The Sword of Light - Chapter 9

Birg lived in a secluded corner of the second peak of Loch Coill. Her roundhouse was small, little more than a hut, nestled beside the greater byre where she and her disciples brewed the golden ale for feastdays and desiccated sacred herbs. Apiaries and gardens surrounded the buildings like a hedge. It made the garden near Eira’s home look paltry by comparison, though the two yards served different purposes.

As Ferin approached, he could see a group of young famuli in white robes tending the gardens. Their faces were drawn and expressionless as they went about their duties in meditative silence. Ferin ignored them, and they paid him no heed as he opened the door to Birg’s home and entered unannounced and uninvited. “Birg,” he called, voice strained with desperation. He cleared his throat, ashamed. “Druidess, I have need of you.”

The inside of Birg’s home was stifling. The windowless building was lit by dozens of beeswax candles that took up residence on tables, shelves, and floor alike, filling the air with a stifling heat and cloying sweet smell. Bone charms hung sporadically from the rafters, forcing Ferin to duck in order to preserve his eyes. Tapestries covered the walls wherever shelves did not, making the space seem cramped and uncomfortable. Whatever surfaces were not taken up by candles held herbs, poultices, feastday maskseach more disturbing than the last, vials, bottles, and jars. On one high shelf, in a place of great honour, rested a wickedly curved golden sickle.

“Birg,” Ferin called again. Some of the conviction had fled from his voice.

From a behind a thick tapestry hung with multi-coloured glass beads, emerged Birg. She was a woman of indeterminable ageolder than most, but not quite venerable. Her face was an ageless mask, brown and leathery from years spent in the sun and battered by all manner of weather. The only indication of her age were the lines tugged at her thin, frowning lips, and at the edges of her dark eyes. Runes and other tattoos covered her from the top of her bald pate, to the bottoms of her bare feet, giving her an otherworldly look. At times, Ferin found it difficult to look upon her overlong. He could not recall a time he had ever seen the woman with hair or shoes. Anklets of beads and stones encircled each of her ankles and criss-crossed the arches of her feet to loop around her middle toes. The bottoms of her feet were hard and grey with callouses that looked more like stones. Each black-nailed finger was tattooed with a different rune on each knuckle, and bore a simple silver ring. Bracelets of leather and beads encircled each wrist several times so that she made sound wherever she went. She was dressed in the white robes of her station, the middle synched with a plain length of rope.

Her eyes were heavy with the ash she used to darken her visage, but when they met his Ferin could see that no amount of ash could dim the light in those black eyes.

“I have been expecting you,” she said. Her voice was a dry, rasping thing, and yet somehow rich, melodic. She had a slow, patient way of speaking. Words seeped from her mouth as though made of warm honey. Though Birg had borne no children, her voice had a surprisingly matronly tone to it. It seemed impossible that such a comforting voice should come from a woman so disproportionately eerie.

A low table took the place of a hearth in the centre of the house, wreathed by furs and pillows where people might sit. She indicated the space with a slow gesture. “Sit,” she offered. Ferin sat, crossing his legs before him. Birg sunk to her knees across from him with a fluid motion that seemed impossible for someone of her supposed agewhatever it was.

“How?” Ferin asked, blinking. “How did you know I would be coming?”

“I did not know the time or the day,” Birg admitted. “Only that you had been gone, and that when you returned, you would come.”

Ferin licked his lips in a nervous gesture. “What happened to me?” he asked, anxiously.

Birg gave him a significant look. “That is not something I can answer for you. It is an answer you must find for yourself.”

Ferin slammed his fist on the table is a sudden explosion of anger. “That’s not good enough!” he shouted, despite himself. Birg said nothing. She had not jumped or moved at his outburst. Her expression remained a calm mask of passivity. Ferin felt a wave of shame wash over him under her gaze. He bowed his head, licking his lips again.

“Forgive me,” he said, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. “I amnot myself. I need to know what happened to me.”

Birg nodded. “I cannot answer that for you,” she repeated, “but I can set you on the path where you will find your answers.”

“Yes,” Ferin said quickly. “Please!”

Birg raised a hand in a pacifying gesture. “A word of caution. This journey will not be a pleasant one. There will be pain, and you may not like what you see at the end of the road. It may be kinder to leave yourself in darkness.”

Ferin frowned, weighing her words. What if she was right? There was no knowing what had happened to him in those three days. For all he knew, the truth was so horrible that his mind had shut the memories away in some dark, secret place where he was never meant to look.

Yet it was the not knowing that tormented himnot being able to trust himself or put Ceridwyn’s fears to rest. He had to know.

He met Birg’s eyes and tried to compose himself as seriously as he could. “Help me,” he said.

Birg looked grave, but gave a single nod of acquiescence.

Ferin reclined on a mat of straw and wool in a corner of Birg’s home. A dish of incense burned nearby, filling the space with a heady aroma that made Ferin feel tired and dizzy. He felt warm, content, relaxed. His belly was full of a bitter tea that Birg had bade him drink. It made his body feel heavy and strange. He was ready to fall into a deep slumber by the time Birg leaned over him. She had three small vials of liquid in her handone a sickly green, the other a dark red, and the third the dull yellow of bile.

“This will not be easy on you,” she warned him not for the first time. “It is not too late to change your mind. Once I begin, there will be no turning back.”

Even in his euphoric state, Ferin shook his head. “Do as you must,” he told her thickly.

Birg nodded. She set the three vials next to her and used her thumb to lift his eye lid. She took up the green vial first and poured a single drop into his eye.

It burned with a fire that seared across his vision and drew a startled cry of pain from his lips. “What is that?” Ferin demanded, digging the heel of his hand into his eye, shut tight against the pain. He had half a mind to tear the thing from its socket to relieve himself.

“You must endure,” Birg told him without sympathy. “The rite has begun. It is too late to go back now.”

Ferin grit his teeth, and forced himself to be still as Birg put a drop into his other eye. Next came the red vial, and then the yelloweach drop more painful than the last. Ferin was sure he would go blind from the tinctures. The pain was unbearable, but it was no less than what he had asked for.

When she was done, Ferin found himself gasping for breath, clenching his fists as she tried to keep from rubbing his eyes.

“Breathe,” Birg instructed him. She guided him through several deep breaths, her matronly tone lulling Ferin as he breathed deeply. The pain, slowly, subsided, and Ferin found himself once more in a state of clam and listlessness. It felt like falling asleep.

“Be at ease, young warrior,” Birg said, but she sounded far away, her voice echoing. “Let the dream take you where it will.”

Ferin tried to speak, but his mouth felt thick and clumsy. He didn’t know when he closed his eyes, but it felt blissful to float in darkness and dream.

His body was heavy.

Leave it behind, said a voice without sound or inflection. Ferin couldn’t imagine why he shouldn’t. He was lightweightless. His body would only hold him back. He drifted up and away, floating endlessly upwards on the gentle winds of dreams.

His mind drifted backwards and into memory.