Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
The Pipewhistle
“Isee things in the night.”
The druid’s caretakers would look at him oddly. “All children are imaginative,” they’d say. “You are no different.”
But he was.
The druid did not know when it began. If it had “begun” at all, or if his recollection was younger than the illusions.
From the time they were old enough to crawl and babble, all children of the Fáoth were put to a test. They were offered a set of five toys and left to play while their caretakers watched.
Of the five, there was a woven doll, a wood figurine of a tawny fawn, a miniature cairn piled with river pebbles, and a gourd rattle filled with seeds.
Children who picked the first were said to be givers—born with a generous soul.
The tawny fawn signified natural hunters, stewards and providers for all.
The cairn symbolized wisdom; the rattle, curiosity, and their choosers would become leaders and sages.
But the last of the five was different, and rarely would the children prefer it. Even more rare that one might use it.
It was a small reed pipewhistle, not intuitive to those so young. On the few occasions it would catch their fancy, a simple suckling might suggest their choice. But he was told, much later in life, that he had made his first sounds upon the flute, long before he could talk.
The whistle represented spirituality; a Listener attuned to the song. And he, however accidentally—however brief—had made his own.
It was the beginning of many strange years.
The druid, who had begun his life with sound, grew quiet, and his ears and eyes grew full.
Many times he would awaken, having seen odd things while he slept.
For most his life, he believed it normal, though wondered why no one spoke of the visions that came in the night.
And so, he asked, “Do they not keep you up in the dark?” He was still a child, and his keepers would have answers, or so he had thought.
“They?” questioned his caretakers, puzzled by his inquiry. “If someone is frightening you, Winterling, you should come and tell us at once.”
But he had told them. And they didn’t understand. They couldn’t, because there was no such thing. In sleep, there was only darkness and the quiet of slumber’s calm. He was unusual in his gift of dream, and unhappily so.
They told him the reed whistle called to the spirits. And indeed, it invited his haunting.
***
The morning mist tasted of sea salt.
A month since the druid had departed for Rhyd-hal, he again found himself upon unfamiliar roads. A convoy was arranged to lead him north and once more, he passed beneath the iron gates and beyond the high walls of stone. Their horses followed a well-trodden path along the coastal cliffs.
Over the sea, the Quell loomed against the horizon, stirring memories of pale ships.
His dream had not left his mind. Rather, it brought the waking world into sharper focus.
The wind howled in his ears. The cold gnawed at his skin.
It was as if he was at the bottom of the hill again, dreading what waited on the other side.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beside him on the carrach, the moon priestess eyed the tide. They were to go together to the Augeri, a place the druid knew little of. Hirí’s company was hardly comforting, but all he was permitted.
“Beautiful?” he asked.
“The Quell. Such a gorgeous thing. As violent things often are.” She smiled. “It’s the power of it, you ken. The force of nature. Surely a druid can admire that.”
The Quell was peculiar, but unchanging. It was not like the sun or the moon or even the sea. It was not like the spirits his people embraced. It was something different, entirely.
“What do you know of it?” he inquired, wondering if the priestess would oblige him again.
“It is uncertain how it came to be,” said Hirí. “Your ilk should know better than any.”
He shook his head. “Through the Naém, my people have seen far into the past, but the march of time erodes our sight. It is likely the Quell came about long before the first communions were made.”
Hirí laughed. “So you do admit your flaws. How novel.” He dismissed her prodding with a purposeful silence, and in it she continued.
“The fifth Vaich—Tor Cillchéinn—sent a fleet of currachs out beneath the storm. It is said they survived the first onslaught of the swell, but passed into the fog and were never seen again. Wreckage of their ships washed ashore, but no trace ever came of their sailors.”
A grim tale such as that would have been at home in the Fáoth. But its gruesome nature was disheartening.
“Many men have attempted to break through. None have succeeded,” Hirí said. “What lies beyond the storm, it is sure we shall never ken. But some like to think it comforting.”
“Comforting?”
“Well, if we cannae go out…” She smirked. “Then certainly nothing can come in.”
He considered that. “Maybe it’s true…”
“Dinnae fash! You will see it again, soon.”
His already foul mood soured. “I would appreciate it if you did not tease.”
The druid was well aware of his circumstance—being led at the bit from one prison to another. Even with the castle fading at his back, its cold hooks remained dug in.
“Tease?” said Hirí. “Not at all! Only lightening the mood. Most fear the Augeri, but you needn’t worry.”
“Why should they fear it?” He had not yet been told what his trial would require, and considered it might be simpler not to know. But he could not let it rest. “What do you plan to do with me?”
Hirí’s vixen grin was a harbinger of disagreeable events, and with it came no answer.
By nightfall, they made camp. As before, they were fed ahead of the entourage, but this time, the first plate was his.
Hirí’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You see how it grows? How it changes? You are Consort, now.”
“We are not yet wed,” he reminded her, sternly.
“And yet they treat you as if it has already come to pass.” She nodded to the offerings on his plate. “Think of what they shall give you when you are Queen.”
“They give me little but silence.”
“Respect need not be loud. Many queens of the past were deeply beloved.”
“Yet, their claim lived and died with their Vaich.”
Hirí tilted her head. “But your Vaich shall never die.”
He scoffed.
They ate and settled in their tent, where it was warm against the chill.
They had a single candle lit between them, and the heat of their bearskins.
The priestess looked gentle in her nightgown; an odd departure from her usual wear, and maybe for that reason he noticed it—a crimson marking upon her wrist. Dark flame woven in an infinite braid.
His brows furrowed. “This symbol…”
She smiled, pulling her sleeve down over it. “A gift from many ages ago. A time long before I came to the Augeri.”
“When did you come to it?” he asked.
“I was a wee thing—only thirteen. Dinnae you ken, I was the youngest to be named Nytherí!”
She seemed proud of that fact. He didn’t doubt she was.
“It was lucky I made my way to the house of Moon. Many girls like me are not so lucky. Men still fear what they cannot explain.”
“But the Nytherí are revered,” said the druid.
“The ones that live. When faced with magick, men will bury first and prosecute the grave. The Augeri is our sanctuary, at least, for those who are true. But that is not always so easily discerned.”
She reached out, gingerly taking a tendril of his pale hair between her fingers.
“How strange and beautiful you are. The Moon’s mark reveals itself in time. Mine did not ripen till I reached the Augeri. But you… you were born of her hue.”
His skin itched and he writhed out of her grasp, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.
“Will you tell me about it? The Augeri?”
Hirí grew pensive. “It is not a place of celebration. That is to say, it’s quite somber. The Nytherí are sworn to silence, but the quiet is not unwelcome. Most who come there do so to dream. That is the great magick of the Moon. We listen and we dream and we commune with our goddess.”
The thought settled oddly. He could only vaguely grasp at this ability they shared. It was unimaginable to him to think these women enjoyed dreaming, and wondered if he was like them at all.
He, too, had thought, once, the Nytherí’s visions were similar to the Naém—the sacred power entrusted to his people. But the Naém was a state of being; a memory, not an illusion. Visions and apparitions… these were things of enigma.
“What does it mean?” he asked softly. “What does it mean to dream?”
Hirí’s silver eyes were like starry mirrors. “It is a great harrowing. Imagine yourself stood beneath the dusk, cold and warm all at once, and around you, only the echo of open sky. And there you are, bare before it.”
He closed his eyes and felt the fear and the wind and the wonder.
“A dream is a whisper, breathed against the skin. It calls to you, but does not speak. It makes love to you, without even a touch. You see far into every distant horizon, without ever having opened your eyes.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
And like nothing familiar to him.
“Beautiful… and terrifying,” said Hirí. “But such are the gifts of gods.”
“A gift of the gods?”
A part of him wanted to tell the priestess all that he had seen. Perhaps if anyone could guide him, it would be her. Did he want guidance? He wanted something. An answer. An understanding. To know why, out of every walking thing, he was the one to be summoned.
And still he kept his quiet—his mistrust yet too near.
He knew not his path, but that the way was treacherous. To be different was always a danger. But now, in the clutches of weavers, he had to be especially careful not to tangle himself within their thread.
As morning broke, the druid stirred, wiping at his eyes. The moon priestess slumbered beside him, her gentle breathing undisturbed. He poked his head out of the tent. The convoy was fast asleep, much as it had been that night at the lake—their trust, or rather, their confidence, on full display.
It crossed his mind, for the briefest moment, that he might run. The woods around him were unfamiliar, even so, he might have gone out through the trees and never returned. But his invisible tether pulled taut. Even when their eyes were closed, he was forever watched.
Hearing the tinkle of a running spring, he wandered from camp, his feet leading him to a small pond, where he knelt to wash his face.
The water was sobering, but there was an uncanny stillness.
The birches were crisp and white, their silver skins curling.
Their leaves had gone russet on the ground.
He cupped his hand and had a drink, and then another, but before he could reach for his waterskin, a flicker of movement caught his attention.
So well-hidden amongst the fog and snow that one might have missed it without a proper look, stood a stout white wolf.
If it had wished, the wolf might have crossed the pond to where he knelt.
Though remained, silent and still; glossy black eyes fixed on him.
They watched each other for nearly a full minute, and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the wolf vanished into the mist. The pond held its reflection a moment longer, until even that silver shimmer rippled and faded.
Little unsettled the druid, or any druid, but perhaps most particularly that one.
His kin had lived amongst the Faun for as long as men had wandered the earth, but never had one unnerved him.
It was not in a wolf’s nature to be generous, even less so to be on its own.
And yet, there was something kindred in its spirit, which made the druid pensive.
Once, like the wolf, he had been free to come and go.
In less than a season, he had shifted from a peaceful life on the open road to a fugitive on a vegetable cart.
He wanted nothing more than to live in the world as intended.
Amongst it. Within it. Not gazing out at it through cracks in impenetrable walls.
Now, even as he stood there, he felt himself severed.
The empty place the creature had once stood was a black stain across his mind.
“You wish to follow.”
He bristled at the sound of Hirí’s voice.
“What would it matter if I did?” he asked. “Your dreams will lead a thousand horses to my door.”
“Do not be forlorn.”
The druid glanced at her. She had changed from her snow-soft nightdress into the black gown and dark silk veil. Yet her eyes were white as pearl as they peered out at him in interest. It was as if they asked him, what will you do?
Or perhaps more accurately: How shall you writhe?
But the druid refused to be her dancer—the worm threaded upon her silver hook.
“Do you not wonder why it should be you?” she said. “Though, this humble one poses another question—why should it not?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being what you are, after all,” she said. “Your people have long been pushed to the far margins of the world.”
It was a fact he knew well, but this prodding felt more tender than violent. He had never seen the priestess look so serious.
She continued, “When the druids shepherded the world, there were no wars, no violence. Only simpleness and the truth—men are nothing more than animals.”
Yes, once mankind had believed as one; that the only force worth honoring was the earth that gave them life. But as the years marched forwards, there grew a new breed of reverence.
Desperation.
A man’s need to survive, not within nature, but outside it. Many forgot their earthen ways and became, instead, things that begged. And that was the sore through which rot was spread.
He again envisioned his burning kinsman upon that iron cross.
“You, more than anyone, have reason to pursue power. Suppose if you had it, you might restore this world to balance.”
He might have laughed.
He had no faith in gods, and he had no faith in men.
But one matter remained.
Why him?
Hirí’s pearly gaze drifted aside, her words an answer to his thoughts. “The Augeri is many things, but above all it is a mirror. Suppose when we reach it, you may find answers to your questions, as I did once, long ago.”
Of all the promises Hirí had spoken, this one was most alluring of all.
“But you must open yourself to the possibility. If one enters as stone, they will leave as stone. If one enters as coal they could emerge a diamond.”
“So, I should give myself over to this curiosity?” he said, a shiver tiptoeing beneath his skin.
Finally, her smile returned. “What have you better to do?”
The question had long lingered in his mind as to why the dreams came to him in the night.
“Could I truly find some meaning…? This place… would it answer me?”
“But of course,” said Hirí. “If you listen.”
The word made him shudder.
Listen.
He had always been different and never found reason, but the fact remained—it was his truth. Since long ago, on that day in the grove, when he had chosen a reed pipewhistle.