After a restful night, Ethne, Ruadh, and Aífe set out again the next morning. They walked for most of the day until they finally reached the hill overlooking the rath of Cadla, Ard-Ri of In Medon. Not much had changed, at least outwardly. The same reddish-brown palisade of tree trunks glowed in the afternoon light as travelers and merchants converged on the rath, and the same pall of smoke from the cooking fires hung like a thin veil over the conical roofs of willow-thatch that topped the round stone buildings inside the wooden fence. More warriors patrolled the outer walls than in Crimthann’s time. As the three drew closer, they saw severed heads hanging on either side of the gates. Cadla was more of a warrior than a philosopher.

The nemed, the sacred enclosure of the Druid built on a low rise within the walls of the rath, was still hidden within its familiar circular wall of greenery; a gaudy necklace of elder, hawthorn, and rowan bushes bloomed in their full summer glory. The five roads that led to the Ard-Ri’s seat through forest and bog had been recently widened and upgraded to ensure that merchant goods, visitors, and warriors could move freely to and from the rath from all the provinces. There was more traffic than they had ever seen before.

“It won’t be hard for us to slip in unnoticed with all these people coming and going,” said Ruadh.

“We should go straight to the nemed and find Gaine. I don’t want to be mixed up with any problems at court. If Cadla knew we were here, it would only cause tension and conflict,” said Ethne.

They pulled their hoods over their heads and fell in behind a large ox-cart filled with sacks of apples and grain, passing through the gate without incident and then veering off towards the nemed. But within a few steps there were guards everywhere.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked a grizzled old warrior who was missing an eye. It was not uncommon for disabled veterans to be given guard duty within the gates of the rath; it was an easier assignment than guarding the towns and the coasts.

“We are here to speak with the Ard-Ban-Drui. We have walked from a great distance to seek her advice on a spiritual matter,” said Ethne, keeping her eyes cast down, hoping the man would not recognize her.

“I’ll have to report this to the Ard-Ri. He likes to keep track of everyone who enters the nemed.”

“Why should he care if people from the countryside want to visit the old Ard-Ban-Drui?” asked Ruadh evenly, also keeping his gaze firmly on the dirt path. “Surely he has much more important matters to be concerned with.”

“She will soon pass over to the other side, and we don’t want someone new taking her place,” said the guard. “As soon as she’s dead, the Cristaidi will build a stone church inside the nemed, right next to that big old tree.”

“The sacred ash?” Ethne’s head jerked up, and her eyes met those of the soldier.

Years earlier, when Ethne and Ruadh had left the nemed, the Cristaidi had chopped down the ancient bíle of In Medon that stood just outside the gates of the Ard-Ri’s rath for almost a thousand sun-turnings. It was a desecration she still could not forgive. But the sacred ash had been the focus of Druid rites for the good of the earth and the people for a thousand sun-cycles. It anchored the prosperity of the land.

Oaks and ashes were the only trees that attracted lightning—the attention of the gods—and still survived to flourish. They sent their roots deep into the soil and their branches high into the heavens, bringing messages from the sky gods to the earth and from the earth spirits to the sky, and to all creatures, seen and unseen, that dwelled between. Any insult to such a tree, especially when it had been the focus of sacred ceremony for untold generations, was an affront to the ancestors, the sky gods, and the nature spirits. And to the Druid, these trees were people. To desecrate such a tree was tantamount to murder.

Aífe kept silent during the exchange. She had been too young when the Druid escaped into the forest to fully understand all that had been lost, and she did not remember the elaborate rites within the nemed nor the respect that had once been shown to the Druid at court.

Ruadh gestured to Ethne to stay silent. In dealings with the Cristaidi, it was better for a man to appear to be in charge. That was their way.

“We are not here to cause any trouble,” Ruadh said. “We just want to speak with the Ard-Ban-Drui while we still can. We are simple forest dwellers who have need of spiritual guidance.”

The guard finally relented. They were allowed to enter the nemed but were followed right up to the entrance, where two guards were posted to monitor their comings and goings.

Ethne’s expert eye noticed the spreading weeds in the garden at the center of the nemed, weeds so thick it was hard to tell how many healing worts were left. Hawthorn and rowan saplings sprouted from berries that had fallen and been left to grow wild in the iris beds. One whole section of the garden was taken over by nettles; in the past, these would have been harvested and eaten in very early spring, but now a grossly overgrown nest of them threatened to swamp the garden in a poisonous, stinging tide.

At least the grass was cut. Some intelligent person had put out a sheep on a tether that was fixed to the ground at one end by a large iron spike. The sheep walked within the large circle afforded by the length of the tether and cropped the grass. This arrangement worked well unless the sheep decided to chew the tether, got tangled in the line, or somehow managed to get into the flower gardens and medicinal shrubs.

Where the Cauldron of the Sea had once stood, a small bronze vessel now sat beneath the sacred ash to receive offerings and to be used for scrying. The fire altar was cold. Nothing but a thin layer of damp black cinders remained of its former glory. Ethne walked to it and said a little prayer. Out of habit, her fingers reached under the round shelf of stone upon which the altar was built to see if the bell branch was still there. She drew back her hand with a start, then reached in again. It was still there!

Ethne took out the branch and shook it experimentally. It sounded just as sweet as it had so many years before. She shook it in a regular rhythm, walking slowly dessel around the circumference of the ritual site. The sound of the bells purified the atmosphere and dispelled any lingering negative energies. The sweet sound was a favorite of the fairies and a signal to them that they were still welcome in that place. When Ethne had circumambulated the space three times, Aífe stepped forward, and, to Ethne’s delight, began the ancient invocation to the spirits of the land:

Powers of the east, power of the salmon,

Powers of earth and prosperity, come into this space,

Be with us now!

Turning to the south she intoned:

Powers of the south, great sow,

You who delve deeply into the dark earth

To gain her secrets, powers of water,

Of song, of poetry and arts, be with us now!

Turning again, she faced the west:

Great stag of knowledge, power of air,

Power of the west! Be with us in this circle,

Guardian of teaching and learning,

Of history and storytelling, be with us now!

Turning one more time to face the north, she sang out:

Powers of the north, great eagle,

Lord of battle magic, power of light and fire,

From the place where the sun never sets, be with us now!

Then she stepped up to the fire altar, the center of the nemed’s holiest sanctuary, and said:

Great horse of sovereignty, mare of the land,

Ruler of kings and queens, be with us here in this circle.

Bring us self-mastery and steadfast judgment, true-seeing and balance.

Be with us now!

Ruadh and Ethne waited for her to finish, moved to tears by the memory of what had once been and was no more. At the end, Ethne removed a small silver phial from her pack and poured a thin stream of the Waters of Life in a circle upon the cold ashes, recalling the dancing flames of long ago.

At that moment a young Drui appeared, a tall, brown-haired man in a white woolen tunic, carrying a stout oaken staff. He appeared to be the gatekeeper for the Druid of the nemed.

“I see that you are followers of the Old Way. Welcome to the sanctuary of the gods. My name is Nuin. May I offer you the hospitality of this place?” he asked politely.

“We are here to visit Gaine. That is our only request,” replied Ethne.

The young man sighed. “I fear that the Ard-Ban-Drui is very frail. She has not received visitors for some time now.”

“She will want to see us,” Ethne replied. “Tell her that Ethne and Ruadh are here.”

The man looked startled, then bowed slightly in response. He had heard the tales of Ethne of the Forest. He hitched his tunic, took up his staff, and walked as fast as he was able to Gaine’s house to announce the visitors.

Word quickly spread that no ordinary visitors had arrived. Some remembered Ethne and Ruadh, and some had heard the stories. Everyone was anxious to meet the former Ard-Rígain and her warrior-poet husband. Aífe was petted and admired by all. A few had known her in her infancy and marveled that she had grown so tall and healthy, and that she was a trained Drui as well. The visitors gave them hope.

Aífe was excited at the prospect of meeting the venerable Ard-Ban-Drui. She imagined sitting at Gaine’s feet and memorizing ancient lore directly from her lips.

They entered Gaine’s round house and found it filled with light. Beeswax candles flickered in their honor, and a tray of mid in a silver flagon and silver cups had been set out for their refreshment. These gestures were reminders of the generosity and graciousness that had always been a part of this community. As they moved farther into the room, they saw the pallet where Gaine lay. Ethne stepped to her side and knelt.

“Gaine,” she whispered, and the name caught in her throat and tears came. Not until she saw the dear face and put her hand on the dry, thin hand that lay above the cover did Ethne know how deeply she had missed her old friend.

“Ethne, these eyes have longed to rest on you,” Gaine said, in a voice hoary as the winter wind.

She is thin, Ethne thought. Too thin. She saw the long grey locks spread haphazardly on her pillow, so different from the intricate braids Gaine had worn all her life. But Gaine was suffused with joy at the sight of Ethne and the others.

“You’ve come home at last!” Gaine said, beaming.

“Yes, this is one of my homes. You are my home.” Ethne bent her head and kissed Gaine’s hand, hiding her tears. “Mother, Ruadh and I cannot stay. But we did bring you a gift.” Ethne turned and nodded at Aífe to come forward.

Gaine’s eyes lit with remembrance. “Ah! The little child of light! How beautiful she is.”

“We ask that she stay here with you and the other Druid, if you will give permission. She is a very talented scholar and seer with a true thirst for wisdom. She should be trained as a ban-fili,” said Ethne.

The light in Gaine’s eyes dimmed. “I am afraid that won’t be possible. The nemed is barely used. The guards come when we light a fire.”

“Why?” The knot that had been in Ethne’s stomach since they arrived grew tighter.

“Cadla has declared the fire altar a hazard that threatens the other buildings of the rath. The cauldron we have is nearly too small for visioning, and the sacred ash gets fewer and fewer offerings from the people. I can feel the land spirits leaving this place. I foresee many sun-cycles of hardship ahead …” Gaine’s eyes filled with inner sight.

“This cannot happen. We must keep the ancient teachings alive!” Ethne was overwhelmed with pain and rage. She had been counting on the Druid of the nemed to hold the teachings for the future. She needed to know that others held the future of the Drui. She couldn’t bear the burden alone; it was too large. There was so much she didn’t know.

“There is a place …” Gaine wheezed, and Aífe moved forward to offer her a bit of water.

“Where?” asked Ruadh, ever prepared to take Ethne and Aífe to the ends of the earth and protect them with his life.

“First ask the young ones to leave this house. It is a sacred place … a place of many secrets.”

All except for Ethne and Ruadh left the hut, and the leather door was shut. Gaine sat up, looking suddenly alert, and spoke. “There is an island in the north called Innis nan Druidneach by some; others call it Innis Ibrach. You must send her there. To reach it, she will have to take a coracle from the northern shore of Irardacht, from the bay where An Daghda’s son Aedh is buried. Take her out beyond the ninth wave, and leave her in the ocean without oars. Ignore her cries; she will think she is lost, but the summer currents will carry her without fail to the southern tip of the island.”

“We cannot leave her to the vagaries of the sea! What if there is a storm?” asked Ruadh.

Gaine shrugged, and her eyes looked hard. “Then she will die. Her fate is for the gods to decide.”

Ethne sank back, stunned. The greatest Druid, the sun kings, offered their lives for the good of the land and the tribes. To die in the midst of a sacred quest was not a tragedy, it was a high honor. But to send Aífe out alone, without knowing what terror or suffering she would meet, was more than she could bear. Ruadh placed his hand on Ethne’s shoulder to comfort her.

“It is ever the way of the Druid to be tested, for learning is the foundation of every poet. She must go, for the good of us all,” he said quietly.

Ethne knew the truth of his words. They had given Aífe all that they could; it was time for others to complete her training.

“Bring her to me now. She and I will share this evening. It is the only preparation I can give.”

Ethne and Ruadh did as Gaine asked. But as Ethne walked away from the hut, she was overcome with the desire to run, to run and take Aífe away from that small, deceptively safe room.

Inside, Gaine lay for a moment with her eyes closed as Aífe waited. Finally, as if she had gathered enough strength, she opened her eyes and began. “I am told that you have the gifts of the fili; can you tell me what you have learned of the poet’s art?”

“I have learned the imbas forosnai,” the girl answered. “They ask me a question and then give me a bit of raw flesh to chew. I place it on the stone that we use for an altar at the Forest School. I sing a song to the gods and go to sleep with my palms against my face. When I wake, I am able to answer the question.”

“Go on,” Gaine urged.

“I have also learned Teinm Laegda; I know how to put my thumb on my mouth and chant to go into trance. I am able to divine an answer that way too.

“I know the Ogum letters, of course, as both written and sign language. And I can use my fingertips to make a verse or a prophecy.”

“And have you the art of satire?”

“Oh, yes, though Ethne told me to be very careful about when and how I use it. We have an ancient hawthorn tree at the Forest School. I know how to stand under it and chant a satire while holding a poppet pierced with thorns. It is a deadly art, I know. Ethne says that all magic returns nine times to the sender, so this kind of magic should only be used if there is no other way. No intelligent person should ever take such a spell lightly.”

“She has taught you well,” said Gaine. “And do you have the stories?”

“Yes. I know three each of destructions, cow-spoils, courtships, battles, immrama, violent deaths, elopements, conflagrations, visions, loves, hostings, migrations, and violent eruptions.” She counted them off on her fingers as she spoke, so as not to forget any of the categories of tales. “These I recite only between Samain and Beltaine, at night, in front of the fire. Of course, if there is an emergency, I will recite at other times too.

“I know several forms of composition, and rhymes and meters to make poems. But Ethne always says that the content of prophecy is more significant than elegant wordplay.”

Gaine nodded, well pleased that the education in the Forest School was thorough. She was impressed by Aífe’s earnest diligence.

“You know a great deal,” she said to Aífe. “And you hold the learning firmly in your heart. You will need this faith, and you will need this belief in your own connection to the gods. Remember, child: no one speaks to the gods for you better than you do yourself. Always trust your own knowledge and trust the love you have for those who hold you in their hearts.”

Something in Gaine’s words made Aífe listen more intently. Something in her voice made her tremble.

“When you doubt the people who love you, you doubt the old ways. Believing in them is the same as believing in the forest, the rivers, the rain, the deep earth beneath you.” Gaine reached beneath the coverings and pulled a round stone from a pouch. “When you have no more hope, when all seems lost, close your fingers over this stone. It is the heart of the earth, of this place. It is the center of us all.” Gaine closed her eyes.

Aífe sat and waited, sure that there must be more. But there was no more. Gaine was asleep, her soft breathing the only sound in the little room. Aífe stood and quietly let herself out.

The next morning, Ruadh helped Gaine from her bed to a bench in the herb garden, where Ethne plaited her hair and wove lavender blossoms into the braids. They spent several happy days in the nemed, weeding the garden and sitting in the sun as they told Gaine and the others about the progress of the Forest School.

Ethne asked how things had fared in her absence from court.

“We have learned to adapt,” said Gaine with a faraway look. “We can no longer be open about the Old Gods, so we weave our teachings into stories. We always begin by saying something like: ‘It was a belief in heathen times’ or ‘It is just an old woman’s foolishness,’ and then we tell a story with the old wisdom hidden inside it. Sometimes I even say: ‘This story has been ascribed to demons,’ and then I go on to praise those who have memorized it.

“Even the Cristaide have taken to learning our stories. I think they realize that the people will not respect them as equals of the Druid, as people of true learning, unless they know about our gods and our teachings.

“They have even started to capture our stories on vellum, of which I do not approve. Capturing the stories means that they can be read or spoken to anyone at any time, and they lose their special power. Some stories should only be told on very rare occasions in a sacred setting. But there isn’t much we can do about that.”

During the entire visit, neither Cadla nor his soldiers bothered Ethne or Ruadh, thinking the humble visitors too insignificant to merit their attention.