Chapter 20 #2
He met her gaze. “Yes, that’s it exactly.” His expression lightened as he gestured toward the crystal stream and the waiting arch beyond. “Shall we enter the Summerlands?”
Scáthach lifted a brow. “You will not find the sea monster Curruid there.” At his frown she continued, pointing to their right and a grassy path that ran along the bank on their side of the stream, disappearing into a wall of fog.
“Curruid will only be found in the Winterlands.” She nodded at the packs he’d already loaded into the cart.
“And we should get out our heavy cloaks now.”
Cuchulainn’s brow furrowed. “But it’s warm.”
“Only because of our proximity to the Summerlands. The rest of the Underworld realms are . . .” She cocked her head to the side, choosing her words carefully. “Let’s just say they’re colder.”
Wrapped in their fur-lined travel cloaks, they climbed into the cart of the chariot. Cuchulainn took the reins and asked, “What’s the stallion’s name?”
Scáthach’s brows shot up. “I’m a little ashamed to admit I don’t know.” The big horse’s neck curled as he looked back at her.
“I think you should name him,” said Cuchulainn.
Scáthach met the dark-eyed gaze of the horse. There she saw intelligence and expectation. She smiled. “Then I shall name him Chance—as this is his chance to alter his future.”
The horse pricked his ears toward her and snorted.
“Good choice,” said Cuchulainn. “So, we head along that path? The one that leads to the fog and not to the beauty and sunlight of the Summerlands?”
“Indeed, but don’t think that the other Underworld realms are devoid of beauty.”
“Hup, Chance!” Cuchulainn clucked to the stallion, who trotted steadily as Cuchulainn guided him to the path. “It’s not all fog and gloom and death in the Underworld?”
“Well, it’s definitely all death in the Underworld, but it is thus in the Summerlands as well.
As for fog and gloom, that depends on which part of the Underworld we travel through.
” As Scáthach explained, they reached the wall of fog.
Chance didn’t hesitate but trotted unflinchingly into it.
As they entered the fog, Scáthach heard Cuchulainn draw a deep, quick breath, which he released as they emerged on the other side into a world where autumn reigned.
The path they trotted over changed immediately from grass to bare, hard-packed dirt.
The sky still glistened like the inside of an oyster shell but it was muted.
The clouds were darker, lower, like it might rain or snow.
The temperature also changed immediately from summer to a crisp autumn day.
Trees were no longer green-leafed. Those that still had leaves wore the muted colors of fall—rust, ochre, and terracotta.
The land rolled over and wound between hills covered in the deep sage green of autumn heather.
“It doesn’t seem so bad here,” said Cuchulainn. “A little cool, but that’s not terrible.”
“It isn’t bad in the Autumnal Realm,” Scáthach explained as Chance trotted along the road, his hooves making muffled sounds against the hard dirt. “But it is perpetually autumn.”
He glanced at her, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Autumn is a lovely season. Are you sure we’re still in the Underworld part of Annwn?”
Scáthach smiled. “Oh, I’m quite sure. Consider this.
Autumn is a lovely time, but it is also meant to be a time of transition.
We move past harvest to winter when the land rests, preparing to welcome spring again.
Think about how you’d feel if autumn never ended.
The only green surrounding you is from evergreens or the muted colors of fall heather.
Here nothing blooms. There is never anything newborn or young.
There is no warmth. There are very few birds, as eggs will not hatch here.
Very few animals, as their young will not be born here.
Everything remains as you see it now—no change, day after day, century after century. ”
“That would be maddening,” he said.
“It’s meant to be the perfect place for true introspection. Remember I said only the truth can be spoken without repercussion here?”
Cuchulainn nodded.
“It is also difficult to lie to oneself here,” she said.
“Self-delusion is definitely a hallmark of the type of spirit who comes to this part of the Underworld, which means it often takes quite a while to break through lifelong delusions, but if it can be done—if a spirit can reflect upon her or his mistakes, unlearn lessons and cruelties—it will be done here.”
“And what if that introspection leads to understanding about themselves and remorse for their mistakes?”
“When a spirit breaks through self-delusion, sees and accepts the truth, and is truly remorseful, my mother welcomes them to the Summerlands.”
“When? Do you mean they will all move on to the Summerlands from here?” he asked.
“From the Autumnal Realm, yes. All eventually will be welcomed into the Summerlands.” She paused before she continued.
“But from deeper within the Underworld—from the Winterlands?” Scáthach’s lips pressed into a tight line.
She shook her head. “No. They do not move on. As it gets colder, darker, more winter-like, the spirits change as well.”
“I think I understand, but could you give me an example?”
“I’ll use Chance as our example,” Scáthach said. “Let’s say he died that day. He didn’t stop in time and ran himself, the chariot, and my daughter into the rock wall and they both died. We know Chance didn’t set out to hurt Uathach, correct?”
Cuchulainn nodded. “Correct. It was an accident. He was young and easily spooked. Probably didn’t have the right temperament to pull a chariot at all.”
“True,” said Scáthach. Chance’s ears flicked back and he snorted, which had them smiling. “So had he died that day, he would have found himself here, in the Autumnal Realm, where he would have done exactly what I tasked him with when I sacrificed him and sent him to the entrance of Annwn.”
“He would have remained here until he learned to be calm and wise,” said Cuchulainn.
“Yes. Then Mother would gladly welcome him into the Summerlands. But had Chance been mean-tempered, had he maliciously bolted with Uathach, purposefully causing her death and inadvertently causing his own, we would find his spirit wandering the Winterlands of this realm, probably lashing out at all who approached him. He would not learn. He would not become calm and wise.”
“And he would forever remain in the Winterlands,” Cuchulainn finished for her.
“Which is where those spirits who will not admit or atone for their evil acts belong,” said Scáthach.
Cuchulainn glanced at her. “Spirits must atone?”
“Of course. Admitting a wrong doesn’t keep it from happening again. When a spirit is ready to change, grow, become wise and kind, Béfionn welcomes them to the Summerlands and assigns them tasks that aid in their development,” said Scáthach.
“So to continue with the example of Chance, when he is in the Summerlands, he will be required to . . . what?”
“I am not my mother, but I do know her well enough to take a guess. In Chance’s case he will probably be asked to aid the very young or very old. I can imagine him belonging to a wise old grandmother who enjoys a calm canter around a loch every morning.”
Chance snorted again and tossed his head, clearly not upset at all about being required to carry around a grandmother.
Scáthach grinned at the horse. “You see, Sentanta, when Chance is allowed to pass to the Summerlands, he will have already matured enough that what Béfionn asks of him won’t be an annoyance or a hardship. He will want to be of service.”
“And it’s the same for the spirits of people?”
“There is little difference between animal spirits and human spirits, but the truth is there are few animals in the Winterlands as evil tends to be exclusive to humanity.”
Cuchulainn nodded slowly. “The Underworld and its goddess are just.”
“They are,” Scáthach agreed. “Those who never move on from the Winterlands have done things so heinous they should never be reborn.”
“And in which part of the Underworld will we find the sea monster Curruid?”
“Curruid was a vile monster who broke apart ships deep out at sea, ate their crews, and hoarded their treasures.”
“So, in the Winterlands?” Cuchulainn asked.
“Exactly.”
They drove on in silence, moving at a steady, ground-eating trot until Cuchulainn pointed to a human shape standing on a hill they were passing. “Is that a spirit?”
Scáthach chuckled softly. “The only living people here are you and I.”
They glimpsed more and more spirits as they went deeper into the Autumnal Realm. Usually the spirits were solitary, often sitting under a tree or beside a stream. They looked up at the chariot but didn’t show much interest in them.
“I understand why they’re alone.” Cuchulainn’s voice was pitched low. “It’s difficult to be introspective in a group.”
“That’s true. I can usually tell how newly dead a spirit is by whether they’re alone or clinging to a group.
The newly dead are too often fearful of the Underworld and try to attach themselves to others for safety, not understanding that it is themselves they must battle to move on.
” Scáthach shook her head. More to herself than Cuchulainn she added, “I will speak to Mother about it when she returns from Valhalla. More of our dead should be given guidance—not just those who are automatically welcomed into the Summerlands.”
“You would be good at that,” Cuchulainn said. When she turned to look at him, Cuchulainn smiled and shrugged. “You’re an excellent teacher.”
Scáthach was considering his words when Cuchulainn pointed ahead of them.
Two figures walked along the road together.
Their arms were linked, and though their hair was thick and free of gray and their shoulders wide and strong, the two moved slowly, like stiff old men.
“They must be newly dead to cling together like that,” Cuchulainn remarked.