The Fox by Arlene Radasky - HTML preview

We left early the next morning. On the way out of our valley, we stopped to ask Rosston to join us. Lovern knew the druids would support and vouch for his truthfulness if the king questioned his story. Those who knew Lovern knew he was an honorable druid and man. Rosston gathered his things quickly and we went on to Rhona’s, moving as fast as possible. The chieftains allowed their druids to take ponies. We did not have the luxury of time.

Rhona was waiting for us. “I have sent word to Moroug and Coira. They will join us on the way. We would have to double back if we went to their clan, and my grandson rides like the wind when no one impedes him. He carries my message and my ring. Their chieftain will let them come. My gut tells me we must make good time with this missive, Lovern.”

“Have you seen anything in your dreams about this event?” Lovern asked. Rosston leaned in to hear her answers.
“I have seen a battle,” Rhona said. “I do not know when or where but it is coming. We must hurry to the king with your knowledge.”
We traveled quickly for the next three days. Nathraichean joined us.
“My mind has been unsettled for days. I could not wait at home without knowing so I decided to come without bidding to your village. It is fortunate we meet on the road.” He turned to Rhona, his gray hair floating in the breeze. “The air itself carries tension,” he said, his evermoving arms swinging with his words. His eyes took us in and measured our response. We nodded in agreement.
We stopped only to rest the horses and hunt rabbits for our evening meals and spent most of the ride in silence. Conversation about the scenes of the countryside and treatments for unfertile animals seemed out of place to me. I concentrated on imagining what the king would do when he heard Lovern’s news.
When words were exchanged, it was in a quest to find the best way to draw the gods and Morrigna’s attention to us.
“We must have their ears turned to us now. The gods and goddess must not be allowed to carry on as usual,” Lovern said. “We must decide the best way to get their attention this Beltane.”
Rosston answered. “Maybe Firtha has a new prayer that will capture the gods’ attention.”
I closed my eyes at the mention of her name. I was not looking forward to seeing her. “We may have to cut all our sacred oaks to raise a fire that will reach the heavens,” I said. I was so innocent of the gods needs.
We traveled to the end of the Great Glen and turned east, toward the rising sun. One more day in travel and we came to the valley of King Calgacus. Gray boulders were mounded to form a wall, topped with a fence of logs. We could not see over it, even sitting on our ponies. Through the partially open gate, I saw many lodges. Naked men, skin dyed blue, guarded the wall, ready to close the gate if needed.
Lovern rode up to the gate but was stopped by the tip of a sword held by one of the heavily muscled guards. “I am the druid Lovern,” he said. “I am ordered by the king to come. I have a message for him.”
“Wait,” we were told.
One of the guards jumped off the wall and out of our sight. I listened in curiosity to the noises behind the gate. I heard people laughing and talking, all busy with the chores that filled our daily lives. I felt less like a stranger here, for they lived like us.
Dogs chased chickens and men laughed. Mothers called to children. Smoke rose over the wall, home fires lighted to chase the damp, chilled air. Noise and the odors of life floated around us. As word of our arrival spread, eyes peeked around the gate. I matched them to the faces of curious children. I inhaled deeply as I missed Crisi.
I was tired and sore from sitting on my pony for so many hours. I wanted to dismount. Sitting on the back of this beast was torture, as thin as I was. Although I wore several layers of clothing and my heavy cloak, I was cold and needed to pee. If the guard did not come soon, I would go into the surrounding woods and relieve myself.
Just as I stretched and leaned over to tell Lovern and Rhona that I would be absent for a moment, a chariot came crashing around the far corner of the fence. In it stood a wild man, long blond hair flying. His mouth opened to show white teeth centered in a face stained blue. He screamed the battle cry and waved his sword over his head while his driver and one other man stood behind him. Following him were nine mounted warriors, all armed and naked, bodies dyed blue. They rode close to each other in sacred groups of three.
My pony started but held. He wanted to join the race but obeyed my commands. My heart thudded like a festival drum at the sight of the king and his guard coming toward us at full speed. If his goal were to impress us, he succeeded with me.
They rode past, and just before they turned and slipped from our sight, they pulled up at the opposite corner.
After much cheering and jostling among themselves, one of the mounted men slid down and held out his reins. King Calgacus climbed out of the chariot and onto the pony’s back. The rider he replaced stepped into the chariot. The king and two of the mounted guards came to us in a fast trot while the rest of the cadre and his chariot turned the corner towards the back of the village. As they came closer, I saw that the two guards behind him were women. They were so well conditioned -- tall, slim-waisted, with muscled legs and shoulders -- that their stained blue bodies blended in with the men on the charge. Their long blonde hair bounced on their backs in heavy braids. They carried the same shields, long swords and spears the men carried. They rode proud and I knew they would protect the King with their lives. I had seen female warriors, but none so strong and none stained fully blue. This display of the king’s guard and battle practice gave me hope that the king would be ready to accept Lovern’s news and go to war with the Romans.
The men on the fence who had joined in on the battle cry grew quiet as the king rode closer. I saw their respect in the way they stood tall before him. A lathered pony, chest straining with his breathing, was now upon us, King Calgacus on its back. His face was a study of concentration. His body glistened with the sweat of one who had worked hard. I admired him as he came closer. He had no extra flesh. Arms, abdomen and legs well muscled, and the look of health emanated from him. He peered into our group until he saw Lovern, and then with a nod of his head he turned and looked up to the top of the wall near the gate. I was surprised to see his druidess, Firtha, standing there, her face just showing from under her white hood over the top of the fence. She turned to face the back of the village, and the king kicked his pony to move in through the gate. His guards motioned us to follow.
Our ponies fell into step after theirs and started into the fort. I was last in line, and just before my pony crossed the worn path of the gate, I pulled back and stopped. Though surrounded by noise from all the king’s people as well as the animals in the fort, I shivered as all sound was instantly gone from my ears. I looked through wavering air. Confused and not knowing what was about, I spun my pony around, ready to run out of the fort. A shaft of clear light shined on a scene in front of me.
In the front line of trees, across the road leading into the fort, I saw them. The oak was heavy with ravens. Its branches bobbed with their weight, and its new leaves fluttered with the stretching and unfolding of their many wings. They sat, quiet, and watched me with night-black eyes, almost invisible in their blue-black bodies. The sun glistened on preened feathers.
Why had my animal host shown itself to me in such a way? I watched for a moment longer, their eyes unblinking, when I saw movement on the ground. The pair stepped from behind the raven-filled tree. She was young and timid. Her eyes darted about, looking for danger, body tensed and ready to run at an instant. She carried more blond-colored hair than copper, accented with snow-white tips. Small, when she crouched in the grass under the oak, it hid all but her face and twitching ears.
He was royal. As large as a hunting dog, the male fox stopped, his body one step in front of his mate. He turned and nipped her gently on her neck; she nuzzled his fur. As he sat, he laid his white-tipped, flame-colored tail across her back, claiming her as his. His chest was not as white as hers, showing the yellowing of age and life in the forest. Sunlight glinted off the deep copper color of his back. He looked up at the tree filled with ravens and then back down at me.
I knew the king’s foxes were large and not often seen. They were wary of men. I sat quietly, filling my eyes. Then, the male stood and barked, and the female disappeared behind the tree. He looked up into the tree, at one very large raven that seemed to be the leader, yipped, and then the sky grew dark over me as they rose together and flew over the rooftops of the fort. My eyes followed until they were out of sight. I turned back, and the fox faced me. He walked out of the long grass to the road and dipped his body into a long stretch, as if bowing to me. He took no notice of the people or noise around me and then calmly turned to lope into the woods, following his mate.
I sat in a prayer of gratitude while sound became normal around me again. It seemed no one else had seen what I had seen. Everyone carried on with what they were doing before. I shook my head in wonder. It was a powerful sign from the gods.
Following the direction my companions, I started my pony after them, my eyes still filled with the splendor of the sight. I passed a long row of lodges, all built in the round form as ours. Coming to the end of the row, my pony took one step around the corner and neighed to a group of ponies standing in front of a dwelling. Lovern’s pony was among them.
A child reached up and took my reins as I slid down and walked into the lodge. Its main room contained three fire pits, all in use. Over one, tended by a small boy turning the spit, cooked the full body of a boar. The boy had to jump back often. The flames that shot up when the fat from the animal dripped into the fire came close to burning him. The other two fires had large pots stirred by young women. An older woman was making her way back and forth from one fire to the other, adding vegetables and roots to the pots and pinching the crisping skin of the boar. “Don’t let this burn, boy, or you will be sleeping outside with the pigs tonight. Girl! Bring more herbs here, we need more flavor in this pot,” she yelled across the room. Five large tables circled the room. All were in use, some where women chopped onions and herbs for the stews in the pots, and others where there were women who slid loaves of fresh, dark rye bread off baking planks. One table was piled high with mugs for mead. Many are coming to this evening feast, I thought. Many came every evening, as this looked like a well-practiced dance by all here.
Lovern and the others were standing in front of a large chair in the center of the lodge. In it sat the king, dressed in a finely woven, blue shirt and trousers. His clothing seemed to blend in with the woad blue of his dyed skin. A bronze pin fashioned into a large cluster of mistletoe closed his cape. The pin’s painted golden-green leaves and white berries caught my eye. Finlay would have loved this, I thought. He would have asked the king if he could hold it to better look at its fineness.
The king spoke. “So, Druid, it is as I expected. The Romans are coming to us. Were you able to find out how long before we will see them trampling our fields?”
The noise around the room stopped, as if by an order from the king, all eyes focused on Lovern.
“They are building forts as they come,” Lovern answered. “I was told their general, Agricola, wants to build a line that will not be crossed before he comes further. They may not come this far this year, but the Romans are coming.”
“Hmmm. The news is bad, as I feared. We will have to stop him. He is foolish to think he will have an easy time taking our land. The only good news to come from you is that we have time to prepare. We have time to raise the army and move them to the spot I will fight,” said Calgacus. “I have ridden over and mapped this country, and know the best mountain pass to take a stand. I have planned a long time for this. My druidess told me we would go to war. She has seen it often in her dreams. She has prayed for a way to capture the ears of the gods. We will be victorious over the Romans and will win and keep our lands free from all invaders.”
At this, he raised his hand, heavy with rings on every finger, and waved one of his guards to him. “Call in Tearlach. I must talk to him. He will lead the training of all the warriors promised to us by the clans.”
A tumult grew around us. All the warriors at the tables were standing on the benches or on the tables, yelling battle cries. Those coming in late were told the news and joined in the scene. It seemed some were looking at our little group with distaste. We were the harbingers of bad news and I began to wonder how safe we would be if they decided to come at us.
“I am here as commanded.” The man at the door was two-hands taller than the king. His dirt-streaked face wore lines of the years of experience, and heavily-browed eyes took in the room at a sweep. He carried a spear, and from his belt hung a short and a long sword. The battle cries turned into a cadence of calling a name: “Tearlach, Tearlach, Tearlach!”
Tearlach raised his spear, and the hall filled with the roar of men ready to fight to their death for him.
“Warriors,” he said. His voice was deep, but he deliberately did not raise it above the din. He waited. As men noticed him, they grew quiet. He continued. “We do not fear the Romans. We will go to war and win. We are stronger and fight for our land. Our land. It is our land, not theirs. They will regret bringing the battle to us for the rest of their short lives.” He began pounding the butt of his spear on the ground and others followed by banging their spears or swords against tabletops. The walls around us began to shake.
The king raised his hand and the noise stopped again, this time by a king’s order.
“You have done well, Druid,” he said. “You and your companions are welcome at my tables for the meal.”
Behind us, men talked again. We bowed, turned, and walked to a table close to the door. The king’s men sat near him, the honored at his table. We sat where we could escape the long night’s festivities, as we planned to start back home at sunrise.
The room continued to fill with people. “Look,” said Rosston in a voice that spoke with inexperience. “That man -- wearing a gold torque! The king wears only bronze, but his is gold!” We watched as a tall man, braided red hair hung over a red cape that matched the king’s, walked to him and nodded his head. When he turned, we saw a similar pin of mistletoe closing his cape over his left shoulder.
“He owns many fields and sheep,” said Uilleam. “That is Malcom. He has men who come to trade with my village. He is the brother of the king and carries the purse of the army.”
“It seems,” Nathraichean said, his hands strangely still, “he spends the purse of the king on himself as well.”
“Be careful, Wolf,” warned Rhona. “There are many who listen for words such as yours just for the pleasure of reporting them to the king and watching the beheading and mounting of the severed heads on the fence. We want to take all of you home on the morrow, not just your body, your head left to decorate the gate of this fine fort.”
“The king would not kill a druid, would he?” Both Moroug and Coira asked the question in unison. I wondered if they often spoke as twins and finished each other’s sentences.
“The king will do what is necessary to keep his warriors and people happy. If a druid must die, then a druid will die,” said Rhona. A chill crept into my heart with those words.
They carried the roasted boar to the king’s table where, with his sword, he separated the beast with one stroke, to the cheers of those around him. He took up a short blade to cut the smaller pieces, and filled plates with the meat as he carved. Also, wooden bowls of vegetables and mugs of mead were passed around. Mugs of mead were refilled from buckets carried around the room. As the overfilled platters of food passed, we stabbed our portions and piled them on the table in front of us. Everyone seemed to enjoy the food. The mood was light even though the news we carried here could bring death to many warriors in this room tonight.
Music started at the back of the lodge and two men sidestepped those carrying food and mead to stand in the space directly in front of the king’s table. One blew into a pipe, creating a tune, and the other beat a drum while singing. I recognized a song about a battle long ago with a giant monster of the land that Bel and Morrigna fought with. The monster fled into a lake and it is still told that she raised her head and became visible at times. Many have sworn to seeing her.
We sang the same song at home, we ate the same food, wore the same clothing. Now we feared the same enemy. I prayed our people would be victorious in battle. If we followed this king and the gods heard our prayers, we would be victorious. I believed it to be so.
The smoke in the room grew thick. Men added peat to keep the fires burning through the night’s festivities. I was tired from the long journey, the ride, this day’s events, and wanted to find a quiet place where I could tell Lovern about the animals I saw earlier. Foxes and ravens gathered in and around an oak was a powerful sign for us. I wanted to discuss it with him until we understood it.
I looked to the door, readying myself to leave to find clean air, when the figure appeared. I started, unsure of what it was, my eyes unclear from the smoke. Rhona was next to see it. Nathraichean stood when Rhona touched his shoulder and directed his gaze to the apparition. “Who are you?” he asked in a voice that drew the others eyes to him and then to the white hooded, caped man in the doorway.
“Firtha requires your attendance,” the figure said.
“Whose attendance?” asked Uilleam.
“All who rode in with the Fox today.”
We followed him outside. The night air was crisp and cool after the room filled with smoke and the body odors of men who worked hard. I took a deep breath. The newly green leaves and turned fields left an odor of spring. It was not yet Beltane; however, the signs were there, even this far north.
The figure led us to the back wall where a small opening let pedestrians through. I was a bit dizzy from the mead and lack of sleep so I hung onto Lovern’s arm.
“Where are we going?” asked Lovern.
The cloaked man stopped and turned. “We are going to the sacred stones. Firtha has had a vision and she must share it with you. The way will be dark and rocky. I will carry a torch, so stay close.” He picked up a torch from the guard on duty at the opening of the fence and we were outside the fort walking into the trees.
“This is the path of the ancients,” he said. “The path we walk on and the standing stones were both placed by the gods. We hold our most sacred ceremonies there.”
“I seem to remember a storyteller’s song about standing stones in this area,” said Coira.
“It is said the gods built them for man to use as a sacrificial altar for our ceremonies,” said Moroug.
“Ouch, wait. I have tripped,” said Rhona. “Nathraichean, please give me your arm to steady myself on these stones. I do not want to fall into the water.”
We had come to a stream. The robed druid seemed to float across while we stumbled and bruised our feet as we clumsily walked from stone to stone to cross the shallow but cold and fast water.
The forest opened up to a small meadow and in the middle was a small circle of manheight stones. There was a large fire in the center, and I heard a multi-voiced hum coming from the stones. They seemed to move, waver in the firelight. We walked closer, and I saw eight swaying figures in white robes, just like the one leading us. The people in the robes held hands and made the shadows that seemed to give the stones movement. The robed figures sang the song I had heard.
Our guide stopped just outside the ring of stones and whispered into the ear of one druid. The circle broke, and he walked into the ring. He motioned us to follow. I got to the ring and again, just before I stepped in, I looked around the circle of trees behind us. I knew he watched. The fox I saw earlier was there and watched us.
Firtha stood in her white robe on the other side of the ring. The fire between us bathed her in an orange light. Shadows danced on her body, created by the moving flames. I had not seen her at the evening meal, and I wondered what would keep her away from her king, especially, when Lovern’s news proved her right about the Romans. Now I knew. She had been here preparing this ring. Waiting for us to come.
She watched us come into the circle and bade us to sit on the ground around the fire. As we sat, her eyes took us in. Her loose hair, red in the firelight, hung below her waist; her hood hung down the back of her robe. The fire did not give enough light at that distance to see the color of her eyes. I remembered they were the blue color of water melted from ice. A band of beads circled her forehead and tied at the back of her head; her sea eagle feather was attached so it hung behind. She still wore the necklace of boars’ teeth. I wondered if she were able to add to it from the boar that had become our evening meal.
An alder staff was in her hand, one long enough to touch the ground at her bare feet and rise above her head more than two hands high. Lessons from Lovern about this tree flashed through my mind. He made his music pipe from it. It gave different dyes for our cloth. Some druids used it to help call in spring. Maybe that is why she holds it tonight. It is almost spring, almost Beltane.
Unbidden, the memory came that it also called the soul of the sacrificed human to come back to aid the living. A volunteer sacrificed human. The little I ate at dinner laid unsettled in my stomach.
Small stones scattered on the ground dug into me. Uncomfortable, I shifted, hoping not to put a hole in my green dress. The hot fire burned my face, while my backside was cold. I shivered and Lovern put his arm around me. I was able to settle down, and when I looked around the small, seated circle of fellow travelers, I saw they all had their eyes on Firtha. Rhona lowered her eyes until she looked straight into mine. I saw a great strength there. I was glad she was my friend.
“Now you are here,” Firtha said as she came closer to us. The humming stopped as soon as she started talking. Robed druids came closer to hear her words. “Tell me what you found, Lovern.”
“As I told the king, the Romans ready themselves to take our lands. To make slaves of us or kill us. That is what they have done on the lands they occupy now. It is what they want for us. I stood in a camp of Roman warriors and have seen they have weapons and train to kill us.”
She nodded. “It is what I have told the king for many moons. I have seen it many times in my dreams. It is because we are weak. Do any of you know why we are weak?”
Firtha slowly looked into the eyes of all present. No one responded.
“We are weak because the gods ask us to give ourselves to them. We have stopped obeying that command. Yes, we learn what we can about nature and healing and other magic, but we have not given back all we should, in payment, for many years. My teacher was ancient when he taught me the arts. He told me we should never change them, but we have.” She paused. “We have become soft and because of that we could lose all we have. Our lands and our families. We need to catch the ears of the gods again.”
Her staff pounded the ground in her agitation as she paced, walking around us quickly. We had to turn our heads to follow her footsteps. “We must get back to the ways of the God and Goddess. They gave me a vision. A vision of victory. I was told that if we come back to them fully, we could have what we want. We can have peace.”
She stopped pacing and as the alder staff hit the ground in time with her every word, I trembled.
I heard words tumble from her mouth but could not understand them. Voices from all those in cloaks around us uttered short, quiet sighs of agreement.
She raised her staff to the sky. “Gods and goddesses, listen to me. We will have a human sacrifice!”
A fearful rushing sound of unstoppable water and wind filled my ears. I closed my eyes and began to pray. My heart heavy with dread, I began to shiver. The snake awoke and raised its head in my belly again. Memories of my feelings, those that had told me of my shortened life, flooded my head.
I was afraid, so very afraid.

Noisy London. I’d almost forgotten. Fort William’s traffic was nothing like what flew by my little apartment above the bookstore. Arriving back late on Friday night, I fell into bed and slept until the din woke me at half past eight.

I tried to phone George’s home, but got no answer. His office didn’t answer either. I had called him a dinosaur because he wouldn’t carry a mobile.
“Too damned intrusive,” he’d said.
There was no answer all day Saturday so I finally decided he must be out of town.
Saturday wasn’t a total loss; I did get to visit with some friends from MGC and decided I’d made the right decision by going to Scotland to chase my dream. Talking to them brought back all my old dreary, depressing thoughts about jobs in my past. Writing up reports and statistics didn’t fill my life with any light. I ordered after-dinner drinks for my friends and I and silently toasted myself and my choice of a new life.
Sunday morning. The bookstore, closed and quiet, allowed me to laze around until ten in the morning, rereading my notes on Marc’s earlier site. The chieftain’s tomb where I’d found the first bowl, the first one Jahna led me to. It was in the University of Birmingham’s Museum of Ancients along with the other tools Marc found in the tomb. I leafed through the pictures I’d taken of the bowl found under the stone where it had lain so many years. Jimmy’s words ran through my mind. The same artist probably had worked on the bowl that contained the ashes I’d found in the cave. Jahna. I was certain it was her. I’d never be able to prove it to the world, but I didn’t need to. I was proving it to myself and remaking myself in the process. If Jahna wanted to help me along, who was I to dissuade her?
I called George’s home again. Three rings—why hadn’t I called before I left Fort William? I was about to hang up when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Oh. Hello. I hope I have the right number, is George home?”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“My name is Aine. Aine MacRae.”
“Oh my, Aine. This is Meg.” She sounded a bit dazed, not at all like her normal formal self. Meg Smyth was George’s secretary while he worked at the university. Also Sophie’s friend, she helped when she could while Sophie was ill. She’d retired at the same time as George, and now made sure George had food in the house and didn’t get buried under an avalanche of his books and paper work. George paid her to stop by once or twice a week. She came more often as a friend. Her husband died many years ago, and there were no children. I often wondered if they were going to get married or stay in this strict relationship, stepping around their need for each other’s comfort for the rest of their lives. “Aine, George is not here right now. He is… Well, could you come by?”
“Yes, I can be there in a little over an hour. Meg, is he in hospital?”
“No. Not in hospital. Aine, let’s not talk on the phone. I’ll be waiting with a bit of lunch for us. See you in a bit.” Her voice was not jolly, not jolly at all.
My thoughts rambled while I rode the underground. She said George wasn’t in hospital. A deep, dark thought about death sprang forward, but I quickly buried it. He must be on a trip. Yes, a trip. Why didn’t he call me and tell me? He wasn’t beholden to me. We weren’t related. We were friends. No. More than friends. I considered him my uncle. But still, he didn’t have to call me every time he left town. Why did Meg’s voice sound as if she were holding a secret close to her heart? Why was I frightened? Now that I think about it, he really didn’t look good when he got on the train last week. He didn’t tell me he felt ill. And Meg said he wasn’t in hospital.
All these thoughts swarmed through my head as I jumped on the tube at the Marble Arch, running up and down the stairs when changing at Trafalgar and then on to Waterloo. George lived near the Royal Theater.
When Sophie was well, they’d loved to go to the theater. Since she’d died, I don’t think he’d gone once. He told me he didn’t need to live through others’ lives; his life was filled with his own memories to keep him company. I didn’t think he read a novel or a work of fiction after her death. It was as if a door closed to a part of the world for him when she died. He lived buried in his history. The buried memories of others released through his archaeology. His life.
I knocked. Meg opened the door. She looked just as she had the last time I saw her several years ago, thin as a straw, grey hair so tightly pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck it seemed to give her brown eyes an almond shape. Her strong, long fingered hands grasped my shoulders and pulled me into the house. Though she was s