The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) (19 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn)
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“We must be very careful how we act here,” he told the priest. “If there is any suspicion of deliberate malice on our part, those who have traded with us before might begin avoiding the Blue Mountains. Then what would we do for flax and wheat … and wine?”
Someone had gone to fetch Okelos, whose name Kernunnos had interjected into the discussion. He arrived in time to hear only the last few words, but he already had an opinion to voice. “If we had horses that would allow us to sit on them, and were as fast as the Scythian animals, we could go and get what we need. We would no longer be dependent on the goods others bring in to us. With our swords and horses for riding we could go anywhere, take anything. For the good of the tribe,” he added hastily, aware of the eyes of the elders upon him.
Kernunnos addressed Taranis directly, chief priest to lord of the tribe. This was a solemn moment; many issues hung in the balance. If the influence of these Scythians was not destroyed now, soon it would infect all the tribe, not just the young hotheads like Okelos. Expendable Okelos. The pattern would be changed forever, pulled into a new shape even Kernunnos could not manage.
“I speak to you from the spirits,” Kernunnos intoned, his voice seeming to echo from some deep cavern. The Kelti tensed, recognizing
drui
magic. “Do as I say now, Taranis. Send the leader of the Scythians after the stag; tell him of the mighty one living in the highest patch of meadowland, at the end of the trail to the sheep pasturage.
“Okelos, you are to guide him and hunt with him, but be
sure the stag is his, do you understand? After the hunt, when you come back to the village, tell us—all of us—everything you have seen. Is that clear?”
Okelos nodded, glowing with pride. It was the first time the chief priest had paid any attention to him since his man-making, and he interpreted it as a sign that Kernunnos recognized his mistake in not influencing the election of the chief.
He sees now that I am strong and have good ideas,
Okelos told himself.
If I acquit myself well thisday, who can say what might happen?
The hunt was quickly arranged. Kazhak was disappointed that Taranis could not accompany him personally, due to the press of certain urgent tribal business that had just arisen, but he accepted Okelos good-naturedly. “You help Kazhak, Kazhak share stag’s liver with you,” he offered with customary generosity to a hunting companion.
Okelos hurried back to his lodge for his hunting spear, in case there was some lesser game worthy of his effort. He could think of no great stag living in the place described, which puzzled him, but of course the shapechanger would know better about such things. He looked forward to the hunt with keen anticipation.
Meanwhile, Epona had found it impossible to stay away from the Scythian horses. They fascinated her. They had an elegance of line, a harmony of proportion that made their use as riding animals seem inevitable; there was even a gentle curve to their backs, inviting one to sit. While the Scythians were occupied with Taranis and the elders, Epona pulled grass to feed their horses by hand and talked patiently to the animals, trying to make friends with their spirits.
It was another way of distracting herself from the coming full moon.
She saw Goibban return from the trading ring and almost immediately afterward she noticed Kernunnos, running low to the earth, dart between two lodges and head for the nearest
stand of pines above the village. Beyond those pines lay the trail to the high pastures.
When the priest was out of the area Epona felt as if she could breathe more deeply. The anxiety that had floated over her all day like a gray cloud was lifted and she felt a surge of confidence.
There would never be a better opportunity.
She smoothed her hair and gown; she bit her lips to redden them; she thrust her shoulders back to lift her full breasts.
Now was the time, if the time was ever to be.
She headed for the forge, walking slowly, eager to know what Goibban would say and simultaneously putting off facing him as long as possible, just in case.
As she neared the forge she heard the rhythmic clang of metal on metal. In turns as patterned as those of a ritual dance, the apprentices were striking the orange-hot blade of a sword with their hammers, pounding the iron into its final shape. As each hammer struck the next was falling and the third was lifting away. Goibban held the blade with a pair of tongs, his gaze intent upon the work. He did not look up when Epona approached.
“Goibban …” she began.
“Wait, girl,” he muttered. “It is time for the quenching. We must be quiet while the spirit of the sword is tested …
now
!”
He lifted the glowing blade from the anvil and plunged it into a long trough of cold liquid. Clouds of sizzling steam obscured the interior of the forge. The apprentices held their breath in the urgency of the moment. Star metal was surrendering to the will of man.
The steam faded away. The blade lay quiet in its bath. With a reverent expression on his face, Goibban lifted it very gently. The apprentices leaned forward. Goibban examined the blade, stroking its surface with his burned and calloused thumb.
“Yes,” he said at last.
The apprentices broke into relieved grins and clapped one another on the back. Even Epona felt the relaxation of tension
and the joy of accomplishment; it permeated the smoky forge with the sweetness of a job well done.
Goibban turned to his visitor.
Women—wives—had made that request before, but of course Epona must have some other reason. There was a pleading in her face. The girl was in some kind of trouble needing a strong man’s aid, or required a particular kind of work that only a smith could do. And who better than Goibban?
He smiled and wiped his hands on his leather apron. “Come to my lodge with me,” he invited. “There is no one there but my mother, and old Grania never puts her fingers in another’s bowl. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of her.”
He gave crisp instructions to his assistants and strode toward his lodge, Epona trotting at his heels like one of the hound puppies. Too late, she realized she should have walked at his shoulder, a woman and an equal, and she hurried to catch up. Her heart was beating very hard.
In Goibban’s lodge, Grania sat on the far side of the firepit, busy with some sewing. She greeted Epona politely with beer and bread, then forgot the girl was there, as people must do who share a lodge with others.
“What is it you need, Epona?” Goibban wanted to know. “I don’t make jewelry anymore, if you’re bringing an order from Rigantona. I’m training Vindos the White to work with soft metals, and …”
“I don’t want to order jewelry,” Epona interrupted, the words leaping out of her mouth before she had them properly arranged in her head. “I want you to marry me.” Then she stared aghast at him, astonished by her own audacity.
Goibban shook his head as if he had gotten water in his ears while swimming in the lake. “What did you say, Epona? I didn’t understand you.”
Having gone so far there was no turning back. Perhaps that was why she had blurted out the words so quickly. In a voice lowered by embarrassment, she said, “My mother has pledged me to Kernunnos to be trained as a
gutuiter
. I am
unmarried. I am still hers and live in her lodge, though I’ve been to my woman-making. I have to go into the magic house at the next full moon unless some man asks for me as wife in the meantime. There are no wifeseekers here now, but if you were to ask for me, Goibban …”
The smith had been sitting on the edge of his bedshelf, hands dangling relaxed between his knees, but when he realized what Epona was suggesting he stood up abruptly. “I can’t marry you, Epona. You are of my own tribe!”
It was a credit to old Grania that the woman did not look up, but continued with her sewing. If the hand that held the bone needle trembled, it may have been due to her age.
“Don’t you like me?” Epona asked.
“Of course I like you, I like all the children, but that doesn’t mean …”
“I’m not a child any longer, I’m a woman,” she insisted, and for the second time he became aware of the intensity that smoldered in her like a banked fire.
He looked away in confusion. “Yes … I know, I mean, I can see you are a woman. But that makes no difference. Even if I wanted you …”
“Is it because of my broken arm, is that it? I’ve looked under the bandages, I know it’s going to heal all right, it will be straight. Goibban, I’m not going to be disfigured …”
“It isn’t that, Epona. You know it isn’t that.”
She caught one of his big hands in both of hers and held it tightly. “You are as important to the tribe as the Salt Mountain is,” she told him. “Taranis would order almost anything done to keep you content, I know it. If you tell him I am the price for your continuing to work the star metal, he will let us marry. He will!”
Goibban pulled his hand away from her as gently as he could. “I could not say that to the chief, Epona. It would be dishonest. I am content now, I need no bribe to keep me working the iron. I already have everything I want. I have my work to do, a good mother to cook my food and keep my fire, and the respect of the tribe. Whenever I want a woman I can almost have my choice; I’m in no hurry to seek a wife.
“No matter how much I like you, asking for you would complicate my life more than I care to do.”
“Are you afraid to do something that’s never been done before? Is that it?”
He seemed to swell like a frog filling itself with air to impress a rival. “I have done many things that were never done before, and I am not afraid of anything but starfire and earthquake,” he told her. “But I respect the pattern, the laws we live by, for what is man but his laws and his tribe? I will not break one and lose the respect of the other.
“If you have a chance to be
drui,
take it, Epona; that is my advice to you. Go to the magic house and be happy, as I am.”
She was shaking as if with a chill. “You’re a coward!” she flung at him. It was the ultimate insult and the anger in his eyes warned her she had gone too far, but she no longer cared. Goibban had been her secret safety; until this moment she had truly, deeply, believed he would take her, he would want her as much as she wanted him. She had been as confident of him as she was once confident of her parents and her place in the tribe. But now Goibban had refused her. Toutorix had gone to the otherworlds when she needed him most; Okelos had betrayed her, and Rigantona had traded her away like barter goods. The foundation stones of her life had crumbled beneath her feet, and all she had left was herself.
So be it,
said the spirit within, speaking at last.
“You are a coward,” she repeated through clenched teeth, and saw Goibban unthinkingly double his fists. “Hit me,” she challenged him, putting her own hand on the hilt of the knife in her belt. “Just hit me, smith, and see what happens. I’m not afraid, like you. Hit me!”
Goibban let his hands fall open at his sides. He became aware that his mother was staring at him across the firepit.
“You had better leave, Epona,” he told the girl.
“Neither fire nor water would make me stay,” she answered, nursing her rage for the strength it gave her. She stalked past him and out of the lodge.
In the open air her situation hit her in the face like a reflection
of sun on lake water, temporarily blinding her. Goibban had refused to stretch out his hand to her. All that awaited her now was the full moon, and the magic house.
And the shapechanger.
She drew a deep breath. “No,” she said to no one but the spirit within. “They can’t make me do it.” She began walking slowly through the village, unaware of direction, letting her feet pick the way.
Beyond the village, Kazhak and Okelos sought the great stag. Once past the palisade the two men had begun a steady upward climb, zigzagging along trails that were mere threads haphazardly strung across the mountain as if tossed by a petulant hand. Armies of pine marched. upward with them in dense ranks. The alpine silence was so deep it pressed on the ears; the altitude made Kazhak yawn repeatedly.
Several times Okelos hesitated and looked back, a puzzled frown on his face. “What is?” Kazhak asked each time, but Okelos only shook his head and trudged on. At last he stopped absolutely still, frozen like a wild animal at the sight of the hunter, and signaled Kazhak to do likewise.
The two men stood in a silence broken only by the thudding of their own hearts. The trail behind them was empty; no twig snapped, no branch moved. Yet Okelos was certain now that they were being followed. Then, like a trick of light, a face peered out of the trees for just the bat of an eyelid and disappeared again before Kazhak noticed it.
Kernunnos.
Druii
business.
Okelos started to say something to Kazhak, but the spirit within stopped him. Whatever reason had brought the priest on their trail did not concern Okelos. He wanted no part of it. There were currents and undercurrents in everything involved with these Scythians; let Kernunnos take care of it.

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