As they waited for something to happen, Donn poked Etromma in the shoulder, eliciting a yip of surprise and outrage. She shoved him back.
Clíodhna whispered, “Quiet! Both of you.”
“But he—”
She held up a finger. “Shh!”
“Ma—”
“I said shh! Not another word.”
Etromma fell back into her habitual pout. Clíodhna tried to think back to when she’d been that age. Had she been so petulant and whiny? She didn’t think so. All her causes had been righteous and worthy, or so she believed at the time. Her parents would likely have disagreed.
Clíodhna remembered falling hopelessly in love at least a dozen times in those seasons. Perhaps being in love with just one boy at one time would be better for Etromma. It had taken a long time for Clíodhna to settle on one of her suitors, and in the end, she’d chosen poorly. Oh, Oisinne had been a fine storyteller and never failed to make her laugh. But, as much joy as he brought into her soul with his tales, he’d abandoned them all with no word.
Many times, Clíodhna imagined what might have happened to her husband. Many times, she came up with no answers. She’d even tried to ask the Good Folk a few times, but they either refused to answer or didn’t know. Or her offerings weren’t enough to satiate their price. Their dissatisfaction sometimes became indistinguishable with their sheer contrary nature.
Back before she’d gotten married, she’d spent a lot more time with the nature spirits. Several Aos Sídhe, the people of the faerie hill, became her friends. She’d bring gifts and songs; they’d reward her with dances and magic. Nothing powerful, but little magics, like a flower that blossomed with light, or a wind to caress her cheek. They weren’t quite Fae, or perhaps they were, and she didn’t understand the relationship. Some seemed tiny enough to fit in her hand while others towered over her like mighty oak trees.
With children, she possessed nothing resembling free time. Caring for the children consumed her entire day, attention, and energy. The animals, the crops, and working as a judge between each imagined slight one child contrived for another or a villager added to her duty.
Still, she derived some joy from her children, as she had from her husband. When he left, he took some of that joy, some of that pleasure.
So many moons since she’d lain with a man. Oisinne disappeared five moons past. She’d never gone that long since she discovered that particular pleasure.
The monk in white robes raised his hands, his sleeves falling back. Druí knotwork tattoos, faded with age, entwined his forearms. A Druí became a monk? What betrayal was this?
He intoned several sentences, full of harsh consonants and guttural sounds. Clíodhna couldn’t understand a word of it. She remembered the new religion came from the lands beyond the sea, so they must have their own language. Did they expect everyone who came to these meetings to understand them?
The monk finished his speech, if such it was, and lowered his hands. She noticed his hair had been shaved across the top, bearing a large brow and forehead. The other monks bore similar hairstyles, and in Clíodhna’s opinion, they looked silly. Still, she felt certain the Druí required odd physical changes for their dedicants.
Some Druí painted permanent marks on their skin with needles and dyes. Others spent several seasons in solitude, seeking wisdom from the gods. Few non-Druí understood what other privations their dedications required.
Now speaking in their own language, the monk relaxed into a more conversational tone. He spoke of a god born hundreds of seasons ago, in a land near the desert, as per an ancient prophecy. This god was born of a pure woman and a carpenter. Not only a god, but the son of a god. He performed several acts of magic, including rising from the dead. This demigod angered the local chieftains, and they executed him for his actions. His followers took up his cause and spread the word of his work.
Why would this southern desert god care for an island covered in trees and rain? Surely this land lay far away from his power. Still, the tale seemed intriguing, if a bit legendary and ponderous.
Like everyone else she grew up with, the druid in her village taught her to honor the gods with her heart and her mind. Legends of the gods were part of every song and story, lessons taught to each child. Their druid recited the major histories at each fire festival, with smaller stories told around the hearth fire at home. Tales of the Dagda and Manannán, Brighid and the Morrigú, Macha and Lugh. These gods and goddesses lived and married, bore children, and waged wars, fell into tragic love and fought heroic battles. From what she learned of this new god’s life, he seemed relatively boring.
Clíodhna glanced at her daughter, entranced in the monk’s recitation. Donn, also, sat in rapt attention. At least the two no longer bickered. Aileran fell asleep in her arms, lulled by the monk’s calm voice. She loved holding her son like this, the sweet smell of his hair tickling her nose and making her grin.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps she could find a few moments of rest for herself as the monk spoke. His words became a slow rhythm, losing all meaning. Instead, she floated in the darkness, drifting along in wooly comfort.
A loud clap startled Clíodhna awake. When she opened her eyes, everyone shuffled to their feet, so she hastily joined them. The monk sang a song with several repeated phrases, encouraging those assembled to sing it back. Again, these words were in that strange language. Clíodhna believed in the power in words and refused to chant something she didn’t understand. A few people glared at her silence, so
