Chapter 11
The wolf continued to lead her through the forest. They reached open pastureland, where there was a herd of cattle, tended by two youths with dark brown hair. She waved to them and approached. As she neared the youths, she decided they must be brothers. Their features were very similar and they both had freckles covering their faces and exposed skin.
“I am Sirona from the Tarisllwyth tribe. Can you give me directions to the dun where your people live?”
The youths stared at her. Then one of them said, “The settlement is that way.” He pointed. “Down that ridge and over the hill.”
“Thank you.” Sirona looked back for the wolf, but the animal was gone. She made a gesture of farewell. “Thank you, wolf,” she said. Then she started off the direction the boy had indicated.
A short while later, Sirona climbed to the top of the hill and looked down at the settlement below. There was no palisade or other defenses, only several dozen round dwellings made out of hides stretched over timber supports, and some sheds for storage. A few plots of land nearby had been recently harvested, with only brown stubble remaining.
She started down into the valley and soon met a group of women and young children coming back from berrying, their baskets overflowing with dark red and purple fruit. The women and children all had reddish or brown hair and were dressed in clothing with a dark green and crimson checked pattern. They stopped when they saw her, regarding her warily.
Sirona greeted them. “I am Sirona, a traveler from the sunset lands.”
The tallest of the women responded, “I am Ciorstan, of the Cunogwerin branch of the Brigante tribe.” The woman’s speech had a different cadence than that of the southern tribes, a certain roughness around the edges of the words.
“In the name of the Great Mother Goddess, I greet you, Ciorstan,” Sirona said, then hesitated. How did she proceed from here? The tribe name, the Cunogwerin, sounded familiar to her, but she couldn’t remember where she’d heard it. Dare she ask these people for food and shelter, at least for a night or two? After a moment, she said, “Is there a Learned One or Drui among your tribe?”
“Aye, we have a healer who has much knowledge of Drui lore.”
“Could I speak with them? I also trained in the grove for many years.”
Ciorstan nodded. “Come with us.”
Sirona followed the Cunogwerin as they made their way back to the settlement. The women talked quietly among themselves while the children shot her curious glances. Sirona felt apprehensive. Why should she expect this tribe, or any other tribe, to take her in? What did she have to offer? She reminded herself that she had been guided to this place by the wolf, who was surely a messenger of the gods. There must be some purpose for her being here. She had to trust that it was so.
As soon as they entered the camp, they were immediately greeted by a pack of enormous hounds, long-legged hairy beasts with pelts from gray to black. The racket the dogs made was earsplitting. The pack singled her out and surrounded her, sniffing eagerly. Sirona couldn’t help laughing. Cunogwerin meant “dogfolk”. It was obviously a fitting name. She patted the head of one animal and was soon besieged by the others, also begging for attention. As she struggled to satisfy them all, she looked up and saw Ciorstan watching her intently.
“They clearly approve of you,” the woman said. “Usually I must give some sign indicating that a visitor is accepted before they will stop barking. But they behave as if they know you already.”
Sirona wondered what Ciorstan would think if she told the woman that her closest companion for the past sennight had been a wolf.
Ciorstan finally shooed the dogs away and led Sirona into the settlement. While the women and children who had accompanied her drifted off, other people stopped to watch Sirona pass. In the center of the encampment they reached a large structure, which Sirona presumed was the chieftain’s hall. A little further on, Ciorstan paused before a dwelling. Leaning near to the hide doorway, she called, “Dysri, there’s someone here who wishes to speak with you.”
At the mention of her friend from the sacred isle, a smile spread across Sirona’s face. That’s why she recalled the name of this tribe. The gods had indeed guided her to this place.
Dysri came out of the hut. As soon as she saw Sirona, she embraced her. “Ah, little one, it’s so good to see you,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been worried about you ever since the gathering.”
“It’s been an interesting journey here,” Sirona answered. She couldn’t stop smiling. It felt so good to see a familiar face, to realize she was in the company of someone who might understand what she’d been through.
“Come in, come in,” Dysri said. “We’ve much to talk about.”
“Perhaps I should wash first.” Sirona indicated her soiled appearance.
“Aye,” said Dysri, laughing. “You do look a bit worse for wear.”
The older woman took Sirona to a cistern near the center of the camp. To Sirona’s surprise, the cistern was made of stone. “I wouldn’t have thought you would have a permanent water-collection system here,” she said. “This appears to be only a temporary settlement.”
“We come here every summer. There’s plenty of good pasture and land for growing crops.”
“But then you move to another location as the weather changes?”
Dysri nodded as she filled a pottery basin from the cistern. “By the time the Acorn Moon has waxed and waned, we’ll be gone.”
“Where will you go?’
“Farther north where the forests are denser. There’s forage for the herds and plenty of game to see us through the winter.”
“I notice you have no wall or earthworks,” Sirona said as she splashed water from a basin onto her face and neck. “Does that mean you don’t fear other tribes making war on you?”
“Sometimes there are cattle raids, but not often. We’ve been fortunate to know several years of peace.”
“Is there an overking of all the Brigante tribes?” Sirona asked.
“Not a king, but a queen. Her name is Cartimandua.”
Sirona gazed at Dysri in surprise. “And all of the tribes of the Brigantes accept her as their leader?”
Dysri nodded.
“Is it because of her that your people are at peace?”
“In a way. She has allied herself with the Romans, and with their support, she’s been able to keep the various chieftains from making war against each other.”
Sirona shook her head, remembering what had happened to Einion and Culhwch, as well as Bryn’s warnings. “I don’t trust the Romans. I think they are using Cartimandua, and she will someday regret this alliance.”
“Perhaps. But for now, it’s good not to have tribe set against tribe. To be able to travel from our summer lands to our winter ones and not worry about attack.” As they started back to the hut, Dysri said, “But that’s enough talk of politics and war. Tell me what has happened since we last saw each other on the sacred isle. How do you come to be here, arriving with no escort and few supplies?” She motioned to Sirona’s pack, hanging limply from her shoulder.
“It’s a tale such as the bards tell,” Sirona answered. “Full of twists and turns, secrets and...” She smiled. “... even a little magic.”
“You must tell me everything.
They went inside the hut and sat down by the hearth. Sirona told Dysri what had happened after she returned to Mordarach from the sacred isle. She recounted the first part of her journey north and the attack by Romans. Finally, she mentioned the wolf who had led her on the journey, and her experience in the burial mound with Itzurra. Dysri’s hazel eyes grew wide, her expression more and more wondering.
“... and so, I left the mound and journeyed north until I arrived here,” Sirona finished.
For a time, Dysri said nothing. Then she rose and fetched Sirona some milk from the stone container at the back of the dwelling. There was a small opening on the side of the hide structure. Through it, Sirona obser
ved the light was beginning to fade. It had taken a long time to tell everything that had happened to her in the past fortnight.
When Dysri brought her the milk in a pottery cup, Sirona asked, “So, what do you think of my tale?”
Dysri sat down next to Sirona. Her face appeared distant and intent. “When I first met you, I thought were special. I believed you would have great influence on the future.”
“And now?”
“And now...” Dysri smiled. “Now I am certain of it.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” Sirona asked. “There are times when I feel the hand of the gods upon me, guiding me. But then when I reach the place I’ve been led to, I discover more mysteries. Questions rather than answers. On the sacred isle, I knew I must go to the mound with Cruthin. I felt something important was going to happen there. But, looking back, I’m not certain what any of it meant. Our actions brought down the wrath of the Learned Ones upon us, and I’ve come to think that my being banished from my tribe was meant to be. And now I’ve been guided here, but I still don’t know why.”
“I wish I could advise you, but you’ve already moved far past me.”
“But you must have some thoughts on why I’m here.”
“You must be patient. You’ve barely even had your woman-making. Give yourself time to mature. Time to get used to having visions. Perhaps you’ve been guided here because I’m a healer and you need a respite from your burdens. For now, if you can, stop seeking answers. Forget the future, and the past. Feel your heart beating at this moment. Savor the rhythms of life. The change of day to night. The turn of the seasons.”
“It’s true. I am weary. So much has happened since the golden wheel of summer first filled the sky.”
“For now, my advice is to do nothing,” Dysri said. “Let your spirit rest. Soon the plants will begin to die back, and the earth turn to the darkness. In the bellies of ewes and cattle and deer, the spark of life will be sown. As the winter winds blow and the world turns cold and harsh and gloomy, that life will grow and swell. Come spring, it will burst forth, restless and eager. This is the winter of your spirit, for as long as you need it to be. Rest as the fallow earth rests. Wait, as the beasts do, sluggish and slow, for the sun to return and make the grass green.”
Sirona nodded. There was wisdom in what Dysri told her. Not magic, but quiet truth. “Your tribe will accept me?”
“I’ll tell them that you are some kin of mine come to serve as my apprentice.”
“I fear I have no gift for healing.”
“It won’t matter,” said Dysri. “No one will question my choice.” She rose. “Now I must make you known to the chieftain, Ruadan, and to the rest of the elders. They’ll be in the hall waiting for us.”
* * *
Beneath Sirona’s feet the bracken and cane brake was a dull bronze, and as she passed a blackthorn bush, she saw that the plant’s bluish fruits were almost gone, picked clean by birds and squirrels. Above her, only a few lonely leaves fluttered from the branches of the oak boughs. She bent down and began to scoop up acorns, filling another basket. Tedious work, and yet she was pleased to be able to contribute to the Cunogwerin’s winter foodstores. As Dysri promised, the tribe had taken her in, offering a place to spend the snowseason, or longer if she needed it.
As soon as the hazelnuts and acorns began to fall and gold and copper leaves covered the ground, the Cunogwerin had headed north, packing up their hide and timber dwellings and other possessions and loading them on carts drawn by sturdy black oxen. It was a long, slow journey with the carts, but Sirona had enjoyed observing the gradual changes in the landscape. As the deep green of pine trees replaced the brighter foliage of oak and elm, it struck her that the midnight lands were a darker and more somber world. The mists, creeping over the valleys, felt heavier and more chilling. They encountered still, mirror-like lakes and dark, murky boglands, rather than the swift streams, runlets and waterfalls of her home territory. This was an ancient place, where the spirits were wise and solemn, rather than fierce and wild.
When her gathering basket was full, Sirona sought out Dysri. The older woman helped Sirona place a stick over her shoulders to carry her two full baskets, then devised a similar arrangement for herself. Then they started back to the tribe’s winter camp.
“What will you do with all these acorns?” Sirona asked. “Our tribe never gathered them. Instead, we turned the pigs out to forage among the mast.”
“It’s possible to make a kind of flour out of ground acorns,” Dysri told her. “If we are fortunate, our stores of oats and barley will last all winter, and we won’t need to resort to acorn meal. But it’s good to be prepared. If the snows are too deep for the men to hunt, we’ll have to survive on the food in our storage pits.”
Sirona nodded. The Cunogwerin had culled their herds only a few days ago, butchering all but the main breeding stock, and salting and smoking the meat. They stored the meat, along with grain, dried berries, beans, and some roots and tubers, in stone pits in the ground at the edge of their camp.
“What about the Old Ones?” Sirona asked. “If it’s a difficult winter, how do they survive?”
Dysri shook her head. “No one knows how the Croenglas manage.” Croenglas, which meant “blue-skinned”, was what the Brigante tribe called the Old Ones. “Perhaps they go into some secret underground place and sleep away the winter like bears,” Dysri said, smiling. “Although I think it more likely that they move to areas along the coast and survive by fishing.”
“So, you think it’s unlikely I’ll encounter any of them until spring?”
Dysri shrugged. “And maybe not even then.” Her smile faded. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. But you must understand that the relationship between the Croenglas and our people is an uneasy one. In times past, there have been strange incidents involving them. Some tribes claim that when the Croenglas are around, their livestock fall ill, and there have been tales of children and babies who sickened and died after the Old Ones were seen in the area. Magic often inspires fear as well as awe. It is thus with my people and the Croenglas. The two races usually avoid each other.”
“What about Lovarn?” Sirona asked. “That was an incident where an individual of their race approached one of your people.”
Dysri nodded, her eyes far away with memory. “I was alone that day, out gathering herbs in the forest. There was no sound or warning and then, suddenly, two men were in the clearing, with Lovarn on a kind of sledge between them. I went over to see to Lovarn, who was obviously wounded. When I looked up, the two men were gone.” Dysri shuddered. “I still feel strange when I think about it.”
“And you told Lovarn that the only way you could save his leg was to cut it off?”
Dysri nodded. “It was a grave wound, down to the bone and already rank with poison.”
“And then what happened?”
“He told me that if that if he must lose his leg to save his life, he would die. Then he thanked me. A while later, the two men came back and carried him off, dragging the sledge between them. They returned two days later, when I was in the forest, and told me he was dead.”
“And that’s the only contact you’ve ever had with the Croenglas?”
Dysri nodded.
Sirona felt the familiar frustration. She’d hoped that here in the north she might find answers, about the Old Ones, about her visions, about the purpose and meaning of her life. Over a cycle of the moon had passed and she hadn’t yet discovered any of the things she sought.
A loud bellow sounded in the distance. A few heartbeats later, there was an answering bugle. Both women halted a moment to listen. “Ah,” Dysri said. “The stags are in rut. Soon the hunters will bring home fresh meat. This is the best time of year to track the forest king, when he is distracted by the does in season.”
The image of a great antlered stag reminded Sirona of what had happened at the mound on the sacred isle. A pang of grief went through her. She’d had a chance to mate with t
he lord of the forest, the stag king, Cernunnos. And like a yearling doe, she’d reacted with dread and fear. Cruthin, where are you? Will I ever see you again?
She started walking again, tears stinging her eyes. Dysri observed her distress. “Don’t grieve so,” she said, catching up to her. “Here in the north, you have a chance for a new beginning.”
Sirona nodded. She must be patient and wait for the gods to reveal her pathway. Still, she couldn’t help mourning the world of her childhood she’d left behind. She thought of her grandmother, imagining Nesta in the autumn woods, collecting herbs for her medicines, small and frail, her skin and hair near as pale as silver, like the mist flowing along the forest floor. And like the mist, the image of Nesta gradually faded, until she was no more than a breeze riffling the leaves, a white owl floating silently overhead.
The ache inside Sirona deepened. She told herself she was being foolish. Although she might never again see Nesta alive, her living, breathing fleshly form, her grandmother’s spirit would always be with her. And it was that spirit, the essence of a loved one, that mattered.
* * *
The next night, Sirona pushed aside the hide door of the dwelling she shared with Dysri and went out into the cold stillness. She moved quickly through the camp, stopping only to pat one of the hounds, stretched out, guarding the doorway of a dwelling. She rubbed the huge, fawn-colored animal behind its ears, and it gave a shuddering sigh. After giving the dog a final pat, she straightened and moved on.
She walked to the edge of the settlement and sought out a herding path that led up into the hills. The ground crunched with frost as she walked, and overhead the stars hung in the blue black sky like sparkling ice crystals. On the western horizon, the crescent moon gleamed like the blade of a curved ceremonial knife. The going was rough, the trackway rocky and edged with furze. As she picked her way along, a wolf howled in the distance. But her heart didn’t race, nor did she tense with dread. It was a wolf that had led her to this place of sanctuary.
The brisk air pierced her clothing. She pulled her mantle more tightly around her body and quickened her pace. The pathway crossed two hills, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, then led down into a ravine thick with thorn and bramble bushes.
She pushed her way through the brush and dodged the stones littering the pathway. At last she came to a clearing where a handful of knee-high, lichen-splashed boulders were arranged in a circle. She took a deep breath and then entered the circle. After pausing a moment to gather her thoughts, she lifted her hands to the sky. “Arianrhod, lady of the moon, the face of the Goddess who rules the sky and shines her bright light upon the land, show me the way. Tell me what I must do.”
She waited, but heard nothing except a faint whisper of breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby bushes. A sigh escaped her lips. She understood that she was meant to go to the sacred isle, to share what she’d shared with Cruthin, even if their mating had fallen short of completion. She was meant to be banished from her tribe and to travel north. But after that, her destiny, her purpose, grew blurry and vague. Bits and pieces of knowledge had come to her, but so much else eluded her. It seemed the answers lay in the future, a future that she could not see, no matter how hard she tried.
Please, Great Mother, she begged silently, give me a sign. Once again, she raised her arms to the heavens and repeated her exhortation. But no tingling started along her spine and her inner vision remained empty. Above her the stars shone, cold and brilliant, and the face of the Lady gazed down upon her with silence.
She sighed again, thinking she should return to the settlement. There were no answers here.
She thought then of Old Ogimos, the ancient, solemn Drui who hadn’t lectured on the movement of the stars, nor made them recite endless tales and genealogies, or demanded that they learn the proper way of performing a ceremony. Instead, Ogimos had taught them things of the spirit, awakening in them a sense of the pattern all around, the way everything was connected. Now his words came back to her. You must not be impatient with the gods, but let them reveal their purpose for you in their own time. You must remain quiet and still and listen. Listen with your heart and your spirit. The answers will come to you on the whispering wind, or the voice of a stream splashing over the rocks. Secrets await you in the dark shadows of the woods, in the perfection of a flower hidden among the fallen leaves and dried grass. The flower waits for the right moment to bloom, to come forth in all its glory. And so, someday, the answers will be revealed to you and you will understand at last.
His words made her look down at the ground. Her gaze fell upon the dried bracken at her feet, the curling mosses that would be green in summer, but which now looked dead and brown. The earth and most of the plants and trees would sleep through the coming season of cold and snow. They would reawaken in the spring, but for now they were dormant. Perhaps that was what she was meant to do also, here in the land of the north. Perhaps as Dysri had suggested, she wasn’t supposed to take action or to pursue her destiny. Perhaps, like the brown, lifeless vegetation all around her, she was meant to enter a time of waiting, to draw close within herself and absorb the life force all around, to gather it in, so when the time came to act, she could be strong... and powerful... like the Goddess.
The thought made her impatient. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted knowledge and answers. And yet, the earth told her that this was the way of all things. The rhythm of life, of the seasons, couldn’t be rushed. Her own body told her this as well. She was still very young. Her moontimes had begun only a turn of the seasons ago. She had scarcely crossed the threshold of womanhood. Perhaps that was why things had gone wrong with Cruthin. They were both too immature, too unfinished, to complete the ceremony as it should be completed. More children playing a game than adults performing a sacred rite.
But someday... She thought of her first vision. That time would come. She knew it, could feel it with every breath she took. But first she would be tested, tested cruelly.
Even as she had the thought, the visions came. She began to shiver violently as her mind was filled with images: Nesta lying dead on the ground. A terrified woman fleeing a warrior with a sword. The red-haired queen, her face a mask of triumphant cruelty. Chariots and warriors. Fire and blood. Death and destruction. She gasped and slumped to her knees, covering her face with her hands.
If this was what was to come, then she had no desire to hurry to meet the future. She was not ready yet. Not ready...
The images vanished and Sirona got slowly to her feet. The Goddess had answered after all, telling her that she should enjoy this time of quiet and peace, this season—or seasons—of her spirit lying fallow.
She gazed up again at the sky, silently thanking the lady of the moon for her soft, beneficent light.
* * * * * * * * *
Lady of the Moon is part one of the historical saga The Silver Wheel. The following is a preview of part 2, The Raven of Death. Please follow me online at https://marygillgannon.com for updates on this saga as well as my other books.
Preview
The Raven of Death, Part 2 of The Silver Wheel Saga