Chapter Seven

  The next two days followed the same pattern, with Dougal training his brother mercilessly all morning, then taking him out hunting in the afternoon. More quickly than he would have liked, it was the Night of Fires, a celebration in honour of the goddess marking the start of the summer months. It was also the time when young men between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, if they were deemed ready, were presented with their weapons and a cloak in the tribal tartan in this case the red and green checks of the Aedua. They were then counted amongst the ranks of the village warband. It was a day of festivities, of drinking and eating, of meeting old friends and making new ones. Boys became men and sweethearts became married couples. It was a joyous day, culminating in the lighting of the bonfires at midnight that invoked the protection of Oscarna for the village and usually ushered in summer and the season of bounty.

  Early morning found them in the wagon and on the road heading for the village. Bronty and Cassie sat in the back on blankets and cushions, while Dougal and a nervous Gryffin sat up the front. Dougal drove slowly out of respect for his wife’s condition, but still every bump and bounce brought a grimace of pain from the stoic young woman. Cassie, a serious and conscientious girl, fussed around her, trying to make the pregnant woman comfortable. In the end, after many such bumps, she realised that she could do nothing more than sit and hold Bronty’s hand. To try and distract her, she talked about any piece of gossip she could remember, even going so far as to add her own embellishments to the boring parts of the tales to such an extent that Bronty could not help but laugh.

  “Oh, Cassie,” she chuckled, “I’m sure the Blacksmith’s wife couldn’t possibly have done that. It’s not physically possible.”

  “Well, maybe not.” The young girls admitted with a grin.

  “Definitely not.” She gave Cassie’s hand a squeeze. “You will make someone a splendid wife someday. Is there anyone in particular that you have your eye on at the moment?”

  The young girl gave a forlorn sigh. “No, not at the moment. I find all the ‘warrior strutting’ stuff quite tedious. I’m looking for a more sensitive type, you know, someone I can talk to. There isn’t many like that in the village.”

  “There are few about. For all his faults, my Dougal is sensitive, although you would have never though it when I first met him. Fortunately, I was able to recognise the kind of man I could turn him into, as a wood carver sees the shape of the finished object in the unworked block. That’s the trick of choosing a husband – seeing the shape of the husband that he will become rather than the block of the man he is.”

  Dougal turned around in his seat, a look of distaste upon his face. “Your memory is going, woman. I seem to remember that you had little choice in the matter. I simply swept you off your feet and that was the end of it.”

  “You see what I mean?” Asked Bronty, “What you have to do is let them think that what you want them to do is really their own idea. It’s quite easy as they are not particularly bright, even at the best of times.”

  “Take my advice, Gryff.” Dougal whispered. “Never, ever, under and circumstances, have anything to do with women. They cause you nothing but trouble.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, thank you brother.”

  The village was teeming with people. Even though it was still many hours until the ceremonies began, many of the folks from the outlying farms had come to join in with the celebrations, and more could be seen arriving in a steady stream. They stood in couples or in groups, talking, eating and drinking. Everyone wore their best clothes and every male old enough wore the green and red plaid cloaks of the Aedua. Dougal guided the wagon skilfully through the throng until they reached the inn. There, with the permission of Senmar, he and Gryffin unhitched the horse and put it in the stables attached to the back of the building.

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  “Would you like to go off and see your family, Cass?” Asked Dougal.

  She cast a worried glance towards Bronty, who sat at a table outside the inn with a tight-lipped grimace of pain distorting her delicate features. “If it’s all the same with you, I’ll stay with your wife a while longer. I daresay I’ll bump into Ma and Pa eventually.”

  “Of course it’s alright.” Said Dougal, oblivious to the girl’s concerns. “I should think that Bronty will enjoy some civilised company for a change.”

  “She will, at that!” agreed Bronty, coming over to join them. She gave Cassie’s shoulder a squeeze of thanks which suddenly turned into a painful pinch as she gasped for breath.

  “Are you alright?” Asked Dougal, his voice full of concern for his wife.

  “I’m fine.” She reassured them as the pain diminished. “The journey has unsettled the baby, that’s all.”

  Her husband led her slowly back to a table outside the tavern, settling her down in the first empty chair he found. “We’ll just sit here for a while until you feel well enough to continue.” He said. He called Senmar over, ordering drinks for everyone although he was the only one to have ale, the others all choosing pitchers of milk instead.

  After a few minutes Bronty put down her empty pitcher. “I’m fine now.” She declared. “Let’s go and join the party.”

  Taking her hand, Dougal led her protectively into the crowds, always there to intervene should anyone seem as though they would carelessly bump into her. They had not gone far before a tall figure, wrapped and hooded in a voluminous black cloak, confronted them. It was the Doomsayer, still in the village pursuing his mysterious vision. He raised his hand in way of a greeting to the four of them, yet, in a strange way, Gryffin knew that it was for him alone. Then he was gone, lost in the swirling crowd that filled the square.

  “Dougal, is it alright if I go and talk to the Doomsayer?” He asked. “I may never get another chance. They are rare after all.”

  “Only if you promise to be careful.” Said his elder brother. “I’m not so keen on him myself. They have a dark reputation, well-earned no doubt. But, as you say, you may never get another chance to talk to one.”

  “I will.” He agreed eagerly, already moving in the direction the Doomsayer had taken.

  Gryffin easily caught up with him as he had stopped at the edge of the square looking distantly across the heads of the laughing, joyful crowd, his eyes defocussed. He seemed to shake his head, banishing whatever visions his fetish powers had superimposed on the present. “Good day, little brother.” He said, his voice slightly muffled by his hood. “I had hoped to see you again before I left.”

  “Do you expect that to be soon?” Gryffin asked.

  “Who can say?” He shrugged. “But no, I do not expect it to be soon. There are several people absent from my vision and one event has yet to happen for all the elements of my doomquest are in place.”

  “Are you allowed to tell me what your vision is about?” Asked Gryffin, hopefully. It would be a wonderful thing to be the only other person in the village beside the Doomsayer who knew what the future held for them.

  “I do not think that that would be a such a good idea.” Said the Doomsayer sadly. He changed the subject. “So, little brother. Today is an important day for you. Manhood beckons and you march towards it with measured step, head held high.”

  “Not so high.” Laughed Gryffin ruefully. “If the truth be told, Sir….”

  “My name is Cerevin.” The Doomsayer interrupted him.

  “Then, if the truth be told, Cerevin, I’m scared to death that I’ll make a mess of the combat.”

  The Doomsayer paused a moment before answering, silently wondering what he could reveal and what was best to come to light on in its own time. Choosing his word carefully, he said “I shall tell you this, little brother. Tonight’s initiation rites will mean very little in the long run. Your future will not be set by the events of this night, but by those in a few nights hence.”

  “Am I in your vision, then?” Gryffin asked uncertainly. The thought of being directly involved in the Doomsayer’s quest held a certain horrifying fascination for him. It seemed to speak of great events and deeds, in fact all that he had ever dreamed of on those lazy afternoons when he had laid back, staring off into the rich, blue sky. Now it was a possibility, he found that he was not quite so sure that he actually wanted it.

  Worried that he had already said too much, Cerevin brought Gryffin back down to earth with a bump. “It does not just involve you, little brother.” He laughed. “It is a matter for your entire village. They are all involved.”

  “Oh.” Said Gryffin, unsure whether he was disappointed or not. “It’s just that I thought….” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “Like the rest of your people, you shall have to wait and see.” He pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his scarred face and its horizontal black band. Grasping Gryffin’s arm, he started to guide the young man across the square. “Come, little brother. Show and explain the sights of this festival to me. I am, after all, a stranger to these lands.”