“I’m afraid I have little fruit left, but I’ve got some honey. Would you like that with the cheese?”
His face lit up. “That is the most delightful offer I’ve had all season.”
She fetched the honey and laid it on the table. As her guest fixed a plate of food, she considered him. He had pleasant humor and manners, and he wouldn’t be constrained by the stricture of the new religion. If she had limits upon the time she had with Odhrán, perhaps Adhna would prove to be an interesting alternative. Spring came closer every day. She owed it to her own beliefs to honor the life of the world. Such obligations became much more enjoyable with a well-chosen partner.
Clíodhna studied him while he devoured the cheese with single-minded intensity. His hair and skin looked clean, well-kempt, and almost shining in the low light. He stood tall, with a lean strength to his muscles. His teeth looked even and white, and while he didn’t have Odhrán’s dimple, his eyes crinkled with true mirth when he laughed. She appreciated genuine folk far more than physical beauty, but he had both.
Still, Adhna was her teacher, her mentor, by bound contract. She shouldn’t rush into any complication of that relationship. She must consider her options and the dangers inherent in each. True spring remained at least a moon away, perhaps more. She had some time yet to choose her partner.
* * *
For several weeks, Clíodhna and her family fell into a routine. Each morning for six days, she brought her children to the monk’s abbey for their lessons. After a brief discussion with Odhrán, she returned for lessons with Adhna. Occasionally, she returned in time to chat with the monk a little more before her children finished.
On the seventh day, the monks rested and worshipped their God. Odhrán invited her several times to attend with them, and sometimes she did, but she discovered many beliefs within their doctrine she couldn’t agree with. Still, for appearance’s sake, she continued to attend at least every other seventh day. Her children went every time and began discussing the finer details of their theology.
Would she lose her children to this religion? It seemed possible. She gently inserted other ideas into the conversations, ideas more in line with the beliefs she still held dear. Sometimes Etromma agreed with her, and other times remained adamant about the new religion. Donn remained quiet about it, evidently not wishing to get involved in the discussion, but Clíodhna could tell he paid close attention to both sides. As long as her children retained open minds, she would be content.
Clíodhna’s favorite conversations with Odhrán became those discussing the aspects of her own beliefs within his. Each belief had a dedicated group of people, taught the deeper mysteries of the religion, to greater understand the message of their gods.
One bright day, Odhrán explained the iron cross affixed to the top of their worship building, which he called a church. “When the Christos had seen but thirty-three winters, political intrigue resulted in his execution by being hung on a cross with nails through each wrist and one through his ankles. He hung upon this cross, in desperate agony, and yet did not denounce his torturers, the Romans.”
“The same city you’re from?”
He let out a low chuckle. “He lived in a different city called Jerusalem, far to the southeast across a vast sea. But the city of Rome is home to the Roman Empire, which spans an enormous distance around this sea and beyond. Jerusalem is part of the Empire, and thus the government is Roman.”
Clíodhna’s head spun with the names and trying to imagine this empire’s scope, but she concentrated instead on the demigod. “So he died there on his cross?”
“He did. They buried him in a cave. Three days later, he rose again, reborn as proof that he was God’s son.”
“Oh, like The Dagda! He could bring people back to life with a blow of lorg mór!”
Odhrán blinked and cocked his head. “Lorg mór? What’s that?”
“A magical club. He could slay nine people with a single blow, but he could also bring them back to life.”
He held out both hands. “This didn’t come from a mystical pagan artifact. This was a miracle, one of many based on His own divine heritage.”
She furrowed her brow. “What is the difference between your God’s miracle and my gods’ magic?”
He gave her a sweet smile, his dimple showing. “A miracle is the grace of God showing in this world, while your magic is your own creation. Magic can be used for evil, while a miracle is always for good.”
“Do you see my gods’ magic as evil, then?”
Odhrán hesitated before he answered. “Not inherently, no. The power itself is neither good nor evil. While some in my order might label any magic evil, I grew up with an aunt who worked as a witch. She worked spells to help people, especially women wanting children. We spoke of such things when I visited. She cautioned about ever working with lamia or daemons. Such workings were dangerous.”
“Dangerous to her? Or in general?”
He shrugged. “She didn’t say. But if she were caught, she’d be sentenced for six winters’ penance.”
“Six winters? For working with Fae?”
Shaking his head, he set his lips in a line. “I don’t think the Fae are the same as daemons. But I am no expert on the matter. Perhaps the Abbot could answer your questions more precisely.”
Some aspects of his God still bothered her. “You mentioned your God died. Why would you celebrate his death? How do you, in this far land, benefit from someone who died in a desert so many leagues away?”
“He returned from the dead and declared He died so we wouldn’t
