Chapter 57: Provisions

“Caelym can take no more on his quest than he can carry in a pack.” Herrwn held open the curtain to what Olyrrwd now referred to as his workroom, although Herrwn could see little space for anyone to work between the piles of provisions and paraphernalia that filled most of the chamber.

Huffing, “We’ll pick the best of it and keep the rest for later,” Olyrrwd dumped his armload of leather goods onto a bed already buried under a stack of tunics, capes, and cloaks.

By “later” Herrwn supposed Olyrrwd meant some future time when the entire population of the valley decided to go off on a quest, since all the other beds in the chamber that had once served as the sleeping quarters for a dozen Druids-in-training were as full as that one.

When Caelym moved his things out of the students’ sleeping quarters and into the bedchamber with Herrwn and Olyrrwd, Herrwn had presumed the vacated room would be left in readiness for the next generation of pupils. Olyrrwd, however, quickly appropriated it to store his growing collection of “things Caelym might need on our … er … his quest.”

Unlike Herrwn, who continued to have grave misgivings about Caelym’s undertaking his spirit quest at so young an age, Olyrrwd threw himself into preparing for the event with a zeal that recalled the enthusiasm with which he’d planned for his own spirit quest forty-five years earlier. Sacrificing time that might otherwise have been devoted to lessons in the healing chamber, he sent Caelym off with the best of the village hunters and fishermen to “learn those arts from masters” and busied himself gathering supplies and implements for what he regularly slipped into calling “our quest.”

Copper cups, bowls, and cooking pots and an assortment of waterskins were stacked on a bed just inside the doorway. Clothing—deerskin shirts and pants, fur-lined cloaks and hooded tunics—were separated into piles on two beds that had been turned sideways and pushed against the wall. A bed at the far end of the room was covered with layers of hides and furs that Olyrrwd had explained could serve as sleeping mats, blankets, or tents.

Caelym’s former bed was spread with fishing spears of all shapes and sizes, along with hunting bows and matching quivers of arrows. The only clear space was on the table next to the bed, and half of that was taken up with surgical implements, pouches of powders and flasks of elixirs, along with a mix of oddments—extra arrowheads and spear points, coils of twine and rope, a tinderbox, and a rugged-looking knife presumably meant for cutting wood rather than lancing boils.

Sighing, Herrwn let the curtain drop.

The spirit quest was a sacred rite of passage—not, as Olyrrwd seemed to think, a chance for Caelym to spend the summer hunting and fishing. With this clearly in mind, Herrwn’s own teaching sessions included careful rehearsal of the preparatory rites and rituals, and repeated admonitions that Caelym’s time in the mountains be spent in intense introspection, delving deeply into his innermost uncertainties and yearnings.

It had been Herrwn’s hope—and, frankly, his expectation—that once the short, dark days of the late fall and winter set in, he would be able to get his student’s attention back to his own demanding field of study. Instead, Olyrrwd decided it was not enough for Caelym to know how to hunt and fish, he had to know how to make his own bows and arrows and fishing spears, so Herrwn found himself sharing his disciple with an odd assortment of village artisans Olyrrwd had enlisted to teach Caelym their crafts.

“Arrows get lost and spear shafts break, and knowing how to make his own is half the fu—” Olyrrwd paused and cleared his throat. “Umm … spiritual revelation.”

With mountains of implements and supplies filling the side chamber, some of the excess had spilled out and was beginning to encroach on the classroom itself. Looking at a dozen pairs of boots lined up on the shelf under the wall, Olyrrwd muttered, “Two pairs should be enough. He can wear the high ones and carry the short ones. Which do you think he should take?”

“The ones that will keep his feet the driest!” It was the sound of rain drumming against the window shutters that put this answer into Herrwn’s mind, and he was relieved to have Olyrrwd nod vigorously, saying, “The sealskin then! I thought so myself!”

The storm outside was the first of many to sweep through the valley in what was the most severe winter in Herrwn’s memory.

By comparison, the atmosphere within the shrine was remarkably peaceful.

Ever since Olyrrwd’s cautionary hint that the schism between himself and Ossiam was as deep as ever, Herrwn had been bracing himself for a resurgence of their hostilities, especially at the autumn equinox and then the winter solstice. Both rituals had, in the past, been occasions for particularly incendiary prophesies from Ossiam (or, more correctly, from his frenzied and unpredictable spirit guide), and he shuddered to think of Olyrrwd’s response to any vision that foreshadowed doom in Caelym’s coming quest.

As it turned out, he need not have worried. Both the equinox and the solstice came and went with only mild and generally reassuring portends delivered in Ossiam’s own voice.

Meanwhile, Caelym managed to keep up with his recitations and his work in the healing chamber, along with the lessons in arrow-making and excursions to the upper reaches of the valley to practice making shelters out of evergreen branches, while still finding time to spend with the five young priestesses, the older three of whom were showing signs of ripening womanhood.