Chapter 51
Chapter fifty-one
The Womb
It was a long and lethargic morning. The druid moved about the camp in a daze. He felt weighed down, as if all the jewels and bindings had been dredged up from Loch Luin and once more bound themselves against his skin.
No one questioned where the Vaich had gone. They were wanderers, and leaving was what they did.
He supposed… no one had expected him to stay.
But it mattered.
The seeds were still buried in the ground where he had left them. The pits he had dug for the kindling still smoked throughout the day. He had been there, even if briefly, and it mattered.
The dwell was unbearably cold. Even with the fire going, the druid’s warmth did not return. He found himself glancing towards the door. Waiting. Expectant. Baiting hope.
It was nearing evening when the hide finally lifted. He leapt to his feet. But it was not the tall, dark-haired form of the Vaich, but rather, the Fíor.
“It is time to harvest your tribute.”
The druid’s stomach soured. He swallowed down the mucus thickening in his throat.
He nodded, even as his body fought, and followed the man out into the wood.
The druid had seen many Listeners embark on their communions. And he remembered each one as a white-clad corpse drenched in blood.
He was led to a thicket of lively trees, and his heart sunk as he heard them. Scrambling in the bushes, fluttering in the treetops—unknowing participants in an ancient pact.
The Fíor grasped his staff in both hands—a thick, ashen birch branch with a great gnarled head—and his eyes turned milky white.
He had seen the power before. In the Fáoth, it was called felga—the shared sight.
If one was attuned to the creatures of the forest, they could be invited in.
Then he could see as they saw, and fly as they flew, but there was more to that connection that went unsaid.
He had thought, once, that such a power belonged to druids. But he had been shown the scathing truth that it did not, and that it could be performed just as well… on humans. He could still remember the worming sensation of the Oracle’s eyes in his mind.
He shivered.
It was not in a druid’s nature to court malice, and so, it was customary to ask.
“If there is one willing to accompany us this night, we will wait for his coming,” the Fíor said to the forest.
The birds chittered, and the foxes scurried, and the freshborn gave their lament.
But then he came, lumbering through the brush, newly awakened from his daytime nap. His many winters shown in his greying fur, his worn teeth and curved claws. He no longer chuffed or snuffled. His black nose was dry from age, and one of his deep black eyes had turned white from blindness.
The old badger stopped before them, and the druids bowed their heads.
“A long life he has lived,” said the elder. “Now may he help you do the same.” He held forth a carving knife, but the druid shook his head.
“I have my own.”
His fingers trembled as he reached for his golden dagger. His breaths sped up and then fled.
With a heavy heart, he lowered to his knees and brought his hand to the badger’s throat.
How could he do it?
All his life he had been told “only necessity.” When had his life become worth more than that? To use this offering to appease in his stead… it seemed hopeless. And cruel. For all he knew, their blood would join in the maw of the tree, and neither of them would go on from that night.
But what choice did he have?
If the Naém was unsuccessful, his death would only be the first. If he failed, then maybe nothing was safe.
Still, his body shook. His hand weakened on the hilt as all of Nacht’s teachings spilled out of him.
“It is best to be swift,” said the Fíor.
The younger wept and said, “I cannot.”
“You must.”
He was not born a hunter. He was not trained to kill. He had never been a boy in a convent, murdering at his mother’s will.
The Fíor knelt before him and gently steadied his hand.
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as the druid whispered, “A mih nohn.”
He drew the blade across its neck.
It wasn’t swift.
It was messy, thick and wet. The creature was lulled by the druid’s trance, but he could still feel the thrash of its heart as its veins ripped.
The elder held out a dry waterskin for the younger druid to fill.
He did. And then turned, emptying his stomach in the grass.
Night came too quickly.
And the Vaich did not return.
The druid’s white gown was stained red. He had become the sacrifice he had seen as a child—a corpse walking between the trees.
He came to a hollowed trunk where, the morning prior, he had hidden the Vaich’s blade.
It lay, sheathed in dark leather, on a bed of green moss.
The guard was curved like a half moon, and the grip was wrapped in more leather.
The pommel—a great decorative thing—was carved in the crude shape of a stag, golden, and engraved with the words: Cárth na dhuin aen righ.
The coming of shadow and flame.
It was the first weapon of its kind he had ever held. Druids crafted more practical things—hammers, spades and arrowheads. He’d believed the sword was too precious to western men, but the Vaich had left without it.
His fingers clutched it close to his chest. He would bring it, he decided, and if the Vaich came…
But he did not come, and the druid set forth without him.
They were three—the Fíor, a navigator, and himself. A funeral procession with the youngest as their bier. He was tired of being led, like an animal to slaughter. He wanted to bite into his bridle, to tear those loathsome straps to shreds. But he could not speak. Could not scream.
They headed northeast, where he was told they would find the Urna’ha.
“That one is known to us as the Bheira AEgan—the All-Seeing Crone. Of all her kin, she is strongest and wisest. But with power must come respect. I advise you to prepare yourself. Clear your mind, lay bare your soul. For she will find the truth within you nonetheless.”
The woods watched their passage. With each step, the whispers grew louder. Louder and more fierce.
The light of the nach’durnathan faded behind them and in the darkness, he heard the thumping heartbeat of the forest.
Thump.
Thump.
“Too quiet. Even for you.”
He glanced up, seeing the Vaich at his side. Or rather, what he recalled of him. A hazy, strangely comforting warmth. A warmth he should have detested, yet craved enough to envision him there, as if he had never left.
“It is a spiritual journey. I should keep with my thoughts before I…” The druid’s voice fell to silence.
They were empty, foolish words. He could not speak as though he had come there on his own like a true Listener. He had only chosen this path in attempt to placate whatever force was pulling his strings. It wasn’t reverence.
It was fear.
“Something the matter?" asked the Fíor.
“No, I…” The druid searched for the Vaich again, but this time, only emptiness gazed back.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
They had been traveling for some time when their navigator stopped. The forest had grown thick, and there was no light but the orange of their lanterns. There were no sounds but the trill of nightbirds in faraway nests.
“It is near now. Not much further.”
They soon came upon a copse of ancient oaks. The whispers had become a horrid screaming, and in his mind, the druid pled for silence.
Finally, he saw it.
On a mound of dark soil, it rose from the ground. A wild thing—its branches contorted. Its roots tangled in knots, bark slick with scarlet sap. And there, at the center, was a crevice—a deep notch just big enough for a man.
The druid stepped up the mound. The roots pressed against his bare feet. Not cold, but warm.
Alive.
He had seen other womb trees, some in a state of greater petrification. But despite its name, this one seemed fresh, as if still young.
The hilt of the sword had dug canyons in his palm. His knuckles were white as ash. Deep within the dark, he could make out the shape of Onath’s broken body. His eyes were barren, filthy holes; his tongue was crawling with worms.
The druid blinked.
Onath was gone.
“Come now,” said the elder, his voice low and cautious. “The moon is high and the sky is clear. A good night for communion.”
He brought the waterskin to the roots and drained the badger’s blood. The tree loosed a hungry groan as it drank, till its earthen veins were sickly red.
“Be strong,” said the Fíor. “Be sure.”
But he wasn’t sure. He had no certainty, and that is why he had come. He knew not why he’d been gifted these abilities. Why his name had been spoken half a world away. He had come to find truth and understanding, but his hands shook.
The tears that broke free did not relieve him of the pressure mounting behind his temples. He was upon that skiff again, bracing over the water, his body preparing to meet it. And he felt the same as he did that day.
He wished to remain.
Thump.
Thump.
He saw himself upon the altar.
He saw himself in chains.
Thump.
Thump.
“Leave the sword, child. You do not want to disturb the Crone.” The Fíor held out his hand, and for a moment, the druid imagined him as that balding, grey old priest.
The druid recoiled, hugging the sword to himself.
“No… No, you will not have it.”
“What is the matter?” the Fíor asked, his face twisting into a hundred different men. “Have you lost your wits?”
The druid pressed his eyes shut.
Come to me.
It was Hirí’s voice. And Halla’s. Or was it Onath’s? Or…
Or his.
“You must go now, child!”
Thump!
Thump!
He gasped.
His head snapped to the side as, between the trees, came a thunderous sound. Out of the shadow rode the Vaich, the light of his torch shattering the violent night. The mare reared her head back in fury as they halted sharply before them.
The screaming stopped.
The druid drifted alone through a silent mere, fingers outstretched towards the ghost on the shore.
“You came back,” he whispered.
Quiet.
His head was so… quiet.