The Druids’ Disciple, Part Three
A short story in three parts
Caught up in his dream of becoming an oracle, Caelym has neglected his lessons in oratory and healing to spend every possible moment studying portents and practicing disembowelments. Each morning, rain or shine, fog or sleet, sweltering heat or freezing cold, he’s left the shrine, his net in hand, to catch whatever bird or beast Ossiam decreed. Bringing the fluttering, squirming, or coiling creature to the altar in the main oak grove, he would recite his incantation, slice the animal open, pull out its entrails, and study them with intense care. In the process he has learned enough about the inner parts of his sacrificial victims to tell the difference between the viscera of a frog and a toad. Despite his unremitting effort and diligence, however, he has yet to grasp their symbolic meaning or see so much as an hour into the future.
The distant honking of geese caught Caelym’s attention. Glancing out of the tower’s window, his heart sank at the sight of the darkening sky. It was the eve of the last full moon before the spring equinox—the night that Ossiam would declare whether he was worthy to move on to the final nine years of his discipleship. He’d spent weeks rehearsing. Now there was no time left to do more than make his final preparations—bathing and anointing himself with sacred oils, donning his ceremonial robes, and going to the shrine’s animal shed to pick out a baby goat—for this, the most important sacrifice of his life.
As he passed between the two towering guardian stones, a sense of destiny came over him. He would do everything in the proper order and with total reverence—then, surely, the door to the mysteries of prognostication would finally open to him.
Light-headed from three days of fasting, Caelym held the kid close to his chest, feeling its heart beating against his own as he made his way to the center of the sacred grove where Ossiam stood waiting.
As he passed between the two towering guardian stones, a sense of destiny came over him. He would do everything in the proper order and with total reverence—then, surely, the door to the mysteries of prognostication would finally open to him.
With his teacher’s critical eyes watching his every move, Caelym tied the struggling kid in place and laid out the ceremonial dagger alongside the silver bowl for catching its blood. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, he cleared his mind of all doubt and began to chant in a voice that could have been Ossiam’s own, invoking the seven sacred names of the Goddess as he took up the blade, raised it high above his head and brought it down, swift and sure. As the goat’s hind foot gave a last little jerk, and its heart slowed to an erratic quiver, he breathed along with its last gasps, ready for the precise moment the goat’s spirit crossed the boundary between life and death. The moment came. He scooped out its soft, slippery bowels and cast them into the air. Time stood still as they rose and fell, starting up again when they landed on the stone slab. Letting the mingled smells of blood and bile permeate his senses, he stared into the darkening coils, and when Ossiam asked, “What did it say?” the answer came without any interference from his conscious mind: “It wanted its mother.”
Letting the mingled smells of blood and bile permeate his senses, he stared into the darkening coils, and when Ossiam asked, “What did it say?” the answer came without any interference from his conscious mind: “It wanted its mother.”
Caelym left the grove with Ossiam’s words ringing in his ears. “Miserable fool…idiot…couldn’t read the simplest omen in a rat’s entrails!” He’d dropped to his knees, pleading for one more chance, until—snatching the hem of his robe out of his desperate grasp—Ossiam relented, sending him into the woods to “Get an owl! Divine the future! Bring me your answer before dawn!”
With tears blinding his eyes, his feet carried him deep into the forest, finally stumbling to a halt at the edge of a meadow. Leaning his back against a tree, an oak by the feel of its ridged bark through his sweat-soaked robes, he heard a hoot. It was close by, almost over head, then came another so distant he wasn’t sure he heard it at all, then one off to his left and a fourth on the far side of the glade. Near and far, they called to each other, mocking and taunting him as he stood there—helpless without his net.
Forcing despair aside, he searched his mind for some lesson from his studies—an invocation from Ossiam or a heroic deed from Herrwn’s sagas—that would guide him now. As he stared into the dark clearing, he suddenly saw it, not reduced to shades of black and grey, but bright and dazzling in the midday sun. He felt the childish urge to run out and climb up onto the stone outcropping that rose up like an island in a sea of grass and flowers, but stayed where he was, held in place by an invisible hand on his shoulder and the memory of Olyrrwd’s rumbly voice whispering in his ear.
“Look there, in the trees on the other side of the meadow, a mother deer and her two fawns are about to come out to graze, and in those bushes—remember they are called “buck’s horns” because of how they branch and, as you know, their berries may be boiled and given in small doses to purge the bowels of blockage and bad-humors—something is moving, a fox, I think, and up there, near the top of that tree, can you see that hole? Look higher, above the dead branch, there is an owl’s nest. The babies are almost grown and will fly if we get too close but next spring we will come back at night when there is a full moon and I’ll help you climb up to see the new chicks while their mother is away hunting.”
But the next spring Olyrrwd’s joints had been too sore and swollen for climbing trees and Caelym had forgotten about the owl’s nest until now.
Gathering his cloak around him, he started across the meadow, wary as a wolf on the prowl. Crouching low, he crept to the base of the owl’s tree. As he looked up through the crisscrossed branches something moved inside the hole. Then a bulging form emerged, spread its wings, and soared silently off into the darkness.
Springing to his feet, he clambered up the trunk, grasping at whatever boughs would hold his weight, reaching the top where he hooked his left arm over the dead branch below the hole and hoisted himself up to peek in.
Four glinting eyes returned his gaze as the pair of nestlings screeched their eager greeting. Easing his fingers between them, he gathered the bigger one into his cupped hand, lifting it out and crooning softly as he tucked it inside his robe and climbed down.
Schooled in the etiquette of conducting impromptu sacrificial rites, Caelym knelt down before the baby bird, asking its pardon and making his solemn vow to honor its memory forever after.
The eastern sky was starting to lighten and the morning mist was rising as he carried the owlet over to the cluster of boulders at the center of the meadow, setting it gently on a rock as flat and smooth as the altar stone in the sacred grove. Schooled in the etiquette of conducting impromptu sacrificial rites, Caelym knelt down before the baby bird, asking its pardon and making his solemn vow to honor its memory forever after.
For a long moment the two looked at each other and in that moment Caelym finally saw the future. Without needing to lift his knife, he knew what he would find when he sliced the little bird open. Its entrails would be much the same as all the other birds he’d killed over the past four years, and not so very different from those of his four-legged victims. As to the owl itself, it would depart the living world very angry that it had been robbed of its chance to fly. So, instead of drawing his dagger, he picked up the bird, carried it back across the meadow and up the tree, tucking it in next to its nest mate and climbing down again only just in time to dive into the brush and save himself from its mother's furious attack when she swooped down out of the night.
Flushed with success, Caelym rushed back to the shrine, climbing the stairs to the oracle’s tower two at a time, dropping, out of breath but triumphant, at Ossiam’s feet, to announce that he had fulfilled his task.
“So you brought this answer—reading the owl’s thoughts, you have not only seen the future but changed its course—” Spoken slowly, Ossiam’s first words gave Caelym time to picture himself dressed in an oracle’s dark robes, his staff held high in the air, divining wonders from the clouds above him.
“So you brought this answer—reading the owl’s thoughts, you have not only seen the future but changed its course—” Spoken slowly, Ossiam’s first words gave Caelym time to picture himself dressed in an oracle’s dark robes, his staff held high in the air, divining wonders from the clouds above him. He nodded, his heart throbbing with hope, as he held his breath waiting for Ossiam to begin his formal induction, “You have proved yourself worthy—”.
“You have proved yourself a brainless dolt—not fit to carry a bucket of slops to a pig. You are a disgrace to the shrine and to the goddess who died to give you birth. You are no disciple of mine. You will never be a Druid. Now go.”
If Ossiam had raised his voice or shaken his fist, Caelym might have protested or pleaded for another chance, but the oracle spoke as a stone statue would speak—emotionless and immutable—leaving only one question left to ask: “Go where?”
This, at least, invoked a flash of feeling.
“Miserable fool! Must I draw you a map? Give you a parting gift? Take this then and go!” Ossiam tossed a silver vial down on the floor between them and turned away.
The flask, a perfect cylinder capped with a golden lid cast in the shape of a serpent’s head and etched with intricate engravings of nightshade, larkspur, and poppies, rolled towards Caelym. He stooped to pick it up and stumbled out of the room.
As he descended the stairs—his shoulders slumped and his head hung down—the future he’d wanted so desperately to see loomed grim and dark before him. In it he saw himself, lost and alone, wandering aimlessly through the wilderness beyond their valley’s walls, wading deep into a dismal bog, drinking Ossiam’s parting gift and sinking slowly downward, hungry eels and water snakes swimming toward him as the foul waters closed over his head.
No, not that! He would not leave Llwddawanden to perish in some vile swamp. He would go back to the forest meadow, the site of his final disgrace. There he would swallow the deadly potion and plunge the ceremonial dagger into his heart, falling backwards, his knees buckling beneath him, his arms flailing in a futile attempt to ward off the crows flocking to tear at his gaping chest—only his hands came up now, thrusting away the image of the craven birds cackling in triumph over his dead body, his blood dripping from their beaks.
If not the meadow, then where?
The answer came to him just as he reached the bottom step. He would go to the cliff where he’d sworn to be an oracle or die! He could see himself standing on the ledge, as clearly as if he were already there, resolutely lifting the vial to his lips, emptying it in a single swallow and crying out a last, brave farewell before he plunged his ceremonial dagger into his heart and, with the last of his strength, leaped into the void.
Lifting his head and straightening his shoulders, he started out into the hall, only to shrink back at the sound of voices—Herrwn’s elevated tenor alternating with Olyrrwd’s rumbling bass—coming down the main corridor. Once they were safely past, he made his way through the shrine’s back passages, dodging behind pillars at the slightest noise and reaching the servants’ door without being seen.
As he descended the stairs—his shoulders slumped and his head hung down—the future he’d wanted so desperately to see loomed grim and dark before him. In it he saw himself, lost and alone, wandering aimlessly through the wilderness beyond their valley’s walls, wading deep into a dismal bog, drinking Ossiam’s parting gift and sinking slowly downward, hungry eels and water snakes swimming toward him as the foul waters closed over his head.
A falling cloud bank had joined with the rising mist to form a thick blanket of fog, filling the valley basin and surrounding the shrine. It closed around Caelym, hiding his flight through the herb gardens, out the back gate, and up the path to the cliffs. At first grateful for its cover, he grew increasingly frustrated at how it came and went, lifting to show him a familiar landmark, only to drop again, letting him go blindly past a crucial turn. Forced to retrace his steps a dozen times, it was nearly noon before he reached the ridge top—almost stumbling, ignominiously and unprepared, over the edge.
Stepping back, he steadied himself, stripped off his robe and cast it into the gorge where the wind caught it, lifting it up so it spread out like a great soaring bird over the waterfall before collapsing and plummeting into the chasm below. He watched it disappear under the foam before he unlaced his sandals, tossing them after the robe, followed by his under garments. Taking up the silver vial, he stood listening to the roar of the waterfall. Then, just as he was about to lift the vessel to his lips, he heard something, a voice, faint at first, then louder, clearer. It was calling his name, saying the words he’d waited so long to hear, “I’ve come for you! I have your horse!”
Only the voice wasn’t coming from the mist in front of him, but from the path behind his back. His heart pounding, almost bursting from his chest, Caelym turned around to see a misshapen figure emerging out of the fog—not Rhedwyn as he had been in life, but aged, shrunken, limping, his dark, handsome features thickened and faded and his hair turned white, wispy, and fly away. The apparition spoke again. Its voice wasn't Rhedwyn's! It was Olyrrwd’s! And instead of leading a real horse, he held out a battered, patched toy made of scrap and rags, some child's cast-off plaything. Whinnie!
It was a trick! Olyrrwd meant to grab him and drag him back to the shrine! But he couldn’t! Caelym had grown in the past four years. He was taller than Olyrrwd now, and stronger—and he was closer to the edge of the cliff.
But seeing his old toy brought back a swarm of memories and out of that swarm came his long-ago dream-vision of leaping off a cliff with Whinnie, the two of them turning into birds and flying through the clouds together. Clutching Ossiam’s vial in one hand, he held out the other, tensed and ready to spring back if he had to.
“Let me have him!”
Instead of coming closer, Olyrrwd took a step back, holding Whinnie just out of reach.
Caelym snatched at Whinnie, only Olyrrwd was quicker, backing away, waggling him beyond the tips of Caelym’s fingers.
Infuriated, Caelym shouted, “He’s mine! Give him to me!”
“You left him with me!”
“You said you’d give him back!”
“I said I needed you to be my assistant!”
“I can’t be! I failed my tests! Ossiam said I’ll never be a Druid, that I’m a disgrace to my mother and—”
“Ossiam has said you are not his disciple and for once he’s right—you are my disciple and I am commanding you to come back to the healing chamber with me now!”
For a moment Caelym felt a flicker of hope—then he remembered that he couldn’t go near the healing chamber without shaking like a leaf.
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“You know why not!”
“Why did you come here?”
“To find—” Caelym started and Olyrrwd finished for him, “your father.”
Biting his lip so hard it bled, Caelym nodded.
Olyrrwd snorted, “Well, he isn’t here and never was!”
“Then where—” But why even ask? Olyrrwd had always said that where people went after they were dead was not his concern.
“He’s in the healing chambers! Him and all of the ghosts of every man and woman and child I couldn’t save! They are all there, following me around, looking over my shoulder, telling me my mistakes, nagging at me to do better next time, and now they are waiting to start haunting you too.”
Only this time, speaking in the tone of voice he’d used when Caelym had left an obvious ingredient out of a simple remedy, Olyrrwd grumbled, “He’s in the healing chambers! Him and all of the ghosts of every man and woman and child I couldn’t save! They are all there, following me around, looking over my shoulder, telling me my mistakes, nagging at me to do better next time, and now they are waiting to start haunting you too.”
Caelym wavered, uncertain whether to step forward or leap back. Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw Olyrrwd change from a grizzled old man into a great mother owl, saw the healer’s dark cloak grow thick with feathers, turning into wings that opened wide and wrapped around him, enveloping him in their warmth as they drew him away from the abyss.
Author’s Note: While the books in The Druid Chronicles (www.druidchronicles788ad.com) are available at all major book sellers, I encourage readers to patronize their local book store or, if unavailable there, to consider purchase through Bookshop.org.
Credits: Photo by Cassie Boca on Unsplash