Chapter 8 Still in the Nemeton

Chapter 8 - “Power”

                                

“Thought and character are powerful;
but futures are not changed by thinking them so.”
                                                            - Scribonius Largus

Caradoc’s gray eyes stared deeply into the Druid’s dark eye-holes. The warrior realized this man was not complying, but only trying to act relaxed to presume control. Caradoc would not let him gain a footing, but he knew that if the Druids would not comply, then he could not perform the sacrifice himself. He was not Druid. The sacrifice would lack power. If it were just killing, he would have already done that. However, he knew the custom, and now found himself bound by some sense of propriety.

Kenjar’s lip twitched, his body tensed and he gulped. The man looked ready to give in—to acquiesce. His shoulder relaxed in Caradoc’s strong grasp.

Lowering the sword, he stepped back, eyes sparkling, and gave a broad charismatic smile. “Tell me, oh Wise One,” he paused confident that he could still turn this back to his advantage, “What do you think I need?” He reached out to Kenjar and smoothed his robe, brushing it as though it had his last meal’s crumbs on it.

Raising his chin, Kenjar looked in the direction of the babies. In nasal monotones he said, “We can slay them for your fertility, pour their blood to the mother goddess Morriga’n, and ask for s-speedy recovery of even more children.”

It sounded memorized.

 “Daughters p-perhaps?”

 “You think I wish to give my first-fruits to the goddess? Ha! Do I look like I need a mother?” Caradoc laughed as he sheathed his sword, his hand remaining on the hilt.

“Or, uh, we could cremate them and spread their ashes in your fields. We will p-pray for you to have abundant crops this year.”

“You don’t understand,” Caradoc said, regretting sheathing his sword. He had let the man go too early. Grabbing the Druid’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and then pushed him away. He bellowed, “I don’t need help with those things. I will take care of the land. I will protect it.” He moved toward the children. “You just need to offer up these as sacrifices for ME! No gods, no fertility, just ME!” His voice roared and echoed into the dark.

A light wind began to blow again through the grove.

The children began to wake. They kicked at the dark woolen covering revealing their naked bodies. One of the twins moaned. His red face scrunched.

Just beyond the stone table in the shifting shadows of torchlight, Caradoc saw the other Druids like ethereal spirits coming toward him.  What were they doing—closing the circle on him? He needed to move this along. He turned to Kenjar and said, “These babes are not worth the time it takes your servants to spread the ashes.”

Kenjar’s head came up quickly. “The Druids s-serve the land – not the men of the land,” he corrected.

Caradoc glowered, “You and your swine s-serve me this night.”

Several Druids moved in from the shadows and gathered closer around Kenjar.

Kenjar stammered. “Is it safety from d-d-death or d-d-disease you desire?”

Caradoc raised his head to the stars and laughed. “I have no fear of peril from man or beast, let alone that which I cannot see.” Caradoc lifted his arms high into the air toward the Druid band before him. “I found you—and I stand in your Nemeton, do I not?”

They shuffled, but said nothing.

One of the Druids came forward and bowed before Kenjar. “This is true,” he said, “Even if one knew the location of the sacred grove, even the bravest would never enter it as this man has done.”

Were all these men acolytes? Trainees? Caradoc turned to face the man and watched him slink back into the crowd of shadows.

“Are you all new at this? Are you so quickly undone? Aren’t you the ones who boldly speak before the chieftains in the assembly and we all follow your council? You are highly respected and revered by the people, are you not? Ha! You do OUR bidding. Without question. I am growing tired of this. Don’t you know who I am? I am the man you should be groveling before. You should be bowing to me!” Then to Kenjar he said, “And I am NOT one to be trifled with! Bull’s balls! I only seek their death, and blessing from any god you choose. Let’s get on with it. I need to be off. The night grows as short as my patience.”

“B-b-be calm, my l-lord, we know what you say is t-t-t-truth. You are a great man. We mean no d-d-discourtesy.”

Caradoc stared and tapped his sword hilt. He watched as the man squirmed and apparently determined to leave.

“We know who you are,” Kenjar said. “We have many times s-s-seen your visage in bowls of visions and p-p-portents of the future. All the Druids know who you are.” He stepped closer, putting his shoulders back and raising his arm in a grand proclamation and sign of honored reverence. “You are Caradoc, magnified son of Cunebelinos, grandson to the Most Honorable High King Tasciovaunus—ruler of Verulamium and Camulodunon, Great Grandson of Velaunus of the Cassi who defeated Julius Caesar.”

“Finally, your eyes are open,” Caradoc said. “At least, you trainees have been taught something right.”

Kenjar wrung his robe between his sweaty hands. Beads of distress flooded down his forehead, over his eyebrows, to drop from the end of his nose. He bit his lower lip with his large teeth and then stuttered, “We c-c-can . . . direct their . . . l-l-l-life-force to, uh . . .” Caradoc saw him look at the long-sword. “. . . to your magnificent w-weapon.”

Caradoc stopped. Eyes widened. He tapped on the hilt of his sword again as he thought it over. Perhaps he could gain more from them. “You talk of my weapon. What of it?”

“It is a p-p-powerful sword, my lord, one that could unite all the tribes and bring justice and equity to the land. Given spiritual power, it could even c-c-conquer Rome itself.” Kenjar nodded, showed his teeth. He then let out a long, deep breath.

“That is more to my liking,” Caradoc said, reverently removing his sword from its scabbard. “This sword is the finest weapon in the land.” He held the anthropomorphic pommel up to his chin and then pressed the hilt to his forehead. Then he stretched it up to the sky with both hands and looked at it in veneration.

“My uncle – Epaticus, the fearless warrior—taker of many men’s souls—gave this great sword to me with his own hand,” Caradoc said.

Torch-fire made the blade shine as though it possessed its own fire. In the midst of the flame was the manifestation of Caradoc’s face. He reveled at his reflection in the blade. After a long pause he slowly lowered the blade, turned, and said, “Not the sword. Me. Transfer the power into ME!”

“Ah, now I perceive your need,” Kenjar said with more confidence in his voice, “It is POWER you seek. Hmmm, power. Yes. Great power, I presume?” He scratched his bald head as if deep in thought. “We could . . . no. Yes, that’s it,” the Druid said as he carelessly reached out to pat Caradoc on the arm. Kenjar quickly pulled his hand back as if he had put it into a boiling cauldron.

Caradoc smiled.

The warrior felt the wind as it swirled around him. Then, in the quiet stillness of the sacred grove, the Druid drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke directly to Caradoc in a voice that was full of mystery and secrecy. “We have an ancient ritual…”

Caradoc lowered his sword. Jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed, as he focused in anticipation of what the man would say next.

“…It has not been performed for many a time and times.” He hesitated before he went on. The Druid looked pleased with himself. “It is an enchantment of—greatest power.”

As he listened, Caradoc focused his attention on the blade and polished it with his cloak.

“We can send the boys ahead of you to the black veil of shadow,” Kenjar continued, “We could place great power upon them, and they would become your spirit protectors from the other world. They would advise you, direct you.” He leaned closer to Caradoc and whispered, “And tell you secrets only they can see. This would satisfy you, would it not?”

Caradoc leaned back on his heels. “How does that empower me? I will not be sold lies!” The torc around his neck shook as he struck his chest with his fist.

The Druid’s dark eyes focused on the torc. “Is that torc not a symbol of the rope garrote we priests use to strangle those who have willingly given themselves as offerings? Is it not a symbol of great importance to the Catuvellauni, placed at the point where the soul meets the body—a place of great power?”

Caradoc saw the Druid’s eyes gleam. “What are you saying?” He looked around him at the Druids.  They gathered in a tight circle around the table and made a droning sound—a soft thrumming hymn. In the chilled air, their breath raised puffs of spectral fog into the night.

“Men only wear one torc, do they not?”

“Of course. What’s your point, goat?”

“Men have only the power of their own life force.” Kenjar reached and tentatively pointed to the torc. “Even you … my lord. The ritual can change that.”

The Druids thrummed on.

Kenjar then pointed to the table and the twin boys lying naked on the cold stone, the woolen cover kicked off, now lying in a bundle on the ground. With his other hand, he pointed to Caradoc. “You could combine their force with yours.” Then, bringing his hands together, he clapped them suddenly, “And be THREE times the man others would become.”

The Druid band let out a chanting chorus of approval.

Caradoc’s head swam with the intent of what the man was saying. Combined with the chanting, the words had an entrancing effect on him. It resonated to a need from deep inside his very being. “Three times,” he said. “Three—a powerful number to be sure.  “Yes, this is to my liking!” Putting the sword away he said, “Tell me what you require to make this happen.”

“Yes, to do this, we will need the babes, but we will need something else. We will need power. Great power to draw great power. The moon is high and full. That is good, but you must bring us power. Is there anything of value you might offer?”

The grove began to echo with melodic chanting. “Power. Power. Power.”

They repeated it over and over.

Caradoc gestured in the direction of his horse. “I think I have what you need. Come with me.”

“Yes, yes,” the man in white said, as Caradoc led him to his horse. “Something of value—gold perhaps?”

Caradoc grabbed the bridle and pivoted the horse around to remove the sack that still hung from the saddle. As he opened the bag, he revealed the severed head of a man, hair and beard matted with congealed blood.
            “Will this suffice?” Caradoc asked as he grabbed the trophy-head by the hair and held it up.

The Druid moved to examine the offering. “Ah, the head of an enemy—a soul of great power.” Kenjar reverently reached up and took the head, holding it as if it was a treasure, and said, “I’m impressed.” He then moved out of the shadows into the moonlight. “Must have been a great battle.” He slowly turned the head in his hands, “I don’t recall hearing of any conflicts.  Did you . . .”

Kenjar stumbled back, eyes wide in sudden recognition of the disfigured face. He dropped the head to the ground and stepped back making gesturing signs with his fingers. Caradoc could smell the man’s sudden fear.

Kenjar shook his head slowly, rubbed his eyes. His chin quivered. His lower lip vibrated rapidly, but no sound came forth.

Caradoc bent down and slowly picked up the bloody head by the hair.  Holding it out before him in pride, he looked directly into the unseeing eyes. This was not the head of just any ordinary man. This head had belonged to the man that the Druid had earlier spoken of with much honor—the High King Tasciovaunus. Caradoc was certain the Druid recognized who he was holding.

Caradoc wrapped his muscled arm around the little man’s shoulders and held the face of the King before him. “Are you wise enough to know the sign before you?” he said. He moved close to the Druid’s ear, “We will keep this between us, will we not?” Caradoc then pushed Kenjar away. The Druid back-tripped and fell to the ground.

Caradoc held the King’s tortured visage in front of the Druid again, and drunk in the moment as Kenjar’s face drained of color. Caradoc saw him weigh the options and watched in pleasure as the Druid looked up at him with a stare he recognized all too well.

Unable to speak, Kenjar cleared his throat, coughed, and looked once again at the severed head. Then, the man stood up, raised his eyebrows, and slowly nodded to Caradoc.

Caradoc smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my man!”

He then shoved the head of Tasciovaunus into the cloth sack and tossed it at Kenjar’s chest.

“Take the head of power. Prepare the offerings. We will have a sacrifice!”

He beamed as the Druid glided back to the sacred grove. Above the chanting and noise of preparation, Caradoc could clearly hear the sound of the twins screaming into the night.