Ravens of Avalon (7 page)

They had started that morning, passing through patches of woodland and shorn fields where crows seeking fallen grains amid the stubble flew up in raucous alarm. It had been a bounteous harvest indeed, and in coming seasons the grain that filled the storage pits might be needed to feed people whose fields were trampled by war.

But Mona’s fields, though rich, did not cover the whole island. A few miles inland, the fertile ground on the eastern side gave way to a swath of marshland that ran from the southern shore halfway across the island. As Lhiannon took a deep breath of air rich with the scent of vegetation and a hint of the sea, the swoop of a gull drew her gaze across the marshes. Something was moving among the reedbeds. She recognized the stately stalk of a heron, gray feathers sheened with blue in the sun. A flotilla of ducks and terns moved into view on the open water that gleamed beyond, feathered rumps pointing skyward as they dove. Humans were not the only ones to find a good harvest here. The wind tugged at her veil and she unpinned it, letting her fine hair fly free as Boudica’s. Tonight both would have a mass of tangles, but they could help each other with the snarls.

From ahead came the deep rumbling of male laughter where the kings marched together. After them came the Arch-Druid, flanked by Ardanos and Cunitor, with young Bendeigid leading the gentle mare that carried Mearan. The High Priestess was the only one of them who was riding. These days the pain in her hip made walking difficult. Lhi-annon suspected other ills that the older woman hid, but none of them dared to question her.

As Lhiannon watched, Ardanos dropped back to speak to Mearan. She shook her head and he looked up with a worried frown that wrenched Lhiannon’s heart.
Oh my dear, of course she is in pain, but she will never admit it to you …
But she loved him for trying. Since the aborted tryst at the Beltane fires there had been a constraint between them. He said he understood why she had not come, but she saw the hurt in his eyes and did not dare try to heal it until she was certain she understood what the Goddess wanted of her.

From behind she could hear an irregular clop of hooves and a jingling of harness from the ponies that carried the offerings. The island had few roads fit for wagons, and there were places where even laden horses could not go. It was a roundabout way that would take them to the sacrificial pool, but on such a fine, sunny day, Lhiannon found it hard to care.

Just past noon they crossed the stream that fed the marsh and turned westward. Thick woodlands shrank to tangles of gorse that clung to scattered outcrops of gray stone, and r eed-edged rivulets drained the land. As the day drew on, Lhiannon began to wish that she had spent more time in physical activity and less in meditation. She glared at Boudica, envying the girl’s limber, easy stride. Her back ached and her feet were sore.

They halted at last in a hollow where a standing stone marked a narrow path turning off from the road. The sun was disappearing behind the gray mass of the holy mountain ahead of them, but to their left the ground fell away toward the sea. Nearer still a small lake reflected a translucent sky.

“Sit, child,” said Lhiannon, waving at Boudica, who had climbed the outcrop to get a better view. “It makes me tired to watch you.” Lhi-annon eased back against a boulder and stretched out her legs with a sigh as the girl slid down again.

“Is that the sacred pool?” she asked, pointing down the hill.

“That is the pool we call the Mother,” answered Lhiannon. “The Daughter lies farther along, protected from casual view. We will seek her fasting, at dawn.”

“But we’ll eat tonight, won’t we?” asked Bendeigid, who had wandered over to join them. Ardanos and Cunitor were helping Mearan off the horse and leading her to a seat covered with folded cloaks. Though she smiled in thanks, she looked pale.

“If it were up to Lugovalos, we would not,” Lhiannon answered, “but even the Arch-Druid will not require such s elf-denial of kings. Console yourself with the thought of the meat we’ll feast on tomorrow. If we are to get any dinner at all this evening we had best get busy now.” She levered herself to her feet and hobbled over to the firepit.

Some of the men had already set up tall fire-dogs of wrought iron to suspend the riveted bronze cauldron and gotten a fire going beneath it. Lhiannon stood over the cauldron, waiting for curls of steam to rise from the water. When she saw them, she dropped in the bag of barley. Boudica balanced a board across two stones and began to chop greens.

The long summer day was fading to twilight in ever more delicate shades of rose and gold. The bubbling of the cauldron blended into an evening hush that muted even the voices of the men. Three ravens came flying from the direction of the holy island, their elegant shapes sharply defined against the luminous sky.

“Sorry, brothers—we’ve nothing for you this time,” called King Tancoric. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll feed you well.”

“And when the Romans come, we’ll make you a truly worthy offering,” added Caratac. A burst of laughter echoed his words.

The ravens circled the campsite as if they were listening. Lhiannon shivered as with a last harsh cry they sped away.

“Are you cold? I could fetch a cloak,” said Boudica.

The priestess shook her head and gave another stir to the cauldron. “It was the birds,” she explained. “We call the gods for blessings, but they can be terrible, especially Cathubodva the Battle Raven, whose birds those are …”

“What did he mean by a worthy offering?” asked Bendi.

“He means corpses,” said Ardanos, joining them. “After a battle, the wolves and the ravens feast on the dead. You know what the oakwood looks like in the fall when acorns cover the ground? The acorns are the mast that the pigs eat, but they say that on a battlefield the severed heads of the fallen lie like acorns, and they call them the ‘mast of the Morrigan,’ the Great Queen whom we also call Cathubodva …”

He turned to Lhiannon. “The High Priestess is chilled. Is there anything I can give her?”

“Hand me that cup—the barley is not yet tender, but enough of its essence has gone into the water to do her some good.” Lhiannon ladled broth into the cup and dropped in a pinch of salt. “Here, Bendi.” She turned to the boy. “You are learning to be a healer. Sometimes food is medicine, too. Take that to the Lady, and when she has finished it, ask if she wants more.”

“Does the Morrigan
enjoy
the bloodshed?” asked Boudica when he had gone.

“She weeps …” Lhiannon said softly. “The night before a battle she walks the field and shrieks in despair. She waits at the ford and washes the bloody clothing of the doomed. She begs them to turn back, but they never do.”

“And then, when battle is joined,” Ardanos added grimly, “she grants the madness that gives the warriors the strength of heroes, and allows them to do deeds that no man could face in cold blood. And so kings sacrifice to her for victory.”

“Is she good or evil?” asked Boudica.

“Both,” Lhiannon said with an attempt at a smile. “When she makes love with the Good God at the river she brings life to the land. He balances her destruction and makes her smile once more.”

“Look at it this way,” said Ardanos. “Is a storm good or ill?”

“I suppose it is good when it brings the rain we need and bad when a flood washes away our homes.”

“We do not always know why the rain falls,” added Ardanos, “or why the gods do what they do. Folk call the Druids wise, but you must realize by now that we should be called the people who seek wisdom. We study the visible world around us and we reach out to the invisible world within. When we truly understand them we become like the gods, able to command their powers because we move within their harmony.”

This is what I love in him,
thought Lhiannon,
not only the touch of his hand but the touch of his soul.

And as if he had felt her thought, Ardanos looked back at her, and the breach between them was healed.

t was the gray hour just before the dawning. They rose in silence, the white robes of the Druids ghostly in the gloom. Even the kings moved quietly as they loaded the offerings onto the horses. Boudica rubbed sleep from her eyes and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, wincing as the movement jarred muscles she had not known were sore. Then, with the others, she followed the Arch-Druid down the path. In the dim light, the shape of his goosefeather headdress and the stiff folds of his horsehide cape loomed as contorted as the stone outcrops that crouched like monstrous guardians against the brightening sky. A torch flamed in his hand.

Behind him came the High Priestess, supported by Ardanos and Lhiannon, her frail form swathed in dark draperies from which an occasional glint of silver gleamed. With each movement came a faint shimmer of sound from the silver bells tied to the branch in her hand.

As they left the campsite, a harsh call split the silence. The ravens were back again, wheeling above like shards of night.

They remember the feast the kings promised them,
thought Boudica. Suddenly the shapes of rock and tree seemed insubstantial, as if they were only a veil that at any moment might be drawn aside to reveal some more luminous reality, and she understood why the sacrifice had to take place at this liminal hour between night and day.

Halfway down the slope the ground leveled. She could not see what lay beyond it. The kings unloaded the horses, then took them back up the hill, except for the last one, a white stallion that had borne no burden but its own gleaming hide. Him, they tethered to the thorn tree that grew at the edge of the overhang. In the gloom she could just make out three dark shapes among the branches. The ravens. Waiting …

The High Priestess and Lhiannon stepped forward to face the Arch-Druid at the edge of the cliff. Below it, the waters gleamed black and so still that the surface was etched with smooth spirals by the passage of the gulls that floated there.

“By heaven that gives us life and breath,” sang Mearan. “By the waters in whose movement all things grow and change; by the solid earth on which we stand … O spirits who dwell in this place, we ask your blessing.”

“By the fire of life that illuminates the spirit; by the pool from which we draw power, by the tree that links earth and heaven …” Lugovalos held his torch high, “we call the Shining Ones to witness.”

Lhiannon moved forward. “By all the hopes borne on the wind; by all the memories that lie within the pool; by present knowledge in the fields we know; we call on the wisdom of our fathers and mothers who have gone before.”

“Hear us! Bless us! Be with us now!” they cried as one. The stallion pulled nervously at its tether and the startled gulls burst yammering into the air.

The sky had brightened to a translucent pale blue. The sun was still hidden behind the mountains on the mainland, but its coming was proclaimed by a growing radiance. Togodumnos picked up a long sword and the light gleamed on its blade. The Druids taught that there were two kinds of sacrifice: those that were shared to bind men and gods in one community, and those that were broken and put beyond use by humankind. It was the second they meant to offer now.

“These weapons we won from our foes in battles between the tribes. As I destroy this blade—” he set his heel upon the point of the sword and leaned, and the metal groaned and gave, “—I end the enmity that was between us. Gods of our people, accept this sacrifice!” The sword wheeled outward as he released it, the distorted curve carving the pale sky, and disappeared with a splash into the dark waters below.

Caratac snapped the shaft of a spear, then broke off the tip against a stone. “Never more shall this spear drink Celtic blood! May the Lady of Ravens accept the sacrifice!”

If only,
thought Boudica,
the hatreds between the tribes could be drowned so easily!
But perhaps the Roman threat would frighten them into setting old enmities aside. One by one the kings came forward with swords and spears, shields with bosses of bronze sculpted in graceful triple spirals, pieces of horse harness, and fittings for the wicker chariots that were the tribes’ most terrifying weapon in war. These were works of art as well as use, a treasure that could have bought support from followers, but there might be no followers if they did not have the favor of the gods. As the pile dwindled, Boudica fingered her dagger, wondering if she ought to throw it in. But though she was of the blood of kings, she herself had neither position nor power. What business did she have bothering the gods, especially at this ritual?

Holy Ones,
she thought then,
if you will tell me what would please you, I will do my best to make the sacrifice.
She had a sudden sense of vertigo as if the earth had shifted beneath her. For a moment she found it hard to breathe. Boudica had always
believed
that the gods were listening, but suddenly she
knew
that she had been heard, and shivered, wondering if it had been wise to make so unconstrained an offering.

And now the ripples from the last dented shield had stilled. A breath of wind brought the scent of the fire that Bendigeid was tending. The sky was bright now, and the jagged edges of the eastern horizon edged in gold. Ardanos and Cunitor stripped off their white robes and laid them aside, then went to the thorn tree and untied the stallion’s halter.