Age of Druids: Druid's Brooch Series: #9 Page 2

  A few of the other villagers sat on the floor, so Clíodhna found a place along the left wall and did the same, arranging her children in front of her.

  As they waited for something to happen, Donn poked Etromma in the shoulder, eliciting a yip of surprise and outrage. She shoved him back.

  Clíodhna whispered, “Quiet! Both of you.”

  “But he—”

  She held up a finger. “Shh!”

  “Ma—”

  “I said shh! Not another word.”

  Etromma fell back into her habitual pout. Clíodhna tried to think back to when she’d been that age. Had she been so petulant and whiny? She didn’t think so. All her causes had been righteous and worthy, or so she believed at the time. Her parents would likely have disagreed.

  Clíodhna remembered falling hopelessly in love at least a dozen times in those seasons. Perhaps being in love with just one boy at one time would be better for Etromma. It had taken a long time for Clíodhna to settle on one of her suitors, and in the end, she’d chosen poorly. Oh, Oisinne had been a fine storyteller and never failed to make her laugh. But, as much joy as he brought into her soul with his tales, he’d abandoned them all with no word.

  Many times, Clíodhna imagined what might have happened to her husband. Many times, she came up with no answers. She’d even tried to ask the Good Folk a few times, but they either refused to answer or didn’t know. Or her offerings weren’t enough to satiate their price. Their dissatisfaction sometimes became indistinguishable with their sheer contrary nature.

  Back before she’d gotten married, she’d spent a lot more time with the nature spirits. Several Aos Sídhe, the people of the faerie hill, became her friends. She’d bring gifts and songs; they’d reward her with dances and magic. Nothing powerful, but little magics, like a flower that blossomed with light, or a wind to caress her cheek. They weren’t quite Fae, or perhaps they were, and she didn’t understand the relationship. Some seemed tiny enough to fit in her hand while others towered over her like mighty oak trees.

  With children, she possessed nothing resembling free time. Caring for the children consumed her entire day, attention, and energy. The animals, the crops, and working as a judge between each imagined slight one child contrived for another or a villager added to her duty.

  Still, she derived some joy from her children, as she had from her husband. When he left, he took some of that joy, some of that pleasure.

  So many moons since she’d lain with a man. Oisinne disappeared five moons past. She’d never gone that long since she discovered that particular pleasure.

  The monk in white robes raised his hands, his sleeves falling back. Druí knotwork tattoos, faded with age, entwined his forearms. A Druí became a monk? What betrayal was this?

  He intoned several sentences, full of harsh consonants and guttural sounds. Clíodhna couldn’t understand a word of it. She remembered the new religion came from the lands beyond the sea, so they must have their own language. Did they expect everyone who came to these meetings to understand them?

  The monk finished his speech, if such it was, and lowered his hands. She noticed his hair had been shaved across the top, bearing a large brow and forehead. The other monks bore similar hairstyles, and in Clíodhna’s opinion, they looked silly. Still, she felt certain the Druí required odd physical changes for their dedicants.

  Some Druí painted permanent marks on their skin with needles and dyes. Others spent several seasons in solitude, seeking wisdom from the gods. Few non-Druí understood what other privations their dedications required.

  Now speaking in their own language, the monk relaxed into a more conversational tone. He spoke of a god born hundreds of seasons ago, in a land near the desert, as per an ancient prophecy. This god was born of a pure woman and a carpenter. Not only a god, but the son of a god. He performed several acts of magic, including rising from the dead. This demigod angered the local chieftains, and they executed him for his actions. His followers took up his cause and spread the word of his work.

  Why would this southern desert god care for an island covered in trees and rain? Surely this land lay far away from his power. Still, the tale seemed intriguing, if a bit legendary and ponderous.

  Like everyone else she grew up with, the druid in her village taught her to honor the gods with her heart and her mind. Legends of the gods were part of every song and story, lessons taught to each child. Their druid recited the major histories at each fire festival, with smaller stories told around the hearth fire at home. Tales of the Dagda and Manannán, Brighid and the Morrigú, Macha and Lugh. These gods and goddesses lived and married, bore children, and waged wars, fell into tragic love and fought heroic battles. From what she learned of this new god’s life, he seemed relatively boring.

  Clíodhna glanced at her daughter, entranced in the monk’s recitation. Donn, also, sat in rapt attention. At least the two no longer bickered. Aileran fell asleep in her arms, lulled by the monk’s calm voice. She loved holding her son like this, the sweet smell of his hair tickling her nose and making her grin.

  She closed her eyes. Perhaps she could find a few moments of rest for herself as the monk spoke. His words became a slow rhythm, losing all meaning. Instead, she floated in the darkness, drifting along in wooly comfort.

  A loud clap startled Clíodhna awake. When she opened her eyes, everyone shuffled to their feet, so she hastily joined them. The monk sang a song with several repeated phrases, encouraging those assembled to sing it back. Again, these words were in that strange language. Clíodhna believed in the power in words and refused to chant something she didn’t understand. A few people glared at her silence, so she mouthed them instead of voicing them.

  The instant censure of her neighbors annoyed her. Why must she follow like a sheep? She only visited this place.

  As the singing finished, people milled around, chatting and visiting in clumps. She turned to Etromma. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Not yet, Ma. I want to go and see what’s on that table up there.”

  Donn pulled his shoulders close to his body. “I want to talk to the monk. I have a question about his god.”

  Several monks set up trestle tables along one side of the building and brought platters of food. This must be the Lovefeast Ita spoke of. It looked delicious after several weeks of little but dried fish and last autumn’s apples.

  The press of all those people pushed in on her. The crowd grew oppressive, and she had trouble breathing. “I’m a bit dizzy. Ita, I need to go outside. I noticed a garden, and that might be just the place to clear my head. Come fetch me when you’re done.”

  After hefting Aileran against her other shoulder, she exited the sturdy building. The walls had been well-constructed, at least. No uneven spots or crumbling bits showed.

  The garden had been laid out in a large grid, with medicinal herbs, food herbs, and vegetables in separate sections. The surrounding edge might have ornamental flowers once spring arrived, but for now, bare bracken guarded the perimeter. This would be a lovely place in the summertime, with butterflies and bees flitting amongst the lush growth. Perhaps she would come back in the warm season to enjoy the space.

  “Do you approve of our garden, then?”

  Clíodhna whirled to find a monk, with dark curly hair and brown robes, regarding her with a half-smile. A dimple in one cheek gave him a roguish air, and the corners of her own mouth turned up in response. “I’m unused to so many people in an enclosed space. I needed to escape.”

  “Perfectly understandable. We’re already working on a larger structure, built with stone rather than wattle and daub. Something sturdier would be much more serviceable. Did you enjoy the service?”

  “Service?”

  “That’s what we call this. Service has a daily dedication to God, a sermon or story, and then a final benediction of song.”

  She gave a tentative smile as if she understood. Most of those words sounded strange. Could they be from the new language? Aileran chose thi
s moment to wake. Instead of a gradual build up into alertness, though, he launched straight into an ear-splitting wail.

  Clíodhna winced and bounced the child, turning to her companion. “I’m so sorry.”

  He chuckled. “Not to worry. I’ve a wee boy of my own, just about that age. Alas, he’s away with his mother in another land.”

  “Another land? Did she not come with you?”

  “No, my wife stayed with her family. She didn’t wish to travel to this dangerous frontier, you see. She preferred the luxury of Rome. We divorced as friends, but I do miss them both.”

  Aileran settled down after his initial outrage and burbled in sudden contentment. Clíodhna continued bouncing him in case his upset returned.

  “I’m called Clíodhna, and this volatile child is Aileran.”

  He bowed deep, another half-smile on his face as he rose. The dimple reappeared, and she noticed his eyes were a delightfully deep chocolate brown. “And I am called Odhrán. I’m only recently called to God, and this is my first assignment from Palladius.”

  “Assignment?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes. We each get assigned to a particular area, to speak to those who live there about our God. It’s a mission of peace and information.”

  Clíodhna never heard of a peaceful god. Kindly, yes. Good, of course. The Dagda was called The Good God, after all. But peaceful? The tales and legends of the gods dripped with war and betrayal. It seemed worse than real life power struggles. She bit at her lower lip.

  Odhrán smiled. “No, it’s true. We are here to spread the word, nothing more. We have no mandate to force anyone to our beliefs.”

  “I didn’t mean to impugn your word, Odhrán. It’s the concept of a peaceful god that I can’t quite comprehend.”

  He let out a low chuckle, a gentle sound. “Fair. God himself has visited plenty of violent acts on humans. However, his son, our Lord Jesus, is a man of peace, and it’s his message we are distributing.”

  “Is Odhrán a Roman name, then? It sounds local, and you speak our language well for a foreigner.”

  He gave a half-smile. “I was born with a different name, but adopted one more familiar to the people here. Many of us do that. It helps us become closer to the communities we serve. I learned your language from another man of this land, several winters past.”

  She’d been about to ask him more about his demigod when Etromma’s cry interrupted.

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  Clíodhna’s eyes grew wide and she ran to find out what her daughter got herself into. She hurried out of the garden to the building the other priest had spoken in. Etromma stood before the entrance, an older monk gripping her upper arm. She saw no sign of Donn. Clíodhna wondered if he’d gone off in search of the girl he’d been courting.

  Aileran sobbed again at being jounced. She jiggled him to quiet his fussing. “What’s this?”

  The older monk, his straggly beard combed into two forks, glanced up. “The impudent girl questioned our Lord’s power!”

  Clíodhna blinked twice and stood straight. “Is that all? For a healthy curiosity, you presume to hurt my daughter? How dare you lay hands upon her!”

  Odhrán came up behind her, panting with exertion. “Fachtna, what have you done?”

  “It isn’t me, Odhrán. This creature—”

  “Fachtna! Watch your tongue. These are our hosts, and we must be respectful of them.”

  Fachtna scowled, still keeping a grip on Etromma’s arm. She whimpered. “The girl did not respect me or our Lord God!”

  “Let her go, Fachtna. Your duty is not to discipline non-believers. In fact, if I recall, your specific mission is to help those in need. Am I misremembering?”

  With a growl, Fachtna released Etromma, who ran to her mother. Clíodhna enclosed her in a hug with her free arm. She glared at the older monk. “I demand an apology. This man has assaulted my daughter with no provocation.”

  The monk spluttered. “No provocation!”

  “Fachtna! You must offer an apology to the woman and her daughter.”

  By now, several other monks gathered, drawn by the shouting. Most of them stood behind Odhrán, but one or two stood behind the transgressing man. Clíodhna spied Ita far in the back, a frown on her face.

  “I must apologize to her?”

  Odhrán crossed his arms and planted his feet wide. “To both, yes.” Several monks behind him murmured agreement, though they’d have no idea what started this fracas. Clíodhna noted the power Odhrán commanded, and the trust his fellow monks put in him. A man to be watched. At the moment, she enjoyed his good graces and support. She might be wise to cultivate that for future use.

  Fachtna mumbled something under his breath.

  Odhrán tapped his foot. “Louder. We cannot understand your words.”

  “I said, I apologize. I should not have touched the… young woman.”

  Odhrán stared at the older monk for a few more moments before nodding. He turned to Clíodhna, who finally managed to quiet Aileran again. “Will that suffice, Clíodhna? Or do you require further assurances of his good behavior?”

  Clíodhna lifted her chin. “That will do. Thank you.”

  With all the dignity she could muster, Clíodhna took Etromma’s hand and walked away, well aware that the entire community of monks, as well as a few villagers, stared at her back. For a wonder, she didn’t stumble.

  * * *

  Once out of view of the village and prying eyes, Clíodhna allowed the tears to flow. They dripped down her cheeks unchecked, since Etromma still held her hand and Aileran fell asleep again on her shoulder. She sniffed twice before asking, “Etromma, where did Donn disappear to? Do we need to go get him?”

  “No, he tried to find Mugain, but she’s visiting her aunt, so he left for home. I stayed behind to ask more questions. That’s when that man got angry. He started yelling at me, using strange words. He said I would go someplace called ‘Hell.’ Do you know where that is?”

  While swallowing back an angry sob, Clíodhna clenched her fists. “No, darling. Maybe it’s where he came from. The monk I talked to said he came from Rome. I’ve heard of Rome, but not of Hell.”

  They fell into silence as they followed the forest path. It wound through bare trees and muddy ground, last autumn’s fallen leaves forming a slippery carpet. When their roundhouse and farm came into view, Etromma released her mother’s hand and ran inside. Donn came out in an instant.

  “Ma? What happened? She was fine when I left!”

  “It’s taken care of, Donn. Pay no mind.” Clíodhna entered the house, put Aileran down in his straw bed, and moved her shoulder back and forth. She resented carrying the child for so long. Her muscles ached for hours afterward. “Did you enjoy the visit before that?”

  He glanced at his sister’s alcove. She’d drawn the curtain, but no sobs or other sounds of distress escaped. “I didn’t want to ask questions, though. I might go again and see if I learn more.”

  “If you would like that, we can arrange some classes. I understand there will be teaching, like a Bard or Druí . Would you want to take classes?” What would the monks want in exchange for such lessons? They didn’t have much to trade. Perhaps she could offer some service to the monks. Clíodhna possessed gardening skill. They might not be as familiar with local plants and their needs. She’d not been able to tell the health of the plants in mid-winter, but come spring, it might be a useful trade. If only she could do so without having to interact with that odious Fachtna.

  Donn made a noncommittal grunt. A sound outside made them both glance at the door, still standing open. “I’ll see what that was.”

  He grabbed his staff and went outside. Clíodhna sat next to Aileran’s bed. What if that awful monk followed them? He’d been a tall, solid man, despite his age. He could hurt any of them.

  This helpless feeling infuriated Clíodhna. Why should she feel vulnerable in her own house? Why did men have all the physical power? They often wielded
emotional power, as well as power over others’ lives. A true chieftain led by example, but others led through fear or sheer might of arms. Did these monks rule in the same way? Was their venture into their lands merely a way to soften the village for a power grab?

  Donn reappeared and laid his staff against the wall. “Just a squirrel. I’ll go check on the cows and other animals. When I come back, do you want me to watch Aileran, so you can take a walk?”

  Clíodhna narrowed her eyes. “Do I look like I need a walk?”

  He grinned. “You look like you need to run away, screaming and tearing out your hair. A walk would be much easier to recover from. I don’t know what happened in the village after I left, but it’s obvious something shook both of you. I’ll get the details from Etromma when she’s ready.”

  Wondering what she did to raise such a thoughtful son, Clíodhna glanced at the baby. He should sleep for a while, gods willing. She’d fed him recently enough, and her breasts didn’t ache yet. She could find the time for a short walk once Donn returned.

  As Clíodhna walked outside, she breathed deep of the thin, chilly air. The day remained clear but crisp. She ought to keep her walk short, but she needed some time to sift through her experience today.

  Clíodhna climbed down the flagstone path to the riverside and walked downstream. The village lay upstream, and she wanted to be away from people, not amidst them. She’d never been comfortable with crowds of people. In her youth, she’d lived in a larger village near the mouth of an tSionainn, a huge river which emptied into the sea at a great estuary. The river she lived near now emptied into this larger one. While she adored swimming in the ocean or imagining herself flying along the coast with a bird’s wings, she hated the press of the surrounding people. She’d left the trading hub when she married, and never looked back.

  The bracken along the river’s edge hid nothing. Squirrels and tiny birds huddled in cages of bare branches, until her footsteps startled them. They scampered and flitted for safety as she drew near.