Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy Page 8

  Carefully considering her question, Alex answered, “Perhaps it’s a metaphor. Th’ man ceaselessly devoted ta finding th’ daughter o’ th’ god compared ta th’ people’s unerring devotion ta th’ preservation o’ their religion,” shrugging his shoulder. “But in my experience, people tend ta complicate matters. Wha’ would ye say if I told ye ‘tis true?”

  “Then it’s even more tragic because it speaks to the futility of life. If it were true, I’m idealistic, and the romantic streak in me cries for the successful end to the man’s search.”

  Alex bent to stuff his clothes in a rucksack and chuckled, “And I suppose ye want th’ man ta fall in love with her, too.”

  “Happy endings are always good.”

  “Aye, they are, but rarely seen in th’ tomes o’ any mythology.”

  She scoffed, “Rarely seen in real life too.”

  “I am sorry about yer man.” He rose to his feet, “Leo told me.”

  Oh God. I’m carrying on like a fool. I am married— was married, she corrected, if only… Tears threatened to flow.

  Brenawyn glanced down at the desk when she heard metal strike the wood. Two gold armbands and a primitive scrimshaw neckpiece were on the desk. She reached out to touch it mainly to disrupt his attempt to pull her into his arms. Don’t touch me. Please, don’t touch me. If you do, I’ll start to cry, and shit, I might not ever stop, she screamed in her head.

  Alex stopped mid-reach, “I’m sorry ta ha’ brought him up.” He sighed, and reached to fasten the neckpiece on, but looked at it, considering, and handed it to her instead.

  Accepting this distraction, she stroked the yellowed ivory and the cool gold caps, running her fingers along the engravings of a bear, a hawk, a leopard, and a wolf.

  “Tis old. ‘Tis supposed ta be th’ ornaments,” indicating the armbands as well with the swish of his hand, “o’ th’ last Druid Shaman.”

  Interested, she looked up, “Oh, Nana was telling me something about him,” and blushed deeply when she remembered the context in which she’d heard of him.

  Alex raised an eyebrow and a smile curved his lips, “I think I need to listen to yer grandmother’s stories. They seem as if they would be more, hm, interesting than mine.”

  “So why would the shaman have it carved in this way?”

  “According ta th’ story, all shamans’ torcs were made o’ ivory ta allow for engravings ta be added as needed.”

  Brows knit together, Brenawyn started to ask another question, but he continued. “It was said th’ shamans could shape shift ta any animal they chose, but in order ta dae so they had ta focus on th’ form o’ th’ animal, hence th’ carvings. Th’ shaman himself would carve th’ likeness. To ha’ another dae it would mean th’ loss o’ th’ magic.”

  She was still admiring the piece in her hands when he reached for it, pulling lightly in the back. A clasp, cleverly hidden by the design, appeared.

  “May I?” she asked, still determined to keep her thoughts occupied and keep Liam’s ghost at bay.

  He nodded and stood very still as she circled around him. Brenawyn brushed the ends of his hair away and placed the piece on his neck. She touched the clasp, hesitant to try to close it, lest she break the thing, but the slight touch snapped the torc into place.

  He set the armbands—gold, silver, and copper bands woven together to form intricate knot work, snugly between his defined deltoid and bicep muscles.

  She faced him again to look at the finished product. “Intricate tattoos and ornate primitive jewelry, an avenging god of an ancient religion—you’re breathtaking.”

  “No’ a god, but a warrior.” He caressing her cheek. “But will ye offer me a boon?”

  “A boon?”

  “Hm, yes.” He lifted a tendril of her hair. “A favor.” And bent his head down toward hers.

  Brenawyn’s heart hammered in her chest. Oh God, he’s going to kiss me again. Please. She put her hand on his chest, not sure if it was in invitation or warding.

  He straightened and covered her hand with his. “Aaricht, lass. Ye ha’ some things ta sort. When ye’re ready we will continue this conversation.” Alex looked around the room, finding the robe hung on the back of the closet door, “Do ye need help?”

  “No, give me a few minutes alone and then I’ll be set,” she said. She needed time to steady her heartbeat and slow her breathing.

  “Watch th’ time, though. Th’ ritual needs ta be done at sunset or yer grandmother will have both our heads.” Alex said while exiting the room.

  Brenawyn heard a gasp and collective sigh following his exit. Silence reigned for a long moment and then titters and giggles were heard. Unkind thoughts ran through her head at the nasal voice that had the audacity to ask the clichéd question to a kilted Scotsman. Affecting a heavier highland brogue, Alex’s requisite reply, “Och, lass, come haur and I’ll show ye,” had her closing the door harder than she intended.

  She headed to the park in full ceremonial dress, obligated to accompany Nana to the circle while listening to her prattle on about the authenticity of the ritual being marred by the modern convenience of the wheelchair rented for the occasion. “Dr. Miller told you to stay off the foot. The two blocks to the park on cobblestone streets probably wouldn’t do as much damage as the trek across the grass to the site. You could always stay here if you want.”

  Nana huffed and crossed her arms. “Lead on.”

  People thronged the street outside the shop, making the short pilgrimage to the park the next block over tedious. Inside, the robe was beautifully pagan, but on exiting the house and maneuvering the wheelchair down the porch steps, Brenawyn felt like a comic book conventioneer. But she hadn’t looked up. When she did, her embarrassment was immediately allayed by the sheer variety of dress. A good number of people who were in route to the park were similarly dressed on a simpler scale. The rest greatly varied from over-the-top, stereotypical Goth attire which today included black candles and pentagrams, to the for-the-fun-of-it, exaggerated Halloween costumes, some of which looked to be expensive. The last group seemed to be comprised of regular folk on vacation armed with cameras to document their trip.

  Alex was waiting as they walked up, and took Nana across the knoll, leaving her to casually scan the scene, checking to see if all was in readiness—stones, candles, and matches. She was happy to see that either Alex or Maggie had prepared the site. Colorful summer flowers sat in low vases and planters at the base of every other stone of the eight. The remaining stones had plinths decorated with the beeswax candles she had pulled from the stores’ shelves. Fruits and grains adorned the ground surrounding the center dais as a sacrifice worthy of a ritual of thanksgiving.

  By the time Brenawyn was finished assuring herself that they hadn’t forgotten anything, people pressed in cheek to jowl trying to vie for the best vantage point. Looking at the enormity of the crowd, she was struck with the usual nerves that accompanied any public speaking engagement. Knowing from experience that she needed to start the show in order to find any peace from the nausea, she left her grandmother’s side. With a pat from her grandmother for confidence, she began to walk the perimeter with a basket laden with the remaining needs for the ritual.

  As Brenawyn passed first Maggie, then Alex, she took a deep breath, giving both a nervous smile. On the completion of one revolution she closed her eyes and began to weave through the standing stones counting her steps. Two more times around and she stopped, facing the East standing stone.

  The moment she stepped within the circle, goose bumps raced up her arms and she shivered despite the warmth of the day. She approached the center offertory pedestal, turned, and knelt in front of it, giving a quick nod to Alex to begin his introduction.

  Alex’s baritone projected into the crowd, “Welcome. Join us in thanksgiving for th’ Spirits’ blessings. Lughnasadh is a summer harvest festival acknowledging and celebrating th’ fullness o’ life through th’ bounty tha’ th’ Divine provides. Th’ god Lugh created th’
day ta honor his mother, Eithne. Over th’ many centuries, celebrants ha’ used it ta honor their mother, Mother Earth, for she is th’ source o’ all sustenance. ‘Tis a time for purification and th’ release o’ pain, fear, sadness, ta allow a true renewal o’ self ta bloom. Our priestess,” turning to indicate Brenawyn, “is symbolic o’ each o’ us in adoration. She is committed ta her own purification and self-renewal, and by extension, ta ours.

  “She will first call each spirit in turn ta acknowledge their power and favor in procuring th’ harvest, placing a candle for each as a sign o’ respect. Th’ flame will remember our prayer, and th’ crystal placed at th’ base o’ each will hold it bound. After, she will offer sacrifice—an offering o’ th’ Earth’s bounty, and finally, she will pray for th’ continued good will o’ th’ Spirits throughout th’ next phase o’ our year.”

  Stopping directly in front of her, Alex gave a wink and melted back into the crowd. Brenawyn took another moment to gather courage and stood, approaching the North-facing stone. Gathering up the hem of the dress, she knelt and ran a hand along the blue veined surface of the stone. It felt cool, smooth, and unyielding.

  Courage.

  Raising her arms above her head to the open sky above, her voice rang out in the gathering silence. “I acknowledge the North Spirit, who gives us true bearing, guiding and calling us home. I call to the wind, who lives companionably with the North giving us life-sustaining air to breathe.” She reached for the amethyst. “I summon both to this circle. Let this crystal be forever etched with our plea.” Placing it gently at the base she reached for the matches. “And the flame of the candle mark our prayer.”

  She tore a match from the book and struck it against the strip on the cardboard. It lit briefly, only to be guttered by a breeze, but before she had the chance to strike the match again, the crowd gasped. She glanced up, distracted, and glanced around at the scene beyond the stones. Wind beat against the spectators. Most were bent against the gale, sheltering small children, her grandmother and Alex stood in a similar position, Alex hunched protectively over her, blocking much of the wind. They squinted from the gusts as their clothes plastered themselves to their bodies. Both were staring directly at her.

  The wind continued to batter them, but her robes were still. The wind whipped round and round, building momentum. There was a scream from somewhere in the crowd, babies crying here, people running for cover there. With a deep whoosh the wind changed; rushing from every direction and from all angles it entered the circle. The stones hummed as it passed their threshold and rocketed past her, the edges of her robe snapping against bare legs.

  The wind converged on the offertory pedestal in front of her, and the wicks of the three white candles positioned there, blazed to life with five foot flames. Brenawyn whipped her head around, finding Alex as he bent down to whisper something in her grandmother’s ear. She twisted to hear him and then both looked at her in unison with equal expressions of consternation and nodded stiffly.

  She continued to look toward, not understanding what they wanted her to do. Finding no answer in their stern faces, she assessed. The wind was strange, but nothing, no one, was harmed. What could it hurt but to continue with this bit of theatre? “Come and reside with us, rejoicing in the coming harvest.”

  A force hit the flames from above, compressing them to pinpoints, painfully bright. A silent blast wave emanating from the three white flames rocked her back as it rolled over her. Brenawyn heard a whoosh and lifted her head in time to see all the candles around the circle were lit.

  She stumbled to her feet, retreating from the North stone, the overturned basket forgotten. She took a couple of steps backward, but froze. That wasn’t smart, heading toward ground zero. No. She moved in the opposite direction, intent on getting out. The demonstration was over, but as she neared, the candles’ flames leapt, morphing the height of the stones. She cringed, fearing being burned. Brenawyn saw her grandmother standing now, clutching Alex’s arm, both were mouthing something.

  Why couldn’t she hear them? She whipped her head around, straining. Why couldn’t she hear anyone? It was only a couple of dozen feet. She ran closer. What were they saying?

  Finish it? She shook her head not understanding. Finish what? Alex leaned over to hook Maggie’s arm, dragging her toward him. Maggie looked startled, but agreed to whatever he had said to her and took his place, placing a hand under Nana’s arm and freeing Alex to approach the circle.

  Brenawyn stepped closer, flinching as she passed close to the candles, afraid of a possible flare up. She reached out as Alex approached, but there was something in the way. Smooth, cool—glass?

  It can’t be. It’s impossible. Again and again, she tried, more forceful each time, until she was beating on an invisible wall, panic-stricken. Alex put out a hand and was met with the same obstacle. She saw awareness dawn on his face, and he motioned for her to stop. He bowed his head then braced his hands on the stones that stood an arm span’s distance apart on either side of him.

  He lifted his head and Brenawyn stumbled back in shock when iridescent eyes matching the emblazoned tattoos on his chest met hers. She could hear him, only him: “Brenawyn, finish it. Finish th’ incantation. Do it noo.”

  She took several steps backward and turned to run, casting glances over her shoulder at him. She gathered the basket and the strewn rocks and turned toward the South standing stone. She plopped the bloodstone at the base with no theatricality, then stole a quick look at her grandmother for affirmation. Nana sat in the wheelchair, her white knuckled hands gripping her knees. Alex knelt beside her with his right arm tense on the armrest of the chair. He looked ready to spring.

  “I acknowledge the South Spirit, who awakens us to the promise and surprise of a new day. I call to the Earth, who provides a continual food source and the very ground we walk on. Let the flame stand as sentinel and this crystal be etched with our plea. I summon both to this circle. Come and reside with us, rejoicing in the coming harvest.”

  The flame of the South plinth burned green and the stone at the ground glowed. At once birds sang in chorus accompanied by the natural sounds from the various fauna in the surrounding park rising to an almost ear-piercing cacophony. Glancing around, members of the remaining crowd were holding their ears and small children cried. Hundreds of sparrows flew into the circle, bobbing and weaving throughout the pattern. The birds flew around the perimeter, following the same path of the wind, and at an unseen signal, the flock pumped their wings to gain altitude, clearing the top of the stones, flying higher above the circle. Still in sight, the flock undulated and soft downy feathers rained down as the birds molted in unison.

  The featherless wings stopped flapping, sending bodies plummeting toward the ground. It was so quick that if Brenawyn had blinked she might have missed it. The motionless wings multiplied with a tearing, two wings became four. Orange and black scales grew out of the plucked skin to overlap as they settled to cover the new wing structure. She squinted to get a better view…butterflies! Thousands of butterflies fluttered up on a breeze born in the South, mere inches before the first would have smashed against the earth.

  They flitted about her, alighting in her hair, on her shoulders, chest, knees, and hands. She giggled as one brushed the side of her neck. In concert, those that had taken momentary refuge on her, lifted off at one time and congregated on the pedestal. They covered the platform and the candle entirely, posed there for a fraction of a second, and again took flight simultaneously, leaving a steady green flame burning behind.

  A warmth radiated from her chest and fear was forgotten. Brenawyn regained her feet and strode to the West-facing stone. She knelt in front of it and placed the blue tourmaline at the base of the pedestal. “I acknowledge the West Spirit, who gives us comforting warmth and encourages us to seek new adventures. I call to the Water, who quenches our thirst and heals our wounds. Let the flame stand as sentinel and this crystal be etched with our plea. I summon both to this circle. Come and
reside with us, rejoicing in the coming harvest.”

  Thunder boomed and lightning crackled across the sky as ominous storm clouds rolled in. As she finished the summons, the sky opened up in a maelstrom, pelting fat raindrops on the heads of the assembled audience, drenching them in seconds. Lightning struck trees on the perimeter of the park, sending limbs crashing to the ground, but now no one moved.

  The candle’s flame was still alive, if only a pinprick. But it flared likes sparks struck from flint when the punishing rain gave way to drizzle. Larger and more persistent it grew, despite the moisture in the air, spattering her and the entire circle in rainbows.

  She lifted her hand, mesmerized by the prismatic colors of the kaleidoscopic candle on the plinth and the stone beyond. Perhaps this is what the world looks like from inside a diamond, she thought as her sleeve fell back to reveal the same effect across her skin.

  Am I stone? Diamond? The same?

  A heaviness crept into her limbs and the circle tilted drunkenly as Brenawyn gained her feet. Shifting patterns of color floated in front of her and swirled together in her wake. In front of the last stone, she fell to her knees, drawing out of the basket the obsidian and placing it reverently at the foot of the East-facing stone.

  “I acknowledge the East Spirit, who gives us rest for our weary bodies to replenish our minds so we can again work the wonders of the Ways. I call to the Fire, who warms our hearth allowing us sight in the dark, and who is the full cycle of birth, destruction, and rebirth. Let the flame stand as sentinel, and this stone be etched with our plea. I summon both to this circle. Come and reside with us, rejoicing in the coming harvest.”

  From somewhere beyond the surrounding shimmer and the perimeter of the stones, a flash of intense heat and light—different, harsh and more direct—burned away the dancing colors. She felt a matching heat at her back and turned to see a high flame spouting from the reflecting basin situated in the center of the circle. The flames jumped and caught in the high grass ringing the pedestal. Spreading outward in a concentric circle, the flames grew, consuming the green tender blades of grass.