Chapter Eleven

  Through her pain-filled delirium, Bronty heard Morwen say, “It’s time to push now, my girl.”

  “Is it nearly here then?” She asked through torn and bleeding lips.

  “Your baby will be here as soon as you can push it out.” Said the midwife in the same calm, controlled tone that she had used all evening. “Wait for the pain to start again, then push as hard as you can.”

  “Start again?” Bronty groaned. “I wasn’t aware that it had ever stopped.”

  Cerevin and Dougal patted him on the back in commiseration.

  “Never mind, Gryff.” Said his brother. “You did well to get to the last pair.”

  “It was a valiant effort.” The Doomsayer agreed.

  “I feel such a fool!”

  Dougal laughed. “I did tell you what would happen if you tried that trick too often.”

  Gryffin had started the final combat well against Sigur, keeping a tight defence and intelligently working the Windborne’s open, or shield less, side. As the fight ran on, his confidence increased. For all his reputation, Sigur did not seem to be such a wonderful fighter, and Gryffin became increasingly certain that he could win. He patiently waited his chance then, when Sigur looked to have slightly overextended himself, he pushed his opponent’s spearpoint away to the right and rolled around intending to sweep his opponent’s feet from under him. He chose to ignore Dougal’s warning as to what may happen if he tried this against a more skilled opponent and, despite Gryffin’s own appraisal, Sigur was a very skilled opponent. He had only half completed his turn when a shoulder in the back told him that he had made a mistake. His opinion that things were not going well was confirmed as, lying face down in the grass, a spear hammered painfully into his exposed backside.

  “You put up a good fight, little brother.” The Doomsayer comforted him again.

  “But if Dougal had already warned you against such tactics, may I suggest that you follow his advice in the future?”

  Gryffin rubbed his still sore backside ruefully. “I will.” He promised. “Next time I will be more patient.”

  “I think that that would probably be for the best, Gryff.” His brother added.

  Tired of thinking of his foolishness, Gryffin changed the conversation. “Any word from Bronty?”

  Dougal’s face seemed to collapse into a mask of worry lines. “Nothing as yet. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “It is a good thing.” Said Cerevin. “You have nothing to worry about. Bronty and Albany will be fine. Look” He pointed across the circle to where Dylan stood in easy conversation with Callun. “If there were any problems, then the druid would have been sent for, would he not?”

  “I suppose you are right,” Dougal admitted with a sigh. As if realising all that Cerevin had said, he added “Why do you keep calling the baby Albany? We haven’t decided on any names yet.”

  The Doomsayer laughed and chose not to answer the question. He turned back to face the quietly waiting ring of villagers. “So, what happens now?”

  Gryffin searched the north sky. “See that star?” He asked, pointing. “We have to wait for it to enter the north gate of the circle. Then the fires will be lit.

  “How much longer will it be?”

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  “Not too long.”

  Cassie helped Bronty sip water, trying to catch all that escaped her cracked and broken lips with a towel. The mother-to-be’s tired breathing sounded ragged and harsh.

  “You have to push harder now.” Morwen said. “I can see the top of the baby’s head, but you have to push harder now than you ever have before for it to be finally over.”

  “Can’t. Too tired.”

  “You have to, or both you and your baby will die.” Said the midwife, brutally. More gently, she added, “I know how hard it is, but you will come through this. Just one last effort and it will be born. Now, come on girl. Push!”

  The entire village stood silently, watching the druid and Eron as they stood by the altar. Dylan stared intently at the star filled sky through the northern portal, but his entire attention was fixed on the exact position of just a single star. He turned to Callun and nodded. “It is time.”

  Grasping the hilt of his sword, the fetish marked Eron pointed at the two mounds of firewood that flanked the altar. Small balls of fire streaked from his fingertips and burst with a low ‘whoosh’ within the dry wood. Callun willed the flames to grow and soon the fires were burning fiercely.

  “Goddess.” Dylan Called loudly, having to raise his voice to be heard over the crackle and popping of the blazes. “Witness the sacrifice of these, your chosen people. Protect them through this coming year.”

  Slowly and with reverent silence, the villagers walked forward to climb over the alter walk in between the fires.

  “That’s it.” Encouraged Morwen. “Good girl! The head is clear now. Just hold for a while, while I turn it. There!” She said after slowly easing the blood and mucus covered head into position. “One more push….”

  Bronty screamed with the last, wrenching effort of pushing out her child, collapsing back, and sinking gratefully onto the bed as the small body slithered free. Morwen held the cord connecting mother and child until she was sure that the pulsing within had stopped then she tied two cotton thongs around it at about an inch distant from each other. Intoning a simple prayer to the goddess, she cut the thick, white cord. The midwife wrapped the now struggling child into a blanket, wiping off much of the detritus of birth as she did so. “You have a beautiful daughter, Bronty.” She announced above the child’s first wailing cries.

  “Is she alright?” Asked the anxious mother. “There is no deformity, or anything amiss there?”

  Morwen examined the small, fragile body, checking fingers and toes. When satisfied they were in order, she moved on to the child’s body, looking at joints and bone straightness. It was as she reached the baby’s chest that her face seemed to drain of colour. “Dear goddess!” She muttered. “Cassie, go fetch Dylan and Callun. Dougal as well.” She added almost as an afterthought.

  “What’s wrong, ma?”

  “Don’t ask questions, just do as you are told.” She snapped. “Now run.”

  Bronty tried to sit up as the young girl fled the room. “What’s wrong with my baby?” She asked, her voice rising in panic.

  “Nothing.” Morwen stammered, clearly unsettled by something. “Nothing is wrong.” Her sisters moved closer to see what had so disturbed her.

  “Then what is it?” She demanded to know.

  “Bronty – your baby is fetish marked!”

  Bronty lay back on the bed, protectively clutching her baby as the small procession entered. Dougal almost ran to her side, holding her to his chest. “I’m so glad you are alright.” He said, blinking away tears of relief.

  “Be careful, Dougal.” She softly chided. “Don’t squash our daughter.”

  Dougal tenderly pulled back the blanket to reveal his child’s wrinkled, screwed up face. “Hello.” He said, gently. “I’m Dougal, your Pa.”

  “I’ve named her Albany. That’s alright, isn’t it?” She asked. “I know it wasn’t one of the names we considered, but it just came into my head, and it does suit her.”

  “What…whatever you say, Bronty.” He stammered. He looked around, questioningly at Cerevin who had followed them and now stood at the door with Gryffin. ‘How did you know?’, he wanted to demand, but looking at his Doomsayer robes and the enigmatic smile on his face thought it better to let the man keep his secrets. He shivered involuntarily, as though someone had walked over his grave.

  Dylan walked over to the bed. “May I see your baby please, Bronty?” He asked. “Morwen tells me that she is somewhat special.”

  She handed Albany over to the druid who pulled back the blanket even further to expose her chest. He stared in amazement at the two blood-red birthmarks that had so unsettled the midwife.

  Callun approached and peered over Dylan’s shoulder. “I’ve never heard of anyone having two fetish marks before. Have you?”

  “Not that I can remember.” Admitted the druid. He pointed to one of the marks. “This is the cleric fetish. The other I know not.”

  “Well then. There cannot be too much to worry about if she has been called to serve the goddess.” Said Callun.

  The druid shook his head. “I’m not sure who has called her, but I am definite that it is not Ostarna.”

  The room fell silent. It was unheard of for one of the Six-tribes to be cleric marked and it is not that of the goddess. Dylan handed Albany back to her mother. “I would ask you all to keep quiet about this. Maelwyn will be here in a few days, and his wisdom in the fetish lore far exceeds mine. He will know what to do. Until then, I think that it would be a good idea if Bronty stayed here in the hall. If anyone asks, tell them that she is too tired to move back home just yet.”

  “Agreed.” Said Callun.