Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy Page 5

  Laughter bubbled out of Brenawyn’s throat, as she looked at the robe behind her grandmother, “That’s a fancy story. You should let the reporters that cover the event tomorrow have that story. The tourists would love it.”

  “Well, no, I’ve never been tempted to tell anyone until now, but that’s not the end of it, though. Rosalyn waited for some reaction from me, but she looked confused that I didn’t give her one.”

  “Good story, Nana.” Brenawyn said.

  “Oh, I’m not done. There’s more. I guess because Lughnasadh is just a few days away, it has put what she said in my mind. Well, according to the story, on Beltane, after the rituals had been performed and the eternal fire relit, the high priestess and the Shaman of the Order would humm mmm. You know.”

  “What? You mean have sex?” Brenawyn asked astonished. “I thought that only a part of the King Arthur legend. Though, if my memory serves, it was the high priestess and the King of England that did the deed.”

  “Uh huh, to ensure the continued fruitfulness of the nation. Yes, where do you think the authors got the idea? Only in their literary vision it was more dramatic to have it be the King for the superstitious blessing for the continued health and wealth of the nation instead of two devoted followers of a religion to ensure the continuation of their dogma.”

  “Wow, you were right, though. It is barbaric and yet… um, romantic is the word, I guess, to have two people so devoted, if not to each other, but to a similar cause.”

  Glancing at the robe with new interest, Brenawyn turned to leave, then remembered, “Oh Nana, I have a few questions about the rest of this list.” Unfolding the list from her back pocket Brenawyn approached her grandmother. “What specific stones do I need for each of the positions in the circle?”

  “Oh, that’s up to you. The stones used are unique to each person that casts. Go out and pick any five that appeal to you,” shooing her out the door. “Go take them off the shelves.”

  “How will I know if I pick the right ones?”

  “Dear, whichever you pick will be the correct stones for you.”

  With that, Brenawyn exited the office and walked into the showroom of the store. She first stopped at the sectioned bin piled with a variety of polished stones. She loved to touch them; many felt warm, as if alive, while others were cold. Running her hands across each, she closed her eyes, but hadn’t a clue as to which ones to pick. She walked toward the case against the far wall that housed the larger stones and geodes; each was displayed with a card listing their properties, with variations of cleansing and balancing energies on each marker. She knew instinctively that the descriptions would do her no good. She opened the cabinet, feeling drawn to touch them. She handled each in a reverent way, but discarded most immediately, placing them back with care. Others she placed on the velvet covered countertop, unsure as to her final choices. She narrowed it down to seven, and stood back and considered them.

  Reaching for the amethyst first, she ran her fingers along the smooth edges, mesmerized by the crystals within. She placed it as the first in a new configuration at the top of the velvet mat, knowing in her mind that she would pair it with air. She then turned to place the blue tourmaline with water on the left, bloodstone with earth on the right, obsidian with fire towards the bottom, and finally placing the tiger’s eye with spirit in the center of the mat.

  She was startled when her grandmother gasped behind her. Turning around, she noted Leo staring at the stones. “What’s the matter?”

  Leo shook her head mutely.

  “What? You’re worrying me. What’s the matter?” Brenawyn ran to her side but Leo brushed her off and stumbled toward the counter.

  “These stones. Why did you pick these stones? And why did you arrange them in this way?”

  “Nana, calm down. You’re scaring me. You told me to pick any stones that I wanted, right? These just felt right. The amethyst, I think would be obvious, it’s my birthstone. The tiger’s eye—I remember Grandpa having a tie tack with a tiger’s eye stone. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I do.” Leo said hesitantly.

  “Wasn’t he buried with it?

  “Yes, he was.”

  “All right then, the blue tourmaline and obsidian—I liked the colors, they are soothing. The blue is calming, and the black is so deep, I just find myself wanting to touch it, to stroke its smoothness. And then last, bloodstone. I guess it’s my way of tipping a hat to the pagan in this endeavor.” Brenawyn finished. “So now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?” Brenawyn asked as she abandoned the stones on the counter and pulled Leo away.

  Leo looked back and shook her head slowly with the echo of fear in her eyes.

  “All right, this is not funny. Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing,” Leo replied unconvincingly. “It’s probably nothing,” she grabbed Brenawyn’s chin and gently forced it down so she could look into her eyes. “Maggie, can you mind the store,” she called.

  Maggie responded, “Sure thing, Leo. B, do you want me to wrap these up and put them with the other things to go down to the park while you’re—

  “No leave them there,” Leo interrupted, splaying her hand on the center tiger’s eye. Leave them exactly how they are right now.”

  “Ok. You’re the boss,” Maggie meekly replied. Confused at the sudden mood change, she looked at Brenawyn to get a hint at the cause, but seeing no answer registered in her face, she turned to resume her inventory.

  “We will be upstairs awhile. Do not disturb us.”

  Upstairs, Leo told Brenawyn to sit at the kitchen table and wait while she haltingly went into her bedroom and pulled a brown storage box from under her bed. Fumbling with the plastic latch, she opened it to reveal her daughter, Margaret’s, belongings. She found the journal she sought and went to join Brenawyn in the pantry.

  Brenawyn eyed the journal Leo put on the counter but didn’t say a word. Leo glanced at her granddaughter, knowing that she was expecting an explanation, and from the slight smile on her face probably thought Leo had finally lost her mind.

  She took a fortifying breath and began, “The reason for my reaction to your choice is that I used those stones in that configuration, that exact configuration, many years ago—twenty-nine years to be exact.” stressing the last part of the declaration. Pausing for any sign of recognition but receiving none, she asked, “Had your mother told you anything about it?”

  “Nana, what’s all of this about? I told you I chose the stones because I thought they were pretty. What does this have to do with something that happened before I was born? And why would my mother, of all people, tell me about it?”

  “I didn’t think she did, but I had to make sure. Your mother wouldn’t have told you because your father ardently opposed her religion, and your mother loved him. So she abandoned the beliefs in which she was raised to be with him. Then she was pregnant and she found out how far she would go to protect the one she loved more than her husband, more than her life.” Touching Brenawyn’s cheek, “She made the right choice. I would have done the same, even though her actions ruined her marriage.”

  Sitting up in apparent indignation, Brenawyn did what any good daughter would do, she rushed to the aid of her deceased father, a loving, albeit strict, man.

  “Shhh. Wait, don’t say anything.” Leo interrupted her, “Hear me out, then you can scream and rant and tell me to go the devil, but you must listen to me. I have kept the secret for too long because your mother begged me to as long as your father was alive. Then after he died, I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  Through tight lips, Brenawyn mumbled, “Go on,” as she turned away from Leo a bit. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and looked at the wall of cabinets.

  “Your mother met your father when she just turned nineteen and he was twenty-four. He was handsome and charming and swept your mother off her feet. Their relationship and courting was tumultuous. She would be in high spirits, humming and singing, dancing with Grandpa in the kitc
hen and then she would be depressed and weeping. She’d lie in bed until late morning and drag through the day. We tried to talk to her about her relationship, but she refused to listen. She wouldn’t confide in either of us about what troubled her. She was secretive. Then one day, she ran off to get married. It broke our hearts, Grandpa’s especially.

  “They returned, and after our shock faded, we found out the reason for her mood swings. Brian was a fundamentalist and would not tolerate any other belief in his household. Later, he wouldn’t tolerate even us for our beliefs, even though Margaret had renounced them. It was a strain on our relationship. Seeing us even for an afternoon was enough to cause vicious arguments that lasted days. The strain, I guess, became too much to bear and they moved away.” Leo paused to sniff and wipe her eyes.

  Brenawyn turned in her chair to face her. Having been deprived of her mother at nine, Leo knew she had only vague memories—a fragment of a song her mother used to sing at bedtime and the scent of her perfume. The rest, over time, had blurred.

  Leo had mixed feelings about giving Brenawyn something tangible of Margaret’s to hold onto. What would Brenawyn think of her when she told her that she’d held onto her mother’s journals? Kept them from her? Would she understand? No, not yet, and perhaps she never would.

  “She was pregnant with you when Grandpa died. Somehow, she talked Brian into letting her come to stay with me for a month by herself. She insisted that we stay at the farm, shunning anything to do with my religious beliefs and the shop, here. We buried Grandpa and she helped me go through his things; it was a relief to have her there. Despite her choice, she was like she always had been—the happy Margaret, humming and singing.

  “As the days passed, though, I could see her becoming more introverted. I would catch her daydreaming, I suppose, but with a concentrated look on her face. She told me on the third day after that she couldn’t feel you move anymore. At first, she told, me she thought that it was normal, but after the third day, she was sure that something was wrong. She was seven months along and three days of little movement. Yes, we both thought something was wrong.

  “I asked if she wanted me to call Brian, but she was emphatically opposed to calling him. She said she didn’t want to worry him if it turned out to be nothing. So we made an appointment at my gynecologist, who at the time still delivered babies. Now he’s dead, of course,” Leo added as an aside.

  “Wait, of course everything turned out fine. I’m here. Am I not?

  “Yes,” kissing her forehead then giving a small sad smile, “and thank the powers that be for that.” She reached to get the journal she had brought and handed it to Brenawyn. “I think you should read this. This is one of your mother’s journals, the first that she wrote. It will do a better job at explaining what happened.”

  “My mother wrote? How come I never knew that?” Not wanting or needing an answer yet, Brenawyn looked at the plain blue cloth-covered journal and sighed with happiness as she hugged the book to her chest.

  “Margaret started writing at that time, and for years after, sending the completed journals to me when she filled them. There are three. She seemed intent on putting it all on paper to document it, in case…you ever wanted to know.”

  Puzzled, Brenawyn nodded her head, but she wasn’t listening to Leo any longer. She was more concerned with the fact that she had three whole journals of her mother’s writing to read.

  Pushing the book on her again, “Read it and I’ll give you the others. After…” Stopping to look around, Leo hobbled out to the living room to return with the bouquet of flowers that had seen too many days, “I have to show you something first. Hmm, I’m glad I didn’t throw these flowers out yet. They will serve as a good demonstration,” Leo said.

  “What did she feel was so important? Not that I’m complaining, but I’m a little scared by the way you’re telling me this.”

  “Hush and pay attention to the flowers. Then you can read it.” Leo closed her eyes and concentrated. “Blessed Ones, make me your vessel so I may bring about healing the Earth. Let the healing of the Waters run through me as I do your biding.”

  Mesmerized by her grandmother’s words, Brenawyn’s eyes drifted to her instead of the flowers as she had been instructed. Her grandmother was relaxed as she said the words, obviously expecting something to happen just as Brenawyn knew nothing would.

  Brenawyn made a small sharp movement and let out a soft cry as, in exaggerated slowness, an iridescent blue pattern began to glow under her grandmother’s skin as she reached out to touch the flowers. The leached, muted colors of the petals turned more vibrant and the stem regained its rigidity. Turning back time, the flowers no longer wilted, and they gained the freshness of the newly picked.

  Brenawyn found herself on her feet next to her grandmother though she hadn’t remembered getting up out of the chair. She reached down to lightly touch the still glowing runes on her grandmother’s arm. “What. Are. These?” Taking the hand and extending the arm, she saw that the runes covered it from finger tips to shoulder and beyond as the gape in the blouse’s armhole revealed.

  Leo turned to her granddaughter and purposely opened her eyes. Gone were her soft green eyes, replaced by iridescent irises matching the runes. “Look at the flowers, Brenawyn. It’s important that you know. My beliefs are real. They are ancient and they are strong after all these years. You had to see this before you read the journal because it will give validity to what’s in it.”

  “What did you… how did you…?” then finally giving up on formulating a coherent question, asked the more important one, “What are you?”

  Laughing, Leo responded, “I’m a Druid, Brenawyn.”

  Chapter 7

  January 31, 1986

  My Sweet Girl,

  I thought I knew what love was. Not bothering to listen to my parents—your grandparents—when they ranted and pleaded with me to give my relationship more time. They were wrong. They didn’t understand that I love your father, but at the same time, they were right about me not knowing what love actually was. Until I found out that I was pregnant I didn’t know to what lengths a mother would go to protect her child: beg, borrow, steal, trade her life, or sell her soul. I didn’t know what lengths I would travel to protect my child until it was upon me and the child yet unborn. Now, I know.

  I went to stay with your grandmother after my father’s death, and shortly thereafter I broke down and asked her to take me to her doctor after three days of not feeling you move much. I also asked her not to call your father, because I didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily; but truth be told, I wanted time to keep my options open.

  Sent home with a prescription for bed rest and pregnancy hormones in a last ditch effort to try to save you, I knew this was only done to ease my mind and help me begin to accept the inevitable. By the time we had arrived back home, my mind was made up. I asked your grandmother to help.

  Looking back, this was the point that my life’s focus changed. I made several decisions at that moment that had nothing to do with the man I had married and the consequences that I knew would ruin what we had. Once Brian was the center of my universe, now you were.

  Your father is a devout fundamentalist, as you probably know. But what you may not know is that he is, was, intolerant of all other belief systems. I’m sorry. This is hard. The husband I know and the father you will come to know may be two different people. I hope that is the case, but somehow… I doubt it.

  The man I know, he didn’t accept that I had a very different religious background and asked me not only to convert but spurn it after we married. Please don’t hate me. If he knew that there was something wrong with you, he’d be convinced that if the baby died—if you died—it was the will of God.

  I asked my mother to perform a protection spell for you. I had seen her perform this ritual many times, and while it wasn’t a surefire way of holding onto the pregnancy, I hoped that it would shift it more into the realm of possibility. She didn’t respond at first, t
aking me up and depositing me in her bed; but minutes later, I heard the noise as she tore apart her stillroom looking for the ingredients.

  She reappeared with a basket brimming with things she’d need. She took out her grimoire, the page of the protection spell dog-eared, and she ran through the list of ingredients to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She took out her mortar and pestle and began by grinding pine needles—the smell wafted through the room almost instantly.

  As Leo muttered under her breath, I saw the telltale sign of the working of a spell; the iridescent runes glowing brightly under her skin. She set up candles at six points in the room, four at exact compass points. The fifth, she climbed precariously on the bed to put in the hanging candelabra above the it for spirit, and the last one she made me hold for body.

  She put the ground pine needles at the bottom of the bed in the pestle and tied a sprig of lavender to the brass headboard. She kissed my cheek then, and began chanting in earnest. She lit the candles, called the Spirits, and then laid small stones on my stomach individually. I remember the meaning behind her choice of stones because she declared them in her chant, though I cannot remember all the words. The first was amethyst—to transform my pain into healing, the next, bloodstone—to instill courage. Blue tourmaline was the third, placed to help connect the body and mind to allow faith to heal me physically. The fourth stone was obsidian. Working in harmony with the tourmaline it would grant access to the strength of my faith to heal me. Specific to the reproductive system, tiger’s eye was chosen as the fifth stone to provide balance and strength to get through the process.

  I must have made some sort of protest when the dagger appeared and my mother sliced her palm and then reached for my hand with her bloodied one. She looked at me abruptly, stopping the chant for a few beats and ruthlessly grabbed my arm. She sliced my palm, ignored my hiss of pain, then grabbed the hand with her own and forcefully squeezed the open wounds together so the blood mingled as it fell upon the sixth candle in my other hand.