Lion of Ireland by Morgan Llywelyn Page B

remembered seeing the last of that vanished species. “I wasn’t aware that there were actually any Druids left in Ireland.”
    “Oh, yes.” Fiona laughed. “There are a few of us, here and there. Not many. Camin ranks very high among us, for he can summon up the wind. He has all the old gifts; he can call down a rain of blood or of fire, he can put his spirit into an animal—a cat or fox, suchlike—and he can even put himself into the trees and see through their vision.”
    Brian stared at her. “That’s impossible!” But there was such absolute conviction in the level gaze that met his that he felt his own assurance falter slightly. He continued, uncertain now, “Nobody can really turn himself into a cat or a tree. I mean, I don’t think anyone can. Anyway, if Camin did do those things, he’d be committing terrible sins, because they’re evil. Blasphemous!”
    Fiona raised her brows. “You just say that because you don’t know anything about it.”
    “I certainly do! We studied the pagan religions, I even know the mythology of the Romans and Greeks.
    But the way of Christ is the only true way to salvation, and all others are traps and snares of the devil.”
    Even to his own ears that sounded a bit pompous, a singsong echo from the monastery classrooms he had so recently escaped.
    Fiona gave him an amused look. “Is that what you really believe?”
    “Of course it is.”
    “Don’t you know that your Christians fear the Old Religion because it has more power than theirs?
    Camin says they stole our holy days and even our sacred symbols, and put their names to them because their god wasn’t strong enough to have any of his own.”
    Brian was shocked at her interpretation of theological history. “That’s not the way it was at all! The wise men of the Church just saw that it would be easier to introduce the people to Christianity through concepts they already knew and accepted ...”
    “That’s the way they justified it, I suppose,” Fiona drawled. “But they can paint their Christianity over the old ways all they like; it will never change the truth of what’s underneath. We were here first. We know how to deal directly with the forces of the earth, if need be—at least wise ones like Camin do—rather than wait with folded hands for whatever the gods see fit to give us. If we need sun, or rain, or an early spring, we know how to ask for it, what sacrifices are required and what powers to invoke. We can speak directly to the plants and influence them, or to the fish in the streams and summon ( them to our nets. We believe that every living thing has an awareness of its own and is bounded by certain laws, and if I we work within those laws all creatures live in the harmony the gods intended.”
    “You think you still live in the Garden of Eden!”
    “I don’t know that place; is it in Munster?”
    Brian decided to try a different approach. The things she was telling him were strangely intriguing, but at the back of his mind he could picture his teachers at Clonmacnoise, standing with arms folded in rigid disapproval. “What about your sacrifices? I’ve been told that the Druids sacrificed humans, even burned some of them alive.”
    “I never saw that myself, so I can’t confirm or deny it. But I know that everything demands payment, a fair exchange, so I suppose each sacrifice was sanctioned by the gods as an ex- : act payment for the favor given. You cannot take a rich harvest from the soil without returning something to the Mother Earth of equal value. Besides, isn’t a big part of the Christian ritual the sacrifice of your god, and the eating of part of him?”
    Brian stared at her in horror. The rite of the Last Supper was a ceremony of mystery and beauty, sacred beyond all others, profound and pure. This girl was characterizing it as a grisly cannibal feast!
    But on some level of his mind he felt a shocked recognition of the aptness of her observation.
    “Of course, I cannot expect you