A farmer came forwards, gesturing towards his house. “I’ve a cow caught ill. A fever’s taken her, if ye’ll see to it, druid.”
He nodded.
Then came others.
A blessing for the field.
Good will for the crop.
My girl’s come down with a bout of cough.
It would be a long day, but he would earn his dues, and so, he went to work.
The druid collected a small gathering of spectators throughout the day. They said little, save the children, who picked and pulled at his robes. Their mothers scolded them away. They rarely listened.
He went to the fields. He gave blessing to the crop. He left a tincture for the wee girl with the cough. They took him to the cow who’d taken illwith a heat, and the druid bent to feel her hide. Her breathing came slow and heavy, and her eyes clouded.
“Ye’ll save her, won’t ye?” asked the farmer.
“She has had many winters,” said the druid.
“Please, won’t ye? She’s all we’ve got to last the chill, ’n coins nae easy to make with taxes risin’.”
Sighing, the druid stepped forwards and pressed the head of his staff to her belly. There came no sound, no light, nor wonder. It was quiet, and the druid came away. He said, “Wait till first sprout, then go to market and fetch a calf. After, let her rest. She is tired.”
The farmer agreed.
Dark came early in the cold months, and before long, lanterns were lit along the path. The druid returned to the woman, who offered him supper and brought him to her family’s cottage. It wasn’t much but a room with a wooden bed and quaint little cots for the bairns. Herbs and spoons were strung from the beams, clicking as the residents ducked their heads between.
“Put up the maister’s things!” the woman instructed her son, who came and gathered the druid’s staff and cowl. “Be careful, now! A thing like that is precious to a woodsingr!”
The boy looked wondrously at the staff. It was hardly special, the druid thought. It had been rotting before he’d cut it down to carve some twelve years before, and had been dying all the while. Yet it was, perhaps, too familiar for him to part with.
The hearth roared, and the smoke thickened. The mistress turned soup in an iron kettle, and her husband came in and dusted his braks.
“The night grows long,” he said.
“Aye!” said the woman. “But soon will come Belthín, then it shall be warm again.”
“Tell us a story, íridh!” cried the bairns, and their mother said, “Aye, no one can tell stories better than druids.”
The druid wouldn’t agree that he was a very good storyteller, but could hardly deny his hosts. “Very well. Then I will tell of the coming of summer—which your mother speaks of now—and of the joining of the Thae.”
“The Thae?” asked the bairns with interest.
“These are the three great stars who rule the night. Their silver light has burned since the Awakening. It was the first men who gave them theirnames. And every year on Belthín, the three come together from the north, the south and east and weave together in a dance so bright it warms the sky.”
“And every once in a thousand years, the Thae will join with the moon, and all the faeries will come out!” The woman smiled, but the druid frowned. “All beware and care the Ísthmhach!Faeries tarry there!”
It was an old song and not a good one.
“Faeries are nonsense and mischief,” said the druid. “One should not lead young ones astray.”
“Come now, there’s nae harm in a faerie story. It is good for the bairns to hear a bit of nonsense!” The woman ladled the soup into bowls and ordered, “Go ’n take it to his good spirit. And dinnae spill!”
Her boy scurried over, cradling the bowl between his palms. He piped, “For ye, íridh!”
“Your kindness is graciously received.”
