“Settling in for a good blow,” Fidich commented. “I’ll not stay; need to get home while I can still find the way. Hard night for the lads up on watch.”
“Aye,” said another man. “Be a foolish fellow would try to get in here in such a blizzard; he’d be wandering in circles, lying down for a rest and never getting up again, I reckon. Sure you won’t stop in for a bite to eat?”
“Ah, no, I’ve my own fire to get lit and my own porridge oats,” Fidich said, as he always did.
It was cold even in the hall before the fire. Bridei was in no rush to go off to bed, for he knew how icy his little chamber would be on such a night. Everyone was quiet. Mara was mending by lamplight; Ferat sat on a bench staring morosely into his ale cup. Most of the men had already gone off to their quarters. Donal was at the table working on some arrows. A variety of small knives and other implements, feathers and twines and lengths of wood, was set out before him. He was whistling under his breath. Bridei sat beside him, too tired tonight to do more than watch.
The kitchen door crashed open, making them all start. A chill draft swirled through into the hall, setting the fire sparking. Donal grabbed his biggest knife and sprang to his feet, and the other men at arms leaped to block the doorway between kitchen and hall. Mara stationed her ample form in front of Bridei, effectively stopping him from seeing a thing.
“What the—?” was all Ferat had time to say before the door was heard slamming shut again, and the men at arms stepped back to let two figures through, one supporting the other. One was Cinioch, who had been on guard up in the snow by the dike, and the other, ashen-faced, blue-lipped, and covered with the scratches and bruises of a headlong flight across country in the dark, was Uven, one of the men at arms who had traveled with Broichan to the king’s council.
There was work to do for Bridei then. He fetched one of the cloaks from the pegs by the kitchen hearth, brought a cup of ale, put it into Uven’s trembling hands. Mara kicked the tangle of dogs away from the hall fire. Donal set the bench closer while the other men helped the half-frozen traveler to seat himself there. Uven was unable to speak for a while; spasms of shivering ran through his body and the cup shook so violently in his hands that the ale spilled down his tunic. Eventually he managed to drink, and a little later to start on the porridge Ferat had produced, piping hot and generously ladled.
“Good,” Uven muttered, his blanched features assuming a healthier look. He looked up at Donal. “Message,” he said. “Urgent. Private.”
“Bridei,” said Donal, “time for bed now; good lad, off you go.”
“What’s happened?” Bridei could hear how small his own voice sounded, high and uneven. A good child did not disobey an order, and he was always good. But he had to know the truth. “Is it Broichan?”
They all looked at him in silence, and then Uven muttered, “Time’s short, Donal.”
“Bridei,” Donal said, squatting down and looking Bridei straight in the eye, “this is men’s business, and you are not yet a man, although you’ll make a fine one some day. You can help Broichan best by doing as I ask. Take your candle, go to your chamber now. When I’ve heard Uven’s news, I’ll come and tell you about it. I promise.”
HE LAY ON his bed waiting. Blankets could ease the cold of the little chamber. They could not help the chill inside him, harsher than winter, deeper than a well. Broichan was dead. What other explanation could there be for such urgency, such secrecy? Donal thought to protect him, to break the ill news gently. Well, Donal wouldn’t need to break any news. This was just the next part of the same old pattern. You had something, you let yourself care about it, and then suddenly it was gone. Perhaps it was better not to care at all. Bridei wondered if the druid had looked into the eyes of his killer, had observed the finger tightening on the bowstring. Broichan would have faced death calmly, he thought. There is learning in everything, he would have said. The candle flickered in the draught; shadows crept across the walls, not deer and eagles and hares now but phantoms, visions, memories of the Other-world, beyond the veil. Perhaps even now the druid journeyed among them. Bridei would not weep. They would send him away now, he supposed. Send him home to Gwynedd. Try as he might, he could not picture it.
After a while Donal tapped on the door and came in quietly to sit by Bridei on the narrow shelf-bed. In the candlelight the patterns on his face took on a strange life of their own, shifting and changing like still more manifestations of the spirit world. Bridei waited for the words he knew would come.
“Your foster father’s in a bit of trouble,” Donal said. “Sick, and far from home.”
“Sick?” Bridei felt hope awaken inside him somewhere, a tiny flame doing its best not to go out again.
“Deathly sick, Bridei; I won’t lie to you. It seems someone tried to harm him with a particular combination of herbs that Broichan took unawares in a dish of food or drink. He’s recovering as well as he can; a druid is his own best physician. But he can’t stay where he is; we need to fetch him home.”
“We?”
Donal’s grim expression softened. He gave Bridei a direct sort of look. “Myself, and a few of the lads. It’s a long way, Bridei; all the way up to the coast, near the king’s court at Caer Pridne, and back again. We’ll need to set out before this place gets snowed in.”
“I could help,” Bridei said, squaring his shoulders in an effort to appear taller.
“I know that, lad. I also know that if I take you one step outside the borders of Pitnochie, he’ll send me packing the moment he gets word of it. Of course, if you’re so keen to be rid of me . . .”
“I just wish you weren’t going away,” Bridei said in a whisper.
“As a matter of fact,” said Donal, “I’ve something I need you to do here. I can’t take Lucky, and he misses me when I’m away. I need you to give him a bit of a brushing, tell him a joke or two, just to keep him happy. You’ll be doing me a favor if you stay here and attend to that. I know it’s hard.”
Bridei nodded. There was a certain solace in what the warrior had said. “What if you don’t come back?” he could not help asking.
“Don’t come back?” Donal’s brows shot up in astonishment. “Me, Donal, hero of more battles than you’ve got fingers and toes to count them on? Of course I’ll come back! What are you telling me, that you think I’m not up to this?” There was the sound of a smile there somewhere, for all the challenge of the words.
Bridei looked up at the warrior and shook his head. A moment later he put his hand out and Donal grasped it firmly.
“We’ll bring him home safe, Bridei, I give you my solemn word.”
“Donal?”
“Yes, lad?”
“It would be hard to poison a druid.” They had practiced identifying herbs by smell, he and Broichan, wearing thick blindfolds. His foster father never erred.
Donal nodded grimly. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that.”
“Who could do it?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Donal said. “But first things first. Broichan will mend better here in his own place, with you by his side and the rest of us to keep watch. I’m leaving the house in your hands, Bridei. You should pray for your foster father. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” Bridei whispered, for this was one of those times when there is no choice at all. He managed not to cry as Donal took his leave, managed to watch dry-eyed and solemn as his friend set out on foot, at first light, with a party of four men all warmly clad and heavily armed. As for whether he wept when Donal was gone, and he was back in his chamber alone, that was between himself and the shadows.
WINTER SOLSTICE: THE lake ink-dark, the fells blue-white under a lowering sky, pine branches drooping heavily under their burdens until the weight became too great, the snow fell to the ground in powdery avalanche and the needled boughs sprang back up, resilient and strong. Sheep keeping close, pressed together for warmth. Smoke from the hearth fire rising sluggishly to hang in a pall above the house; dog
s, for once, reluctant to stir themselves in the morning. The water trough hard-frozen, and Fidich breaking the ice with a staff so his stock could drink.
Bridei had helped to feed the ewes that were housed in the barn. He’d paid a visit to the pigs in their adjoining quarters. He’d spent some time in the stables grooming Pearl and telling jokes to Lucky. They were not very good jokes, but Lucky had seemed satisfied with them. Pearl was restless today: maybe she sensed it was a time of change. Tonight the year would turn to light once more, hard though this was to believe on such a day.
For all their anxiety about Broichan and the men who had gone to fetch him home, the folk of the household understood the importance of this night. The men had brought in a weighty oak log, which now stood ready by the hearth. Bridei, accompanied by two guards, had fetched a good supply of holly branches, ivy twists, sprigs of pine, and even a length or two of goldenwood resplendent with both berries and flowers, for this was a herb of as much mysterious oddity as any druid. With Mara’s help he had made garlands, and now each doorway wore a crown of greenery. Ferat had splashed the great log with mead and sprinkled it with flour, and Bridei had festooned it with trails of glossy-leaved ivy.
In the evening they doused the fire, set the ceremonial log on the hearth and gathered before it in the cold. They put out the lamps; save for a single candle, all was dark. Frowning with concentration, Bridei did his best with the ritual, although he could not remember all of the words. He told the Midwinter story of how the goddess rocked a wounded ancient in her arms all night until he was changed into a little, golden-haired child who flew up into the sky, the sun rekindled out of darkness, hope reborn from death. The candle was smothered. Then Fidich struck a spark, blew on a handful of tinder, set one taper burning. From this they kindled a little piece of charred wood, sole remnant of last year’s Midwinter log. This brand soon had the fire blazing brightly, the old giving life to the new, and warmth spread through the hall. Bridei walked the circle widdershins, making an end to the ritual, and it was time to relax and enjoy the rest of the night.
Ferat was smiling as he brought out the festive fare, the ale and mead, the spice cakes and carefully stored cheeses. Mara was packing a basket for the unlucky fellows out on watch. Uven, now fully recovered from his ordeal, was already on his third beaker of ale. The sound of chatter, the smell of Ferat’s fine cooking, the grins and jokes brought the house to new life in perfect reflection of the ritual they had just enacted. But Bridei was suddenly tired; he sipped the watered mead they had given him, nibbled at his cake then fed it, surreptitiously, to the nearest dog.
“Good night,” he said to nobody in particular, but one of the men was telling a story and everyone was laughing, and they did not hear him. Nor did any of them notice as he crept away to his chamber, rolled himself in the blankets and, to a background of hearty revelry from the hall, fell fast asleep.
That seemed a fitting conclusion to a long and testing day. But Bone Mother had not quite finished her season’s work. Before she loosened her grip on the land she had one last change in store for Bridei, a change both wondrous and difficult. On this night of winter solstice his life was to be transformed more profoundly than anyone could have imagined.
BRIDEI AWOKE WITH a start, his heart thumping. He could not remember his dreams, only that it had seemed urgent to escape them. The house was still. Through the small square of the window the full moon looked in, her blue-white glow transforming his ordinary little chamber into a place of wonder, a realm of deceptive surfaces and secret shadows. Quiet, so quiet; even a mouse’s footsteps would be heard in so profound a stillness. And yet, something called him, tugging at his mind, urgent, vital.
Shivering, Bridei set aside the blankets, threw his short cloak on over his nightrobe and, opening the door as quietly as he could, tiptoed barefoot down the passageway to the hall.
On the hearth the fire still burned cheerfully; the Midwinter log would last for seven days. Mara slept peacefully in a chair, mouth slightly open, shawl tucked neatly around her shoulders. Two of the men at arms, Elpin and Uven, were sprawled on benches near the fire, the dogs on the floor between them. The dogs lifted their heads as Bridei crept past, then went back to sleep.
The kitchen was empty: Ferat had retired to bed after setting his domain to rights, ready for the morning. The fire’s glow followed Bridei into this chamber, outlining his small shadow on the stone floor in front of him. As he approached the outer door, the shadow went up the wall, bending into an improbable shape, tall and crooked. The heavy iron bolt had been fastened, a task Mara usually attended to after the late shift had gone on watch. During the day, the door stayed unbolted, for the nature of Broichan’s household meant comings and goings were frequent.
A chill draft was whispering in; Bridei’s toes could feel it. He shivered again. That something, whatever it was, the something that had woken him and brought him here into the dark of a winter night, was telling him now that he must step outside. With careful fingers, slowly for quiet, Bridei slid the great bolt across. He opened the heavy oaken door on the blanketing snow, the midwinter hush, the blue moonlight. The landscape was indeed wondrous under that shining. All was touched by it, touched to magic. The dark oak trunks were sage old druids, stoic and strong in the cold; the slender, graceful birches were forest spirits, dreaming of the fine cloaks of silver-green the springtime would give them to clothe their nakedness. In the distance, the pond gleamed like a mirror of polished silver, showing the moon an image of her own lovely face, remote and wise.
It was freezing cold. His toes were starting to go numb. They were probably turning blue. Bridei glanced down to check them.
And there it was: what he had been called here to find. On the step, right by his bare feet, was a small basket somewhat like the one Mara used for storing hanks of wool. But this was no sturdy affair of willow wattles. This was made of all sorts of things, feathers, grasses, fragile skeleton leaves, a little twiggy branch with red berries on it, bark and creepers and flowers that had no business being here in the middle of winter. The basket was lined with swansdown and had a pair of handles of plaited reeds, with holed stones threaded on them in threes and fives and sevens. The basket was not a thing of human make. The person who lay tucked up in it was . . . very small. Extremely small, and probably very cold. Bridei knelt down on the step, scarcely breathing as the moon gleamed on this gift as if to show him exactly what she had brought for him. The very small person seemed to be asleep. It wore a kind of bonnet with white fur all around, and had a wee blanket striped in many colors pulled up to its chin. Its face was pearly white, moon-white, as pale as the pelt of a winter hare. Weren’t little babies supposed to be red-faced and ugly? This one had delicate dark lashes and a mouth that was pink and solemn-looking. Bridei stared, entranced. A brother. A little brother. He wouldn’t be by himself anymore. Heart pounding, he rose to his feet, looking up at that great, silver orb in the dark sky. His hands moved in the sign of acknowledgment and reverence; it was clear to him that he would be in her debt forever.
“Thank you,” he whispered, bowing in the way his foster father had taught him. “I’ll look after him, I promise. I swear it on my life.”
He reached down to pick up the basket, and halted. The small person was awake. Its eyes, gazing up at him gravely, were moon-bright, star-clear, of no color and every color. They were eyes like a dream, like a deep well, like a magical tale with no ending. Perhaps they were blue, but it was not like any other blue in the world. The small person stirred, and a hand no larger than an acorn came out from the striped blanket, reaching for something invisible.
“There,” Bridei said, bending to tuck the little creature’s arm back in, for if he was shivering from cold what must such a mite be feeling? The tiny hand fastened on his finger, holding tight. Bridei’s heart was acting strangely, as if it were tumbling about in his breast. “You’ll be safe here, I promise.”
It was only after he had carried the basket and its oc
cupant inside and bolted the door behind him that Bridei realized he would have to think fast. This was a place of order and discipline, a place where all moved to the tune of Broichan’s life and Broichan’s path. None of the people who lived here, Mara, Ferat, Donal and the others, ever spoke of families. Even Fidich, who lived in his own small dwelling, had no wife, no sons to learn the patterns of farming. Broichan’s house was no place for children. This newborn would not be received with open arms. Indeed, it would be doubly unwelcome, for there was no doubt at all it was a gift from them, from the Good Folk. The moon had guided them to Bridei’s door. And while an ordinary foundling would be kept warm, fed milk, and probably passed on to a childless couple in one of the settlements for rearing, a child of the forest would not be treated so kindly. Bridei had heard folk talking; such a gift was considered more curse than blessing.
It was useful, at such times, to have begun a druidic education. The basket stood on the kitchen floor, a dark oval. The face of the infant was a circle of white, translucent as if it bore some of the moonlight within. The eyes remained open, following Bridei calmly as he moved about, searching. A key, he needed a key. That charm was supposed to keep an infant safe; to keep it at home. If it stopped folk from stealing a baby away, wouldn’t it also make those inside want to keep the child? He prayed that it was so. There had to be a key somewhere. He must be quick; if the baby began to cry, and someone woke up, they’d set the basket straight outside again and his little brother would freeze to death the way Uven nearly had. Quickly then, stop rummaging around and use his wits, as Broichan would have bid him do . . . Bridei stood still and concentrated. A key, he’d seen one, a tiny key with a curly bit on top . . . Yes, the spice box, Ferat’s prized coffer of yew, that had such a key, and he knew where the cook hid it, it was right up there behind the oil jar. Bridei slipped it off its hook and, moving silently on his bare feet, put his hand down the side of the little basket, between the blanket and the soft, feathery lining. The key settled at the bottom, hidden, secret. Now nobody could send the baby away.