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Chapter 6 -- A Repressed Past
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The woman had finally cried herself to sleep that night. When she was sure that Nadya was asleep, Ertia rose from her own little bed on the couch in the corner and crept quietly to Nadya's bed. She stood over the young woman, regarding her with those unusual violet-grey eyes.
'She means a lot to him…the most.' Ertia reached out a tiny hand and touched Nadya's neck. A feather-light touch, drawn along the lower part of her neck.
Finally, Ertia turned and padded out of the house and into the night.
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"Pan…Pan…"
Methos' brows knit together as her voice rang through his head. Finally, he started bolt straight up in his bed; she stood there at the side.
He was tired. Every mental wall, every defense, every protection was gone.
"Remember Arcadia…" she murmured.
Methos hung his head, lolling to the side a bit, looking up at her through his lashes.
"Do you remember the revel in the grove? The woman who loved you? The woman you shared your Sanctuary with?" Ertia's eyes flashed, wide. "My mother?"
Life suddenly shifted to the left.
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Torchlight twinkled beneath the moonlit heavens, the stars laughing at the goings-on below. The hillside woods were alive with rejoicing as the children of Arcadia danced in revel. A shepherd clad in white goatskin—the obvious king of this celebration—raised a flagon in libation.
"Blessed be Pan's Sanctuary!" he called above the scream of flutes and pound of drums.
"Blessed be!" came the joyous reply.
He then turned to the beauty clasped in his arm, kissing her cheek as he whispered in her ear, "Blessed be the daughters of Pan."
The woman leaned back in his embrace as the red wine flowed down her throat. "Blessed be," she murmured.
The wine was more than intoxicating, it was potent. The best of these hills, the best used in praise of Pan—god of Arcadia.
Further on in the grove there was a thicket, the soft carpet of moss a fitting bed for the shepherd and his chosen lass. Here they stumbled, in each other's arms, away from the gathering. He kissed her again as he laid her down upon the forest floor.
She smiled up at him, the wine-red flush in her cheeks. "Blessed be Pan."
Her shepherd smiled lopsidedly. "I am Pan."
Her eyes widened slightly, moving rapidly, as though looking for horns protruding from his mussed dark hair or for immortality to twinkle in that bearded face. Then she smiled again, drawing him to her. "Pan."
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The moon had not even begun to set when Methos felt a presence wash over him, waking him from sleep, a strong one. The effects of the wine made him sluggish but still he gathered his clothes and hurried from the grove, leaving the woman who had been sleeping beside him on the moss.
He didn't know her name.
And he never looked back.
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"My darling, I have met the god of these hills!" A brassy-tressed woman hurried to her hut where her child lay sleeping.
A dark-haired little girl of a mere eight summers rose from her trundle bed, reaching her arms out for her mama. "I missed you! Where were you, Mama?"
She gathered the child into her arms. "Oh, my precious, I am here now. But listen to me! I have met Pan! The Pan to whom we pray! Pan loves me! He loves you, my child!"
The little girl had often heard her mother talk of Pan, the god of these hills. The god of shepherds and the god of the Sanctuary. Yet she didn't know quite what the woman was getting at. Her mother could be strange sometimes, but she loved her.
The lady swept her daughter up into her arms. "My love, we can be with Pan forever."
The child gave a questioning look.
"Trust me, darling."
And she did.
The next dawn found them back in the grove, in the Sanctuary. The child lay on boulder beneath a cypress tree. Her mother hand stroked her dark hair, her lips pressed against her daughter's forehead.
"Courage, my love. We will be together soon, with Pan…forever."
She stood, raising a knife above her daughter's body.
She woke! But…she wasn't supposed to be awake. She was supposed to be in the Fields with her mother…with Pan. But she was still in the grove. Had her mother missed?
The little one looked down at her tunic. Blood was everywhere…all over her…all over the boulder.
Mama? Where was her mama?
"Mama? Mama, where are you?"
The child turned and slid down off the boulder. There was her mother…lying on the grass, blood still spilling from the wound in her stomach…her eyes open…the knife near her hand.
"Mama? Mama, wake up." She nudged her mother. "We need to go home now."
No movement.
In tears, the child rose to her feet and stumbled away, knowing that her mother was dead. She ran from the grove, into the wilderness, never to see Arcady again.
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Methos shook his head. "I was...drunk...I'm not Pan...I'm not..."
"But you told her you were! Your lie to my mother destroyed us! She is dead because of you! I have wandered for three thousand years because of you!" Ertia's voice was small, young, but laced with a hopeless hatred. "You…owe…me…a…life!"
Methos felt something cold wrap around his mind, grip his heart. Reaching beneath the bed, Ertia grasped the Ivanhoe, pulling it up. Holding the sword hilt with both hands toward him, she spoke again.
"Her life for mine! You own me a life, Pan!"
Standing, Methos moved towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. The cold around his mind grew tighter, colder. His hand wrapped around the Ivanhoe, taking it from her.
"It is time, Pan." Ertia murmured. 'Then they will leave me in peace.'