The Rings of Hesaurun Page 20

  Once again, the family nodded, but now eagerly. “These five rings,” Valerie said, “make me strong. With them I am a strong healer and a warrior, but without them, I am weak,” she admitted, holding her right hand up for all to see. Would you like me to show you what the rings can do?”

  This time Pearse and his family stared blankly at Valerie, their eyes filled with a combination of wonder and apprehension.

  Valerie held out her right hand and, with a flourish, sent a log into the roasting pit with the command, “Into the fire pit!” All eyes followed the log as it floated lazily through the air and landed in the fire pit, unleashing a shower of sparks high into the sky.

  “You area witch!” Pearse exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Clearly afraid, he picked up little Saoirse and backed away. Lauryn and the boys jumped up and joined him.

  “I am a healer, not a witch,” Valerie reasoned, her voice serene. “I can do nothing except through the rings. The rings are a tool, nothing more. Using them does not make me a witch.”

  The family stared at her doubtfully, Lauryn clutching the children, her face a mask of horror.

  “Pearse, listen,” Valerie called, singling him out. “When you ride a horse, are you a witch because you move so much more quickly than a man on foot? Is the horse a witch? No! The horse is only a tool you use to move faster than the man on foot. Do you understand?”

  Although skeptical, Pearse nodded. Valerie had anticipated that she would be seen as a witch, so she was well prepared to defend herself against the inevitable accusation.

  Valerie stood. “Let me show you. Please watch,” she said, then removed the rings one after another. As she did so, she said, “watch my eyes.” Instantly her eyes were transformed from the ominous dark orbs they feared so much to her far-less-threatening natural pale blue.

  Around her, Pearse and his family seemed to relax. With that, Valerie returned to her seat smiling widely, knowing she had made her point and won the inevitable “witch” argument. However, she still had one more bombshell to deliver.

  “Tierney, do you want to be a warrior? Pearse, would you like to be able to do what I did with that log? Lauryn, will you be a healer, too? You can be,” Valerie assured, then remained silent as they drifted back to the roasting pit. Only when they were all seated again did she continue.

  “I am here to give these rings to you. They will be yours. You will use them as I do,” she promised. “But first, you must learn how to use them. I will be your teacher. You need to know how to use them without hurting yourself or your loved ones. You could hit someone in the head with a log!” They laughed together, then Valerie continued. “It is important that no one is hurt,” she exclaimed, “and you don’t have to worry about becoming witches because you can see I am not a witch.”

  Silently the little family nodded. With the crisis passed, for the next two days Valerie stopped wearing her rings, feeling it was a necessary part of her bonding experience with Pearse and his kin. She wanted them to see her as a friend, a mentor, a family member with the more familiar blue eyes than the blackness her eyes took on when wearing them. It worked.

  Valerie, Pearse, and Lauryn planned together during this time, discussing the need to build an additional home on the ridge for Valerie. In addition to serving as her personal dwelling place, she intended to use the new building as a schoolhouse and library.

  On the third day, about midday, the ground began to shake. The sound of thunder resonated as The Dreamer’s engines engaged. Watching from the ridge above the riverbank, Valerie sighed as the craft began clawing its way into the sky above the valley.

  Valerie dug into her robe, returned the rings to her right hand, then sent the ship on its way into the future when it came from. With everyone’s eyes fixed intently on the ship, no one noticed what she had done. It was a bittersweet moment for her, knowing she had just cut the final cord to her former life.

  ________________________

  The hunting party pursued the healer and her friends through the deep snow. Tracking them was easy; their footprints left a clear path for the hunters to follow. However, an alarm was raised when the solar torches were ignited.

  “What are those—lamps?” said one.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like any lantern I have seen,” observed another.

  Ammon didn’t know what to make of them, but those strange flames concerned him, fearing they could be weapons. He didn’t want to find out the hard way that they were weapons, so he decided on caution, holding his men back rather than allowing them to close the distance.

  “We must be cautious—” he began. Jotham however, cut him off mid-sentence.

  “The old woman is a witch, the Cailleach Bhéara!” he exclaimed wide-eyed, pointing in the direction she had gone.

  “Keep your voice down—idiot!” Ammon whispered.

  Jotham was not in a mood to be insulted. In his mind, there was no question about it, and his opinion was non-negotiable. That healer was a witch and must be destroyed immediately to prevent bad luck.

  “You…you are the idiot, old man! That woman is a witch!” Jotham burst out angrily. Then he boasted, “I will kill you now—then I will kill that witch—and her friends!”

  Jotham dropped his pack and drew his knife in a flash. With his weapon in hand and teeth bared, he lunged at Ammon, who averted the strike by throwing his pack at his attacker, ducking and rolling to one side. By the time Ammon was back on his feet, he had his own knife in hand and was prepared to fight.

  Free of their burdens, the men slashed at one another with their knives. The other men backed off to get out of the way.

  Although older and more experienced, Ammon was no longer fast enough to keep pace with Jotham, who was swift and strong. Aware the younger man was less experienced, he retreated a few steps allowing his opponent to believe he had the advantage.

  Not one to miss an opportunity, Jotham lunged at Ammon, attempting an undercut to the abdomen. With perfect timing Ammon kicked snow in Jotham’s face, temporarily blinding him. Jotham was thrown off balance just long enough for Ammon to close the gap between them. As Jotham wiped snow from his eyes, Ammon swung his big hunting knife, slicing Ammon’s throat, severing his windpipe.

  Jotham dropped to his knees, gurgling, clutching his throat with both hands in an instinctive attempt to stem the flow of blood. With horror-filled eyes, he sunk to his knees; his blank gaze remained fixed on his opponent until he collapsed from loss of blood face-down in the snow. With one swift movement the fight was over, and with it the question of who was going to lead and who was going to die.

  Although Ammon never liked Jotham, he was considered a member of the clan in good standing. Jotham had a reputation as being reliable and a hard worker with strong hunting skills. However, he was also known to be reckless, argumentative, and troublesome at times. But none of that will matter, Ammon worried, if an avenger of blood comes after me.

  A panicked glance at the other hunters told Ammon all he needed to know. The clan had a strong sense of justice, with an elder body that could be called upon when needed to judge adultery, property disputes, thefts, and murders. When the council made judgments of guilt, reparations were ordered. In the case of murders, death sentences might be issued.

  Ammon was thankful he had two witnesses who saw Jotham attack first and that he had acted in self-defense. His companions were honest men, and he believed he could count on them to tell the truth. However, establishing those facts with them now would be a wise move. Ammon didn’t want trouble with the elders or from Jotham’s family.

  “Hethe,” he called, “tell me what you saw. Tell me now!” Ammon demanded.

  Hethe knew just what Ammon was getting at. “Jotham was angry; he attacked you. He tried to kill you, but you defended yourself, and you won,” Hethe shot back without hesitation. “As you said, he was stupid.”

  “Very good,” Ammon agreed with a nod. “I don’t want any trouble over this. Our stories must be in agreement, or the
elders will see murder.”

  Ammon turned to the other hunter. “Abiah, did you see a murder?”

  “No!” exclaimed Abiah with a hard stare. “I saw Jotham’s attack. You defended yourself.”

  Ammon rubbed his neck and furrowed his brow. Clan tradition required the men to return with their dead for burial, so the three remaining hunters prepared the body for transport by wrapping it in skins and fashioning a sling that would allow them to pull the body through the snow rather than carry it. Within minutes the hunters had returned to the snow trail left by the now-distant party they set out to follow.

  As night set in, the three hunters continued on the path with the body of their fellow hunter trailing behind them by a length of braided hide. At a rise in the valley floor, they spotted a beacon of firelight on a distant ridge. The path they followed would lead them directly to it. Earlier, Ammon had noticed two sets of old footprints leading toward the crater and three sets of more recent prints heading straight for the firelight on the hill. Logic told him the source of the signal fire must be home for those he followed.

  As Ammon focused on the signal fire, uncertainty set in as he realized he recognized this valley. He realized this was an area he hunted yearly, not far from his own home in Erlin. Then his blood froze as the truth raged in his mind. He was nearly home. Beyond the ridge that looked so familiar was his home, too.

  Ammon stared, speechless. These people, the ones he followed with intent to kill if necessary and whose family had built a signal fire to light their way home, were members of his own clan! The people the hunter intended to kill so they could steal the healer were his clan brothers! Even worse, he might know them, and that changed everything. If what he suspected was true and sure it was, he would have to reconsider everything, including following them any further. But he still had to make certain of their identity, now more than ever.

  “Hethe, Abiah, let’s talk for a moment,” Ammon called, then squatted in the snow track to rest. The men pulling their grim package let go of their burden and joined him.

  “Do you recognize this place?”

  Hethe and Abiah looked puzzled. Abiah glanced around, then said, “There is nothing to recognize. It is too dark!”

  Steadily Ammon searched his two friends’ faces. “Erlin is only a day’s walk from here. And that fire is a beacon intended to light the way home for the people we are following. They must be of our clan. If that’s true, we don’t have to take the healer for ourselves; we already have her. Do you understand?”

  “What makes you think we are close to home? The sky is black, and I can barely see the trail,” said Abiah skeptically.

  “Were you asleep when we left?” Ammon fired back. “This valley is less than a day’s journey south of Erlin. We are in the River Nore basin, and that is the Bearnán Éile ridge. I have had many good hunts here.”

  “You are right; I know the valley you speak of well but not coming from the south. I know it from the east. We never cross the twin rivers here because they are too muddy.”

  “That’s true, but now the river is frozen, so it should be an easy crossing. I have been hunting this valley for years. I know where I am. Erlin is less than a day’s walk from here. That fire is one hour from where we stand. Our people made that fire; you know what that means, right?”

  “What do you want to do?” wondered Hethe.

  Ammon took a moment analyzing everything they had seen that strange day, thinking about why they set out after these people. The woman they were following resurrected that man. She had commanded soldiers, which troubled him, reasoning that this healer must be very special or rank highly to control those men. Did the men dislike being ordered by a woman? It didn’t seem so, which puzzled him even more.

  But none of those concerns had anything to do with why he thought they should claim the healer for themselves. Now he was beginning to feel like it might be a bad idea to take the woman. Certainly, his people needed a good healer. Healing the dead was unheard of, but he and his men had seen it themselves. Perhaps that was why the woman led soldiers, because of her high value as a healer. Ammon couldn’t know, but he was sure he needed to learn where she was going and with whom. Ammon stood and spoke. “That woman is a powerful healer. She healed the dead man; we all saw it,” he said, resisting the urge to refer to the woman as the Cailleach Bhéara, a witch. “We need to keep on following, so we know who she travels with and how to find her. But be careful, we cannot allow ourselves to be seen,” he cautioned, and the men knew why.

  The hunters plodded forward, following the snow trail and the beacon of firelight in the night. As they approached Pearse’s farm, they left their packs and Jotham’s body behind, then crouching low, crept close enough on hands and knees to hear the family’s conversation with the woman without being detected.

  As soon as Ammon laid eyes on Pearse, he recognized the man as a clan member and someone he had seen trading in Erlin, his hometown. The healer stood silently by the fire as Pearse spoke to his family. Ammon couldn’t hear everything said, but he was aware they discussed the woman’s presence there. The man told his wife the healer’s name, but it was one unfamiliar to Ammon. Was it Valryi? He wasn’t sure but made a mental note of it.

  When Pearse called the healer to him, she turned to where Ammon could see her face for the first time. The woman’s eyes! he thought. The sight of her eyes turned his gut to stone. Black and lifeless as chunks of coal. Then he recalled what Jotham said about that one being a witch. It seems he was right after all, thought Ammon. Those lifeless witch eyes changed everything for him in an instant.

  But Ammon was not alone. The other men saw it too and thought the same thing: Jotham had been right about the healer. Only a witch could have eyes black as coal. Although Ammon’s gaze remained fixed on the people around the fire, he could feel the accusing eyes of his companions on him, judging him harshly. Remorse for killing the boy struck his heart like a dagger.

  At that moment, Ammon decided to send Hethe and Abiah home to Erlin with Jotham’s body. However, feeling like there was more to learn about this strange woman, he chose to stay behind. Ammon made a cold camp at the edge of the woods that night, staying low, looking, listening, and alone with his own thoughts until long after everyone had gone to bed and the fire was ashes.

  Mid-morning, Hethe returned and sat silently beside Ammon. The two hunters shared a meager meal of dried meat and burdock in silence. Ammon was the first to speak.

  “Did you return Jotham to his family last night?” he whispered.

  “We did, and it did not go well,” admitted Hethe with a sideways glance. “Riordan, Jotham’s father, accused you of murder. He wants your blood.”

  Ammon’s back stiffened, his eyes frozen in a downcast gaze. “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them the truth. I said Jotham became angry and he attacked you. You only defended yourself. Abiah backed my story. Jotham had a reputation for hot-headedness, and anyone that knew him saw it. You are innocent of murder, but you need to watch out for Riordan and his sons.”

  “What did you say about me not returning with you?”

  “I told them you camped in the woods waiting for news of their response to Jotham’s death. I said you wanted to avoid trouble with his family. But the elders want to talk to you about what happened. I said I would bring you the news and that you would return with me.”

  Ammon looked away as he considered Hethe’s report. When he turned his gaze to Hethe, his expression was warm, and he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You did well,” Ammon thanked his friend. “I will go with you, but let’s sit and watch a while longer. There is more to learn here—I can feel it.”

  “What happened while I was gone? Did you learn anything more about that healer?” Hethe asked.

  Ammon breathed a sigh, then rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed that his worries multiplied by the minute. The shock of learning the healer was indeed a witch, combined with grief over killing the boy, was
wearing on his nerves. Now he had the added worry of Riordan and his sons, who had a reputation for being troublesome.

  “Nothing yet, but I have a hunch that is going to change, and soon.”

  “The elders can wait,” Hethe said with a note of finality, then settled in beside Ammon with a grunt.

  The morning watch passed slowly for the two hunters as they laid in wait, watching and listening for anything that would help them learn more about the witch. Hethe wanted to see her dead eyes again, but more than that. Both men were eager to know what a witch was doing in their land, living among them, and what it meant for their families and people.

  As the morning passed, Pearse and his family came and went as they performed their everyday chores. The women drew water from the river, the children fed the animals, while the man and his boy cut firewood—but the healer never came close enough for Hethe to see the blackness in her eyes again.

  However, mid-day, that abruptly changed. The man and the boy slaughtered a goat and skinned it while the women and children carried armloads of firewood to the roasting pit. The witch worked with them, eventually coming close enough to provide Hethe with his first unobstructed view of the woman’s eyes. Just as expected, Hethe found those hideous, lifeless pools of darkness terrifying. Only a witch could possess such numbingly cold eyes!

  Hethe stiffened at the sight as a wave of dread had him gnashing his teeth. For a moment running away crossed his mind, but he suppressed the urge as his hunter’s instinct took over. “Never give your position away unnecessarily,” his father taught him at an early age. Only that kept the man from fleeing.

  “Stay down,” whispered Ammon, who sensed his friend’s trepidation.

  Then it occurred to Ammon; the witches’ dead eyes didn’t seem to bother the children, who walked handin-hand with her. Even the smallest child seemed comfortable in her presence. Was she working her magic on them? Did she plan to kill the children and eat them? And if the witch did intend to harm the children, what would he do about it? What power could he have against a witch?