Overlooking
Her guide awaited back in the dining area and pressed a hot tisane into Susan’s willing hands, the aroma of fresh mint and honeysuckle twitching her nostrils. She sat back on a stool and waited for Susan with sparkling eyes, mischief dancing in the corners. Susan liked her. She pulled up a stool and sat opposite, as the girl measured her.
“Did the Goddess instruct you?”
“Well,” said Susan, her mind going back to the conversation. “She said I was to be her Shelagh na Gig. I’m not sure what that means.” Her eyes flew wide. “Ohhh, the carvings, do I have to pull myself open?”
The girl laughed, not the musical twinkling Susan might expect, but a deep laugh from her belly, her power. “I am also Shelagh na Gig. You may call me Niamh. I guess I will be your instructor, Diana will expect you just to know what to do. No, you won’t be opening yourself up like that. You are a guard, but so much more. Finish your tea and we shall sort out your clothes. You will need armour. Can you fight at all?”
Susan could hear the doubt in her voice and smiled. “Oh, just a little. But I will need something to control my new bouncers, I haven’t exercised since these things grew.”
Niamh narrowed her eyes in thought. “They are... impressive. I think they could be useful as a distraction, though. Rather than hide them, let us try to emphasize them. Will give you more time to gut them if they are goggling at your boobs.”
“Is there much danger? You sound as if you have to fight somebody off all the time.”
“No, I have never fought in earnest. I suppose one of the other priestesses might make a play for supreme power, but it has never happened. We hold the Elves in our sway, and it is more than a thousand years since they attacked us. We keep prepared, and fight daily on the practice field and we compete in the arena. Come, let us see what we can do about a harness for you.
The Brownie armourer clucked in consternation as Susan’s boobs plopped out of the leather for the fifth time.
“Maybe if I put a little more length in this strap,” she said.
“Oh, enough already,” said an exasperated Susan. “Your design is for Elves and Tuatha da Danann. We need to create something different for me.”
Niamh yawned, amused. “The Brownies are very good at craftsmanship, but they never create anything new. Maybe Lugh will have an idea, we can ask him. Or Crom sometimes fiddles with his armour and baldric.”
“As if a man would design anything that didn’t fall apart at the critical moment. No, I’ll do it myself. Let me see, give me that cloth. If I make something in cloth, can you repeat it in leather?”
The Brownie nodded, eyes narrowed in suspicion and doubt. Susan ignored her and worked fast, cutting up strips of cloth and pinning them together.
“I don’t want to give too much support, or my muscles will weaken. But I need to stop excessive swaying. How can I do it without strapping them down?” Susan mused to herself as she worked, creating a broad belt to go just under her breasts and support two cups, with a strap going up over her shoulders.
Niamh and the Brownie watched with interest and she tried it on.
“You are very fast,” said Niamh. “Have you just created this on the spot, or have you done this before?”
“I worked in my father’s shop, a tailor. We made similar things for women of all sorts. Never a military harness, though. Now, this works well for a dress, but if I attach a sword to it, the weight will pull down the side and my breast will pop out. I wonder if I made a sort of double baldric?” A baldric was an over the shoulder belt designed to hold a sword, and a double one materialised in cloth under her nimble fingers. The Brownie’s eyes lit with understanding.
“Ah, I see what you want now. Yes, I can do this. Please, come back this afternoon, I will have it ready. Now, please try on the trousers.”
Susan did, frowning as she anticipated the weight, and her brow clearing as she found the armour lighter than expected. They were soft fabric, linen or cotton, with large, overlapping scales sewn around the outside. She had presumed them to be metal, but now realised they were light, and checking she found they were real scales, from some massive animal.
“A present from the dragon, Fiotr himself,” said Niamh, noticing her interest. “Over the years he gifted us many of his scales, specifically for the guardians of his children.”
“These are real dragon scales?” Susan breathed deep, stunned at what she heard, stroking the scales with reverent fingers. “Fiotr exists?”
Niamh smiled. “He did, but has not been seen in my lifetime, not since Aine passed on and was not reborn, or at least not here.”
This distracted Susan. “Aine is dead? She existed? Reborn? This is so confusing, I don’t understand anything!”
Niamh laughed. “It is so obvious, but I suppose it is hard when you have lived with lies all your life. Our soul, our spirit is eternal, and is reborn in another body when this one dies. Sometimes immediately, sometimes not for a while. The priestesses can recognise past souls. Aine was the queen of a race of different people, island people, who were smaller than usual. She was beautiful, looking much like you, and wore her hair short. We called them fairies, for they were a gentle people who loved flowers and plants. Of course the other races slaughtered them, to take their lands and for their women. Aine was not the only beautiful one. We gave them sanctuary, here in Elphame, and denied access to their persecutors. But they did not thrive with us, far from their fields and flowers. One by one they died out, Aine the last. Maybe you have her soul, migrated from fairy to man, for when the fairies stopped breeding, there were no bodies for the old souls.”
“I don’t feel any real connection,” said Susan in thought. “Would I not remember something?”
“Maybe you do, and don’t realise where it is from. The Tuatha da D’Anu are very interested in you.”
“Why these different names?”
“The Tuatha da Danann are the people of Danu, while the Tuatha da D’Anu are the Royal Scythians, the highest caste, the Priest-Kings and Priestess-Queens, whom we serve. The ones the Elves call Gods.”
“It is so confusing.”
“Ancient customs and events shape us, complicate matters and many find tiny details important and comforting.”
“I’ll never understand it all. But you were telling me of Fiotr.”
Niamh nodded, her face falling into rapture. “The father of all, the Great Dragon who guided us. He lived here when we arrived from across the sea, when we were one tribe, our brother Odin staying in the land you call Spakka while we came here. He welcomed us, revelling in the minds of our Tuatha da D’Anu, for he could speak with them and travelled with them in the Other Lands. Together they fought and cleared the land of the little imps that prey on the unwary, making this land safe for us. Manannan mac Lir was his special friend, they would swim together. He loved Aine, loved her purity and her love of flowers. He grieved when she passed on, and shortly after disappeared, not seen again.”
“He was a real dragon? With wings and breathing fire?”
Niamh snorted. “He was reptile, see his scales, light and strong, stronger than metal. He lived in the water, moving at great speed. No, he had no wings, and never breathed fire. He dispensed wisdom and helped us explore our minds, scorching the dark from our thoughts, flying through our dreams to brighten our lives.”
Niamh fell silent, gesturing at Susan to put on the trousers, which she did, smiling at the smooth feel of the scales as she brushed over them with her fingers. A delicious, sensuous feel, sending a rush of pleasure through her, before something thrummed in her mind and she froze, confused.
Niamh shook herself, smiled with a sad, lost look on her face, and said, “Come, it is time for lunch. Afterwards we shall try your harness and see how you fare on the exercise field.”
*
Niamh led Susan down to the training field, a sandy paddock with short turf, dried sheep’s dung indicating how they cut the grass. A dozen warriors, all tall and red-haired like the true Tuatha da Danann, practiced to the right, in the full sun. Niamh avoided them, noting Susan’s interest at the sight of people never seen before, and took her towards some sheds.
Susan, bedecked in her new finery, pulled at her leather harness, where something dug into the underside of her left breast, growing more painful as she walked. She adjusted in to no avail, and reached down to feel what the offending object could be. It seemed to be a knot in the sewing thread, and she whipped up a tuft of sheep’s wool stuck in the grass to pad it. She smiled in triumph at the easing of the irritation, only to realize that a couple of the warriors had ceased their training to watch her performance.
She flushed, held her head high and followed Niamh, her earlier embarrassment at her enlarged breasts returning with a vengeance. Hurrying after, she caught up as Niamh started to pull some spears from a rack. Turning, she threw one to Susan, nodding in approval as she caught it. Susan inspected the spear with care, testing the weight and balance, while running her hand up and down the shaft. Cotton wound around the middle, creating a grip, but she explored the smooth polished wood on either side, frowning as she guessed it to be ash, and doubted the strength. The head felt heavy and the spear too long.
“Let’s see how you do with a spear,” said Niamh. “Ever held one before?” She noted the manner in which Susan inspected it, like a professional, to her surprise.
“Yes,” said Susan. “But not much, as I think it is quite a limited weapon. I prefer a staff, for close quarter fighting. Spears are fine for untrained troops against horse, and for throwing, but at close quarters they are ungainly.”
“Well, it is our weapon, the designated weapon of the Shelagh na Gig, so you had better get used to it. Come on, measure up.”
Niamh strode outside to a level area and turned in wait. Susan picked her way carefully, studying the ground and rubbing her feet through the grass, searching for roots and slippery moss, finding none. Niamh stood with her left foot forward and the spear leveled at Susan.
Susan faced her, relaxed, legs a shoulder’s breadth apart and the spear held loosely by both hands, eschewing the grip.
“You’ll have no chance like that,” said Niamh. “Take up the first stance, like this.”
“I know what I am doing,” said Susan. “Come, engage.”
Niamh hesitated for a moment, before coming forward, thrusting with no intent as she probed Susan’s defense. Susan ignored the first feint, before batting away the second. The third came with more purpose, as Niamh stamped forward with her left foot.
Susan switched from batting the spear down and to the right, to knocking it up in the air, high in the air, and she swept the butt of the spear down to slam against Niamh’s leading leg, sending her flying. At the same time she yelped, and Niamh picked herself up, dusting down her backside and frowned at the sight of Susan who had dropped her spear and was massaging her right breast, wearing an exasperated expression.
“They stick out the side and are even more in the way,” she said.
Niamh breathed in heavy pants, controlling her anger. “Legend tells of our ancestors, Shelagh na Gig from many years ago, called Amazons by you humans. They would cut off the right breast to enable them to swing a sword and fight properly.”
Susan stared, distracted. “You can forget that for a start. It’s just a matter of getting the clothes and support right. I can’t believe any girl would cut a tit off. I expect that story was made up by girls without anything to interest a man.”
No sooner where the words out of her mouth than she regretted them, and she wondered why she had even said them to a girl as flat chested as Niamh. She grabbed her spear from the ground in a hurry, and just in time.
Niamh said not a word, though her face tightened as she came at Susan, fast and vicious, the blade seeming to vibrate.
Susan batted it sideways, sliding the haft down to smack into her hands. Niamh stared at her as she sucked her bloody knuckles.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Susan with complete lack of sincerity but a sweet smile. “You rushed me a little, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Interesting,” said Niamh. “Your style is different, unusual. Fast as well. You fight well with a spear.”
“In truth, I am using it as a staff and I would prefer to take the head off, make it a bit shorter. It would balance then, and I am better with a staff than a spear.”
“You can’t kill a man without a spearhead,” said Niamh, only for Susan to interrupt her.
“I have.”
Silence stretched between the two girls. The moment lengthened, Niamh nodded and at last Susan relented.
“The side swipe is all very well, but it is the end of the staff that does the damage. I broke his knee after I mashed his balls, then smacked him between the eyes with the end of the staff. A good staff carries a lot of weight, but you are trying to do something completely different, damage rather than pierce and cut.”
Niamh shrugged and came again, keeping the spear head low, sliding from side to side and Susan struggled to combat it. The spear just felt wrong, out of balance and her movements were still obstructed by her breasts, the sides spilling out and stopping her natural swing. She missed a stab and felt a searing pain in her leg as Niamh cut her, following up fast and furious while Susan did her best to hold her back.
“Hold a moment,” she said. “I need to adjust my harness.” She started to lower her spear, but Niamh didn’t stop, came again, a smile now on her face, thrusting hard and low for her legs.
Bewildered, Susan staggered back, slapping the spear away with the haft of her own and beginning to wonder as to Niamh’s intentions. Damn it, she wanted to hurt her, maybe even kill her. Did she fear her as a rival? What was going on?
Niamh switch to a high attack and Susan countered again, still on the defensive, and the spears came together with a crack, the blade of Niamh’s biting deep into hers, just beneath the blade. She swung again and the blade wobbled, loose in the bindings which came unstrung. Niamh smiled, a leisurely movement as she came in for the kill.
Susan’s lips thinned, and she stabbed at her eyes with the wobbling blade which Niamh deflected, before whirling the haft around and smashing into Niamh’s shoulder. As Niamh twisted away, Susan turned to the nearby building and smashed the head down on the spear rack, sending the blade flying and leaving her with a usable staff. Turning back, she found Niamh still adjusting, and pulled quickly at her harness, so her breasts poked out in the front and the supports went around the sides, getting the side swelling out of the way of her swinging arms. Pushed forward and out, they were no longer in the way.
Niamh recovered, turning back and her eyes widened at the lack of a blade on Susan’s spear, dropping for a moment to her prominent breasts, before smiling and coming hard and fast, the spear lunging straight at her breasts.
Meat and drink to a staff fighter. Susan slapped the spear sideways, spinning the staff so the other end slammed into Niamh’s hand, crushing the fingers and causing her to drop the spear. She reversed the spin, coming into the back of Niamh’s knee and laying her flat. She reversed the staff and slammed the blunt end into Niamh’s midriff, leaving her coughing, gasping and heaving dregs of oatcake and nut to the ground.
“Don’t play with me, girl, or you will suffer,” she said, grating out the words with menace and threat. She felt something flow back into her, the confidence and strength missing since Praesidium. “I am the Mistress of Harrhein and you don’t fuck with me.”
Niamh lay on her back, staring up at this Valkyrie standing over her, the staff inches from her mouth, and fear drifted through her eyes. She nodded.
Susan let her lie, allowing the seed of terror to plant deep, before pulling back and stalking to the horse trough by the spear rack and dousing herself. Standing up, and seeing the men approach, she shrugged her breasts back into the harness and browsed through the spears, keeping an eye on Niamh in case she needed another lesson.
The first warrior arrived and spoke to her in their guttural tongue.
“I don’t speak your rotten language, Twat,” said Susan in Elvish.
“Hah,” said the warrior. “But you are no Elf. Human, I think.”
“Harrheinian, damn you and take your eyes off my tits or I’ll reposition them.”
Her anger caused the warrior to step back a pace, and laugh to show he wasn’t scared.
“A new Shelagh na Gig? The first of your kind, and you can fight, it seems. I look forward to testing you in the arena. You want to practice now?”
Susan thought about that for a moment, the joy of battle still coursing through her veins. She could lay this arrogant bastard flat in seconds and she revelled in the thought of doing just that, before shaking her head in regret.
“I am testing my fighting costume, trying to get something that works for my build and doesn’t restrict my fighting,” she said. “I have enough knowledge from today, I’ll spank you another day.”
The warrior laughed, sharing a few words with his fellows, all grinning at her bravado.
“We await that day with pleasure, Shelagh na Gig. We will see how many of us you can take.”
Susan ignored the implied threat, seething inside, and stalked back to the palace or temple, she still wasn’t sure what it was or her bearings, taking her improvised staff with her. She determined to recover her proper staff and use that in future. Niamh she ignored, left her still crawling in the dirt.
She retraced their earlier steps to the door in the great stone building, which went up in steps to a point. Going inside, she stopped, beginning to lose her confidence as she wondered how to make her way back to her room, let alone find her old room with Fionuir.
A figure blocked her way, and she hesitated, recognising the Matriarch.
“Good skills, girl,” she said, in Elvish. “Come, we must proceed with your education. I am Diane.” She turned, her hair a long lustrous mane, grey and gleaming, as she strode down a corridor. Susan followed her to another sitting room, where she sank into a cushion opposite the older woman.
“You have many questions, child, I know. Today I will answer some, I expect, but I am going to tell you history, not answer questions. So listen.” She poured some liquid into two goblets, passing one to Susan who sipped, watching Diane with close attention over the rim.
“We are ancient, our race, unchanged in millennia, more than ten thousand years. We arose in a country far to the east, by a huge land-locked sea, a mountain country. The pre-men, the old race, with their dark skin and green eyes, they covered the world, but a new race had arisen to the south, a race with white skin and yellow hair. Another race arose even further to the east, red haired and slanted eyes. Great horsemen, they travelled west, seeking the setting sun, till they met the yellow hairs. We, the Tuatha da Danann, are the result of their merger.” The old lady sipped her drink and her eyes unfocused, her thoughts and memories far away.”
Interested that she was receiving a repeat lesson, Susan leaned forward. “These yellow-haired people, do you mean they looked like me? Am I a descendant of them?
“What? Oh, I suppose so, but I am talking about long ago, and you humans mix with each other all the time, with wars and conquest, trade and migration. It is rare for a race to remain isolated, as we have done. So few can know their own bloodlines, but are mongrels in truth.”
Susan didn’t really like being called a mongrel. “I see. We have something in Praesidium we call hybrid vigour, when we cross two strains of a rose. Bigger, stronger and more beautiful than either parent, which indeed can become weak and insipid from inbreeding.” She sipped her honey wine and smiled sweetly.
Diane didn’t seem to notice. “In those days, we studied the mind, the dreamworld, and we communed with the spirits, understood our souls and we learned how to engender power in our bodies. We were proud of our understanding, and we shared what we knew with others, answering their requests, and some stayed with us, becoming our Brownies. They became our helpers, feeding us by raising the food we eat and bringing the wood for our fires. We concentrated on our secrets and they revered us, for we passed on messages from their ancestors and helped them appreciate the world.”
“Really? Messages from the dead? Can you still do that?”
“Of course. All the dead are laid to rest in the Rath, where we sleep, so it is easier to hear their voices.”
“Oh,” Susan was not sure she liked this idea. “Will your Shelagh na Gig be required to sleep there as well?” She toyed with her goblet, avoiding the Goddesses eye with studied nonchalance.
“Not in the Rath itself, but nearby, for sure. Not asleep, you are our guardians.” The old lady smiled, lighting up her face, as she continued. “The races from which we sprang changed, and became warlike, destroying the pre-men and mixing with them, splitting into bands and tribes. This is when the Shelagh na Gig arose, as we needed guardians for the first time. And they serve another role, our reservoirs of power, the Milkers of Men.”
Susan leaned forward, intrigued. “Milkers of Men? What a peculiar title? And how do they do that? Cut them and drain their blood?”
“In due course, my child,” said Diane. “The new tribes also came and asked our help, not understanding our lessons and instead calling us Gods for we knew so much. They replaced the pre-men across the land and when they travelled to new lands, they called to us, asking us to come and look after them. Some of us did. We went, different families, and they revered us, made us true Gods. We, the Tuatha da D’Anu, came with the Tuatha da Danaan.
“We kept in touch, through our power of astral travel, and we know where our cousins settled and lived as we have always lived. The tribes fought, and the victors slew the Gods of the conquered, including our cousins, many of whom became warlike themselves. The worst came when a tribe called the Aryans arose, swept all before them and slew our brethren in our original mountain home, tearing down the great pyramids of power, taking and amending our teachings to their own ends. They conquered a great area, spreading their blood and our changed teachings across the world.
“Many fled, to the great island in the sea where the teachings thrived till the sea arose and crushed the land and the survivors spread again, some going south and the teachings changed over the millennia.”
Susan listened, wide eyed, not sure what to make of this. Her knowledge of history was scant at best, stretching back a bare couple of hundred years and devoted to wondrous Galicians, warlike to a man.
“It was women who understood the void, the otherworld, who talked with the spirits and the souls, who calmed the mind and kept people sane. We do this through the power of the mind, and we assist our friends in changing their thoughts and dreams, through our wondrous draughts, brewed with mushroom and herb, and the power of our sex, for we learnt to take men to ecstasy, allowing their minds to leave their bodies.”
“Sex?” Susan asked, as the earlier lessons rose in her mind and a vision of the carved Shelagh na Gig arose in her mind. “Is this like a seminary, then, where you teach people to make sex more enjoyable? To control the men?”
“That is a feeble and unnecessary power, my child. No, we take the man to ecstasy, the greater the better, and when he reaches his pinnacle he brings forth not just his seed, but his energy, spiritual energy, and the true power of the feminine is to receive that energy, bring it back through her Source and be able to store it for future use.” Eyes sparkling with mischief regarded Susan over her wine, and a bemused Susan noticed they were blue instead of the usual green.
“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Susan, while a growing shock inside her showed her fear that she did.
“Energy flows through your body, child, energy we can control. Feel it circulate, as you place your attention to one part and move your attention to another. Start with your womb and move upwards. Yes? Of course you do. Rise your energy up through your body, to your heart, your throat, your mouth, your Eye of Power, and your crown. Now run it down your backbone and return to your womb.”
Susan’s eyes widened as she felt the warmth travel around her.
“That is your energy,” said Diane. “Your womb is a portal. It generates energy and behind it is a reservoir in which you can store the energy and build up power. This is the power of a woman. Your first task is to gain control of your own energies, then we can show you how to add more, to milk men of their energy and store it, before bringing forth your own power which you can share with others, both to heal, to enervate, to travel, and to seduce.”
Susan considered this for a moment, while Diane waited. “What do you mean by travel?”
“As you travelled to fight the dragon, so you will learn there are many ways to travel, with your mind, powered by your womb. Yes, and you can take others with you. You will learn powers others consider magic, the powers which led ordinary mortals to call us gods. This was our undoing, for men arose, our own cousins, jealous of the women, who sought power for themselves, desirous of the riches showered upon the women by thankful devotees, yeah, and the power that came with this. They took the left hand path, the forbidden route to power.”
“The left path?” Susan was confused.
Diane tossed her head with impatience. “The left path is where one seeks power for oneself, not for the good of all. It is the temptation we must all resist, always there, always nagging at us. They threw down the women, proclaimed themselves priests and foreswore the Mother. They banned the use of drugs and sex to achieve the godhead, and instead preached abstinence. Abstinence! Pah!” Diane spat in outrage. “Oh, it can work, but takes twenty years or more, separated from the Mother, with the soul yearning for union. It was but a way for the men to keep the women from power. The left hand path.”
Diane shuddered, her eyes misting, and she sipped her tea while Susan felt her soul shrivel and sadness leach through her being.
“All gone,” said Diane, “nobody is left. And we would have gone as well, but for our men staying loyal and the trick we played upon our cousins, the Milesians. They sought to trick us, to send us into our graves and underground, but we were stronger and Manannan nac Lir led us here, instead, to Elphame where we brought our Brownies and now we overlook and follow the world, keeping the Elves from conquering us and instead becoming their Gods. And Crom, demon that he is.”
“This Crom, he is different?”
“Aye, you will see he is different, for in his line the old race, the ape men, stays strong. Like the pre-men, his skull is long, their ancestral memories powerful, and he is powerful, skilled at war.
“And in the rest of the world, you are gone, no trace?”
“Oh, there are plenty of tracks from our passing. We devised these buildings of power, these pyramids, which amplify the soul energy. Our cousins to the south, as taught by Thoth, built huge ones, manifesting great edifices of power and love, only to be overwhelmed by an aggressive race from the east who used them to bury their kings. In the east the Aryans took our teachings, and wrote them out in new ways, called them vedas and lived by them. Whole new religions arose, following these paths, and remembering some of our names and practices, but much changed, to give power to the priests. Nowhere did the priestesses survive, thought they lingered in Ancient Thrace. Nowhere now are people brought to the divine through the perfect vessel, the Divine Feminine.”
Diane scowled at Susan. “Damn you girl, I have told the tale and now I am sad. Go, go and we will speak again on the morrow, working on your duties and the lessons you must learn, how to dream, how to milk the men. Leave me with my memories.”
A Shelagh na Gig waited outside, and took Susan by the hand, inspecting her with care.
“So you are the feisty one, who sat Niamh on her bottom.” The girl grinned, short for a Tuatha da Danann but radiating power and purpose. “I am Cara. Come now, we have a ceremony tonight and you must prepare. Diane told you about farseeing? Overlooking?”
Susan nodded, not seeing any signs that Cara disliked her; she showed no anger at Niamh’s fate.
“Good. Tonight you will join us, for there has been a mighty battle in your lands, and tonight Crom shows us what happened.”
“A battle? Oh, who won? Were many killed? Where did it happen?” Susan’s mood shattered as her heart went out to her men, her special soldiers in the Pathfinders, her friends and her king.
“I don’t know, nobody knows except Crom and he will tell us all tonight. He is full of himself, blowing out his chest, the big brute. Says his Brionne is back, the best one ever.”
“What’s a Brionne?”
“In truth it means beloved, but he pretends it is his avatar in the human world. Really it’s just a good fighter who follows you. Crom claims he can add to his battle skills, but don’t you go believing the lout.”
Susan thought this an odd way to talk about one of the primary gods, the God of War, but held her tongue.
“Now, we must get you ready, for you haven’t overlooked before and you won’t often, in truth, because we Shelagh are the guardians of those who do. But you cannot learn these skills till you have experienced it yourself.”
She led Susan into a chamber and sat her down, giving her a wooden goblet of water.
“You will not eat again today, you need your body empty, and you can drink only water. Now, do you know how to meditate?”
Susan shook her head. She had an idea, but felt it best not to reveal too much. She suspected what Cara meant would prove to be very different from the Elven teachings.
*
Susan followed Cara up the path from the bathing rooms dressed in a white robe, naked underneath. It billowed as she walked, encouraging an upright, regal stride. She gasped as they rounded the corner and she saw the pyramid from outside for the first time, the top gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
“Is that, no, surely it cannot be...”
“Gold? Yes, a useful metal for controlling the ceremony. The secret of the pyramid, creating a torus of power and providing the energy for the God to work his magic. You probably cannot see the aether, but we can and you will learn.”
Several dozen people, Tuatha da Danaan, stood or sat in groups in front of the pyramid, talking, though most turned to follow Susan’s progress with interest. The doorway in the centre of the eastern side gaped and Susan smiled at the carved effigy of a Shelagh na Gig on the lintel. The corridor led to the centre of the pyramid, a huge open space lit by candles and torches around the outside and a small brazier standing on a stone table, an altar, in the very middle, directly under the apex. Three cushions spread out at the southern end of the altar and several Shelagh busied themselves in the room, laying out cushions and carpets in circles around the altar. Large bowls sat on the floor on the east-west axis on each crescent of carpets.
“The bowls contain the farseeing drug. I don’t know what it is, that is a secret for Crom and his acolytes. You will drink it tonight, but I and our sisters will not, for we are the guardians, Any work in the aether attracts the sprites and they don’t matter, but in their wake come more serious energies whom we must deflect. See, Oonagh is putting down those little offerings?”
Susan could see a Shelagh placing little woven leaf baskets around the perimeter, hurrying as she went and sprinkling water with a flower over each one as she murmured a prayer.
“The sprites welcome our acknowledgement, and as a result stay outside the perimeter. In truth they add no little power to whichever God is working his magic. If we did not appease them, they could be very irritating. They may be small but they are many.”
“What do they look like?” Susan couldn’t see anything.
“Whatever you want. They are not really there, but an energy from another plane of existence. Ah, here come the drummers. They won’t see either, they are here to help us.”
Four big men came in, each pair carrying a massive war-drum, which they set up together in the north-east.
A scuffle in the door and two men came in carrying a ram, who struggled. Cara frowned.
“Idiots. They’ve forgotten to drug him early. Serve them right when they get kicked.” She sniffed her disdain at the men, before jumping high as one of the drummers, approaching with silent, cat-like grace from behind, slapped her on the rear.
“Melwyn! Stop that, I’m busy.”
“Never too busy for me, darling.” He nuzzled her.
“Honestly, you are impossible.” Susan could see she enjoyed the attention. “Now get to your drums, Crom will be here in a minute, you know he likes to get here early.”
“Not before the people, though, Ah, but they’re coming. See you later, lovely.” He strolled back to his drum, a big grin on his face. Susan raised an eyebrow.
“Never you mind. Come on, let me get you settled on your cushion. Danu wants you on this one. Sit here, like I showed you, and meditate. I will personally put your protection in place, don’t worry.”
Susan did, sitting cross-legged and going into trance as the slow steady beat of the drums started and people began to file in, taking up places on the cushions according to some unknown roster with a bare whisper of sound. The ram knelt on the altar, quiet now, watching the people enter, chewing the cud.
The drums beat with a steady and hypnotic cadence, easing her soul back into the candle light. A presence warmed her, and she saw Diana smile at her from the left side cushion. Diane and Danu occupied the other two.
The drum roll sped up and rose to a crescendo, when the brazier on the altar flared a green light revealing a huge man, appeared from nowhere, standing with arms aloft just to the north of the altar. Crom, the War God.
Naked, bar gold armlets fashioned as serpents on his biceps, a mane of black hair shocking amongst the otherwise blonde or red Gods. Arcane symbols traced patterns on a mighty chest and on his broad cheekbones, while his right hand held a long knife, gleaming in the firelight.
The ram rose, his weak bleat loud in the sudden silence, and two more naked, black haired men appeared to restrain him. Crom took a step forward and with a quick slash opened the jugular for the blood to pour into a bowl held by a Shelagh. The ram kicked hard despite the drug, and Susan realised the legs were tied to restrict his death throes.
Danu rose from her southern cushion, also naked with the blue symbols on her breasts, creating great eyes. She dipped her hand in the grail and made a precise symbol in the middle of Crom’s forehead, before placing another just below his heart, the blood seeming to pulse in the firelight. She brushed her lips against his, murmuring something in his ear which made him scowl, before retiring to her cushion.
The Shelagh took the grail of blood, pouring it into smaller grails brought to her by other Shelagh. They proceeded to go around the people in the pyramid, placing the same symbols on each participant, starting with the Goddesses and themselves. Cara painted them on Susan, whispering as she did so.
“This is your protection, guarding your inner eye and your heart portal. Nothing can pass the blessed blood, take care not to wipe it.” She moved on, leaving Susan with the sticky feel of drying blood on her forehead and a sudden urge to pee, despite earlier emptying her bladder.
The drums started again, low and in the background. Cara appeared again, a different grail in her hands, one of the drug bowls. She helped Susan drink deep, checking the draught.
“It’s fine to lie down, helps,” she whispered before going on her rounds. Susan watched through half closed eyes, a smile playing on her lips as she savoured the earthy taste of mushroom, and she saw the Shelagh congregate in four points around the outside of the circles of participants, some facing out, some in.
The drum beat changed, becoming insistent, compelling. Now a small bell joined in, ringing in cadence with the drums. Susan sank back into her cushion, sliding down to lie on the carpet with her head on the pillow. Crom stood tall over the altar, raising his arms and started to sing, in a strange language that resonated in her brain. One by one his acolytes joined the refrain, each adding a different timbre.
Susan’s eyes rolled back in her head and her vision cracked, becoming green crystal glass riven with a thousand fissures, which moved and formed new patterns. She watched entranced, as the patterns shifted into whorls and spirals, changing colour through the spectrum.
Unseen by Susan, Danu rose from her place at the head of the altar and flowed to the north end, where she sat her naked body, just on the edge of the altar. The perfect height for Crom as he advanced, his song stilling while continued by the acolytes as he slid into her and locked his lips to hers. For a moment they matched their breaths, before Danu breathed deep into his lungs and sucked the breath back to begin the energy revolutions, spinning the power between their two bodies in the ancient ritual. Their bodies barely moved, just a small pulse of her hips each time she brought the energy back and into him, up his spine in the reverse cycle unique to her power.
The drum beat increased, the song picked up pace as she span the energies faster, till she reached a crescendo, opened her lower portals and flung her stored energy from the cyclotron, slamming into Crom, rushing up his spine and out of his mouth in a great shout of song.
The volume cracked the crystal beach in Susan’s mind, bursting through the shards in a rush of blue which soared through her vision, taking her in flight, feeling the other souls with her as they raced for the sky, Crom screaming his triumphal song from the fore. The sky formed, blue and clear, a few clouds floating by and the sun shining bright. It tilted, and she stood on a hill, overlooking a valley with a great, brooding, walled city to the north, the host of souls from the ceremony around her.
Arrayed in the fields below the city were two armies.
She recognised the Harrheinians from the battle standards, and her attention focused on the centre, finding her vision zoom down till she could clearly see King Richard smiling beside his giant guards, shouting insults at the opposing Spakka. Enthralled, she could even hear them, and blushed at the words being thrown back and forth. For a moment she was angry at Richard using such foul language, and she began to lose her temper with him. Diana’s energy soothed her and she felt a message in her head.
‘This has happened, sister, do not feel for the past.’
She relaxed, an observer as the ranks crashed together, wincing only a little at the sword stabbing into Richard’s foot.
The vision dipped and swooped as she felt herself being pulled back, at Crom’s massive, mental shout.
‘He comes! The Brionne is here!’
A small band of horses, no a line, coming at speed from the trees beneath her feet, the vision tunnelling down to the leader as he lanced a Spakka, hurtling on down.
Entranced, she followed the screaming rider, saw his unnoticed charge up the hill and the death of the Spakka king. She watched his race behind the line, realised the Harrhein were broken but now the Spakka as well and confusion and apprehension rose again, to be soothed away by Diana.
There was King Richard, knighting the Brionne and the pride and love of Crom filled the room, till the vision burst into stars and she slumped back on her cushion, a little smile on her face, contentment washing over her and feeling the love of Diana, Danu and Diane infuse her soul.