Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

“We spoke of the Horned One,” Howel said. “You will be knowing I personify him in the rites, and take his spirit upon me. Mayhap then I will know what these skyward portents mean. I cannot promise to recall it fully when I am a mortal prince again, but an I do I’ll share the knowledge with you, Cormac.”

“Cormac… why should you not take part in the rites yourself?” Morfydd suggested. “You too are a descendant of kings.”

“I?” Cormac was half startled, half drawn to the notion. “What should I do?”

“Be Winter, in the combat of Winter and Summer.” Morfydd looked at him, appraising his height; his hard, rangy form leanly muscular as a wolf’s; the black hair and dark, sinister face. “You more than look the part!”

“I should,” Cormac said broodingly. “It’s at Midwinter I was born… all save the most hardy babes entering the world on that night are keened for ere spring.”

“Who could be better?”

“Hmm. Who’s to personate Summer?”

“Garin the shore-watcher. He’s known to you.”

Cormac nodded, thinking of the golden-haired, outgoing warrior. Aye, Garin was well chosen for his part in the ritual conflict. Twice yearly it was fought, at Midsummer and Midwinter, and held strong meaning for folk whose lives were regulated by the changing seasons. In the depths of the bleak season, the symbolic defeat of Winter by Summer gave hope for the future, when it seemed the dark and cold might swallow all the world forever. At the height of Summer, the outcome was reversed, as a boding reminder that time was burning and that after this night, the Sun’s power must commence to wane. It lent a certain spur to industry at the harvest.

“A good man,” Cormac said, speaking of Garin. “Well then, I’ll be matching meself with him at the standing stones.”

“An it’s Winter you’re to be,” Morfydd said smiling, “it were best you not wear that talisman you have about your neck! Surely it partakes of the power of Behl, the Blessed Sun.”

“I’ve been told so, Cormac answered, noncommittally. He balanced the Egyptian sigil on his hand, frowning at it. The mage Zarabdas’s words rang in his ears.

…and sorcerers stand across your path, and wraiths of darkness fly from the shadows. Whether you or they will triumph, I cannot know. In this only can I advise you helpfully; keep ever on your person the golden sigil you once showed me. It will aid you.

Words!

Had the serpent of gold aided him to see the Basque ships as they really were, in that southern sea-fight? Cormac doubted it. He put small faith in sigils and talismans. Besides, he was among friends here, and surely it was true that would not be fitting for him to wear a symbol of Behl the life-giving Sun for his chosen part in the Midsummer ceremony. He’d give it to Garin then, just afore they entered the ring of standing stones in the forest north of Vannes. Any dark power would be hard tested to touch him at a place of such holiness!

“Garin may wear it, during our ‘battle’,” he said.

Expectancy wafted sweet over Howel’s land. Every farmstead and tiny village felt it. From the town of Vannes it was shut out in a measure, held at bay by the stone walls, the stone streets, and the stone houses, and by the disapproval of the Church. Yet as Midsummer Eve approached, many folk went out through the gates even of Vannes, to travel north. They went alone, and in pairs and in family groups. The roads Rome had built were yet in sufficiently good repair to make the going easy. Two such intersected in the ancient, sacred forest of Broceliande, where a number of Druid groves had survived the axes of Caesar’s men because secrecy and magic had kept them hidden.

Then came Prince Howel himself, from his island estate in the Little Sea. His indigo-sailed galley rowed into the harbour of Vannes with the prince, his lady and a bright entourage aboard-conspicuous among which were a massive redbeard from the northern lands and a grim, dark warrior in dark mail.

“I mislike cities,” Howel said, sniffing the air. Rank it was with the taint of rubbish and sewage in too-great amounts. “They stink, and hem a man in. We’ll be parting for Broceliande on the morrow, but this night I must pay a courtesy call on Bishop Paternus.” He smiled with heretical sarcasm. “Would you and Wulfhere like to bear us company, Cormac?”

The Gael’s thin lips curled in answering mockery. “Not I, thank ye. I’ll not be speaking for Wulfhere. He might enjoy it. What say ye, old sea-dragon? Here’s a golden chance to have mended those mildewed places in your soul.”

Wulfhere snorted. “Thanks for naught, hatchet face! The last time I spoke with one o’ these cross-worshiping bishops was in Britain. Some swindling smith had taken me for a gull, so I showed him his mistake by hauling him into church by the scruff of his dirty neck, and a haltered heifer with my other hand. I cannot say which bawled louder! I forced the local bishop to marry them there before the altar. It might have been a good joke, but the Christian marriage ceremony proved so tame it fell flat, and I burned the church to ease my disappointment.” Wulfhere shrugged: “I cannot say if this Paternus has heard of it, although he may have done. ‘Tis sure that if he’s heard any sort of description, he’ll know me by it… there be not two men like me anywhere…”

“Agreed, and the gods be thanked!”

“Thus I’ll bide here.”

Morfydd smiled. “You are splendidly tactful, Captain. I’d as soon do likewise, but among other things, I’ll not have this robe-wearing fellow think I fear to confront him.”

So Howel and Morfydd, with a few trusty personal servants, spent the night in the house of Bishop Paternus. The rest of their entourage readied horses and provisions under the orders of Garin. All preparations were well made by the time the rulers of Bro Erech returned the next morning.

Their party was strongly armed against robbers or possible raiding bands of Franks; they met with none. Wulfhere showed some disappointment. His muscles would grow flabby, he complained, from lack of exercise. Yet a certain awe was apparent even in him, as they followed the Roman road deeper and ever deeper into the Forest of Broceliande and he began to have some notion of its vast extent. Nor was the giant easily awed. Hailing from the land of the Danes as he did, Wulfhere Skull-splitter was familiar with country covered by great tracts of impenetrable forest. But Broceliande had a timeless, brooding presence like unto naught Wulfhere had come upon elsewhere.

They left the road, leading the horses in file by winding paths. Men swore while they lugged chests and bundles in the tail of the party. A rearguard, burdened by weapons and mail only, followed them. Cormac and Wulfhere marched with those men, through a world composed entirely of trees. The sky hung low.

The paths led gradually upward. At last they came to a low hill with shelters and cooking places newly refurnished around its foot-and atop it, like a crown, reared a circle of regularly spaced standing stones.

Prince Howel had disappeared. None made comment, or asked questions. They knew that his part in the Midsummer rites was to personate the Antlered God, and no mortalman could take so mighty a spirit upon himself without going apart from other men to prepare. Was one of the mysteries, and it was not for the speaking of.

The pilgrims of ancient Celtia ate their last meal before the rites were to be held. Then, with great thoroughness, they covered the cookfires with earth and stamped the embers to extinction. The like was being done with all fires, throughout the land. Not a coal or rush-light was left burning, nor would any be kindled anew until the prince’s fire was seen to blaze on this one hill. They were similar, the ceremonies of Midsummer here in Armorica, to the rites of Beltaine as they were held in Eirrin…