Deara wept.
She wept for her mother who died in Merdaine’s arms. And she wept for Merdaine. She wept for the women who knelt by the bodies of husband, or son. She wept for the sorrow in the face of the brehon, the fear in the eyes of the King. She wept till her arms were damp with tears and the star had faded from the smoke hole. Then she fell asleep.
Long after dawn had broken she woke, her dream still alive in her memory. She had been walking in sunshine, across fields of kingcups. Green and gold. The colours beloved of the God. It was a sign. She knew now what she must do. Merdaine’s parting gift, the kingcups, refreshed now in the cool shadows of the hut, must be offered for Sennach, for the healing of his spirit. She must make haste with her morning duties.
The God’s well was not far from Emain. Beyond the outer rampart it lay just across the valley in a small hawthorn grove, the surviving trees of a wood which once covered the whole hillside.
At one time, individuals as well as those who served the God would visit the well. They would leave an offering, tie a scrap of fabric to the branches and ask for healing for the person from whose tunic the fragment had been cut. Merdaine could remember a time when the thorns had blossomed with tokens all the year round. Now, few people went there except herself.
Deara went often, either to fetch water for infusions, for the water from the God’s well was pure and clear and had never failed, or to pray for the sick. It was many years now since Merdaine had come with her. As soon as Deara was strong enough to bear the water pitcher by herself she had sent her alone, saying that she would worship in her own place. So Deara had come to know hours of quiet, the only times in the crowded life of the encampment when she was alone. Alone, and yet never troubled by the loneliness which was her companion in the midst of the crowded encampment. Her visits to the God’s well were always welcome. Today was no exception.
As she set off down the dusty path, Deara was aware of a sense of excitement. Some flicker of happiness had rekindled within her. Drawing warmth from the brilliant sunshine and power from the upturned faces of buttercups and daisies strewn amid the grass of the wayside, it grew stronger as she crossed the valley and made her way up the slope beyond.
It was five days since she had brought back the full pitcher to wash Merdaine’s body. Now the hawthorns carried the first touch of blossom. The familiar heavy scent drifted towards her on heat-shimmered air as she followed the thread of a path through the encircling trees. The place was deserted and full of deep stillness. Before her lay the stone altar on which she would offer Merdaine’s parting gift.
She bowed her head, closed her eyes and repeated the prayer of greeting. Its words were so very familiar. She had learnt them when she was seven years old, when Brega, wife of Dairmid, her foster-mother, had brought her to Merdaine to begin her service. On that very first day, she had stood at this spot and repeated them line by line after Merdaine. Today, it seemed as if she heard them for the first time. She asked the God for help, knowing without doubt that in some way her request would be granted.
She opened her eyes, then blinked them again in amazement. The altar had gone. The encircling thorn trees had gone. Everything known and familiar had disappeared. Where the wall had been there stood three old thorns. Beneath them, stretched out across a piece of stone lay a woman in strange clothes, her dark hair tangled about her. She was crying in sore distress, the fierceness of her sobs shaking her narrow shoulders.
Deara’s first thought was of her mother.
But how could her mother wear such strange clothing? Besides, this woman was not with child. Her body was slim, her long, dark hair had not been braided as it would be were she betrothed or married. She wore the frayed and sun-bleached breeches that slaves usually wear, but her feet, which were bare like a slave’s, were neither brown from the sun, nor broken from toil. Above the waist she wore a tunic, so short she had to put it inside the breeches, and of so fine a stuff that she could see the fine tracery of some undergarment that enfolded the woman’s breasts.
Deara took a step forward. As she watched, the woman rolled over, sat up and wiped her eyes. Her face was red and blotched with crying. On her left wrist the woman wore a gold band set with a colourless gem. There were two rings on a finger of the same hand: one plain, one set with small blue gems. She couldn’t possibly be a slave, for it was forbidden by law for a slave to wear gold. Indeed, it was even forbidden for them to carry gold for their master or mistress.
The woman’s tears caught at Deara’s heart. What could she do to heal such distress?
‘Ask your heart what to do.’
Merdaine’s words came to Deara just as they had come in the Hall of Council. She stepped forward. ‘Have you come to be healed?’ she asked softly.
The woman looked up, startled, her grey eyes full of amazement. She was much older than Deara had imagined from the shape of her body. The body was that of a maiden, but the lines in her face suggested that she was in her fourth decade.
Deara looked around the unfamiliar place as if it might somehow explain the presence of the woman. But there was not a single thing she recognised. Apart from the warmth of the sun and the blossom on the trees, everything seemed strange. Near the crest of the hill beyond the thorns was a building unlike any she had ever seen. The walls were of square red stones, all the same size, and they were pierced by dark shapes in which she could see not only reflections of trees which were behind her, but also objects which lay beyond the walls. Between her and this place was a shorn meadow. It had stripes upon it as when the wind blows, but they ran in contrary directions. Not a single wildflower grew on this space, which was the size of two cattle pens.
Beyond, there were flowers. Great, brilliant splashes of purple and white and gold. But all the flowers grew among boulders. How could there be nourishment for such profusion?
She looked down again at the woman. She had taken her hands from her face and had stopped crying. It was clear now what was wrong. The half-closed eyes were always a sign. She knew now what she must do.
She laid down the pitcher and the offering she was carrying and showed the woman her empty hands. Then she moved gently towards her, careful not to startle her. The woman did not move. The grey eyes regarded her steadily but without fear. Deara smiled and put her hand on the woman’s forehead. No wonder she had cried. Beneath her hand, she felt the pain oscillate, pulsing and contracting. She put her other hand at the back of the woman’s neck, closed her eyes, and began to pray to the God.
As she prayed she followed the lines of pain from temple, to neck and to shoulders. The lines were red and deep. Her fingers traced them, pressing gently, always keeping the body steady, the balance even, like a cup of wine that one carries over unraked rushes. The lines went all the way to the woman’s waist. It was some time before they responded to her touch and she felt the patterns change. The hard, sore places began to dissolve, she felt them disperse as the darkness that had invaded the body dissolved and its own light grew again.
An image flickered into Deara’s mind as it always did when she healed. However often it happened, it could still take her by surprise. The skill of release Merdaine had taught her and made her practice till she was able to read a back like a plan of a country, tracing out which paths led to which centres, which paths were near the surface, which buried deep, which revealed the pain and which concealed it. Reading the images that came as the pain went, however, was a very different matter. Reading these could not be taught, Merdaine had said, because they were the gift of the God. They could only be used with the guidance that came from her own heart.
She had tried to be open to what was given. Already she knew that what she saw was always related to the source of
