Lady of the Moon Read online

  Chapter 2

  “Our spirits never die, but go to the Otherworld, from there to be reborn in another body. There is no reason to fear death. We are, all of us, imperishable, our spirits indestructible...”

  Although Sirona usually found meaning in whatever Old Ogimos had to say, today as she sat in the grove with the other students, she could hardly keep her eyes open. By the time she’d arrived back at the dun, there’d barely been time to wash and change her clothing before lessons began. Even if she’d wanted to tell Nesta about her vision, there’d been no opportunity. Her grandmother was far too busy scolding her to listen to anything she had to say.

  She forced her attention back to Old Ogimos. “The gods are all around us, everywhere,” he intoned. “In every tree and stone, in every spring, river and lake. If you seek the quiet center of yourself and listen, the gods will speak to you. But you must be very quiet; you must learn to ignore the distractions of our world...”

  It was so hard to be patient, Sirona thought. To wait until their lessons were over so she would have a chance to speak to Old Ogimos in private. She wondered what he would make of her vision, what it could possibly mean. Recalling the grisly sacrifice, she felt a stir of excitement along with her horror. It had seemed so real, as if it were happening at that moment. But now, thinking about it, she felt certain it had taken place long ago in the past, when the lake of the dead was truly a lake.

  The main thing was that the vision had come to her, rather than someone else. It meant the gods thought she was worthy of such a gift. Her, rather than Cruthin. She shot a surreptitious glance at the lean, dark-haired youth. He looked bored, as if he’d heard everything Old Ogimos was saying many times before and had moved far beyond it. That might be true, but he shouldn’t be so arrogant.

  “A balance between our realm and the Otherworld must always be maintained,” Old Ogimos continued. “Otherwise, the gods will grow angry and bring their wrath down upon us...”

  Sirona wondered if the gods were watching even now. Did they know who was paying them proper respect, and who wasn’t? She perused the other students. Dichu’s narrow face wore a dutiful, serious expression, but that didn’t mean he had any appreciation of what their teacher was saying, nor any real devotion to the gods. While Dichu might be gifted at memorizing, he never looked beneath the surface of things.

  And Bryn—he was idly tracing the pattern of the great oak’s leaves on the ground, his thoughts clearly far away. Sirona couldn’t help wondering what the brawny, auburn-haired youth might have done in another life that the gods had cursed him like this. He was clearly meant to be a warrior, yet his father insisted he train in the grove.

  She turned her attention back to Old Ogimos as he sighed and spoke in a wistful tone. “You’re all so young. Too young to realize how fortunate you are to have been chosen for this destiny. It’s a great honor to serve as a Learned One. If you are devoted and dutiful, you will eventually possess all the wisdom and knowledge of our tribe. You will learn the history of our people, the movements of the heavenly bodies in the sky, the stories and legends of our ancestors, the ancient rites by which we communicate with the gods. Knowledge is a powerful thing, more powerful than a warrior’s sword arm. It’s the only thing that lasts, that doesn’t pass away when we die, because it can be carried on with the next generation. I plead with you to take your responsibilities seriously, to learn all you can in your time in the grove.”

  Sirona’s chest squeezed with guilt. She hadn’t listened, really listened, this day. She’d been too caught up in her own thoughts.

  Old Ogimos used his walking stick to lever himself up. “I’m dismissing you from lessons, but that doesn’t mean you’re free of your responsibility to the gods. The rest of the day, I want you to think about your duty to Them and what it means for your life.”

  Sirona got up and waited for her chance. Bryn rushed out of the grove, like an arrow loosed from the bow. The red-haired twins, Math and Miach followed after him, laughing at some secret amusement they shared. Dichu moved off slowly, but Cruthin—curse him—didn’t leave, but lingered near their teacher. Sirona couldn’t understand why. Cruthin normally had little interest in Old Ogimos’s lessons.

  As her teacher used his walking stick to limp down the pathway, Sirona called, “Master Drui, wait! I would like to ask you something.”

  Old Ogimos turned his rheumy blue eyes on her and smiled kindly. Sirona hesitated. Although she wanted to talk to her teacher about her vision, she didn’t want to Cruthin to overhear. Sirona shot the youth a resentful glance, but he still didn’t move ahead of them.

  Ogimos motioned to the pathway with his staff. “Come, Sirona. You can talk to me as we walk back to the dun.”

  Sirona fell in step beside the elderly Drui, measuring her pace to his plodding gait. “As you know, I had my woman-making last night,” she said. “I found the ceremony very meaningful. I felt a real change in myself, as if I was leaving the foolishness of my childhood behind and becoming a woman.”

  Behind her, Cruthin sniggered. Sirona clenched her jaw and ignored him. “But after Fiach, Cuill and Flann left me, I had a strange experience. Everything in the marsh changed. It seemed there really was a lake, rather than pools of water here and there. In the middle of the lake was an island. I saw people assembling there, so I moved closer, to see what they were doing. In the center of the gathering were three Drui and a young woman. The woman’s hair had been shorn and she was naked. The Drui led her to the edge of the water and there...” Sirona stopped walking and took a deep breath. All the feelings she’d experienced during the vision came rushing back. She felt afraid again, and horrified.

  “And then what happened?” Cruthin asked from behind her. He sounded genuinely interested now, rather than mocking.

  “First, they cut her throat. Then they strangled her. Finally, they pushed her into the lake.”

  “The triple death,” Cruthin murmured. Sirona turned and stared at him. The idea that he had knowledge of this sacred rite irritated her.

  “Aye,” Old Ogimos said. “The triple death. It’s a very powerful ritual.”

  Encouraged by her teacher’s response, Sirona continued: “When I first realized they were going to kill her, I called out to the Drui, to try to get them to stop, but they didn’t hear me. I realized then that what I was seeing wasn’t real. That it was a vision. I decided it must be something that happened in the past, when there really was a lake in the marsh.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Old Ogimos agreed. “It’s been many generations since a human life has been offered up to the gods.”

  “Although I feel honored to have experienced such a thing,” said Sirona. “I can’t help wondering what it means. Was it some sort of sign from the gods?”

  Old Ogimos frowned in concentration, causing wrinkles to fan out around his eyes like ripples in a pond. “Visions are always difficult to interpret. It may not be a message from the gods at all.”

  Sirona tried to quell her sense of disappointment. “What, then? Why did I see what I saw?”

  “The young woman you observed being sacrificed,” her teacher asked, “Did she appear distraught, or did she go along with the ritual willingly?”

  “I’m certain she was terrified,” said Sirona. “I could sense her fear, and for awhile afterwards, I couldn’t shake my own sense of dread.” She was glad no one had been around to see how shamefully she’d behaved immediately after the vision, as she ran around in circles like a frightened child.

  “Not a good death then,” Old Ogimos said sadly. “Which means the young woman’s spirit may not be able to pass peacefully over to the Other Side. Perhaps that’s why you experienced what you did. Restless spirits sometimes reach out to the living, as if seeking our aid to help them find their way.”

  “But why me?” Sirona asked. “Why not one of the other young women? Or, Fiach, or Cuill or Flann?”

  “I doubt that Cailin or Enat would ever have such an e
xperience. Having never trained in the grove, they’re unlikely to be open to the world of spirits. As for why you, rather than one of your teachers, there are many possible reasons. The unfortunate spirit may think a young woman would be more sympathetic to her fate than a man. There’s also the fact that you seem to have a natural affinity for the Drui life. You take your lessons in the grove seriously and are thoughtful and wise beyond your years. Finally, it’s possible it might be a warning of some kind.”

  “A warning?” Sirona asked. “What kind of warning?”

  Old Ogimos started walking again. “Perhaps you’re meant to realize you must be careful how you live your life, and avoid the mistakes that led to your mother’s end.”

  “My mother?” Sirona knew very little about the woman who’d given birth to her. Whenever she pressed Nesta for information, her grandmother became almost angry. “I don’t understand. What did my mother do that led to her death? Was she...” Sirona suppressed a shudder. “... sacrificed?”

  “Of course not.” Old Ogimos halted and his voice grew gentle. “Her death was an accident. No one intended for her to die.”

  “And yet, the choices she made led to her end?”

  “That’s true of most of us. How we live our lives usually influences how we will die.”

  Old Ogimos was being vague and enigmatic again. Sirona’s stomach clenched tighter as her sense of foreboding grew. “How did my mother die?” she asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “The facts of your heritage should really come from your grandmother. Now that you’re a woman, perhaps it’s time for you to ask her these things.” Old Ogimos gave Sirona a vague smile. “In truth, I don’t think you’re anything like your mother, except for your beauty. You’ve always been a dutiful and devoted student, and I’m certain you’ll have a bright future ahead of you as a Learned One.”

  Old Ogimos turned away and started walking again, moving with his slow, awkward gait. Sirona watched him leave, feeling stunned. What did my mother do? What terrible secret hangs over my life?

  “So, are you going to ask your grandmother about these things?”

  Sirona turned in surprise, suddenly remembering Cruthin. He’d been there the whole while, listening.

  “Aye, I will. Why do you ask? And why are you lurking around, spying on my private conversation with our teacher?”

  Cruthin shrugged, but his dark eyes were intent and serious. “I thought you seemed different this day. At first, I imagined it was because you were now truly a woman in the eyes of the gods. But it seems it’s something else. The gods have chosen you. The vision you had makes that clear.”

  She should be gratified to think that proud, mocking Cruthin was treating her with respect and a hint of awe. But she was far too upset to feel any real satisfaction. “I’m going to go speak to my grandmother now,” she said as she left him.

  She walked grimly to the dun and entered the small hut she shared with Nesta. Her grandmother was crouched down near the hearth, stirring some sort of disgusting-smelling herbal concoction in the iron cauldron. Nesta was a healer, and the tribe depended upon her for medicines.

  Hands on her hips, Sirona faced her grandmother “How did my mother die? I want to know.”

  Nesta flashed Sirona a wary look, but continued to stir the contents of the cauldron. “What brought about this question? Are you upset because at the feast last night, Tadhg recited the genealogies of the other girls, but said nothing about your family?”

  “Nay. It was something Old Ogimos said. He implied my mother made mistakes that led to her death.”

  Nesta stopped stirring. “What else did he say?”

  “He said that perhaps I’m meant to learn from her mistakes. But since I don’t know what they are, I don’t see how I can possibly do that!” Sirona inwardly winced at the harsh, accusing tone of her voice. Her grandmother loved her. If she’d kept the truth from her, there must be a good reason.

  Nesta removed the spoon from the herbal mixture and laid it on a flat rock near the hearth. She rubbed a hand over her face, as if suddenly weary. “Your mother was killed by wild animals one night when she was outside the dun.”

  This was the information she was supposed to use to shape her life? Sirona couldn’t believe it.

  “Of course, that’s not all of it.” Nesta sighed heavily. “She wouldn’t have been outside the dun except Tarbelinus had banished her. He’d offered to send an escort with her, but Banon refused. She was always so proud and scornful. Perhaps that’s the lesson you’re meant to learn from her death.” Nesta’s pale blue eyes met Sirona’s.

  “Why did Tarbelinus banish her?”

  Nesta stood. “The real reason was that he wanted to be rid of her. He’d had his pleasure of Banon, yet she failed to give him a son. Rhyell, on the other hand, had done just that.” Nesta faced Sirona, her expression grim. “Once Bryn was born, there was no hope for Banon. She might tempt and entice Tarbelinus, but she couldn’t give him an heir. The chieftain’s pride and arrogance overruled his lust. He had to get rid of her. And Banon, in her foolish rage, gave him the very means.”

  “What did she do?” Sirona whispered. Her whole body was rigid with expectation.

  “She cursed us!” Nesta gestured angrily. “The whole tribe. She said she’d had a vision the Tarisllwyth would vanish from the earth. There was malice in her words. She clearly wanted it to be true. And she said something else... something I won’t speak of. Tarbelinus was enraged, of course. He ordered her to leave his sight and never return. Later, he relented and agreed to give her an escort. But Banon had already gone.”

  Nesta’s thin chest heaved. “She took you with her. I was terrified. You were only a babe. I thought I’d never see you again. But when her body was found the next morning, you were beside her, completely untouched. Everyone knew it was a sign, a sign that you were different than your mother.” Her gaze met Sirona’s. “They understood the gods had protected you. After that, it was easy to convince Fiach you should train in the grove.”

  It was an amazing story. Hearing it made Sirona feel many things. Anger at her mother. Awe that the gods had chosen to let her live. Grief for Nesta that her daughter had been so foolish and had died because of it.

  Sirona went to her bedplace and sank down on it. “About my mother—did she have any other visions? Is there any reason to believe that what she predicted might come to pass? Or, was it all a lie?”

  Nesta returned to the hearth, picked up the spoon and resumed stirring. “It’s hard to say whether it was a lie. Because we carry the blood of the Old Ones, the women of our line sometimes have the gift of sight. Banon might have had some sort of premonition of the future. But even if her knowledge came from a true Seeing, what she did was cruel and irresponsible. Visions don’t always come true. From your Drui training, you must know that. But her goal was to frighten and distress us, to punish us. And that was wrong, terribly wrong.”

  Sirona swallowed hard. “It’s a wonder that everyone at Mordarach doesn’t hate me after my mother did such an awful thing.”

  Nesta left the cauldron and came over to where Sirona sat. “They know you’re not like her. They also know the gods let you live, which means there must be some special purpose for your life.”

  Sirona nodded. She was special, chosen by the gods. It was a heady, exhilarating thought. Then she recalled something else. “You said that the women of our line are known to have the Sight, and you mentioned the Old Ones. Who are they?”

  “The ancient race of Albion. I know little about them, except they trace their ancestry through the female line rather than the male. They’re also said to know magic, but that’s probably only a foolish tale.”

  “What do you mean, they’re said to know magic?” Sirona asked.

  Nesta shook her head impatiently. “Shapeshifting and that sort of thing, I suppose. As I said, it’s probably not true.”

  “And why do you think we carry their blood?”

 
“It’s obvious in the way we look. While the rest of the Tarisllwyth are tall and robust, those of our line are small of stature and delicately made. The Old Ones also tend to have dusky skin and dark hair and eyes, although that trait has been lost in our family. If you want to know who most resembles the Old Ones, it would be your fellow student Cruthin.”

  “I thought he was the son of a sheepherder from two valleys over.”

  “One of his ancestors must have been of the ancient race. Another characteristic of the Old Ones is exceptional beauty. Banon had that trait, as do both you and Cruthin.”

  Sirona felt uncomfortable. Beauty didn’t seem like a particularly desirable quality for a Learned One. She wanted to be wise and respected, not comely.

  “Aye. Whether you like it or not, you’ll have to deal with the effect your face and form will have on men,” her grandmother said. “Your mother reveled in her beauty. She thought her fair face should bring her whatever she wished. When that didn’t happen, she turned cruel and selfish.”

  “This is all so much to take in,” Sirona said. “When Old Ogimos told me to ask you about my mother, I never expected this.”

  “What caused him to mention your mother?”

  “It was because of the vision.”

  “Vision?”

  Sirona took a deep breath. “Last night, at my woman-making ceremony at the lake of the dead, I had a vision. Or, at least I thought that’s what it was.” She got to her feet, suddenly restless. “I saw a young woman being sacrificed. Old Ogimos said I might have seen it because the spirit of the woman who died was unable to cross over to the Other Side. He also said it might be some sort of warning from the gods. And then... then he mentioned my mother.”

  “I would think the old Drui would know better than to bring up such things!” Nesta sounded angry. “He had no right to speak to you that way, to imply what you saw has anything to do with your life, or with your mother’s!”

  “But it might. Perhaps it’s a warning. But never fear, I will heed it,” Sirona answered hurriedly. “If I have any other visions, I will be very careful how I speak of them. I won’t abuse my power, but ask for guidance from my teachers.”

  “Nay! You can’t do that!” Nesta went to Sirona and seized her arm, her expression desperate. “You mustn’t tell anyone you have visions. It might remind people of your mother and what she did.” She gave Sirona’s arm a little shake. “It might make them think you’re like her!”

  “But I...” Sirona saw her chance to distinguish herself slipping away. If she couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened, her new-found ability was meaningless. “But Old Ogimos already knows,” she pointed out. “As does Cruthin.”

  Nesta sighed. “I doubt Old Ogimos would speak of these things. He knows the story of your mother and understands the implications. As for Cruthin, you must warn him not to tell anyone.”

  Sirona’s insides squeezed with alarm. The surest way to get Cruthin to do something was to tell him not to do it. “I have no control over Cruthin. Perhaps you should speak to him. After all, he does owe you a debt for saving his life when he was attacked by the wolf.”

  During his man-making trial, Cruthin claimed he called a wolf using magic. He’d ended up killing the wolf, but not before it bit him and caused a grievous wound. Nesta had nursed him back to health using her herbal potions.

  Nesta shook his head. “If I speak to him, he’ll want to know why I’m warning him of these things. Cruthin always asks questions and tends to keep asking until he gets an answer. And I dare not tell him about your mother. It’s bad enough that all the adults of the tribe remember what she did.”

  “But what should I do? How can I convince Cruthin not to speak of these things?”

  “Perhaps you should ask the gods for advice. Perhaps they will help you.”

  Sirona nodded slowly. Then she went to her bedplace and crawled back to where the large wooden chest was kept.

  “What are you doing?” asked Nesta.

  “I want to find something to sacrifice. I intend to go to the sacred spring, offer a gift to the gods and ask them what I should do.” She undid the latch and opened the chest, then moved aside clothing until she found the soft leather bag. Unfastening the drawstring tie, she spilled the bag’s contents onto the thin wool blanket covering her bedplace.

  It always amazed her how much jewelry her mother had possessed. Armbands, necklaces, rings, brooches—and all of it fashioned of gold and silver. Much of it was set with gleaming stones. Dark red gems like drops of dried blood, blue or purple jewels like the sky at sunset, creamy pearls and great chunks of amber. It didn’t look like the ornaments Hyell, the smith’s apprentice made. Everything was foreign-looking and clearly very valuable.

  She picked up a silver bracelet, the end pieces fashioned into the heads of wolves with deep red stones for eyes.

  Nesta came up beside her. “Is that what you’re going to offer?”

  “Aye.” As Sirona examined the bracelet, she heard her grandmother sigh. “What is it?” she asked.

  Nesta shook her head, looking distraught. “It’s just that...” She met Sirona’s gaze. “Your mother was killed by wolves.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nesta grimaced. “What other creature could have torn out her throat?”

  Sirona let out a gasp. She had no memory of her mother, and it seemed Banon been a less than admirable person. Even so, it was distressing to think she’d endured such a gruesome end.

  She quickly put the rest of the pieces away, then tied the bracelet to her belt. After what her grandmother had told her, it seemed ill-fated to put it on.

  As she left the hut and walked through the dun, her stomach squeezed with turmoil. She had so many questions: What was the connection between her vision and her mother? Were her visions related to the Old Ones, the strange, mysterious race her grandmother had mentioned? And her mother’s vision—had she lied when she predicted the downfall of the Tarisllwyth? Sirona certainly hoped so.

  Outside the gate, her distress increased. This valley was her home. The lush summer pastures, the forests teeming with birds, deer, fox and badger, the rolling hills where the goshawks and gyrfalcons hunted, the rushing streams and quiet pools full of trout and salmon and edged with jewel green moss and delicate flowers. This place was part of her spirit, her soul. The Tarisllwyth had lived here for generations upon generations, existing in harmony with the land, honoring the gods and spirits who also dwelled here. Her tribe was part of the great circle of life. For them to vanish would be like the creatures of the woods vanishing.

  She reached the sacred spring, situated in a stand of trees beyond the fields of barley and wheat and the clearing where the tribe held the sacred ceremonies. Near the spring was a tall rounded stone with a face carved in it. The face gazed back at Sirona now, appearing bored and uncaring. She removed the bracelet from her belt and stared at it. For a moment she saw the image of a live wolf, its fur silver and black, its jaws dripping with blood. With a shiver she tossed the offering into the deep pool at the base of the spring. “Rhiannon, Ceridwen, Arianhrod, great goddesses all. Aid me. Show me what I must do.”

  The water of the pool was littered with other offerings. Sirona gazed into it, watching the ripples fan out from the place where the bracelet had entered. A tingling began along her spine as the image of a woman formed in the depths of the pool. The woman had red hair, pale skin and blue eyes that burned with a terrible fury. She wore a gleaming gold torc, the sign of a queen. Reflected in the gold of the torc were flickering flames, and as Sirona gazed beyond the woman, she saw a huge building surrounded by fire. Faintly, she could hear the screams of the people trapped inside. She smelled smoke... and something else... the reek of burning flesh.

  Breathless with horror, Sirona stared at the vision of the woman. As the red-haired queen’s expression changed from hatred to satisfaction, a sense of revulsion rose up inside Sirona. She could tell this woman was pleased that the
people inside the building were being cooked alive. Sickened, Sirona drew back from the pool. The hatred she had glimpsed in the woman’s eyes terrified her. What did it mean? Did this vision foretell her own destiny? Was she one of the people who would be trapped in the pyre of flame?

  She dared to once again look into the depths of the pool. “Please,” she whispered. “Show me the way. Tell me what I must do.”

  She waited, but no more visions came to her. After a time, she rose and started back to the dun.

  Near the trackway to the gate, she encountered Cruthin.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  Remembering Nesta’s warning, she said, “I was fetching some comfrey for my grandmother.”

  “Where is it?” asked Cruthin.

  “Where is what?”

  “The comfrey.”

  She was a terrible liar. “I didn’t find any. I’ll have to look again tomorrow.”

  “I thought perhaps you went to the lake of the dead.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To see if you might have another vision.”

  Sirona froze. Somehow she had to convince Cruthin to forget about her Seeing. She forced a laugh. “Of course I didn’t have another vision. Indeed, now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m certain what I saw at the lake of the dead wasn’t a vision either. I must have fallen asleep and dreamed all of it.” She gestured dismissingly. “Fiach said he couldn’t find me when he went back. It must have been because I was lying down, sleeping.”

  “In the marsh?” Cruthin raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Then he studied her, his dark eyes narrowed. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if you were asleep or awake. What you saw still has meaning. Indeed, it reminds me of a dream I had when I was unconscious after I was bitten by the wolf during my man-making trial. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “It was a very foolish thing you did, Cruthin, trying to call a wolf so you could kill it.”

  “But it worked, didn’t it?” he said, grinning.

  “I heard it was an old, mangy beast with not many seasons to live. But aye, you apparently did call a wolf to you and manage to kill it, at some risk to your own life.” Sirona started walking.

  “Let me tell you about my dream,” said Cruthin, falling in step beside her. “I dreamed I was in a great feast hall. Huge timber beams held up the thatched roof, and the beams were carved with the figures of animals and painted bright hues. I was sitting in a place of honor by the central hearth—the place reserved for the chieftain or a warrior who’s been chosen as champion of the tribe. The hall was filled with people. They were all smiling and looking at me with admiration. They raised their beautiful enamel and gold cups to toast me.”

  Sirona resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cruthin continued, “I saw my parents among the crowd. It was strange to see them, knowing they were dead. Their thin, careworn faces were alight with pleasure, and they were obviously celebrating with everyone else. Perhaps they were smiling because for once there was enough to eat.” Cruthin gestured expansively. “Platters of bread, fruit, cheese and honeycakes covered the table in front of me and a roasted haunch of meat lay on a vast wooden plank near the fire pit, oozing with delicious juices. I could tell the celebration was for me. I’d done something wonderful, and the whole tribe was recognizing my achievement.”

  Of course, Sirona thought, even in his dreams, Cruthin was arrogant and full of himself!

  “But the strange thing was,” Cruthin continued, “I hardly recognized any of the people gathered in the hall. My parents, of course. But no one else, except you.”

  “Me?” Sirona exclaimed. “What was I doing there?”

  “You were helping serve the food. After awhile, you came over to me, put down the platter you were carrying and beckoned for me to follow you. We entered a large room scented with sweet herbs and flowers. I’d never seen such luxury. Thick furs covered the floor. The walls were adorned with rich fabrics in colors as bright and glistening as a dragonfly’s wings. There were cushions to sit upon, also made of fine beautiful materials. You knelt down on one of the cushions. But when you turned around to face me, you become someone else, another woman. One much older, with mead gold hair and gray eyes. Her mouth was deep pink and full-lipped, and she gazed at me with a provocative expression. I leaned down to kiss her, but the coldness of her flesh made me draw back.

  Sirona turned to look at Cruthin, who gave a shudder. “She’d turned into a corpse. Empty eye-sockets, a mouth gaping in the frozen scream of death. Strands of dark gold hair clung to her rotting skull and putrid, discolored skin covered most of her body, except for one claw-like, skeletal hand that reached out for me.”

  “What did you do?” Sirona asked, riveted.

  “I watched in horror as the corpse rose to its feet. Then I whirled and rushed back into the main portion of the hall. The place was filled with the dead. Their bodies half-decayed, the wraiths moved and walked about, lifting the beautiful cups to their ruined faces. They gazed at me with ghastly, empty eyeholes, smiling with their lips half rotted or eaten away. I began to run. When I reached the door of the hall, I rushed out. A thick mist was everywhere. I realized it would be foolish to dash blindly into such an impenetrable atmosphere. But revulsion and dread goaded me on.

  “I ran and ran. Sometimes the mist would thin and I would see more of the dead. They were everywhere. Their bodies were ravaged, but they were still able to move. They reached out for me as I sped past. Sometimes they called my name. At any moment, I expected to crash into something or fall into empty space. But the mist went on and on. Somewhere along the way I realized I must be on the Other Side, the place where the spirits of the deceased live. I began to wonder if I was dead and they were welcoming me to their realm. But if I was dead, why did I feel so panicked and terrified?

  “After a while I stopped walking. I decided that if this was Other Side, then the rules of the world of the living didn’t apply. I might run and run and never reach any place other than where I’d started out. I had to find someone and ask them if there was any hope of returning to world of the living. But now that I wanted to find someone to speak to, it seemed I was all alone. I started walking again, a slow, measured pace. I thought perhaps this was what it was like to be dead. No sense of time or place. Only endless mist. Then I saw something. As I neared it, I realized it was a turf wall. The place seemed familiar. Then a sheep bleated and I knew where I was. The place I’d been born and spent my early childhood. I entered the enclosure and saw the small wooden lean-to built against the turf wall. I knew that when I went inside, I would find my mother stooped over the fire, cooking bannocks for the evening meal.”

  “Is that what happened?” Sirona asked.

  Cruthin shook his head. “What happened is... I woke up.”

  Sirona frowned at him. Parts of the dream sounded like Cruthin might have made them up—like when everyone was toasting him as the hero. But there were other parts that were so strange she didn’t think he could have imagined them. Like the part about her turning into another woman, who then turned into a corpse. An unsettling thought came to her. She said, “The woman I turned into, what did you say she looked like?”

  “She was beautiful. Her hair was light, but darker than yours... almost the color of mead. Her eyes were gray, and she was very well-formed, yet small and delicate.”

  Sirona nodded, then turned and started walking up the trackway.

  “Where are you going?” Cruthin asked.

  “I have to tell Nesta I couldn’t find any comfrey.”

  “What about going to the lake of the dead? Are you afraid?” Cruthin taunted.

  “I’m not afraid of spirits,” Sirona said in withering tones. Thinking quickly, she added. “I want to think about your dream and try to understand the meaning of it.” Maybe if she could get Cruthin to focus on his dream, he would forget about her Seeing.

  “Why can’t you do that at the lake of the dead?”

&
nbsp; “Because I want to be alone. You know how Old Ogimos always says that in order to have the gods speak to you, you must escape the distractions of life.”

  “Old Ogimos—always so wise and knowing.” Cruthin made a face.

  “Well, he is. I have the greatest respect for him. And I intend to heed his advice this day.”

  “Very well.” Cruthin gestured angrily. “I’ll go to the lake of the dead by myself.”

  As soon as she was out of sight of Cruthin, Sirona began to run. She raced through the gate, startling Old Dergo, who was standing guard. “Where are you going in such haste?” he called out.

  “I need... to speak... to my grandmother,” she panted.

  She found Nesta in the hut as she’d left her, although now she was grinding some herb between two stones. “I have another question for you, grandmother,” Sirona said breathlessly. “You said my mother was beautiful. But what did she look like exactly?”

  Nesta frowned. “She had fair hair, but not as light as yours.”

  “Would you say it was the color of mead?”

  “I suppose a bard might. It put me more into mind of oak leaves in autumn.”

  “And her eyes... what color were they?”

  “Gray, like the winter sky.”

  Sirona slowly let out her breath. Cruthin’s dream had been about the dead who are trapped between worlds. And her mother was one of them.