The Fox (43 page)

Out of Lovern’s bag fell our hair, braided together and held by the red thread from our marriage. And the fur from the first fox he killed, small pieces of fur from every one since, and dried berries from the mistletoe we harvested just before the rain drove us into the cave. The cave where we found we loved each other. The crystals the bag once held lay buried under the posts of our home. His precious tokens from his past.

Out of mine fell Crisi’s birth cord, bronze, red-gold and black hair tied together with a red thread, my mother’s hair clasp, given to her by my father, and mistletoe berries. Yes, I had gathered some from the floor of that cave, too. I kept my armlets in the bag as well, since my arm grew too thin to wear them. They clanked as they fell out. Crisi laughed. “That is your sound, Mother.”

“Crisi, these are things that will bring you comfort when you need it. Keep these bags close to your heart. You have a history here that you will not understand until you are older. Do not misplace them. Look, on the outside is painted a labyrinth. Learn to follow this path. First, use your finger and then your memory. It will lead you to where you are supposed to be in your life.” I took hold of her little finger and led it around the path on my bag. I had often done this before, as a way to help her grow calm before sleeping. I sang to her at these times. She sang my song and followed the labyrinth, for the last time in my lap.

“It is good to hear you sing, Crisi. Your voice is clear and beautiful. Someday you will sing songs of your father.”

We picked up the tokens on the cot, and put them back into the bags. I returned only one armlet to my bag. I was to be buried with the armlet Lovern gave me at her birth.

“Crisi, I am giving you the armlet my mother gave me. It has the spirals of our family. Someday you will look on it and understand the events that are to come. The spirals are our bloodline. See how they are unbroken.”

“Yes, Mother. Can I go and play now?”

“Crisi. You are a child of my womb. Of all the spirits who have touched me, yours is the one I would truly give my life for. When you are grown and have a child of your own, hold him up to show me. Hold him high so your father and I can bless him.” She turned her green eyes to me and I placed my hand on the crown of her hair. “Gods. If you listen to me on this earth, if you value the life sacrificed to you, bless this child and guide her on her life’s journey, in my name, Jahna, and her father’s name, Lovern.”

Forbidden tears slipped from my eyes. She sat still as I slipped the strings over her head and placed the bags under her dress. She patted them into place.
They will become part of her body soon. She will stop thinking of them until she needs them.

She moved quickly when I let her go, like a rabbit let out of a trap. I asked for a kiss and she grudgingly leaned and touched our lips together. Then she ran out the door with the energy of a child, my eyes following her as long as I could.

I sipped Sileas’ broth and swallowed honey-sweetened mead laced with drops of the oil of the poppy. I rested to garner my feeble energy for tomorrow. Beltane. My stomach clutched as my mind refused to accept the passage of time. The day…. No, I could not think on it.

It was the day of his sacrifice.

C
HAPTER
24

Steve McDonald

JAHNA

82 AD M
AY
1

Our heavy cloaks kept out the cold. Mine was lined and trimmed with the fur of the white stag. We passed the night holding each other tightly under the cloaks, skin to skin, and watched the journey of the moon and stars across the sky. I wanted to hear and feel every beat of his heart, to breathe in every breath he exhaled. We spoke little. I tried to forget, just for the moment, what was ahead. To calm my breathing, I traced my labyrinth, the pattern burned into my mind. I silently repeated the words I used in my work.

The gods give us the sun that sets but rises for a new day. We die, but will meet again in the home of the gods.

We sat on a small hill, just above the tree-line of the forest, alone for the few hours it took the night to pass. A late frost crept in and laid a crystal blanket of white sparkles reflecting moonlight over the farmer’s fields.

Lovern shivered as I washed his body. Our jar of water was bitter cold. As I reached his feet, I caressed his toes. “Crisi has these toes.”

“Ah, and she has your smile. She carries both of us to the future.”

Now, the sun was about to crawl over the top of the mountain and promise a new day, a fresh new world. Just a few moon cycles ago, I rejoiced in the start of every new day, every sunrise, saying prayers of thankfulness to our goddess for my daughter, my husband, and my life in her work. This was a dawn that I did not want to see come.

The druids started to assemble around the fire, coming from the dark corners of the forest after a night of prayers. They had not been far, just out of sight. We heard their murmuring voices behind us all night long. I wanted to finish Lovern’s ablutions myself.

I knelt in front of him and felt small stones dig into my knees. The sharp points of pain reminded me that this was not a dream. His eyes glinted with moonlight as he looked deep into mine. I took his sharp dirk in hand and shaved him as I had done many times before. This was the last time I would hold his face. Twice, I had to pull my hand away from his cheeks, trembling, trying not to cry. I did not want to cut him, to cause him pain on our last morning together.

The many times I helped ease the path of those dying and counseled their life mates, I had never felt the intense pain they were going through. I recalled the grief of losing Beathan and my mother, but that was like a bee sting to this anguish. I foolishly told the others to be strong. “You will see them in the Otherworld,” I had naively said. Well meaning, but so unknowing. Now I understood. How does a person losing the mate of their life on earth stop the torturous pain of a dying heart? It was impossible. I knew I was ill and would not live long beyond his death. I would see him again, but those thoughts were hollow. They lived in the future. My life was now. My heart and stomach wrung itself into a ball and took up my whole chest.
Oh Goddess, help me. How can I not wail and tear out my hair?

I prayed to believe that our bloodline would continue. A remembrance of Aine flooded my mind and heart. Was this the proof I so desperately sought? I forced myself to believe that she was of our blood – that she was our future. To reinforce my belief, I added a line to my prayer.

The gods give us the sun that sets, but rises for a new day. We die, but will meet again in the home of the gods. And through our children and their children we will live throughout all time.

Firtha and Rhona came to us. They bade us to follow them to a large bronze cauldron that contained smoldering, fragrant grasses. The smoke rose slowly in the heavy, cold air. The heat from the cauldron warmed us as we held hands. Rhona came to me, touched my shoulder, and gently tugged at me to tell me it was time to stand aside. I grasped Lovern’s hand with both mine, and he turned to face me. His arms wrapped around me, as if to protect me from the upcoming event.
How can it be time already? We have not had long enough together.
I needed to talk to him.

“Do you remember the day we met ten years ago? I thought I hated you,” I whispered. “I thought you had destroyed my life. You told Beathan I was not supposed to marry Harailt, and I did not think I would ever be able to live within the clan again.” He nodded, his bronze hair free around his face, looking through to my soul with his dark eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “the goddess had plans for us. It took time to find out what those plans were. Now we are here. We now know what is required of us, and I pray our efforts are rewarded.”

“Yes.” I shook my head in agreement. As I put my hand on his face, I remembered the feel of his red beard, rough on my fingertips. I remembered him inside of me. I remembered his tears at Crisi’s birth. He leaned his now smooth face into my hand and my fingers traced his high cheekbones.

The gods give us the sun that sets, but rises for a new day. We die, but will meet again in the home of the gods. And through our children and their children we will live throughout all time.

His thin, sinewy body bent over me, and I looked deep into his calm, black-blue eyes. I wanted to live forever in those eyes. His eyes could find me anywhere and tell me he loved me without words. I loved his eyes.

The clan members smothered their peat fires. They would gather purifying flames to relight theirs from the Beltane fire. The heavy, acrid smoke still reached us and my eyes began to water. I bit my lip until I tasted my own blood. I could stand it no longer; I had to know his reason.

“Why? Why all the pain and dying?” I asked. “Your dying will not stop the war. We will still fight. Why not give in to the coming conquerors? Why do you have to die? Why do our clansmen have to die?”

“Oh, Jahna, my love. Your question has been asked by so many in the past. Is there an easy answer? I think not. Today we are able to hunt where we wish. We trade with those we call family or friends and kill those we call enemies. We ask for no permission except that of our own chieftains. They are our lords and rule-makers. We do not live at anyone else’s call. We sleep and make love with those whom we alone choose. I have seen the Roman slaves. You were taken by one. They drove him mad. He never would have done that on his own. He was a guard for the queen! I have seen children with no names. Crisi cannot live like that, I would rather she die. In her place, I die.

“For freedom, Jahna. It is a fight for life and for freedom. We must win, for all the coming clans and children. We fight for our daughters and sons to have the right to live free - run free. I die for my Queen, Bouddicea. I die for my mother and sisters. I die so we may win against our foe, now and forever. I give my life to our gods in trade for our freedom. I would do it again and again and again. For you. I do it for you.”

The druids stepped closer and began to chant. Rosston, Nathraicean, all of them, even Rhona, had learned the song of the sacrifice.

“Lovern, I am trying to understand. I believe and trust in the gods and their demands. It is so hard because it is you I want now, not the gods’ approval. But I will struggle to understand.

“I must tell you, I have spoken these words before in many ways: I would not know my life’s path if you had not come to our clan. I would be a farmer’s wife. In you, I found my teacher. You are my soul’s mate. You are my only love. I love you here and I will love you in the Otherworld. I will cut your hair and shave your beard every day. I will weave gold cloth for us to wear. We will hunt the white stag when I come, and make love in our cave again. We will watch over Crisi and keep her safe. We will keep her free.” My will was returning. I had to be strong for him.

“You are my heart,” he said. “My strength comes from you. Alone, this would not be possible for me. The gods threw us together and we did our best. Now they demand this of us. Together, we will prevail in death as we did in life.”

He gathered me into his strong arms and ran his soft hands through my loose hair. I crushed myself as close as I could up against his chest, curled into the circle he made around me. I felt the tickle of the fox fur band he wore on his arm against my face. He did not want to fail at this task, his last duty as our druid priest. I could not betray him.

“You know I love you. I have loved you since you first touched my mind. That is why I journeyed here so long ago. I had to find you,” he murmured into my hair. Then, pulling back, he said, “It is time. We must go. The gods and the people await.”

He lowered his mouth to mine, and we kissed, the last kiss of a husband and wife, of a master and mistress, of lovers.

Rhona drew me away and the druids stepped in. Rosston took off Lovern’s cloak. He was naked except for his fox fur armband when Firtha called for the three pots of color. He stood tall and erect. My body reacted and readied itself for his entry. It was not to be in this life, ever again.

Firtha dipped her hand into a pot of alder red dye and rubbed her hands over his face and chest. His arms and back became weld yellow, and woad blue was used on his groin and legs. The colors melted into one another. As I watched him be painted, I remembered the bull he sacrificed at our first Samhain. The viper in my gut turned to stone. It pushed, heavy against my heart. It was impossible to breathe. Firtha finished. She nodded, holding her arms up to the gods. Her hands dripped the colors now streaked on the body of my husband. “He is done,” she said.
We are both done,
I thought.