Éire’s Captive Moon (2 page)

My fear dissipates as I realize her eyes are merely a light shade of gray, more pale than old love. Though they lack color, the eyes are full of fire. She seems to be a queen, here in the underground den. Her garments, though wrinkled, are finely woven. Embroidered, they speak of wealth and rank among her people.

“What do you want?” I ask.

I don’t comprehend the sounds she makes in reply, though her eyes communicate eloquently.
You will help!
The command flashes in them, making sense in my mind and I find myself nodding without thinking.
 

She shifts her body against the earth and I see, in the eerie radiant darkness that surrounds her, the head of the baby she is trying to bring into the world. Still unsure as to whether this strange lady is even human, I move forward to help in the birthing, as I have helped hundreds of babes.
 

The woman moans—a despairing sound that barely reaches my ears. I focus on the small bit of life that seems to have to push its own way into my hands.

“Come,
cailín
,” I say in my best encouraging tone—the one I use with women exhausted after long labor. “Almost done. Let me just go find a shoulder . . .”

In the next moan, she pushes out a small head covered in blood and tissue. I grit my teeth as I search for the shoulder that would ease the rest of the delivery. Slick newborn skin meets my fingertips. “Ah,” I whisper, “there it is.”

With practiced ease, I shift the baby’s body and slide her the rest of the way out of her mother. I say
her
, for the infant is a girl-child, silent and still. This is worrisome.

There is nothing to wrap the baby in, so I shed my outer tunic and lay it on the dirt for the baby’s blanket. I’d clean her immediately, but her mother needs me most urgently.

Though I try, I cannot save her. She is not of the
bhaen sidhe
, after all.

The baby has not yet cried. I leave the wee child in the comparative warmth of her birthplace while I take the poor, pale mother to the surface.

My people of Ragor—my
rath
—have many beliefs. One is that the body is just a husk, a temporary residence for the spirit, the living breath of a person. Another is that we each are here to serve a purpose in life or in death, and all is subject to the whims of the Earth and her forces. When the breath of life has left the body, that body is just that . . . a body. What purpose does such have in the circle that is Destiny?

Meat. It is the natural way of things that meat provides nourishment to those seeking food. We do not, understand, consider men in this light. The meat of other creatures of Earth is here for our sustenance, as we are here for the sustenance of others. Thus is the balance maintained.

I brush my hands free of the lingering presence of the dead; the little girl needs me more than her mother. The babe is still wrapped in my tunic, her eyes open wide and looking around at the place in which she finds herself. Roots cling to the earthen ceiling above her, but she can’t see them, can she?

It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t dark. The little lass with the abundant crop of pale hair and large, solemn eyes—like her mother’s even at her birth—shines in the wolf’s den. Unnatural? I cannot say.

I am destined to preserve the lives I can. Here is a motherless girl-child and I will, of course, take her back to Ragor with me. She needs a wet nurse, to be sure, and someone will have to raise her. Train her.

I have a feeling about her. A feeling that she’ll need training of a special nature. Healing or leadership maybe. How complicated might her life be?

Overwhelmed, I bind the baby close to my skin to keep her warm aboveground. Here she nestles, wrapped in the leaf-hued tunic underneath my flax-shaded shirt and cloak. She watches my face with a most unusual concentration.

“What am I to do with you, wee one?” I whisper as the cold air hits us.

Odd as it seems, I half expect her to say something. No, I am not touched by the
sidhe
.

Is she?
 

Strangely, the animals avoid us as I carry her back to Ragor. I see only the white tails of the deer as they dart from us, hear only the whispers of tiny feet as the smallest of the forest dwellers seek refuge from the cold and mist. I feel almost as if I am in the Otherworld, mired in confusion and wonder about the babe in my arms.

I have children of my own, of course. My wife and I have had ten children together, five of whom reached adulthood, three of whom still live. These children and our many grandchildren are blessings to us. One cannot have too much proof that the Wheel still turns.

None of my children would be able to care for a newborn, as they were not nursing.

The smoke from the hearth-fires are hard to see in the mists as I come out of the trees. “Here we are,” I say to the girl, my breath gusting in a small patch in front of me.

“Achan!” My wife, Nuala, appears, so swathed in cloth that only one who knows her well could recognize her from a distance. “I wondered where you’d gone off to, man.” As we draw near to each other, I see the familiar way her dark eyes rake my body. Suspicious, concerned and curious. That’s my wife. “Hold there, Achan. What is it you’ve got there under your shirt?”

I smile at her tone. She thinks I’ve gone daft. Well, it is her right. “Now, woman, don’t go after me. You’d not guess what I have here in a full moon of summers.”

“Achan! I’ll clout your ears for you, healer that you are or no!”

“No, you won’t,” I say gently, putting one hand up in a placating manner. She calms down and I beckon her nearer. “Let me show you.” Slowly, I peel back the layers of cloth that shield the babe from the wintry air.

Nuala gasps. “By all that breathes, Achan, where did you find her?”

I relate the tale to her and she listens with an open mouth.

“We will take her,” Nuala states when I finish. She is the leader of our people and her words carry authority even to me, her husband. “Elspeth, poor lass, lost her babe only yesternight.”

“I forgot,” I admit, bending to nuzzle the pale child in my arms. “Elspeth will be a good nurse.”
 

 
Nuala’s lips appear firm as she takes the baby and stares into her face. “You, Achan, will have the raising of this girl-child.”

“Nuala, love, you are far more fit.”

Command sparks in her lined eyes, reminding me a bit of the mother who died just before. “No, you. I see her as a healer.”

Her words echo with unusual power within me. Here, then, is the reason I have outlived so many of my old friends, the reason I am still hale and whole, able to fulfill my duties as Healer.

I caress the baby’s soft cheek and marvel at the turn the Wheel has taken.

For two years, I have tried to name the child. She has begun to learn of the plants I use to heal, and she has watched as I help those who need me. We have called her Bright One most often, but that is not a true name and we know it.
 

This morning we have a visitor here in Ragor, a learnéd man from over the sea who has been telling stories of the far lands he has seen. Bright One toddles in the door from the garden to meet him—smiling her very first smile when she sees his face.

Our visitor makes a startled sound. “She’s a child of light and grace. What is her name?”

I smile, abashed. “I have not yet named her—nothing seems to fit her.”

Our visitor shakes his head and then kneels in front of the child. “Charis. It is Greek and means just—just what she is,” he went on, stroking her white-blond hair.

So, Charis has received her name. In time, she will be the healer of our people. My purpose on the Great Wheel has been fulfilled.

Chapter 1

Northeastern coast of Éire, AD 820

Smoke trail in the northern sky.

Seeing it, the warrior chieftain of Ragor set his jaw and squinted to sharpen his focus. He glanced down the wooden ladder he stood on and beckoned to the young man who had sent for him.

“Daegan! You’re right. Looks big enough to be a whole village maybe. Go get my brother.”

“I will!” Daegan sprinted away, red hair flying behind him as if his head were aflame.

“Fire or raid?” Devin wondered aloud, fingering the hilt of the long knife he kept sheathed at his waist. Hard to tell with the lowering clouds and heavy air, but some evaluation was necessary.

Devlin didn’t keep him waiting overlong, but Devin had to smile at his twin’s appearance when the man tossed up another ladder to join him on the earthen wall of their village. Devlin’s black hair was sticking up all over his head, his cheeks were unwontedly flushed, and his only garment was the green, red, brown and black kilt preferred in these summer months.

But the woolen kilt wasn’t secure; Devlin was gripping it at his hips.

“You were busy, then?” Devin had to ask, masculine humor twinkling in his light green eyes. “You persuaded Charis away from her herbs?”

Devlin’s flush was embarrassed more than angry. “And if I did?”

A loud laugh that puzzled young Daegan below shook the ladder under Devin’s feet. “If you did, then you’ve done more than I have in three summers!” The men looked to the largest dwelling in their
rath
. A pale slip of a woman stuck her head from the window and leaned out to them.
 

“If you can’t control yourselves,” she called, her voice carrying through the rain-heavy air, “I’ll bar the door!”

They turned from the woman, hiding huge grins behind their hands. The inevitable drizzle began just at that moment, reminding Devin why he had called his brother away from the certain charms of the healer.

He cleared his throat and pointed. “Smoke trail. It’ll die soon. D’you think it’s a natural fire or has there been a raid?”

Continuing to grip the family’s colors to his hips, Devlin scowled at the cloudy horizon. “It’s not the season for a natural fire. I’d say a raid, but I haven’t seen any of the usual runaways, either of the Northmen or our own.”

“I think we need to build up our defenses, then. They haven’t come here yet, but there’s always a first time.”
 

Devlin’s grunt agreed.

“Daegan!” Devin called, looking down to their runner. “Gather the warriors and have them meet us by the front gate.”

“
Isea
!” the young man shouted, anxiety obvious on his face.

Devlin pounded his fist into the earthen wall and cursed roundly. “Can’t believe they’re back in this area. I thought they’d given up.”

“Not this year. You better get belted,” Devin went on, humor again lacing his deep voice. “Charis will be furious.”

They had just climbed halfway down the ladders when a call reached them from the west. “Hail the
rath
!”

Devin and Devlin stilled. After a heartbeat, they pulled themselves to the top of the wall, knives at the ready. Below them on the slight slope in the middle of the muddied path, two bedraggled men swayed and stumbled, supporting one another by virtue of their bodies and nothing else. Devin eyed them with suspicion, for outsiders—including the priests from the nearby monastery—were unwelcome here.

Devlin took the first step toward the refugees. “They’ve been hurt. We need to let Charis see them.”
 

With an unwilling muttering under his breath, Devin sheathed his knife and followed his brother to the dirty, pale figures. “Who are you?” he demanded, still standing a good two paces from them. Their hair was so matted with mud it was impossible to tell the color, their faces so white that the freckles on one stood out like berry stains. Tunics and leggings were streaked with earth, highlighted with green grass smudges and other filth.

But that wasn’t all that colored the rough weave of their clothing. The dark red of blood was also visible in small swatches, like around the rent in the fabric of the elder’s brown tunic.

It was the younger man who spoke. “I am Colum and this is my cousin, Bran. There’s been a raid.”

Devlin immediately scanned the far horizon. “
Isea
,” he said, nodding. “Come. We’ll see to you and get the defenses ready.”

“Charis!” Devin bellowed, his beard quivering with the force of his voice. “Come!”

Bran made a dazed sort of sound and looked to the
rath’s
wooden gate. “Charis? That’s a Greek name. Is she one of your people?”