AN: The names I have chosen are from a mixture of Gaelic, Celtic and Elvish origins. Therefore some of the names are not pronounced phonetically.
Bébhinn – BEH-vehn
Éibhir – Ey-VEER
Isibéal – Ish-a-bEYl
Ibormeith woke suddenly from a pale dream. A light sheen of sweat covered her skin; she sat up and pushed off the linen sheet that covered her. The calm breeze floating in through the woven walls of the yurt cooled her warm body and stirred her red hair. Stretching, Ibormeith stood up slowly and looked over to her sister's sleeping form; the young girl lay spread-eagled on the floor, a blanket half-tangled around her legs. She smiled down at her sister before pushing aside a drape and stepping out of the yurt and into the early-morning light.
The skeleton of a fire lay smoking gently in the centre of a ring of ten yurts. Beyond the shelters, the trees rose solidly like a wall suspended from the sky; the birds would see a perfect circle of pine-needle-littered ground surrounded by a mass of green forest. The thickset trunks that surrounded Ibormeith comforted her, and the darkness that lay between them stirred a longing inside her very bones. The forest was her home, and she was not afraid of the shadows and life that the trees concealed.
Staring up towards the sky, Ibormeith considered the faint light that fell through the air and, like mist, coated the trees' branches; she judged by the intensity of the sky's hue that dawn had only just departed. Turning back to the fire pit, Ibormeith threw a few more logs on and stirred up the last few tentative sparks that rested, half-hidden, at the bottom of the pit. Soon, the charcoal crumbled and the new logs began to burn nicely.
Ibormeith collected more logs from the store and laid them beside the fire before returning to her yurt and retrieving her blanket. With the warm earth tender beneath her bare feet, she left the circle of shelters and entered the forest.
She walked for a few minutes, until soon the dirt beneath her feet gave way to smooth grey rock and then to water. It rose over her toes and shocked her with its bitter sting. Untying her vest, she dropped the shapeless piece of leather onto the nearest rock alongside her blanket, and continued to undress. Then, stepping out of her leather breeches and belt, she slid one foot further into the water. Ibormeith felt with her toes, trying to find the ledge that indicated where the bank ended. Taking a deep breath against the cold, she sat down on the ledge and let her legs float before her, just under the surface. Then, slowly, she slithered into the water, submerging her entire body. Ripples extended outwards towards the water's edge; reflections of the weak sunlight danced over the underside of rocks and leaves at the bank. Dirt and sweat ran off her skin and swirled in the water around her.
Ibormeith lay back in the water, and allowed her red hair to drift in the current. The cold crept into her flesh and she welcomed it; nature was beautiful, in all its forms, and she should be lucky to be able to appreciate it. She closed her eyes and listened to the day-forest awake. The birds slowly began to chatter high up in the branches; at ground level, the sniffs and grunts of deer indicated the beginning of the mating season. Then a twig snapped and Ibormeith ducked beneath the surface of the water. There was no way she could reach her knife before whoever was out there could reach her.
Even as she debated what to do, holding her breath beneath the water, more noise came; the crushing of leaves beneath heavy feet, rock striking rock, and then an almighty splash as the intruder dived headfirst into the river.
Ibormeith found herself thrust against the rock ledge as the water surged and swelled around her. Casting a quick glance over the clothes and weapon that had appeared beside her own things, she realised she was in no danger. It was her brother's hatchet that lay half hidden in the grass.
Alaster's head broke the surface of the water and he gasped, shaking his hair from his eyes. As soon as he had cleared his vision, Ibormeith flicked a handful of water straight into his face. Laughing, her brother returned the favour and a fight ensued, the air suddenly full of childish shouts and the sound of water.
Soon Alaster had had enough, however, and he held up his hands in a signal of peace.
'Truce?' he offered.
Ibormeith nodded and grinned.
'Is anyone else awake?' she asked, swimming back towards the bank. She hauled herself out and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then sat cross-legged beside the water.
'Father has already left to hunt – he has taken Meilochon with him. Kolbrún is awake and cooking, and Màire insists on helping, despite her state.'
Alaster referred to the newest Ema in the circle – a mother-to-be. Màire would soon birth her child, who would be celebrated as the first child born in that year. Ibormeith herself would be honoured with being present during the birth; as the next expected Ema, she would be given fertile blood to drink and shown the pain and beauty of life.
Ibormeith was excited about the birthing, but also anxious. What if the baby was born blue, and did not breathe? Not only would their circle grow smaller, but the death would cast a shadow over her own future. A lifeless child was inauspicious for anyonewho oversaw the birth – should Màire's child die, the omen might pass through Ibormeith and cause her own children to be born lifeless and pale, or worse. Weak or stunted children – born to any woman, be it the lowest Ema or the chief's wife – were cast out of the circle and left to nature's will.
'Are you alright, little sister?' Alaster asked, his brows caught together in a frown.
Ibormeith smiled apologetically. 'I'm fine, brother. Just thinking, that's all.'
As Alaster continued to bathe and cleanse his body, Ibormeith dried herself and redressed in her simple leather clothes. Her hair still wet, she braided it and tied it into a loose knot at the back of her head. She watched Alaster swimming and gazed in trepidation at the blue Uroborus around his bicep that showed the perpetual cyclic renewal of life. The tattoo signalled that Alaster was the circle's chosen son. When the current Magus Urúvion died, Alaster would ascend to his position. Until then, Urúvion tutored him in the knowledge of the stars and of the future. Ibormeith was afraid for her brother, as the things Urúvion knew were dangerous and incredible in equal measure. To know the future – was it always a gift?
'Thinking again, sister?' Alaster grinned and jumped onto the bank beside her.
Ibormeith scowled as he shook his head like a dog, and cowered away from him to avoid being drenched.
'Hurry yourself, Alaster,' she replied. 'I'm hungry.'
Together they walked back to the circle of yurts, taking a slight detour to check the traps Ibormeith had lain the previous day. The siblings returned to the clearing, both holding a brace of pheasant in each hand, to find the whole circle awake and readying themselves for first meal.
There were seven families in the circle, and each occupied a yurt. Both the chief and the Magus inhabited their own yurt; the tenth was for storage. As Ibormeith and Alaster entered the circle, children from four of the seven families came to them, clamouring for the birds. They took them to a woman beside the fire, who was bent over a large metal pot, stolen during a raid on the Romans' wagons. The contents were of dubious origins, but with the pheasant meat, the stew would be plenty edible.
Ibormeith pushed aside the covering to her yurt and entered the dim interior. Inside, her sister Bébhinn was sat on her bedroll, a horn of water in her hand, clearly just awoken. Hanging her damp blankets on a rail to dry them out, Ibormeith bent over her own cot and tidied the sheets.
'Sleep well, sister?' she asked.
Bébhinn yawned in reply and drank deeply from the hollowed goat-horn, rubbing her face with dirty fingers.
'You need to wash,' continued Ibormeith. 'Why don't you go to the river before first meal – I'm sure Kolbrún would appreciate you taking the other children.'
At thirteen years old, Bébhinn was the eldest of the children. She disliked being 'in charge' of the youngsters, as they were not in any way meek or obliging.
Girls became adult at fourteen, and boys at sixteen. Half the circle's population were children – there were nearly seventeen of the rowdy, confident youngsters. Like Ibormeith and everyone else in their circle, all they had known was the forest. By the age of three, all of them could swim, climb and defend themselves with sharp bites from their milky teeth. And as they grew, they only became more wild and unruly. Boldness was a trait common within their little 'tribe'; they would band together and purposefully irritate and bother the adults. But they were not to be blamed, or faulted. Having that self-assured attitude was the only way to survive – fear and hesitancy were a forest-dweller's worst nightmare.
'I'm not one of them anymore, Ibormeith,' Bébhinn grimaced.
'Yes you are,' Ibormeith replied swiftly. 'And for another seventeen days, no less.'
'But –'
'No buts, Bébhinn. You are a child and you will do as I say. No matter how close your adulthood is.'
Bébhinn scowled and glared at her sister half-heartedly. She knew Ibormeith was right – they were the laws of their circle. But soon, she would be an adult, and then she wouldn't have to obey, and she could leave the circle if she wanted to. Suddenly, realising what she had just thought, Bébhinn looked around anxiously. Those sorts of ideas were profanation, and if any of the adults heard her utter them, she would be subjected to – who knew what?
Cain, a mute boy of about seven, thrust his head through the entrance and grinned at Ibormeith. He gestured with his hands, miming eating and beckoning her outside.
'Come, Bébhinn – first meal is ready,' Ibormeith deciphered the boy's signals.
'No time to wash, then?' asked Bébhinn hopefully, before climbing up and leaving the yurt with her sister.
'You can go after first meal – I'm sure the river isn't going to run away.'
They found seats amongst the other families and waited as the stew was served into stolen crockery and passed around. Once every man, woman and child held a bowl, the circle whispered thanks to Eachna, the goddess-in-earth, and tucked in.
An idle chatter started from the children, and soon the whole group was in conversation. The hunters talked of game; deer season had begun, so meat would be plentiful. Ibormeith listened to their words and reminded herself that she would need to alter her traps to save them from getting trampled by the ungainly fawns that would soon be capering all through the forest.
Soon, Ibormeith's father, Éibhir, returned with a huge deer slung over his shoulder, and shortly after, Meilochon came back, the arrows in his quiver sticky with blood, with four pigeons hanging from each hand.
'A great haul,' Urúvion spoke over the chatter of the children. 'Éibhir, the deer should be kept for a later time.'
The Magus' voice echoed with such knowledge and assurance that Éibhir did exactly as the old man said. Ibormeith saw her brother nodding. What did he and the Magus know that the circle did not? The meat would not keep so long – a few days, if that. What would occur in the next few days that meant the deer was needed more then than it was now?
Shutting her eyes tightly, Ibormeith shook the questions from her mind. They were not hers to ask.
With the meal over, the children disappeared into the forest. Bébhinn helped to pile all the dirty bowls into a wicker basket in the hope that she could escape quietly without having to wash, but Ibormeith caught her at it and sent her straight to the river. She went – reluctantly.
Stubborn child, Ibormeith scolded her sister silently. Too much like her mother.
'Daughter,' came a voice from behind her. Ibormeith turned and dipped her head respectfully to her father and chief.
'Father. Have you eaten?'
Éibhir sat cross-legged beside the fire pit and accepted a bowl of pheasant stew from his eldest daughter, nodding his appreciation.
'How is your sister?' Éibhir asked, his beard catching the stew that dripped from his lower lip.
'Headstrong and wilful, father, as ever. Bébhinn believes she is no longer a child. I remind her that she has half a moon before she enters adulthood.'
Éibhir frowned gently, but his lips curved into a faint smile.
'Let the child have her arrogance and naïveté, Ibormeith,' he instructed. 'She must soon learn to lay them both aside and take up the mantle of responsibility, as you have done.'
Ibormeith looked at the ground. 'I wish only to make you proud, father.'
Éibhir took her hand in his own and squeezed it slightly. Their eyes met. Éibhir suddenly looked saddened. Then the look was gone and he nodded and let her hand drop.
'You will, my daughter. You will.'
As the light began to fade from the sky, the forest came alive again. The first owls were heard and the foxes came out with their kits, their barks echoing for miles through the trees. Soon the stars became visible, and the moon rose high to cast a thin light over the highest of the branches.
Through this black-and-white world, Ibormeith ran, her bare feet silent on the damp earth. A coil of rope and a bow slung over her back, a quiver of newly fletched arrows at her waist, she sprinted through the trees, her eyes well adjusted to the moonlit world. Soon, the forest began to thin, and suddenly Ibormeith was out of their boundary, racing across a wide-open field. The Wall was before her.
Ibormeith slowed to a walk, breathing deeply. She stared up at the expanse of grey stone, rising twenty feet into the air, topped with a crenelated parapet. The sheer vastness of the man-made atrocity fuelled the hatred inside her that she already felt towards the Romans. They had come to her island and destroyed it with their stone blocks and sharp spears. They had no right to take her country.
Of course the Romans had been there for her entire life, but the story of the builder had been passed down through the generations of her circle. It had been three centuries since the builder had cut the island in two with his Wall. The story told of how the builder dreamt that Rome drowned in the blood of the people it had killed; the builder saw his Rome die and could not stand it. He built a wall so that the blood of Rome's enemies could not wash his home away, as it would be curbed by the stone and pushed into the sea. But in doing so – in cutting Eachna's land in half – the builder had incurred her wrath, and she had promised to never let her children stop fighting, so that their blood would become to much for the Wall, and the force of it would break it down. Eachna too had seen the builder's dream, and knew that it would one day become a reality.
Ibormeith knew this to be the truth. And she would have her part in the realisation of Eachna's will.
She pulled her knife from her belt and drew the blade across the tip of her finger. Warmth trickled down into her palm. Then she smeared her blood onto the Wall and whispered Eachna's prayer, and sucked her finger to help seal the cut.
Ibormeith had done her part. In her blood was Eachna's spirit, and the spirits of her children. Soon the Wall would crumble under the weight of Eachna's fury, and Rome would drown.
Smiling to herself, Ibormeith turned back towards the forest and regarded her home. A sudden pride burst into life inside her chest. The dense greenness of the trees before her, half doused in pale moonlight, inspired a great humility and excitement in her. It was Eachna's world – it was Ibormeith's home. She had been gifted with this life by the goddess-in-earth herself; how could she not be proud?
Suddenly a sound above her made Ibormeith jump. Instinctively, she crouched down and minimised the size of her body. She was in the centre of a field – nowhere to hide.
The sound came again – a birdcall. Ibormeith frowned as she recognised the cry. Hawks don't fly at night, she thought, searching the sky for the bird.
At first she couldn't see a thing, but then out of nowhere, a chestnut-feathered hawk swooped across her vision, screeching. The white feathers at its tail made it easily visible in the dim light. Ibormeith traced its flight in awe; watching it hover and drop abruptly into the wild grass, then rise again a moment later, a small rabbit clutched in its talons. She laughed as the hawk coasted the damp breeze, soaring up to the Wall.
Then Ibormeith choked on her laughter. A man stood atop the Wall, his arm out to allow the Hawk to land. He stared down at her, his eyes glinting in the bright orange light of a torch. Ibormeith gaped for a few seconds before, in one smooth movement, pulling her bow over her shoulder and notching an arrow. She pulled the string to her ear, but halted when the man made no move to hide or protect himself.
They stood like statues, their eyes locked. One pair dark green, the other golden-brown.
The Ibormeith lowered her bow, turned on her heel and dashed to the treeline. Once there, she spared one look back before darting into the forest.
Whoever it was had disappeared.
Ibormeith continued back to the clearing, her thoughts full of the man stood on the Wall. Why hadn't she killed him? For all she knew, he could have been Roman. But no, what was she thinking? The soldiers wore red and the nobles dresses – the stranger on the Wall wore a thick leather jerkin with a high collar, and his hair was long and dirty. No Roman soldier, or noble, for that matter, would allow their hair to grow past their ears. It was considered 'unclean' for them. So who was he?
Once back in the circle of yurts, Ibormeith huddled inside her blankets by the dwindling fire. Cain sat beside her for a while, until his shivering began to annoy her and she invited him to sit in her lap. He climbed onto her and curled up like a domesticated cat might. Ibormeith enveloped him in her blanket and he soon fell asleep.
Staring into the red embers of the fire, warmed by the body in her lap, Ibormeith lost herself in her thoughts. She thought of her mother, the quick-tempered daughter of the last chief, now living in the earth with Eachna, peaceful at last. Ibormeith had been six when Isibéal had died in childbirth with her younger sister. For a long time, she had hated the squalling ball of pink flesh that had killed her mother; but then Urúvion had taken Ibormeith to Isibéal's burial place and shown her the flowers that grew there. Urúvion had plucked a flower from the loose dirt and handed it to her.
'Isibéal's spirit is in this flower now,' he had told her. 'And in the trees, in the air, and most of all, young Ibormeith, her spirit is in you.'
From that moment on, Ibormeith had known that her mother was happy, hand in hand beneath the earth with Eachna, and the rest of Eachna's children.
Ibormeith smiled as she remembered the old man's solemnity, and wisdom. He had not changed since that day. But she had. She was a woman now, tall and strong, with Eachna's spirit inside her waiting to be formed into children.
Gently, Ibormeith placed her hands on Cain's head and stroked his soft hair. Is this what it feels like to have children? she wondered. To be warm and satisfied, to feel a great bond like that of flowers to earth?
Cain snuffled in his sleep and Ibormeith smiled contentedly. She picked the boy up and carried him to her yurt, placing him softly onto her bedroll. Lying down beside him, she drew the blanket over both of them and took Cain into her arms. He clung to her and dug his head into the hollow of her shoulder.
Like this, they slept.
