Chapter 2
Chapter two
The Pale Mark
In the far green east of that country lived the druids.
They were Cullain in name alone, though they had roamed the wildlands long before kings wore crowns.
Before men gave the gods names. They were rarely seen, and never many at a time, save by those in the Everstretches who, on occasion, would see one in a year and then no others for many more.
It was understood amongst settled folk that the druids were nomads and never remained anywhere, nor was anywhere from where they had come.
There were tales told by elders—who liked to make things up entirely—that they were born in the trees and would return there when they grew old.
“To the land they came from,” they’d say, “and they give it back what they took.”
Druids were strange, even to those who enjoyed them.
Though nowadays, those were few. Still, stories endured of the good work they did; the power they possessed.
But those stories remained in the east, as the west grew cold towards old magick and those who carried it.
Civilized men had no need for woodwalkers in their cities of stone or halls of fire; indeed, they were a great oddity best forgotten.
And that was how he preferred it.
He being an odd thing. Quieter than his kin and perhaps too small for his work.
He was not particularly durable, at least, not by first glance.
The staff he bore, carved from a sickly alder branch, was taller than he, and his robes considered plain, even by beggars.
But perhaps most striking of all was the pale of his hue.
Where most Cullain were fair and dark of hair and eye, he was born the color of winter.
With locks like wheat and eyes of silver, he’d be radiant, if not so meager.
The druid lived a simple life.
He was not preoccupied with how westerners saw him—druids never were.
Since he’d begun his wandering, he’d rarely passed through the same place twice, and never committed any name or face to memory.
His hours were spent on roads of moss with the underbrush damp beneath his feet.
He owned only what he carried—poultices and potions and incense of dried sage.
At night, he slept beneath the wychwood trees, and on clear evenings, he would lie in the meadows and listen long into the twilight.
He cared for little but the verdant reach unspun before him, the untamed depths of the forests and the peace of a lonesome existence.
Until that spring.
It had just become Bréchanach—the Unthawing—and the forests were sparse.
The brittle branches would not yet bud for two moons through and the frost made it difficult to forage.
The druid fasted most days and had grown thin, till the bones of his chest pressed taut against his skin.
He wandered, aimless, and came upon a northern hold.
He thought to seek shelter and a warm meal, but a foul stench stifled his hunger.
His steps slowed as he approached, and his fingers tightened upon his staff. The village’s dark gates greeted him with the still-burning pyre of a faceless man—his ashen body strung up against an iron cross.
All his life he had heard stories of the callous ways of the An’Atherin; the Sun Faith. The An’Atherin’s followers—which included most swaths of Cullain people—worshipped the flame. An entity which they named AEon’Righ. Those who did not submit were subject to persecution.
From childhood, he was warned away from the west. For a druid who strayed too near the sea would be met with fire. In the highlands and in the east, such notions were not so deeply rooted, but with the passage of each year, the flames spread.
The druid’s gaze swept along the palisade and returned, reluctantly, to the smoking corpse. He spoke a bitter prayer for his fallen kinsman, and went no further.
He decided he would travel back down the valley.
Nearby the forest of Ffenadwyn was a village he’d visited many years ago.
He remembered it little and was certain they remembered him less.
For days he journeyed, keeping to the edge of the wood till he reached the rugged expanse of the open moors.
That wild place saw little dwellings but some scattered cottages and the odd hunting camp.
The road was made of memory alone, as the grasses grew high over recent footfalls.
The druid did as he had all his wandering and even before—in the emerald groves of his youth.
He followed the stars and the sun and the day moon, until he could see the village down the valley.
The túrgaine abodes were built amongst the hills, laden in moss.
Turf grew up over their pointed roofs and wreathed the stocky chimneys.
The land was good for gentle tilling, and a flock of mire sheep idled about in open fields.
He arrived at midday, when the farmers had come in for dinner.
The children were playing in the yards and grew watchful as he passed.
He was unhurried, even as the village slowed in awe.
There were no iron crosses. Rather, carved effigies hung upon the fences, and there were altars gathered with bird bones.
A woman awaited him along the path, and he halted before her. Her face was thin, weathered. A stole of thick fur warmed her shoulders. With a calloused hand, she held forth a wedge of bread.
“Alms, woodsingr.” Her voice was rough, yet reverent. “Ye must be hungry.” He took the bread with a grateful nod, and she wiped her hands upon her apron. “There’s more where that came from. We’ve sausage in the larder and if ye’ll stay awhile, there’s a place in the barn for ye.”
The villagers came to their fences, hopeful as they awaited his answer. Quietly, he gave it. “If it is no bother I should stay.”
A farmer came forwards, gesturing towards his house. “I’ve a cow caught ill. A fever’s taken her, if ye’ll see to it, druid.”
He nodded.
Then came others.
A blessing for the field.
Good will for the crop.
My girl’s come down with a bout of cough.
It would be a long day, but he would earn his dues, and so, he went to work.
The druid collected a small gathering of spectators throughout the day. They said little, save the children, who picked and pulled at his robes. Their mothers scolded them away. They rarely listened.
He went to the fields. He gave blessing to the crop. He left a tincture for the wee girl with the cough. They took him to the cow who’d taken ill with a heat, and the druid bent to feel her hide. Her breathing came slow and heavy, and her eyes clouded.
“Ye’ll save her, won’t ye?” asked the farmer.
“She has had many winters,” said the druid.
“Please, won’t ye? She’s all we’ve got to last the chill, ’n coins nae easy to make with taxes risin’.”
Sighing, the druid stepped forwards and pressed the head of his staff to her belly. There came no sound, no light, nor wonder. It was quiet, and the druid came away. He said, “Wait till first sprout, then go to market and fetch a calf. After, let her rest. She is tired.”
The farmer agreed.
Dark came early in the cold months, and before long, lanterns were lit along the path.
The druid returned to the woman, who offered him supper and brought him to her family’s cottage.
It wasn’t much but a room with a wooden bed and quaint little cots for the bairns.
Herbs and spoons were strung from the beams, clicking as the residents ducked their heads between.
“Put up the maister’s things!” the woman instructed her son, who came and gathered the druid’s staff and cowl. “Be careful, now! A thing like that is precious to a woodsingr!”
The boy looked wondrously at the staff. It was hardly special, the druid thought. It had been rotting before he’d cut it down to carve some twelve years before, and had been dying all the while. Yet it was, perhaps, too familiar for him to part with.
The hearth roared, and the smoke thickened. The mistress turned soup in an iron kettle, and her husband came in and dusted his braks.
“The night grows long,” he said.
“Aye!” said the woman. “But soon will come Belthín, then it shall be warm again.”
“Tell us a story, íridh!” cried the bairns, and their mother said, “Aye, no one can tell stories better than druids.”
The druid wouldn’t agree that he was a very good storyteller, but could hardly deny his hosts. “Very well. Then I will tell of the coming of summer—which your mother speaks of now—and of the joining of the Thae.”
“The Thae?” asked the bairns with interest.
“These are the three great stars who rule the night. Their silver light has burned since the Awakening. It was the first men who gave them their names. And every year on Belthín, the three come together from the north, the south and east and weave together in a dance so bright it warms the sky.”
“And every once in a thousand years, the Thae will join with the moon, and all the faeries will come out!” The woman smiled, but the druid frowned. “All beware and care the ísthmhach! Faeries tarry there!”
It was an old song and not a good one.
“Faeries are nonsense and mischief,” said the druid. “One should not lead young ones astray.”
“Come now, there’s nae harm in a faerie story. It is good for the bairns to hear a bit of nonsense!” The woman ladled the soup into bowls and ordered, “Go ’n take it to his good spirit. And dinnae spill!”
Her boy scurried over, cradling the bowl between his palms. He piped, “For ye, íridh!”
“Your kindness is graciously received.”
“Oh!” cried the woman. “I cannae let ye go unfed. The wilds’ll have me. Aye, and Murtagh will have our yield! My máta always said—ye let the woodfolk pass, and all the land’s good’ll pass with ’em.”
It was not his place to sway her from her conviction. Men oft believed what they wished—for comfort, for solace… for blame. But the wind blew cold in Mírach, and the skies burned gold in Baine. The rain came and went, heedless of their call. The land neither gifted… nor punished.