Nemeton: The Hallowed Veil, #1

Chapter One

Pythia, the High Priestess of the Great Goddess

Betwixt worlds her feet do tread,

She goes where none dare enter,

Perceiving visions of the living and the dead.

LEAVES RUSTLED AGAINST a soft breeze in the night air. The breeze caught her wild red hair entwined with vines, leaves, and acorns and she smiled. The moon was full and at its zenith in the night sky, giving a dim light to her green skin and the forest floor through the canopy of the ancient trees. Silence stalked the night air as the woodland creatures slumbered. Though her gentle footsteps reported her movement to her own ears, they were so elegantly soft she might as well have been a ghost. Pythia had walked this path countless times deep into the woods where only her feet had trod. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. As she opened her crystal blue eyes she noticed a great white hooded owl gazing down at her from the top of an old oak tree. It watched her intently. To the great owl this intruder must have been a strange sight. A branch snapped in the distance and the great owl’s head swiveled, directing its attention toward its quarry before taking flight. Pythia wondered if the great owl had seen any of her kind before. Dryads were common in the forests, but she had never heard of groves migrating this far into the wild. The forest where she stood would strike fear into the hearts of the greatest of heroes. In fact where she journeyed no creature on the face of the Earth dare enter. None except her.

Her bare feet led her through the dense wood, leagues from any sign of civilization. In these wilds, creatures of unbelievable power existed. Here they were free of the taint of mankind, free to live without fear of being hunted. Man saw them as terrible beasts, but to her they were like children. Pythia did not fear them as men did, she respected their beauty, their intelligence, their sheer power. They respected her; they feared her power. For she was both master and servant of this land, bound to it by sovereign decree of the Goddess.

Pythia’s hands caressed the hardened bark of the trees, creating a soft croak as her own hardened skin ran across it.  With each step she partook in the whispers and gossip of the spirits. Her feet danced across the rippling waters of the streams, and her fingers sang as she touched the standing stones. Her presence in the wood did not appear as an intrusion, but a sacred dance with the wild. She was as much a part of this wood as it was a part of her.

Pythia walked for many miles with her eyes closed, never once opening them to see where her feet led her. She knew the path, and she knew no eye could lead her to where she was going. Her senses were on fire with the dark mystery of the night and her spirit was in tune with a singular purpose. She made for the Nemeton, the most sacred grove of trees created by the Goddess. As she neared it, she could feel a distinction, a shift in the energy on the wind. This was her signal she had arrived where she had intended. Like in the eye of the storm the wind stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the wood. Pythia was now betwixt the land of the living and the land of spirit.

She opened her eyes. Before her was the entrance to the sacred grove. Pythia’s robes slipped from her shoulders, baring her naked form before the divine. Though she had ventured here thousands of times before, it always left her awestruck. In her path were two titanic standing stones engraved with the sacred markings of the Goddess. Spiral after spiral intertwined in an ornate and delicate balance. They seemed to reach to the stars themselves, towering over any who might seek to enter the hallowed ground they guarded. Between them stood a hooded figure, wreathed in a cool dark violet flame. Flashes of distant memory poured over her as she walked close. Now her feet led her towards that which once sent tremors down her spine. She was mere feet from the shadowy specter before it raised its ghostly head, its face shrouded in darkness, with no definable features. It raised its limb, contesting her right to walk any further.

A ghastly voice emanated from within it, Come no further.

She bowed her head, her skyclad body displaying her reverence for its authority over the sacred path. Pythia lowered herself in prostration before the ancestral guardian, her knees resting against the soft grassy Earth, her arms laid out before her. She kissed the holy ground and waited for the judgement of the spirit.

Pythia, servant of Her grace and power, mouth of the Goddess, High Priestess of the Nemeton, rise and face the judgement of your intention, the ancestral guardian commanded.

Pythia rose to her feet. Her head remained hung in reverence. She had been through this ritual each time she had ridden the hedge to the Nemeton, and although it had been many thousands of times, her respect for the old ways had not diminished. Each time she entered the Nemeton, she felt reborn, renewed, and restored. She waited as the spectre judged her.

Only one may enter the Nemeton. Only one may commune, the one who carries the voice of the Great Goddess, spoke the ancestral guardian. With each word uttered, Pythia could feel her soul being reckoned.

She took a deep breath and responded, Only one may be Her word on Earth. Pythia’s head rose, and she looked upon the guardian of the Nemeton without a shred of fear.

The guardian beckoned her to step forward. The bones of the Earth will judge, for a stone never lies.

Pythia walked between the massive boulders and closed her eyes, focusing on her specific intention to enter the Nemeton. I am Pythia, High Priestess of the Goddess, and I come to enter the sacred grove.

The stones hummed in unison. Their song filled the air with a vibration that rippled through every single fiber of her being. The great standing stones whispered for a moment, then returned to their slumber.

You have been proven holy. Pythia may enter. said the guardian. A stiff wind blew, dispersing the cool violet flame and making way for Pythia to enter the sacred grove.

Pythia walked forward. Beyond the stones lay a void. She could not see through it, though she knew what lay beyond. Through her own understanding she believed this space between to be the hallow, a veil that protected the Nemeton from all who might wish to exploit its power. This was only one of many groves within the great web of the Nemeta. These centers of sacred power were where the Derwyddon communed with the spirit world, performed their magical initiations and rituals, and conferred with one another on matters of  law. The groves lay scattered across the land as far as each horizon, in each of the cardinal directions, each grove built upon the lines of power within the Earth herself. They acted as an individual unit exacting the will of the Goddess in their region.

Balance between the realm of magic and the realm of the mundane was their mandate, a balance between mankind and the Fae. The law stated the druids were the only souls worthy of communing with the world of spirit. Pythia had visited each grove and each had its own unique beauty and power. However this grove was hers and hers alone. Only she may enter this space, only the High Priestess.

She stopped before the veil and looked at the night sky. She was between the worlds of man and magic. It was a place unlike any other, always twilight, always calm and silent. A world devoid of life. She paused and took in the beauty of the world between the worlds. Pythia took a deep breath before entering. As she did her spirit left her body. Though the connection between them remained, her spirit body soared. Her limbs broke through first, followed by her head and body. A biting chill gripped her as she passed through and into the Nemeton. Her eyes opened and beheld the grand sight of the gargantuan oak trees that formed a perfect circle. The trees danced and swayed with a constant vibration of power. The leaves sung the song of the wind. Atop the trees were the curious red eyes of a flock of ravens that cawed and celebrated her entrance. The air was darker here, full of mystery and heavy laden with spirit. Pythia’s skin rippled in reaction and her spine tingled with the power that swirled around her. This place penetrated the deepest levels of her spirit. Her fingers ran across the rough surface of the oak trees as she broke through the vigil they kept over the clearing.

In the middle of the clearing was a great iron cauldron hissing and bubbling. Standing over the cauldron were three shrouded women. Legend knew them as the Fand. Pythia knew them as friends. The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, each an aspect, a personality of the Great Goddess whom she served.

She made her way to the cauldron, her mind spinning with memories of the Silver Age. It had been a remarkable age of peace under the rule of the Fae King Dagda Nuada. Mankind had flourished in their own right, and if the estimates of bards were correct, they now outnumbered the Fae.

For the time being the combined power of the Fae and the Order of the Nemeton was enough to maintain the balance, but she feared that would not last for long. Now as the Silver Age came to an end, she wondered how the growing power of mankind would shift the delicate balance she had worked diligently for thousands of years to maintain. Many of the dominions of mankind still feared the power of the Nemeton and the divine law of the Goddess. Yet for Pythia their history was still too near to be overlooked. The Nemeton needed to remain vigilant if they were to enforce the will of the Goddess.

Pythia walked to the cauldron where the Fand were stirring the bubbling waters of fate with iron rods. The great cauldron of Abred seethed and swirled with the power of inspiration. As she approached the cauldron, she could hear the whispering of the Fand. They chanted the sacred language of the Goddess in unison, producing an otherworldly tone that influenced all that surrounded the cauldron. All she could see were the whites of their eyes as they stood entranced in their work. None had acknowledged her presence yet, but Pythia knew they knew of her presence. She placed her hands over the rolling surface of the water and felt its heat. She closed her eyes and chanted with the three aspects of the Goddess. The language they spoke was known only to those within the Order. To the common folk it was called the dark speech.

I surrender to her will, I receive her grace, I am under her spell, I am one with this place, Pythia chanted. Through the power of the Fand, she ascended into the realm of spirit where their spirits awaited. Moment passed into moment, time bled into itself, and all that Pythia could see melted away. Though her body remained in the clearing of the Nemeton chanting with the Fand, the essence of her soul rose beyond the boundaries of time and space into the eternal fields where the Goddess and her primordial kin existed. It was here in this place without definition, without boundary, that her spirit could receive communion with the Goddess. It was a place of feeling and believing, markedly different from her waking life as a living being on the Earth. Here she was one with the greater universe. The peace was intoxicating, and without discipline one could become forever lost in this immeasurable bliss. It was a gift that few had ever experienced, and Pythia cherished this ability above all.

Welcome, my child, The voice of the Mother broke the silence. It was the most dominant aspect of her divine presences. This aspect shone brighter than her others. Pythia took a moment to bask in the light of the Goddess. It was a warmth unlike any felt in the realm of the physical. It penetrated and cut through, reaching the center of all things.

Great Mother, creatrix of all that is and ever will be, I am your humble servant. I, Pythia, come before thee as requested. Pythia felt the smile of the Mother and returned the gesture. The formless took form. All that was once amorphous light took shape in the heavenly guise of a golden-haired mother whose beauty shone brighter than all the stars in the heavens combined. No matter how many times Pythia received communion she could never look upon her Mother without at least a single tear falling from her eye. Here her body was not her body, and nothing physically existed, but in order for the Goddess to communicate with her children, she produced form and shape to convey her message. She walked upon the celestial plains with cultivated beauty. She wiped the tear from Pythia’s cheek.

My sweet child, your innocent beauty never ceases to amaze me, said the Mother. I trust your walk with the trees was pleasant?

Pythia nodded her head in agreement. It was, Great Mother. The night was calm and your children rejoice, singing praises of the unending grace of their divine Mother.

The Mother smiled. If only all of my children were as gracious and grateful as you.

Pythia had spoken from the heart, yet the Mother knew her more stubborn children did not always share the spiritual fervor of the High Priestess. Pythia felt saddened because so many of the Mother’s children had lost their way.

Please walk with me, Pythia.

The pair walked down the streaming bridge of iridescent light that arched across the sky above the tiny globe. It appeared so tiny beneath their feet. From this vantage point they could see all of creation. There were many other worlds and many other creations that speckled the infinite horizon, yet Earth hung as a crown jewel in her majestic web of life. Though there were many fantastic sights to see from where they were, Pythia could never draw her eyes from the pale blues and deep greens of her own home.

It is beautiful, is it not?

Pythia smiled and nodded. It is magnificence realized, Great Mother.

A Mother is never supposed to have favorites, the Mother paused. Of all I have created over the infinite expanse, nothing gives me as much joy as the birthplace of my first children.

Pythia knew the Goddess favored men, the lineage that sprung from her union with Atum. They were her first children, and her most problematic. Though Pythia loved the Mother and the Goddess very much, she could never help but feel slighted in some small way by the Mother’s infinite love for mankind. For Pythia was not of Atum’s bloodline, she was Fae, and was of the line of the Dagda, the fairy king of Hyperborea, born of his father Bíle, the primordial god of death. It was Dagda’s union with the Goddess that produced the race of the Fae. It was the armies of the Fae that led to Atum’s defeat on the celestial plains. Though the Mother favored man, she also loved her progeny with the Dagda.

Not even I can bend the laws of the Universe. It has been and it always will be that sibling will fall to the envy of fellow sibling. Though it pains me to see my children forever at odds, I know that it is the way of things. said the Mother.

Fate will once again try my patience as my children bathe themselves in each other’s blood. said the Maiden.

Pythia’s eyes widened. She could not fathom what the Maiden said. A war between the Fae and man would shatter everything she had worked for. For six thousand years it was the sacred duty of the Nemeton to keep the balance, to keep the peace.

Yes, girl, she speaks the truth, a haggard voice croaked behind her. Brother will fight brother, sister will slay sister. It is conflict, it is first law of nature.

Pythia turned to the Mother and watched as tears formed and streamed down her soft face. I don’t understand. The Nemeton would have seen this coming. We have been vigilant in keeping the peace. I know that man has strayed, but, she paused. will it come to war?

The Maiden appeared beside Pythia. It is no fault of the Nemeton that fate will come to pass. We know not when it will occur, nor how, but man will rise again to defy the natural order. It is their fate. Though the warlock is an unexpected occurrence, it does not change what was always coming. The warlock can and must be dealt with, but man must be allowed to realize their true potential.

All three of the aspects of the Great Goddess spoke in unison. ¨As light overtakes the darkness and the fires of the sacred hilltops give way to the pinnacle of light in the summer sky, two battles will be waged that will mark the turning of the silver age and give way to the dark age of mankind. The Fae will fight valiantly, and man will be persistent. Two battles, each a Fae victory. Both will bolster the hatred boiling within mankind. Two battles, one on the physical plane, the other in the shadowy realm of spirit. Two battles. Man must overcome the dark seed of Atum’s lust for power. It is their fate, it is their destiny to break that which cannot be broken."

Pythia watched as the battles unfolded before her; the carnage, the hatred was unbearable. Though she saw the battles unfold, Pythia knew the future was never set in stone. No matter how powerful the seer of a prophecy was, the future was always mutable and subject to the actions of those who inhabit it. Even the Great Goddess could not predict the future wholly, but what She prophesied was an undeniable reflection of the threads by which fate and destiny are woven.

Could this prophecy mean not one but many children now conspired against the Goddess? Pythia contemplated. She could not fathom how it had happened on her watch, underneath watchful eyes of the order of the Nemeton.

The Mother turned to Pythia and smiled. I am truly sorry.

Pythia fell to her knees. "Goddess, it is I who am sorry. It is I who have failed you. It was my negligence that led to... ¨

My sweet child, it is I who made them, and I who made you. I am the one who must ask your forgiveness, for what you will have to witness, for what is coming. Of all of my children, you deserve it the least. She paused. Be at peace and have faith.

Pythia was in shock. How was she to be at peace?

The entire Silver Age had come and gone without even a hint of a magical war. Though conflict was ever present in the realm of the physical, a Great War had not surfaced since the fall of Atum. She remembered the havoc, the utter destruction of a magical war. It was the entire reason that man had to be cleansed. Still she knew the bond of magic was unbreakable, and that man would harness the power of the universe once again, but she had hoped that...

That it wouldn’t be so soon. I know, my child, said the Mother. You must steel yourself against fear, against hatred, against all that would pollute your purpose. The long dark approaches us. Though I cannot see the full extent of the future, I feel you, my children the Fae, will bear a heavy burden.  Help Dagda, the Nemeton, and all the Fae understand the sacrifice you must make if man is  to achieve his destiny.

Pythia reeled. How do I make them understand that? How do I?

The Maiden interrupted. You will know... in time. But first I have something I must ask of you.

My Goddess, I am your servant, your mouth, and your divine will on Earth. Command me and it shall be so. Pythia bowed.

The Mother looked at her. Rise, Pythia, and be joyous. Take with you the names of the chosen. For when the sun is at its peak, when the fires are lit in the Whispering Hills, you will give witness to the birth of a new servant of the Nemeton, a soul that will shape the coming darkness and lead mankind forward into the light. This soul will not only give birth to light from the darkness, but it will help you uncover who it is that has betrayed the order. Go forth, my child, and bear this news unto the world. Be joyous and do not dwell on the coming dark, but on the light that follows it. Have faith.

Pythia chanted the names of twenty souls who would undergo the ritual of Conclave. The Fand recorded the divine will of the Goddess. It was a rite that Pythia knew well, for she had once endured its barbarity. 

The Mother turned and departed, followed by the Maiden. The Crone stood before her with a stern look.

The Nemeton has grown weak, complacent; meanwhile man has grown strong and bold. The sacred grove calls for sacrificial blood. He who has slept through the ages now awakens, his task set before him.

Pythia’s eyes grew wide.  "But he has not woken in two thousand years... he would only cause more harm than good. ¨

The Crone’s eyes grew darker as she spoke. He will flush out the poison that turns brother on brother. His ways defy your precious orthodoxy, but they are necessary. Allow him to complete his work and he will cleanse the filth from your house. Until then it will spread like a cancer throughout the groves, darkening creation and all within it. It is a malignant growth that must be cut from the flesh. If he does not, you all will face my wrath.

The Crone turned and walked away. As the three forms walked into the mist, the celestial plane they had been on dissipated and Pythia knew her audience with the Goddess had ended.

Pythia closed her eyes and felt her spirit journey back to her body within the wilds, to the sacred grove where the corporeal forms of the Fand stood, their eyes fixed upon her. She took a deep breath and gasped for air as her spirit shocked her physical form back to life. She reclaimed her composure and, as she did, she felt the fair skinned Maiden of the Fand give her a piece of parchment.

Here are the descriptions of the souls you spoke of in your trance, High Priestess. Each has been recorded as you have directed, she said.

Pythia took a moment to scan the parchment. On it were brief descriptions depicting the champion each dominion must submit to the Nemeton to undergo the trials of the Conclave. It had been many centuries since the last initiation. Pythia wondered how many of the dominions of man and Fae would recognize the significance. This was to be no mere bard or ovyddic healer joining the order, this was a Derwyddon, an eternal keeper of the balance of peace between man and the Fae, a master of the elements. Until this point only twelve had ever been called upon, called into existence at a crucial point in time to deal with a specific threat to the balance. This soul would undergo the most rigorous of trials, the most terrible of curses, that of eternal servitude to the balance. Though the soul would be granted immortality, it would also be imprisoned within a physical body to hold vigil over creation until the chains that bound life in a never-ending cycle of rebirth were broken. This soul was the harbinger of a new age.

¨Summon the Druid Knights of each grove to the ancient City of Tara. The Nemeton will send bardic envoys to every dominion in her creation to demand tribute. The Conclave will commence on the eve of Beltane. A new soul shall be born into her service."

Pythia was exhausted. The Fand helped her to her feet and placed her upon a flat stone that leaned against an oak tree. Millions of thoughts, millions of outcomes ran through her head. A new member of the order, war, and, most troubling to her, the Nemeton had missed the omens. If mankind were ever to discover that the Nemeton had lost even a modicum of power they would surround the fae like wolves.

Bring me black glass, said Pythia.

The Maiden fetched a large round slab of obsidian and handed it to the High Priestess. Pythia took the glass and opened her skin. Blood dripped from the incision. Her fingers smeared her life force across the mirrored surface.

Daughter of the blackened night,

One who fills the heart with fright.

Reveal your form within the shadow,

Step forth through numinous hallow.

From the shadows of the towering oaks the darkened form of a woman appeared before Pythia. The form peered at her in curiosity. Never had Pythia allowed another within the boundaries of her sacred space.

The power within this place, said the voice of the shadow. The Goddess was wise to give it to you, Pythia.

Pythia examined the reaction. If mankind had designs to instigate conflict they would have only done so with the aid of someone within the Order. She needed to know who she could trust. Soon the world would know the rite of Conclave had been declared.

Welcome, Morrighan, said Pythia.

You’ve spoken with the Mother? asked the Morrighan. What does her word reveal?

She declares Conclave, said Pythia.

Her eyes revealed surprise even through the form of shadow. Time is not our ally. said the Morrighan.

That is not all, the beggar awakens from slumber, said Pythia. The Dagda’s work, is it complete?

We need more time, Pythia.

We are out of time, war descends upon the living. said Pythia.

Only if we allow it, said the Morrighan. We must act first.

Pythia knew what the Morrighan was alluding to. She felt the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Her options were limited, and she had no more time.

Prepare the orders, but tell no one. If it comes to it, peace must reign.

Regardless of her feelings she and the other members of the sacred grove had only one calling, to prevent war, at all costs. Favored or not the Fae had a sacred duty, and she would uphold it.

Chapter Two

Falbanach, the wandering beggar

For an age alone adrift,

Through mists of fog and dream,

Dark and light begin to shift.

NESTLED IN THE HILLS south of the Everlasting City, was the small farming village of Freehold. A beggar stood before the oaken door to a quaint cottage. He was weary, parched, and stunk worse than the ass end of an ox. Centuries passed; millennia since he had been called into service. Thus, he had fallen into slumber in the arms of the wood. The wandering beggar had traversed the realm of Hyperborea since the first age. The Silver Age had little use for his unique abilities and talents thus he was forced to retreat from the affairs of the world. In the realm of the Dreaming he had drifted through space and time. In this state he had existed for over two thousand years. His slumber had persisted for so long that the world had most likely forgotten him. He had forgotten much of himself. The simple act of waking had become foreign to him as he was jarred from his respite deep within the Greatwood Forest.

Air crackled in his lungs akin to raging fire that gave spirit and purpose back to his aging and gnarled form. The gasping and choking of life re-entering his body had alarmed every creature within a league of where he had lain beneath the branches of a tremendous ash tree. He'd become as much a part of that tree over the past two thousand years as the bark. Where there were once dedicants, apostles, and offerings to his sleeping form, now only a single chipmunk paid homage to the long-forgotten hero. The small rodent had made his home in the folds and void underneath the ancient beggar’s robes.

As he came to, a familiar voice lingered upon the wind, Open your eyes... wake, old friend, take air and come back to us. For now is a time of great need for the Grove. For all of her creation.

His aged brown eyes looked around and saw nothing but the trees and the wood. His following and the members of his grove had passed from this realm and now only he remained, a legend, a grim visage of a time when great and terrible events created great and terrible men. He wondered, had this world forgotten him or abandoned him as his grove had? Why was it he had woken? It was by the command of the Nemeton he entered the Dreaming, the unending sleep. He took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs. The message the air carried was that peace and prosperity had reigned supreme throughout his two-thousand-year slumber. What could this world need from him? In time he would make his way to one of the Nemeta, but first he needed something to drink and eat. Eating would help him return to this plane. So he wandered out of the Greatwood and into the settled hills and valleys of Freehold. It was a quaint town with thatched roofs and cobbled roads. Without want or suffering, it was a picturesque representation of the peace that reigned. The Grove would know who he was and why he had returned, but what of the commoners?

To the rest of the world, he would appear as a simple beggar; one of the faceless masses. To the common folk his existence was an enigma buried deep within the traditional bardic songs:

Beware the wandering beggar,

The one who bears no name.

He is ever present, and yet never seen,

When you meet him, what will you glean?

How short the memories of mortals are, he lamented as he knocked on the door. In this age, few remembered his deeds. How could they forget the cunning deeds of the wise old beggar? 

His voice was dry and cracked as he complained. The children of this age had forgotten the legends and deeds of Falbanach. He wondered, had his haggard visage left its mark on tradition? In his day when a beggar came calling, it was customary to invite them in and grant them the hospitality shown to a King. The beggar noticed the wreath upon the door, made of oak leaves and acorns, a proper display for the time of year. He had knocked on several doors before this one and either no one was home or they refused to open the way for him. He was growing tired of waiting and he hoped that this wreath meant that there were still reverent folk left in the world.

The door to the cottage opened and behind it stood a young woman.  She was one of the banal folk, the descendants of Atum who had lost their connection to the forces of magic. The woman appeared surprised, undoubtedly by his horrendous stench. She hesitated for a moment but then her true manners revealed themselves.

Who... is it? Is that you again, Barto? I swear upon the Goddess!  her voice seemed perturbed by the annoyance until she laid her green eyes on him.

Pardon me, sir! Please come in, she pleaded as she took him by the hand leading him inside. "Has no one opened their doors? I swear this town used to have manners. ¨

Perhaps they have not all forgotten, he said to himself.

The young woman bade him sit while she fetched him water.

May the blessings of the Goddess be upon you, child. He took a seat.

His bones creaked as he set his staff aside. The woman brought him a wooden bowl filled with clean water. He took the bowl and quenched his parched throat. He surveyed the room.  It was well kept and smelled of fresh bread and roasted chicken. His nostrils flared at the scent. The forest offered water and food he could have partaken of, but he craved more than simple sustenance, he wanted to know what kind of people he was dealing with. Times changed people. A single century could change the attitudes and ideas of mankind. If these people were worthy of his abilities and time, then he would find out here and now in this young woman’s home. Her actions would be the evidence he needed to decide if the divine spark still ran in the blood of Atum.

Again blessings be upon you, child. What shall I call you?

The name’s Colleen, please have another. She rushed towards the quill to draw more water. We had hoped for visitors since we saw the first of the pilgrims yesterday morn, I even put on an extra chicken, but none of them stopped to rest. They passed through like thieves in the night, not even sayin’ a word. Seemed strange... travelers are always welcome here in the homes of Freehold. Well, at least in ours.

She fidgeted with her fingers. Something was different about this time, but it was subtle, lurking in the deep; a darkening had begun. Despite the feeling in the air he knew her heart to be of pure intention. If there was one, there were more. Still the dark flavor on the air worried him. He wondered if the Nemeton had sensed the coming dorcha. He knew he woke for some dire reason, else he would have stayed adrift in dream. If they had already made their way through Freehold, then they were not heading for somewhere more sacred than Formene. They headed for Tara.

Pilgrims, you say? he asked. Midsummer is months from now, have they not left for Formene yet?

Aye, but this Litha shall be more special than any in a thousand years. Tis going to be at Tara. The ancient Conclave is being held, the bards say the trials will reveal a savior who will light the path in the coming darkness. It will be a grand celebration.

She handed him the bowl. He gave her a gesture of thanks.

He noticed how far removed from reality the common folk had become. If Conclave had been declared as a celebration, the Nemeton had re-branded one of the most barbaric practices in history as a beacon of hope.

How is the savior chosen? he asked her.

They say the champions from across the realms will undergo three trials, the victor is the one who passes the tests, Colleen said. I wonder what tests the champions face.

It was clear now she did not understand what would transpire in the heat of the summer.

Honestly I can’t for one minute believe all the doors here on the crossroad didn’t even bother to open for you. I know they are home. It is not proper to turn away travelers. You never know when Falbanach might grace your home. She smiled. Are you feeling peckish?

His eyes widened. Falbanach, you say? He remembered the name, it hung in the mists of his dreaming.

Aye, I thought everyone knew of the wandering beggar of the Lost Grove. You must have come from the western reaches, or even further haven’t ya?

He played along, Aye, near Freeman’s Wharf in the Black Sea.

Well, don’t the fishermen tell the old tales anymore?

I’m afraid they don’t quite hold them in the same regard as the Hyperboreans, fair maiden.

Shameful if you ask me, she sighed.

Perchance a young maiden might entertain this old man with such a tale?

Her grin stretched from ear to ear, I’d be delighted.

The ancient tales of the bards speak of a wanderer, a spirit that takes the form of a beggar. This beggar travels far and wide. He uses his magic fingers to pluck the strings of fate. He comes to you in your dreams and, if you are lucky, to your door. His fingers pluck a magic harp that bears music unto the ears of those who pay proper homage. They say the strings sing of a sacred child.

A sacred child? What child?

None know for certain. Some say he looks for a child who bears the blood of both Atum and the Dagda.  Others say he seeks the one who would unite the banal tribes and redeem us from the sins of our fathers.

They still told tales of the mark, the omen that led to redemption. This simple fact produced a smile across his grim, skin-folded face.

What do you think, Colleen?

I don’t quite know what to believe. My father used to tell me that the beggar hasn't been seen in centuries, that he had long left the world and only exists in the songs of the bards, she paused. Still it is the known custom that if a beggar graces your home, prosperity follows. That’s why you must always treat the travelers with care. Especially those who journey to the Whispering Hills for Midsummer’s Eve. Are you making the pilgrimage?

I am, are you?

I’m afraid not. This year my father and brothers must mind the fields, it has been a hard year for us. The bards say a harsh winter be on its way.  It saddens me. I always enjoy the merrymaking and the tales, oh, the tales, she stopped. Tis a shame too. A bard that came through the marketplace yesterday told us that this year Litha will bear another soul unto the Nemeton. I’ve always wanted to hear the Goddess in person. Oh, forgive my manners, here I am babbling on and you must be dreadfully weary. Please will you honor our household and take rest here for the afternoon?

Her heart was true, and he planned to honor her home, although he had just woken from two thousand years of sleep. He would meditate and see if he gained a clearer picture of his purpose here in this time.

Your kindness is well received. I will rest for a spell and be on my way. The road is long and my old bones do not move as they used to.

He lay back against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes. He opened his mind to the possibilities. She had given him a great deal of information, and now it was up to him to determine his next move. He thought to himself that if there was a bard claiming a new soul would be given into the service of the Nemeton, then it became clearer just why the Nemeton had woken him. Perhaps this soul was the child he had sought for so many centuries. His mind spun with possibilities behind closed eyes, but his ancient body was weary from his travel out of the wild Greatwood Forest. He appeared to nod off, and Colleen went on about her daily business.

He didn’t know how long he had rested before saying farewell to the banal woman and her family. They had asked if he would stay for dinner. He did so and enjoyed a fine meal and conversing with the common people. From them he learned as much about a century as he needed. After dining with them he offered to play the harp he saw standing in the corner of the small cottage. As his fingers stroked the strings, time ceased for them all. For what was a single song, their eyes opened to a fraction of what he saw when he considered the vast span of time. It passed differently for him, he was not bound by the chains of a linear existence. He had wandered throughout time for so long relating to this world was difficult. He had to find a way to care for these people in the present time, to remove a small part of himself from the grand scheme and become Falbanach once again, a champion of the people. After the song he gathered his traveler’s sack and stepped out the door. The family followed bidding tidings and farewell. They even sent him with ample supplies for the road.

He stopped before pressing on and took Colleen’s hand before muttering in her ear, Maiden, I thank thee for your hospitality once more. It is good to see not all have forgotten the old ways. Your hospitality is repaid.

Her eyes widened with amazement, for now she knew her inclinations were correct. He was no mere beggar, but Falbanach himself. He now knew how the people remembered him. He had been away for so long, and yet the people here in fair Freehold still endowed the tales of Falbanach to their youth. Though he once held another name, now the people referred to him as Falbanach, the beggar god.

In return for her kindness he had left her a gift.  Unbeknownst to her he had plucked the strings of destiny and played the song of her family’s future. What little they had they had given to him, and he wished to return the favor. Using his mystic talents he made certain their fates, no matter how small, would be bountiful. He smiled as he saw her future descendants. They would swim with ease in a world that would struggle against the currents of change.

Along the miles of road that followed his departure from their cottage in Freehold, he kept them in his mind. Fork after fork led to home after home, where he was turned away as many times as he was welcomed. The pilgrim road was long and he mustn’t leave any stone unturned in his journey. He had walked through the night after what had seemed like a week’s journey since his stop in Freehold when he awoke from his inner thoughts as daybreak crashed into his eyes. The sunlight illuminated his hooded figure. There he stood with a hunched back; eyes piercing through the mysteries of the world. Although he stood in plain sight near the traveler’s pike, he went unnoticed by the many thousands of pilgrims. He watched as they passed him.

The world had grown foreign to the ancient sage. He had seen the centuries come and go through the dreaming, but those images were colored with symbolism.  The world he knew was once a single beautiful voice that harmonized with the song of creation. Now it seemed the once glorious past had its course set to repeat the mistakes of the previous age. He had fought in the great war of the first age to cleanse the world of Atum’s corruption. Yet he saw the lessons of that tragic time had fallen into distant memory as he had.

Man had destroyed the beauty of the old world with hellfire. All the delicate artistry of creation had been turned to ash because of their incessant need for power. In their untamed lust for more, the race of men had committed a violent and heinous sin, the rape of their own mother. 

It was morbidly amusing to him. These fools had forgotten their dark past, dimmed by the peaceful centuries that followed. What once produced abhorrent dread now served little more purpose than children’s tales. These mortal beings placed so much emphasis on the material world they allowed their precious souls to wither and die. Did they believe they were forgiven? Had they been so blinded by peace?

Did they not realize the droplets of water called the morning dew, were the evening tears of their Great Mother who wept for them every night? Falbanach felt an unholy grief, a longing for the old world as his eyes scanned the horizon. Even those who had been created to defend the world from mankind had fallen short of their charge. The Fae were meant to keep this world pure of man’s corrupt nature, to teach man the way to realize their vital place in the grand scheme. Even the Nemeton seemed out of step. With every stop he made along the pilgrim’s road, a new tale emerged. Examples of how man had overstepped their boundaries. How Dagda and the Hyperboreans sat back and watched. Falbanach had seen no evidence they had succeeded in their task. Hyperborea still reeked of man’s sin.

In the midst of the whispering hills of Eíre, beams of light were glistening as they struck the moistened land. Hundreds of thousands were traversing the trails to the sacred shrine. He knew from their thoughts the majority were clueless to the