Chapter One:

The Curse

 

Aron held Siany’s damp hand in his left and his grandmother’s in his right. His sister’s hand fit neatly in his palm. Mother Rhys’ was larger, but bent and gnarled, like a hen’s claw. They stood in a small clearing near their tumbledown cottage, their eyes closed. The morning sun was already hot on his shoulders, the air heavy with the scent of lilies.

His grandmother spoke, “Mother Eostre, we humbly ask you to bring back the precious rain to our land. Without it, our crops will fail and we shall die.”

The old woman sprinkled wine on the posy of wildflowers and placed it in the woven rabbit cage. The rabbit lay panting on its side. It ignored the offering. Aron knew that the Goddess was punishing them. He felt the weight of despair in his stomach. Rain was freshness, growth, bounty, even God. It gave lush fields, cleansing waters, and abundant forests. It was their mother, and the sun, though less constant, their father. Together, they raised up the corn and fattened the lambs. Now, the mother was gone, and the father burned away her gentle memory. The verdant beauty of Wales, the green promise of the fields and pastures, had yellowed and hardened. Even the Colwyn and Glaswyn rivers; once lithe and quick, offered only knee-deep relief where their waters had once swallowed grown men.

As the sun reached its peak, this respite drew the young and old alike to the river. Here young men put their manhood to the test, shoving and bellowing like bulls; each proving his strength for the young women who did their best to watch without looking. The contest was now down to two. Most sided with Taffy, the curly-haired son of the village blacksmith, but a few, silently, sympathized with the outcast, Aron. Taffy was Aron’s best friend, but he wasn’t going to win if Aron could help it. He pulled himself free from the hands holding his head under water, gasping.

“Aron lad, give it up. You can’t win,” someone in the crowd shouted.

Aron shook his head. He turned his face away from his best friend and drove his shoulder into the young man’s stomach. The blow forced the air from Taffy’s lungs with an audible oof, and he stumbled backwards and splashed into the murky river.

Aron stood, lean, fair and tall. His muscles, hard from hours behind the plough, flexed with exertion. He threw back his mane of shaggy, blond hair, and wiped the muddy water from his eyes. He waited for his friend to emerge from the river and resume their wrestling match. When Taffy’s head failed to surface after a long moment, Aron’s heart fell. As he reached into the knee-deep water to seize his friend’s tunic, Taffy exploded out of the water and grabbed Aron’s arms, dragging him under the surface again. After a brief underwater struggle, both young men tumbled out of the river onto the bank, sputtering and laughing, more dirty than clean.

Before Aron could get up, he found himself pinned to the sand by a massive dog’s front paws. The beast applied a blood-red tongue the size of a child’s arm to the young man’s face. Aron twisted away from the rough, smelly bath. The animal turned its damp affection on the still prone Taffy who rolled on his stomach, leaving his ears unprotected. After letting the dog thoroughly clean the young smith, Aron whistled, and the Alaunt bounded to his side. Two young girls pranced up to Taffy, kissed his cheeks and placed a wilted crown of daisies on his head, declaring him the winner. Taffy pressed a sleeve to his ears, and shook the muddy water out of his short, black curls.

“I don’t know why you keep that hairy monster around,” Taffy grunted. “He eats too much and he stinks, even after a bath.”

“Is it Rhett or yourself, you’re talking about?”

At mention of his name, the animal gamboled around Aron hopefully. He scratched behind the beast’s ears. Aron had pulled the dog, a half-drown whelp, from a log coursing downstream by the snowmelt-engorged Colwyn three seasons ago. He, himself, was pushed along for nearly a league before he reached the shore with the pup. Aron’s grandmother had smiled when he brought it whimpering and dripping into their cottage. Aron had named him Rhett-the rushing stream. He was now a shaggy monster the size of a small horse.

“Besides,” Aron said. “He’s a descendent of Cúchulann.”

“Even if he’s Cúchulann’s great, great, grandson,” Taffy said, “he’s still the first to find any dead thing and roll in it.”

Rhett charged after a ripple in the brittle, golden grass. Taffy slapped Aron on the back with a massive, calloused hand. Aron responded by jabbing the blacksmith’s son wickedly in the ribs with his thumb.

“Ow, that hurt.” Taffy rubbed his side.

Aron shrugged. “You shouldn’t go around hitting people.”

“Maybe, you shouldn’t fight like a dynes.” Taffy gave Aron a crooked smile.

Aron showed Taffy his thumb. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Taffy held up his hands. He was twice as broad as his friend, though Aron had a surprising, wiry strength. Taffy spent every day at the billows and hammer, and when he raised himself up to his full height, he towered over most of the men in the village. Taffy threw a tree-limb arm around Aron’s shoulders.

“We should get back to the square,” Taffy said. “The maypole needs raising, and the headman’s ale barrels have to be moved.”

Aron laughed. “You’re more interested in rhubarb wine and pretty dynes than Nos Galen Mai.”

Aron slipped his foot in front of Taffy, causing him to stumble. Rhett joined in, nipping at the young smith’s heels. Taffy recovered enough to wrap his powerful arms around Aron’s waist and throw him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“True, but you better pray that my sister empties a few cups before May Eve is done. Elderberry wine is your only hope.”

Aron smiled at this. His father had been a green-eyed devil of a man, a noble in all but name, and his mother was a Gaelic beauty. Aron had already danced with a fair few girls; he just didn’t crow about it.

Rhett pranced on his hind legs, licking at his master’s face. Aron was painted with a sheen of canine saliva before he snaked his right arm around Taffy’s throat and squeezed until the blacksmith’s son had to put him down or pass out. They followed the Glaswyn, bumbling downstream, spinning tiny whirlpools and wavelets over pebbles and stones, toward the village. Rhett, steeped to the knees in mud, inspected the banks of the river, tasting the tepid waters, snapping at dehydrated frogs and desperate snakes, and barking at thirsty fowl.

Aron shook his head at the too-thin lambs stepping over the bristling grass, their mothers busy cropping yellow mouthfuls. The ewes stamped menacingly at Rhett, daring him to approach their sons and daughters. Taffy waved at the village girls gathering limp hawthorn boughs, bouquets of tired bluebells, yellowed sage and heather to decorate their cottages and themselves for the feast. They tramped past men slaughtering livestock. Rhett left his master’s side for the heady promise of fresh blood, spilled by ox, swine, and sheep destined for the spit, their last cries echoing off the hills. Above it all, the Narcissus sun bathed the Welsh village in honeyed light, for today above all others should be sweet.

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