Chapter 39: Carrying On

Putting their grief behind them and carrying on was easier said than done. No sooner had Herrwn delivered his homily and lowered his staff than he was surrounded by priests and sub-priests, all of them wanting to know what to do next. Most of the questions were concerned with when and how to resume their schedule of ritual observances—in particular, what was to be done about the Sacred Summer Solstice Ceremony, which was less than a week away—but the most immediate was whether they would be having their communal meal in the main hall that night.

After repeating, “I will ask Rhonnon and see that you are informed,” to each in turn, Herrwn was able to make his way out of the grove.

The actual authority for ordering their lives lay with the chief priestess, but only a fool would have ventured after Feywn to ask about that night’s dinner plans, and Herrwn had not reached his position as the shrine’s chief priest by being a fool. While he did not have a particularly close rapport with their chief midwife, Rhonnon was next in the hierarchy, and she seemed the safer choice.

When he arrived at the women’s quarters, Belodden, the guardian of the entrance, just waved him by instead of subjecting him to her usual sharp questioning about who he was there to see and how long he expected his business to take, which was in itself a worrisome sign of their world’s disarray.

Reaching the birthing chambers, he found the door ajar, and through the crack he could see Rhonnon standing at a narrow side table chopping a pile of dried herbs. She looked up at his knock, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks streaked with tears.

“Yes?” As Rhonnon was always terse, Herrwn took this as permission to enter and to speak.

“I’ve come to ask—”

“I know”—Rhonnon put out her hand, cutting him off—“but even if we were willing—and I, for one, am not—it’s been a year or more since any of us older ones have needed to take our time at the Sacred Pools.”

Having been a consort to a woman with whom he’d shared the most intimate of confidences, Herrwn understood what Rhonnon was saying, but he wasn’t sure why she was disclosing this private aspect of her life to him—and was equally unsure what the proper response should be.

He began cautiously, “And so …”

“And so, now that Feywn has sworn off men, there’ll be no more births in this chamber until the girls grow up.”

Realizing the larger impact of their tragedy, Herrwn stammered, “H-how long … I mean … how old …”

“Gwenydd is eight, and so nine years at least for her, eleven for the twins, twelve for Arianna, and thirteen for Cyri …” Here Rhonnon paused and gave Herrwn a look much like he’d once seen on the face of the village’s chief herder when he was deciding which of the male sheep would be kept over the winter for breeding purposes and which would be slaughtered for meat. Then she sighed. “And so, unless you, Olyrrwd, or Ossiam hold up better than I expect, young Caelym is going be very busy.”

What was there to say to that? Nothing that Herrwn could think of. He was trying, instead, to think of a graceful way to change the subject, but before he came up with anything, Rhonnon grew impatient.

“Is there anything else?”

Herrwn knew how trivial his next question would seem, but he had given Elfordd his word that he would ask it and so he cleared his throat and apologetically began, “I … that is … some of the other priests are wondering whether we will be eating in the main hall tonight, and I thought you might know what I should tell them.”

Rhonnon stared at him for an interminable moment before saying, “Why don’t you ask the cook?”

Assuming she was serious, he started to apologize and say that he would do so, but before he could get the words out she cut him off, telling him to go back to the men’s quarters and that she’d find out and send word.

Seeing Olyrrwd waiting for him outside the classroom door, Herrwn guessed that another difficult conversation lay ahead—and the physician’s first words proved him right.

“He’s asking about Labhruinn. I gave him another calming dose so you could tell him.”

“Couldn’t you—”

“I’ve got to get back to work. I’m sure you’ll explain it better than I would.”

And Herrwn had to agree, albeit reluctantly, since as skilled as Olyrrwd was in discussing ordinary matters of life and death, he was not the one to clarify ritual banishment.

Caelym was out in the courtyard, sitting on the stone bench, as still as if he were made out of stone himself. Herrwn walked over and sat down beside him.

“Caelym, Olyrrwd says you have a question for me.”

Caelym turned his head and looked up. “Where’s Labhruinn?”

“The one you called Labhruinn is no longer among us.”

“Is he dead too?”

“Not exactly, but he is gone.”

“Is he going to come back?”

“No. I think … I hope … he has gone to some different kind of life and will find happiness there.”

As Caelym didn’t ask any more questions, Herrwn decided to put off a fuller explanation and, instead, stood up. “Come now.” He put out his hand and was relieved when Caelym took it and allowed himself to be led back into the classroom.

There was an empty cup on the table and a plate with crusts of buttered bread, so Benyon must have brought something for Caelym’s midday meal. Herrwn had not eaten anything since breakfast and supposed he ought to be feeling hungry, although the aching emptiness he felt was not something that could be filled with food. Caelym, however, was young and needed nourishment. “You wait here and I’ll go and see if I can”— he started, but before he could finish, “get you something to eat,” Caelym gripped his hand and looked so frightened that he said, “It’s all right. We’ll stay here together and wait for Benyon to bring your supper.”

Herrwn lost track of how long they sat by the hearth—Caelym clutching his arms across his chest and rocking back and forth—but it was long past the usual time for the evening meal when Benyon knocked his diffident knock and elbowed his way into the room with a tray clearly loaded to feed three.

Begging Herrwn’s pardon for being so late, reminding him it had never happened before and promising he would do all within his humble abilities to see it never happened again, Benyon went on to explain that he’d gone to the kitchen to get young Master Caelym’s tray as he always did, only to be told by the cook that all the priests and priestesses would be dining in their quarters that night and he’d had to wait while she filled the trays for the women servants to carry to the chief priestess and the other high priestesses.

It was not fair to be so bothered by Benyon’s no doubt sincere obsequiousness and Herrwn knew it. Still, their previous chief servant had been entirely respectful without groveling, while Benyon’s whiny excuses rained down on Herrwn’s raw nerves like pellets of salt on an open wound, and he was relieved when Olyrrwd arrived and Benyon bowed his way out of the room. Not usually one for idle conversation, Olyrrwd chatted through the meal, pausing now and again to ask, “Isn’t that interesting, Caelie?” or to say, “Eat up, there’s a good lad!” or “Have some more boiled eel; it’s good for you,” while Caelym moved his food around on his plate, saying, “Yes,” “I will,” and “Thank you.”

Caelym’s numbed reticence lasted halfway through the next morning; then, without warning, he jumped up and began wandering around the room reciting fragments of odes and sagas—laughing at nothing instead of crying, when he had all the good cause in the world to do so.

Refusing to give him any more calming potion because “he can’t be on it the rest of his life,” Olyrrwd suggested instead that Herrwn take Caelym to the shrine’s nursery, “where they can watch over him until his frenzy passes.”