The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) by Morgan Llywelyn Page A
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
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child to her for nursing without speaking to her.
As dawn broke over the mountains, the elders of the tribe and the members of the druii met together in solemn council to discuss the fate of the unfortunate young woman. She was the mother of a living child, which weighed in her favor, though her firstborn was a girl and that was a negative sign. She might never bear warriors.
Poel spoke for the druii. “The spirits make existence possible for us; they provide us with fire and water and meat; they guide every step of our lives. If one of the people insults a spirit, all of the people are held responsible. We must act for the good of the tribe.”
“For the good of the tribe,” echoed the council.
Toutorix stood and held aloft the staff of authority that had been used just the evening before to referee kamanaht. Now it must serve a more serious function. Struck three times upon the ground as urged by the spirit within, it would make his word law that no member of the tribe dared break.
“The woman Brydda has insulted the spirit of the fire,” he intoned. “She must go to the land of the spirits and apologize on behalf of all of us.”
The council voted in unanimous assent. Okelos, waiting outside the council ring, heard the words of the lord of the tribe and saw the others raise their hands in agreement. He thought then of Brydda as she had been when he first brought her from the riverlands, a merry girl, laughing at everything he said, taking nothing seriously, bursting with life like a sapling tree. When she submitted to him he had felt like the strongest man alive.
I chose a foolish woman to be the mother of my children, he thought now, with regret. He wanted to smash his fist into something: the wall of the lodge or the face of an enemy.
The women set to work immediately to build a huge wicker basket. Kernunnos oversaw the work. “It must be in the shape of a flame,” he told them, “large at the bottom and narrow at the top. It will become the flame, in token of the sacrifice.”
Building the wicker basket took a full day. Meanwhile, Brydda crouched outside the lodge of the chief and no one spoke to her. No one met her eyes. She was given food and water but nothing else. Sirona, wife of Taranis, came to take her baby away, though there was an argument over that.
“We can raise the infant in our lodge or expose it, if that is what my son wishes,” Rigantona told Sirona. “This child is part of our family.”
“If you keep it, you have no human milk to give it,” Sirona pointed out.
“I might soon.”
Sirona raised her feathery dark eyebrows. Her hair was a pale silvery white, which had earned her the name of Star, but her brows were dark clouds over smoke-gray eyes. Epona had always thought her very beautiful, though she never said so within her mother’s hearing. “You will not have milk,” Sirona told Rigantona now. “You measure your age in winters, your breasts will not fill again. But look! I have plenty.” She pushed down the neck of her gown and lifted one plump breast for inspection, squeezing it so a few rich drops dribbled out. She was haughty in her triumph.
“Let her have it.” Okelos sighed wearily. He did not want
the baby of a foolish woman. “Just don’t let Brydda see you taking it away.”
Rigantona gave up; she had not really looked forward to raising another infant anyway. “The child is yours, then,” she told Sirona. “By the time she is grown enough to be worth the gifts of young men I will probably be safely in the nextworld; I would get no benefit from her.”
When the wicker basket was finished the druii began their work. Throughout the night they burned fires and chanted. They danced the ancient patterns and sang the ancient songs. Their voices carried across the village and many a woman lay awake in the night, glancing at her own wifefire occasionally to be certain the coals were still glowing.
At dawn the full tribe assembled except for the women who
As dawn broke over the mountains, the elders of the tribe and the members of the druii met together in solemn council to discuss the fate of the unfortunate young woman. She was the mother of a living child, which weighed in her favor, though her firstborn was a girl and that was a negative sign. She might never bear warriors.
Poel spoke for the druii. “The spirits make existence possible for us; they provide us with fire and water and meat; they guide every step of our lives. If one of the people insults a spirit, all of the people are held responsible. We must act for the good of the tribe.”
“For the good of the tribe,” echoed the council.
Toutorix stood and held aloft the staff of authority that had been used just the evening before to referee kamanaht. Now it must serve a more serious function. Struck three times upon the ground as urged by the spirit within, it would make his word law that no member of the tribe dared break.
“The woman Brydda has insulted the spirit of the fire,” he intoned. “She must go to the land of the spirits and apologize on behalf of all of us.”
The council voted in unanimous assent. Okelos, waiting outside the council ring, heard the words of the lord of the tribe and saw the others raise their hands in agreement. He thought then of Brydda as she had been when he first brought her from the riverlands, a merry girl, laughing at everything he said, taking nothing seriously, bursting with life like a sapling tree. When she submitted to him he had felt like the strongest man alive.
I chose a foolish woman to be the mother of my children, he thought now, with regret. He wanted to smash his fist into something: the wall of the lodge or the face of an enemy.
The women set to work immediately to build a huge wicker basket. Kernunnos oversaw the work. “It must be in the shape of a flame,” he told them, “large at the bottom and narrow at the top. It will become the flame, in token of the sacrifice.”
Building the wicker basket took a full day. Meanwhile, Brydda crouched outside the lodge of the chief and no one spoke to her. No one met her eyes. She was given food and water but nothing else. Sirona, wife of Taranis, came to take her baby away, though there was an argument over that.
“We can raise the infant in our lodge or expose it, if that is what my son wishes,” Rigantona told Sirona. “This child is part of our family.”
“If you keep it, you have no human milk to give it,” Sirona pointed out.
“I might soon.”
Sirona raised her feathery dark eyebrows. Her hair was a pale silvery white, which had earned her the name of Star, but her brows were dark clouds over smoke-gray eyes. Epona had always thought her very beautiful, though she never said so within her mother’s hearing. “You will not have milk,” Sirona told Rigantona now. “You measure your age in winters, your breasts will not fill again. But look! I have plenty.” She pushed down the neck of her gown and lifted one plump breast for inspection, squeezing it so a few rich drops dribbled out. She was haughty in her triumph.
“Let her have it.” Okelos sighed wearily. He did not want
the baby of a foolish woman. “Just don’t let Brydda see you taking it away.”
Rigantona gave up; she had not really looked forward to raising another infant anyway. “The child is yours, then,” she told Sirona. “By the time she is grown enough to be worth the gifts of young men I will probably be safely in the nextworld; I would get no benefit from her.”
When the wicker basket was finished the druii began their work. Throughout the night they burned fires and chanted. They danced the ancient patterns and sang the ancient songs. Their voices carried across the village and many a woman lay awake in the night, glancing at her own wifefire occasionally to be certain the coals were still glowing.
At dawn the full tribe assembled except for the women who
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