Gwalen's Wood

By Jane Frey

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462815494

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Copyright © 2010 by Jane Frey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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She had lived in the lands of Sumeria; of that much she was certain. The Druids of her clan had told her this, but she did not need their confirmation. Gwalen could feel her long past stretching in her bones, a distant, dry history as parched as the land she had once called home, so very long ago. The arrow that had pierced her and ended that earth journey could still be felt, faint but sharp, as though it had occurred but a few months past.

Gwalen turned to her side, her eyes half open, watching the others around her as they slept. How many of them had been companions to her in that desert land, with the bright blue sky that went on forever? Or was she, once again, a stranger to this band of people, dropped seemingly out of nowhere, to serve a purpose she did not yet know?

The Oracle would reveal it soon enough. Although they had just celebrated Brigantia, her Rite of Passage into womanhood was looming ever larger on the horizon. Her father, with that secret smile of his, had said there would be quite a surprise in store for her; indeed, for all of them, on that day.

As Gwalen had done for so many nights in the past, her eyes scanned the sleeping forms one by one, feeling each of them with her mind, until at last she focused on her father. Although he had his body tightly wrapped around his woman—her mother—she felt his detachment and aloneness. At times like these it was easy to believe that, like her, he had lived before, and quite likely was the selfsame father she had loved so in Sumeria.

The day she had been felled by the arrow had been one of great celebration in their village. Their governor, Golact, had been granted personal audience with King Lagalanremuchi, ruler of all Sumeria, and he and his retinue from Adab were coming to visit at their village for a short while. Behind the routine of their daily lives, anticipation of the king’s arrival was like a locked treasure chest, soon to be opened.

When at last the day arrived, their little village had been transformed from a sleepy, dusty place into a carefully groomed ceremonial complex. People from nearby settlements, and countless groups of nomadic families, had pitched their tents just outside of the village center. For her, the differences in dress, customs and speech were fascinating. But for her elders, the increase in population meant more trade and riches for themselves.

In her Sumerian lifetime there had been only two in her family; her father and herself. Her mother had died while giving birth to her younger brother, and he followed her shortly thereafter. And though her father had enlisted the services of a wet nurse and nanny, he had insisted in raising her himself, rather than selling her into slavery, or leaving her in the open desert to die, both common disposal methods used for female children amongst her people.

And fortunately, he had the means to care for her, as he was a scribe of great skill. Many years of hard work and dedication had brought him up the ranks of his profession, until he came to be scribe for none other than Golact, the governor of the village. Not only did this provide them with a comfortable living, but an intimate view of politics and power that most of the people were quite ignorant of.

Although writing was a skill reserved only to men, the countless hours spent at her father’s side, watching as he made the precise indentations with his tools in the smooth, wet clay, never ceased to amaze her. She often practiced on her own, and assisted him when his workload was heavy.

On this auspicious day, the village streets were festooned with all the greenery to be found in this parched, treeless land. Men and women alike were making adjustments to their makeup, hair and dress. The succulent odors of special foods cooking wafted through the air, making stomachs growl and mouths water. Merchants had carefully spread out their goods and began their most earnest haggling. Despite stern admonitions not to dirty their clothes or get into mischief, children were doing both, playing, running, throwing dirt and sand at one another, and playing hide and go seek, while stealing tidbits of food.

In spite of all of these distractions, her father sat, cross-legged, in front of Golact, and she was at her father’s side. It took several attempts, but at last, the speech Golact would make to the king was completed and signed with his personal seal. The tablet was then carefully laid out to dry in the shade, to prevent warping or cracks in the slab. The governor was so pleased and relieved, that he granted her father with the high honor of sitting with him during his audience with Lagalanremuchi.

Time shifted and Gwalen stretched and yawned, closing her eyes for what seemed like a brief moment. Gone was the dark, feral closeness of the cave-like structure, and her sleeping clan within it. Even her father had left. She found herself in a wooded clearing ringed by aspens and fir trees, all flooded with bright light from an unknown source. It was fully dark now, although the moon shone its fullest and flooded its light through a heavy mist. She stood alone, transfixed by the strange light and the incredible detail it gave of her surroundings.

Then, as she had experienced countless times before, she could feel them gathering in the shadows. No, she was not alone, not alone at all. They were watching her from behind the trees, watching, waiting, and guarding her. And then, as before, she heard the bells…

The world shifted again, and she was back in the cold stillness of the long lodge. It was the most mysterious time of the night, when darkness still embraced the sky, and the sun readied itself to be reborn. The faintest light tinged the horizon with the barest touch of violet, shining around the caribou skins covering the entrance to the sleeping lodge.

Making a final sweep with her eyes, Gwalen felt, before seeing, that there was another one as awake as she was. Sitting up slowly and stretching her arms over her head, she turned and stared into her father’s open eyes. Of all of the people in their clan, she knew that he alone accepted her strange gifts without question, and was not afraid of her. Her own mother had forbidden her to speak of her visions long ago.

As their eyes locked, Gwalen felt words not her own form images in her mind. It was another ability that Einan, her father, had passed on to her, one more carefully guarded secret between them.

Did you travel far this night, daughter?

Yes, Gwalen replied, across much space and time. I saw a place where once I lived. Father, my form was different, but my essence was the same.

Before Einan could reply, her mother—his woman—yawned and stretched, waking to a new day with its many obligations. Had she known of the thoughts that flew around her without sound, she would be deeply disturbed. Einan smiled his secret grin and then put a finger to his lips, his other hand caressing his daughter’s tousled reddish hair. Gwalen sighed. Then, without warning, Einan sent one final thought to her, swift as the arrow that had felled her in Sumeria.

I was with you, my daughter, and will be always.

The morning was crisp and clear, with curled patches of mist quickly moving away to the darkest regions of the forest. In the brief time it took Gwynneth to awaken, a mental task list was being assembled in her brain. How unlike her husband she was, who lived his days in a waking dream! It was easy to understand why the Druids had brought him under their wing, for there were others within their number who had the dreamer’s gift. At least their tutelage had brought some value to his innate skills. She honestly thought most of it was nonsense and the Druids pompous and mostly useless, but kept these opinions to herself.

Looking at her daughter, she compared her features to her male siblings. Though somewhat small and slender for her age, she was well formed and strong. Her reddish hair fell in tousled waves to the small of her back, and her gray-green eyes were keen and observant. Her skin was quite fair, with no blemishes save for two dark pink marks. One was situated just above her heart, and the other below her right shoulder blade, giving the suggestion of scars made from a sharp-pointed blade that had run through her body. They had been there since her birth, and had enlarged with time.

Absentmindedly, she touched Gwalen’s head, bent over to peck Einan on the lips, and then arose and began to dress. She thanked the gods that her sons were levelheaded like herself, and not given to dreams and visions like the girl and her father. Besides, she needed them to hunt, farm and fight should the need arise. With a slight smile, she thought that none of them would be wooed by the Learned Ones to leave their place in the clan. There was Gwalen to deal with, but she was still just a girl, not even gone through the rites of womanhood. Surely the Druids would pass her by as well.

Had Gwynneth been more sensitive, she would have heard whispered words flying all around her. Both daughter and husband had long ago accepted her inability to comprehend their skills, and did their best not to push her past her level of comfort, but they chafed her sensibility, nonetheless. Where she saw life in black and white, their sight was imbued with all the colors of the rainbow.

Besides Gwynneth’s daily chores, the time for man making and rites of womanhood were near. Beltane was fast approaching, and with three sons coming of age this year, it would be an especially busy time. If only Gwalen could keep her head out of the clouds long enough to give her reliable support! As their only female child, Gwalen did many more tasks than was her wont, but having so many healthy young boys was a source of great pride.

As she dressed, Gwynneth glanced around at the other women who were also preparing to cook the morning meal. As in most Celtic villages, each individual filled their own niche and together formed a working organism, filling in gaps wherever needed. No one in the clan was exempt from this primal law, and no work was too lofty or lowly for anyone.

Preserved meat, unleavened bread, animal fat and dried berries made up their morning meal, and had been their diet for many days now. As soon as the Druid who scanned the skies instructed the clan, planting would begin, and fresh foods and grains would soon be added to their monotonous fare.

Though some of her kin revered the Druids and their secret knowledge, Gwynneth could not hide her distrust and skepticism of them. It could not be denied that their knowledge of law and numbers was impressive and useful in many ways. But she did not feel that this knowledge justified their status. Indeed, she had nursed several of this generation’s priests during their swaddling days. The Druid’s numbers were increased each year during the celebrations of Beltane. Many a father’s son or daughter became an acolyte at that time.

Silently, she chided herself for letting her thoughts meander so, and then looked up from her tasks to see if Gwalen was nearby. There was no sign of her. This was not entirely distressing, for Gwalen’s main morning chore was to fetch drinking water from the nearby river, fed from a waterfall disturbingly close to the Druid’s sacred grove. Now, why had she never put her daughter and the grove together until now? That Gwalen did not mind this chore amongst her others seemed very obvious. Had she met any of the Oak people while filling the water pouches?

Shaking her head again, she turned back to her tasks. Gwalen was only a girl child, after all, and the Goddess would do with her what She willed. Had Gwynneth known what was taking place in the Druid’s grove at that very moment, her mind may have been filled with more concern, but being of a practical nature, the tasks at hand again preoccupied her mind.

As Gwalen walked through the trees toward the sacred grove, it seemed to her that the morning mist was suffused with a golden light. How she loved this place! All around her were trees of every shape and variety. The alder and birch trees were just beginning to bear their new leaves, bright and glowing green against the light-colored bark on their trunks. Fir trees looked old and dusty in their shaggy bark with silvery needle crowns, but even they bore the signs of spring growth on the tips of their branches.

The oak trees were incredible to behold. Their massive limbs and branches, covered with thick, damp moss, entertwined in complex designs with one another. She could feel the deep strength they held, their roots snug in the earth, old and wise. These trees contained the true power of the Druid’s grove.

Yet there was something else here that bound her, unearthly and strange in nature, but just as powerful as the trees that towered high above her. As with her dream of the night past, she felt like she was being watched. There was no malice or ill will that she could feel, but an intense curiosity. It was as though she was being appraised; not for her physical attributes or the possessions she carried, but for who she really was, deep down within her soul. And there was a soothing feeling, as well. This Presence seemed to accept her without question.

However strong was the sensation of being watched, in all the days Gwalen had come to this sacred place to fetch water for the clan she had never seen anyone else. No voice had called out in greeting or warning, and no crunch of footsteps had she heard on the forest floor save her own. Beasts and birds she had seen and heard aplenty, and they moved around freely, without concern for her presence.

Yet something was different this morning. The sense of Someone else, of benevolent consciousness, was everywhere around her. As she rounded the bend in the path that led straight to the waterfall, her heart quickened with anticipation. There was an open, clear area, surrounded by trees, directly in front of the waterfall. In the middle of this place were huge boulders that looked to be entirely composed of white quartz. One day when the sun shone directly overhead, sparkling crystals could be seen dancing across their surface, like misty diamonds. Today, although the sun was hidden by clouds, the stones seemed to glow from within, suffused with a clear, white radiance that touched her, within her heart.

She longed to touch the rocks, to cradle her arms around them, to rest her head and face on their cool white surfaces. Unbidden, the words sprang from Gwalen’s lips, from their own accord. I have been here before. I have known this place, she whispered. Despite all of the emotions pulling at her to touch the stones, with effort she left the clearing and reached the falls to fill her pouches with fresh spring water.

To break the mesmerizing spell the stones had cast upon her, Gwalen splashed water all over her face and head. It was very cold. Then she took several long draughts of water. It tasted so incredibly good, icy and crisp. She could literally feel the water coursing down her throat and to her chest and stomach, awakening her mind. It was a ritual Gwalen enjoyed every morning, for the water was most refreshing here.

Gathering up the water pouches, she turned and made ready to go, and stopped still from the scene that lay before her. On top of the largest boulder, lying very still, was a large white dove. Its eyes were open and watching her as she recovered her wits and approached the stone. It made soft cooing sounds, as if encouraging her to come closer.

With alarm in her own breast, Gwalen saw that the bird had been seriously wounded. Embedded near its neck was a sliver of wood, and a thin trickle of blood was winding its way down the side of the rock. Without thinking, Gwalen dropped the pouches, and then fell to her knees, sheltering the dove in her arms.

She realized this was exactly what she had felt compelled to do earlier. It was as if something, or Someone, had contrived the means by which to reorder her sense of duty. The dove continued to gaze at her with its soft, clear eyes, and Gwalen inched closer and closer until at last she touched its feathers. They were incredibly soft and warm.

Gwalen put her head close to the bird’s breast, to listen for its heartbeat. It was steady and fast, giving no indication that the dove was faring poorly from its wound. Without hesitation, Gwalen gently picked up the bird with both hands and created a nest pocket within the front of her tunic’s sash. Knowing this delay would cause her mother a lot of displeasure, she quickly gathered up the water pouches and scurried back down the path with the bird wrapped snugly against her chest.

It was just as she had dreaded it would be. When she walked into the eating hall, all grew silent and within seconds, everyone was staring at her. She could not help but observe the women who moved aside to let Gwynneth stand, facing her, at the far end of the hall. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and in her expression a demand for Gwalen’s tardiness, stern and disapproving. Gwalen slowly put the water pouches down, not heeding the hands that took them to pour at the tables. She had two choices, and that was plain. She could turn and walk quickly out the door, and face a very uncomfortable future with her mother and the clan, or walk forward to where her mother stood waiting, to accept whatever punishment was coming.

When she felt the gentle fluttering of the bird’s wings within her tunic, she knew her decision had been made. And when the dove let out several loud cooing calls, astonishment, and then humor, filled the hall, and even Gwynneth melted, if only a little.

And what are you hiding there, girl? Drawn by the power of her mother’s words, Gwalen advanced several steps toward her.

It is a wounded dove, mother. I found it on a white boulder in the Druid’s grove.

For a moment, Gwynneth’s eyes widened, but just as quickly, she regained her composure.

Bring the bird to me, she commanded.

While total silence again filled the hall, Gwalen drew closer, drawn by the sheer force of her mother’s will. When they stood at an arm’s length from one another, Gwyneth said, There is blood on your face, my daughter, in the shape of a cross on your right cheek. Did you meet with foul play?

No, mother, it must be from the dove I carry. There is a piece of wood embedded in it’s breast that does not seem fatal, though how the bird received it, or came to rest on the granite rock, I cannot say.

Gwynneth frowned. You are always getting into mischief in those woods, child, in one form or another. Now run along with you! Go wash your face and get ready for the morning meal. And find a place to dispose of the bird. I would not be surprised if it is dead by full sun. And make it quickly, Gwalen! You are already over late with the rest of your morning chores!

Gwynneth gave her daughter a glare that would have melted snow. Inwardly, she smiled at her theatrical performance. No doubt, everyone present knew who held the reins in her family. She realized she hadn’t seen her husband once since they had awoken this morning. No doubt, he was off daydreaming somewhere and had forgotten to eat. She sighed heavily, and then turned back to the table where her sons were hard at the business of eating. They were all strong, solidly built, and worked hard with their hands.

They were all so much like her father—their grandfather—it was as though he walked the earth again, six times over. Perhaps it was he, already come back from the Other World, to take his place once more among the living, as many of the Celts believed. From the feel of it, Gwalen was following a different path, under the unseen spell of the Druids and their sacred grove. And Einan, her impractical husband, did nothing to discourage it. At least she would have the boys to look after her in her old age.

Gwalen found her father seated on his favorite rock by the dry riverbank, as she knew she would. This was his daydreaming, thinking, and sorting out place. Here, the usually convivial man became a silent philosopher. As she soundlessly approached him, she could feel his thoughts reaching out and finding hers. He turned to her, and, sensing her distress, spoke without words into her mind.

My daughter, what has happened? Are you in pain? Why is there blood on your face?

She carefully sat down next to him and with utmost care, removed the dove from her tunic. Oddly enough, the bird did not seem frightened or weakened by its wound.

Gwalen said aloud, I found the dove this morning when I was fetching water at the Druid’s Grove. When I reached the place of stones, there it was! I filled the pouches with water, took the dove with me, and when I was done and ready to go, I hurried back to the village.

Where was it again, my daughter? Einan asked softly.

It was perched on one of the granite boulders, cooing. When I saw the wood piercing its breast, I simply could not leave it there.

She did not say how strong her feelings of being watched were, or of her overwhelming desire to kneel at that very rock where the dove had materialized. It just occurred to her she’d heard no flutter of wings, nor anything else to herald the bird’s arrival. With that wound, how could it have flown at all?

Einan looked at the bird with some concern. I do not possess the skill needed to remove that shaft of wood. We must take it to the healer. It looks to be an oak shaft, and you were obviously meant to find it. Have you met anyone in the Grove during your daily visits to gather water?

Gwalen looked at him, astonished. How had he known?

She said, quietly, Not exactly, but Someone, or something, makes its presence known to me.

Has it ever spoken to you?

Gwalen shook her head. It does not speak with words, but feelings. Whatever it is, it is very wise and strong, and benevolent in character.

The fact that you have been to the grove so often must make you a creature of great interest, Einan said. There are beings in the world far older than us, and most of them have little to do with the daily lives of our race. The Druids deal with many things that are ancient, and have more access to these powers than we do. Their arrows are always made of oak. There must have been at least one here this morning, to give you this bird as a sign of their interest in you.

And what might that interest be? Gwalen whispered. Sacrifice. And more specifically, sacrifice of the highest order. There’s no telling when, or why, or to what end. But it is already plain that you are very special to them. Now, to turn the course of events back in favor of your life, the arrow must be removed from the bird’s breast, and then it may be set free, to go where it may.

Gwalen persisted. But how could the dove be a symbol of me?

Einan looked at her very soberly and said, Daughter, have you ever been shot by an arrow? Wide eyed, she returned his stare.

Yes, Gwalen, they too can travel across time, and lifetimes, if need be. Your past wound must have been quite deep to gain their attention now. But you must go! Wash your face, and straighten up your clothes for the next tasks of the day. Do not give your mother more cause for ire or suspicion. I will make sure that the bird gets tended to properly. For you, great healing has begun.

Obeying her father’s command, Gwalen went straight home, quickly scrubbed her face and changing her tunic, soaking the bloodstained one in water. Though she was famished, she dared not take the time to eat while Gwynneth was waiting. And, if she took anything from their food stock it would be noticed, and an accounting demanded for it.

As quickly as she could, she made her way back to the eating hall, where all but a few stragglers were taking their meal. Yes, her mother was still standing there, with her arms crossed in front of her chest as usual.

She said sternly, Today, daughter, you are in charge of the dishes. Now, step to it—you will have many other chores to do today.

Indeed, Gwynneth held a tight rein on her daughter for the rest of that day. Gwalen was kept running and working, barely having time to snatch a bite to eat until after nightfall, when she was finally allowed to rest. Gwalen went straight to her bed and flung herself down, utterly exhausted. Too tired to think of the morning’s strange events, she sank almost immediately into dreamless sleep. She did not even waken when her father leaned over and tenderly kissed her forehead, placing a pure white feather on her brow.

For a time, Gwynneth tried to exert her will over her daughter by switching her water bearing duties with her son, Wyeth. This backfired quickly when, to everyone’s amazement, all of the water at the falls ceased to flow, and then dried up completely. Idle gossip about Gwalen increased, and she was watched day and night for other signs of strangeness.

What made matters exceedingly odd was that no other body of water nearby had been affected. The village still had plenty of water further away, but it took more energy and time locating places to retrieve it, and carry it back to the village. What once took Gwalen a minimum of time to accomplish by herself with ease, now three strong-bodied men, needed for other tasks, along with a cart and two of their precious pack hounds, were required for the same chore, making the rest of the clan work harder to compensate.

The dove had blossomed under the healer’s care, as Einan had promised. The healer had removed the oak shaft, and the wound left in its wake had closed up and healed in very short order. When Einan brought the bird back to Gwalen, she was overjoyed.