The dusky twilight has darkened to full night and still I sit by father’s side. Maud brought me food, but I can find no appetite. It sits, forgotten, on the small table where she has left it. Silence hangs like a dark mantle over the ring-fort as the tribe waits to hear Father’s heart has ceased to beat. With every hour I feel him weaken. The once strong grip of his hand in mine slackens. The inner light, which once shone so bright from his eyes, dims and slowly begins to extinguish. The growing coolness of his silky palm against mine tells me that soon he will leave me. Throughout the remaining hours till dawn I stay by his side and hold the hand which nurtured me.
Myrddin comes to stand beside. His is the only company I permit in these last, intimate moments with father. He speaks nothing, but his presence comforts me. I find strength in the weight of his hand resting upon my shoulder.
Father’s last, truly, lucid moments were spent in Myrddin’s company. I know little in detail of what passed between them. It is better that way. Only I know they spoke of Patrick. Myrddin tells me that father’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper as he gave his final wisdoms to the tribal teller of the stories for their safe keeping. It is a heavy burden of responsibility to carry and Myrddin’s face has aged with the listening, aged with the knowledge that he alone now carries. Father’s death will bring many unwanted changes.
When the cock crow signals the breaking of the new day, I know, father has finally departed. It is with the gentle love of a grieving daughter, I kiss the creased forehead and softly close his vacant, staring eyes. I tuck his cold hand, the hand I have held for so many hours, under the comforting warmth of the blanket. There is an empty sadness awakening inside me, but I cannot linger. Leaving father’s still form, I walk out into the freshness of the morning. In this moment there are no words to be spoken and it is with a simple gesture, a brief nod of my head, I indicate to those gathered waiting, their leader has left them.
Many hands help to build the pyre. Carrying the stones and piling them one on one until it stands ready, four low walls, about a rectangular hollow filled with apple wood, ready for the ritual burning.
The chieftains come to take father’s body. They place it gently onto the litter on which they will carry him from the fort. Straining, they lift the wooden structure high and balance the sturdy poles on their strong shoulders. It is a solemn procession we make as they carry his body through the ring-fort and out to the pyre. There, with gentle respect, they lay him in what is to be his final, earthly resting place.
It is I, Brigid, who carries the torch to light the fires. It is my duty to ensure father’s safe passage to the spirit world. The clan members gather about the pyre while with the torch I carry, I ignite the small twigs. They spark and crackle to life. It is more than my heart can bear, as the flames grew stronger, catching at the larger branches, rising higher until they begin to singe the threads of clothing we have dressed him in.
The tribal members watch, in silent mourning, the ritual burning of their beloved leader. And it is there we stay, by his side, until the fires die and there is nothing left but ashes.
When the freshness of the new dawn cools the stones of the pyre. The chieftains break down the wall allowing me to enter and collect father’s still, warm ashes in a shallow copper bowl. My white funeral gown becomes speckled with motes of fallen soot and the hem tinged black where it has trails along the burnt ground. The sun is rising higher in the sky, taking its easterly path and brightening the dawn with its luminous rays. With this sign of the start of a new day, I lead the sombre group in a slow ritual towards the Yew copse.
Myrddin is by my side and the others in quiet procession behind me. Beneath the tress, in sweeping movements I scatter the ashes of the father I loved so well. We leave him to lie in peace under the low hanging boughs of the trees. There in time his ashes will mingle with the earth and be fed upon by the roots of the Yews. He is but at the start of his eternal journey. In time he will join with the spirits of our ancestors and be with his beloved once more.
Chapter 26
For days gossip abounds. They have taken Myrddin and I am mortally afraid. The whisper is they stole him away in the night whilst he was sleeping and he has vanished without a trace. As have so many before him. I cling to the hope that the rumours are Patrick’s work and are invented falsehoods cast forth to unsettle the people. In my heart, I fear it to be true, for I cannot find Myrddin anywhere. In my mind I call to him for long hours at a time, but there is not even a fleeting response to the silent emptiness inside me. Without Myrddin and without father I am bereft. Here in the ring fort, I spend the time pacing the rooms, waiting for any news they bring me and it is little. So alone am I, even Maud’s consoling embrace cannot comfort me.
Weeks have passed with no word. I plead with the ancestors to tell me he is safe. Their silence answers me. I can hope no more and I take to my bed and will not leave it. Without Myrddin, I am nothing. My heartbeat echoes in my breast like the constant dripping of water into an empty and broken vessel. It falls into the black void I have become. I will my heart to cease its beating and still the pain I'm suffering.
There is unrest amongst the people. Patrick is ever present, wheedling his way into their hearts with his petty confidences. In truth, I too have begun to panic. It will not be long, of that I am sure, before he turns his gaze upon me once more. I am the only one who stays his way. The only one left for the people to turn to for guidance, but in my misery I turn from them and receded further into the shell of the woman I have become.
“Brigid,” Maud shakes me where I lay like a discarded rag in the bed. “Patrick is in the hall.” Her voice trembles in fear.
I struggle to rise from the soft mattress and take her by the shoulders. “Go Maud, go home and hide while you still can. There is nothing to do for I know he has come for me. Go quickly while I speak with him and then I will know you at least will be safe.” She is too old for such troubles. Her rheumy eyes fill with tears.
“Brigid!” Patrick calls to me with rabid impatience.
“Go now, Maud, before it is too late and he takes us both.” I leave her standing there in my room, twisting the stained cloth of her apron between her anxious hands, and hurry to appease him so she may slip away unseen.
“At last you deem to grace me with your presence.” Patrick spits the words with scathing sarcasm. He stares at me long and hard from where he is sits in father’s chair. “Come here,” he commands. He rises to stand. “I cannot believe what I see before me.” The words drip from his twisted mouth with unrestrained venom. He is staring at the rounded mound of my pregnancy. “The pagan slut of the Welsh bard is with child?” A look of disgust twists his face to demonic lines and I fear for my life as he crosses the room toward me. “Make haste and prepare your things. I will return in the morning and accompany you to a place of safety away from prying eyes. There are many who might make ill news of the condition I find you in.” With a last scathing glance, he brushes past me and storms through the door of the hall.
It is strange how quickly Nature takes back that which we have borrowed from her. In these, few short weeks of abandonment, while I have buried myself in melancholy, new shoots of grass have already begun to push their way through the cracks in the stone lined floors of the fortress. They grow straight and strong where the constant rush of feet has ceased to pass.
I walk along the dusty passage-ways and my footsteps echo in the deserted stillness. Spiders busily weave their predatory nets across the framework of the doorways. There is nothing left here now, in this abandoned place which was once such a happy home. The silence and emptiness lay as cold and heavy as the dampest of winter fogs over my heart.
A stray ray of sunshine appears. It makes its momentary escape from behind the clouds in the dull grey of the morning sky and illuminates the motes of dust speckling the fine, filmy strands of the webs. They glisten in the brief light like tiny jewels. I leave them undisturbed as I bid goodbye to each room without even glanc
ing inside. The life that was is no longer there inside them. All that remains is the debris of the life I am being forced to leave behind. The past will live on, but only as a memory and I will remember the years here with happiness. Not as it is this day nor as what it will become.
When I have departed, I know they will come. Of that I am certain. For the weak of nature feed upon the strong when they have fallen. Soon they will be free to roam the deserted ruins of my discarded existence. Like a flock of thieving magpies with shrill chattering voices they will squawk to one another as they pick over the forsaken riches and search for the glint of forgotten gold.
Patrick is the worst of them. He has already secreted away many of father's treasures for himself and hidden them from prying eyes. When he spirits me away he will, no doubt, display his newly acquired riches proudly and proclaim them to be generous gifts from my father to the church. I care not.
The voices of the ancestors’ soothe me with their gentle whisperings and I try to heed their kindly counsel, finding some consolation in the wisdom of their words. The chattels of wealth will soon be meaningless. For in the years to come we will all lose much more. The freedom of our people will be gone and the right to live as we wish will disappear, perhaps forever. Like a dandelion seed, gossamer fine and blown in the wind, I will wait to see where life plants me. I know not where Patrick plans to take me nor, in truth, do I care. My body and spirit are tired and I can fight him no more.
He is waiting in the courtyard. I try not to mind he is mounted on father’s favourite pony. The agitated stamp of her feet is a sure sign of her nervousness. She snorts and whinnies, uncomfortable with her new rider. It seems she senses his edginess in the urgency to be gone.
“Brigid!” Patrick’s voice, brash and hard in its command, calls to hurry me in our departing. The sound of it cuts across the quietness, abrading my soul and twisting into my insides like a sharp cutting knife. I ignore him. I will not be rushed in these last few moments of farewell. Leaving the main building behind, I cross the courtyard with his stare burning into me. I dare not look in his direction or I will weaken and the tears will fall. Standing here before Mother’s roses, I realise how tall and spindly the bushes have grown. How uncared for they have become. The soft white blooms hang from the thin stems with their heads bowed low as though ashamed of the state in which I find them. A gentle breeze stirs and scatters the loosely held petals until they lay, like white drops of snow, against the darkness of the soft earth. Their heavy, sweet scent fills the air. Myrddin is in my thoughts. He comes as if from nowhere in the moment I need him most. His whispering presence is here by my side and his comforting hand comes to rest gently on my shoulder. It is but a brief solace I take from his ethereal presence when in all reality I long for nothing more than to rest my head against his chest and feel his arms about me. It is not to be.
No more than a solitary tear escapes and slides down my cheek to mark the sadness of this moment, my parting with the old life. There can be no more waiting, no more feigned reasons for delay. The time has come to go. With a resolute strength I did not know I possessed, I turn my back on the past to face Patrick and the uncertainty of the future. Impatience is etched in hard lines on his face but I feel nothing. I am beyond pain. His vindictive manner can no longer do me harm. With a swift, silent movement of his head he bids me to mount the waiting pony and he leads the way as we ride in silence from the ring-fort.
We ride until my body becomes so stiff and sore that it is numbed beyond pain or feeling. It is bitterly cold and I pull my thick wool wrap around me until it covers all but my eyes. Cocooned in its warmth my mind drifts to happier moments. I have become detached from this cruel reality.
The slow jolt of the pony lulls me. Mother’s soft, sweet voice sings the lullaby she always sang to me when I was no more than a small child. Her lilting tone soothes me in its caress and for a few moments I am safe.
There is a dense and heavy mist hanging over the low ground through which we travel. It was a world of nothingness. There is no bird song, no life, only never ending greyness. I am beyond cold. These hours are no more than a living death that has no end. I am beyond caring.
“Brigid, wake up.” Patrick has want to rouse me from my stupor. We have reached water and there is a boat waiting by the shore.
Chapter 27
“Brigitte! Wake up.” He took her by the shoulder and shook her hard. “Get your things.” The harsh tone of Jack’s voice shocked Brigitte from a deep sleep. She wondered where she was. “ Now.” The stern command brooked no argument.
“What?” She just wasn’t with it.
“Now, I said. Take what you will need and follow me. We have no time to waste.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where you are safe from the prying eyes that will look ill upon your condition.”
Brigitte didn’t think she looked that bad first thing in the morning. She groaned, rolled over and had a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table. It wasn’t even morning, but the middle of the night. “Jack, for god-sake, its two thirty,”
“Get up, now.” The words were a spit speckled hiss which flecked her cheek. She was not impressed. Still only half awake it dawned on her, he wasn’t himself. He was Patrick.
“Jack, listen to me.” She tried to remember what he’d taught her, but her brain was as fuzzy as a packet of cotton wool balls. Contact he’d said, physical contact. She touched his forearm and gave it a gentle shake. “It’s me, Brigitte. Do you know what day it is?” It was all she could think of.
“Take your hand off me.” The words spilt, in short venom-filled staccato syllables, from his lips. He’d sneered at her it as if she were a piece of contaminated slime clinging to a rock and she might have been for all the hold she had on his mind.
“Jack, listen...” She gagged on the words. He’d grabbed her by the hair at the scruff of her neck and was pulling her from the bed. “Get off me...”
“Do as I bid.” Her nightdress was scrunched up and tangled around her thighs, but Jack didn’t even seem to notice. She landed on the floor on her bended knees and winced as the carpet pile grazed against her bare skin. He changed his hold and took her firmly by the wrist with a grip so tight her fingers started to go numb.
Keep calm, Brig. Keep calm. You know it’s Jack, he’ll come out of it in a minute and we’ll be laughing at how absurd it all is.
He dragged her from the bedroom to the stairs. Slipper-less, she stubbed her toe against the pine skirting and stumbled. If he hadn’t been in front of her she would have ended up in a heap at the bottom. Down in the hall the terracotta tiles stung cold on her bare feet. Jack wasn’t letting go and pulled her along, keeping her close behind him until they were in the kitchen.
“Jack,” she tried again. “Listen to me. You know what’s happening. Look we’re in your kitchen. You can’t be Patrick...” She tried to think of something to make him realise they were in the twenty first century. “Look there’s a telephone on the wall. You didn’t have one of those in your day.” She attempted to veer towards it. “Let me show you how it works. It’s really simple. Press the buttons and bingo a direct line to God.” Maybe, if she could just get close enough, if not to dial then to hit him over the head with the receiver and knock some sense into him. She might as well have not said a word because he didn’t appear to have heard her.
Jack swung the back door open. When the night air hit her, Brigitte, covered only with the thin silk, shivered. He didn’t notice. With a strong grasp on her hand he just kept walking down the path, away from the house and out into the darkness of the cottage garden. It was if Jack couldn’t even see what was right in front of him. They went right through his precious herbs. Brigitte, seething with anger at the stupidity of the situation, trampled on as many plants as she could and trailed her feet through the neat rows, destroying them. I don’t know what’s going on, but that’ll take some explaining to Mr Murphy in the morning.
At the shore o
f the lake a small boat waited. It floated high in the water, pulling at its rope mooring and bobbing in the gentle, tide-less swell of the wind-sprung waves. Brigitte cried out loud with pain as the rough shingle cut into the soles of her feet and made her hobble. Jack ignored her.
“Get in.” He instructed, tightening his grip more and pulling her after him into the shallows.
“Jack, for god-sake, it’s the middle of the night. Are you insane? We’ll catch pneumonia.” The water lapping around her ankles was freezing. He gave her a hard push between the shoulder blades and almost sent her full length into the blackness of the depths. Catching at the rim of the boat she managed to stay upright. The hard wood frame scraped grazes on her abdomen when she pulled herself in, drenched to the thighs. The soaked folds of the night-shirt clung to her legs. She peeled them off, but they flapped down wet and stuck to her again. Goosebumps rose on her skin as icy drips trickled down her legs from the saturated fabric. Bastard, she swore out loud.
The full moon shone in a shattered reflection on the water’s surface as Jack dipped the oars and began to row. Brigitte contemplated rocking the boat, jumping overboard and swimming for it, but the night was pitch black and she’d already lost her bearings.“Jack, where are you taking me?” If she kept using his name he might come round. “Jack, Jack, Jack.” She repeated it over and over again. The persistence earned her a sharp slap on the face. The blow brought tears to her eyes, but she was not going to cry. She brushed her hand over her warm cheek and swore at him under her breath.
“Where? Cast your glance behind you, you impregnated pagan whore.” In the distance across the water, like a lone star cast earthwards from the sky, a single light twinkled in the utter darkness. Jack rowed straight for it. “We go to where I have been for these last miserable months; banished, to the solitary rock your father blessed me with. Heed me, Brigid, for they have not been idle months. There you will see the handiwork of a God-fearing man. For I do God’s will, even if upon barren land it is I sow the first seeds.” If he hadn’t had his hands occupied with the oars she would have sworn he’d have thumped his chest in self-righteousness. “You, at least, will have a roof to cover you from the nights chill, and a place upon which to lay your head. Not so I, when your father sent me there, fool that I may have been to believe the given word of a heathen. Take heed, Brigid, of these, my good doings. For when God’s will works within you, hard toil lays light upon the body and purges the soul.”