deathteaching, so it will be his first experience. Take him, Aberth.” The chief druid surrendered me to the sacrificer and turned away.
Aberth’s lodge was as crammed with objects as Menua’s was free of them. On a shelf stood a long row of stoppered containers. Winter-in-a-bome, my head surmised. Various types of knives, finely honed, were fitted into slotted containers of yew wood. Following the direction of my eyes, Aberth said, “Yew is the wood of rebirth. A yew’s branches grow down and into the earth to form new trunks while the center of the tree rots away with age. No man can tell the age of a yew, since it is dying and being reborn simultaneously. Sacred is the yew, which is why we use a club of yew wood for the blow of mercy to stun a sacrifice before the knife.”
He selected a blade from its holder and ran his thumb caressingly along the edge. A thin red line appeared. Tiny drops oozed. Aberth licked them from his thumb with dreamy eyes.
The sacrificer showed me every knife in his extensive collection, explaining how one was specially designed to be driven into the back of a heavily muscled man—“so he will fall forward on his face and our diviner can read his death throes without being
distracted by his facial grimaces.” Another knife, smaller and finer, was for the tender throat of a baby goat. The curved blade with the gold hilt was reserved for the sacrifice of the Oak’s Child, the tumor-shrinking mistletoe.
When I had examined, with an inner revulsion, me entire assortment, Aberth squinted at me and folded his arms. “Now you tell me, Ainvar. Use your intuition. Which of these would be most
66 Morgan Llywelyn
appropriate for the Senones, the prisoners of war who were not willing to die in battle?”
I had no idea. The voice in my head told me nothing. How does one kill thirty people at once? In my all-too-vivid imagination Aberth stalked among bound and kneeling victims, scything them down until he waded in a sea of blood.
He read the sickened conjecture in my eyes and laughed. k ‘You will not make a sacrificer, Ainvar, no matter what other talents you may possess. But you will assist anyway; in a ritual of this magnitude we need everyone.
“As it happens, I shall not be using any of my beautiful blades. The Senones lost their courage or they would not have allowed themselves to be captured alive. We shall give them an opportunity to correct the balance, a second chance to meet death in heroic style. Theirs will be the glory of returning to the Source on wings of fire!”
Aberth’s face was radiant, his voice resonant. He seemed to envy the Senones the death he had planned for them.
I, however, was appalled. “You’re going to bum them alive? All of them?”
“You don’t understand, do you?” he asked almost pityingly. “Sacrifice is not an act of cruelty, Ainvar. The most gifted sacrificer is the one who can release the spirit from the body with the least pain. When a person, or an animal, dies in agony, its spirit is dazed and confused.
“Remember that the purpose of sacrifice is to return a spirit to its Creator as an act of propitiation, always. And remember, fur-thermore, that every spirit is a part of that Creator-If we send one of its own parts back to the Source frightened and bewildered, we are insulting the very power we wish to propitiate.
“Therefore the Senones will bum, but they will not suffer. I am the best sacrificer in Gaul. Before the prisoners go to the fire they will be given myrrii in wine to drink to dull their senses and enlarge their courage. Then they will be placed in wicker cages raised high above the ground. Certain powders thrown into the flames will thicken the smoke and suffocate the capdves before the fire reaches them. Knowing this will enable them to face death more bravely, so the bards of the Senones can sing of them afterward with pride.”
To hold the prisoners, three massive cages were built of osiers
lashed together with
Aberth’s lodge was as crammed with objects as Menua’s was free of them. On a shelf stood a long row of stoppered containers. Winter-in-a-bome, my head surmised. Various types of knives, finely honed, were fitted into slotted containers of yew wood. Following the direction of my eyes, Aberth said, “Yew is the wood of rebirth. A yew’s branches grow down and into the earth to form new trunks while the center of the tree rots away with age. No man can tell the age of a yew, since it is dying and being reborn simultaneously. Sacred is the yew, which is why we use a club of yew wood for the blow of mercy to stun a sacrifice before the knife.”
He selected a blade from its holder and ran his thumb caressingly along the edge. A thin red line appeared. Tiny drops oozed. Aberth licked them from his thumb with dreamy eyes.
The sacrificer showed me every knife in his extensive collection, explaining how one was specially designed to be driven into the back of a heavily muscled man—“so he will fall forward on his face and our diviner can read his death throes without being
distracted by his facial grimaces.” Another knife, smaller and finer, was for the tender throat of a baby goat. The curved blade with the gold hilt was reserved for the sacrifice of the Oak’s Child, the tumor-shrinking mistletoe.
When I had examined, with an inner revulsion, me entire assortment, Aberth squinted at me and folded his arms. “Now you tell me, Ainvar. Use your intuition. Which of these would be most
66 Morgan Llywelyn
appropriate for the Senones, the prisoners of war who were not willing to die in battle?”
I had no idea. The voice in my head told me nothing. How does one kill thirty people at once? In my all-too-vivid imagination Aberth stalked among bound and kneeling victims, scything them down until he waded in a sea of blood.
He read the sickened conjecture in my eyes and laughed. k ‘You will not make a sacrificer, Ainvar, no matter what other talents you may possess. But you will assist anyway; in a ritual of this magnitude we need everyone.
“As it happens, I shall not be using any of my beautiful blades. The Senones lost their courage or they would not have allowed themselves to be captured alive. We shall give them an opportunity to correct the balance, a second chance to meet death in heroic style. Theirs will be the glory of returning to the Source on wings of fire!”
Aberth’s face was radiant, his voice resonant. He seemed to envy the Senones the death he had planned for them.
I, however, was appalled. “You’re going to bum them alive? All of them?”
“You don’t understand, do you?” he asked almost pityingly. “Sacrifice is not an act of cruelty, Ainvar. The most gifted sacrificer is the one who can release the spirit from the body with the least pain. When a person, or an animal, dies in agony, its spirit is dazed and confused.
“Remember that the purpose of sacrifice is to return a spirit to its Creator as an act of propitiation, always. And remember, fur-thermore, that every spirit is a part of that Creator-If we send one of its own parts back to the Source frightened and bewildered, we are insulting the very power we wish to propitiate.
“Therefore the Senones will bum, but they will not suffer. I am the best sacrificer in Gaul. Before the prisoners go to the fire they will be given myrrii in wine to drink to dull their senses and enlarge their courage. Then they will be placed in wicker cages raised high above the ground. Certain powders thrown into the flames will thicken the smoke and suffocate the capdves before the fire reaches them. Knowing this will enable them to face death more bravely, so the bards of the Senones can sing of them afterward with pride.”
To hold the prisoners, three massive cages were built of osiers
lashed together with
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