted streams of liquid into our mouths as the bags made their circuit.

The camp grew more festive as the night wore on; at one point Crithid faced me from across the flames and sang an ancient love song. His voice was resonant and sweet, a fine tenor, and everyone stopped whatever they were doing to listen:

Sleep, my love, by the wave's side

Goat's milk I would give thee

Warm and sweet with honey

If you were but mine.

Sleep, my love, by the wave's side

Beer and wort I'd give thee

And bread of whitest barley

If you were but mine.

Sleep, my love, by the wave's side

Wine in the cup I'd give thee

And the yellow eggs of lapwings

If you were but mine.

Sleep, my love, by the wave's side

A house of thatch I'd give thee

Cherries and milk and flowers

If you were but mine.

Sleep, my love, by the wave's side

Cream and honey and dainties

Combs for your hair and ribbons

If you were but mine.
10

More than one of the younger women stared at him with fascination. I was just grateful that the dark hid my blushes.

That night we slept in the cart together to keep warm. Each of us was under every available cape and blanket, except for Crithid, who slept under the wagon with his staff, ready to defend us.

The next morning, before dawn, the Bríg Brigu woke us from sleep.

“It's time!” she said in a loud whisper.

The grandmothers were instantly roused to action, rummaging furiously through the blankets and capes piled on the bottom of the cart. Eventually they found what they were after, which turned out to be a small urn.

The Bríg Brigu picked a burning brand out of the bonfire and used it to lead us up the hill and into the stone building.

“Follow me into the chamber,” she said as we negotiated our way through the entrance and down a long stone hallway that opened into a large room. By now the torch was nearly out, and only smoke and a faint glow of ember at the tip remained. We were soon surrounded by thick, impenetrable blackness.

“Just wait,” the Bríg Brigu confidently declared. There seemed nothing else to do.

After what felt like a very long time, the sun made its first appearance, looking like a thin crack of yellow light across the horizon. Gradually the line of light grew thicker, until the shape of an orb began to emerge. And then the first light of dawn penetrated the black of the chamber. I suddenly realized that it wasn't the horizon of the earth we were seeing; rather, it was the bottom edge of a window set into the stone wall high above the building's entranceway.

At that exact moment, something truly magical began to happen.

“Now!” cried the Bríg Brigu, and the grandmothers tore the lid off of the urn and quickly scattered the ashes from it onto a round, scooped-out stone with two smaller depressions in the front.

Everyone helped Siobhan to undress and then mount the stone; the two depressions were of a size that her two swollen breasts could fit into them, and the larger depression in the center was just the right size for her enormous belly. At first she kneeled on all fours.

“No! You have to lay your belly directly against the ashes!” said the Bríg Brigu.

“It's cold!” Siobhan wailed.

“Just do it!” said the Bríg Brigu.

Siobhan gingerly eased her huge belly onto the ashes scattered upon the stone's surface.

Just then a bright shaft of sunlight began to creep across the passageway until it penetrated the chamber, all the way to the back wall. For a few precious moments, Siobhan and all of us were bathed by a golden shaft of light.

“Birog! Birog!” the grandmothers wailed in unison. The Bríg Brigu began to chant:

Come to us from the shining realm

Return to us from the ancestors

Ride the golden shaft of light

Back to the world of the living!

We all took up the chant as we faced the glowing, rising orb. It seemed as if a pathway illuminated the womb of the earth and that a long, straight road had been created for the dead to walk upon.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The light faded away until we were in utter darkness once more.

The grandmothers were crying and still tearfully calling out Birog's name. Siobhan was distressed to be still on her belly, so we all moved to help her off of the stone and found her clothes to help her dress. Then the grandmothers groped in the dark to scoop up the remains of the ashes left in the hollow of the rock, carefully brushing them back into the little urn with their bare hands.

“Is this how the dead are brought back into this life?” I asked as we groped our way back out of the pitch-black chamber.

“Sometimes the dead come back to us on their own,” said the Bríg Brigu. “But this is the ceremony that makes the passage certain. For it to succeed, everything has to be right: a woman pregnant at the time of Meán Geimhridh who is blood kin to the ancestor one is seeking to attract, strong emotional ties, and a real need. All the conditions were right today for the return of a beloved ancestor.”

“Just as Meán Geimhridh brings the very first spark of light back to the world after the deepest dark of the year, our ritual brings back the spark of this life to one who has crossed to the ancestors in the sun,” Nessa added. “Every year a child of light is reborn into the tribes—one who has traveled to the shining realms and back again to serve the people.”

“The light returns to the chamber every day for five days,” said Crithid. “That's why the others have gathered here to take their turn.”

I thought of Artrach. How I wished that I had his ashes. I would have walked here alone, in the freezing cold, just to bring him back into my world. But it would have been a hopeless effort; I would be a grown woman and he just a baby. I knew that I would have to wait to see him in the next life.