An ancient hawthorn dipped its roots into the stream that coursed through the woodland clearing where Ethne, Ruadh, and the other Druid had carved out a life in the wilderness. Because the Cristaidi now had firm control of the Ard-Ri, the flaith, and the warriors of the island, the Druid were pushed away from the centers of power they had held since ancient times.

The Cauldron of Sea, a large bronze vessel that the Druid brought with them when they left In Medon, nestled between exposed roots on the opposite side of the tree. The roots had grown so tightly around the cauldron in recent years that it now seemed an organic outgrowth of the trunk. It was hard to keep the water free of falling leaves, berries, and blossoms, but the vessel was so close to the stream that scooping out and refilling the water daily was less of a chore than it had been in the old nemed of the Ard-Ri’s rath. In those days, the neophytes had to make a daily trek to the river with leather buckets.

The hawthorn tree and the sacred cauldron were the focal points of ritual for the small settlement. The Cauldron of Sea was used for scrying and as a sacred well to hold silver jewelry and coin offerings from those who visited the sanctuary. These and other sacrifices were carefully buried in votive pits scattered around the property as gifts for the gods, the land spirits, and the ancestors.

A stone-lined fire pit stood to one side of the tree and served as the fire altar, but the Druid no longer maintained a perpetual fire within its confines; wood was too precious, and the effort was needed for more immediate survival. Instead, they lit a bonfire of nine sacred woods or one made entirely of oak and kept it burning for three days and nights on each of the fire festivals.

They prayed before the ritual fire day and night while it was lit and gave it offerings of butter, oil, and dried herbs. They also fed Waters of Life to the flames, the sacred liquid that healed the sick and calmed the mind. While pouring the golden draught upon the flames, they visualized the amber nectar rising to the sky realm of the gods—a fitting gift.

The fire, like the Cauldron of Sea, was used for scrying and divination just as before, when the Druid had kept their perpetual fire in the nemed of the Ard-Ri. Folk from the outlying villages still came with their questions, and the Druid would read the answers in the faces and singing voices of the embers.

Afterward, the Druid carefully sifted the ashes of the ritual fire and preserved them to be used in the making of siabainn, adding extra magical healing power. Cakes of siabainn made with sacred ash were distributed to the sick or troubled in spirit. All these things were done as they had been done from ancient times, but there was no denying that now these performances were crimped and spare. The rituals in the little clearing were but a pale shadow of the magnificent ceremonies the Druid had once supervised before they lost status in the religious and social life of the tribes.

“What cannot be helped must be put up with,” said Ethne philosophically, eyeing the tiny ritual space with a thought to the upcoming Beltaine rites. “I remember when we led a hundred of the Ard-Ri’s cattle between the fires, to bless them on their way to the summer pastures,” she mused, a little sadly.

Ruadh enfolded her within his arms to shield her from such thoughts, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Ethne was Ard-Ban-Drui of the little tribe of Forest Druids. In her youth, she had served for many years in the Forest House, tending to the sick and wounded who came under her care, until she fell in love with Ruadh, a wounded fennidi who had been brought to her for healing. Eventually, she was called by the Ard-Drui to serve Crimthann, the Ard-Ri of the time, and to marry him. When Crimthann was killed in battle, Ethne rejoined Ruadh, her handfast partner.

Ruadh had once been a battle leader of the fennidi and, as Ethne’s life mate, now supervised the security of the Forest School, patrolling the surrounding woodlands and roads and teaching the younger Druid the arts of archery and swordplay. By now he was a Drui himself in all but title, having had full access to the rituals and classes offered at the school.

They found contentment in each other despite the circumscribed life they led, but there was a deeper shadow between them. Their infant son, Ruadhán, had disappeared without a trace with his nursemaid, many years before. They never had another child.

Some nights Ethne still woke with a start, thinking she heard Ruadhán crying. She would pace the darkness alone, a physical part of her stuck in the Otherworld, waiting to be reclaimed. That pain was part of who she was now. Often Ruadh would find her and try to give her comfort, but his own loss was just as deep. Too many times, his gentle kisses led to nothing more than a weary embrace. The disappearance of their son cast their passion with guilt, and the ever-present work of the school took what remained of their energy.

During the daylight, however, Ethne had Daire, the princeling born to her earlier marriage to the Ard-Ri Crimthann, whom she and Ruadh had adopted as their own. He was a strapping youth of almost twenty summers who excelled in his studies and had become Ruadh’s right hand in hunting and battle.

They also had Aífe of the golden curls and the strange emerald eyes that sparkled like dew on the summer grass. She had come to the old nemed of the Ard-Ri as an infant, the child of Druid parents who had died in a fire. Aífe was an expert healer and the one most often at Ethne’s side when the wounded and sick came for succor. She was brilliant in her studies and driven to excel in every subject of Druidic practice and lore.

“Aífe has a real gift and should be taught the deepest secrets of the Druid, just as I was in my youth. There is so much more she should know,” said Ethne with a deep sigh.

“We are doing what we can to keep most of the old ways secure. Passing them on to future generations is our best hope,” replied Ruadh.

“Maybe even for ourselves in our next incarnation,” Ethne added. She was determined that this was not to be the end of the Druid story and would do anything to protect and ensure their traditions.

By and large, Ethne and Ruadh were satisfied, knowing that similar Druidic colleges were thriving here and there, hidden away in forests all over the island. The Druid school they had created was a haven of peace and scholarship, and those in need of healing still came to the Forest House in the clearing, as they had for generations.

The land was happy too. The fruit trees and blackberries at the edges of the fields were flourishing, and wooden beehives hummed on their benches beneath the apple trees. Fields had been cleared for barley, oats, and rye, and there was a well-established garden of healing worts and vegetables that kept them well supplied.

Over the years, grateful visitors had donated pigs, goats, chickens, and even a cow. The members of the school had built a willow-thatched timber barn surrounded by its own palisade, where the goats and pigs kept each other company and chickens roosted and laid their eggs on shelves high in the rafters.

The cow, which was regarded as a near-human member of the community, had her own private pen and willow-thatched stable filled with clean straw and surrounded by a low fence over which she could view the daily activities of the settlement. She was called Gnóe for her shiny white hide, limpid brown eyes, and pink nose.

The men had erected a wooden smokehouse to cure meats, another for the drying of grains, and several new round houses with conical roofs of willow-thatch to house students and visitors. Ethne and Ruadh shared the old hut that Ethne had once occupied alone, and the stone tech ind allais still stood near the stream, ready to receive those in need of a sweat cure to purify their blood and warm their bones.

Clothru and Damán, former apprentices from the old nemed of the Ard-Ri, were now handfasted and the proud parents of Cathail, Cuill, and Gaine Óg. All afternoon, they had managed to keep the children seated quietly under an enormous oak tree by bribing each with a promised section of honeycomb if they could concentrate the rest of the day on their studies.

“By the end of the today, I want you to know all your trees,” said Damán. “Now, who can tell me the poetic meanings of birch?”

All three raised their hands eagerly, but Cathail, the oldest, spoke aloud. “Faded trunk and fair hair, most silvery of skin!”

“Right,” said Damán. “Who can tell me about hazel?”

This time, all three answered in chorus. “Fairest of trees, friend of cracking!”

“Wish we had some now,” Cuill muttered. They had not eaten since the sun was high, and his stomach was growling.

“All right, now who can tell me about oak? Gaine Óg, can you recite the words?” Gaine Óg had thoroughly memorized her trees, but at age four had a limited grasp of the meanings.

“Highest of bushes, a carpenter’s work,” she offered by rote.

And so it continued as one by one the children made their recitations:

Ash: “checking of peace” because it is used to make spears and bows;

Rowan: “delight of eye” for its beautiful white blossoms and red berries;

Hawthorn: “blanching of face” because the poets use it to satirize their foes by sticking its thorns into clay poppets;

Alder: “shield of warrior bands” because it is used to make warrior’s shields and because it bleeds red when cut;

Apple: “shelter of a hind” because the deer love to eat them and shelter under them in winter;

Vine: “condition of slaughter” because fion is red as blood and fit to be offered as a sacrifice;

Willow: “sacred to poets” because from its wood, harps are made;

Blackthorn: “strongest of red” because it is used to make a red dye, and because it is used to make shillelaghs, which cause terrible red wounds;

Holly: “fires of coal” used to make charcoal;

Ivy: “sweeter than grasses” because the cows and bees like to eat it in the cold season when there is nothing else;

Furze: “wounder of horses” because it grows on rough soil and tears at the horse’s legs;

Elder: “intensest of blushes” because its blossoms are used for fevers that cause a red face and because of its red twigs, berries, and juice; it is sacred to mothers and a great healer of children, never to be burned;

Heather: “in cold dwellings” because it grows in cold, damp places and helps the cough;

Reed: “robe of physicians” because it is used to blow powdered medicines into a sick person’s throat and onto a wound;

Silver Fir: “beginnings of an answer” because it is the tallest tree in the forest and symbolizes the far-seeing of the visionary;

White Poplar: “synonym for a friend” because it is used to make shields (and who is your best shield but a true friend?); and

Yew: “oldest of woods” that is planted in graveyards and is said to live forever.

“Now you know the poetic meaning of the trees,” said Damán, satisfied with their work. “Each tree is also a letter of the alphabet, a musical note, and a finger position in sign language. These triple meanings make up part of the secret language of the Forest Druids. You will be able to speak to other Druids using these kennings, and no one will be the wiser. But that is for another day.”

Clothru added, “Tomorrow, we will build two fires with nine sacred woods. We will drive Gnóe between those fires to bless and purify her for summer. The fires must be so close together that her white hide is singed brown. Then we will have our own little Beltaine feast!”

Clothru and Damán gazed at each other over the children’s heads, recalling the magnificent fires of their own childhoods and the runners who once came from every province to dip their torches into the sacred flames. Their world had changed so much.