as winter thatch when the child was born and for a while it had seemed as if the dreams of a lifetime had gone awry, but the deep, oxblood red had grown through in the first year and had confirmed at least the first beginnings of hope.
Later, as the infant had become a child, the neat smallness of her had become apparent; the fine lines of her features mirrored no one so much as her mother’s brother, Ban, with whom Graine
shared only the barest splash of blood.
Graine’s eyes alone were recognizably her father’s: the changeable grey that moved with the weather of her soul from the density of storm clouds to the almost-blue of newly forged iron. Outwardly, the child carried nothing of her mother. One needed to understand, and profoundly to love, the souls of each to see the fire blazing in the core and how it was shaped differently in the dreamer and the warrior.
There was little fire to be seen in Graine now, only hurt and a fragile pride. The birch log lay along the bank, shedding feathery strands of white bark onto the loam. Sitting a little away, Airmid brought from her belt-pouch the handful of shelled hazelnuts and withered green crab apples that she had collected at dawn, thinking to share them with her not-daughter. Now, she offered one, staring into the water beyond the hare. ‘Can you tell me what the hare showed you?’ she asked.
In the woods behind, a west wind teased at autumn leaves, loosening them. Graine looked up. Her grey eyes were ageless. ‘When mother was fighting against the traitor Cartimandua, you prayed to Nemain for help,’ she said. ‘We still lost.’
It showed me what became of mother … Airmid breathed deep and slow and unclenched her hands. She had been with Graine when they had seen the vision of Breaca. It had come hazily through water but even at so far a remove, it had been clear the warrior was dying. Airmid had prayed and dreamed constantly in the three days since, but nothing further had been shown her. Graine, to whom the gods sent visions beyond the minds of any dreamer on Mona, chose not to share what she knew, but instead turned her mind to the lost battles of the summer.
There was nothing to be done to hurry her; a god-touched child is not to be pressed. Wiping a palm on her tunic, Airmid said evenly, ‘The gods know more than we do of how things must go. We can pray, and must do so. Not everything we ask for will be given.’
‘No, or the Romans would have taken ship and sailed away long since.’
‘Indeed. But it has always been this way and should remain so. If every prayer were granted, we would become arrogant, and ask for too much.’
Graine thought for a while, then, ‘Would that be bad?’
Airmid said, ‘It could be. I think in time we would stop honouring
the gods for what they gave us. Then we would truly be godless.’
‘Like the men of the legions?’
‘Some of them.’
‘That would be bad.’
They were quiet a while. It could have been a day like any other. They ate quietly until the nuts were gone. Airmid broke one wizened apple between her palms and offered half. The smell was sharp, like new grass with a sweet, nutty base. Graine took it, unseeing. Her gaze was fixed on the hare’s. Its eyes were open, opaque, like dusted water.
Graine said, ‘I think … maybe … it may be that Nemain cannot help us, however much we pray? As I could not help the hare, even though I wanted to.’
And so the pegged skin and the severed head became more clear. Stifling a bigger movement, Airmid reached forward and smoothed a lock of stray hair from Graine’s brow. The gods spoke in so many small, indefinable ways. The training of a dreamer was to know how to listen. Here, in the presence of a child who embodied her own dream, Airmid’s whole body vibrated with listening. A magpie flew over and called once, raucous in the morning hush. More quietly, a trout flipped in the stream and landed uncleanly, splashing more than it might have done. A frog
Later, as the infant had become a child, the neat smallness of her had become apparent; the fine lines of her features mirrored no one so much as her mother’s brother, Ban, with whom Graine
shared only the barest splash of blood.
Graine’s eyes alone were recognizably her father’s: the changeable grey that moved with the weather of her soul from the density of storm clouds to the almost-blue of newly forged iron. Outwardly, the child carried nothing of her mother. One needed to understand, and profoundly to love, the souls of each to see the fire blazing in the core and how it was shaped differently in the dreamer and the warrior.
There was little fire to be seen in Graine now, only hurt and a fragile pride. The birch log lay along the bank, shedding feathery strands of white bark onto the loam. Sitting a little away, Airmid brought from her belt-pouch the handful of shelled hazelnuts and withered green crab apples that she had collected at dawn, thinking to share them with her not-daughter. Now, she offered one, staring into the water beyond the hare. ‘Can you tell me what the hare showed you?’ she asked.
In the woods behind, a west wind teased at autumn leaves, loosening them. Graine looked up. Her grey eyes were ageless. ‘When mother was fighting against the traitor Cartimandua, you prayed to Nemain for help,’ she said. ‘We still lost.’
It showed me what became of mother … Airmid breathed deep and slow and unclenched her hands. She had been with Graine when they had seen the vision of Breaca. It had come hazily through water but even at so far a remove, it had been clear the warrior was dying. Airmid had prayed and dreamed constantly in the three days since, but nothing further had been shown her. Graine, to whom the gods sent visions beyond the minds of any dreamer on Mona, chose not to share what she knew, but instead turned her mind to the lost battles of the summer.
There was nothing to be done to hurry her; a god-touched child is not to be pressed. Wiping a palm on her tunic, Airmid said evenly, ‘The gods know more than we do of how things must go. We can pray, and must do so. Not everything we ask for will be given.’
‘No, or the Romans would have taken ship and sailed away long since.’
‘Indeed. But it has always been this way and should remain so. If every prayer were granted, we would become arrogant, and ask for too much.’
Graine thought for a while, then, ‘Would that be bad?’
Airmid said, ‘It could be. I think in time we would stop honouring
the gods for what they gave us. Then we would truly be godless.’
‘Like the men of the legions?’
‘Some of them.’
‘That would be bad.’
They were quiet a while. It could have been a day like any other. They ate quietly until the nuts were gone. Airmid broke one wizened apple between her palms and offered half. The smell was sharp, like new grass with a sweet, nutty base. Graine took it, unseeing. Her gaze was fixed on the hare’s. Its eyes were open, opaque, like dusted water.
Graine said, ‘I think … maybe … it may be that Nemain cannot help us, however much we pray? As I could not help the hare, even though I wanted to.’
And so the pegged skin and the severed head became more clear. Stifling a bigger movement, Airmid reached forward and smoothed a lock of stray hair from Graine’s brow. The gods spoke in so many small, indefinable ways. The training of a dreamer was to know how to listen. Here, in the presence of a child who embodied her own dream, Airmid’s whole body vibrated with listening. A magpie flew over and called once, raucous in the morning hush. More quietly, a trout flipped in the stream and landed uncleanly, splashing more than it might have done. A frog
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