Love's Blazing Ecstasy (8 page)

All heads nodded their assent, fearful now
as to the consequences of their actions, for they knew him to be telling the truth and dreaded his anger. A Roman officer was able to demand the most severe of punishments.

“We were to join with him ourselves,” piped up the youth, who now viewed Valerian as a hero.

A leathery-faced soldier tried to smile, but managed only a grimace. “Pardon us for thinking you one of the Picts, but you must admit that you look the part. However, let’s let bygones be. We are, after all, each of us Romans. We’ll take you where you want to go.”

“Let’s get on with our journey then,” Valerian replied, lowering his sword but keeping a firm hand on it as he mounted Sloan. He had learned a lesson well today. He had found out what it was like on the opposite side—to be a Pict or a Celt. Surely these men had posed just as real a danger to him as the members of the darkness cult had.
Death was death.  He had no doubt that it was still possible to end up with his throat slit from ear to ear for he wasn’t at all certain that these soldiers were not deserters. As long as the journey took, he would be forced to sleep with one eye open, listen to each and every sound, and always keep his guard up until he reached his destination. Somehow Valerian now felt less Roman, and for the first time began to question their way of life, their treatment of others, and the empire he was fighting for.

Wynne awoke before the first light and quietly got down from the bedshelf so as not to awaken the others in the household. Moving soundlessly she paused, feeling the sudden overpowering urge to run to the forest, hide out for awhile and escape the inevitable, but her common sense and the realization that her actions would only fire her father’s wrath, kept her motionless.
 

The thought of her father filled her with a mixture of emotions: fear of his anger, love for the gentle man he had always been until she had angered him, and most of all pride. Her father was one of the Druids, the Bard—a poet of great renown among her people for his singing and storytelling. Among her people, eloquence was valued as highly as bravery, for just as the warrior protected his tribe, so the bard protected the tribal history in his memory.

Had I been a male child, I too would have become a Druid
, she thought,
learning the laws and mysteries of the sky, the force of the moon and stars upon the fate of men, or perhaps I would have been chosen like my father to sing the glories of life
. Lost to her dreams, she closed her eyes. Had it not been said that she had inherited a voice of beauty from her father? Many times she had wished to be a male child, but no more—not since meeting Valerian. Shrugging her shoulders, she turned away from the open door.

“I am not my father’s son, but his daughter and for that I am glad!” she said aloud. She gloried in her womanly body as she dressed. “For I have what no man possess
es, the power to create life within me. Surely there is no power greater than this.” She touched her stomach and again said a silent prayer to bear a child as the fruit of her love for Valerian. At least then she would always have a part of him with her.

Hearing a rustle
behind her, she turned around and was greeted with Isolde’s warm smile. “Sunshine on your head, cousin.”

“Thank you, Isolde. May the goddess touch your eyes with light,” she responded in the ceremonial words always spoken on this day of days.

Together they prepared the morning meal, which would break the fast, putting together in a large caldron a mixture of grains that had been ground together in a hand mill. No meat had passed their lips for several days, nor would any be eaten again until after the ceremony. In this way they purified their bodies. Nevertheless, the aroma from the cooking pot caused Wynne’s mouth to water; she was starving.

“I’ll go gather some berries if you will milk the goat,” Isolde said with a toss of her
head. “You seem to have a way with animals. Me, I always seem to get my toes stepped on, or worse yet, bitten.”

“That’s because you don’t talk to them. They have a language all their own.  Remind me to teach you.” 
With a laugh Wynne went about her chore, which, far from being unpleasant to her, made her feel closer to the goddess, the bringer of life.  Ever since she was a child she had loved animals and had a special kinship with them.  That was why it had been so easy to train Sloan.

Wynne returned to the lodge with the warm milk, which she poured into large earthenware cups for Isolde’s two older children, who drank greedily. When Isolde returned with her berries, the two women spread a large cloth over the floor so that they could honor the earth goddess. Upon this cloth Wynne spread the fine brass utensils with the intricate designs and animal figures etched on the handles. She always marveled at the work the artisans had done.

They placed the huge silver caldron containing the grains mixed with special herbs in the center of the table. This urn too was ornamented with curving tendrils, entwining plants, animals, and faces of the gods and goddesses. Silver was the most precious of metals, treasured even more highly than gold.

Tyrone came to join in the feast, greeting his wife and Wynne with a smile. Forgotten were his harsh words of the night before, yet Wynne knew by the look in his eyes that in his heart he still condemned her for causing her father’s anger.

Seated on either side of their father, Selma and Farrell grinned impishly, knowing that since the women would be occupied with preparations for the evening ceremony, it would be Tyrone’s duty to look after them. It amused them to witness his frustration at their antics. They looked longingly at the tempting berries in the basket, then at each other, and they quickly stifled a giggle as their father began to chant over the food.

Tyrone closed his eyes as he gave thanks to the gods for the bounty of the grains, before them, for the nectar of the water of life. It was at this moment that Farrell could wait no longer to taste the tart fruit and stretched out his hand to snatch a handful of the bright red berries. Without pausing, Tyrone glared at his errant son, who seeing the fire in his
father’s eyes, quickly put the fruit back.

There was less conversation during dinner than usual as each family member reflected on the meaning and renewal of life.  Though Wynne also kept her mind on the ceremony, once or twice her thoughts wandered to Valerian.  She assumed he had reached his soldiers by now.
When the family had finished eating, both Isolde and Wynne went to dress in their finest gowns of gold and blue, colors that symbolized the summer sky.

“You look so lovely, Wynne,” Isolde whispered. “Oh, that I had your beauty.”

Wynne wore a midnight blue under gown that almost reached her ankles, and a sleeveless over-gown of gold. She had braided blue ribbons into her two plaits. Her belt was of gold, as was her neck torc, bracelets, and finger rings. Like many of her people, she would go barefoot so that there would be nothing between her and mother earth.

Again Wynne thought longingly of her father.
“This will be the first festival in which I have not helped Adair don his white robe, nor anointed him with the sacred oil from the leaves of the oak tree,” she said to Isolde. The anguish she felt at the anger displayed at their parting still tore at her heart.

In sympathy Isolde gently touched her shoulder. “
Give your father time. He will again welcome you to his fire. The punishment will not be severe. Our people are just. It is only his hatred for the Romans which blinds his eyes and causes him to shun you.

Wynne nodded.  “His hatred is strong. He fears that they seek to destroy our ways.  If only he could see as I do that they are not all evil.”

“You are thinking of your Roman,” Isolde answered with a smile. She also feared the people from the South, yet if Wynne loved one of them, they could not be too fearsome. The memory of whisperings she had heard came to her mind. “Tell me, is it true what I’ve heard that they worship their gods inside large lodges?”

Wynne nodded her head. “Valerian told me that their gods are kept in dwellings they call….temples.” For a moment Valerian’s face came to her.  She recalled the look on his face when first he had seen her bending over him. “He thought me to be one of his goddesses—Minerva,” she said softly.

“Minerva,” Isolde repeated, then shook her head. “How could these Romans believe that the gods are in human form or believe the great forces which created this world and the stars beyond could be worshipped in manmade dwellings? It is strange.”  Isolde laughed and picked up her comb, running it through her blond curls. For the moment each woman was silent as they continued in their preparations for the night’s ceremony.

When at last the night descended upon the earth, Wynne followed Isolde to the sacred oak grove. In the clearing Wynne could see the white-robed Druids assembled and wondered which of the figures was her father. Each Druid carried the golden sickle, which was used to cut the sacred mistletoe, and which had become a symbol of their power.

Wynne felt Isolde taking her hand, and grasped it firmly, joining in one of the three circles of worshipers in the grove. Three was the magical number to her people, symbolizing birth, life and death, a never-ending circle which continued throughout eternity. Death was only a sleep, and when that sleep came upon one, it would be but a brief time until the spirit would be born again to a new body.

“And so it begins,” Isolde whispered reverently.

“Never-ending. One eternal circle….today, tomorrow, yesterday, and forever,” Wynne replied, feeling as if she were being joined together with all the powerful forces of nature. She could hear her father’s voice—clear and strong—as he began his singing.

“The seasons are never-ending.

The circle of life flows on.

The mysteries and miracles of wisdom,

Encompass us with the dawn.”

Wynne gripped Isolde’s hand tightly and felt another worshiper grip her other hand. The ritual continued with songs of transformation and rebirth—the summer solstice—the festival of Lugh, when nature attains perfection. The bare and cold ground of winter now wreathed in the bright new green was bejeweled with the dew of life.

“Everywhere man turns, he sees the blessing of rebirth,” the congregation echoed.

“The wheel of the heavens turns and brings seedtime and harvest, heat and cold, light and darkness,” her father sang out.

Wynne’s senses were dulled to the rest of the ceremony, for as she looked toward the huge hand that held her left hand, she gasped. It was he; the man she had grappled with the night she had found Valerian. Even without his strange symbols, she could recognize him, so strongly was his face etched on her memory. Now he was staring at her with antagonism.

Wynne opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the man fled.
Anxiety touched her heart for the circle had been broken by his departure; an ill omen for her tribesmen.

Chapter Eleven

“Quickly, take my hand,” a voice intoned in Wynne’s ear. She looked up into the eyes of Edan, the man her father had betrothed her to. She was relieved that the broken circle might not be noticed now if she grasped his hand, for that would cause
disquiet to the worshippers. Isolde still clung to her right hand, her eyes closed as she chanted and it appeared that none of the others had observed the break in the circle.  Perhaps no harm had been done then.

Edan’s hand was warm and strong. She turned to look upon him, her childhood friend. With his red hair and gray eyes, he was so different from Valerian. Like all the men of her tribe, Edan wore his hair long and had a long moustache. Even his skin was different from the
Roman’s—not golden, but ruddy, freckled. Edan was handsome in his own way and she was fond of him, though she had long resented having her future bound to a man without her consent. But that didn’t matter anymore—now she belonged to the Roman.

Wynne breathed a sigh of relief that the circle was again intact, but the question still echoed through her mind. Who was the giant of a man who had so frightened her, and why was he at the ceremony?
  To make trouble, frighten her, or perhaps to spy?  He was not one of her own tribesmen, of that she was certain. Was he from a neighboring village?

Whoever he is, I must tell my father what I have seen. They must find him. Perhaps he can l
ead us to the sacrificial worshipers before the dark ones cause trouble for my people
. It was because of miscreants and seditious Celts that the Romans believed that all Celts practiced human sacrifice. In truth, Wynne’s tribe had not done so for generations, but still the lies persisted and the flames had been fanned by the bloodlust of the evil ones.

“With every bit of strength I have in my body, I vow I will stop them,” she said beneath her breath, closing her eyes in a silent prayer to the gods.

The ritual continued long into the night, until Wynne was exhausted and longed for sleep. Yet it was always thus, for the worshippers must meet the dawn to welcome the light of the sun. Soon it would be time for a symbolic sacrifice to be made. The one who had been chosen as the bridegroom for the Goddess of the Water of Life would be placed on a raft, arms outstretched to greet the goddess. He must be a chaste young man who had never lain with a woman. His life would be his own after tonight, but there was a time long ago when the sacrificial victim had been given to the goddess for eternity, to sleep the slumber of death within her arms. Symbolic sacrifices were also made at other festivals. At the winter ceremony of Samhain, a young man would again be chosen, this time to be buried in the earth, for earth and water were feminine powers. At the spring equinox—the ceremony of fire, called Beltaine—and at the autumn equinox—called Imbolc, the ceremony of air—the symbolic sacrifice would be a virgin girl, for both fire and air were masculine powers.