Chapter 11
I dreamed in red, in shades of crimson and vermilion.
I saw Boudica and Cati as they had been in the forest clearing, their flaming hair trailing through the grass like a river of blood.
I saw the battlefield where thirty thousand of their countrymen lay, now nothing more than crow meat.
I saw Londinium burning, the heat of the fire so real and close that it seemed to scorch my lungs.
I saw the cloaks of the Romans, flashing like a flock of robins as they marched down their long straight roads.
I saw Belis sitting in a tower, bent over a spinning wheel.
At first she was twisting fibres from the pile of red flax Rhiannon and I had harvested, but as I watched the threads thickened until she was spinning from a mound of viscera, her fingers sticky with blood.
I woke yelping, clawing at the strong hands that were shaking me from my dreams. Rhiannon glared down at me.
“Calm, Mallt, it’s only me.”
I sat up, my cloak slipping off me. It seemed to be shortly before dawn. I didn’t feel rested but when Rhiannon held out a hand I let her help me to my feet.
“Where’s Belis?” I asked, looking around for her. Rhiannon sniffed.
“She’s already gone. I can only rush one of you at a time. You were fast asleep and snoring so I decided not to wake you.”
I groaned and stretched out my arms. My muscles had cramped overnight and were tight and knotted.
“Where are we going exactly? And do we have to travel by that horrible dizzying way of yours?” I asked Rhiannon, dropping my arms.
“Rushing? We surely do, unless you know of some other path that will bring us to our destination before sunrise.”
“I don’t understand how you can stomach it. Every time it makes me dizzy.”
Rhiannon raised an eyebrow at me. “You have changed, Mallt Y Nos. Once you would have laughed at those who were nauseated by speed. I remember how you would race the Wild Hunt across the high moors of Britain, outpacing even the fastest of their horses. Now you cannot bear a simple rush.”
I shut my mouth and took the arm she proffered me. Rhiannon hummed under her breath and the world squeezed in around us. When I felt steady enough to open my eyes, I found we were now standing at the edge of a meadow buzzing with activity.
Long trestle tables were being manoeuvred into place, forming a rough circle around a huge pile of logs.
Crates of goblets and casks of wine were being unstacked from a caravan of wagons.
In the very centre of the circle a tripod was being erected, with seven men heaving a huge cast-iron cauldron beneath it.
As I watched they attached thick chains to the sides and hauled it into the air so that it swung gently below the tripod.
The cauldron was big enough to bathe in and the metal was blackened with use.
I tore my eyes away from it, looking for Belis.
There were so many people in the field that it took me a moment to pick her out.
I finally saw her helping a group of women as they carried bales of cloths down to the tables, stray red curls peeking out from beneath the mountain of embroidered linen she was carrying.
I watched, smiling, as she stood patiently while the smaller women distributed first their own armfuls and then hers, her face appearing as one tablecloth after another was removed from her pile and spread out over the benches.
She looked as tired as I felt, purple bruises of fatigue under her eyes, and I noticed now how thin she had become over the last few months, beaten down to lean muscle.
I lifted a hand to wave at her and she saw me and went to return the gesture, almost dropping the last of the cloths.
She caught them and placed the pile on the nearest table before striding towards me.
“Mallt!” she called, and I felt some of the tension in my muscles relax at the sound of her voice.
“Belis, they’re keeping you busy, then? Has Arawn told you what’s hap-mmpfh!”
My words were cut off as Belis reached me and enfolded me in a hug. Her arms hadn’t grown any less strong and they held me tight as she tucked my head under her chin. I started to complain but gave up and breathed in her scent of fresh grass and honey.
She let me go, looking a little embarrassed at her reaction. I straightened my tunic. “What is it?” I asked, grinning. She flushed but smiled back.
“It’s Calan Gaeaf! My favourite festival. I never thought to celebrate it this way, but I find it makes me happy, even in Annwn.”
I beamed at her and was about to say something stupid when Rhiannon tapped me on the shoulder.
“If you’re quite finished, I believe there is some work for you.”
We followed her through the trestle tables, dodging between laughing children who chased each other between the feet of their elders.
Rhiannon stopped in front of the hearth, where the enormous cauldron had stopped swinging, hanging still as stone beneath the tripod.
There was a wave of laughter from behind the cauldron and Arawn, Lord of the Dead, emerged, a puppy in one arm, a toddler in the other.
“Something for the pot!” he bellowed and both dog and child wriggled in his grip. I saw Belis’s mouth drop open in horror even as Arawn’s twisted in a grin.
“A jest, a jest,” he said, plopping the puppy on the ground and swinging the little boy up on his shoulders. The toddler wound his fat hands in Arawn’s hair and screeched in delight.
Arawn patted his shoulders to check the child was secure then looked back at us.
The mirth left his face and he placed a hand on the side of the cauldron.
The iron sang quietly under his touch, a low baritone that echoed in the body and billowed out through the crowd like a shockwave.
The chattering of the folk around us died and the puppy at Arawn’s feet whined and fled to hide under a table.
“What is that?” Belis asked. Arawn stroked the blackened iron.
“This is the Giant’s Cauldron. It is Calan Gaeaf tonight, the beginning of winter in the living world.
The best thing to do today is to celebrate as we always have.
Traditionally we feast here before the mortals do, as winter is the time of death.
These fine souls have prepared bread and wine to feed all in Annwn, but without meat there is no feast.”
Arawn waved behind him at a wagon piled high with pig carcasses, neatly gutted and ready for the pot.
“You’re the guests of honour. Cook the meat for us in the cauldron. It’s the only one big enough to have the meal prepared for sundown when our banqueting begins. You’ll find all the herbs and spices you need in the wagon with the pork.”
He lifted his hand from the cauldron and the singing stopped.
I squinted at the great pot, trying to remember what I knew of it.
The Giant’s Cauldron, one of the great treasures of the high fae in the old world.
Now it was here in Annwn. There was always a twist, though, a cost or a challenge to the use of these fae items. Needlessly complicated things, I thought, but the fae had always delighted in them.
“The cauldron,” I said, the words coming to me slowly as I thought back, “not many can use it. It won’t cook the food, no matter how hot you stoke the fire.”
Arawn nodded. “Few can get this cauldron to boil. Only those who are brave of spirit will succeed. If I am going to send you into the shadows alongside Rhiannon, I need to know you are strong in mind as well as body.” He scooped the child from his shoulders and set him on the ground. “Best of fortune with it.”
He took the child’s hand and led him away. I exchanged glances with Belis.
“Only those who are brave enough can cook with the cauldron?” she said. “What kind of terrible system is that? Who would make such a thing? Since when is bravery prized among cooks?”
I shrugged. “The fae made all kinds of strange things before humans came to Britain. Best not to look for mortal reasons in their ways.”
“Will it cook for us?” Belis looked worried, chewing her lower lip. “How high are its standards? How does it even know if we’re brave or not?”
“How should I know?” I asked, a little disgruntled. “It’s magic. I was magical but that doesn’t mean I understand it. Besides, you’ve fought in battles, you’re a blooded warrior, I wouldn’t worry overmuch.”
Belis rocked back on her heels, casting concerned looks at the cauldron. I knew she was thinking about her sister. I was harbouring my own doubts about the cauldron’s judgement but I thought it would be unhelpful to say so. I sighed and clapped her on the shoulder.
“Let’s bring the meat over and begin preparing it,” I said, “and I’ll light the fire. The best way to start is to start.”
She said nothing but when I headed towards the wagon I heard her sigh and follow me.
There were six large pig carcasses, each dressed and ready for the pot.
Tucked in beside them were bushels of sweet-smelling sage and rosemary, dill and thyme.
Small barrels of wine and pots of honey sat beside a bag of coarse-grained sea salt and a sack of parsnips.
I hoisted the parsnips over one shoulder and gathered the herbs in my arms. Belis heaved one of the pigs onto her back, her biceps straining at the weight.
“Is there a particular order we should add in?” she asked, gritting her teeth. I considered the question, reviewing my own meagre knowledge of cooking and the weeks of Belis’s tasteless stews.
“Just throw everything in the pot,” I said eventually. “It’s a magic cauldron. It can work it out.”
Belis grunted and set off back to the fireplace.
I left the meat to her and began ferrying the herbs and barrels of wine to the cauldron.
There I hunted down a footstool and began adding everything in, leaning on the rim as I glugged the wine into the pot.
Every few minutes Belis would bring over another side of pork and I helped as she shoved it into the cauldron.