Dead. Maximilian glared at the wilted mistletoe in disbelief. He poked and prodded the plant. It lay there tired and limp. He had cared for the sacred plant for a year. The Ancestors had trusted him to follow their orders. Find a wife—a soul mate. How difficult could it be? All he needed to do was visit the eligible women and choose one. He slammed his fist onto the rough oak table and bellowed his anger to the empty room. Dishes skidded and crashed to the floor. The lifeless shrub didn’t move. It didn’t change. It sat where he’d put it—robust and healthy—the night before. Now the crumpled brown leaves and withered white berries silently screamed his failure.
He could think of no reason why it hadn’t survived. He kept staring at the shriveled plant expecting—no, commanding—it to spring to life. It didn’t. He raked his hand through his hair. Everything he’d worked and trained for over the years was lost. He closed his eyes and traveled to that quiet place deep in his mind where he drew his inner strength. One deep breath, then another. His pounding heart took on a more natural rhythm. The reality of his situation hung on his shoulders like an ox’s yoke.
“What’s happened? I heard a loud crash.” Doward rushed into the cottage and scanned the debris on the floor.
Max didn’t trust his voice. He shot the druid councilman a look and pointed to the plant on the table. He registered Doward’s unreadable expression and let out a quiet snort. Perhaps that was best. He was grateful his mentor didn’t show his disappointment. Doward, too, had warned him.
“One year.” Max tipped up his chin and struck a congenial tone. “I’ll wager no other Grand Master was forced to relinquish his position after only one year.” He turned away, not wanting to see his close friend’s disappointment.
“Well,” Doward said. “There was Elgon in the year sixty.”
Max’s head popped up. He hadn’t expected Doward to respond. The question had been rhetorical.
“You appear to have forgotten your elementary history lessons.” Doward stood shaking an old, crooked finger at him.
Max’s mouth opened and closed like a beached fish gasping for air. Only Doward had the nerve, the audacity, to reprimand him. Doward and the Ancestors. He couldn’t forget the Ancestors. They had the ultimate power over him.
“Yes, but the Roman invaders killed Elgon at Anglesey.” Max’s distraction was momentary. He leaned on the table and looked Doward in the eye. “They did not depose him because he couldn’t find his soul mate and give her the sacred mistletoe before it died.” He straightened, stepped to the cottage door, and stared out at the day but didn’t appreciate its sunshine or enjoy the invigorating coolness of the December morning. He turned to Doward. “It simply proves the council made the wrong choice.”
“Nonsense.” Doward picked up the stray crockery from the floor and set it back on the table. “The council did not make an error. You, my boy,” he strode over to Max and clapped him soundly on the back, “were by far the right choice.”
“It isn’t that I haven’t been searching for the woman.” He saw the compassion in Doward’s eyes. “Surely the Ancestors know I’ve done that.” Even he detected the pleading in his voice and groaned at his weakness.
“Yes, yes.” Doward waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Every eligible woman in the village has gone under your scrutiny.”
“Every eligible woman in the village treated me kindly but none were interested in getting close.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Even when speaking simple pleasantries they avoided looking at me and stepped away.” He tried to conceal his frustration but his throat tightened and his voice rose the more he spoke of the women’s reactions.
“Perhaps you should have cast a wider net.” Doward’s tone had turned serious.
Max seethed, having to explain his actions to Doward. “You of all people should know there were more important things that needed to be done.”
“But I don’t think—”
“Yes, I know,” Max interrupted. “You don’t think the woman is someone I know or is even amongst the villagers.” He glanced at his teacher and softened his voice. “What was I to do? Go from village to village and give every available maiden the mistletoe and see if it thrived?”
“And now? What now?” Doward asked in a gentle tone.
Max turned from the door and sat next to the warm hearth. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands as if he sought to overcome a night of too much drink. “I don’t know,” he whispered. He did know that while he found some of the women beautiful and even enticing, none was his soul mate.
“The ritual of Alban Arthan is tomorrow. You are the Grand Master.” Doward stood at Max’s shoulder. “It’s time for you to travel and meet with the Ancestors in the Otherworld. Only you can carry back their guidance and inspiration for the coming year. And you will have to tell them you haven’t found your mate.”
“I’m aware,” he snapped and regretted his outburst. “Yes,” he softened his tone. “I know what I must do.” Of course he did. He’d been responsible for the annual ritual for the past five years—four years when he was a high druid and this past year as the Grand Master. Every year was the same. Except last year, they’d presented him with the sacred mistletoe and charged him with finding his soul mate.
“I will go and gather what we need for our journey,” Doward offered. “We’ve delayed as long as we can. I’ve asked one of the families who set off yesterday to prepare our campsite. But we must leave today.”
Max lifted his head and flashed the man a weak smile. “Aye, you go on. I have a few more things to gather. I’ll join you shortly.”
Doward regarded him thoroughly. After a few seconds he squeezed Max’s shoulder. “We will get through this.” His mentor took his leave.
He glanced again at the shriveled plant. It had the power to heal everything but itself, it seemed. Doward was right, of course. He would get through this. But would he still be the Grand Master, or reduced to a druid councilman, a priest, or, worse—exiled? He had delayed in order to search his vast library to prepare himself for the consequences and realized he would have the distinction of being the only Grand Master to fail when tasked by the Ancestors. He shuddered inwardly at the idea of failure. It was something he had no practice in.
“Well.” He slapped his hands on his knees and rose. He must see this through. He doused the fire, grabbed his half-full pack, and filled it with provisions.
He picked up his warding stones. Perhaps the Ancestors would allow him to train his successor. His chest tightened at the thought. He held the warding stones over the opening of the pouch. But what if the Ancestors had been wrong? He threw the small bundle into his kit and stared at the plant. Somewhere deep inside, a different answer sought light. He turned the problem over in his mind until the solution finally burst through the haze. He smiled at its simplicity and truth. He would go to the Otherworld. Give the Ancestors the withered mistletoe. And tell them he passed their test. There was no soul mate for him.
He carefully wrapped the mistletoe in a clean cloth and put the package into his pouch. Feeling better than he had all morning, he drew on his long wool cloak and closed the cottage door behind him.
“We better hurry along,” Doward said, seated on a gelding ready to leave. He searched the sky and rubbed his hands together. “The day grows long and we have a ways to go before we reach Avebury.”
Max mounted his horse and together they left the yard. “When you returned from your summer trip to the north, you mentioned the Northern Clan would be joining us this year. I will be glad to see them again.”
“Yes, it’s always good to see old friends and how their families have grown. The fever struck the clan hard last year. They have suffered many losses. A new healer has settled with them and has been able to help them greatly. When I was there the elder told me he was looking forward to attending this year’s ritual. He wants to give thanks to the Great Mother Earth, as he should. He also wants to present the healer to you, for acceptance into his clan.”
“Their healer doesn’t need my acceptance. Who they choose is up to them.”
“Yes, but your acceptance will be an honor for them. It would be good to agree to their request.”
“Politics.” Max’s voice held a hint of disapproval. “I don’t have time to play those petty games. Nor do I want people cozying up to me thinking they can influence my decisions.”
“You do it quite well. Play politician, that is.” Doward rode on quietly.
Max didn’t find politics difficult. He had a natural knack for strategy and negotiating. If he admitted it, he thrived on being a leader. But today he wanted to get things done. He didn’t want to smile or be nice. No. He wanted to get past this…distraction. He closed his eyes and murmured a short prayer for guidance and for a sign.
The two druid travelers rode up the rise. Before they turned down the wide avenue of oaks Max shifted in his saddle to view his domain—his hearth and home. Satisfied all was in good order, he focused on the trail in front of them and headed northwest toward Avebury.
***
“Healer,” yelled Fendrel, elder of the Northern Clan. The women watched his pacing silhouette from inside their temporary tent. His very pregnant wife, Dimia, peered into the healer’s eyes.
“It must be late in the day,” Dimia said, lying back on the makeshift pallet.
“Don’t fret about the day,” Ellyn said as she wrung out the cloth. “It will take care of itself.” The healer put the cool cloth on Dimia’s forehead. Certain all was well, Ellyn observed the restless shadow on the tent wall. Will not the man leave us in peace so we can get our work done?
“How long have we been here? A full day?” The expectant mother ripped off the cloth and flung the rag to the ground. “And still the baby has not birthed.” Drenched in sweat, she tried to sit up.
Ellyn stopped her struggle with a touch on the woman’s shoulder. The silent signal registered.
“Ellyn, he’ll not wait any longer. He’s determined to get to the ritual before the ceremony begins. If this baby doesn’t come soon the child will simply have to wait until we get to Avebury.” Dimia, exhausted more from worrying about her husband than the birth of her first baby, fell back against the pallet.
Ellyn hummed faintly, rinsed out the cloth in the basin filled with melting snow and before she replaced it, tenderly pressed a kiss on the woman’s forehead. Already this baby defied his father. She briefly wondered if this was any indication of what the future would bring.
“Healer,” Fendrel shouted again.
Ellyn looked from Dimia to the tent flap. Did the man care about his wife? She turned back to her patient whose eyes were half-closed. “Rest easy. I’ll be right back.”
She put on her cloak and picked up her walking staff. Her hand was ready to push the tent flap aside but she hesitated. “The baby will be a boy,” she said over her shoulder. “He will be more like his mother than his father.”
A smile spread across Dimia’s face. “His father isn’t so bad.” She closed her eyes and took a much-needed rest.
Ellyn stepped out into the forest clearing. The clean, crisp air rushed at her. Snow fell gently and swirled around her. Lacy flakes dusted her face. The cool sensation was a welcome relief after the overly warm and cramped sanctuary.
“Finally.” Fendrel hurried toward her. “There are only three hours of sunlight left. We have to leave now. We must be there by nightfall.” He grabbed her elbow and started to pull her along.
Ellyn yanked her arm away and gave him her best scowl. “Dimia cannot be moved. You could cause great harm to her or the baby, maybe even both, if you moved them now.”
A look of indifference colored his face. “One of the other women can bring them along later.”
Ellyn raised to her full five feet eight inches and glared at the man. “Fendrel. You are the one who demanded she come to the ritual even though I warned against it. You insisted. Now you will abandon her?” Even she could hear the irritation in her voice.
“Take care, healer. I don’t take kindly to your bold speech.” He paced in front of her rubbing his chin.
His reprimand didn’t faze her. She stood silently and waited.
Still pacing, he wagged his finger in the air. “We’ll take her with us in the wagon.”
“You will not.”
Fendrel turned and faced her. “What did you say?”
At the dangerous softening of his voice, she had no doubt she’d gone too far, but she wouldn’t let him jeopardize the woman and child.
“You take her to the Alban Arthan ritual in order to show the other clan chiefs your young, fertile bride,” she said, determination in her voice. “Arriving with her and your son dead will only suggest you cannot protect them.” His eyes widened at the mention of a son. She thought that would get his attention. He had six daughters by his late wife. She let her words sink in. A quick breeze scurried through the camp. The cold began to creep up her back. She drew her cloak closer.
“Ellyn,” Dimia cried.
Ellyn shot Fendrel a look clearly conveying her position was firm.
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Ellyn rushed to the woman, leaving the waiting father where he stood.
Hours later, with the sun sitting low on the horizon, Ellyn came out of the tent and placed Fendrel’s new son in his arms.
His eyes were fixed on the baby. “A son.” Ellyn didn’t miss the reverence in his voice.
“A healthy son and wife. A wife who will bear you more sons,” she added for good measure. “What will you name him?”
He gave Ellyn a perplexed look. “We have not thought of a name.” His eyes focused on the bundle in his arms and widened with pleasure when the babe yawned. “It will have to be a special name.”
“Yes, it will.” Perhaps Dimia was right. Fendrel wasn’t so bad.
“How is my son’s mother?” He strained to peer past the open tent flap into the darkened interior. “After her first outcry I heard nothing.”
Ellyn closed the flap. “She bore your son proudly.” She wasn’t going to tell him the woman bit down on a cloth to keep from screaming. Some things were best not said.
His chest puffed out like a barn rooster. “I knew the minute I caught a glimpse of her she would be a fine breeder.”
And here she thought it was Dimia’s large breasts and trim waist that’d caught his attention.
“Can I see her? Is she well?” He peered again at the tent.
“She is fine and needs some rest.” She didn’t miss the man’s tender tone. “Let the clan see your son.” She started to return to her patient, but hesitated and turned toward him. “You can start getting everyone ready to leave. We won’t be long.”
His clan gathered round him. “A boy,” he said and raised the baby for everyone to see.
Ellyn watched for a moment as Fendrel celebrated his new son. They would have to move swiftly before it got too dark to go on. He needed to get to Avebury. So did she.
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